Tales From the Road

Remembrance Day 11/11/11

2011-11-11T19:18:00.000-08:00

To every soldier standing tall,
on distant lands, where heroes fall
so far removed, the honored brave
lie exiled in a foreign grave,
who heard a higher call.

A spirit lost in serving all
is now a name writ on a wall
for some, a need to serve and save
in blood their names are signed.

Remains placed in a hallowed hall
each death still casts a bitter gall.
No vengeance do the fallen crave
for sacrifice they gladly gave;
but never solace from the pall
for those they left behind.

Not Just Another Pretty Face

2011-11-06T19:42:00.000-08:00

This has been such a busy week for me and for the family. Jerry had a gallbladder attack recently and was found to have a gall stone, so had to have surgery to remove the stone and his gallbladder. The whole process was particularly difficult for us as a family. It wasn't so much that Jerry was in pain and had to have surgery, because, let's face it, he wasn't donating a kidney or anything so he healed up rather quickly. Rather, it was the fact that gallstones usually occur in women overweight and over forty, so I was rocked with feelings of both guilt and gratitude that it wasn't me. Jerry came through like a champ, and even asked the doctor to let us keep the gallstone so that we could sell it on Ebay if it resembled a religious deity or Elvis or someone else in high demand. Smart thinking since our social security money was already spent before we were born.

Jerry has been trying to rest and heal from surgery, so that has allowed me time to catch up on various activities, not the least of which is reading the news online. I enjoy perusing different news websites and learning about all of the nutty things that go on in the world. My interests are random and diverse, so I read about everything from freezing places to pleasing faces, which is how I got to this point in the first place.

With Jerry resting in a drug induced stupor, er, like a trooper, I took the opportunity to catch up on everything that I had missed in world events. A headline caught my eye, 'Here's Looking at You.' My first thought was that some idiot was going to remake Casablanca so I clicked on the link, determined to devote my life to stopping such horror from taking place, but I was confronted by a different horror altogether. There, on the screen, was an ultrasound picture of a tumorous testicle, containing what appeared to be a human face in it! An not just any face, but a face that looked like a sinister mash up of Rodney Dangerfield, Marty Feldman, and Abe Lincoln. I'll call it 'Maybe Drinkin.'

I was so creeped out that not even drinking would help me. Nothing would make me unsee Jack in the sack, the ghoul in his jewel, the SMUT IN HIS NUT!!!!!! And as upsetting as the sight was for me, I am sure that the Planter's Peanut guy is really having a hard time facing this.

This seems to have started in Canada when a patient sought medical advice for pain in his groin, specifically, in his, um, badoobies. So he agreed to an ultrasound to determine the cause of the misery, and the doctors were confronted with what they could only call 'the face of testicular pain.' One doctor was quoted as saying, " It looked like a man screaming in pain, which I thought was hilarious, considering the clinical picture of the poor guy." So, ignoring any moral implications (as I often do), Dr. Jack Kervorkian spent eight years in jail for trying to end the suffering of terminally ill patients, and this urologist is laughing at what appears to be a man screaming in pain in some poor guy's ball bag?

The urologist went on to say that he briefly considered that the face might be that of a religious figure or mythical deity, such as Min, the Egyptian god of male virility, and that name is the only thing in the doctor's whole news, er, release, that is even remotely appropriate. Let's face it, the poor patient is in pain. And I don't mean like a paper cut or stubbed toe....he has pain in his cojones, and now he finds out that he's toting around a tumorous face in his scrotum. And does he get the face of Brad Pitt or some other hottie? No, he gets the testicular equivalent of the one-eyed Jack and the medical James Bond reject, Dr. No He Dint!

After reading this gem of a story, I was actually relieved that Jerry's gallbladder surgery turned up nothing more than a gallstone. No Sly and the Family Stone, no Stone Phillips, no Kid Rock. That's good, works for us. And as for our Canadian friend, a hospital spokesperson said that he isn't terribly interested in his rad nads. Still, he could try to say that it's 'Bally Idol' and sell it on Ebay....

"Balls have got a face, he's strangely out of place, Balls have got a face...."

Nah. That's just nuts.

It's the End of the World as We Know It, and I Feel Slightly Drunk....

2011-05-21T11:51:00.000-07:00

"Don't blame yourself. The Apocalypse wasn't your fault. Actually, it was just as much your fault as it was anyone elses's. Come to think of it, if you're an American, it was probably about 80-90 percent more your fault than the average human. But don't let that get you down. It wasn't exclusively your fault. Unless you're the president. Then it might be your fault. But you'll have plenty of interns to tell you it wasn't, so you'll be fine." Meghann Marco

Hello, blog followers. This will be our last exchange since the world is slated to end THIS EVENING AT 6:00 PM EST!!!! I have no delusions of Heavenly grandeur, which leads me to believe that you, my dear friends and loyal readers will, for the most part, be taken up to Heaven, leaving my sorry ass behind to go through 5 months of horrible tribulation. And thats fine, because after 15 years in call center customer service, 5 months doesn't seem so bad.

I am hopeful that I will be one of those chosen to shuffle off this mortal coil, but I'm not holding my breath. The first indication that I wouldn't be chosen came to me when I heard that the END IS NEAR, so I called my mortgage company to cancel the upcoming pre-scheduled payment. Of course they asked why I was canceling my payment.

Screw you! The world is ending on May 21 at around 6pm.....that mortgage payment will buy Kendall Jackson 'communion wine' and a buttload of junk food. I'm going out fat, happy, and loaded.

Click, dial tone, Boooooooooooooooooooooop.

Hello? Hello?

Little do they know that when I get called up to my great reward, they'll have a devil of a time selling this house....no pun intended.

So I'm here waiting for the end, and I even cleaned my house today. You might be asking why but my in-laws are coming to visit, albeit briefly, and I want things to look nice. Besides, whatever sinner buys the house, well, I want it to look nice. I haven't said anything to Jenda. No use getting her upset. Besides, I can just hear how that conversation will go....

Jenda, Sweetie, the world is going to end tonight. God is calling all of his faithful home.

"Oh jeepers, Mommy, you're going to cook tonight, aren't you?"

So I am leaving her out of this. Of course earlier today, I was searching the internet to get information about the upcoming Rapture. I learned that we should feel a catclysmic earthquake at approximately 6:00 pm EST, so I added Jerry Lee Lewis's 'Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On' to my rapture song list. Poor Jenda is already traumatized thinking that she has to eat my cooking tonight, but while doing my research, I came across a headline on one of the news sites....CNN or MSNBC or one of those.....

"Church of the End Times Plans for the Future."

WTF?????

What possible plans could you have for the future if you just KNOW you are one of the chosen few? I mean, in my case, if I am one of the select, my plans for the future entail seeing my Mother, who, GOD rest her soul, passed away in 1995. And I also plan to ask GOD why kids get cancer, and can we stop that, and why do people still treat Gays and Lesbians so badly, and why are hot-fudge Sundaes bad for you but oat bran is good...? If I get called to Heaven, I damn sure have an agenda. That being said, I probably won't make it.

So I am here with my 'communion wine' and putting together my End Of The World (EOTW) playlist....here is what I have so far....

Europe- The Final Countdown
Skeeter Davis- End of the World
Elvis- Waiting for the End of the World
Iron Maiden- The Number of the Beast
The Doors- The End
Tom Waits- The Earth Died Screaming
Blondie- Rapture
and finally....Eric Carmen- All By Myself (sad but true!)

So I feel reasonably certain that I'll still be here when all Hell breaks loose. If you need me to look after your children or look after any of you, for that matter, just let me know. I expect that I'll be turning the lights off. Say your prayers, get right with your Higher Power, and know that I love you all verrrrrr............................

Captain Kirk is a Big Fat Liar!

2011-01-10T18:35:00.000-08:00

For my friends who are fans of science fiction, this is in no way an attack on Star Trek or any other space themed show. Rather, it is a warning that not all things are what they seem, and sometimes our childhood heroes are full of it!
Having said that, I understand that all good things eventually come to an end. Designing Women went off the air. Crayola got rid of ‘maize’ and ‘raw umber.’ And apparently, all of the cast of ‘The Waltons’ are in some kind of witness protection program, because no one has seen any of them since 1981. But it’s nice to think back on these simpler days and the things and characters we held dear, because they represent, at least for me, a certain continuity and integrity that have stayed with me through the years. Which brings me to that ass-monkey, Captain Kirk.
Bearing in mind that everything has a beginning and an end, I can understand that James T. Kirk had to find another gig to pay the bills after he got booted off the Enterprise. I admired his stint on Rescue 911, really, not so much because of the positive impact the show had, but because he looked so uncomfortable so obviously encased in that full body girdle and I could identify with that. (Okay, I still can!) Of course, this show, too, ended, so Capt. Kirk, being a famewhore and food addict (I totally get that, too!) decided to take whatever job he could get. So he ended up with Pricelie, er, PriceliNe. And that is where the trouble really begins.
Captain Jerk now makes a living convincing Middle America that cheap hotel rooms are simply amazing. In fact, he encourages reasonably mild-mannered people to go online and show their asses anonymously to get cheap hotel rooms even more cheaply. It seems like a good thing, until you remember that you get what you pay for, and even our childhood television heroes will do what it takes to make a buck. Here is a case in point.
My father came to North Carolina recently to visit us and to take our daughter Jenda back to Florida for a visit. Since we already had a full house and he knew that Princess Jenda travels with more baggage than the Astors and Vanderbilts combined, he decided to venture into Kernersville and stay in a hotel for the night before driving back to Florida with Princess Jenda. My father can never be accused of being tech-savvy, but apparently he was feeling his oats, or he was smoking them, because he decided to book his hotel room on Priceline. The hotel that was recommended was rated five stars. Unfortunately, that must have been on a scale of 200.
Priceline suggested the 5 star rated Dudley Inn. After having seen it, I realize that the name was a misnomer, as it should actually be called Deadly Inn. I say having seen it, but that’s not entirely accurate. From the outside, it looks rather normal. It’s not the Trump Towers, but the outside is okay. So far, Captain Kirk is okay. Step inside and he moves from zeitgeist to shit list. See, when you walk into a hotel lobby and realize that all of the potted plants are fake, and THEY’RE dead, it dawns on you that there is a serious problem, and that creepy tingling up and down your spine is not the Vulcan Nerve Pinch. Which brings me back to my poor Dad.
He went to the front desk to check in and was told that they should have a room ready by now. Being that he had booked the room, he couldn’t understand why the room might not be ready, but he was still under the assumption that the hotel was a five star rated inn, so he went along with it, dead silk plants aside. What can I say, after a twelve hour drive, he was tired and decided that the lobby simply needed cleaning. So he paid for one night and got a key to a room on the third floor.
Naturally, there were no working elevators, so he schlepped upstairs with his overnight bag and opened the door. The first thing he noticed was the smell. Being a Viet Nam era veteran, he immediately recognized the smell of decomposing flesh. Now, Daddy doesn’t scare easily, but peering cautiously into the room, he saw unidentifiable stains on the carpet, so he backed out, went back downstairs, and asked for another room.
“What’s wrong with the one we gave you?”
Well, I think the last guy never checked out and rigor mortis is still setting in. What else do you have?
The night manager sent one of the desk clerks with Daddy to try another room. They went to another room that was occupied by a number of people that Daddy hoped were just here illegally. Then on to the third room. This one had a headboard that had fallen down from where it had once been nailed to the wall. They finally found a fourth room that had no towels. This wasn’t a huge problem since there was no running water and there was something growing all over the toilet that Daddy could only describe as MRSA on crack.
By this time, Daddy realized the sun was coming up and he decided that it would be better to just come on over, crash on the loveseat and deal with a house full of people rather than a motel full of as yet undiscovered dead bodies and unclassified diseases. He showed up on our doorstep at the butt-crack of dawn asking for a hot shower, a place to sleep, and massive doses of antibiotics. I was able to oblige on all counts, after putting him through a decontamination process similar to those at Chernobyl. After a few hours of sleep, he and Jenda got on the road. I loaded them up with Lysol spray and Clorox wipes, so I know they left all the public restrooms between North Carolina and Florida much cleaner than they found them, which isn’t saying much.
After a fun-filled vacation, wherein Jenda cleaned out Dad’s bank account, she came back home to us, and Dad decided to stay with us instead of taking his chances with another Bates Motel knock off. Of course my house isn’t nearly as nice as the Bates Motel, or as neat and clean, but that’s another story. The fact of the matter is that I would sooner believe Norman Bates than Captain Kirk. But Kirk gets away with it. And no wonder….
As Norman Bates once said, “I think [he] must have one of those faces you can’t help believing.”

Coronach for a Cowboy

2010-07-23T16:29:00.000-07:00

"Death ends a life, not a relationship."
Robert Benchley

There exists in everything a duality. It must be so; there can be no hot without cold, no day without night, and no life without death. I'm sitting here with a glass of wine, pondering the polarity of love and loss, redemption and resurrection, humor and heartbreak.

What began as a humor blog has become an outlet for grief and thoughts and outpourings of melancholy. As always, my despondency drives me to the written word, and forces me to face the twofold nature of things. Even while I mourn, I celebrate.

It's interesting, duality. I just began a new job, and I am enjoying it in spite of the stress that a new job brings, and today was really a great day. Of course, that is, until I arrived home and received the dreadful news that my great, dear friend Brian Bulluck had passed away. And while I was numb on receiving the news, there was within me an ache so painful, so physical and real, that I could hardly breathe. The sad news was true....IS true, but I can not believe it.

Our family relocated to North Carolina four years ago, and before we had even left Florida, Brian reached out to me, introduced himself, and without even asking, claimed me as his friend. What we did not know about each other became known. It's safe to say that we ended up as not only good friends, but as some sort of perverse characters from the Arnold Schwarzenegger-Danny Devito movie Twins. Yes, you are correct in guessing which one I am. In keeping with the duality of all life, I must say that Brian was 6'6", majesterially slim, imperially dressed, and incredibly imposing (all the things that I am not.) But he was also down to earth, casual, and very kind. He towered over me and everyone else, but he never looked down on anyone unless he was helpng them up. He was a man of the people, but he had the ability to tell you to go to Hell and make you glad to be on your way.

Brian and his family came to our home for the first time on a weekend in 2007. There was a small fire in their kitchen and during the repairs, we offered them a Sunday brunch at our house. Brian and Dana were looking to buy a house and since Brian was the only other Dallas Cowboy fan in North Carolina besides Jerry and me, we naturally wanted him to live closer to us. In fact, if he were sitting here now, watching me sob, he'd laugh and tell me to cry for the Dallas Cowboys since they didn't even make it to the Superbowl last year. I can laugh at that thought, but it's probably the only thing I will laugh about for the next several days. That Sunday brunch was also funny, because Jerry and I knew of a house for sale nearby and we wanted Brian to see it. We drove over and walked around outside, peeking in windows, which was okay since no one was living there. Naturally, I tried the backdoor and found it unlocked. I motioned for everyone to come inside, with no thought to the possible consequences. Jerry hesitated, but Brian said, "It's fine, besides, Cat's fingerprints are on the doorknob. You and I will be alright as long as we don't touch anything." For someone with as much integrity as Brian had, he was perfectly okay with Sunday afternoon breaking and entering. I admire that. I'm also glad we didn't get caught.

My friendship with Brian was a life lesson in duality. He was a gentle giant, a servant leader, enigmatic but transparent. When I heard that he had cancer, I was angry and scared, and yet his words and actions gave me hope. It makes sense now that in the midst of his unrelenting pain, he still gave strength to others. He was emotionally strong, even when he was physically weak, and stood tallest when his physical pain brought him to his knees. For those of us who knew and loved him, at least for me, his loss is breathtaking. In the interest of allowing me to put some of my grief into words, Jerry has taken Jenda to the movies tonight, so she won't have to witness my devastation. I think they're going to see 'Ramona and Beezus.' Maybe it's 'The Romans and Jesus.' I am so wracked with heartbreak I just can't be sure. But in that pain, duality comes back to me. Brian brought such wonderful light into my life, and my world is now darker because he is gone. I marvel that I had such a wonderful friend while I hate myself that I was not a better friend to him.

I don't know that I will ever make sense of it. He fought like hell for this life, but ultimately surrendered to the will of a Creator out of whom he was endlessly born, and in whom he had complete faith. He gave wise counsel but always sought to better himself. He was such a wonderful dichotomy and his friendship taught me so much about the dual nature of things. Even as he was dying, he had the courage to live.

I will always be heartbroken because he is gone. I will always be grateful because he was here.

Better Sterile than Feral?

2010-05-29T19:03:00.000-07:00

'The trouble with cats is that they've got no tact.' P.G.Wodehouse

Since I have a young child, I have to be very careful about what we watch on TV. I have started reading the news online since I don’t want Jenda watching anything more scary than Nicktoons or HGTV. And let’s face it. Some of the ‘before houses’ on HGTV can be rather frightening. Our TV set is like some kind of kiddie Outer Limits. Anyway, I happened across an article about an elderly woman in Idaho and her black and white house cat. Well this sweet little old lady had one of those nosy-ass Mrs. Kravitz type neighbors who had to be her own neighborhood watch committee. Mrs. Kravitz noticed a black and white cat wandering around outside her neighbor’s house and figured her elderly neighbor’s beloved pet had escaped. Being one of those nosy-ass good-Samaritan types, she grabbed the cat and took it to her neighbor. Sounds really sweet, until all Hell broke loose. It was like Picasso’s “Guernica” when that dear sweet old lady answered the door.

Little old Mildred (that’s what I call her) answered holding her cat (Chuckie), who had not escaped. Chuckie saw Mrs. Kravitz and this other cat, and he went apeshit! Unfortunately, he attacked his owner, not the dorky neighbor who deserved to be mauled, and bit his owner into swiss cheese!!! She had to be taken to the hospital. Okay, it gets worse.

A lot worse.

The paramedics rushed to the scene to treat poor, bleeding Mildred and one was quoted as saying, “The owner said she was going to take Chuckie to the shelter because that’s not the first time she’s been attacked.”

WHAT?!

There sure as hell wouldn’t be a second time. Chuckie would damn sure be pushing up daisies. Attack me? Hmph! I love animals as much as the next person (not in that over-the-top PETA kinda way!) But Chuckie would have to go. I mean, when he first attacked Mildred, he musta clawed a big-ass hole in her head where her brains fell out. Mildred may be retired and lonely, but damn, go be a Walmart greeter! It’s better than “The Human Scratching Post!” Sideshows are a dying breed (like Chuckie would be if he lived in my house) but Walmart’s always hiring!

It reminded me of when Jerry and I lived in Lauderhill, or as we called it, LauderHELL. I was getting in the car to go to work (linen suit, pantyhose, and sensible low heeled pumps, in the 105 degree heat, like an idiot!) I spied this precious kitten wandering pitifully through the parking lot. I felt sorry for it, so I decided to catch it so it wouldn’t get hit by a car. This was one of the dumber things I’ve done in my life. I couldn’t have caught that kitten with a jet engine strapped to my ass!! I was worn out, late for work and sweating like Heather Mills at a Stella McCartney fashion show. I poured some milk into a saucer and set it in the back porch. There was a big hole in the screen so I knew he would get in and find it. Then, off to work.

I got home that night and Jerry was mad as hell at me.

Jerry came home after a long day and stepped out into the patio to enjoy a cigarette and a beer. It wasn’t the kitten that bothered him so much, but the fact that the whole feline Manson family was now in our patio. We couldn’t go into our patio because the crazy mama cat would have killed us. Hell, if we so much as walked near the sliding glass door, she hissed and pissed and freaked and shrieked… like me when I get outbid at the last minute on ebay.

I told Jerry that I would handle it. I called my best friend Eileen, who is an animal lover and cat owner. I mean, this wasn’t something I could handle on my own, and Eileen came through like a champ with two heavy-duty zip-top cat carriers and directions to the no-kill animal shelter. For once though, she didn’t offer to come over and help. Something about remodeling her basement. Funny, I didn’t even know she HAD a basement. So, Jerry and I agreed that come the weekend, the cats were going. Everything was great until Jerry messed things up.

I woke next morning to the sounds of Jerry shrieking and hissing. I ran to the living room and there was Jerry with another cat! This one was babies daddy. He was good-natured and a lout in a feline sort of way. The cat, not Jerry.

What gives?

“I saw this one wandering around outside and one of those kittens looks like him so I decided to reintroduce him to the family, but it didn’t work!”

Lemme tell you why. There’s a reason the babies are with Mama and she’s crazy as hell. Daddy here is hooked on catnip, he’s behind on the child support and he pissed away the last of the milk and Little Friskies on some little frisky, so Mama ain’t gonna welcome him home with open paws! Sigh. We needed to go look at a house we wanted to buy, so we locked baby daddy in the bathroom until we got back. Then, we would take him to the shelter.

We went to look at a house and signed a contract on a townhouse (without having listed our condo yet), then we came home to feline downsize. I put Daddy cat in a vinyl tote-bag, zipped him up with his head sticking out, and put him in the floor of the front passenger’s seat. Then Jerry drove us all to the no-kill shelter. That’s when the fun began.

We got into midday traffic in Ft. Lauderdale, which is surreal at best. We were on Oakland Park Boulevard, surrounded by more cars than crap in a laxative factory. I felt sorry for the cat, since only his head was sticking out and it was a really hot day. I leaned down to unzip the bag a little so he could get some air.

I regret that move to this day.

I heard a hissing sound. The cat seemed happy enough, then, the smell hit me in the face. Hard.

I couldn’t breathe, scream or move to get the window rolled down. I gaped at Jerry, who gave me that disgusted “you farted!” look. Then, it hit him, too.

“Holy shit, roll the windows down, do something!” I was frozen, paralyzed in cat-piss horror. The smell spread like nuclear fallout through the car. Jerry took matters into his own hands, which meant he took his hands off the wheel.

We careened down Oakland Park at roughly 90 mph, me choking, Jerry scrambling to roll down his window, and other drivers honking and giving us the finger as we bounced off their fenders like Ray Charles driving bumper cars. If you have never done this, you don’t know how to live. We finally made it to the no-kill shelter, reeking, cursing, and stinking to high heaven. It’s good practice for raising small children.

We went in and the people quietly waiting their turn parted like the Red Sea and announced loudly that “those two stinky-ass people are next!” Of course, there was some pompous ass who declared, “well, someone has a male cat, and he just sprayed!”

Y’all know me…

“SOMEONE is a rocket scientist who is going to need a proctologist to get my foot out of his fat ass!” Naturally, Jerry made me go get back in the car. Wuss!

We dropped off Daddy cat, and just to be generous, we donated the bag that we brought him in. When we mentioned that he had a family waiting in the wings, they told us that they would have to go to another no-kill shelter that they worked with as a partner site.

In Afghanistan.

We went home and both got fully dressed into the shower, using Clorox as shower gel. Then we burned the clothes we were wearing and I went to work knowing tomorrow was it. The rest of the Manson Family had to go. Jerry had a plan.

We woke up early. “Take this piece of plywood and go stand outside the patio (he did say outside) and hold it over the hole in the screen. When I go out to round up the Mansons, I mean cats, they won’t be able to escape. I’ll put them into Eileen’s cat carriers and we’ll cart them off to the shelter.”

I laughed my ass right off. Jerry was wearing a tee shirt and a pair of shorts. Mama Cat would turn him into shredded cheese in about 10 seconds. Look, I said, go back in, put on jeans and a sweatshirt, and get your work gloves. If not, well, even I might have a hard time identifying your body!

I took my plywood and got into position outside, blocking the escape hole (as I was told to do). Jerry, padded like the Michelin Man, slowly opened the sliding door and brought the cat carriers out. Mama Cat knew something was up so she put down her crack pipe and motioned the kittens to huddle close. Then, the fun began.

I was standing there trying to keep all these cats contained in the patio. Mama Cat flipped out with Jerry chasing her until he finally caught her. She climbed up the screen. Jerry grabbed her around the middle. All four of her legs were splayed out spread-eagle and as Jerry was holding her trying to get a better grip, she pissed right through the screen smack in the middle of my chest! I stood in shock for several seconds, then became aware that Jerry was laughing hysterically! I thought, ‘you sonofabitch!’

Then Jerry screamed, “you sonofabitch!”

I thought it was one of those magic marriage moments when you can read each others thoughts…. Then the uncontrollable laughter hit me!

Jerry grabbed Mama too hard and she pooped in a straight line directly onto his chest! Talk about a magic moment! He managed to wrestle Mama off the screen and he was able to get her into the cat carrier, but then realized he couldn’t ZIP the thing without letting go of her. “Come help me” he said.

No.

“Get in here and help me!”

Hell no.

“You’re my wife, remember? For better, for worse?”

That’s right, and it’s better for me out here and worse in there.

After much puffing and cursing, Jerry got the cat into the bag, hahaha, and after that, the two kittens were no problem. Off we went again, to the second shelter, the one in Afghanistan. Anyway, this cute little gal came out to assist.

“Ooh, look at the cute kitties!”

I wouldn’t do that if I were you….but one hiss from Mama and Jerry’s screams convinced her to back up quick. The shelter then went into a lockdown mode as we were ushered into the back to the maximum security area. Since it was a no-kill shelter, I can’t say it was death row, more like some kind of super intensive rehab for wayward cats. We took the cats in, and Jerry made the mistake of telling the people how Mama Cat beat his ass, I mean, uh, showed very little class. We could’ve gotten out sooner if Jerry hadn’t had to fill out a bite report and tell all the people there what a horrible wife I am for not helping him.

Needless to say, I have learned my lesson. I don’t bring home strays. I still have a soft spot in my heart for animals, but I would never be attacked by some ingrate animal and then be dumb enough to let it happen again, and I don’t pick up strays to bring home anymore. Now I’m older and wiser, and in North Carolina. I set a dish of food across the street at someone else’s house. Then I just sit outside with my chardonnay and watch my neighbors do battle. It’s much safer and more fun that way.

Better for me, worse for someone else.

Age is Only a Number...of Pills and Potions!

2010-05-16T16:33:00.000-07:00

Funny, but I have heard forever that life begins at 40. I have also been told that old age is always 15 years older than you presently are. I realize now that both of these adages are crap. Life begins to get really crazy at 40, and the fact is, if you are 40 or older, well dammit you're pretty old and if you make it another 15 years, you are damn near ancient. That makes more sense, at least to me.

I have been lucky that my health has always held me in pretty good stead. I have managed to keep myself in one piece and so far have been able to avoid invitations to spend the summer at any state mental institutions. Still, once I turned 40, things haven't been the same. Anymore when I get out of bed in the morning, you'd swear I was having group sex with those damn Rice Krispies midgets. All of my joints are screaming snap, crackle, and pop! I have various mild aches and pains where I never knew I had body parts. And where I used to consider myself a feminist, I now laugh at anyone who burns their bra. You're going to need those things one day, you fools!

At any rate, I have reached a point in life where I have to take calcium supplements, vitamins, omega threes and even extra fiber! Fiber! For all of the times in my 40 years that I have been told I am full of shit, there is no way I should ever need to take a fiber supplement. But here I am. It shouldn't come as a surprise. Having worked as a supervisor in a call center and having spoken to some of my fellow crabby-over-40 Americans, I know good and well that many, MANY people need more fiber...and anti-depressants.

I think I know when it started for me. Everything was moving along fine my whole life, and then one night, Jerry, Jenda and I went out to dinner at a diner-type restaurant that I will call Lenny's. Since I wasn't terribly hungry, I ordered a cheese steak sandwich with only meat and cheese. Jerry, on the other hand, not only ordered a bacon double cheeseburger the size of a gopher, he also asked the waitress to bring the onions, peppers, and mushrooms that would have been on my sandwich. Now, I took a bite of my blandwich, consisting of bread, meat, and cheese that I can only describe as funny in taste and consistency. Not funny-haha, this was bad funny, like cheese left over from the Reagan administration. After my second bite, I began to feel rather ill.

After Jerry finished his dinner and the food that Jenda didn't finish, I insisted that we leave. I told Jerry that I felt funny and that I thought there was something wrong with the cheese.

"Maybe it was WIC cheese, or as they say in the South, Gub'ment cheese....bwahaha! Anyway, take an Alka-Seltzer when we get home. You'll be fine." Now those of you who know me know that Alka-Seltzer is my cure-all. I take it, holding my nose and gagging it down because it works. But in this particular case, it didn't work, and I knew I was in trouble.

Fast forward two weeks and that damn depression era cheese had blocked things up worse than the line for the Halal cart at 53rd and 6th. (My New Yorker friends know what I mean!) It was not pretty. Hell, I can't even say it was ugly. Nothing happened. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I finally reached the point where I had to call out sick to work to go to the doctor, and imagine my humiliation having to tell the triage nurse what was wrong. My stomach was SO bloated that the doctor insisted on doing a pregnancy test before the x-ray because he was convinced that I was about to give birth to ten pound triplets. And yes, there was thirty pounds of somethin' in there, but I knew he wouldn't want to be the one to deliver it!

When I came back from the x-ray, the doctor was amazed. He turned to my husband and said, "I can't believe how backed up she is. There seems to be some sort of intestinal blockage," to which Jerry replied, "Yeah, she's full of shit....hahaha!"

Fortunately, we were already at the doctor's office so they were able to treat his wounds immediately. While Jerry was having my foot removed from his ass, the doctor suggested that I take an over-the-counter fiber supplement to get things back to normal, and he assured me that I would be feeling better by the next day. It turns out he was talking shit.

After another 48 hours of agony, during which time I tried Castor oil, fiber-laden beverages, and pretty much anything else out there, I sent Jerry back to the drug store and told him to empty Jenda's college fund and buy everything he could get. Strangely, he came home with a single bottle of something. What is this, I asked?

"I went to the pharmacist. I told him your symptoms, then I told him your name and showed him your picture. We had a good laugh and he told me that you should drink this stuff. It's called magnesium citrate."

Suffice it to say that they give this liquid nastiness to proctology patients because it cleans things out. Unfortunately, it also makes Alka-Seltzer taste like a glass of Dom Perignon. Nonetheless, I drank it down and hoped for the best. Be careful what you pray for....

About an hour or so later, with no warning, I knew that Judgment Day was at hand. I barely made it to the bathroom. Fortunately, I did make it, but unfortunately, I didn't have a seat belt to hold me down, because I almost took off like that guy in the movie 'The Rocketeer.' Talk about being cleaned out...Martha Stewart could perform my first colonoscopy. But it's all good, I feel much better, I finally read 'War and Peace' cover to cover, and Jerry finally repainted the downstairs bathroom.

Per the doctor's orders, I take my various vitamins and peculiar potions and eat a fiber fortified diet. I try to get in some exercise (somedays, I try harder than others) and I eat a diet rich in whole grains and fiber. Of course, I still haven't given up my Kendall Jackson on occasion.

I have enough crap to deal with!

Love Thy Neighbor, Real or Imagined

2010-04-30T14:35:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me recently that my family and I have been in North Carolina for just under four years and I think I am finally adjusting to life in my small town. Sitting in traffic the other day, I marveled at all of the other cars on the road, until I remembered that this amount of traffic in Ft. Lauderdale would have made me wonder where the Hell all the people were!

The adjustment process has not always been easy for me. For example, in Florida, all of the ground is sand. It's a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water so it stands to reason. And I could grow ANYTHING in sand; tropical plants and palms, African Bush daisies and Cuban buttercups. When we sold our townhouse and moved to NC, our real estate remarked that our house looked like all of the others but no one else had our curb appeal. And she was right. I assumed that it was because I was a SOUTHERNER, thus a natural born gardener, but it turns out I was wrong. I'm not good at gardening OR being Southern.

We moved here and settled on life in a small town in what is known as 'The Heart of the Triad.' We had no sooner moved in than our neighbors showed up in droves with food and baked goods, invitations to their homes and solicitations to their various churches. We were a bit surprised but absolutely charmed, and very grateful for their kindness. We still are. Of course these thoughtful gestures made me realize to my horro that I am not really a true Southerner. Not even relocating from the southernmost part of the United States allowed me to join their midst, because we had to move north to live in 'The South.' For example, we heard that one of the houses in our neighborhood had recentlsold, so we would be getting some new neighbors. Naturally, I wanted to get all neighborly and take them some yummy baked goods. I mentioned my intentions to hubby Jerry and he was in agreement, which is a blessing since he is a wonderful cook and I, well, it's just not a talent I possess. Imagine my horror when Jerry showed up from the store, ready to meet the new neighbors with a store-bought lemon bundt cake from the day-old bin at Food Lion!!

Please tell me that you have something better to offer our new neighbors. This here is the SOUTH, Jerry. Day old bundt cake ain't gonna cut it!

"No. It's still soft. It'll cut fine. It'll be fine. Really."

It'll be fine IF the new neighbors relocated here from New Jersey, but if they are from anywhere near the Mason-Dixon line, we're going to be the laughingstock of North Carolina. Assuming we're not already, which I think we are.

That notwithstanding, we marched over to the new place, like some perverse General Sherman (redundant!) burning a swath to the coast. Of course the new neighbors were from Georgia or Tennessee so they took one look at our stale-ass bundt cake and immediately pegged us for freaks. Yankee Freaks!!! Okay. I guess they were smarter than I thought.

So I spent all of our money on every Paula Deen cookbook in existence and used all of our food for casseroles. I made casseroles for births, deaths, and everything in between. I made dishes with hot peppers and peppy dishes for hot flashes. I almost felt sorry for Jerry when he came home one night and said "Ummmm....something smells wonderful! What's for dinner?"

Ramen noodles.

"What?! Something smells heavenly!"

Yes, and if you touch it, I'll send you to Heaven. I am prepared for anything; pregnancy, childbirth, death, graduation, divorces, and menopause. And whatever our neighbors come up with, I have a casserole for it. So don't touch anything in the freezer. I don't have anything prepared for killing your own spouse!

Anyway, I felt that I had gotten a handle on the whole greet-your-neighbors-with-a-dish thing, until I met someone who I just couldn't get a handle on. Strangely, all of my neighbors knew him. In fact, everyone in town knew him except me, and I vowed to find my way into his inner sanctum.

His name was Mamanem.

He was a very popular sort. I assumed he was the mayor or something because his name to everyone in town, in fact, in the entire state. I first became familiar with him by talking to the people I met....

"We're busy tonight. Gonna go see Mamanem."

Okay. Cool.

And then, " We all gone go to church this Sunday with Mamanem. We'll see you later."

It hit me that Mamanem was a non-denominationalChristianBaptistMethodistMoravianLutheranHolyroller. In fact, he attended every church in town except for the little Episcopal church around the corner that Jerry and I attend. I know he didn't go to our church because I excitedly asked one of our fellow parishioners, Is Mamanem here today?

"No, Mamanem's at the the Baptist church, but thanks for askin'!"

Uh, sure. Give Mamanem my best regards.

Enlightenment came in the form of a rather glaring miscommunication, well, no, just a giant gaffe. I was talking to one of my neighbors one day and after she mentioned Mamanem, I indicated that I would surely love to meet the amazing and wildly popular Mamanem. She looked puzzled.

"Y'all met Mamanem at little Lucy Rae's birthday party. 'Member?"

Jerry flashed me a warning look. You know, the one that means 'shut up' and the one that I rarely heed? Anyway, this time, I obeyed. Oh yes, I 'member now. Ha ha....

Jerry leaned over and whispered, "He isn't a HE. It's MAMA AND THEM, spoken in deep Southern.

Oh Lord. Actually, no, OOOH LAWD! I could hardly call myself a true Southerner and not be acquainted with Mamanem. How could I have missed that?! Most of my ancestors come from the Deep South, but somehow I missed the boat. Lawd, bless my heart!

So here I am, desperate to get in touch with my Southern roots, and unfortunately, the ones in my hair don't count. My summer reading list now consists of everything ever written by Paula Deen, Ernest Matthew Mickler's 'White Trash Cookin' and the John Deere catalog. I have given up Chardonnay for Mint Juleps, and I am trying my hand at canning and cooking.

If I'm successful, y'all come on over for supper. Bring y'all's Mamanem!

For Duck, a Simple Offering

2010-04-20T12:44:00.000-07:00

Writing has been a creative outlet for me. I try to find humor in the crazy situations that life puts in my path, and I want my works to make people laugh, but that isn't always possible. Truth be told, I am not laughing very much this week. Losing a beloved colleague and dear friend just isn't that funny to me. I got the sad news that my friend Donald McNeill passed away last Friday. I guess it's just part of that strange duality of life and death; Donald could always make me laugh. His passing has brought me to tears.

I had the privilege of working with Donald for about three years, but such was his personality that I feel like I've known him my whole life. Donald was a very warm person and such a vital presence. He always had a kind word, and even if he was picking on you in his rather snide way, it was always in good fun, and he could take shit as good as he could give it. His nickname was Duck, and initially, I thought it was because his name was Donald, but I came to learn that it was because the teasing of his colleagues rolled off his back, and he was always ready with a snappy comeback. I worked with him in a call center and any time he would refer an irate caller to me, I would huff and say, "Donald, I know you did what you could to tell the customer what can be done, but they don't believe you because you're TOO DAMN NICE!" And he would agree and then say, "That's why I am referring them to you because you're SO DAMN MEAN!" Sadly, that is not a point I could ever argue. It's just one of my character flaws. Get over it.

At any rate, his acerbic with not withstanding, he always had something nice to say to me, and in fact, when I was in his presence, I felt like I was the wittiest, most beautiful woman alive. Of course as I got to know him better, I realized that neither point was necessarily true since he made EVERY woman feel that way. In short, he was an outrageous flirt. Looking back, I am not sure that outrageous is a strong enough word. But I digress.

Inasmuch as he was a terrible tease, he also recognized character traits that deserved acknowledgement in his friends. While I personally collect character flaws the way some people collect fine china, one of my habits is humming to myself. What can I say, some people bite their fingernails. I did for years until my father told me that all of my chewed up fingernails were being stored in my appendix, which would rupture any day. Of course this is the same man that told me that mayonnaise comes from those giant cockroaches when you step on them, so I should have just ignored him. And some people smoke cigarettes, or drink wine....oh, wait. Nevermind.

So Donald heard me humming a happy tune and at the outset of our friendship, he began calling me 'Hummingbird.' Chances are he probably forgot my real name, but Hummingbird became my moniker and I can honestly say that while I have been called many thing in my life, most of which do not bear repeating here, 'Hummingbird' was one of the nicest and kindest meant. Happily, I have a decent sense of pitch and Donald and I had the same taste in music, so for that I loved him all the more.

It was some time into our friendship before I knew that he was ill, and it is a testament to his wonderful spirit that he kept his smile in place, and kept batting his eyes at all of us crazy females. But he had a serious side. He loved his job, and he cared for his coworkers and leaders. He actually grasped the fact that life is precious and fleeting, and he really lived each day to the fullest. Whatever his flaws and foibles, his wry sense of humor and ability to have fun made you forgive him, and made you feel better about yourself.

I am blessed to have many friends, and I hope that the remainder of my life brings me many more dear friends. But the beauty and tragedy of this is that there will never be another Donald. I suppose that goes without saying. I miss my friend, moreover, I miss the way his humor and kindness made me feel. My grief is selfish, but my gratitude is boundless. The fact is, many people have called me a Dodo bird, and sometimes, I have to eat crow. And it will probably never happen again, but no one else ever called me a hummingbird.

Thanks, Duck.

Christmas Carols for the Insane (Me!)

2009-12-18T19:59:00.000-08:00

Some Christmas Carols for my friends...

Hello all! Here is my contribution to Christmas carolling. The tunes should be easy enough to recognize, so on that note, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy Kwanzaa. I especially feel for the Atheists at this time of year. Who DO you talk to when you have sex?! On that note, everyone, sing along....

When it snows our whole state panics,

But not me, I've got my Xanax

It's just a statewide freakshow,

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

Or this one...

I'm dreaming of a warm Christmas, just like the ones I used to know,

In the lush warm tropics, where all our topics

were talk of hurricanes that blow.

Now, I am in a strong blizzard, at least it seems that way to me

May I live through this storm of white, while I dream of Florida so bright!

No? Maybe this one....

Oh the weather outside is frightful

and inside, it ain't delightful

While my kid is bouncing off walls

Well a big glass of chardonnay calls!

And finally....

While my kid squawks, city sidewalks

are all covered in snow

In the air there's a feeling of madness

Jenda's manic, I'm in panic, this is such a wild scene

and my frantic refrain you can hear....

Bloody hell, bloody hell

we are snowed in until Sunday

Bloody hell, bloody hell

I need some more chardonnay!

Whatever your preference, and wherever you are, have a wonderful holiday. I wish you ALL the best!

Yule Make Me Hurl!

2009-12-18T16:47:00.000-08:00

Well the Christmas season is upon us and usual, people are going all out. Spending might be curtailed due to the economy, but crazy holiday decorations and nostalgia are still free. My favorite holiday is Halloween, so I am not one of those people who get all sentimental and drippy about Christmas and the holiday season. Of course, now that I have a child, I put a good face on it, but the whole commercialization and insanity give me the heebie jeebies, so it's just not really my thing.

I remember Christmases past and while some of them were really great, there was often a torment within me that was worse than having an eight foot Frazier fir shoved up my butt. At that time, my parents, my brother Patrick, and I lived in Tallahassee. Since the rest of the extended family lived in Tampa, we always made the trek to Tampa so we could visit with the whole family. We could always count on some kind of Christmas drama, like someone getting pissed off because we spent more time at some other relatives house. Or I might get a toy that I deemed 'not age appropriate', in other words, a BABY TOY, and then I'd throw a fit and offend the gift giver and my parents would bawl me out while my brother Patrick laughed! Such was the season of giving.

One thing that I remember clearly (primarily because my family won't let me forget!) is that a four hour trip to Tampa usually took us close to two days. Why? Because I had to throw up at every rest stop and public restroom along Interstate 10. Seriously. As soon as we'd get in the car to leave, I would start to heave. Sing with me, "Vomit spewing in a crowded car, everybody hold your nose...." My parents tried to explain it away as pre-Christmas excitement, but I never accepted that explanation. Surely Patrick was excited and he wasn't doing the yuletide hurl. It seemed strange, somehow, and I always wondered about it. After years of introspection, therapy, and Kendall Jackson, the answer came to me upon a midnight clear.

It was my parents fault.

THEY TOOK ME TO SEE MALL SANTA!!!

This has apparently scarred me deeply. Allow me to elaborate. Mother and Daddy were two of those sentimental, drippy types who loved nothing more than to dress me and Patrick in some Osh-Kosh holiday finery and drag ours asses to Sears to pose for pictures with Santa. From the time I was small, I NEVER got close to MALL SANTA! I knew he was evil! And the poor minimum wage photographer had to drag out the widest angle lens in existence, not because of my chubby butt, but because I was standing safely out of reach of MALL SANTA, the creepy fucker! He never seemed to bother Patrick, but I saw right through that leering smile and that shitty fake beard!

Now that I am forty and a mommy, I can't help but wonder what the hell my parents were thinking, exposing us kids to such holiday freakishness. Well, not Patrick especially, but ME! It's tragic that I am still haunted by the ghosts of MALL SANTAS past, but it's true. It boggles my mind when I think back through the years to the hell they put me through....

Big Redneck Bubba Santa- all he wants for Christmas is his two front teeth!
Santorexic Claus- Sears couldn't always afford a jolly fat guy so they hired some puny, bony creep to haunt my dreams!
Osanta Bin Laden-yes, he was plotting the downfall of America but at least his shitty beard was real!
Swelter Claus- because nothing says Christmas like some over-dressed fat guy sitting under hot lights showering helpless little children with 'old-fat-man sweat!'
Hanta Claus- Hey kid, want a deadly virus for Christmas?

I could go on and on, but I feeling that yuletide urge to purge. Just trust me when I tell you that there exists NO picture of me sitting on the lap of MALL SANTA, and there never will be. With my luck, I'd run into Saddam Husanta....nevermind. Of course, as a parent, I did have an aberrant nostalgic moment, but only ONCE! Jerry and I took Jenda to see Santa and it turned out that he was a financial advisor that I had fired because he was so incompetent. Of course Jenda became hysterical and frankly, so did I. I mean, AWKWARD! I call him Bankruptcy Claus. I never took her to see MALL SANTA again, and never will. MALL SANTA hysteria could be genetic, or of course, she could have just been really smart at an early age. I tend to think it's a little of both. Whatever the case, I will spend future Christmases making up for that horrible lapse in mommy judgment.

That's not to say that I won't enjoy Christmas and create family traditions throughout the coming years. We always watch The Grinch and the 24 hour marathon of 'A Christmas Story', and we prepare the requisite feast for three that would feed a small army. Well take pictures of our tree, and family pictures, but there will be no MALL SANTA in our future holidays. But for any friends or family reading this, if you are feeling some kind of misguided, goofy longing for a holiday of me, let me know. I'd be glad to pose with Kendall Jackson!

Love is Blind...Marriage is an Eye Opener!

2009-10-27T02:21:00.000-07:00

Today is a very special day for me. Jerry and I are celebrating eight years of marriage today! Between marriage and motherhood, I have no idea where the time goes. I guess it’s true that life is what happens while you’re busy making plans. Like I keep planning to clean my house. Someday, I’m going to get off my butt and do it. Yes. I see the logic now. It IS true.

I would love to be able to say that I remember my wedding as though it was yesterday, but that wouldn’t be entirely true. It took me 32 years to catch a husband, so by the time it came down to the actual day, I was tired! Wedding planning will take a lot out of a bride, not to mention working overtime to help pay for everything. I do remember that the day started very early, replete with all of the mishaps and disasters that can only happen on the day one is married. However, it was an absolutely glorious South Florida day. The sky was a gorgeous blue, and it was blessedly cool outside (under 90 degrees.) I had dieted down to look svelte in my wedding dress, and had also stuffed myself into the most unforgiving corset ever created, so all things considered, I looked pretty good. At least I think I did. My maid of honor finally caught on after I had taken my 6th Xanax on a very empty but tight stomach, so much of it is a blur.

In spite of the ministrations of my amazing bridesmaids and all of the medication, my nerves were still buzzing like an angry hornet. Jerry, his groomsmen, and our priest were in the sacristy while my bridesmaids and I were in the choir room in the back. Fr. Ralph Evan, our priest, mentioned to Jerry that he wanted to give things a few more minutes, but he was going to check in on me and the girls. Jerry tried to stop him. “Fr. Ralph, you are a brave man. Or a stupid one.” Undeterred, Fr. Ralph came to check in on us.

It was sheer bad timing because one of my flower girls kept pulling the flowers out of her miniature bouquet. Since we aren’t allowed to drop petals in our church, she carried a small-scale replica of my bouquet that actually cost more than my big bouquet. I had asked her several times not to pull the flowers out of it until after we got through the pictures, at which point she could eat it, for all I cared. Still, at the precise moment that Fr. Ralph entered the room, she plucked out the largest flower from the middle of the arrangement and threw it in the floor. And I chose that moment to utter the WORST profanity you can say in the house of The Lord. For our purposes here, I’ll say ‘gosh darn’, and leave it at that. Eight years later, I can still feel the weight of Fr. Ralph’s stare, and I can still remember my bridal party backing away from me to get out of the way of the thunderbolt we all knew was coming. Fr. Evans returned to my groom to be and said, “Jerry, YOU are a brave man. Or a stupid one.”

Things finally got underway. My dad looked so handsome and proud in his tuxedo. Of course he was late to the wedding rehearsal, so he had not practiced walking me down the aisle. He chose the big moment to decide that we should do some triumphant bridal march. I suppose it was triumphant for him in that he was palming me off on Jerry at long last. Coupled with my nerves and the 6 Xanax, we bumped and lurched along like a couple of drunks until I stopped up short and hissed, just WALK Daddy. Apparently, I hiss louder than an angry copperhead, because I heard a ripple of laughter follow me to the altar.

After Jerry and I took communion, we were instructed to sit on two throne-like chairs while the rest of the congregation took communion. I saw a short cut to my throne, and by that time, the Xanax was really working it’s magic, so I turned and went to my throne. Unbeknownst to me, my very long train caught on one of the tall candelabras positioned at the altar. I though the collective gasp was meant for how beautiful my dress looked, but it turns out I nearly knocked the candles over. Fortunately, Jerry and Eileen, my maid of honor, were able to prevent yet another calamity. Once we were finally married, our guests headed to the reception for cocktails while the bridal party and family finished pictures. When our limousine driver showed up, he was very nasty, and Rocky Balboa, er, Daddy had to be physically restrained from beating him up. It was a very exciting morning!

Our reception was divine. Of course, I was being held into my dress with that vulcanized rubber torture device so I couldn’t eat very much food. But wine and champagne went down easily, hence the reason that I don’t quite remember everything that transpired. But I do remember finally leaving and having the chance to be alone with my husband in our hotel suite on the beach. And I must have held up pretty well during the day because Jerry was ready to get that dress off of me and get the honeymoon started. Sadly, there was the corset to contend with.

Have you ever opened a roll of biscuits or crescent rolls? You know how you apply pressure and then the whole things pops open “PWUPHTH” and everything spills out? It was like that when I took the corset off. Sort of an explosion. Jerry looked taken aback but I reminded him that it was legal now…no turning back! I sat down on the bed to get out of the crinolines and stockings, and that was it. I was so lit, I was out like a light.

I awoke several hours later with intense hunger pains. Jerry was sleeping, but I woke him up, saying FEED THE CAT! He told me to order room service and went back to sleep. I went all out with a bacon cheeseburger, French fries, a chocolate milkshake and diet coke, naturally. Let’s just say it didn’t sit too well after strenuous dieting and heavy medication, so we spent part of our wedding night at Walgreen’s, buying various stomach remedies.

I look back on all of this and laugh. Sometimes I laugh because I can’t believe that I lived through it. Other times, I laugh because I can’t believe Jerry actually went through with it. I was online looking up anniversary gifts by year, just to see what eight years will get you. I think Jerry is hoping for time off with good behavior. Anyway, the traditional gift is bronze. Nah. The modern gift is appliances. No way will Jerry buy me another appliance. I insisted on a Kitchen Aid mixer one year for Christmas, and Jerry got me one. Little did he know that I wanted it as an art form for my counter. No way was I really going to use it. I would ask for platinum and jewels, but knowing Jerry, he’d bring me L’oreal #120 Platinum Crystal (because I’m worth it!) Sure, blondes may have more fun, but I’m not complaining. I’ve had a great time.

So thinking back on all of this, I am also looking forward to our future, for whatever it holds, and for however long we have. I enjoy the idea of growing old together, and all the funny things that will happen to us along the way. And while I know that Jerry doesn’t always appreciate my lowbrow humor, and I can’t always understand his arch witticisms, we’re in it for the long haul. Til death us do part, and maybe not even then!

As I've said before, we’ve almost got each other trained!

Everything I Need to Know, My Child is Learning in Kindergarten

2009-10-25T01:12:00.000-07:00

“The behavior of some children suggests that their parents embarked on the sea of matrimony without a paddle” Earl Warren

It’s great being the mother of a child in school. Aside from the free time that I now have during the day, Jerry and I now really take an active role in Jenda’s education. We do homework together and are teaching her how to read and how to spell, and of course correct word pronunciation. To a large degree we have been successful. She no longer pronounces drink as ‘drank’ and we have eradicated ‘liberry’ from her vocabulary, so I feel like our teaching is paying off. Of course, she has taught us a great deal as well, in fact, we learn something new every day.

After the whole ‘I lost a stick for bad behavior’ trauma, we learned that there are far more horrible things in the life of a kindergartner than losing a stick. Jenda hasn’t lost any more sticks, but she has shared with us what can happen to the kids in school if they really get out of line, literally and figuratively. She told us about one little boy who is just really strange.

There is one in every class. I remember in kindergarten, there was a child in my class, who I am going to call Jackwayne. He was like some perverse Shakespearean prince, in that his name (which I have disguised) was all one name, like Macbeth. At any rate, he was just repugnant. He used to eat crayons, and he also liked to scoop the Elmer’s glue paste out of the big plastic jar and eat it off his fingers. But the worst was the fact that he would pee and poo in his pants and then spend the rest of the day stinking so bad he could knock the buzzards off a shitpile from 50 paces. He said it didn’t bother him, but here I am, 35 years later, so scarred and traumatized that I still have to sit near windows, even on airplanes.

Back to Jenda and her trials and tribulations. She came home recently to announce that one child in her class was very bad. He lost ALL of his sticks and was still being bad, so he was sent to the Hall Adjusters. Being that she is only five, and sometimes has difficulty with big words, I thought she said Hall of Jesters. To me, that sounds like a happy place where teachers send the class clowns. If they’d had one of those at my school, I might have been a better student. Then she said, “No, Mommy. Hall of Justice!” That sounded rather scary to me, but I was hopeful that the ‘kiddie Supreme Court’ had enough women and liberals to keep Jenda from getting too many demerits. Then, finally, she yelled “HALL ADJUSTERS!”

Hall adjusters? What the…?! Who and what are they adjusting?

According to Jenda, ‘Hall Adjusters’ is a room with a toilet in it and apparently not much else. So I had to ask, what do they do in there, slap the poo out of the kids?

“I don’t know, Mommy. I’m not sure.”

In Jackwayne’s case, it would have been too easy. In Jenda’s case, I never want to find out.

When I was a child, there was corporal punishment in schools, and then again once you got home, after which you were sent to your room. With today’s children, being sent to your room is hardly a punishment since many kids today have better electronics in their rooms than I have in my whole house. Ostensibly, the bad seed is taken out of class and into a small room, much like solitary confinement without Nintendo, and made to sit on a toilet until their parents come to get them…. I’m just going on hearsay, but it sounds pretty crappy, pun intended.

‘Hall Adjusters’ doesn’t seem to be working out TOO well, since I hear every afternoon about this child hitting Jenda and beating up her and her friends. I was ready to go to the school and raise hell but as always, Jerry’s cooler head prevailed and he said he will go speak to her teacher about the matter. That’s great, but while he was out mowing the lawn, I took her out of swimming lessons and am enrolling her in Taekwondo. And I am going to teach her that if any kid messes with her, she needs to just zap that kid right in the buhdoobies. Trust me, that will be much more effective than any hall adjustment!

So everyday brings a lesson in behavior modification and penance. I’m still haunted by the memories of Jackwayne and Elmer’s Glue, but through memory modification by Kendall Jackson, I am doing better. My hope is that Jenda will continue to learn and grow and accept the fact that there are just some strange, ill-mannered people in this world and we just have to deal with that. I want to make sure that she is understanding of others, but I also want her to be able to look out for herself, because if I have to do it, they won’t need the Hall Adjusters. Some kid will need the Hall of Pediatric Reconstructive Surgery. I mean, it does take a village to raise a child. But in my village, we beat, uh, adjust each others’ kids.

With all of my early teaching, when she gets older and starts taking Advanced Literature, ‘Crime and Punishment’ will be an easy read. Why I bet she’ll just breeze right through Dostoyevsky.

Yeah, she’ll be a kick ass student!

Race to the Altar Has a Whole New Meaning!

2009-10-19T07:02:00.000-07:00

Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it....
Song of Solomon

It’s really convenient sometimes to have a child. In the case of those people who have something like 19 or 20 kids, it’s obviously the free child labor they’re getting while still claiming a tax write off. In my case, I can blame not watching the news on my daughter. I am behind on current events, and I can easily blame it on the fact that we only watch Noggin and HGTV because of Jenda. The problem with this is that I do still read the news on the internet and days like yesterday, I wish I didn’t.

I actually got the first glimpse of the story on Facebook. One of my friends posted a link to a CNN story about Keith Bardwell, a justice of the peace in Louisiana who denied a marriage license to an interracial couple. I swear at first I thought it was a joke. Then I realized it was
true! And I had to contain myself.

Unfortunately, I have since escaped.

The story begins with a young couple who meet, fall in love, and decide to get married. Isn’t that romantic? Beth Humphrey and Terence McKay wanted to have a wedding and someday start a family. So Beth called Bardwell’s office to ask about getting a marriage license. She was then asked if they she was part of an interracial couple. When she answered, truthfully, yes, she was told that Mr. Bardwell’s office would not issue a marriage license and they would have to go elsewhere.

I was at a loss for words, but only temporarily. See, when I read the part about the bride-to-be being asked if she was part of an interracial couple, my jaw hit the floor, so I couldn’t speak. However, I can still type, so here we are. Since I am still speechless, can someone please yell, ‘Civil Rights Violation!’, oh, and also ‘Noneofyourfreakingbusiness!’

Mr. Bardwell was very quick to point out that he is NOT a racist (cough, sputter, puke!) He said that he will marry blacks, but only to each other. He went on to say that he was just thinking of their children. As far as I have been able to research, they don’t have any children. I can only assume that he means any children they might have. I am still trying to figure out the logic in that statement. Maybe they can’t have children. Maybe they just want to adopt a baby from, say, China. I bet this idiot isn’t asking any other prospective married couples, “Are you abusive? Are you a pedophile? Are you a flaming racist idiot like me?” No one stopped John and Kate from having a busload of kids that they exploit for television ratings, but this yahoo is worried that these two seemingly normal, moral people might want to have children, who, yes, will be bi-racial? What is he afraid of, that one of them might someday become president? No fear, it’s happened already and it seems to be working out pretty well.

By definition, a Justice of the Peace, (or in Bardwell’s case, a piece of shit), is appointed or elected to maintain the peace and deal with administrative issues that might arise in their jurisdiction. I have researched several definitions of this and none of them mention the ability to deny people their basic civil rights. Does he give any thought at all to all of the white trash he has married over the years who then go on to raise future generations of hood-wearing, cross-burning yehaws who have little to offer society other than hate crime, date rape and AIDS jokes?

Bardwell also pointed out that this has always been his practice and no one has ever complained. That’s sad. However, I would assume that if you are African American living in a small town and an appointed official does this kind of thing, you might be afraid to speak up. If I thought he and his cronies might seek their revenge, I would probably be scared, too. But that fear, in his case, has been deemed as acceptance that what he is doing is okay. Many elected officials have come forward demanding his resignation. Surely someone, somewhere, has the authority to remove this loser from his post. He needs to go. He went on to say that he has “piles and piles of black friends. They come to [his] home, they use [his] bathroom.” I think the reality of that statement is that any black people who get near him and have to listen to his racist bullshit are suddenly afflicted with bleeding piles and have to run to the nearest bathroom. That makes more sense to me. I know he makes ME sick to my stomach!

While there is really nothing funny about this situation, I am amused that he considers himself a good Christian. Someone should send him a new Bible and highlight ‘The Song of Solomon.’ It makes for some great reading, and in fact, Jerry and I had verses of it read at our wedding. In case you’re wondering, it is the story of an interracial couple. And the Bible is God’s word. He wrote it. I don’t have to do anything but read it and try to live by it. (Of course, that’s just my choice. I’m not trying to convert anyone here.) Choice being what it is, if you don’t support interracial relationships, by all means, don’t become involved in one. If you believe that it’s okay to violate the civil rights of others, by all means, leave the United States and move to some banana republic where you can be ruled over by some despotic, sanctimonious little piss-pot, like Mr. Bardwell, but let the rest of us live, get married, and have children in peace.

Kick Keith Bardwell out of office. He’ll be just fine. I imagine he’ll open his own bridal boutique, complete with robes and pointy hoods for the wedding party, and instead of a unity candle for the ceremony, maybe a large burning cross for the altar.

Sadly, it wouldn’t surprise me.

Good luck to you, Beth and Terence, and to your unborn children. Help them to be tolerant. Raise them to be well loved, loving and accepting of others. And God help us all.

Where the Wild Moms Are

2009-10-15T00:22:00.000-07:00

I consider myself very blessed to have been raised in an atmosphere of acceptance and tolerance: religious tolerance, acceptance of different sexual orientations, and an open-mindedness of other races and cultures. These things were taught to me at home. I am pretty sure that I didn’t learn them in school. Of course, I can’t be entirely sure. Elementary school was a very long time ago, and mostly I remember recess and snack time. Since my darling Jenda has recently started kindergarten, I am reaching back into the deep cobwebs of childhood memories to share my learning with her. Of course, some lessons have to be learned on the job as a mother, and I won’t be able to make Jenda understand them until she is older. Nonetheless, she is the recipient of my constant attempts at training. Allow me to explain.

While I am a Christian, I accept the fact that there are some cultures and religions who believe that we have ‘Spirit Guides.’ In my religion, I guess they could be called angels. In other religions, people feel that they have animal guides. If I were part of any of these religions, I would probably be a sloth. Anyway, I have long heard tales about how some mothers in the wild devour their young. Okay, so Mary didn’t eat Jesus, although she probably took communion…wait, now I am confused. The fact is that while I love and adore my daughter, there are times when I feel like I could channel my inner wild animal and eat her up. Take, for example, the time I took her with me to Kohl’s department store. There we were in the fitting room and I was pretending to be a size 8. Okay, a 14. Anyway, Jenda said, loudly, “Mommy, we can’t buy ice cream anymore.”

Why on earth not?

“’Cause you got chunky butt!”

Then, from the other fitting rooms, I heard ‘giggle, giggle, giggle!’

Bitches!

Then, I channeled my inner lioness and imagined myself, all fur and fangs, eating my own child. CHOMP, SMACK, BURP!

Many times since then I have imagined my inner lioness. I have chosen the lioness because she is the huntress, and being the female, the keeper of the pride. For all you unguided spirits, a group of lions is called a pride. So anyway, I have decided that my inner animal spirit guide is a lioness. Can’t you just see it now? Two baby lion cubs prancing around in the veldt behind their mother, who, frankly, has had enough crap from the kids.

“Look. Mommy shouldn’t have killed that wildebeest. She has chunky butt!”

Without a sound, with no warning, CHOMP, SMACK, BURP!

No more stupid butt jokes! It’s very effective. I love my inner lioness! Yum!

Of course there are times when, as a mother (maybe as a father, I’m not sure), you have to reexamine your spiritual side. In my case, it happened innocently enough. It always does. At any rate, I was laying on the couch after a hard day of hunting, gathering, and growling at the rest of the herd, uh, pride. I needed a break, so I let Jerry and Jenda have free reign of the jungle that we call the living room. Since I am still on an HGTV moratorium, I let the other lions decide what to watch. Big mistake on my part, as they found some show on Animal Planet about the various creatures who inhabit the various continents and their lives and animal habits. In truth, I was ignoring it until they got to Africa and the pride of lions. It’s all fun and games until someone decides it’s time to eat.

The people at Animal Planet filmed a pride of lions doing their thing. Basically, in the pride, the male, Mr. Lion, sits on his lazy ass roaring every once in a while, while the females, the lionesses, hunt, gather, raise the kids, kind of like how it is with some human families. (Mine.) So a herd of elephants go thundering by, and the lionesses stop gossiping about their husbands long enough to realize that one of the elephants isn’t lumbering quite so fast as the rest of the herd. And that’s when they seized their opportunity.

As the lionesses were taking down this poor, hapless elephant, I mentioned to Jerry that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for Jenda to see this. It actually wasn’t a good idea for ME to see it, as it was rather disturbing. And that’s when Jenda piped up, “It’s nature, Mommy. That elephant is old and slow, and the lions have to eat!”

Oh, Jeebus, old and slow! There’s my cue to leave!! I appreciate the fact that Jenda is okay with nature and the food chain and cross pollination and other nature grodiness, but I just can’t take it. In that instant, my inner lioness changed into a domesticated feline card carrying vegan.
“Hey, lioness….we’re taking down a wildebeest. Want to join us for some raw meat?”

No, thanks. I’m having the jungle salad bar with a side of tall grass. I need the fiber.

At that point, I left the room, ignoring the sounds of the TV, Jerry, and Jenda. After it was over, Jenda came into the office to fill me in on what I had missed. “Mommy, they were all eating, and then they went and sat on this big rock, and all the lions had on pink lipstick. Jerry was going to tell her it was elephant blood. I just told her yes it was lipstick and they were a gay pride. At any rate, I am happy that Jenda understands the circle of life and can deal with it in a mature way. But I still remind her that mothers in the wild don’t put up with any nonsense and won’t hesitate to eat their own offspring if they act ugly in Walmart.

Why do you think a group of crows is called a murder?

Educating Mommy

2009-09-28T13:18:00.000-07:00

So I am a bit late with my updates lately. I have had so much going on and it’s been so busy here at home, so I feel like I have sort of an excuse. The good news is, I am not on my soapbox today. I guess I am just playing catch up. And things are moving fast, believe me. Our beloved Jenda has started kindergarten.

MY BABY STARTED KINDERGARTEN!!!

I knew it was coming, and tried to prepare for it as best I could by living in denial until the last possible moment. The schools here in Forsyth county sent out a list of needed supplies that was about as long as ‘War and Peace’ so I knew that I would have to find the strength to get to the local Walmart and get her all of the things she needed. And let me tell you something. For the uninitiated (parents sending their kids to school for the first time) that is a terrifying experience. Those experienced parents buying school supplies at Walmart are savages. They kill their own.

So I had Jerry with me to fight our way through the throng of crazed parents buying everything from pie tins to tie pins. I had to fight with one crazed mommy for the last Disney Princess backpack. Suffice it to say that I won, and fortunately, her injuries were not life threatening. I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t me. I yelled to Jenda that it was the last one and she jumped into the fray. That’s my girl!

We got all of her supplies together in a U-Haul and drove them to the school for orientation. The school was mobbed, so we had to stop and ask for directions from one of the teachers in the hallway. She was most helpful. “Y’all just keep walking down this hall, past the liberry on the left, and then turnleft at the end of the hallway and her room is right there on the left.”
At the point that this teacher said ‘liberry’ my eyeballs popped out of my head and dangled there. Jerry handled it beautifully. He said, “Oh thank you. You’ve been a tremendous help. By the way, what do you teach?” Of course, she teaches math so my eyeballs went back into place and I was much relieved. So we went past the ‘liberry’, turned left, and sure enough there was the room. We met with the teacher and her assistant and they were very nice. They let us know that Jenda’s first week would only be two days. Half the class would go Tuesday and Wednesday, and Jenda and the rest of the class would go the next two days. Just to help them acclimate, which I thought was a good idea. They mentioned that they would be starting the children on computer training, at which point Jenda asked if she could bring her learning dvd-roms and proceeded to go launch the internet. The teacher said maybe they could find something else for her to do. Then, the teacher made her fatal mistake. She said that parents could come in the following Monday, the FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL, to observe for a little while.

So in we went. Obviously, the other parents have either been down this road before or just don’t care about their children. Jerry stood there snapping some pictures, and I stood there crying. Jenda was mortified, and her teacher kept waiting for us to leave, which I finally did when I heard the words ‘recess’ and ‘call security’. What can I say? This is all new for me. Jerry was so excited to have grown up time alone together with me. He asked, “Do you know what this means?”

Yes. We’re repainting the upstairs bathroom.

We managed to get through the first few days with no major calamities. That is, until Jenda lost a stick. It would seem that someone on staff worked for the CIA or was a math major at MIT or something, because they have this reward system that only a licensed code breaker could have designed and can figure out. So it works something like this. Each student starts the day with three sticks. If they behave all day, they keep the sticks and then earn stickers for certain multiples of sticks. You lost yet? Yeah, me, too. Once they have accumulated a certain number of stickers, they get to go to the prize box and pick out some little doo-dad. Well Jenda made it to Wednesday and then she lost a stick. Did you all feel that big jolt? It was the earth no longer spinning on its axis. It was the sun falling out of the sky. It was global meltdown. She cried all the way home. She cried all the way through homework. She sobbed all the way through dinner, which in my case was a handful of Xanax and a glass of Shiraz. We finally convinced her that the sun would in fact rise the next day and all would be well. Of course, it rained.

The good news is that she didn’t lose anymore sticks and was able to get a toy out of the prize box, and life has gone on pretty much as normal. She is doing well and seems to like school and I am dealing with the separation anxiety without the Xanax and the wine. I have been making Jerry do home improvement projects and I am now on an HGTV moratorium. So life is good, really good.

Until someone loses a stick!

Fighting For Families

2009-09-22T18:35:00.000-07:00

It is not flesh and blood but the heart which makes us fathers and sons. ~Johann Schiller

It’s safe to say that I enjoy both the humor and bitter irony of life. I also laugh the loudest at myself, because there’s never a shortage of material. Being a wife and mother, hell, just being a human being means that I will always have enough humor and irony in my life to keep things interesting for the remainder of my life. With that said, sometimes the irony is too bitter to swallow. When irony chafes into a blister of ignorance, and then festers into a full blown case of hatred, I have to take a strong dose of self perception, followed by a strong measure of righteous indignation. I hate having to do that. They taste like shit.

My day started off innocently enough. I took Jenda to the park and, armed with a purse full of Capri Sun and the Sunday paper, I planted myself on a bench so I could peruse the news and watch Jenda play. The park has both a playground and a HUGE pile of dirt to climb on, so of course Jenda headed for Mt. Dirtmore, and I settled in to read the paper. And that’s when the bitter irony jumped up and bit me on the ass.

The article was ‘Man Fights Florida Over Gay Adoption.’ That sparked my interest because, let’s face it, there is a very vocal gay constituency in South Florida and DCF is really doing a terrible job. So why would Florida fight against gay adoption? There are so many children living in orphanages, or living in squalor with drug addicted parents. There are horrible stories in the news daily about children who are abused, molested, neglected, killed. Here is a man who has provided a foster home to two young boys since 2004. Why on earth would the state seek to break up the family that they have created after they have been together for five years?
According to the article, the brothers became eligible for adoption in 2006, and no state or local government entity made any move to displace the boys from the foster home. So why now? Why are we still living under some arcane law that decrees that gays and lesbians can’t be loving and attentive parents? I assume that some people feel that perhaps Mr. Gill will somehow try to ‘convert’ these youngsters. Maybe he’ll try to turn them gay.

Nonsense. If they are gay, they were born that way.

I have a cousin who was adopted by my aunt and uncle. They are both professional people, very well off financially, and very devout. They raised my cousin from the day he was born, sent him to good schools, took him to church, and loved him unconditionally as parents should love their children. And they didn’t change him. He is gay. They are not. He has made poor decisions and mistakes in his life as we all do. Being gay is not one of them. Another close friend of mine is a gay father raising two children. They both do well in school, attend church, and they adore their father. By all indications, they are straight. Their dad is not. Who is being converted to a different sexual orientation? It is a flawed argument.

There can be no denying that Martin Gill has changed these two brothers. They were living in squalor with a drug addicted mother who neglected them. Feeling unloved and unwanted, they were placed in foster care with Mr. Gill. And that did change them. They were given a nice home, they were clothed and fed. They received an education. They suddenly had a father. Being a parent, I can imagine Mr. Gill sitting up late nights caring for these boys during childhood illnesses, and comforting them and drying their tears after nightmares I’m sure they dreamt. They were wanted and loved. Sexual orientation be damned; that is being a good parent. To break up a home where they have forged a loving bond with the only real father they have ever known is heartbreaking and maddening. He’s not trying to convert anyone to the gay brotherhood. He doesn’t get a Kitchenaid mixer or toaster oven for every child he brings into the fold, so to speak. He is trying to be the best father he can be, and he is fighting to hold his family together. Good for him, and good for the two brothers that he loves as his own sons.

So I stand by my belief that sexual orientation does not change. My experience is that it is in our nature, not how we are nurtured. But as parents we do mold and shape young lives. In the case of Mr. Gill (which sounds like the title of an Edgar Allan Poe story) he has indeed changed their lives. He has given them a loving home. He has kept these brothers together to ensure that they will always have each other and keep that familial bond. I can only hope that lawmakers will come to their senses and put aside fear and prejudice to think of what is best for these two young men. Mr. Gill not only built a family with these two boys. He has given them a future. He has given them hope.

Those are the greatest gifts a parent can give a child.

Don't Meddle With Her Medal

2009-09-22T09:35:00.000-07:00

Now that I have turned forty, I seem to be viewing life differently. Or perhaps, I am just viewing it more deliberately. With my daughter now in kindergarten, I have plenty of time to watch the news, catch up on reading and cleaning, so there’s no more kid TV during the day to keep me from what is going on in the real world. Sometimes, that’s not always a good thing. At least kid TV is friendly and nice.

I have been reading with interest the case of Caster Semenya. Some of you might not be familiar to you, so allow me to introduce you to her. She is an athlete, a runner from South Africa. She won Gold in the 800 meters last month in Berlin. But that is not where her story ends, rather, it is where it begins.

Judges were amazed at the speed with which Ms. Semenya won the race. They felt that something was amiss. So they required her to undergo various tests, one of which was a test to determine gender. It was discovered and announced to the globe that Ms. Semenya was intersexual, or, as it is sometimes known, a hermaphrodite. And of course the tacky jokes started.

“Caster….like castrated! She’s a dude!”

“Semen-ya! Yuk, yuk, she’s got semen, ya!”

Pathetic, folks. Really pathetic.

Intersexuality is a rare condition affecting less than one percent of live births. And while I have not writing a biology lesson here, suffice it say that on the outside, Ms. Semenya looks like a woman, but instead of ovaries, she has testes. If you don’t know what any of this means, shame on you! Take an anatomy class! At any rate, she identifies herself as a woman. She did not ask to be born with this condition, and happily, has refused to allow it to hold her back from living a
full and rewarding life.

I first heard about this condition as a child. I used to spend summers with my maternal grandmother, who we called Dug. Dug was a first generation German immigrant and a Southerner so you can imagine what those summers were like. Anyway, Dug was enjoying a little Mateus Rose one day and decided to tell me the story of her childhood pet, a cat named Hephzibah. Hephzibah is a biblical name meaning, ‘My delight is in her.’ Which I found strange because Dug said Hephzibah was a boy. At any rate, I knew this because Dug said that he still had his testicles but then gave birth one day to a litter of kittens! I thought this was the coolest, funniest thing ever so when I returned from my visit to Dug’s house, I laughingly greeted my
parents with the question, “What’s a morphodite?”

Daddy sent me outside to play while Mother called Dug, ostensibly to read her the riot act. After that, my mother sat me down to explain what hermaphrodite meant, and how it impacted people’s lives. I felt such sorrow at that moment, and knowing firsthand the spite of people towards those who are deemed different (I remember the ‘fat kid’ thing) I made a vow, with the earnestness of a child, never to laugh at people just because they are different from me. And while that didn’t completely stop me from being mean, I have never stooped to pick on anyone with a disability.

Because this condition is so rare, I would imagine that many who have it are ashamed or embarrassed. No one asks to be born with a disability, or any condition that leaves them vulnerable to the taunts of others. It was bad enough being the fat kid in school. Could you imagine, at such a young age, dealing with confusion about your gender identity? Or the cruelty of other children?

“She-male! Chick with a dick! She can do it with herself…haha!”

Trust me, when I became aware of this story, I heard them all. It made me physically ill. Now comes the news that The International Association of Athletics Federations wants to strip Ms. Semenya of her medal because of her condition and the fact that her intersexuality causes her to produce testosterone. She didn’t use steroids, she didn’t take hormones deliberately. This is just, for her, a fact of life. To take her medal away is such a slap in the face to any person who is differently-abled. To make her condition such fodder for public gossip and spite is wrong, and evil. Caster Semenya is living her life as she sees fit. She is refusing to allow her condition to hold her back. I admire that, and I believe she deserves to keep her medal. And for the people who find her condition amusing, who make fun of her because of her intersexuality, take your sick jokes and go screw yourselves.

Kids Really DO Say the Darndest Things

2009-09-10T06:11:00.000-07:00

Here's a poem that Jenda wrote for me....well, made up and recited for me as an early birthday gift. I was rather impressed, and ran into the house like a wounded buffalo to make sure I got it down before I forgot it. Hope you enjoy it.

When you see the stars, and see a shooting star
You know that it is magic
Like a lollipop way up in sugar land, high in the sky
And always remember that love is more powerful than death

By Jenda Harp, September 6, 2009

'The King and I' Needs to Stay on Broadway!

2009-08-24T14:45:00.001-07:00

North Carolina is deep in the throes of another really hot, sticky summer, of the sort that makes you stay inside all day watching reruns and not caring that the lawn hasn’t been mowed since April Fool’s Day. I don’t mind, because I’m not the one who does the yard work and when Jenda takes a nap, I get to watch grown up TV. Trust me, there are worse ways to spend a summer.

So between catching up on the soaps and enjoying marathon sessions of Designed to Sell on HGTV, I have realized that all of the soap opera families name their kids really weird shit, like ‘Thorn’, and ‘Granite’, and as far as home staging, mine is more like ‘Designed from Hell’, but I still like to watch these shows. Sometimes, you just have to live vicariously through television. With that said, while I enjoy TV, I am flabbergasted at the depths to which advertisers have sunk to peddle their products.

It’s just a sad fact of TV watching that your show is going to be interrupted, frequently, by commercials. That leads to channel surfing by people like my husband and just dealing with it by lazy, er, patient people like me. So as I sat the other day waiting for whatever it was to come back on, I saw a commercial that gave me a worse case of the heebie-jeebies than that icky movie with that Leather Face guy and the chain saw. You might have seen this commercial. It’s an advertisement for Burger King’s new breakfast combo.

Picture it. The scene opens with a man in bed, just waking up as sunlight streams in the windows and birds sing outside. He yawns, stretches, rolls over and there is a GIANT, PLASTIC, BOBBLE-HEADED BURGER KING IN HIS BED!!! This is no lie! So this guy looks at this grotesque member of high-cholesterol kingliness, who proceeds to hand this hapless man a breakfast sandwich. The man takes a bite and then the two are laughing, having a manly breakfast moment. I have five words for this.

ARE YOU FREAKIN’ KIDDING ME?!

This is messed up on so many levels I hardly know where to begin. First, if there was some giant bobble-head in a crown in my bed with a sausage sandwich, I would start SCREAMING LIKE A BITCH!!! Then I would grab my rather heavy lamp off my nightstand and beat his bobbly ass to death. But then I started thinking more about the situation. Is the guy in the commercial a bachelor? If not, what happened to his spouse? How did His Highness get into the house? Why didn’t the guy react?

Sadly, I think this guy did have a wife or significant other who was probably very health conscious, or perhaps was a vegetarian. I say ‘was’ because she’s dead now. She had the good sense to freak out and not eat the breakfast sandwich and King Cholesterol killed her and turned her into a whopper combo meal. And then there’s the question of how the king got in. I assume that the house had no alarm system, because if it did, it was a monumental failure. Can you imagine calling your home alarm company?

“Hey y’all, WTF? I JUST WOKE UP WITH SOME GIANT-ASS BOBBLY-HEADED BURGER KING IN MY BED AND MY ALARM NEVER WENT OFF!”

“Thank you for calling ABC alarms. Your call is important to us and will be answered in the order in which it was received. Your estimated wait can be measured in terms of geologic time. This is a recording….”

And finally, something is really wrong with newly single sleeper guy. I’m talking fundamentally flawed here. He had the fight or flight response of eye crud. I asked my husband Jerry what he would do in this situation. I frequently ask Jerry for advice. In my world, WWJD means ‘What Would Jerry Do’ and when I find out, I usually do the opposite. Or I just suggest that he go ahead and do it since, in telling me what he would do, he obviously has a plan. Anyway, he pondered the situation and then said, “I would go all Tony Soprano on him and beat him to death.”

For once, we agreed. Sing with me, ‘This magic moment….’

While I realize that the economy is in shambles and consumer confidence and spending are down, I don’t think this marketing through fear is the right approach. This is not a commercial that makes me want to run out and buy the BK breakfast combo. It does, however, make me want to run out and buy a semi-automatic weapon. Did Burger King hire Machiavelli to come up with their new ad campaign?

“If it’s better to be feared than loved, then let’s scare the crap out of people to make them eat our food. No one wants to wake up next to a giant plastic burger mutant, so we’ll send the unmistakable message that if they don’t eat our food, we’re coming for them! BWUHAHAHA!”

The commercial ends with King Creepy putting his hand on sleeper guy’s knee, finally eliciting an alarmed reaction from him. Dude, why get upset now? He’s in your bed, he gave you food, and he probably killed your wife. He’s not leaving with just a handshake. The good old days of Have It Your Way are over. It’s the BK way or the highway. That’s when I had to go pluck out my own eyes and gargle with Drano. Well, no, but I vowed never to eat at Burger King ever again. That’s a pretty healthy outcome for me. But I’ll never look at Yul Brenner the same way again.

And I nailed all our windows shut.

The Naked Truth

2009-07-17T01:32:00.000-07:00

I don’t think I have ever experienced writer’s block to the extent that I am having tonight. There’s no good reason for it. I have just read the craziest thing in the news and just don’t even know where to start. I guess that’s what’s keeping me from being able to put this into words. It’s after 3:00am so the house is quiet; I was going to say as quiet as a tomb, but therein lies the problem.

I just finished reading a story about an off-duty police officer in Elkhart, IN who happened out for a jog on his day off. That’s not crazy. Law enforcement officers have to try to stay in shape. In this case, the officer’s morning constitutional took him by what the article referred to as “a crowded cemetery.” He noticed a parked pickup truck, next to which stood a naked man.

Thus far, I was reading in disbelief. There were just NO WORDS for a situation like this. I continued reading and it went to hell from there. The naked guy, Rudy Nudie, saw the jogger, jumped into his truck, still naked, and fled the scene. The cop jogged to his car, followed Rudy Nudie, and got his tag number, which he then tracked down back at police headquarters. The article went on to say that Rudy Nudie was called in for questioning, and, dressed for the occasion, he complied. Here’s where it gets really strange.

Mr. Nudie told the police officers that he had been out playing golf and his underwear got wet. He stopped by the cemetery on his way home to check on his in-laws, and since his skivvies were wet, he stripped down before getting out. Then, because he forgot his glasses, he just hopped out of the truck for a minute to look at the flowers on their graves.

Suddenly, I had words for this story. Words like ‘what’, and ‘the’ and ….

Let me lay this out for you and put to rest any questions that you might have as to the veracity of his tail, er, tale. He said he was out playing golf. Did he strip down and wade into the lake after a golf ball? That would explain how his underoos got wet but not the rest of his clothes. Then, he went to the cemetery to check on his in-laws. What the hell for? Was he afraid they were going to go somewhere? He forgot his glasses, which is easy enough to do, but then how the hell was he playing golf? How was he even sure that he made it to his in-laws final resting place and not someone else’s? He wanted to look at the flowers? Without glasses? Naked? Are you kidding me?

In addition to being some kind of freaky-ass, stream-wading, flower-sniffin’, butt-nekkid weirdo, he’s a terrible liar! Puh-leeze, those cops were probably laughing so hard they had Starbucks and Dunkin’ Donuts bits shooting out of their noses. This guy is a MOE-RON! He made it home from the cemetery and drove to the police station. He had plenty of time to come up with a better alibi that, while still demented and perverse, would have been slightly more believable.

For example…

“Yeah, Officer. I was out there naked at my in-laws graves because they left me out of their wills. I feel like THEY SHIT ALL OVER ME and I was returning the favor.”

Maybe that’s a bit harsh. How’s this one….

“I’m sorry Officer. I forgot my glasses and I thought I was home. That hard, cold statue sure reminded me of my wife, Mildred.”

Okay. The first one IS better, but either one is better than the crap he invented. For the rest of his life, no one will ever believe a word he says. I don’t care if he tells people that the sky is blue, grass is green, and fire is hot. His credibility might as well be in that crypt with his in-laws. Who knows, maybe that’s what he was looking for. The good news is that he will achieve a certain notoriety with this, some lasting fame that will cement his place in Elkhart history. Little children won’t give the Boogeyman a second thought. It’ll be Rudy Nudie haunting their dreams….

‘Lurking in the graveyard with his privates hanging out,
The Naked Man’ll getcha if you don’t watch out!’

Whatever may happen, Rudy Nudie has brought me boundless entertainment, not to mention weeks of playing armchair therapist trying to figure out what his problem is. Maybe he had some freaky-deaky feelings for his in-laws. Maybe he just loves the cool caress of marble next to his bare skin.

Of course, I could be over analyzing this. He could just be a huge fan of Norman Mailer’s, “The Naked and the Dead.”

Families, Furniture, and Friendship

2009-07-15T06:44:00.000-07:00

There’s an old saying that “there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch” and I suppose that’s true. Whatever you eat, someone paid for it, or in my case, I usually pay for it by having it remain on my hips for life. Whatever the case may be, I have come to the realization that NOTHING is free. Whatever it is, you are gonna pay for it somehow, someway, someday. And because I tend to forget things, sometimes I need a reminder.

So I don’t give much thought to free stuff. I have Jenda to look after, and work to think about, and a household to run, and none of that is free. In the mornings, I drive on the interstate to get to work since I can get there quickly. In the evenings, I need to decompress from work so I drive down backroads so that I have time to process everything from the day and calm down enough to get home. Part of that homecoming takes me through a small town that really makes for a pleasant drive. That is, until I have to drive past the dumpy, nasty redneck biker bar. Usually, I embrace the entertainment value of rednecks, but this place is just too scary on too many levels, so I always speed up going past this joint and head safely home. The other night, I abandoned all reason and logic and did something really stupid. While this is not the first time, it was one of the craziest.

As I drove through Colfax like a bat out of Hell, I happened to glance over to my left because something strange caught my eye. In fact, it was so incongruent for a nasty biker bar with half of a race car protruding from the roof that I almost came to a complete stop. Looking back on the situation, I should have probably stopped and made a run for it, but I just wasn’t thinking clearly.

In the parking lot stood a beautiful maple console table, two nice reproduction Louis XVI armchairs, and a whole pile of other stuff. Next to this absurd accumulation of trash and treasure was a large cardboard sign which read, ‘FREE, TAKE IT, GRATIS.’

I was now at a crawl and considered stopping to grab the chairs and the table and who knows what else. It occurred to me that the place couldn’t be ALL bad since someone there had good taste in furniture and some familiarity with Latin. But I decided that the thing to do would be to go home and enlist Jerry’s help in loading the stuff into my car, and perhaps his car too if there was enough good stuff for the taking. I sped home, dashed into the house and told Jerry that we had to go pick up some great free furniture.

“Is one of your friends moving or something?”

No. Not exactly. You know that little bar in Colfax?

“The one with the car sticking out of the roof?” he asked with narrowed eyes.

Yes, well, there’s a bunch of furniture out front with a sign and I need your help and….

“Hell no! I would never go to that place. I don’t care if they’re giving away free Ethan Allen living room sets. And you don’t need to be hanging out up there either!”

Well damned if I’m not going back for the free furniture. I huffed upstairs, changed out of my work clothes into the first t-shirt and pair of shorts I could find. Armed with my sneakers and fierce determination, I grandly announced to Jerry that I would get the furniture without his help, thank-you-very-much!

“Sure thing. Oh, by the way, did you mean to wear your Barack Obama campaign t-shirt to the redneck biker bar or are you just really trying to stir things up?”

I burned rubber backing out of the garage, still haunted by the sound of Jerry’s laughter. It’s not every day that there’s nice, decent looking FREE furniture on the side of the road outside of a redneck biker bar for shit’s sake. I knew that Barack and I could handle it. Of course, all that changed when I got back to the bar.

I hadn’t driven past more than 45 minutes earlier. But now, the table, the chairs, and the sign were gone. Of course there was still something there covered with a filthy, ratty looking green tarp. With my luck, it was probably two day-shift hookers hiding out from the cops. Nonetheless, I decided to investigate. I pulled my little purple mommy Honda into the parking lot, went over, and started nosing around under the tarp. Actually, I would have been happier to see the hookers. The junk under the tarp was filthy and the smell under the tarp could’ve knocked the buzzards off a shitpile from 50 paces. So there I was, bent over with my big ass in the air when a deep voice behind me asked, “Whatter you doin’?”

Straightening up, I was confronted with the sight of an enormous man, at least six feet tall, with long grey hair and a flowing grey beard, covered with tattoos, wearing biker regalia and striding purposefully towards me.

Holy crap! It’s Harley Manson!

I immediately folded my arms across my chest to protect the president, of course. Then I began stammering and stuttering about not wanting to disturb anything, I was just looking, there was a sign….

“That’s John’s stuff,” barked Harley.

I began apologizing, assuming that John was one of the Harley Manson family.

“John’s back here. Come with me.”

The general direction of ‘with me’ was behind a privacy fence that ran along the side of the bar. There was only one opening in the fence which presumably led to where John and perhaps the rest of the family were waiting. It occurred to me that loading furniture into my car was not going to be a problem since I was probably going to be murdered and disposed of behind this seedy little bar!

I know it seems strange that I would just follow along behind Harley, since any idiot knows that you should scream bloody murder and run like hell in that kind of situation, but I’m not just any idiot. It also crossed my mind that his big-ass motorcycle would outrun the mommy Honda with no problem and just as I was making my escape down the highway, I’d look out the driver’s window and there he’d be, so I figured, what the hell? Why not?

Harley led me behind the fence and went to summon John. The back of the bar was just as horrible as the front. There was a small patio area and the back yard of the place was strewn with old vacuum cleaners and air-conditioning units. I stood as close to the fence opening as possible as Harley brought John over to meet me. I prayed for forgiveness and something quick and painless. Then Harley said, “John, this lady was lookin’ at your stuff. Is the stuff out front still for sale?”

WHAT?! Sale? You have got to be kidding me. The sign said FREE, not CRAP FOR SALE! Harley wandered off and left John to handle my indignant outburst, sell me some ratty furniture, and then kill me.

John was actually a rather affable sort. He was filthy, had no teeth, and was puffing away on some powerful Panama Red, ready to sell me some nasty furniture. And no, I do NOT use drugs, but I could tell that the smell of that little ciggie sure as hell wasn’t Marlboro. Now that Harley was gone, I wasn’t too fearful of this stoner hippie, but I was ready to make my escape. I remembered the book, The Secret, and knew that I had to think positive thoughts and visualize my freedom. It came in the form of an old rug hanging over the fence. Wow, what a groovy rug. Is this yours? I asked, positioning myself in the opening of the fence, and thus, closer to my car. John began telling me about this rug, for the low price of $20.00. Then he directed me to his van where he said he had one he’d sell me for $10.00. Just as I was going to make the break for my car, I noticed it on his dashboard…a copy of The Secret.

Flooded with relief that no one was going to kill me, I stood and chatted with John. Turns out he is selling all of his stuff to move to a hippie commune in California where it's legal to smoke cheeb. (There’s a shock!) He told me about some local bands in the area that he liked and we parted friends. I haven’t stopped back at the bar, and barring that Ethan Allen giveaway, I never will. I’ve learned my lesson. Lessons, actually…. Furniture is expensive, but friendship is free. And wherever John is, I hope he’s high as a kite and happy as a clam.

The Body Politic Could Use a Workout

2009-07-04T20:21:00.000-07:00

Today is Independence Day and I have been giving much thought to independence and all that it entails. I have spent most of the day with a hacking, nasty cough and as such have been dependent on very strong prescription cough syrup. I must say it works like a charm, and I could easily become dependent on it. Really. I’m not coughing anymore, but will need to depend on someone else to help me walk straight until it wears off. Of course, I am in no hurry.

So I have been pondering the meaning of independence. It means liberty, freedom. For Janis Joplin, it was just another word for nothing left to lose. For Aretha Franklin, it meant letting your mind go. Freedom was an admonishment to think. They’re both right, of course. All the hot dogs and fireworks (and narcotic cough syrup) aside, I love the inherent dichotomy of a concept like freedom. Today more than any other day, we repeat platitudes, such as ‘freedom isn’t free’ and my favorite, by Abe Lincoln, ‘Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves.’

This day embodies the genesis of our nation. It is a reminder to us as a body politic that our greatest freedoms and liberties are extremely costly. And sadly, this feeling of elation for the nation is fleeting. Our thoughts turn from ‘the land of the free and the home of the brave’ to ‘the Lancome free gift with purchase and the Braves vs. the Mets.’ We’re so filled with pride today, but then we have to get back to reality because we have to be back at work on Monday and the light bill is due and the kids will be starting back to school soon and Little Suzy starts soccer this week and on and on. So that nascent nationalism begins to recede, and the puffed up pride becomes a mere bloat, and we go on with the really important stuff. It’s rather like Christmas. We get into this joyous feeling of giving, and then the day after Christmas, we start bitching about how we’re going to pay for all this and why does Aunt Mildred always send me an outfit in a size two petite when she KNOWS I haven’t been that size since first grade! The joy of giving turns back into the day to day effort of living, and paycheck to paycheck at that.

There are those among us who do fight for freedom every day. Men and women across the country are fighting against Prop 8. Americans of Middle Eastern descent are fighting for fair elections in Iran, and a young woman named Neda has become the voice of a nation who yearns to be free. American men and women serve across the globe, not because they agree or disagree with the preferences of their fellow Americans but because they are willing to die to safeguard our ability to have those preferences, to speak freely, and to execute free will.

Regrettably, it often takes a calamitous event to re-engage our allegiance; a September 11, a terrorist act, or a war. There is nothing so heartbreaking, yet poignant, as a fellow American laying down his or her life to guarantee our rights, and those of our children, and their children. Imagine the cost to the parents and spouses and children that they leave behind. There is no conceivable amount that can convey the cost of that sacrifice, for no one person bears that cost. No one person suffers the loss. So independence is more a network, no, a brotherhood, of inter-dependence.

Freedom is expensive, and our most precious civil rights are extraordinarily costly. Inclusion and freedom aren’t cheap, and they certainly aren’t free. So while we’re gobbling up picnic fare and watching fireworks, drinking beer and singing the fervid songs that we too rarely trill, let’s hang onto this feeling. Freedom isn’t free. Let’s be worth the cost.

A Poem for Jenda, From Toys Outgrown

2009-07-03T19:41:00.000-07:00

The Bear and the Duck and the Ladybug lived in a meadow green,
near a river long and a castle strong, where there lived a king and queen.

The young prince and princess loved to play, along the flowering hedge,
they sailed a toy boat in the wide deep moat as they stood at the water’s edge.

And the Bear and the Duck and the Ladybug would come to watch them play
so they’d sit very still on the grassy hill, ‘til dusk would end the day.

The Bear and the Duck and the Ladybug spent their days near the royal court.
And so it went on, ‘til the summer was gone and the days grew cool and short.

Thus the Bear and the Duck and the Ladybug watched the leaves turn brown,
And the wind in the eaves whistled fast through the leaves and blew them onto the ground.

But they missed the young prince and princess and longed to see them again,
Then one winter day, the two came to play, in spite of the fierce winter wind.

The Bear and the Duck and the Ladybug smiled as they played with their boat,
Then the queen’s lovely daughter fell into the water and sank in the cold deep moat!

Well the Bear and the Duck and the Ladybug knew that they must jump in!
They saved her from the moat (and they pulled out the boat) and they started for home again.

The prince and princess were grateful, and they told the King and Queen
And their joy knew no bounds with the friends they had found and the bravery they had seen.

The King declared a holiday, and the Queen made her decree
And the princes and lords, they all raised their swords, to honor the fearless three.

So the Bear and the Duck and the Ladybug were each given a home in the towers,
Where a gentle spring breeze blew soft through the trees and scented the castle with flowers.

As the days turned to years, grandchildren’s cheers still filled the meadow with laughter,
and the Bear and the Duck and the Ladybug still live happily ever after.

It Is Better to be Pissed Off Than Pissed On!

2009-06-15T18:10:00.000-07:00

I have had such an exciting week. I spent five days in training learning about some of our products, and in the process, I learned some really cool stuff about some of the airlines that partner with my company. I enjoy being in a class where I actually learn something and have fun doing it. Of course, what I learned is that I don’t get to travel enough and my current level of spending would never qualify me for any airline program except flying as cargo. Still, it makes me deliriously happy to know that some people can just jet across the world at a moment’s notice and still have money left over to buy cheesy souvenirs.

Being a full time Mommy and a full time employee outside of our home, I have very little time for anything like the news, or a quiet night with a glass of wine and some smooth jazz. Hubby and I also don’t travel much. Most of our time off is spent in the form of ‘staycations’ or trips south to visit the grandparents. We dream about exciting cruises or trips to Paris, but the fact of the matter is that raising a family in this economy leads you to a certain level of frugality. That being said, we still like to dream about where we might go, and I peruse sites that offer deep discounts and low air fares. It never hurts to dream, right?

So I finally got to see the news and read my Wall Street Journals that have been piling up, still in the plastic. And the sad fact of the matter is, I subscribe, because I work in the financial services industry, but I can’t understand the Journal. Like, with all the money they’re making, why do they have those Georges Seurat pointillist pictures? Wouldn’t it be cheaper to just take a picture, load it to a disc, and take it to WalMart? I don’t get it. Anyway, I recently read about how one low-cost carrier is going to turn your travel dreams into a nightmare.

Ryanair, a low fare airline based out of Ireland, is known for their very cheap flights from various hubs throughout Europe. Still, feeling the squeeze from the economy, and getting soaked by the dwindling number of people traveling, Ryanair has come up with a novel approach to staying liquid. They are proposing installing locks on the doors to the airplane lavatories and making you ‘pay as you go.’

No shit.

Literally.

I had to read and re-read the article several times. I have some burning questions. Will this be a credit card terminal or can you use cash? Will you also have to pay for toilet tissue, in which case you might want to hold on to your cash. And what currency will you use? I mean, let’s face it. People all over the world have to go to the bathroom. We don’t all carry Euros. It could get really crazy at 50,000 feet.

I like to think of the locked lavatory as ‘Swipe and Wipe.’ I assume the easiest method would be to use a credit card to gain entry into their nasty little lavatory. But I just don’t get it. Why would you do this to people…moreover, paying customers? Of course, they could be trying to ensure that no one on their cheap flights decides to sneak into the loo for membership into the ‘Mile High Club’ but they have sky marshals to help prevent that sort of thing, don’t they? They’re damn sure not paying anyone to be kind to your luggage!

The crazy thing is, I can ALMOST understand where Ryanair is coming from, because the economy, like airline toilet paper, is really tough. In fact, airline toilet tissue is like John Wayne. It’s rough, tough, and won’t take shit off of anyone. But I digress. I just can’t seem to wrap my mind about how this will work. I can imagine me flying over Dublin, fighting with one of the flight attendants. Imagine her lilting Irish brogue….

Look, I have enough change at the bottom of this purse to pay off my mortgage. Do you take quarters, dimes, and pennies?

“Sure and begorrah, I’m afraid we don’t Lassie. Would you be havin’ any euros?”

Uh, no. But I do have urine.

“Or would ya be havin’ a credit card?”

Yes. I have several. Like my bladder, they’re maxed out.

“Well, perhaps you can hold it?”

Nevermind. I think I just watered your wild Irish rose. I’ll go sit down. If I need to do anything more substantial, I’ll use my barf bag. Those ARE still free, right?

It should come as no surprise that this airline is receiving some of the lowest customer satisfaction ratings in the industry. Only the flight crew can get into the lavatory without having to pay, and they only take whatever currency you DON’T happen to have. There are no thrills or frills, but plenty of spills. Sure, their tickets are cheap, but it’s just not worth it.

Unless maybe you have a ‘PeePal’ account.

Jesus Hates a Swindler, But Loves a Party!

2009-05-23T20:32:00.000-07:00

Hey there, y’all! What a week this has been! I am trying to get ready for the spring cleaning, packing up stuff for donations, and working around the clock at home and at my job. And, I managed to get in some writing. It’s a miracle….

Speaking of miracles, I recently had a religious experience, which is strange because I am not the most religious person, or the most regular church-goer, and I’m sure I could be a nicer person (hahaha!) but the Lord works in mysterious ways, and who am I to argue? ‘When the Roll is Called Up Yonder I’ll Be There’, but I’ll be late because I’m going to stop off for a glass of Kendall Jackson first. Maybe two. Anyway….

I’m not sure where to start, but I suppose it’s all a result of my cynicism and natural tendency to skepticism. It’s my nature to question everything and be stubborn about it. I guess it dates back to that crazy woman in Hollywood, Fl, who claims that she saw the Virgin Mary in her grilled cheese sandwich. Remember her? She ran to all the major networks touting the spiritual properties of her 10 year old sandwich that she believed held the image of the Virgin. Nonsense, y’all. I saw that sandwich and it’s Marlene Dietrich. Trust me, those two do not resemble each other, and I know my old Hollywood stars. No dice.

The thing that made me REALLY question her motives is the fact that she told CNN that the sandwich was soaked with the power of the Holy Spirit. The only thing soaked was those idiots who paid 28 large to purchase the sandwich. And no one has ever heard from those people ever again. After the whole Jonestown thing, I guess they knew not to drink the kool-aid, but no one told them not to eat the grilled cheese.

So I’m at work the other day, being my usual ray-of-sunshine self and my friend Kay calls me to come to her desk ASAP! Of course I go thundering over there across the building like a wounded buffalo to see what the problem is and there sits Kay, staring up at the wall.

What’s wrong? I gasp.

“It’s Jesus, up on the wall, floatin’”.

‘Scuse me?

“Look…it’s Jesus!”

Honey, how long have you been without Kendall Ja, I mean, sleep?

“No! Look at my computer screen and try this thing. How does it do that?”

I looked at the monitor and realized at once that someone had sent her one of those old-as-dirt emails with the optical illusions in it. You know, look at the lines against the pattern and try to tell if they’re bent or straight, candlestick or two faces, and on and on. The illusion in question was a photo negative with four dots down the middle. After staring at the four dots, you look up on the wall towards a source of light and you’ll see Jesus. Damn, if I stare at anything too long, who knows what I might see. So I told Kay my best explanation of this phenomenon.

"No. It’s Jesus, on the wall. I think this is a message from the Bible.”

Kay, baby, I’ve read the Bible, and I am absolutely sure there is no verse anywhere in the Bible that makes reference to the big kabuki floatin’ head o’Jesus. She would not be dissuaded, so I went back to my desk, vowing to go to church more, and drink more chardonnay. It’s okay, y’all, I think of it like communion wine. Really, like when Jerry found a cheeto that he said resembled Jesus. I ate it. You know, bread (or Cheetos) of Heaven.

Then we have some guy in the news, also from South Florida, who had chest pains and went to the ER for an x-ray. All well and good, until Mr. Man decided that he saw the image of Jesus in his x-ray. Now, mind you, the doctors and nurses really couldn’t see it, and the news people who reported the story said they couldn’t see it, but my natural curiosity made me take a look for myself. I found the pictures and knew immediately he was delusional, or heavily medicated, or both. You got somethin’, mister, but that’s not Jesus. I think it’s either TB or MRSA. That being the case, I guess he better look for Jesus, quick!

Don’t misunderstand my meaning here. I believe in God and I pray all the time. I just can’t abide the exploitation of religion and faith for financial gain. It’s rampant, folks.

So imagine my own surprise when I got a letter this week in the mail with God’s own prophecy for my life. The fact that I have read the Bible matters not to these scammers. So I got this letter, with dire instructions NOT TO OPEN the prophecy, but BURN IT UNOPENED unless I was willing to fill out the enclosed card and send a donation. Let’s face it, I’m not much one for following instructions, so naturally, with no intention of sending these fools anything, I opened the prophecy and sit there, jaw on the floor, in amazement.

First, I got a small paper prayer rug, only slightly larger than an index card. I was instructed to take this prayer rug, go to a quiet place in my house, and kneel on the rug while I feel the power of the Holy Spirit move through me. Hell’s bells, I have a five year old so there IS no quiet place in my house. And the only thing I would feel after lowering my fat, middle-aged body to the floor is the pain of every joint and muscle in my body going into a spasm as I try to hoist myself up off the floor with some piece of pseudo-religious foolishness stuck to my sweaty knee!

I got this nonsense one other time back when I was living in South Florida, from this same devious group. Only that time, there was no prophecy, just a postcard with a picture of Jesus (at least that’s what they told me). He was a light purple color, eyes closed. I was instructed to send money and then stare at the picture, whereupon I would see the closed eyes of Purple Jesus open and I would know all of the secrets of Heaven. What I have learned from the Bible is that the secrets of Heaven will revealed in God’s time, and in his way. I am also pretty sure that He will reveal His secrets and messages to me, not some flunky hiding behind religion to swindle me out of my hard earned money. I’m pretty sure salvation comes from merging of our hearts with God’s will. That’s how I see it, and I’ll stand by that.

Strangely enough, I remember when I was in college at a private Methodist Women’s college and we used to go to fraternity parties at the nearby Baptist co-ed college. Phi Delta Theta used to host an event called “The Old Couch Party” which involved all of us drinking heavily and then jumping off the roof of the fraternity house onto old couches that had been strategically arranged along the roofline all around the house. We would mix up some vile, 800 proof mixture in rubber garbage cans and we’d sip on it all night, the irony of all this being that this nasty, deadly concoction was called ‘Purple Jesus.’ In addition to all of the alcohol it boasted, it was full of grape juice, so we’d get drunk, jump off the roof, and scream “I don’t care if it rains or freezes, ‘long as I’ve got my Purple Jesus!” And then, we’d land with a resounding thud on the couch, and the only prayers were those of thanks the next day that we were still alive, and especially that the pounding in our heads would stop.

So here I am with my miniscule prayer rug, false prophets, and memories of Purple Jesus in a garbage can. I have searched through the Bible for ‘Floating Jesus’, ‘Big Honkin’ Purple Head of Jesus’, and ‘Jesus on an old couch’ and I have come up empty handed. And if I donated money to any of these idiots who hide behind false beliefs and predicate a testament of fear over faith, I would be even MORE empty handed. So be careful how you donate your money. And pray, because it works. Finally, party, because it’s fun, and it’s okay to celebrate.
And if you’re out and about, and you see Purple Jesus?

Run like Hell!

The Fruits of My Labor

2009-05-16T19:12:00.000-07:00

Having just celebrated Mother’s Day getting over some horrible virus, I am slowly coming back to life and reconnecting with my ‘mommy-self’. I must say I am glad, as horrid as it was, that it was only a virus that knocked me out for Mother’s Day. I was terrified, as only a fat girl could be, that I might have contracted Swine Flu. I just knew that people would find out I had the dreaded ‘pig disease’ and they’d go, “Yeah, figures!” At any rate, I am feeling better and rejoining the land of the living.

So I am surrounded by new life, and mothers-to-be. We have some sparrows nesting in our geranium plant, so we have seven babies in my poor, parched flower pot that I can’t water unless I want some sort of Alfred Hitchcock type of retaliation. And I have several friends at work who are expecting, so it’s rather nice. I have an expectant mother friend at work who asked me for some advice, and since I am SUCH an expert, I was more than happy to oblige. And as my friend is one of those still skinny, utterly gorgeous pregnant women, I opted not to hold back. Anything.

“It’s been great. My husband is going to a boot camp for first time fathers, and I am trying to eat healthy and exercise.”

Bwuhahaha….fool! First, the only boot camp Daddy needs is to cook your meals, clean your house, rub your tired feet, and tell you how beautiful you are. And since you only weigh 90 pounds, you need to start having a three-way with Ben and Jerry. Trust me on this.

“Well”, says Tiff, “I want to be in great shape for labor. I really don’t want to have drugs or anything.”

You’re too late. You needed to get an epidural the day you found out you were pregnant. You wanna be in great shape? You ARE in great shape, damn you. But when those labor pains start, you’re going to get a work out punching the shit out of your husband and pretty much everyone else who gets within punching distance. And you will realize the complete and utter stupidity of pattern breathing and you will scream for painkillers like a seasoned crackhead. Trust me…..I’ve been there.

I went into labor in the wee small hours of Tuesday, March 16, 2004. I had a difficult pregnancy. I was 34, looked like a dome home, and had gestational diabetes to contend with. (Ben and Jerry and I had to end our affair.) Where other women got morning sickness, I got Mad Cow Disease. I was one of those unfortunate women who looked hugely pregnant the moment I conceived. (Come to think of it, I’m afraid I still do. Damn you, Ben and Jerry!) And Jerry, my husband! He was such a trooper, he went with me to ALL of my appointments. I figured that since we had experienced the entire pregnancy together, he should be miserable, too. As the day approached, I was the size of The Epcot Center. The night before I delivered, my great friend (and a SuperMom), Yasmin, told me to eat a spicy Italian meal, have a glass of red wine, and watch a funny movie. She promised it would send me into labor. (Or, after all that starch, a diabetic coma.)

I took her advice, watched Moonstruck, laughed my ass off, and then went to bed. For about an hour. Then labor kicked in. I love these stories of women who SWEAR they didn’t know they were pregnant, never knew they were in labor, what have you. LIARS! There is no, absolutely NO mistaking labor. None! It hurts like a sonofabitch, and it’ll make you lose your religion. Or find it. Or create your own where you commit violent acts against all and sundry and use lots of profanity.

So we arrived at the hospital after several false starts. Not false labor, just me forgetting stuff like my hairdryer, then my brush, then my shower shoes. Jerry finally told me no way were we going home a fourth time so I could get my Bach CDs. Not that they mattered at that point. I was singing a libretto of cuss words the whole way to the ER. We arrived, Jerry signed us in and I began screaming for my epidural. And now I know the secret. The head nurse got really tired of hearing my big mouth and told me that once I got to three centimeters, I could have an epidural. (If you don’t know what that means, don’t ask.) I willed myself there and began screaming. Actually, I’m not sure I made it. By that time, the hospital staff might have just wanted to shut me up.

Nah….

I have to say that was the BEST sleep I’d had in months. Well, it was probably the best sleep I’d had in my life. Jerry, who quit smoking in support of pending parenthood, bravely took that opportunity to drive around the corner to a service station, where he downed a couple of beers and smoked a whole pack of cigarettes in the car. Then, he got himself a Publix deli sandwich the size of Rhode Island and came back to the room. The nurse told him that he might have to leave as the smell of food might make me ill, but I was farther over the rainbow than Judy Garland, so I went right back to sleep. Imagine my annoyance when I felt some sort of tapping on my foot. I tried a well aimed kick at the head of whoever was disturbing my rest, but I was paralyzed from the waist down. Lucky for Dr. Jurado, too, because the way he was rooting around in my nether-regions, he was either going to propose marriage or I was going to bring my knees together and crush his head like a walnut. I know now that the epidural is administered to protect everyone ELSE in the labor and delivery room.

He thumped my feet and told me that our baby, Jenda, was in distress and we needed to go into surgery. I rallied and said that I really wanted to continue to try pushing, to which he replied, “You’re not really trying, Chica.” I found out later that he had vacation starting two days later, so there was no way in hell he was going to hang out in the hospital delivering my recalcitrant newborn. So off we went, and I had an emergency caesarean.

After Jerry ran off after Jenda and left me with Nurse Ratched, who refused me water, ice chips, or a blindfold and cigarette, I decided the thing to do as I came down off of all the drugs they gave me was to make an ass of myself in the hopes that they would give me more drugs to shut me up. Nurse Numbskull was immune to my profanity and threats of violence (and why wouldn’t she be? I was paralyzed from the waist down!) Jerry finally came back with Nurse Nice, who wheeled me into my private room, where at last, I got kinder treatment and ice chips. Once we were all ensconced, Mommy, Daddy, and baby, in our cozy little room, the nurses left and I spent the evening gazing at the amazing and wondrous creature that we had created.

I was sick of the liquid diet, and sick of everyone asking me if I had passed gas, which was not something I was going to admit to until Jerry whispered to me that passing gas meant that I was healing properly and could have solid food again. So I blew a wall down and got a cheeseburger. Life was good!

Day two was hell, because by then, all the drugs had worn off and I realized that in spite of my flabby tummy, I really used my abdominal muscles. For EVERYTHING! We really do, folks. We use them to laugh, cry, sit up, cough, lift, lay back down, you name it. Of course the worst was yet to come. In the meantime, we enjoyed our cloistered existence, flowers being delivered, nurses at our beck and call, and just our little family. I enjoyed yelling at Jerry as he tried to change ‘the first diaper’ and I even enjoyed taking laps around the nurse’s station, slowly shuffling and panting like Hugh Hefner trying to remember his way around the Playboy Mansion. But alas, all good things come to an end. Hence, that abdominal muscle thing.

One day, our (usually) very sweet recovery room nurse came in and announced that according to my chart, I had yet to have a bowel movement. Knowing that that would entail using muscles I vowed never to use again, I said, SO WHAT?

“Ma’am, we need to ensure that everything is working and healing. If you don’t have a bowel movement, we can’t release you from the hospital.”

Are you one of those nurses who’s hooked on the prescription drugs? You must be. Jerry, I said, call U-Haul and get all our stuff moved in here. I am perfectly prepared to spend the rest of my life here, but I hate their cheesy artwork. Get our essentials from home and donate the rest. It’s fine, really.

Then our dear sweet nurse said, “Get your ass outta that bed and do what you have to do. We’re gonna need this room for the next patient and you have to be out by tomorrow. Got it?” Then she stormed out.

I was almost in tears. Jerry could see how upset I was, and he just wanted to help. So he made a suggestion as he helped me out of the bed.

“I’m going to help you into the bathroom. I’ll stand outside the door and if you need me to help you, I’ll be right here so I can come in and help, okay?”

I have to admit that this stopped me in my tracks. Thinking about what would need to happen in there, how could he help me? I mean, is this like some kind of crisis for anyone besides me? Is he going to ‘talk it off the ledge’, like Good Cop, Bad Cop?

Me, Bad Cop: Come down from there, you little shit!

Jerry, Good Cop: “Take your time, it’s okay. No one wants to hurt you. We all just want to go home.”

Me, Bad Cop: You piece of shit! Get down from there!

And so on, and so on. Until finally, the deed was done, I was doubled over and in tears, and Jerry was booking himself a one-way ticket under an assumed name to start a new life.

We finally made it out of the hospital, into our car, and onto the Florida Turnpike, Jerry driving like Grandma Mildred at 30 miles per hour, and me in the backseat hovering over Jenda, who slept peacefully in her car-seat the whole way home. I like to think that all those ‘one-finger salutes’ we got were well meant, and not a result of our blocking up an entire highway doing only 30 mph.

Fast forward to 2009 (literally, folks. It flies by!) and we’re getting ready to send our baby off to kindergarten this fall. It seems like just yesterday that we were up all night, learning the feeding schedule, teething, potty training, and just going through all of the new parent learning curve, or, as I call it, ‘Baby Mama Drama.’ It was tough, and when Jenda misbehaves, I whip out the old “I was cut in half so you could get out”. God help me when she gets older and that one won’t work anymore. I remember the aches and pains, the sleepless nights, and boobs so sore I promised them an all expenses paid trip to Paris (which still hasn’t materialized!) I am reminded of my own mother telling me that someday I would have a child just like me, and Jerry’s mother cursing, er, blessing him with the same admonishment. So we have a daughter who looks just like Jerry (and hopefully has HIS metabolism) and who has my sarcastic mouth. Some days it’s a real challenge, just like pregnancy and childbirth were. So here’s my best advice…. Enjoy every minute.

I’d do it again in a heartbeat!

Mother's Day, Lego Blocks, and Divine Inspiration!

2009-05-15T10:14:00.000-07:00

Well hey there y’all! I just can’t tell y’all how beautiful North Carolina is in the springtime! I enjoy seeing the flowers in bloom, going to the park with Jenda, and laughing my butt off at all the people complaining about the heat and humidity! HAHA you wimps! Spend a summer in South Florida, home of “The Humidity That Makes Your Hair Look Like THE LION KING!” Or Don King, depending on if it rains!

I look forward to this time of year because my favorite day is fast approaching (favorite day followed closely by Macy’s One Day Sale!) Mother’s Day! I envision Jenda working her little fingers off at her daycare making a card for me, or some gift that I will keep forever. I imagine breakfast in bed, a dozen roses, beautiful music….okay, you’re right. I’ll put that dream next to the one I call LOTTO WINNER! But really, for me, it is a sacred and holy day. Jerry and I were talking about it the other day. I said that I feel that Mother’s Day should be honored on the liturgical calendar as a religious holiday.

Jerry didn’t quite agree.

I feel that, for mothers, it is akin to Christmas for our Lord Jesus.

“You should watch what you say. That could be considered blasphemy!”

While I realize that I don’t go to church as often as I should, I like to think I am a good person. I know that God loves me and wants me to be happy. (Hey, a good glass of Kendall Jackson and an Ella Fitzgerald CD are pretty strong evidence in support of this!) I also know that I am created in his image. Okay, fair enough. I think Jesus is pretty amazing, but we don’t call him Mama. The Lord created us in his image to handle that. Let me explain these stunning Biblical similarities.

‘The Lord giveth and The Lord taketh away.’ Okay Moms, how many times have you told your kids, “I brought you into this world and if you don’t straighten up, I will dang sure take you out!” Uh huh. You know who you are.

“I also say to you that you are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hell shall not prevail against it.”Uh huh. I have found petrified chicken mcnuggets as hard as rocks in my car that have been there since only the Lord knows when, and no amount of Febreeze will prevail against the smell.

David says of Saul’s men, “They sharpen their tongues like a serpent, the poison of asps is under their lips.” Yep. My mama used to say, “Don’t take that sharp tone with me, young lady, or you won’t believe what I’ll do to your little asp!” (Or words to that effect!)

Let’s take Mary and Joseph travelling to Bethlehem from Nazareth, which was about a 5 day trip. Joseph gallantly allowed Mary, hugely pregnant, to ride the donkey. (Uh huh, thanks!) The terrain was rough and people had to travel in groups for safety. They were unable to find room at the inn, so Mary gave birth in a stable and placed her newborn baby in a manger wrapped in swaddling clothes. (Hey, we moms do whatever it takes!)

This mother Mary (y’all know my first name is Mary, right?), well, Jerry gallantly drove the 8 or so miles to the hospital with me screaming some serious wrath the whole way. Rough terrain? I felt every pothole, pebble in the road, you name it! Then when we got there, groups travelled into my room to put their hands in my hoohah to see how things were progressing with the birth.

Unlike Holy Mary, there would be no manger for Jenda. I raised all kinda hell to get a private room. Of course Jesus’ mom couldn’t do this. I mean, c’mon… Her son is the savior. No sense going around making an ass of herself and hurting his prospects. It’s just another prime example of maternal sacrifice.

I also like the story of Jesus feeding the masses. I reminded Jerry of this gospel from Matthew by bringing up Jenda’s most recent birthday. Untold numbers of kids descended on our house and I had to make that sheet cake from Food Lion go a mighty long way. I think Jesus was proud! Then when cake and ice cream were finished, I repainted the kitchen while they tore through the house like the Biblical plague of locusts. Trust me, they destroyed all the crops and livestock, well, okay, just the house. Four and five-year-olds on sugar high loose in your house will make you say, “Okay Moses…really, they can go anytime! Hurry!”

I love the story of Jesus walking on water to his disciples.

Impressive.

As a mother, I have gotten up in the middle of the night for one reason or another and have walked barefoot across Lego Blocks. Folks, that’s a pain that gives you a really deep spiritual understanding. It has brought me closer to God because I can hear him saying, “Look, Jesus was young once and it happened to me. I didn’t take my own name in vain, don’t you do it, either!” Want to get closer to God? Walk barefoot on Legos. Trust me, you’ll find your religion. (God being the creator of all things, I bet he only had to tell Jesus ONCE to clean his room!)

Jerry tried to counter with the big one. “Jesus could raise the dead. Moms can’t do that!”

Hmm…

I can honestly say that I think even our Lord and Savior would have a rough time waking Jenda up for daycare after she has stayed up too late watching Dora videos and eating ice cream. Trust me, y’all, I mean no disrespect, but Lazarus has NOTHING on Jenda when it’s time to get up in the morning. Just one more reason the Lord created mothers.

For me, this proves that the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit think mothers are pretty special. Look at all the similarities in the life of Jesus and what moms do everyday.

Yep, our special day is pretty groovy.

So if Jerry and Jenda get up early to make me breakfast in bed (nah, it’ll never happen. Getting up early, I mean!) and dirty up all the dishes in the house, that’s okay. Great, in fact. If they serenade me with a tune they make up just for me, that’s great, too. The Lord tells us to make a joyful noise, and I can’t imagine anything more joyful.

(LOTTO WINNER would be cool!)

Like I said, Jesus is amazing, and he does all these cool things (that water in to wine thing? I would love to learn that one!) Jesus works miracles everyday. Our children are miracles, too. And in their case, even our Lord needed a mother’s help in creating these miracles.

And that is a special and sacred thing.

Y'all, can I get an Amen?!

Letting the Man Do All the Work? I Can Dig It!

2009-04-15T09:36:00.000-07:00

After seven years of marriage, I have found that the key to happiness truly is communication. I don’t just mean having open, honest dialogue. That’s okay, but the real key to a successful marriage is the identification of ‘who does what’. In other words, Jerry and I have made it this far because I have my responsibilities, and he has what I call ‘man-shit.’ It’s a wonderful catch-all, man-shit. I don’t do anything that relates to plumbing, electrical work, bug killing, or automotive work. It’s really better if I don’t try to do any man-shit. For example, I have no clue about tools. My idea of a hammer and screwdriver is a shoe with a hard sole and a butter knife. And in my girly world, there’s a regular screwdriver and a nubbly-headed screwdriver. All of my women friends understand. The men will just have to trust me.

So far, this arrangement has worked. I remember the time a spider got in our house. Jenda was playing in the floor and I was reading a book. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some movement and knew at once what it was. I called to Jenda and screamed, “RUN!” Being from South Florida, she got up and ran with no questions. That’s one of the big differences between Florida and North Carolina. In Florida, especially South Florida, when you see a bunch of people running, or someone tells you to run, you don’t stand around asking questions. You run like hell, and then when you’ve run a mile or two, you stop, catch your breath, and ask what the hell was happening. In North Carolina, everyone asks questions first, so you just have a big-ass turkey shoot. But I digress.

So I saw the spider, and Jenda and I ran upstairs. Jerry was in the shower singing ‘O Sole Mio’ or having an attack of Mad Cow Disease. Anyway, Jenda and I ran to the bathroom door and pounded on it until Jerry asked what was going on. I told him there was a spider downstairs.

No response.

Then, “I’m in the shower!”

DUH! Not anymore. Come kill this spider. NOW! So Jerry came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, dripping soapy water everywhere and none too happy with me. He marched down the stairs, took a quick look around, and said, “I don’t see it.”

Well that’s because you’re going to have to hunt for him. So get to it! At any rate, he found and got rid of the spider, and then gave me a pissy look as he went back upstairs to finish his shower. Oh well, it came under the heading of man-shit.

We recently had a beautiful Sunday, so I decided it was a perfect day for gardening. In South Florida, the ground is really nothing but sand, so you could feasibly dig a huge hole using your bare hands. (I have done so, and I am really great at growing things in sand, believe me!) I decided to tackle the back yard and plant some trees. Here in North Carolina, the ground is clay. Hard clay. And after you dig through the red layer, you get down to this blue-grey thick, gummy stuff the likes of which I had never encountered.

After digging several holes myself, I decided my arms were about to give out, so I asked Jerry to dig one last hole for me in the front yard. That was my first of many mistakes that day. Jerry agreed to dig the hole so I was kneeling down in front of him, taking the tree out of the pot. Jerry was working the shovel into this nasty, gooey clay and the handle of the shovel snapped out of his hands and whacked me on the head with a resounding crack. I sank to the ground in a very painful heap. Of course in my altered state, I learned two things. First, those Hollywood movies where the villain hits the good guy over the head, and the good guy gets up and keeps slugging it out? That’s a bunch of crap. Second, I realized where Jimi Hendrix got the inspiration for some of his videos. Then, from far away, I could hear Jerry apologizing, asking if I was okay, and where our life insurance information was.

He helped me up and we made it into the house. He got Jenda’s little ‘Hello Kitty’ ice pack for my head and asked again if I was okay. Of course it was sheer bad luck that this happened the same weekend that poor Natasha Richardson died, so I promptly became hysterical and demanded to be taken to the nearest hospital. Jerry reminded me that there was hardly even a bump, the forehead is the hardest part of the body (Yeah, next to his heart) and he would keep an eye on me. Then Jenda became hysterical and wanted to know why Daddy was trying to kill Mommy, to which he replied that if he had been trying to kill me, he would have succeeded. He then let me go to sleep, which you should never do if you’ve had a blow to the head. So I’m not entirely convinced, but I’m trying to be REALLY super nice to him.

I finally went for a CT scan and everything is okay. I have added planting and gardening to the list of man-shit, so I take more of a supervisory role when it comes to spring planting. It works much better for me. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, (and I KNOW you are!) the shovel handle is fine. Thanks for asking!

Shoes, Chauvinism, and Sensibility

2009-04-11T18:43:00.000-07:00

There are certain things in life that I know that I will never come to terms with, such as the resurgence in popularity of hip-hugger, bell bottomed jeans, paying $4.00 at the Greensboro Coliseum for a bottle of Diet Pepsi, and Carrot Top. Still, while I can’t come to terms with these things, I have to accept them for what they are and move on with my life. As a mother, I am compelled to pass this wisdom along to Jenda. I am teaching her that sometimes in life, we have to take the good with the bad. In fact, I am teaching her the Serenity Prayer…

‘God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change and the courage to change the things I cannot accept….’

Or something like that.

Anyway, back to those things I can’t accept. Besides the fact that I still can’t squeeze my fat ass into the Levi’s I wore in college, I guess my biggest issue is with hatred. In that I mean hatred directed towards others. While I am encouraged at the strides we have made, I am still rendered speechless by the racism and bigotry that I encounter. Really, in the 21st century, hatred still finds a home. It’s like some disgusting, scuttling cockroach hiding in dark, secret places, but showing itself nonetheless, feeding, scurrying along, spreading disease, and unfortunately, multiplying. And trust me, coming from South Florida, I really hate cockroaches. Of course, if you become friendly with some of the really big ones, they can help you move furniture. Anyway….

The sad thing is that we could stamp out the hatred pestilence if we would take time to really stop and listen to others, really look at them and see them. I think hatred is just a lack of education, or as I like to call it, stupidity. I get disgusted with people who refer to other races by saying, “they all look alike” or, “I don’t hate (Blacks, Asians, Hispanics, Gays, people with disabilities, whomever) but I sure don’t want them moving next door.” I spent many years on my soapbox, and I like to think that over the years, I have reached some people, but it becomes a matter of picking my battles carefully. Of course, being me, I don’t always pick the easiest ones, but I try to pick the ones that I can win or at least the ones where I can talk the other party into submission. I’m rather good at that.

I’m reminded of my husband Jerry asking me why I have so many pairs of brown shoes. This is a conversation that we have often, since I look at buying shoes as a form of retail therapy and it’s still cheaper than my co-pay. So Jerry asks, “Why the hell do you have so many brown shoes? And black shoes? And navy blue…?”

Well ding dang, they’re all different! I have loafers, pumps, moccasins, sandals, high heels, kitten heels and so on. They are all different styles, and they go with different things. For example, the loafers are great with jeans or business casual slacks. The sandals are for shorts. The boots are for wide leg pants, and---

“But Honey Bunny, let’s face it. They’re just shoes. Can’t you just have one pair of brown shoes to go with everything brown?”

Okay, how many pairs of khaki pants do you have?

“Well one has a flat front. The others are pleated, and one pair is carpenter pants and blah blah blah….”

For me that’s the crux of the matter. My shoes go with different outfits, and they suit me in different moods. They add something to my outfits, and they make me feel good about myself. (Well, except for those damn navy high heels from Aigner that look amazing but KILL my feet. Whatever.) Perhaps to some, it just looks like I am wearing whatever with brown shoes. Admittedly, some days, I feel that way myself. But the differences are there.

My task is to raise a child who sees not with the eyes, but with the heart and the mind. It probably won’t be an easy task, but she is turning into quite a little Diva so I am planning to try the shoe angle with her. Yes, there are bad people in this world. But the fact that their skin is a different color, or they weigh more or less than us, or they're gay or transgendered, or they’re differently-abled does not contribute to ‘badness.’ And where would it all end? Would we begin hating brunettes? Or fat people? Or in my case, God forbid, fat brunettes? I want to protect Jenda from hatred, in all its guises. I can show her what it looks like and how to avoid hurting other people. And the good news that it’s not hard to identify hatred.

It all looks alike to me.

Edgar Allan Poe Never Dog-sat!

2009-02-07T20:34:00.000-08:00

Once upon a balmy Sunday, cleaning after all and sundry
After kids and dogs and husbands who had soiled my oak wood floors
While I vacuumed, loudly cussing, I became aware of rustling,
as of someone softly fussing, fussing at my front porch door.
“Someone else to clean up after, fussing at my front porch door.
Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly, I remember each “house-wrecking” family member
And I thought “I could dismember each one and come back for more!”
Eagerly I prayed for neatness, peaceful, precious, calm completeness
But I felt my dying sweetness melting on my living room floor,
Mixing with the pee and poo that stained my shining oak wood floor,
filthy here for evermore.

And the hurried, angry slopping of my frenzied sullen mopping,
Chilled me, filled me with fantastic rages never felt before;
So that now to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“It is Xanax I am needing to calm down and clean the floor,
‘tis like candy I am eating Xanax as I clean the floor,
with some wine, and nothing more.”

Sending Jerry out I said “Stay gone, or I will have your head,
take Jenda with you and stay out for hours, two or three or four”
Angrily I started mopping, suds and steaming water slopping
As I set about to sopping, sopping filth from off the floor
Cleaning up the crap that curdled, curdled on my hardwood floors,
Nasty there, forevermore.

Presently I heard a flutter, mopping, I began to mutter
Cleaning up the pee and clutter that messed up my house before
Then I heard the noise again, a gentle sound upon the wind
That resonated outside on my front porch like a whispered word
Warily I peered outside, when screams within my throat just died!
Perched upon my porch rail was (I swear to God!) the LARGEST bird!!

Presently, my soul grew stronger, looking out the window longer,
“Bird,” I said, “Or Demon, how I wish you’d leave, I do implore;
But the fact is, my head’s splitting, strangely I do find it fitting
On my porch rail you are sitting, shitting on my front porch floor
That I hardly can believe it.” Here I opened wide the door.
Pigeon, shit, and nothing more.

Deep into the dusk I peered, with murderous dreams my heart was cheered,
Then I realized that I’d have to have to clean my porch like ne’er before
Then my reverie was broken, my garage door served as token,
and the “Mommy” word was spoken as I watched the hideous bird,
“Watch our Jenda!” and the pigeon murmured back the word
As he pooped another turd!

Through the almost endless evening, all his poop just had me heaving
Pigeon showed no signs of leaving, even after noise galore
Jerry just pulled up a chair and joined him in the balmy air
And the twilight o’er them streaming casts their shadows on the floor
And my task of work and cleaning, cleaning of my porch and floor
Shall be finished---Nevermore!

Of Mice and Men

2009-01-30T07:04:00.000-08:00

Marriage is a wonderful part of life. Jerry is truly my knight in shining armor, and in all the time we’ve been together, the newness hasn’t worn off. We communicate well and we’re always learning new things about each other. I remember once Jerry left the toilet seat up and I came home after working second shift. Not wanting to wake him up, I slipped into the bathroom without turning on the light and fell right in! After screaming hysterically and punching Jerry awake, he asked, “You fell in? I didn’t know you’d fit in there!” So he learned that my butt isn’t as big as it looks and our sofa was not comfortable for sleeping. Ah, the things you learn when you’re part of a couple!

When we moved to North Carolina, we quickly found ‘the perfect house’ and settled into our domestic routine. The previous owners left some stuff behind, but the strangest things they left were a hermit crab and a fan-tail goldfish. Growing up, I always had dogs or cats as pets, so I wasn’t sure about our new pets, but I tried to make them as comfortable as possible. By week one, I had christened the goldfish ‘Sir Shitzalot’ and tried to decide what to do with the hermit crab, whom Jenda named Mr. Krabs.

After some research, I learned that hermit is a misnomer, because according to information on the web, they are really social creatures. They are also higher maintenance and more expensive to care for than those broads from ‘Sex and the City.’ I went out and spent a fortune on an expensive crabitat, special food, and a new friend. I settled them into their new digs and let them meet and greet.

Imagine my horror the next morning to discover that the new crab was dead! He was face down in the water dish, lifeless and limp, while Mr. Krabs skittered around in an agitated state. Jenda came into the room at that moment. “Mommy, what’s wrong with the new crab?”

Damn! Think fast! Well Jenda, I said earnestly, he’s sleeping. Don’t wake him up. He needs his rest, okay? I hustled her off to daycare and went back to the pet store to buy an identical hermit crab. Jerry was quick to point out that I must have overfilled the water dish, causing the crab to drown as he went to get a drink. Hello…pack your bags, you’re going on a guilt trip! I spent the rest of the day horrified at the thought that I killed the poor creature and equally horrified at how much I had spent on crab crap in the last two days. I introduced the new crab into the mix before Jenda got home, so she never noticed the difference.

Hell’s Bells! I woke up the next morning and the newest new crab was dead! There was NO WAY Jerry could blame this on me, because I had emptied out some of the water, but there was number two, dead at the watering hole. And then a horrible thought occurred to me. Our original hermit, Mr. Krabs, was a serial killer! I wasn’t the one who killed the crab, he was killed by one of his own! Then to top off everything, Sir Shitzalot died, so I told Jenda the crabs and the fish became fast friends and went on a road trip of sorts and that they’d drop us a line when they had time. Then, I gave Mr. Krabs a very wide berth!

I hate to say that I was happy when Mr. Krabs finally kicked the bucket, because jubilant is probably a better word. I made Jerry bury him in the yard, which was quickly turning into hermit crab cemetery, and decided to live pet-free for awhile. Then one day, I came home to find Jerry waiting for me in the garage with what can only be described as ‘guilty husband face.’ I jumped out of the car prepared for a smackdown. I asked, WTF?!

Let me tell you, I know I talk a lot, but it’s social stuff. With Jerry, when you ask him what time it is, he’ll tell you how they make the watch. So I had to hear about how the Bradford Pear trees are blooming and the wind is scattering their white petals everywhere. Okay, I’m with you. Then he said, “I was sitting on the front porch and I noticed that one of the petals was larger than the others, and blowing in the opposite direction.”

Yeah, and…?

‘Well I went to take a closer look, and I saw that it was a little white mouse. He seemed so sad, so I took off my shoe, and caught him under it.”

Well, if he wasn’t sad before, the smell from your shoe did it. And I assume after breathing in your shoe fumes, he died…?

“No. I lifted up my shoe to get a closer look, and he ran up the leg of my pants.”

Oh Jeebus!

“So I shook around and wiggled my legs like crazy, because I could feel his little feet skittering over my, um, y’know, buhdoobies. Then I ran in the garage and yanked my pants down, and had to pull my undies down to be able to grab him.”

I can’t help it, y’all. I pictured Billy Idol. Sing along with me….

‘I’m a-dancin’ with myself, oh ho, a-dancin’ with myself…I got a rat in my pants, I want the world to dance, so I’m a-dancin’ with myself, oh ho, a-dancin’ with myself, oh ho, a-dancin’ with myself, I’m naked in the street, my balls are covered with feet and I’m a-dancin’ with myself, oh ho ho…’

So when you came into the garage to, er, take care of business, did you close the garage door?

“Heck no! I had a mouse running around on my manly manhood. I had to do what I had to do!”

Well, now I guess the neighbors know I didn’t marry you for your money.

‘Look, Myrtle, what’s that fool doin’ over there?’‘
I dunno, Mavis, but it shore reminds me of my late husband Billy Mack!’

So I’ve buried a few hermit crabs, flushed a goldfish, and have endured the admiring glances of the neighborhood women at my husband. I now have a pet mouse, Ratatouille, who I believe escaped from a testing facility since he runs on his wheely-thingy for hours on end and has an inordinate fondness for Cheez-Its. But he hasn’t killed anyone, and outside of one escape from his mouse house, hasn’t caused any problems. In fact, it’s safe to say that the mouse is pretty low-maintenance. So he can stay.

But if any of you see my husband dancing alone, in the street, with only one shoe on, don't assume he's happy to see you. There probably IS a mouse in his pants.

My Sexual Orientation? Usually Horizontal!

2009-01-07T07:44:00.000-08:00

“We have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.”
Jonathan Swift

Let me start by admitting that I am not as caught up on current events as I should be. I try to read the news online every day, but with Jenda in the house, our TV is dedicated to Noggin and HGTV. I don’t like Jenda to see the news because she finds it upsetting. Frankly, so do I. Let’s face it, when I saw in March of 2007 that James Brown, who died on Christmas of 2006 had, up to that point, still not been buried, I was so skeeved out I couldn’t sleep for days.

Recently, one of my facebook friends sent me a link to join the cause to “Keep Phelps out of Florida.” I was rather perplexed. I watched the Olympics and watched Michael Phelps make history, and I was so proud of him in his little Speedos, uh, I mean, with all his gold medals. Why wouldn’t we want him to come to Florida? Then I realized they meant Reverend Phelps. I am using the term ‘reverend’ very loosely. If you aren’t familiar with his particular platform, he is most famous for his “God hates fags” protests. I have seen this idiot in the news, and I can’t help but wonder why God would hate ‘fags’ but have such an open-door policy for assholes.

The more I read about Phelps, the more afraid I become of his hatred, stupidity, and megalomania. I can tell you that I do not profess to know the mind of God, but I try to live according to His will. Allow me to state categorically that I do NOT believe that homosexuality is a sin. I do believe that every one of us on the planet IS a sinner. That has been made clear, because if you believe that Christ was the Messiah, the Savior, as I do, then you know that he died for your sins. We are created in his image, but none of us is the Messiah. That includes Rev. Phelps. I like to think that the image we are supposed to be mirroring is the joy, the unconditional love that Christ embodies. I don’t know what that love looks like. Maybe I’m the one who is doing it wrong. Whatever the case may be, I find that some of my Christian friends are the most judgmental, unloving, close-minded people I have ever met. Remember Christ, the one who died for all mankind? He was laughed at, spat upon, ridiculed, and feared. Sure, he was radical, and his ideas were different, and his ideals were revolutionary. He died for those ideals. He died for us. So I wonder, do you suppose that God made his gay, lesbian, and transgender children ‘different’ so that they would know the travails of Christ? To see if maybe THIS time, the rest of us would get it right and embrace the Christ in them instead of judging them, somehow deeming them unworthy of love, and ultimately exiling them from our midst? Because if that’s the case, we’re still getting it wrong. I have to admit, too that I have prayed for Rev. Phelps and his raving lunatics. I know that diamonds come from lumps of coal. Perhaps Rev. Phelps or one of his followers will be converted as Saul was.

After reading about him, I found that he and his followers are equal opportunity hate mongers. They demonstrate at military funerals and cheer at the deaths of men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. Phelps and his followers cheer their deaths and the grief of their families, but have perhaps forgotten that they have the right to protest because of those dead soldiers. They celebrate tsunamis and natural disasters because they believe that God has sent them to punish homosexuality and those who refuse to condemn it. This is pretty sick shit! But I have to look at it this way. If you are one of those “fags” that God hates, you are in wonderful company. He hates soldiers who die for their country, he hates President Reagan, Diana, Princess of Wales, Billy Graham, Coretta Scott King, and pretty much anyone else who doesn’t believe in his rancid rhetoric. So that includes me. And he has plenty of reason to hate me. I have no desire to condemn people who are different from me. My roots are showing (which really isn’t my fault since my stylist is out on maternity leave.) And to paraphrase the immortal Truvy from Steel Magnolias, “maybe he hates me ‘cause the elastic’s shot in my pantyhose!” So for those of you that he hates, I am PROUD to be in your midst.

I look at a group like the KKK and the stupidity of running around in sheets and hoods to spread their stupid racist rantings and crap. Phelps is a similar kind of lunatic, but instead of wearing leftovers from the Sears winter white sale, he cloaks himself behind his convoluted interpretations of God’s word. Perhaps he does this to mask his own failures and shortcomings as a man. It’s too bad, because we all have them, but there is no need to project those onto others. And I find that in most cases, the things that we hate about other people, the things that we fear most about them are the qualities that we fear and loathe most about ourselves. So for those who spend their lives clothed in hate, beating other people up with their fists and baseball bats, or beating them down with their words and their ignorance, I will keep praying for you. And I will, as always, hope for the best, because miracles happen everyday. But we also have to want the miracles. We have to embrace and accept others; love one another as Christ has loved us. If not, then Rev. Phelps, please stay out of Florida. In fact, go to Hell.

I’ll be glad to help you pack!

I Keep My Hoe in the Toolshed!

2009-01-04T21:17:00.000-08:00

Life is filled with moments of truth, defining moments that transcend one point in time to stay with us forever. There are the big ones, like high school or college graduation, marriage proposals and weddings, the birth of a child. Then there are the little ones, summer days spent with your best friend, or a silly, private joke that you and a loved one share. It’s just that moment that you can’t forget. During many of these defining moments, I have told myself, I have see/heard it all. Then, something comes along that redefines these memorable occasions, and reminds me that there is so much absurdity, plain ol’ freakiness, left in the world for me to experience.

The holidays always bring calls from my friends and loved ones, and as much as we promise to stay in touch throughout the year, it seems that our connectedness manifests itself primarily in the November to January timeframe. Then we all drop off the face of the earth and resurface the following holiday season. Of course there are those one or two friends that stay in touch all year, either because they really love you or they need to borrow money. At any rate, one of my friends, I will call her Gina, is of the let’s-stay-in-touch-all-the-time variety. She calls to talk about anything and everything. We reminisce about good times we’ve had and bad times we’ve caused others to have, and we’re very close so nothing is off-limits and I’m always glad to hear from her. But her most recent call was out of the ordinary, even for Gina.

It started off innocently enough. She called to tell me about her plans for the holidays and what was happening in her job as a real estate agent. Since I work in the financial services industry, I was asking her how the depressed market was impacting her work. She admitted it was rough, but then told me that she was doing some side work in sales.

“When I come to visit you guys in North Carolina, invite some of your friends and I’ll do a Passion Party for you.”

Oh, that’s okay. I saw the movie but I’m not sure I want to have a screening at my house.

“I’m not talking about ‘The Passion of the Christ’, I mean a PASSION PARTY.”

Hmmm, passion. Y’know, unless it involves George Clooney and lots of Kendall Jackson, I’m not sure I’m interested. What is it, anyway?

“I hold shows in people’s homes and present and sell sex toys and erotic items. It’ll be great fun!”

WHAT?! You mean like a Tupperware party for skanks?!

Of course she went on to explain that it’s not like that at all. And she’s right. How many times have you ever seen a vibrator at a Tupperware party? As I listened to her enraptured descriptions of the items that she sells, I sank into disbelief. When had Gina turned into Jezebel? Simply put, I was flabbergasted!

“Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it,” she purred.

Look, I’m no prude. I am married and have a child, and being a reasonably intelligent sort, I am well aware of what transpired for me to get pregnant and have a child. I even remember when the moment occurred. Jerry and I were remodeling the downstairs bedroom and let’s face it, some things ARE more fun than watching paint dry. But googly-moogly, sex toys? I got myself a husband so I would never have to resort to that. There are certain things that I expect my husband to do for me, like taking out the trash, anything relating to plumbing or automotive work, and, well, nooky! Besides, I don’t want any electrical gadgetry anywhere NEAR my hoohah! My nerves are just not that strong.

“Well haven’t you noticed that now that you and Jerry have a child, well, your intimacy level and frequency have changed?”

Sure! When you have a child, or children, sex takes more planning and strategizing than the Normandy Invasion. And it’s faster and more fleeting than the series ‘Cop Rock.’ But that’s not the point. We’re together. Granted we usually have to pencil each other in for times when Jenda is in daycare, or if the mood strikes and she isn’t tired, we turn to children’s Benadryl instead of Viagra. Who cares, we make it work. And no electrodes are involved. Just the way nature intended it!

“Well I want to send you a catalogue. I think you’ll especially like ‘The Rabbit’, page 4.”

Nope. No electronic gadgets, and ESPECIALLY no bestiality. And for God’s sake, don’t send me a catalogue. I live in a small town, and I sure as hell don’t want my mailman to see that and get the wrong idea about me. I know that dogs are supposed to chase mailmen, but I don’t want him thinking that I would dry hump his leg.

So the good news is, so far, no catalogue, and no weird glances from the mailman. I have no plans on hosting a Passion Party, unless it’s to share a glass of Kendall Jackson, about which I am passionate, with friends that I love (but not in THAT way!) And no way am I putting any of those products on this year’s Christmas list, nor will I be giving any for gifts.

I mean, talk about ‘Ho, Ho, Ho!’

You've Got to Espresso Yourself!

2008-12-22T21:22:00.000-08:00

It’s safe to say that people who know me would say that I am a very energetic person. Probably, they would say some other things, too, but I’ll choose to ignore those comments and move on to other things. At any rate, I am just really kicking into high gear for the holidays. I have been finding novel ways to holiday shop without breaking the bank, and I am excited about spending Christmas with my family this year. For me, they’re pretty easy to shop for. I have more difficulty finding gifts for my friends.

One of my close friends at work is a bit of a coffee connoisseur and our café at work has a special holiday blend of coffee that they sell only during the holidays. I have never been a coffee drinker, which with my current high energy level is probably a good thing. Anyway, I decided to buy him a bag as a Christmas gift, and he seemed pleased. Later, in telling one of my colleagues, she said, “I heard that there is this really great gourmet coffee that comes from Indonesia. It’s rather rare but it’s supposed to be the hot item for coffee lovers.” It sounded interesting, so I decided to look into it and perhaps gift some of the other coffee drinkers on my list with this rare Asian brew.

It wasn’t hard to find, but it was damn near impossible to believe what I was reading. This rare Indonesian java is called Kopi Luwak. At around $160.00 per pound, it’s really not in the budget. But even if they were giving it away, there is no way that I would ever buy this. Allow me to give you some, ahem, background.

Kopi Luwak is a coffee that is made from berries that grow on tall trees. A cat-like animal, called a civet, climbs into the trees, where they lounge on the branches eating the berries. Okay so far. I mean, I am all for lounging and eating. But then, the whole process loses its charm for me. Inside each berry is a seed, or bean, that is passed through the cat’s digestive system intact. The bean then shoots out of the cats butt in his poop, where gatherers, or as I call them, ‘professional shit stirrers,’ dig through mounds of cat crap looking for the beans, which are then harvested, rinsed (hopefully!) and ground into very expensive coffee, that is then apparently bought by people who are severely emotionally disturbed.

I can’t help but think of Ted Nugent. While I don’t think he is emotionally disturbed, he is ‘The Motor City Madman’ so it would be great to know his thoughts on this. Sing along to the tune of ‘Cat Scratch Fever’….

Well I found out where it comes from
and it sure is bad
Cats poop it out of a tree
Then they sell it for a fortune
Like some twisted fad
I wouldn’t drink the shit for free!
Don’t give me cat crap coffee, cat crap coffee!

I can’t imagine who is getting the bad end of the deal (pun intended!) Is it the idiots who actually drink this or the people who harvest it? Of course the harvesters are making a fortune selling this and the people who drink it apparently have enough money to buy any kind of crap they want. I can’t imagine drinking this or harvesting it, but I wouldn’t mind marketing it. I would immediately change the name, Kopi Luwak, which I believe is Indonesian for ‘tastes like shit.’ I might call it ‘Stanka’. Or ‘Chock Full O’Butts’. Hmm…’Asspresso.’ I suppose the possibilities are endless!

I can’t even imagine the smell of this coffee brewing in your coffee maker. Actually, having changed many poopy diapers, I can get a general idea. And it’s not a good one. But it occurs to me that it could have some potential for good use. Suppose an annoying neighbor or family member showed up. Y’know, the neighbor who always wants to borrow (and never return) your tools, or the family member who always needs money? Just put a pot of this on to brew and I bet that would put an end to their unwanted visits. Dinner party guests who refuse to leave? One cup of this demitASS, er, demitasse, and that’ll be the end of your problem.

And that’s no shit!

The Gift of Oneself

2008-12-22T21:06:00.000-08:00

The holidays are upon us, and in addition to the layoffs, high prices, and economic uncertainty that are also upon us, it’s a heavy time of year! I always get tickled at the stores that start decorating for Christmas right after they take down their ‘Back to School’ displays but I try to use it to my advantage with my daughter Jenda by reminding her that it’s only September and she has to be on her best behavior for all of the fourth quarter of the remainder of the fiscal year. For my parent friends out there, don’t bother. It doesn’t work.

The holiday season in 2008 is going to be interesting. My husband and I understand that things are tight, so we’ll just probably give each other a hug and a Hallmark card for Christmas. But it’s a bit more difficult explaining a tight budget to a four year old, even one who is, for the most part, remarkably unspoiled. I thought perhaps I could find a parenting book to help me explain the holidays in terms of a difficult economy. These two titles stood out, but for the wrong reasons.

‘Gifts That Rich Kids Get, But You Won’t.’ Hmm, probably not a good idea.

‘Santa Had Budget Cuts and Fired the Elves.’ Really not a good idea!

So it’s up to me and hubby to explain to Jenda what is going on. And we have to somehow merge difficult finances with holidays. And trust me, y’all. If we can manage this, that ‘where do babies come from’ thing’ll be a breeze!

So we are approaching it this way. We want to teach Jenda what a holiday is. It means ‘Holy Day’ and of course in terms of finances, it could mean ‘holy cannoli, am I overdrawn again?!’ but for our purposes, we want Jenda to know that holidays are sacred. More than ever, it’s a time to be grateful for what we do have and not miserable about what we don’t have.

(It might be a bit more difficult explaining Christmas in those terms since it’s more commercialized than Miley Cyrus and the new iPhone!)

So I spent some time explaining to Jenda, who’s four, what the real meaning of Christmas is. See, it means Christ’s Mass.

“I get it Mommy. Like when I leave my Legos and Barbies in the floor?”
No, not MESS, MASS. Nevermind. It’s the day that we celebrate and honor the birth of Jesus.

“Ooh, is there gonna be cake?”

This is going to be harder than I thought. Jenda, would you like to know where babies come from?

At any rate, the important thing to remember about the holidays this year is that while our economy, our political landscape, and our entire world are changing, the holidays, at least the meaning behind them, has not. So what I want Jenda to understand is this. The joy of a holiday like Christmas is not about how much is under our tree (which in our case is fake, so we get to save a few bucks!) It is more about the family and friends who are gathered around it. It is more about what we give to others. And it doesn’t have to be some major, expensive purchase or the latest piece of electronic gadgetry. For instance, I have told Jenda that in order to make room for the things that she is going to get, we need to take some of her other toys and clothes and donate them. (Of course that almost backfired when I saw her calling a moving company to empty out her entire room!) But I think she is onboard with this. She is now excitedly making pictures and art projects to go into scrapbooks to be sent to our extended family along with family photos that we have taken throughout the year. She even wants to make a game of it by having our family match the real photos to the pictures she has drawn to see if they can guess who’s who. (Hint….the round one with all the hair on her head standing straight up? That one is me!)

The real gifts that we give are gifts of love, and humor, and our time. It doesn’t cost anything to donate clothes or household items to others. It doesn’t cost anything to volunteer to serve others in a soup kitchen or at a homeless shelter. So those are some of the gifts that our family will be giving this year. Don’t get me wrong. I would love nothing more than to give Jenda everything on her Christmas list. (Well, except for the puppy since I don’t want to potty train anyone else. Oh, and the kid-sized Cadillac Escalade, since I am still driving a 2001 Mommy Honda. Oh yeah, and the play kitchen with real granite countertops and over-range microwave. No way is my four-year-old going to have granite countertops when I have to make do with laminate!) But all of that aside, more than anything, I want to give her the gift of what the holiday season really means. Because when we reach out to others, we give them the most important gift of all, which is ourselves. And long after Barbie and the other toys have been discarded, long after the newest gadget is obsolete and long after the gift cards have expired, the love and hope we give to others endures.

The Road To Hell is Paved With Good Intentions, and a GPS Can Take You There!

2008-11-30T20:56:00.001-08:00

There used to be something wonderful for me about technology. Not that I know terribly much about it. But I loved the thought that I could have a small hand-held phone device thingy that allowed me to make phone calls, send emails, and take pictures. I love my new digital camera that takes such amazing pictures (or at least it would if I knew how to work the damn thing!) It’s just really cool that we live in an age where anything and everything we could ever want is at our fingertips. But one of the great philosophers, I think it was Stephen King, said that what makes us more tech-savvy also wants to kill us. Or words to that effect.

By nature, I am so bass-ackwards that I still marvel at Mapquest. Log on to the computer-thingy, type in your address and destination, and whammo! You have driving directions! Which is great if you constantly get lost driving to your mailbox, as I do, or if you are some freakazoid stalker, as, well, someone else. Anyway, imagine my delight when my husband brought home a GPS for the car!

GPS stands for Global Positioning System, and it’s designed to sit in your car like a small TV screen that tells you how to get to point A to point Z and all points in-between. This technology was designed by the Department of Defense so you can trust that it’s absolutely spot-on in getting you where you need to go, in the event that where you need to go is the front lines of battle in Iraq or Afghanistan. Anyway, Jerry brought home this little marvel of modern technology and insisted that he, Jenda, and I all bundle into the car to drive somewhere that we already knew how to get to so that we could see it in action.

Of course it not only shows you maps and directions. It also talks in several languages, including English, English with a British accent, Spanish, French, and Farsi, in case you are needed in Afghanistan. Jenda was enthralled at the new talking gadget and immediately christened it ‘Fletchen.’ Fletchen took us to all sorts of interesting places, like Wal-Mart, the grocery store, and back to our house. I was really trying to seem impressed, but I reminded Jerry that Fletchen’s prowess was no biggie to me since I already knew how to get to all of those places. Take me to the place where money grows on trees, or they’re giving away free Coach purses! Hah, take that, Fletchen!

Jerry was a bit crestfallen. “She is a wonderful timesaving device, and a money saver as well. We won’t have to waste paper printing maps off the internet, and we won’t have to stop when we’re traveling to buy maps anymore. She’s like a member of our family!”

That’s great! Tell her to straighten up the kitchen. And finish the laundry.

Well in no time, Jerry and Fletchen became like Calvin and Hobbs. Actually, they became more like Romeo and Juliet. I noticed that every time I would ride somewhere with Jerry, Fletchen tagged along. And suddenly, she was all super nice to Jerry, fastening his seatbelt for him and complimenting his driving skills. But I ignored her, and ignored the signs. Then one day, I could no longer turn a blind eye to the obvious.

Fletchen had fallen in love with Jerry! And, she was trying to kill me!

I know this seems crazy, but it’s true! One day, I needed to go somewhere and there was heavy construction on I-40, so I started to map out an alternate route when Jerry suggested that I take the GPS. “She’ll get you there in no time,” he beamed, so I stupidly agreed. I didn’t really suspect anything until I got on some back-road in the middle of nowhere. I saw my turn coming up and I heard a voice say “In point three miles, turn left. Your thighs are fat.”

I wasn’t sure I heard correctly. I thought perhaps it was just fatigue since I had been driving for what seemed like hours. Then, I made my turn, and Fletchen said, “In one point four miles, turn right. That’s an ugly blouse.”

Now I KNEW it was not my imagination. I happened to be wearing a very cute blouse. OMG, I thought, I’m out here in the middle of nowhere with this crazy gadget and she’s the only one who knows where I am! Oh dooky! I began driving toward any sign of civilization, trying not to panic. But Fletchen was mocking me. “Jerry loves me! Bwuhahaha! Your roots are showing! Your handbag doesn’t match your shoes! HAHAHA!”

Then, she said, “Turn left now to arrive at final destination.” And she would have been correct, since a left turn would have taken me over the edge of a fifty foot drop down into a granite-filled ravine! I sped up until I could find some sign of life. I finally saw a small country store, pulled in, ripped ‘Christine’, er, Fletchen loose from the dashboard and threw her in the trunk. Then I asked for directions and made it to my appointment, terribly shaken up but alive and in one piece.

I had only one other encounter with Fletchen when I let Jerry take my car to get the engine serviced and we had to switch cars. I honestly forgot about her, plotting my demise in the glove compartment of Jerry’s car until I agreed to give one of my colleagues a ride home from work. If you are a native Floridian, and you are not used to driving in North Carolina, do not EVER, under any circumstances, agree to do this. One of the things that I miss about South Florida is that for the most part, it has been worn flat by years of back-to-back hurricanes. All of the streets are laid in a grid, so you are either traveling north/south or east/west. Or vice versa. At any rate, it’s pretty easy to navigate. Here in North Carolina, everything goes in a circle. So if you are traveling north and want to go west, you don’t go to the left. You exit to the right, travel east for several miles, and then eventually you loop around and you’re going west. Oh, and all of the streets here have multiple names. Like multiples of ten.

So here I was, driving in Greensboro in a part of town that I did not remotely recognize, and I had no idea where I was or how to get home. It occurred to me then that Fletchen was in the car. Of course, she would probably try to kill me, but maybe if I played my cards right, I could make it home alive. I pulled over, hooked up Fletchen, and laid down the law, jilted-lover style.

Look, Gadgety Personal Stepford-wife. I need to get home to Jerry and you’re gonna have to help me get there! I know he loves you more then he loves me, but if you don’t get me home, there won’t be anyone to cook him a hot meal and rub his tired feet. We’re a team, okay?

“Okay. You are still a fashion disaster with thunder thighs, but we’ll get home to tend to Jerry’s needs.”

And true to her word, she got us home. As for cooking and foot-rubbing thing? It was all a lie. But let’s face it, all’s fair in love and war. Jerry has probably ratted me out about it so I am now sleeping with one eye open and trying not to get within fifty feet of Fletchen, the GPS from Hell. Of course, she’s plotting her revenge and I wouldn’t put anything past her. So if you see me on the road somewhere with a GPS thing wrapped around my head screaming at me in several different languages and trying to kill me, don’t attempt to disarm her yourself! Call for help. Try to get my husband Jerry to calm her down.

Better yet, call Stephen King. Might as well get an expert!

To Hell With Texas, Don't Mess With Donna!

2008-11-20T16:25:00.000-08:00

Things are difficult in the world today, and I know that people everywhere are just trying to stay afloat. I was driving home today and passed a little country church with a sign out in front that read “Count Your Blessings.” Some days that isn’t easy to do, but today, I thought first of my home. Then I thought about my family (and said a prayer of thanks that I haven’t been committed to an asylum yet!) and then I thought of my friends.

My parents always used to tell me that to understand other people, I needed to walk a mile in their shoes. I used to think that was gross, since they might have toenail fungus or go to one of those weird fish pedicure places, but I understand the meaning better now. I also know that I have it pretty good since many people are really struggling, so I think, all things considered, that I am very blessed. I do have my home and family, and I have many wonderful friends. And everyday, I learn something new about one of them.

I was taking a break at work the other day and walked outside with my friend Donna. She is a very dear and funny woman, and everyone at work is crazy about her. She is always perfectly coiffed, has a wonderful Southern accent and those lovely manners, and apparently also has a closet full of cute sweater twinsets. She even has cute shoes, like the denim clogs she was wearing this week. Cha-cha! We stood outside enjoying the beautiful fall weather and got to yakking about whatever. Then I mentioned, DANG! I forgot to pick up milk and eggs on the way home yesterday. I’ll have to stop at the store. Hmm…

Donna apparently lives in a town smaller than Kernersville (which I swear I did not think was possible) and said, “Yeah, I’m fixin’ to go to the store on my way home. And I just hate stopping here in Greensboro, ‘specially since it gets dark so early.”

I agreed. Anymore, it seems like it gets dark by noon. And I hate having to stop at the store or to get gas after dark. I mean, I am sure I’m safe, but you just can’t be too careful.

Then Donna said, “I just don’t worry. I always carry my Kel Tec 380 in the car and just put in it my purse if I think I might need it.”

Yeah, I have that CD in my car, too. I just love Celtic Women, they’re such great musicians.

“No. I mean my handgun.”

I’m sorry, your WHAT?! After I peeled myself up off of the pavement, I tried to reconcile this lovely, gracious Southern magnolia before me with my new vision of Annie Oakley in a Talbot’s twinset. My head was spinning. A gun? Donna? OMG, had I ever made her angry? Jeebus! Ooh wait….had anyone made ME angry? Maybe she would take requests! I just couldn’t get used to it. I went through the rest of my day humming “The Homecoming Queen’s Got a Gun!” It was rough.

I figured I should tell Markie, in case anything went wrong. More especially, since Markie is a bit of a practical joker, it was more of a warning. I told Markie, but she wasn’t a bit surprised.

“Oh I know all about it. We were going to Chrystal’s wedding together and there I was in a dress and heels and that damn thing was laying on the front seat of her car! I almost blew my butt off!” She laughed. “I guess she thought it was a shotgun wedding...bwuhahaha!”

Easy for Markie to laugh. She’s not a bit worried that our dear friend might suddenly flip out and go all “Donna and Clyde” on us.

It turns out that my friend Donna is quite the Steel Magnolia. She told me this week that she helped her husband dress a deer. As those of you who know me are well aware, I know nothing about guns and hunting. I have convinced myself (and have convinced Jenda) that meat comes from the grocery store. (Just go with me on this one. It makes me feel better and it’s all about my needs, ‘kay?) Anyway, I had to ask Donna why she would dress a deer. I mean, they’re already covered with fur. DUH!

“We were hunting and the deer was in the backyard, so my husband and I field-dressed it. You know, gutted it?”

Ooh, Jeebus! I could just see Donna wandering around outside in a precious cashmere cardigan and shell and some cute storm chaser boots from L.L. Bean shooting at wildlife! Ack!

“My husband got him with a bow and arrow. I didn’t shoot it.”

Oh, well, okay then. Sure, blame it on Clyde.

I could just picture it. I go over to talk to Donna. Hi, Dear!

“Deer? Where?” BLAMMO!

Later that day, I ran into two friends of mine who, like me, are Dallas Cowboys fans. They were going on and on about our win last Sunday over the Redskins. “It was a great game. Don’t mess with Texas…hahaha!”
I started to warn them…to Hell with that! Don’t mess with Donna! But I let it go. I mean, who knows. Maybe she’s a double agent. Or a Redskins fan. I’m walking a fine line here. But in truth, I like Donna very much. Of course, I try to be much nicer to her now. But I have discovered that while she is the epitome of a gracious Southern woman, there is more to her than meets the eye.

So I guess I have heeded my parents’ early advice. In learning about her, I have walked a mile in her shoes. And that’s a great thing, because she is armed and dangerous. So if I have made her angry and she decides to come after me, I’ll have a one mile head start.

And I’ll have her shoes!

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid!

2008-11-19T22:57:00.000-08:00

Fall is my favorite time of year. I love watching the leaves change color and I love the crisp air. This time of year always reminds me of county fairs and candy apples, and of course, my favorite holiday of all time, Halloween. As a kid, I loved nothing more than dressing up in some crazy costume and going door to door to collect chocolate and other sweets. Of course there was always the house where you got religious tracts or healthy, sugar-free candy that got tossed the minute we rounded the corner, but those were still heady times!

Halloween has changed a great deal since we were kids. Back in my younger days, we came up with creative costumes, like a sheet with holes cut out for eyes. One year, my brother found an old piece of a cow skeleton and wore it around his waist and went as a Georgia O’Keefe painting. (Yes, he belongs in therapy!) I had one of those really creative Moms who could make a costume out of anything and a Dad who could carve DaVinci’s Last Supper out of a pumpkin with a pencil stub and a sewing needle. And everyone in the neighborhood rose to the occasion and handed out goodies. Even the people who had social lives left bowls of candy on their porches for all of us little fiends.

Back in the good old Halloweens of yore, we got TONS of great candy. We got candy corn, Boston baked beans, Tootsie Rolls, candy bars, and candy apples. And we knew everyone in our neighborhood so we racked up. I made a cute ghost, and my ass waddled home with more candy than crap in a laxative factory. And when my older brother Patrick would serve as my escort on our Halloween jaunts, we especially loved the houses where the people were out for the evening and left a bowl of candy on their front porch. We would dump the whole bowl in our bag and head off to the next victim. Of course, my parents were very concerned that Patrick and I might actually enjoy the candy, er, I mean, eat something poisonous, so they made us deposit all of our hard earned treasure by the front door. Then, those poor dears made themselves SICK eating all of the best chocolate candies, which, as any parent knows, are the ones that creepy killer types always target, like Snickers bars. Now that I am a parent, I take the same pains to protect Jenda. She has nothing left in her Halloween goody bag except Starlite Mints and those grodie, squishy Circus Peanuts! Eew!

Fast forward to Halloween 2008. Nowadays, you just about have to take out a second mortgage to buy a cheap costume and you have to go to do-it-yourself classes to carve a basic jack-o-lantern face. This year, Jenda wanted to be a princess and her costume cost more than my wedding dress and was more elaborate! It wasn’t enough to have a dress. We had to have slippers, a wand, a tiara, and a matching Kate Spade Halloween candy collection bag. Then, Her Royal Highness decided that she wanted to have a Halloween party with her friends from the neighborhood and friends from daycare. Having been to countless children’s parties and having seen the havoc they create, I can only say that someone must have laced my food with crack, because, crackhead that I am, I agreed.

I sold my remaining kidney to pay for Jenda’s costume, buy tons of candy, food and beverages, games, Halloween crafts, and decorations for the house. Then we set about writing the invitations and giving them to all of the friends at daycare, work, and throughout the neighborhood. I assumed that we were safe inviting so many people since I knew that not everyone would come. And as usual, I was right. Out of 25 invitations, two said no. Not that it mattered, since apparently Jenda is the only ‘only child’ in her daycare. That being said, we had siblings, superheroes, princesses, and a candy corn. Many of them, on sugar high, filled with anticipation, loose in our house. (In case you’re not sure what that was like, get your Bible and look up the part about the plague of locusts!)

Having never hosted a children’s Halloween party at my house before, I figured that we would have the kids here from 5:30 pm until 7:30 pm and I would schedule their activities down to the minute. I spent a fortune on Halloween crafts, and games such as ‘Pin the Nose on the Jack-o-Lantern’. I made up goodie bags with little gifts and fun Halloween doo-dads. Then, because our house got slammed with trick or treaters last year, I bought enough candy to keep the kiddies hyped up until sometime next June. Of course, there’s some old saying about the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. They forgot to include mothers. Specifically, me.
Everyone began showing up for the party. I had spent most of the day cooking goodies and making a goopy green Halloween punch. I had decorations everywhere, I set a beautiful buffet on the table, and got the games and crafts ready. Jenda was very proud to be doing ‘door duty’ to let her friends in when they rang the bell. Then I realized that some of the people she let in were just random trick-or-treaters that came in and decided to just stay for the party. Once all of the children arrived, along with our new, random friends, my plans went straight to Hell faster than a maid runs from Naomi Campbell! No one wanted to make the little crafts I bought. No one wanted to play games. They devoured the food from the buffet, and then I found some of the kids searching through my fridge for more. I managed to get them out of the kitchen, whereupon they all ran upstairs with Jenda leading the way. I allowed the stampede to go on for a few minutes, while I tended to the adult guests. The fathers sat around talking about man-shit and looking sheepish. The mothers requested wine, and I was more than happy to oblige. Then, I went upstairs to see what was going on. Of course, I found all of the kids in Jerry’s and my bedroom, so in my best mommy voice, I said, “Hey, you little fiends! Get outta here! I beat other people’s children!” Then they ran into Jenda’s room, wrecked it, then came back downstairs where they swung from the ceiling fans and basically ran amok. One little party guest was dressed as Aqua Man, which was most appropriate since he proceeded to pee in my floor.

Jerry took one look at me and decided that the kids should begin trick or treating at that very moment if they wanted to survive to see another Halloween. Ah, salvation was at hand! I herded those kids out the door and then began gobbling Xanax, washing it down with Kendall Jackson. I had barely finished my first glass (but by no means my last that evening!) when they returned! What the….

Said Jerry, “I guess the economy is worse than we thought. Only about 5 houses are giving out candy. Everyone else has their porch lights turned off and they’re not answering their doors.” Okay, people. I know times are tough. Maybe some of you weren’t willing to sell your internal organs to get money to buy candy. But damn, we’re Southerners and parents. Tough times call for creativity. Dig in your sofa cushions or in the backseats of your cars. I know there’s plenty of candy in there you could give out. Maybe it’s covered with lint and dog hair, but just run it under some cold water. Ding dang!

So the party broke up shortly after as parents rushed home to try to get some trick-or-treating done in their own neighborhoods. I loaded them up with as much candy as I could before they left, and of course fixed a couple of the mommies up with ‘go-cups’ of Chardonnay. It’s okay, the dads were driving. I cleaned up the remnants of Aqua Man and sipped my Kendall Jackson straight from the bottle, er, I mean, out of a plastic Halloween cup. But I have noticed that even now, I am finding kids squirreled away in my house. Just yesterday, I pulled one out of my sofa cushions. They are probably looking for candy that I already handed out. So parents, please, come get your trick-or-treaters. I am running out of candy. And patience. And Huggies pull ups! And if I run out of Kendall Jackson, well, let’s just say things will get REALLY scary!

Pundits, Plaudits, and Plurality

2008-11-12T19:50:00.000-08:00

It has been just over one week since a new president was elected and history in the making won the plaudits of pundits. The campaigns of both parties, the voting, and the election returns were, as always, a very exciting and empowering time for me. I was dismayed by the mud-slinging and low-brow commentary, but ultimately, I was pleased with the outcome, and dare I say it…? I am filled with hope for a number of reasons.

I realize that we all had our reasons for supporting our candidates of choice. This election was so filled with hot button topics that I would not be surprised if the candidates lined their clothes with asbestos. Let’s face it, this is a strange time in America and finances are running low while emotions are running high, making what can at best be called a toxic combination. At the very least, the election has been decided and we can get past the business of campaigning, early voting, and baby kissing and get back to the business of repairing and unifying the nation. For me, it has already started.

I went to vote on November 4, and as soon as Jerry and I got to the poll, I started crying. It was so amazing to me, and such a wonderful moment that I could hardly believe I was part of it. Jerry immediately let several people cut in line ahead of him so it wouldn’t look like he was with the crazy broad who was sobbing. Then, I raced through the rest of my day and rushed home to watch the returns. I also let Jenda stay up, even though it was far past her bedtime. We talked about voting, and that fact that voting is both a right and a responsibility. We talked about both of the candidates and what this election would mean for all of us. Of course with my horrible sense of timing, I got up to go get a glass of KJ and JUST THAT QUICK, it was over and the election was won. America had a new president. Kendall and I of course missed the update, but unlike the time I missed the ending to the X Files movie, I know how this one turned out. And it hit me at that moment that nothing would ever be the same again.

I looked at Jenda and thought about her and some of her friends in the four to five year old set. Specifically, I thought of Omari, and Avery, and Steven. I feel reasonably certain that at some point in their young lives, they have been told that they can be anything they want to be when they grow up, much the same as I have told Jenda. Of course when you are four years old, the world is your oyster, but at some point, it’s going to occur to you if you are African American, or female, or Hispanic, or otherwise perceived to be 'different', that none of the presidents in the history books is like you. So on some level, you grow up appreciating the sentiment, but recognizing that it is probably meaningless. It’s so amazing to me now that when Steven gets older, he will look at pictures in a history book, or he will take a tour of the White House and realize that there’s a president who looks like him. And that means that someday, Jenda will see pictures of a female president. Someday, there will be a gay president. And as we come into our own as a nation, we will see that this election predicates a wonderful change in our collective thinking.

We tend to forget the fact that America is a melting pot of men, women and children. We are made up of all colors, races, religions, sexual orientations, and life experiences. I am reminded of something that my parents taught me, and that is that every American can boast a king and a slave in their ancestry. I can’t look at this election, or any other election, in terms of the race or age of the candidates. I remember things that my grandparents taught me, and at their advanced age, they were still some of the best leaders I ever knew. I also remember my first grade teacher, Mrs. Daniels. She was African American. I still feel the impact of her guidance and her presence more than thirty years after I sat in her classroom. When I sink back into my younger days, I remember many teachers, friends, and leaders who positively impacted my life. Some were black, some white. Some were women, and some were men, some were gay and some were straight. Some were young, and some were old.

(Actually, when I was a kid, they were probably the age that I am now, and I thought they were old. Damn!)

So here we are, a people, a country in dire straits. Banks are failing, foreclosures are up, and spirits are down. And there is talk of stimulus packages, bailouts, and tax cuts. That is all well and good. But more than anything for me, the recent election has given me hope. And after the stimulus check is cashed and the bailout money is spent, hope endures. So while I don’t revel in my newly found genteel poverty, I am not ashamed. I am hopeful, as we all should be. I am not afraid, even though in many ways, I am hanging by a thread. It’s become stylish to be stone broke, and I am reminded that no one of us is any better than anyone else. Many of us, black, white, young, old, gay, straight, male, female, Christian or otherwise…we’re all hanging by a thread. But in our upcoming administration of hope and change, we will bring those threads together. And we will create, together, the fabric of a nation.

Global Warming or Global Hot Flash?

2008-11-12T10:34:00.000-08:00

Mother Nature is a really funny broad. It never occurred to me when I was a child, but as I get older, I realize that she is actually very fickle indeed. Fickle and maybe, understandably, a little bit irritated with all of us.

This came to me recently because at my age, I believe that I am in the throes of peri-menopause, from the Latin “peri”, meaning ‘around’ and “menopause” meaning ‘my hands, man’s throat’. What a happy time this is for me. I was at work recently and I realized that I was just burning up. I mean I was just sweating my ass off! I turned up my desk fan, but it felt like someone had turned on an oven inside me! I hadn’t been doing anything remotely physical so I thought perhaps something was really wrong. I went online to WebMD to check out my symptoms.

My problem is apparently stupidity because no one who is not a doctor should EVER, under ANY circumstances, go to WebMD. You might log on because you have a zit and you will log off convinced that you are going to die a slow painful death from some rare, horrible disease that only WebMD has ever heard of and no one can cure. Trust me on this one. Anyway, after realizing that I might be having a heart attack, a stroke, or some rare disease from exposure to Mongolian Yak shit, I stumbled onto peri-menopause. And I realized after reading the symptoms that I should just upload my picture to their website!

I went to see my doctor about this. Remember him? The really good looking one? So he said he felt that I am too young to be experiencing early menopause. I appreciate the sentiment, but he is a man, so for him to decide what is going on with my ‘down-there’ is like going to a mechanic who has never owned a car. So I made an appointment with his assistant, who is a woman. I just knew she would understand, and maybe dispense hormones and mind altering drugs!

“You seem awfully young to be going through menopause. Maybe it’s stress. Are you stressed?”

Hmm, let’s see. I have a four year old and a husband who keeps turning off my ceiling fans. Our economy is in the toilet. I work in the financial services industry. Gee, what are the odds?

“Well the holidays are coming. Do you have a large extended family?”

Yes. They are all in another state. That’s my idea of happiness. A large, loving, extended family in another state. Preferably, another time zone.

“Do you miss your family?”

Well, yes, I miss them all. But my aim is improving.

“I think you are just stressed out. Try taking walks and drinking something like ice water if you feel warm.”

Uh, no. I think I’ll just walk from the sofa to the fridge and get a cold glass of chardonnay. Thanks anyway.

So the difficulty sleeping, the mood swings, and the hot flashes continued. Each night when I come home from work, I get out of the car and start stripping off my clothes in the garage. That way, I am almost naked when I get in the door to the kitchen. I walk through and turn on the fan in that room. Then I come around the corner to the office, peek in at Jerry and Jenda to say hi, and I flip on that fan. Then I walk through the living room on my way upstairs and turn on the fan in the living room. After I go upstairs and put on a wife-beater and a pair of shorts I come back downstairs to find that ALL of my ceiling fans have been turned off. At first, I thought there was some kind of electrical short. Then I realized that Jerry was running around behind me turning them off! DAMN! I asked him, nicely, WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM?!

“I’m cold.”

Put a sweater on!

“Jenda was cold, too.”

Put one on her! Better yet, why don’t you two get out of the house for a little bit while I cool off. Go out and spend some quality time together somewhere, like Cuba.

Some nights it’s just too much trouble to fight, so I go upstairs and draw a cold bath, dump in a few buckets of ice for good measure and listen to music. Recently, I got out my old Depeche Mode CD. I got inspired listening to ‘Personal Jesus’. I now have my own words to that song. I call it ‘Personal Summer’. Sing along if you know the tune….

My own personal summer
Night sweats that wreck your hair, husband don’t care
My own personal summer
I want to kill the man who turns off my fan
Sittin’ here nude in a violent mood
I could kill for a frosty chill
Get near my fan and I’ll bite off your hand
(Chorus) Hot flash, blot face

Let’s face it, people. A person can only get just so naked. It’s not something I can control. It’s like someone flipped the broiler on inside me and there’s nothing I can do. I even tried to sublet space in the meat locker at Harris Teeter. Luckily, I made it out of the store before the cops got there.

So the other night, I sat, fuming, sweating, and drinking very cold Chardonnay, and I thought about Mother Nature. And I have come to believe that global warming really does exist, but I know now that it’s Mother Nature having a massive hot flash. So I understand what she is going through, and I recycle, and use CFL bulbs, and try to be green. But Big Mama has the power to melt polar ice caps, bring hurricanes, and dry up lakes and rivers. My power is somewhat more limited. So I approached it this way with the family. Turn the heat on low if you’re cold. But when I get home, throw on some extra clothes and leave my fans on, pretty please?

“They stir up too much air. We get chilly.”

Then I channeled my inner Mother Nature. LEAVE MY FANS ON OR I AM GOING TO SHOOT YOUR ASS, PLEAD INSANITY, AND SIT IN A VERY COLD PADDED CELL FOR 45 DAYS RE-READING PROUST! I MEAN IT!

And I’m not terribly worried. This here is the South. “He deserved killin’” is actually a valid defense in our courts. So I hope it doesn’t get to that point, but if it does, I hope the courtroom is REALLY cold. And I will try to get a jury made up of menopausal women and Tibetans. That way, if the ‘temporary menopausal insanity’ defense doesn’t work, I can use the ‘Mongolian Yak Shit’ defense. I think Mother Nature would approve!

Leading to the Beat of a Different Drummer

2008-11-04T16:31:00.000-08:00

An ancient Chinese proverb entreats us to live in interesting times. It seems a redundant rhetoric, for surely few among us can remember uninteresting times in our lives and in our framework of history. There is always a happening, an event, a turmoil that enrages us or engages us, however it impels us to thought or action.

Some of us remember the onset of the fight for Civil Rights, the marches for peace and brotherhood, and the inequality that defined an era. Others have the stories and experiences of our forbears, while some know only what is written in history books to define a time when leadership was forged in steel, created and tested in the blood, sweat, and tears of many. Amazingly, this struggle gains new relevance and strength in our continuing quest for knowledge and self-awareness. Against our present backdrop of war, political upheaval, and economic uncertainty, the leadership teachings of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. are particularly prescient, and in some ways are more pertinent than ever.

Dr. King referred to the conflict of creation (leading by example) versus competition (being the example) as the ‘Drum Major Instinct’. It represents a desire for recognition as reward, a will to ‘lead the band’ by taking center stage and being the star attraction. He readily admits it is human nature. Yet it is not in his nature to scold us, for he admits to having lived in the glass house of self-importance. He reminds us that we have all lived in a glass palace at some point, if not still, so it is not for any among us to throw stones. Rather, he speaks to us as one who has overcome the need for acknowledgement, one who will gladly help us out of our self-imposed exiles of imagined celebrity and rapturous ignorance of believed importance. He becomes, then, a servant leader. He becomes an emissary, an envoy into greater human potential and leadership capability, bringing us beyond seeing only ourselves, challenging us to listen and learn. He begs us all to share the dream of ‘self-importance through awareness of others’, allowing others to see the vision and share a dream.

The Bible imparts the following: ‘No greater love hath man than this; that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ How much more difficult it must be to do so knowingly, willingly, even gladly, to protect and nurture a dream that has consumed boundless time and personal energy. Whether or not you espouse the Bible’s teachings, those words are a powerful and gripping truth. Dr. King laid down his life to improve the lives of others, to lead others. Who among us would do the same?

And yet we are all leaders, whether in title, by example, through military service, or by aspiration. Few in our midst, unless we are in the military, have been called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice, and certainly we are not asked to do so in our current positions and jobs. But Dr. King, in laying down his life, showed that true, meaningful leadership exists, in fact, flourishes in all of us by virtue of the fact the we do not have to give our lives, but only share our vision. We become exemplary leaders by lifting the spirits of those around us. Dr. King, in his surrender to a destiny of strength through giving, reminds us, implores us, to lead through servitude to others.

But what cost if we fail to heed his advice? What cost if we fail to give ourselves completely to a goal that impels us to walk quietly behind those we hope to lead, giving them the spotlight instead of ourselves? If we learn nothing, all is lost. No one is led, and we are no stronger for the experience. Thankfully, we can be delivered from this fate. We still encounter hatred and prejudice, but we are free, in fact, encouraged to speak against them. Fortunately, we are free to aim high without having to project our dreams above blinding ignorance, or shout our hopes against deafening silence. While it is almost unimaginable to us to relinquish the spotlight, by surrendering ourselves to the ultimate gift of servitude, we become our best selves by allowing and encouraging others to shine. It costs far less when we inspire others to build and dream with us, to create interesting times. As leaders, we are not asked to lay down our lives, but to put aside ego and self-importance to help others realize a vision. We forfeit far less when we create an economy of hope, equality, and a single-minded passion to serve.

When the Night is Darkest the Stars Are Brightest

2008-10-16T21:53:00.000-07:00

Somebody has to go polish the stars,
They're looking a little bit dull.
Somebody has to go polish the stars,
For the eagles and starlings and gulls
Have all been complaining they're tarnished and worn,
They say they want new ones we cannot afford.
So please get your rags
And your polishing jars,
Somebody has to go polish the stars.
-Shel Silverstein

The last ten days have run together like sidewalk chalk in the rain. Finding out Cliff was gone was unbelievable. Being so devastated and heartbroken, seeing my friends in the same sad shape, was horrible. I was in some wretched limbo; I couldn’t seem to get anything much done at work or at home. Some of you are wondering how this is different from any other week. I’ll get back to you.

Yet for all the blur, so much has happened these last ten days, and I have learned a great deal about my friend Cliff, about healing, and about the nature of things. This past Monday, I attended a memorial service for Cliff. Well, I and most of the citizens of North Carolina. It wasn’t a memorial service, it was Cliffstock! Friends and strangers alike supported each other. Still, it was a sad, solemn occasion, and I was trying not to melt down. I turned my attention to one wall where a slideshow loop was running pictures of Cliff at different stages of his life. This seemed to be a good way to take my mind off my sadness. Instead, it was an unexpected trip down memory lane.

Cliff and I were both born in 1969. In one picture, there stood Cliff, probably 5 years old, against his parents sofa on Christmas morning. But I wasn’t looking at his amazing smile, or the stacks of brightly wrapped gifts. I couldn’t stop staring at that SOFA! My parents had that sofa! You children of the 70’s know the one…dark green fabric with huge gold and red flowers all over it. ACK! The next slide was Cliff wearing a pair of vertically striped pants from JC Penneys. I know this because my brother had the exact same pair…wide bell bottom legs with a high waist and they came with a huge wide, white belt that was like a boob job for your pants. And then there were the pictures with the 80’s hair. In all of this seriousness, I managed a smile. But I guess it was okay. Cliff was smiling in all of the pictures. He was always smiling.

The following day, I went with my boss and two dear colleagues to the funeral service. It was Cliffstock, the sequel. The church was lovely and it was packed to the rafters. Greg sat on the aisle, then me, then Larry, and June. I knew it would be emotional, and realizing that none of us had tissue, I excused myself to run to the restroom to get some toilet paper. I figured it was better than nothing. I was wrong. I darted into a stall to pull off a bit of paper and it wouldn’t tear! I tugged and yanked but this stuff was like two-ply vulcanized rubber! I pulled and wrestled and huffed and puffed until finally, I had nearly pulled off the whole roll. I walked back into the church carrying the ten pounds of toilet paper like it was a small baby. June turned around and her eyes got wide. I won’t even tell you what she said. It was so snide. As the service commenced, Larry went to pull off some tissue to dab his eyes and strained a muscle trying to tear some off. He finally got a piece the size of a postage stamp, and then got huffy with me. And you really wouldn't believe what he said. Whatever. It wasn’t my fault. Later, I saw a colleague across the aisle crying. I started to hand him the tissue, but I realized he would probably think it was a bad novelty gag thing, like fake dog poo, or those handshake buzzer things. So I made Greg give it to him. No sense having someone else mad at me.

Aside from all of the issues with tissues, the service was beautiful. Many friends from work are part of the Celebration Choir, and as they filed into the church, I could see them wiping away tears, heartbreak on their faces. Yet as they sang, their expressions turned to joy and they healed people through music. And Cliff’s minister gave a beautiful eulogy. He reminded us that although Cliff is gone, the love that he had for us, and we for him, is still here.

After I got home that evening, Jenda wanted me to read to her, so I let her pick out some books. The first was about Tutankhamun, and it contained a quote from ancient Egypt. “To speak the name of the dead is to make them live again.” Smiling, I turned to the second book by Shel Silverstein. We read the poem “Somebody Has to go Polish the Stars.” It’s interesting, the nature of stars. In many cases, stars undergo changes and cease to exist in their ‘star form’, but the light that they emitted as stars is still travelling to earth through space and when we look up in the sky, we still see their light. That thought resonates with me.

So this week I found some new friends, and found some common ground with the one that I lost. But I guess I shouldn’t say that I lost Cliff, or anyone that I have loved for that matter. None of us should. We must speak their names so that they live, not just again, but forever. Even though their stars are different, we still bask in their light. So go outside, lay in the grass and look up at the night sky and the stars. And remember that they are not just stars. They are holes in the sky, where the spirits of Cliff and all of our loved ones shine down on us from Heaven to let us know that they are still with us, they still love us, and they are happy. And I can tell you, in these last ten days, when I have looked at the stars, they have seemed much brighter.

Thank you, Cliff.

Requiem for a Superhero

2008-10-07T23:11:00.000-07:00

I’m quick to delete sappy emails from my inbox, especially the ones about friendship. It sounds mercenary, I know, but I get tired of reading mindless dreck like “friends come into your life for a reason, or a season, or to commit treason….” Or the equally insipid “it’s national friendship week. Forward this email to God and everybody or all of your hair will fall out and you will be trampled by chickens.” So I get rid of it and move on to the really important stuff, like how to get free Viagra online, or how to meet great singles in my area who are just misunderstood and were wrongly convicted. It’s enough to make you go back to actually talking to people face-to-face and writing letters on real paper!

It occurred to me this evening that those goofy friendship emails, so sticky sweet that they induce diabetic coma, are actually sent by well-meaning friends…people who actually care about me. (That or they are bald and afraid of poultry.) And much like anything else that is good in my life, I take them for granted. Not the emails, necessarily, but the friends who send them.

Cliff Bailey passed away today. It’s okay if his name is not familiar, since many of you did not know him. He wasn’t running for office, though he campaigned tirelessly on behalf of others. He wasn’t an Academy Award winning actor, but he had a winning personality and always acted like a gentleman. And he wasn’t one of the X-Men, his favorite comic book characters, but to many of us who worked with him, he was a superhero.

There is no way to capture the essence of a person with words. Their finer points elude us, and memory is a tough concept to versify. Our feelings lose something in the translation and transition from feeling to word. Even tonight, I can’t clearly picture Cliff’s face, but I can remember how I felt in his presence. It’s funny what you focus on at a time like this, walking across the abyss of initial shock to sinking realization. In my case, I am thinking about Cliff’s teeth.

Um, yeah. His teeth.

It is not enough to say that Cliff had the whitest teeth in the free world. I am sure that no one in the communist bloc had teeth as white as Cliff’s, either. There used to be a really stupid song from the ‘80’s, well, okay, there were MANY stupid songs from the ‘80’s, but I am thinking of ‘I Wear My Sunglasses at Night’. You might remember it. Auditory dorkiness. Anyway, I think the guy who sang it probably ran into Cliff somewhere, was blinded by the whiteness of his teeth, and then was forced to wear sunglasses. He later went on to write another stupid song, ‘Blinded By the Light.’

Okay, maybe not.

Cliff had a way of getting people out of their comfort zones. It wasn’t always about ‘strive, do more, reach for the stars’ kind of stuff. I mean, he could get you to do CRAZY walk-on-your-lips-across-hot-coals kind of stuff. One night just recently, I was going to our operations desk and Cliff was standing in the aisle nearby. He called to me, just as friendly and nonchalantly, so I bounded right over to him and then screamed! On the floor in the aisle was a long piece of dooky! Cliff just cackled at my reaction, and then I realized that it was a piece of unfortunately shaped chocolate frosting that had apparently rolled off of a cupcake and into the floor, where it served as hilarious entertainment for Cliff. Of course, not satisfied with just scaring me, he called one of our directors, Cassandra, and then laughed his butt off at the sight of her jumping straight up, ten feet into the air. I still don’t know how, or why, but he somehow convinced ME to scoop up the frosting poop and throw it away. What can I tell you, he was just hypnotic that way, I guess.

He had such personality, and a remarkable wit. And I wasn’t the only one drawn to him. He had so many friends. I can think of at least five people at work who would tell you that he was THEIR best friend. But you wanna know something? Well, yeah. They’re right. He was. He looked for good in people, and he usually found it because he expected to. Funny thing about expectations, though. They can be treacherous. I expected to go to work tomorrow and see Cliff. Just something that I took for granted. I was wrong, and I am just about as hurt and sad as I have ever been. I guess all of us who loved him feel that way. Of course, Cliff would just smile and say, “Just remember, Darlin’…you’re unique. Just like everybody else!”
I really loved you, Cliff. I’m sorry I took that friendship, that smile for granted.

You see, Cliff was truly unique, and very special. I miss my friend, even though, on some level, it just hasn’t become real. So I am going to spend this night with a glass of chardonnay and some memories, tears of regret, and prayers of thanks. And when I think that I just can’t cry anymore, I’m going to think of Cliff and all my friends, read those sappy emails about friendship, and cry out of sheer gratitude.

The Milk of Human Kindness Doesn't Make Good Ice Cream!

2008-09-28T15:13:00.000-07:00

There comes a point in every person’s life where you say, “I have heard it all.” For me, working in a call center, and being a wife and mother, I thought that moment had come and gone. But I now know that I was wrong. Really wrong. Of course it’s my duty to keep everyone abreast of the latest in nutty news. I recently read that the people at PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) have decided that it’s cruel to milk cows and use their milk for human consumption, especially ice cream. So they have reached out to ice cream makers Ben and Jerry. I love Ben and Jerry, y’all. They, along with Kendall Jackson, will someday ascend into heaven and be seated at the right hand of the Father, where they will all enjoy a big glass of chardonnay and a bowl of Chunky Monkey. Mmmm…. Wait, where was I?

Oh, yes. PETA. I think they do a lot of good for the most part. But now, the PETA-ites have decided, via some sort of bovine proxy vote, that it is cruel to milk cows and consume their milk. So they have asked Ben and Jerry to stop making their ice cream with cow’s milk, and instead, to start using human breast milk.

Oh yes, at this moment, I have seen and heard it all.

Okay, I have to try to get a grip on this one. Let’s ignore the fact that human breast milk has more lactose (that’s sugar, folks), more fat, and less protein than cow’s milk. Let’s ignore the studies that show that consumption by humans of low fat dairy products can lower the risk of heart disease and lower the risk of type two diabetes. Let’s instead follow the logic of People Exhibiting Traits of Asshats. Their argument is that Dr. Spock says that cow’s milk is bad for children. And I am all for breastfeeding your babies, but at some point, it has to come to an end. And by the way, this is the same Dr. Spock who advocated treating your child as an individual and allowing them to potty train at their own pace. To which I say BULL! Treating kids like individuals is great once they’re old enough to vote, but really not before. Just look at Britney Spears, y’all. She STOPPED behaving like a skank when her parents STOPPED treating her like and individual. And if I allowed Jenda to potty train at her own pace, I’d still be spending my money on diapers and Balmex instead of Kendall Jackson and Ben and Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Crunch.

To their credit, Ben and Jerry said “Beat it, you radical, hairy-armpit freakazoids!” No, what they really said was nothing, because they saw no need to comment and milk the situation for the notoriety. I think that is probably for the breast, um, best. But I do think someone needs to speak up for the poor women who might potentially be impacted by this nonsense. PETA feels that cows are being treated unfairly. What about Mothers? I have read studies that many cows are bred for their ability, as the scientific community puts it, ‘to produce a butt-load of milk.’ As a mother who nursed, I can tell you that I was not bred for that. First, Kendall Jackson and nursing do not mix, so it was a very long 7 months. Number two, if too much time passed between milkings, er, feedings, my breasts turned into weapons of mass destruction. Finally, when your kid gets teeth, well, let’s just say thank God for all of the strides they’ve made in reconstructive surgery.

So I am going to start my own advocacy group, “DAMN- Divine Admiration for Mothers Now “ to prevent this kind of nonsense from happening. My fellow mothers deserve a lift. And if you’re willing to go tit for tat with PETA, I invite you to join me. Really, y’all, let’s get pumped up about this. And if we’re not successful, we can always get together at my house for some chardonnay and a bowl of Dulce de Leche League or a couple of scoops of Fudge Nipple!

It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood!

2008-09-21T14:31:00.000-07:00

Ooh, y’all, I am just too happy and excited for words! It’s a beautiful day here in Kernersville, the sun is shining, the air is cool and crisp, and we have a new neighbor moving in to the house down the street. No, he is not a George Clooney look-alike. He’s better!

For those of you who don’t remember the house down the street from us, I used to call it ‘The Cleetus-Pootis House.’ I named it for my two neighbors, who I called Cleetus and Pootis. They were two honest-to-God mullet wearin’, beer swillin’ tattoo covered rednecks who provided me with more sheer entertainment than a case of Kendall Jackson, a whole key-lime pie and a Golden Girls marathon on Lifetime television for women! (Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it!)

Cleetus and Pootis loved nothing more than to drink beer and decorate their house for the holidays. I don’t just mean Christmas, y’all. They decorated for Thanksgiving, Halloween, hell, they even decorated for Arbor Day! I loved to sit on my front porch with a glass of KJ and watch the two of them stringing lights up all over the house, drinking cheap beer, and just getting into the holiday spirit. One day, one of them, I think it was Cleetus, tried to string lights from the roof over to a small dogwood tree in the yard and fell right off the roof. Jenda was concerned. “Mommy, is he dead?”

Of course not, Sweetie. If he was dead, he would have dropped his beer.

I loved the blown transformers, the sirens, and the holiday displays that could be seen from space. But all good things come to an end, and Cleetus and Pootis were no exception. I was (almost) inconsolable when they moved away, presumably to join the traveling company of ‘Deliverance.’ And I missed their decorations and lights. I swear, after they moved, my utility bill went up 60%.

So the Cleetus-Pootis house sat empty for a time. Then, it was rented to two sisters who loved nothing more than to party til they puked. Or until all of the rest of us puked from the loud music and endless parties. One of the gals was very pretty and friendly. I called her Barbie. Her sister was mean and never responded to any overtures of friendship. I called her Ugly Sister Midge. She reminded me of my doll, the ‘Happy to be Me Barbie’, who comes with a pair of bi-focals and her own little tweezers for those annoying chin hairs and a size 14 pantsuit from Talbot’s. Oh nevermind. I know how it sounds, but I’m really not bitter.

Anyway, these two seemed to be running the poor man’s version of the Playboy Mansion, so they never had the appeal for me that Cleetus and Pootis had. But even this arrangement did not last. We all know that Barbie is the doll who has everything. Apparently, Neighborhood Barbie also had everything, including a pesky little drug habit. One night, her dealer came by and shot up the front of the house. Barbie and Midge called Ken and Skipper to help them load up the pink Barbie corvette and they high-tailed it out of town.

So, the house was empty again, forlorn and dotted with bullet holes. I figured that the bullet holes would be enough to ensure that it remained empty, so imagine my surprise and delight when I saw someone moving in! At first, I wasn’t sure what was going on. A caravan of cars came down the street and pulled up in the driveway of the house. One of the drivers had his radio turned up really loud, and I could hear banjo music playing. I thought maybe Cleetus and Pootis were back so I ran outside. And then I saw the new neighbor pull up on his motorcycle. My new neighbor is a beer swillin’, tattoo covered, ZZ Top beard wearin’, honest-to-God redneck BIKER!

Sing along with me, folks. You know you want to….’Oh happy day!’

The first few days were pretty quiet and I couldn’t wait to see what local color this one would bring to the neighborhood. But it was hard to get a bead on this guy. I had to get some information, not that I am nosy or anything. I’m just naturally curious. So I did what any other self-respecting nosy, er, friendly neighbor would do. I sent Jerry down to investigate. And it wasn’t too hard. When Biker neighbor pulled up on his Harley and cracked open a beer with his Hooter waitress girlfriend, Jerry was off like a shot. After a little while, he came back so I asked for the scoop.

What’s he like?

“Okay, I guess.”

Where does he work?

“I dunno.”

Well what DID you find out?

“He’s got a Harley with a kickin’ exhaust note, electronic fuel injection, and a two cylinder V-Twin engine….”

In other words, what he found out was blah, blah, blah, man-shit, beer, Hooter Girls, blah, blah, blah.

“Oh, his name is James.”

James? No, that will never do. You just can’t be some ZZ Top lookin’ Harley dude named James. No, that won’t work. I am going to call him Duke.

So, I knew it was up to me to find out about Duke. I mean, the holidays are coming, and I want to know if we’re all in for a treat. I have asked Santa for a lower utility bill, so anything’s possible. I considered ways to weasel my way into the Dukedom. Here in North Carolina, many neighbors have a tradition of welcoming new neighbors with a home baked Amish Friendship Bread. I decided against this pretty quickly. I don’t think Duke is Amish. He also doesn’t look very friendly. I also considered the neighborhood fruitcake. No, y’all, that is NOT my nickname. See, here in the deep South, neighbors bring food for various special occasions. When Jerry and I moved in, someone left us a fruitcake as a welcome gift. But before y’all get all misty-eyed at the hospitality of small town America, I will have you know that this damn fruitcake has been making the rounds since the Reagan administration, and the ‘to/from’ gift tag is covered with scratched-out names and welcoming messages. After Jerry and I got it, we realized that one of our sneaky-ass neighbors, er, new friends, must have crept over here after dark and left it for us. Compelled to reciprocate such kindness, we left it for another neighbor. It was kind of fun, like some perverse children’s game of ‘Pin the Ancient Fruitcake on Your Unsuspecting Neighbors.’ Then it turned back up with a new card attached….”Screw you! Y’all are the new guys in the neighborhood and fair is fair!”

All that notwithstanding, I am excited about the possibilities of life down the street from Duke. So far, he seems like what you would expect from a bearded, tattooed biker dude, which is to say potentially unstable and very entertaining. Um, I mean, very neighborly. So I am going to do the friendly thing and go down to call on Duke myself to welcome him to our little slice of Heaven. And no goofy food or flowers, y’all. I am taking a pin-up calendar and a case of cheap beer. Oh, and that damn fruitcake. He IS the new guy now, and since Jerry fixed that wobbly leg on the kitchen table, we’re really not using it!

Beauty is Only Skin Deep in the Shallow End of the Gene Pool!

2008-09-14T18:48:00.000-07:00

My friends, we live in interesting times! Not just the election and the economy and war and all of that. Don’t get me wrong, all of that is interesting, to say the least, but our focus and energy seem to be misdirected and, if nothing else, misguided. We live in a world where looks and perceived beauty are more important to us than the more pressing issues mentioned above. Vanity has outrun sanity, and there is no end in sight. I was talking to a friend of mine about the new show ‘Living With Ed’, and I mentioned how happy I am that he is a champion for saving the planet and being ‘green’. My friend said, “I just can’t watch that show. He just wears those horrible ‘man-sandals’ and have you LOOKED at his crusty ass feet? UGH!”

Um, no.

Sad, but we live in a world where toenails outweigh the greater good, or have become the greater good. Of course it’s no surprise. Remember when Venus de Milo embodied the ideal of beauty for women? Dear Venus, with her less than perfect abs, and her A, maybe B cup bosom, and her missing arms? Nah, I don’t remember that time, either. And in my case, I think I am built more like Venus of Willendorf, so maybe it’s best if I don’t try living in the past!

But the whole beauty thing is out of hand. I got an email recently from an online health and beauty magazine that touts all of the latest and greatest beauty discoveries that promises that you will transform you from whatever your current sorry state is, and into such a vision of youth and beauty that no one will be able to stand it. The fact that no one can stand you anyway is another issue altogether. But I digress.

The latest is a product called ‘BungGlow’. I know what you’re thinking, and sadly, you are correct. For the low, low price of 49.95, you can have a younger looking, bleached butt crack. South Beach Skin Solutions promises that “you will see results in just two to three weeks!” Folks, at the risk of seeming anal, er, banal, I can only say bullshit! First, there is no way on God’s green earth that I would ever be able to contort my out-of-shape, middle aged body enough to view my own butt crack…not that I have tried. Number two, I would never let anyone else look at the place where I go number two. Trust me. Is there some standard of booty beauty that I was not aware of? I guess the fact that my butt droops is only one ace in the hole, so to speak. Now I have to be filled with self loathing because my butt crack is adding years to my, uh, something. It’s enough to make you run out and drink a case of Kendall Jackson and devour a whole cheesecake. In my case, it actually doesn’t take much.

Of course if you have a positive rectal self image, maybe you have nasty, tired looking feet. And you’re in luck! At Yvonne Hair and Nails, in Virginia, you can make your feet younger looking and more beautiful with a ‘fish pedicure’. I have to admit that this one had me hooked. The basic concept is that you go to the salon, dip your bare tootsies in a tank of warm water, and then they release hundreds of small fish into the water where they proceed to nibble your stank-ass feet for several minutes, softening them up for an Asian pedicurist who then takes over and turns your feet into perfect Angelina Jolie feet. Or something like that. I even imagined myself going for some fish and foot work.

“Hi. I’d like to get a fish pedicure, please.”

“Hokay.” (I slip my shoes off.) “Ooh, you got stank feet. You don’t get fish-icure. You get piranha-cure. Better yet, jump in the tank with Jaws!”
Then I get to sit with the Asian pedicurist, at which point my feet are just useless, bleeding stumps. I think I’ll just stick to the fish with chips. And the Kendall Jackson and cheesecake. That’s what Spanx are for.

I held on to vanity for as long as I could. Actually, until I realized the futility of it and got real. I had to get glasses recently and I was just horrifeyed, er, horrified. See, I finally went to get my North Carolina drivers license. I held off for as long as I could because I knew it would be a pain in the ass transferring my title and getting my tag and all of that. I called the DMV here after we first moved.

“I need to find out about getting a tag and license. We just relocated from Florida.”

“Well bless your heart. You need to bring the title to your car, your Florida license, your social security card, and roughly 3,000.00 in cash.”

“WTF?”

“There’s a 55.00 fee to gettcher license, 175.00 for the title transfer, and 2770.00 for the Highway Usage Tax.”

“WTF, er, Highway Usage Tax? Okay, so, can you drop that if I promise not to use the highway? I can drive on backroads….”

“Bless your heart.” (I have since figured out that this is an old Southern expression that means eff you!)

So I went online and renewed my Florida tag. But after that expired, I had no choice but to sell one of my kidneys for the Highway Usage Tax money and get my NC tag and license. So I went to take the test, only to discover that I could not see out of my right eye. I got all of the test questions right, and of course, all of the signs, because even with bum eyesight, it just ain’t that hard to identify the red octagon and what it means. So I got to the vision part, y’know, the one where you have to put your forehead on the bar thingy and look into the machine and read it? So of course I had to go after some big sweaty Bubba, and I so did not want to put my forehead on that thing. Lord have MRSA, er, mercy! Anyway, I tried to read the top line.

“AGGLEFLABBLEKLABBLE.”

“Nope, try again.”

“WUMPYSNAGGLESNURP.”

“Ma’am, I do believe you’re blind, bless your heart!”

So I had to go to the eye doctor for a vision test. The good news is I beat the scores posted by Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder. The bad news is I had to get glasses, which I have since been told make me look like Sarah Palin. God help me. Anyway, I went back to finish my vision part of the driving test. Now I was clearly able to read the top line.

“ALL FLORIDA DRIVERS WHO RELOCATE TO NORTH CAROLINA AND CLOG UP OUR ROADS MUST DIE! BWUHAHAHAHAHA!”

I should have guessed that.

Jenda reveled in my discomfort and deflated sense of vanity. I agonized over my Republican looking glasses and failing eyesight. What with the glasses and the occasional stray hairs that have begun sprouting out of my chin, I feel like Jerry Garcia. That poor man was never going to meet society’s high standards of youth and beauty. No wonder he’s grateful to be dead! I explained to Jenda that I was a ‘mature mommy’ and that I had developed a touch of astigmatism in my eye. Then I overheard her telling one of her friends that I got glasses because “Mommy’s old and she got stigmata in her eye.”

Ouch! Charity begins at home, but apparently not at mine. But that stigmata in the eye trick will probably be a hoot at parties! Hmmm….

But truly, I’ve just had enough of all of the eternal youth and beauty crap. I am not going to aspire to any ridiculous standards of beauty and I am not going to try to be younger than I actually am. Wonderbra and Spanx aside, I am not going to go bankrupt buying crèmes and potions and pills and having fish gnaw my feet off because it’s supposed to make me look younger and more beautiful. Frankly y’all, the color of my butt crack is like the whole JFK conspiracy or Jimmy Hoffa… no one knows for sure and we never will. I am not going to let animals gnaw the flesh off of my feet or any other part of me. Instead, I am going to tell myself that I am in great shape, because round IS a shape. I think I am going to try to be a voice of reason, a sort of standard bearer for standard looking people like myself who refuse to skinny dip into a school of hungry barracudas hoping to come out alive and with smaller hips. I am going to take on the unrealistic beauty industry. I plan to spend all of my free time lobbying against these cosmetic outrages.

And since I am not skinny and have what could, at best, be called an hourglass figure, I have plenty of time on my ass!

It Was Written on the Wind

2008-07-07T08:57:00.000-07:00

There is nothing like springtime to bring out the playful side of everyone. The air is crisp and sweet, the days last longer, and people just seem to be happier. Here in North Carolina, the yards and landscapes are just a riot of beautiful colors and just about everyone (me included) is outside planting flowers and tending to their yards. It’s really a heady time of year.

Southerners are known for many things, such as gracious manners and lovely accents. Southerners are amazing cooks and world renowned gardeners. Don’t believe me? Hellllooo…Paula Deen and Callaway anyone? I just love being a Southerner, and consider myself very lucky to have been born in the greatest region of the greatest country in the world. Of course, having said that, I am not a very good cook. Certainly, I am even worse when it comes to gardening. I love to see lush beautiful lawns and gorgeous trees and colorful flowers. I just can’t seem to make it happen. It’s okay. I’m good at other things. Really. Just trust me.

Still, I caught a big old ragin’ case of spring fever, and got all hemmed up about planting some stuff in the yard. Okay, not stuff…flowers, trees, pretty things. So I dragged Jerry and Jenda and made the trek into Winston Salem to Home Depot. I have wanted to plant trees for some time since we have only one rather scrawny Japanese maple in the yard. Still, I have not dared to plant much of anything since I am from Florida and I am used to planting in sand. I was good at it, too. However, the ground here is the consistency of Jenda’s modeling clay, so until recently, I have not been inspired. Of course, that changed with the season. Armed with a burning desire for a beautiful yard (and some shade!), I made my way to the garden center. While Jerry was drooling over power tools, I located a garden expert, who I call Duke, and I told him I wanted to plant a tree in my front yard. He showed me several types of trees, and this being the south, they were all some variety of magnolia. Jerry joined us and said, “How about a fruit tree?”

Ooh…groovy. We can get grapes, and then make our own wine! Think of the money we’ll save!!!

Duke spoke up. “Uh, ma’am, grapes grow on vines.”

I knew that. What about apple trees?

We all agreed that that was probably a good tree for ‘Beginning Gardeners Learning to Grow Stuff in Clay’. I looked through the trees, picked one out, put it on the cart and began making my way to the register. Here came Duke again.

“Uh, ma’am, do y’all want that tree there to make fruit?”

Uh, yeah, Duke. I also want it to make my bed and make me a hearty breakfast every morning when I get up. Your point…?

“Well, ma’am, y’all’re gonna need two trees to get fruit.”

WTF? I looked at Jerry, who was laughing hysterically. What’d I miss?

Jerry gave me that look that he usually reserves for small children and the feeble minded (me, in most cases.) “Trees have to cross-pollinate. It takes two of them to bear fruit.”

Cross what? What are you babbling about? I gave Duke what I hoped was a withering look. That’s just a gimmick to get us to spend more money, I announced grandly.

Jerry shook his head. “No. The trees have to cross-pollinate. There have to be two so one can fertilize the other one. Like when we had Jenda….y’know?”

Lemme get this straight. Tree nookie?

“Yes, in a manner of speaking.”

In the yard, in front of the neighbors? Are you for real?

Duke chimed back in. “It’s how the pollen gets moved from the male to the female tree, so the female tree can make fruit.”

I looked at the trees they had for sale and snorted. How do you know which is which? What if I get two trees that are gay? Then what?

Duke beat a pretty hasty retreat, probably to go ask his boss for a transfer. Jerry grabbed another tree and some garden stuff, loaded everything into the car, and got us the hell out of there pretty quickly. I spent the ride home telling myself I would never eat apples again and praying that grape vines found a less unseemly way to grow fruit. I was sick with imagining what was REALLY in my Kendall Jackson! I was jolted back to reality by the sound of Jerry singing. I was happy that HE was in a good mood, then I listened to the tune….

Whatthe?

“Love is in the air, everywhere I look around…love is in the air, every sight and every sound….”
I put up with it until he got to the chorus about ‘the whisper of the trees’ and then I had reached my limit! I jumped out of the car as soon as we got home and googled grapes and cross pollination. I was safe. No grapevine nookie, so I poured myself some Chardonnay and ignored Jerry’s snide little songs and snarky comments. Like I would know anything about tree nookie. I never planted a tree before, and heaven knows, for years, I thought fruit came from Publix! Who knew?

Jerry has since planted our trees, and I’m still not sure if they’re gay or straight. But no matter. I’m much more accepting of the whole tree nookie concept now. I even smile when Jerry sings little songs. Jenda thinks the whole thing is wonderful and dutifully helps us tend to the trees. She helps water them everyday and she always asks, “Mommy, when are we gonna grow some fruit?”

I tell her to be patient. Then, I sing MY little song….

‘The answer is blowin’ in the wind!’

Stupid Is As Stupid Does!

2008-07-06T23:11:00.000-07:00

Well hey there, y’all! I just had to drop a line and say hello and let y’all know how much I miss y’all! Now that l’il Miss Jenda is getting on a schedule, Jerry and I have been staying up late and enjoying really high-brow, intellectual-ish adult entertainment. No, you perverts, not PORN!! I mean REALLY cultural, inspiring entertainment. Like, “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?”

First and foremost, we are not gameshow people. We’re pretty much HGTV, Discovery Channel types (and of course, in my case, Food Network! I just need a 24 hour WINE AND FOOD NETWORK. I would never get up from in front of the TV… ‘Eat, Drink, and Grow Hairy!’) Anyway…

Am I smarter than a fifth grader? Actually, no. In fact, I’m pretty much dumber than a three-year old. Still, after watching this show, I am encouraged by the fact that most Americans who appear on gameshows (Jeopardy excluded!) are DUMBER THAN A BUCKET OF HAIR! They’re dumb because, well, they have NO education, and they’re stupid as HELL for appearing on this show in the first place. No adult is smarter than a fifth grader. Let’s face it, dinosaur friends….we may live in the age of TIVO, but y’all losers (me included) STILL can’t set the clock on y’alls ancient-ass VCR. A fifth grader can set the clock, create computer code, and download free shit using your ancient VCR and a coat hanger. It’s scary how smart these little blighters are!!

So lemme explain how this show works. Jeff Foxworthy (who MIGHT be a redneck!) gets these goofy adult types from all walks of life and he pits them against scary genius Stepford kid-types for the chance to win “FABULOUS PRIZES!” He asks what are supposed to be simple questions to see if the adult can answer without the help of the little Einstein….like, “Name the Five Great Lakes.” Okay, c’mon. This is SO above the adult and SO beneath the kid. I’ll make it easy…remember the acronym HOMES….Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie, Superior. (Okay, Jenda actually taught me that!) The adults sweat blood but these kids laugh their asses off! I mean, these kids are BRILLIANT! They even have their own language. Stop and think….have you ever seen a text message from a fifth grader to another fifth grader?

“OMG, UR MY BFF! 2GTB4GTN, CUL8R. H82ASKCFUCAN BAF4DNR”

“2L8!
which means…”My parents are dorks, can I come over to your house?”
The response being, “Don’t bother. We’re having chipped beef and creamed spinach for dinner!”

No adult can figure this out or understand it, so NO! We’re not smarter than a fifth grader. In fact, we’re stupid enough to humiliate ourselves on national TV instead of staying home and actually READING or WATCHING THE NEWS and trying to, y’know, LEARN SOMETHING!! If we’re so smart, why do we have to have Super Nanny tell us how to raise our kids? Why can’t we get global warming under control? HELL, why did we take so long to get Anna Nicole Smith and James Brown buried?!

Things have changed since we were fifth graders. Remember when we were walking barefoot to school, 15 miles up hill, both ways, in the snow, on crutches, with rickets? In my case, it’s pretty safe to say that I have forgotten all of the cool fifth grade stuff they taught me, like “Who was the 19th president of the United States?” Of course it was Rutherford B. Goode, or Johnny B. Hayes, or someone…. The point is that I DID learn something worth knowing. I always address my elders as “Yes, ma’am” and “Yes, sir” and I hold the door open for old people (known as everyone else besides me!) And I sure as hell know the difference between Eastern and Lexington barbeque!! No Supernanny is raising my kid, and I don’t have to publically humiliate myself on TV to earn money. (I work in a call center so I can do it privately!) Am I smarter than a fifth grader? Nope. But age and treachery ALWAYS triumph over youth and cuteness. And I am GENIUS enough to curl up with a good book, a big glass of Kendall Jackson, and let some “wet-behind-the-ears” kid download my music and movies for me.

Damn, when I look at it that way, I better run. I have just enough time to make it across town for the MENSA meeting!

Love to you all….bless your hearts!

Quit Kissing Those Babies and Give Them the Vote!

2008-02-08T14:07:00.000-08:00

Well hey there, y’all! This election has just got me in an uproar. I must admit that I am not as “up” on politics and elections as I should be. I have never been one of those amazing activists who get out there and fire people up and enact change. I always wanted to be, but on my own terms, y’know? For instance, I wouldn’t want to chain myself to a tree or some fence at a waste site (ick!) but I would chain myself to a bottle of Kendall Jackson or a Talbot’s boutique that carries petites! So I guess it’s okay. We all have to do what we can.

Granted, I have been following the election to some extent, because I am so thrilled at the thought of a new administration and a new president. This last eight years have been an eternity. That whole ‘rah, rah, we’re winning the war on terror and new-cyuh-ler (nuclear) rhetoric is making me gag. However, I am very glad to see that Jenda, at her tender young age of three, seems to really be taking an interest in this. In fact, I am learning a great deal from her. My hope is that she will become the activist and change agent that I was supposed to be, oh, and learn to clean up her own room. But anyway….

Jenda has watched some of the election news and the returns with me and Jerry and she has quite a bit to say on some of the issues facing the US at this time of mud-slinging, baby-kissing, and vote getting. Here are some of Jenda’s nuggets of political wisdom. I am sharing them with you in the hopes that you will be inspired to do something great for your country. I’m going to do something great, too. Right after I finish this glass of merlot. Anyway….

Jenda was watching the primaries with us. Jerry and I tried to keep count of who had what and who came out ahead in each state. Jenda, of course, had lots of questions and something to say about all of the candidates.

About the whole primary election process,“Mommy, what’s a SOOPER delget?”

That’s Super Delegate. Every state has delegates. Some of them are super. They go to political rallies and say stuff like, “I double-dog-dare you to vote for my candidate!” And the delegators are people who are too lazy to drive to the polls, so they get someone else to cast their vote for them. No use sitting in that traffic.

About Hillary, “Do we like her?”

Yes, we really like her.

“I love her dress. She needs to get her hair did.” (OUCH!)

About McCain, “He’s a butt.” Ditto Huckabee. (I swear, y’all, she is deciding this for herself!)

About George W’s last (thank God!) State of the Union address, “He’s icky, Mommy. And global warming is bad for the planet. We hafta save the planet, or a big meteor can come and hit us like a giant rock, and we all have to turn on the air-conditioner and open all the doors and windows to cool off the planet so it won’t be too warm and then we can save the planet.”

(Y’all, she was spot on with McCain, Huckabee, and W, so the save the planet using our air-conditioners doesn’t seem like a half bad idea. I can’t wait to see how she saves Darfur! Outta the mouths of babes!)

Lately, she began using some new word that I couldn’t quite make out. She always comes up with exotic ‘almost four years old’ words, because we all know that children have their own language. But this one almost seemed familiar. One night, after she chanted it over and over and over (as kids will do!), Jerry apparently deciphered it and began cackling!

“Obamabutt!”

Where the devil did she get that? And what does it mean? Did someone from the Republican party call my house (if so, put me on your DO NOT CALL list!) and say bad things about Barack Obama? Or maybe Jenda thinks Obama is a Republican?! So I had to ask…
Jenda, do you think Barack Obama is a butt?

“No, Mommy. I’m looking at his butt!”

Naturally, I had to look for myself, and I must say, it is a rather nice butt, as rear ends go. So I feel relatively safe in my assumption (no pun intended!) that Jenda will be a Democrat and she appreciates a nice rump. Score two for Mommy!

I hope you don’t misunderstand my meaning. This is not so much a message of division, rather, it’s purpose is twofold. First, whatever your political leanings, get out there and vote, and know what issues are important to you so that you make an educated vote. And if you’re still not clear on the educated vote part, do what I did and take a lesson from a three-year-old. Here’s the list so far…and pay extra special attention if you’re actually running for office!

Wear nice clothes, but make sure you get your hair did!

Take a stand on environmental issues, because global warming is bad, and a meteor could hit (and on that note, be sure you always wear nice underwear just in case…like my momma always said!)

Don’t be icky!

It helps if you (the candidate) have a nice butt!

So there you have it, friends. Let’s take a cue from a child and get out there and do our civic duty.

I am Jenda’s mother, and I approve this message!

If You See Me Smoking, I Must Be On Fire!

2007-12-13T22:23:00.000-08:00

Well hey there, Y’all! It sure has been a long time. No, really, a LONGGGGG time. I know how busy we’ve all been with the holidays, and I certainly haven’t been any busier than anyone else, or had more to do. I can’t make excuses, it’s just been crazy here. I have Jenda, almost four (OMG!!) husband Jerry (behaves like he’s four, OMG!!!) work, holidays, life, whatnot. In the midst of all of my baby mama drama, I mean, domestic bliss, I have decided to quit smoking.

Stop laughing. It’s for real.

Snorting when you laugh is real unbecoming, y’all!

I’M SO NOT KIDDING!

I suppose this all started in the spring. I went outside to have a smoke (NEVER in the house!) and also to have a quiet moment away from my two children…er, I mean Jenda and my husband. It was a beautiful day, birds were singing, the sun was shining, and I had about 42 seconds of peace and quiet.

MAH-MEE!
(Maybe if I exhale quietly, she’ll go bug her Dad!)

MAH-MEE!
(Maybe if I wait to exhale she’ll…damn!)

MAH-MEE! And here she came around the corner to my little slice of nicotine heaven. And then she looked at me with her huge blue-gray eyes. And she seemed puzzled.

“Mommy, whachu doing?”

Baby, I’m smoking a cigarette.

And again, the look. And then she asked, “Why?”

I was startled into a condition of exquisite rarity (at least for me.) I was speechless. I simply did not have an answer. Kinda like the time that I was looking out the window and saw a little rabbit on the lawn. We didn’t have a yard in South Florida and we damn sure never saw any rabbits (but there were plenty of Rabbis!) Anyway…I saw the rabbit on the lawn and called Jenda over to behold God’s adorable creature in all it’s wonder OH SHIT!

Jenda rushed to the window in time to see that now there were two rabbits who were going at it like crazed weasels right on our front lawn! There stood Jenda, watching this and I was horrified! I felt like some kind of pervert for bringing her into this. Stupid rabbits! Couldn’t they have picked someone else’s yard? Damn!

“Mommy, whatter they DOOOOOING?”

They, um, well, they, they’re saying hello. Yeah, they’re just saying hello! Yes, they’re saying hello!

“That’s not how you and Daddy say hello.”

Well, no, not since we had you.

Come to think of it, I’m just not that person that you want to come to with life’s deep, meaningful questions!

So, back to the cigarettes. Long after Jenda toddled off to ride her Dora the Explorer big wheel, or drive her Barbie Jeep, or play with one of the plethora of toys littering our yard, I tried to come up with an answer. I am smoking, but why?

Am I on fire? No.

Am I out of Chardonnay? Hell no, I would SO never let that happen!

So anyway, I had no good answer. I called Dr. McDreamy and asked for help! We decided that a new pill called Chantix would be our weapon in the fight against smoking. I made an appointment and then began to do some research. I went to the official website and read about success rates, doses, and of course side effects.

Big mistake, y’all. Huge!

The side effects blurb was very helpful, almost chipper. ‘You might experience stomach upset and weight loss while taking Chantix.’ Strange…Who gets upset about weight loss? I kept reading….

‘Some patients reported experiencing nausea lasting several months. Others reported gas and abdominal cramps.’ WTF? Nausea? Gas? Cramps? Several months? I think I’ll just get knocked up again. I mean, c’mon!

‘Some people experience severe swelling of their lips during the duration of treatment. Still, don’t stop taking the medicine! We want to help you help yourself!’ Fiends! Are you kidding me?! There is no way on God’s green earth I am taking this shit and farting up a storm while sporting duck lips! I resigned myself to lung cancer, cancelled my appointment, and went on about my life.

Of course, I had to tell some of my friends at work about this horrible new pill designed to torture poor nicotine addicts who really just need sympathy, understanding, and an iron lung. While telling two of my friends about the symptoms, one of them said, “Ooh, not to interrupt, but speaking of weight loss and swollen lips, did you see that Angelina Jolie is filming a new movie? Blah, blah….”

Okay, so that is what he said. What I heard was “Get on this medication and you will lose weight and get full pouty lips and LOOK LIKE ANGELINA JOLIE!” Yeah, it’s a stretch, but that’s really what I heard. So I called the doctor and begged for the earliest appointment possible to begin my transformation into Angelina, I mean, non-smoker.

I met with my doctor and we discussed everything from doses to duration of treatment (in my case, the rest of my natural life!) I then asked about side effects.

“Don’t worry about everything you read on the website. They are required by law to list every possible thing that might happen in one out of one million cases. All of my patients have been fine.”

How many of them look like Angelina Jolie?

“What?”

I mean, how many of them were able to quit? Seriously…hahaha!

“Right, well, good luck and we’ll follow up in a month or so.” So off I went.

I began taking the pills immediately, gobbling them like Di-Gel and waiting for the Angelinaness. I did not notice any weight loss or sexy lips, but I did feel bloated and crabby, but noticed almost at once that I was no longer getting a buzz from the nicotine. Okay, not so bad. After two weeks, I quit, but had to continue the medicine, like I said, for the next century. But still, no weight loss or Angelina lips. Damn! Still I was feeling good. SO good, in fact, that when I get to work and have to park in Outer Mongolia because all of the good spots are taken, I am not out of breath when I hike to the building. I decided that I could at least address part of the problem by going on Weight Watchers.

Another huge mistake. In all of my new-found non-smoking self-actualization, I discovered that I am a REAL dumbass!

When you quit smoking, you develop hand-mouth reflex syndrome. You are hungry, and you snack a lot. The good news is, your blood pressure goes down. It’s best to just go with it. When you go on Weight Watchers, you eat tiny portions of diet food made from pencil shavings, the crud from Willie Nelson’s beard, and buckets of sodium. So, you’re friggin’ hungry and your blood pressure goes through the roof. I lasted about three weeks and lost exactly half a pound, my sense of humor, and my will to live. I decided to end the craziness by going out every night for beer and wings. I mean, if quitting smoking is going to make me live longer, shit, I might as well enjoy it!

So, here we are 46 days later and aside from one little cheat (if you knew THAT story, you would not blame me!) I am not smoking. I also look nothing like Angelina Jolie, but it’s okay. I figure with all of the money I am saving from not buying cigarettes, I am going to go for plastic surgery and buy myself some duck lips and liposuction. Hell, I’m just gonna get everything lifted. And then I’ll REALLY be smokin’.

Hot, that is!

Teach Your Children Well!

2007-09-15T04:49:00.000-07:00

Hey there y’all! This has been a great week. I have been officially moved to my new schedule at work so I am home by 10:00 pm instead of 2:30 am. I hardly know what to do with myself. Y’know, besides come home from a long day at work and get a four hour head start on cleaning the house. Really, things here are good. It finally rained today, which is a wonderful thing. It has been so dry here that walking in the yard gives you the impression of walking across spilled corn flakes. If you have never had a three year old in your house, this is probably not something you’re familiar with. Trust me.

Being on my new schedule has given me more time to spend with Jenda, which is both a good and a bad thing. Good, because she is the light of my life and I want to be with her as much as possible. Bad, because, as a parent, I do things to screw her up. It’s not just me. All parents mess up their kids. We don’t mean to, it just happens. If you’re not a parent, you’ve at least been a kid, so y’all know I’m right.

Jerry and I took Jenda to Wal-mart the other day. This in and of itself can screw people up, but I am referring to an exchange we witnessed this past weekend. Jenda and I were walking along and I spied a small child about Jenda’s age in the buggy being pushed along by his mom. I was pushing Jenda in our buggy and I smiled at the whole mother-child bond, at the experience of witnessing such an idyllic scene.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

Apparently, Other Mom thought that her child had a dirty face. And maybe he did. He’s three…what are the odds. So Other Mom licked her thumb and WIPED HIS FACE!! My knees went weak, because I was transported back in time to the days when my own Mom (God rest her soul) felt that SPIT meant ALL PURPOSE CLEANER and did that shit to me!! ARRRGGHHH!! NNNOOOO! I must have swooned because Jenda grabbed my hand.

“You okay, Mommy?”

I couldn’t respond because my heart was going out of my body and over to the little boy in the buggy, who looked at Other Mom as though she had grown another head and needed to be put to sleep. Trust me, this kid is going to wind up in therapy, and years of psychoanalysis will not erase the memory of having your face cleaned with SOMEONE ELSE’S SPIT!! I looked at Jenda, all childlike concern and salivary innocence in the shopping cart. Someday, I thought, you’ll thank me. I know I’ll make other mistakes with you and I’ll wish I had done some things differently, but I will never hear the dreaded teen angst “YOU WASHED MY FACE WITH SPIT!!!”

I regained the ability to walk and assured Jenda that I was alright. Jerry joined us, adding things to the cart. We continued shopping and, still reeling from the spit episode, I vowed to be the better mommy and allowed Jenda only the junk food that she REALLY wanted.

Then Jerry saw a display and made a suggestion.

“It’ll be getting cold here soon. Do you suppose Jenda would eat oatmeal for breakfast?”

OMG, NNNOOOOO!! Not oatmeal! I had another flashback (yes, parts of my childhood are like a bad acid trip! I mean, I guess so, I never tried it. Acid or drugs, I mean. Score one for the parents!) Back in time to my early years, when my mother actually handled and prepared raw food for me and my brother on that thingy, um, the stove. (This before I discovered from Britney Spears just how nutritious the breakfasts at the McDonald’s drive-thru really are!) My mother would actually make oatmeal for us, which was okay in its bland way. Then she would announce, beaming, “This’ll stick to your ribs!”

WHAT?!

Imagine being four years old in Mrs. Brady’s kindergarten class at Hartsfield Elementary. All of your little friends are playing with the Fischer Price Little People, finger painting, having a ball. But not you. NOOO! You’re too traumatized by the thought of huge globs of brown-grey oatmeal stuck to the bones of your ribcage. Even with the most basic, rudimentary knowledge of anatomy that a four year old can possess, well, you’re ruined for life. Trust me, y’all. I’m going to be 38 next week. I have not eaten oatmeal for at least the last three decades. It’s like the spit thing. I’m going to make mistakes, but spit and oatmeal aren’t on Jenda’s list.

I was sharing this with Markie. Y’all remember Markie….Dr. McDreamy? I have started speaking to her again (at first, only out of necessity and then just because she really is pretty cool.) She shared something with me that she did to mess with her kids.

“I used to tell them that their socks were on the wrong feet!” (Think about this one for a minute, y’all!)

But it doesn’t matter. I mean….WHOA!! That’s way harsh!

“Yeah, but it was hysterical to see their faces! BWUHHAHAHAHA!”

That was a new one for me. I guess my parents were too busy with spit and Quaker Oats to come up with that one. I mentally filed it away and thought about some of the other things we do as parents to mess up our little tykes.

For example, my husband Jerry is something of a handyman genius. He can fix pretty much anything and he does all kinds of manly home improvement stuff. And he’s good at it, too. Apparently he learned all of this from helping his Dad. My own Dad never asked me to help him with man-shit, so I guess I missed out somehow. Well, no, now that I think about it. Anyway, since we only have Jenda, Jerry is trying to train her to do all of the handyman stuff that Mommy refuses to do. Like cook. Anyway, he shared this little tidbit with Jenda while teaching her about screwdrivers. I know a lot about screwdrivers. They’re made with Absolut and orange juice. No, what I mean to say is that there are two different kinds. Really. There’s what I call the regular kind and then there’s also the nubbly headed kind. Yeah, better for him to teach all this stuff to Jenda.

So Jerry tells Jenda, “Don’t put the screwdriver in your belly button. (Smart!) If you unscrew your belly button, your butt will fall off!”

Jenda was transfixed, as I assume Jerry was at that age when his Dad told him that. She was probably thinking, “If my butt is going to be anything like Mommy’s, I damn sure BETTER unscrew it. Good Lord!”

Okay, so we’re doing the right thing by telling her not to put screwdrivers in her navel. Of course, it’s too late about beads in the nose. But without meaning to, we still mess things up. For example, Jenda and I were at the store one day and she saw a Barbie doll. Of course, she wanted one. No big deal. I mean, I had Barbie dolls as a kid. I picked up Barbie and gave her a once over. Then I did a double take. WTF happened to Barbie?! When I was a kid, Barbie was cute. Her nose was retroussee, her eyes were wide and in spite of her sexy, big-boobed Barbie-ness, she was rather tame and wholesome. Fast forward to 2007 and her boobs are bigger, her nose is different and she doesn’t have very much clothes on!!! So I told Jenda in my adult, in-control, wholesome Mommy way, HELL NO!! Barbie’s a skank!

Right. I hear you. I should not have taught Jenda the word SKANK. It slipped out. Like the time that I kept asking Jerry to hang the new light fixture in the bathroom and he kept putting it off. Then finally, Jenda had show and tell at Daycare and I gave her one of the light fixture pieces to take in to show and tell the other kids that MOMMY’S NEEDS ARE NOT IMPORTANT AND THIS CAN HAPPEN TO YOU!!

No, wait, where was I? Oh, skank. So we were at yet ANOTHER store and Jerry was getting Jenda out of the car seat. This woman came out of the convenience store dressed like a trailer tramp. Jenda waited until she was right next to our car and then announced, “That’s kinda skank!”

I ducked down into the floor of the front seat under the glove compartment, figuring that she would see Jerry first and kick his ass. Jerry was torn between trying to get a good look at the skank and giving me the evil eye for teaching Jenda such a word. I was so proud that she used it, while not exactly in a complete sentence, at least in its proper context. Go Girl!

Odds are I probably let Jenda watch too many cartoons. I grumble sometimes about things that her dad has said or done, and I know I give in too easily in the toy department. Yes, all my mistakes. Still, I try to teach Jenda about accountability, kindness, and not being a skank. And I have discovered that when I need a quiet moment, I can tell Jenda that her socks are on the wrong feet. It buys me about an hour of bewilderment, peace, and quiet.

I have SO got to put Markie back on my Christmas card list!

Father Nose Best?

2007-08-16T15:31:00.000-07:00

Well hey there y’all! What a week I am having. Our AC has died and we are sweating our butts off in what everyone is calling the hottest summer on record here in Kernersville. Jerry installed a small window unit in the living room, which, of course, is the room in which we are now living. Suffice it to say there is no cooking or cleaning going on in our house. Not that I was doing much of that when the AC was working, but that’s another story for another time.

With all of us spending so much time together in one room, we have moved most of our essential belongings downstairs, giving our house a real trashy, I mean, homey feel. Naturally, all of Jenda’s toys are scattered about, so I am constantly reminded of the look of a trailer park after a twister. But tonight, good Lord, where should I begin?

Jenda was watching some insipid Barbie movie (redundant….they’re ALL insipid) and I was reading a book. Jenda was dancing around and talking to me. “Mommy, I’m a princess. I’m a ballerina. I put a bead in my nose. I’m so beautiful.”

Yes baby, you are so beautif…WHAT?

“I’m a princess!”

No, that other thing. Please tell me you said you’ve got speed in your toes, a weed by the rose, a creed…

“I put a BEAD in my NOSE, Mommy!”

Of course I said the first thing that popped into my head. It doesn’t bear repeating here. (Y’all figure it out!)

I ran and hollered for Jerry, who was in the bathroom. Honey, Jenda shoved a bead in her nose.

“Jenda likes to read as she grows?”

GET OUT HERE! Bring a flashlight! (And a valium!)

Jerry came running out and grabbed a flashlight. We corralled Jenda, who seemed really amused at the havoc she created. Jerry took the flashlight while I held Jenda and took stock of the offending bead. He stayed calm but I was really starting to panic. I tried getting Jenda to blow her nose. No luck. I found her little nasal aspirator and tried that. No luck. Then Jerry told me to wait while he ran out to the garage. He came back with a small, narrow length of hose. I had that sinking feeling you get when you know the answer before you even ask. But I asked. What on earth are you going to do with that?

“I’m going to put it in her nose and suck on the other end to try to dislodge the bead. Y’know, like when you siphon gasoline?” (Thank God she wasn't constipated!)

Um, no. I get gasoline the old fashioned way…by taking out a home equity loan to buy enough to fill the tank. But whatever. Is that hose clean?

Jerry gave me a pained look. I gave him the ‘I will withhold sexual favors’ look. He cleaned the hose and came back to do the horrible deed. (I know what y’all are thinking. I love Jenda more than I love my own life, and if I had absolutely had to, I would have tried to suck the bead out of her nose. Fortunately, I had a man to do it for me. Score one for the Women’s Movement!)

THWICK, THWICK, THWICK! No bead. THWICK, THWICK, THWICK! No bead, but Jenda was horrified, Jerry was red in the face, and I was convulsed with laughter at the sight of Jerry sucking out Jenda’s nose through a tube! I was reminded of that old saying, ‘you can pick your friends, and you can pick your', oh nevermind! Of course I don’t know much about science and the various laws that make up the universe, like gravity and such. But it seemed to me that the bead, which was very small, got in there, and being small enough to get in, we should be able to get it back out again. Of course that must be the same scientific law that keeps leading me to try on the Levi’s that I wore in college that I just can’t squeeze my fat ass into. I guess I should have paid more attention during physics class.

We were stumped. We considered getting the shop vac, but we decided that the hose attachment is too big. No use sucking her brains out. I had to go into ‘Mommy Mode’. I grabbed the phone. Jerry asked, “Who are you calling?”

The hospital in Florida where Jenda was born. Don’t look at me like that, wait, hello? Hi. My daughter was born in your hospital in March of 2004. Yes, y’all were great. Listen, I need you to find the instruction manual. The one y’all give to new parents when babies are born? I’m sure they gave me one when she was born and I must have left it there. I’ll hold while you look for hello? Hello? Jerry, are you sure you paid the phone bill?

Jerry began looking online while calling Jenda’s pediatrician here in North Carolina. He left a message for the on-call nurse. Let me tell you how much I dreaded that return phone call. I could just hear the nurse…”Lemme get this straight. Your three-year old child is up at 1:00 in the morning watching skanky old Barbie, you allowed her to play with small beads that NO child under the age of five should be playing with, and you tried to suck it out with an old piece of hose? Welcome to ‘BAD MOMMYVILLE’, population, you and Britney Spears. I’m calling Child Protective Services RIGHT NOW!”

Of course, it wasn’t quite that bad. The nurse, Brenda, called right back and I told her the whole story. She was really sweet and helpful, but I could tell she was tickled. Of course she asked that we not stick anything else up Jenda’s nose. (Wasn’t MY idea!) We agreed that since Jenda was not suffering in the least, we could bring her to the office in the morning to have the bead removed. Brenda was quick to point out that this happens frequently, but I knew the unspoken thought. ‘My kids have never done this. One of them has won the Nobel Prize, the other one is in Harvard, they eat a macrobiotic diet, and they’re both under the age of ten. Your kid watches Barbie, shoves bead up her nose, and you probably let her eat McDonald’s! LOSER MOMMY!”

I spent the rest of the wee small hours watching Jenda like a hawk. Later in the day, we took her to the pediatrician who looked around in Jenda’s nose, and announced that she could not find the bead. We would have to go to an ear, nose, and throat specialist. Copayment-wise, this plastic bead was turning into the equivalent of Swarovski Crystal! We sped across town and waited for the next doctor.

He was very sweet and Jenda was really brave. He could not see the bead with all of his lights and other equipment, so he brought out the big guns. He brought out what looked like a rifle case and pulled out some long ten inch probe thingy to stick in Jenda's nose. I guess Jerry held Jenda in place while the nurse was using the defibrillator thingy on me.

As I was being brought back to life, I heard the doctor say that there was no bead and it either dislodged or Jenda swallowed it. We came back home, threw away all of Jenda’s beads, and contemplated our now empty bank accounts. Jerry is napping and Jenda is playing with Lego blocks (giant ones!) I am going to try to call the hospital in Florida again. Y’know, the one where Jenda was born? I just know they have instruction manuals for first-time parents. I’m not sure what happened the first time I tried to call. I guess we just had a bad phone connection, right?

Yeah. Must’ve been….

Wonder What the Ancient Greeks Would Say About This One!

2007-08-09T03:30:00.000-07:00

Well hey there, y’all! With all the talk in the news of the next Olympic Games to be held in Beijing, I guess people are getting inspired. Even for the completely non-athletic types like me, the thought of being able to win a GOLD MEDAL at the Olympics is just incredible. Just imagine being able to run faster than Carl Lewis or being able to jump into midair, spin three times, and land on a metal blade on ice…geeze. It gives you goose bumps, right?

It would seem that such sporting dreams have captured the imaginations of some sports enthusiasts near Dallas, Texas, who, armed with the knowledge that they will NEVER be traditional Olympians, have decided to take matters into their own hands. Yes, friends, I am talking about THE REDNECK GAMES.

Nope. Not making this one up.

These are serious competitions, y’all. None of that wussie shotput throwing. Try ‘The Mattress Chuck’. This is a two man team competition to see which team can throw a mattress the farthest from the back of a pickup truck. Men’s Freestyle High Dive? Nah, try ‘The Mudbog Belly Flop’, with points given for artistic impression, style and ‘the redder the better’. The Decathalon? That’s lame. How about (God help me!) ‘The Ugly Butt Crack Contest’? (I must stop here to take part in ‘The Cookie Tossing Event’.)

Said the news report, “Modeled after similar games that have been going in Georgia for more than a decade, the four-day Redneck Games took place about 70 miles southeast of Dallas and included an estimated 6,000 people and live music.” (This seems like a feat, but it’s not too difficult to get 6,000 rednecks and live music in one place. They’re all related so they live in the same trailer park. Tell ‘em you’ll supply the beer if they’ll bring their banjos.) “The organizer, Oscar Still, could face a misdemeanor charge for not having a permit (only for not having a permit, y’all!), required for any gathering of more than 2,500 people.” How apropos…it just seems fitting that the organizer of this event would be named ‘Still’. (Well, that or ‘Ugly Buttcrack Boodreau’.)

I especially have to laugh at the local sheriff, Lt. McWilliams, who said, “ I'm an old fuddy duddy and all that, but you got a vehicle, you got alcohol, and you got illegal dumping, and you're making a contest out of that?" We are very fortunate that we didn't have a fatality." Obviously, Lt. McWilliams is only doing this sheriff gig part time, because he does the bulk of his work in the field of rocket science. DUH! You have thousands of vehicles and a whole buttload of booze! And you are mistaken Johnny Law, because there was a fatality. I damn sure died laughing when I read this! I love how he ranks illegal dumping up there with driving while impaired. Hey, he’s got priorities.

One of the event organizers said that he knew the residents were upset about the traffic, but the games boosted the local businesses. NOOOO.... For me, traffic would not be the problem. Opening my curtains to let the sunlight in and being confronted with the sight of 'The Ugly Butt Crack' contest would be the more upsetting issue. Imagine the downturn in property values, to say nothing of how it would make your stomach turn!

One of the locals who retired to the area complained that he “has awakened to the roaring engines of all-terrain vehicles, midnight fireworks shows and thousands of drunken revelers who every so often gather across the narrow county road from his property at events like the Redneck Games and the Texas Redneck Muddy Gras.” Said the local yokel, "We're just a nice, calm community, and nobody can get any rest; nobody can get any sleep."

SLEEP? During the Redneck Muddy Gras? No, no no, you must be crazy. You can sleep during the other 361 days of the year. This is one life altering event that no one should miss. I can only imagine what the great cultural anthropologist of our time, Jay Leno, will say about all of this…. “I was in the Redneck Riviera today for the Redneck Games. The ‘Fart Lighting Competition’ really blew me away…bwuhhahaha!”

The article does not give any indication of what awards are given for winning these competitions. Braggin’ rights are real big in the South, but it seems only right that there would be some token awarded for earning the high esteem of the “Brotherhood of Athletes of the Redneck Federation’, hereafter known as BARF. I took the initiative to look online to see what might be an appropriate award for all of the honorable and deserving assletes, excuse me, ATHletes who compete in the games. For the first place winner, a case of ‘Golden Brew Beer’, Hanley Brewing Co., St. Louis. For the second place winner, a case of ‘Silver Edge Beer’, Muessel Brewing Co., Indiana. For the third place winner, well, I couldn’t find anything in a Bronze Beer, but I did find ‘Red Ass Ale’, Cold Springs Brewing Co., Minnesota. For that matter, all the participants could be awarded that one. I plan to contact the members of BARF to suggest these prizes, although something tells me that they are already working the beer angle.

Here in North Carolina, we have some pretty cool events, such as the Spring Folly, the Honeybee Festival in late summer, and various holiday events sponsored by the town aldermen. We don’t have anything nearly as cool and groovy as the Redneck Games and BARF. This could definitely be worth a road trip to attend next year’s games. This little slice of life has really changed my outlook on Americana, and I hope it has done the same for you. So the next time you see some big sweaty redneck surrounded by mattresses, with a red belly and a potentially ugly butt crack, know that he is a respected and winning athlete. Congratulate him, shake his hand and give him a pat on the back.

Look out for back hair.

'You Da Bomb' Takes On a Whole New Meaning!

2007-06-17T00:50:00.000-07:00

Well hay there, y’all! I am just in such a state of disbelief. Y’all know I love the South and all things Southern (except chitlins!) but I just have to share this. Even I could not make this up!

Jerry and I were watching the news this morning (at 4:45 am, since we FINALLY got Jenda to go to bed and we’re not forced to watch anymore Dora the Explorer! We LIVE for these moments!) Anyway, this little blurb came on the news about some young kids in South Carolina. Charleston, to be precise. Of course these well-mannered Southern tykes were out playing in their backyard, in the ‘burbs, and they unearthed a bomb.

A BOMB!

Granted, I have been bombed in my backyard before, so I wasn’t sure I heard the news correctly. I had to turn it up. Sho ‘nuff. They found it actually in the woods just behind their house so they just dug it up and dragged it home. Okay, admittedly, for those of us with kids, we have all manner of crap dragged into our yards and homes: rocks, bugs, pieces of string, wine bottles (oh, wait, I think those are mine!) You know how it is. But a bomb?

Okay, first of all, how do you build a subdivision and NOT FIND A BOMB? I mean, c’mon. The damn thing had to be pretty close to the surface for a couple of kids to dig it up. Of course they got it home, and I am sure told their mother that it followed them home and could they keep it pretty please and they promised to clean up after it.

Mom was interviewed by one of the newspapers… “"It did look like a missile to me but I didn't think it was anything to be concerned about because how often do you find a missile in your backyard?"

Am I missing something, like, her lobotomy scar? DUH!! One of her neighbors had the good sense to run like hell while dialing 911 on his cell phone… “Hey, police? My goofy neighbor kids just dragged an effing bomb home and they seem to be building a house for it and trying to paper train it. Yeah, can you send someone?”

I find it hard to fathom in this day and age that one, you can just find a bomb in the yard and two, that no one really seems concerned. Of course, the authorities were quick to point out that there was no real danger, it was just a “practice bomb.” Okay, why’n HAYULL y’all practicing in the suburbs? I would have a for sale sign in front of my house so fast it’d make your head spin. On second thought, better to put the sign up real slow, in case there’s any “practice landmines” lurking around near the petunias. Never hurts to be safe!

If I ever saw Jenda dragging a bomb around, well, I would make Jerry stay behind to get Jenda while I ran like hell calling homeland security or the DMV or the ASPCA or SOME-DAMN-BODY to get the thing out of here. Or just for ha ha’s, maybe I’d just call my neighbors, Cletus and Pootis to come get it. It’s almost Easter, they could paint it up like a pretty egg and use it in their latest holiday tableau.

“Hey look, Pootis, I found a bomb!”

“Whatchu say, let’s get bombed….hayuk yuk yuk!”

“No, lookit, a BOMB!! Ooh…let’s play war! I’ll be the allies and you be ‘Russia sucks!’”

I can tell y’all that it is getting warmer here, and soon it will be time for yard work, weeding, and spring planting. I can tell you that I will be planting my bee-hind in a lawn chair and working through a good novel with my friend Kendall Jackson. Digging in my yard? Not on your life!

Tales From the Road: Cheeb and Email Don't Mix!

2007-05-31T02:15:00.000-07:00

Well hey there, y’all! What an amazing age we live in. If you watch “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?” then you’ll know, of course, that this is the Cenozoic Age, which is Latin for Cretins Email Nonsensical “Ol Zany Odd Idiotic Crap (get it?!) I can’t remember life before email. Actually, I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning (probably Diet Coke and a cigarette!) but truly, email has enriched my life.

I love email. I really love the fact that I can take a picture (from a phone….HELLO!!!) and send it to God and everybody. I can also forward chain letters instead of paying for postage. (Okay, my hair has not fallen out, my husband has never impregnated a ferret, and my groovy Kitchen-Aid mixer still works, but damn sure I still forward those things because anything COULD happen and I am NOT ashamed of my Lord and savior, ‘kay? Y’all know who you are, so stop sending them already. Dad!) Anyway….

I love the good old days of email. I realize that it’s a relatively new invention. Y’know, in terms of Cenozoic geologic time. But we have entered a new age of electronic communication. I like to call it “The Age of Email Stalker Bullshit Terrorism!” Allow me to explain.

In the early days of email (last week), I would get about a dozen emails a day. Two of those were from friends, two were chain letters (from Dad) and the rest were either ways to “enlarge my member and make her scream…get VIAGRA NOW!” or ways to earn a doctorate degree based on life experience. (“Yes, I have a Juris Doctorate in Biggus Dickus! PHAW on your business degree from Harvard….LOSER!) I could pick and choose from any number of serious business opportunities (I need must wire right now immediately 40 gazillion eleven dollars into your account from Bank of Nigeria) or “Earn big money on your back! Great benefits!” Those were good times. I was busy screaming, studying, kiting checks…. Nevermind!

Well, as I said, times have changed. I remember an email that I received that should have been a signal to me of “THE END TIMES!” Y’all know hubby Jerry has always been a real handy dandy home improvement type. Anyway, I was very pregnant with Jenda (No, really. I know I looked REALLY pregnant five minutes after conception, but at this point in the story, I was eight and a half months and roughly the size of Wyoming.) Anyway, here comes this email….

“Hi friends! As you know, I have just had major abdominal surgery and Mr. Man has a bad back, and we are just so ready to get out of this sucky South Florida real estate market.” (Their house was in foreclosure. Again.) “Anyway, we are throwing a ‘painting party’ and your invited!” (They misspelled ‘you’re!’ I corrected it… smarter than a fifth grader, y’know. ) “We need you to paint the living room and dining room, replace the water heater, fix the hole in the kitchen ceiling, and tile the half bathroom downstairs. We will supply lunch and beverages, and there will be great music. We look forward to seeing you Saturday!”

What’n HAYULL?!

Let me see if I have this right. You want my pregnant self, my long-suffering husband, and some home improvement fairies to come to YOUR house, completely remodel it, and you’re gonna feed us? Oh, and don’t let me forget ‘great music’…I think ‘Crazy’ by Patsy Cline would be in order.

Trust me. You don’t want us. You want Ty Pennington. And when he clears up that DUI thing and you quit puffing on cheeb, I bet y’all can make magic! PUH-LEEZE!

I must say that while Jenda is too young for email, she certainly gets invited to a whole heap of birthday parties. Ah, the fun and innocence of a child’s party, right? HA! I actually get emails from the parents with gift registries for the little tykes. ‘Missy Ray loves Dora, Spongebob, Barbie, and dress-up clothes. She is registered at Walmart, Target, and Wee Bee Cheebheads.’ After one too many of these, I went online and ordered a buttload of copies of ‘Emily Post’s Guide to Etiquette’. This way, we can teach these kids some manners (and the parents, too!) and since the Federal Government says our kids don’t get enough exercise, they can damn sure get a workout from lugging that heavy ass book around!

Not too long ago, I heard from one of my friends, Casey. He had recently been stalked, er, emailed by an old acquaintance (no, not me!) for some assistance. I just LOVE this online panhandling! Seems Casey’s friend, Rudi, has had some medical issues and needs money. Okay, welcome to the USA in the 21st century, cheebster. Rudi went so far as to post some really gruesome car accident pics in the email (could have been anyone!), then said he needs $1500.00 for ‘Canadian Crutches’. He went on to add the address for all and sundry to send their donations, or ‘blessings’.

Of course, Casey asked my opinion and I was more than happy to bless him with it. First of all, Rudi lives in Texas. He can get a brightly painted and beautifully hand-carved pair of ‘South of the Border Supports’ for a hell of a lot less than $1500.00 ‘Canadian Crutches’. Is there some special reason they have to be Canadian? If he’s looking to be some kind of saint by getting us to all bless each other, then damn! He can start a whole cottage industry in Mexico and create jobs for a lot of poor people by outsourcing those crutches out of Canada and into Mexico. (“Canadian Crutches? Chu don’ need no stinkin’ Canadian Crutches!”) And think what he could save on shipping!

Where would it end? Brazilian braces? Peruvian prosthetics? Colombian joints? Oh, nevermind! The sad fact of the matter is that we have regressed from the days of panhandling on street corners where you might get your windshield washed to electronic begging. My feeling is, if you can afford a computer, well sell that badboy along with your blood plasma and buy your own crutches! Or sell your computer and use the money to hire a contractor for home repairs. I feel compassion for anyone with medical needs and no money (but hey, I voted Democrat!) I understand the need to remodel your home and try to move to a better place. But damn. Don’t terrorize your friends with this, ‘kay? Use email the way God intended it to be used. Drop your friends a quick note, say hi, stay in touch, and leave it at that. And always remember, ‘Friends Don’t Let Friends Remodel’.

There's More Than One Kind of Funk In Here!

2007-05-27T17:29:00.000-07:00

Well hey there y’all! Geeze, the things you learn when your child finally takes a nap and you can watch the news. My stars! I had NO IDEA things were so interesting in this country. Lemme tellya how I got the shock of my life watching CNN the other day.

Okay, I know everyone is consumed with the whole Anna Nicole Smith baby-momma-drama (or daddy, in this case!) Jerry and I have watched this unfold with alarm. Not just for her baby and all this legal drama but the fact that she died, like, how many weeks ago and she is still not buried? Folks, that’s just damn creepy. But that isn’t even the most shocking part. I saw on the news today that JAMES BROWN is still not buried!

Gro-dee!

He died, what, sometime last year? Sick, really sick! Is our culture so celebrity crazed that we can’t let go, even after death (and certain decay and decomposition?) Sing with me folks, to the tune of “I Feel Good”….

Don’t smell good
I’m stiffer than wood
Don’t smell nice
Formaldehyde spice

It’s rank… I’m stank
It’s PEE-YEW!

I have to tell you, I’m pretty sure this is not how celebrities want to be remembered. I mean, I cleaned out the refrigerator the other day and some good chicken had gone bad. I got a whiff of that and started thinking ‘Trim Spa’. It’s not good.

Of course the other interesting and really creepy thing in the news is the launch by Krispy Kreme of their new…

‘WHOLE GRAIN DONUT!’

‘Scuse me, what’n HAYULL is the point? You don’t go to Krispy Kreme to eat healthy! (If you do, you’re probably the kind of sicko-fiend that would die and stay above ground for the next several weeks!) Anyway, health experts have already jumped all over this and are quick to point out that these donuts have only 20 less calories and one less gram of fat than the regular ones, so again?

The point?

Which gets me to thinking….

No one in their right mind is gonna buy those damn fool donuts. I think they should take James Brown and Anna Nicole Smith to a landfill somewhere and cover them up with all of those unsold donuts. The preservatives in the donuts will slow down, well, you know, and it pretty much solves all their problems.

Sounds like the makings of ‘A Funky Good Time’ to me!

Empires Rise and Fall. Wonderbra is Forever!

2007-05-24T23:57:00.000-07:00

Well hey there, y’all! Thought I’d drop a line and say hello and let you know that things here are good. I had a bit of a scare recently, well, a scare and the shock of my life. Allow me to explain.

See, I live within the law and also by an unspoken code of ethics among women. Y’all galpals know what I mean. We don’t date each others’ exes. We don’t cry “hair trauma” to the hairdresser and get our friend’s appointment when they really need it. And we have no qualms about disciplining each others’ kids, only because we love them as our own and want them to go far in life. I mean, c’mon, look at our president. It took a village to raise that idiot. But, back to my story.

When Jerry and I relocated here, I made friends with this really cool woman at work named Markie. She lives in the same community, so I picked her brain about good places to eat, good shopping, the best hair salons (cheap with no wait!) and of course, doctors. Markie rose to the occasion and became my living, breathing almanac. But back to that unspoken code…she left out a rather important detail.

It starts with the big scare. I was having my shower a few days ago (which is scary on SO many levels) and so decided to lather up my hair with the deep conditioning rinse and let it do it’s thing while I shaved my legs and underarms. Let me tellya, I am the poster child for breast cancer awareness, so if anyone ever saw me in the shower, they would think there was an eclipse if they saw my big fat ass. No, what I meant to say is they would think I’m some kind of self-pervert because I always check for anything suspicious. And to date, I have been really lucky. But the other night, I felt a lump in my armpit.

I can honestly say it is probably the size of a raisin, but to me, it felt like the size of Wyoming (kinda like my ass!) Anyway, all shaving activity ceased and I stayed awake all night praying and waiting for daybreak to call the doctor for an appointment. Remember, the one Markie recommended to me? So, they tell me to come in immediately and have it checked out. Off I go in my mommie uniform of old sweatpants, no makeup, deep-conditioned hair in a scrunchy and an old RUSH concert t-shirt that has seen better days (like back when the band first formed!) Away I went.

I had been to the office once before and I saw the physician’s assistant, Myrtle or Iris or something like that. I went into the examining room and waited for her. There was a knock at the door and in walked the actual doctor. Three thoughts went through my mind simultaneously.

1. OMG this is the BEST looking man I have ever seen!
2. Markie, you bee-yotch, why did you FAIL to mention that this is the best looking man ever?
3. Holy $#!^ he is going to have to examine my noo-nahs and HE IS THE BEST LOOKING SOB I HAVE EVER SEEN!

I could hardly recover enough to speak to him. I know what you’re thinking, too. I mean, I have had a baby, so surely I am no longer self conscious around doctors. Folks, I pick doctors VERY carefully! They are all highly skilled, old, ugly, and just one step ahead of Stevie Wonder on the vision placement test, ‘kay? So, Dr. McDreamy takes my blood pressure and says, “Wow, your pressure’s a bit high.”

Right, sport. I am going to have to take my shirt off in front of you, and let’s just say that my boobs fell faster and farther than the Roman Empire. I never finished shaving my underarms, but that’ll be painfully obvious to you in another couple of minutes, and I am going to leave here and go commit murder. At least Markie’s kids are grown and they can fend for themselves!

Sure enough, here came the dreaded “Remove your top and bra, put the gown on open in the front, and I’ll be back in five minutes.”

After he left, a quick check revealed that there were no razors, tweezers, or NAIR in the exam room (freaks!) so I prayed that if the lump was something awful that was going to kill me, PLEASE let it happen now, before he comes back. No dice. Okay, think fast. Then it hit me. See at my age, when I lay down without the benefit of Wonderbra (or as I like to call it, “Hooter Hefter”) everything goes east and west. Get my drift? So I decided the thing to do would be to lay down with my arms squished up together to hold ‘the girls’ in place while keeping the gown closed with my hands over my fat stomach. Unfortunately, I could do nothing about my underarm fat sticking up on either side like twin Matterhorns, but hey, at least some of the crisis was averted.

Dr. McDreamy came back in and said in all seriousness, “I need you to raise your arm and fold it behind your head.”

WHAT?

“You know, just put your hand behind your head.”

Oh crapola! Alrighty then. Try to ignore the timberline in my armpit, oh and would you pick that up off the floor for me? It’s my right breast. Thanks so much!

“Well”, he said, “I’m not terribly concerned. I can barely feel it.”

(Through my underarm fat!).

“You need to have a mammogram, follow up, blah, blah, blah.”

So after all that drama and various other diagnostics, the good news is that the lump is nothing to be concerned about and my health is good. Of course, after all those machinations in the doctor’s office, I have permanent curvature of the spine and am looking for a blind chiropractor! Markie has apologized and tried to make up, but I am pretty sure I saw her talking to the Feds about the Witness Protection Program. Never hurts to be safe. I have decided to take better care of my health, and now, I live by yet another code. I always carry an emergency kit in my purse; deodorant, a razor, makeup, you know. The essentials. Oh, and duct tape! I can’t afford implants!

Prepare for Bad Weather- Chardonnay and Timberlands!

2007-05-22T11:28:00.000-07:00

Well "haayyy thayer y'all!" Here we are in the butt-puckerin' freezin' cold, or as they say in these here parts, fall! You just can't imagine how cold it is here. We have already seen snow. Well, okay, for Jerry, who spent part of his youth growing up in Binghamton, NY, frost, and for a Florida native like me (and Jenda) effing white out! We did actually have some snow the other day. About two inches, so for me, a blizzard. I must say, Jenda was SO excited to see snow. I didn't have the heart to deny her the chance to play in it, so I dressed her in all of her winter finery...thermal underwear, turtleneck, pullover sweater, two sweatshirts, sweatpants, blue jeans, three pairs of socks (mine), and, no lie, pink Timberland boots. Jerry, of course, volunteered to stay inside and make breakfast (Cheerios) so I got to go outside and play with Jenda in MY winter finery (long sleeved shirt, sweatpants that I bought at Target in Ft. Lauderdale that have all the warmth and substance of a kleenex, and Keds.)

Jenda had a wonderful time. She made snowballs and "Jenda tracks", you know, her footprints in the snow. Mommy made a trail of rocks behind her so that someone could find her frozen, dead, hypothermic body before the spring thaw. I noticed pretty quickly that we were the ONLY people outside on this glorious grey winter day. I could just imagine the neighbors...

"Hey, Mavis. C'meer and look at those damn fools! Why'n hell are they outside on a day lak this?"

"I dunno, Pootis. Muss be frum Floor-i-duh!!"

At any rate, the Cheerios were getting soggy, and being a very conscientious parent (afraid of what really good parents must think) I told Jenda we needed to go inside to have breakfast and then we could come back outside.

"Wanna play in the snow!"

Well, we have to eat breakfast and then we'll come back outside.

"NNNNOOOOOO......" and she took off.

I have to give props to Timberland, because the traction and speed that a two year old can get in those damn things is NOBODY'S business!! Let me just tell you that chasing a toddler in the snow is NOT for fat people who smoke (or even who DON'T smoke!) So I finally caught the little fiend, who screamed and cried like Naomi Campbell at a "Domestic Help Appreciation" rally. I showed her who's boss, though. I dragged her onto the porch and said in my best bossy mommy voice, "We are NOT going to play in the snow until after you have your beckoopuss!"

To which Jenda replied, "I've never liked you!"

I could hear the guffaws from the neighbors' houses.

After I assured Jenda that comedy is NOT for her (I don't know WHERE she gets this!) we went inside. Since my toes were black (who knows, I hope it's fungus and not frostbite!) I made Jerry go out and play. I decided to watch the local weather to see how long this blizzard would last. I mean, we could be snowed in for DAYS and I only had just so much Kendall Jackson left. I mean, c'mon!

Jerry came back in as I was bemoaning the fact that we had not yet purchased a generator. We could freeze to death in our own home if the power went out. It made my soggy black toes tingle just thinking about it!

"Nope, it's over. It'll melt by lunchtime and since we have a gas fireplace, we could still have warmth. Hate to burst your fatalistic little bubble, Toots!"

We'll just see about that. And that makes me wonder....why'n HAYULL did someone invent a gas fireplace? Where is the love? No more going out to a woodpile and praying that the brown recluses who live between the logs don't bite you. No more using a fireplace poker to push the logs around and setting fire with the loose spray of ashes to your semi-quasi-Orientalish rug from Target. Instead, you get a noxious smell from the gas fire, so bad that you just HAVE to open the flue, so that all of the heat and the gas haul ass up the chimney. I have to admit, I'm afraid of the damn thing. I refuse to light it because I just know I am gonna blow all straight to hell, or I am gonna leave the gas on and they'll find us in here unconscious with our tongues hanging out. Gas fireplaces are just too weird. It's like dyeing your own hair or hearing Lynyrd Skynyrd on Muzak...it ain't right, I tellya!

North Carolina natives sure do get freaky over a snow flurry. The locals run out to the store and buy up all of the bread. I just laugh at their panic-stricken faces as I walk to the wine aisle and buy all of the Kendall Jackson.

Our local newsgal reported that we would be experiencing "WINTRY CONDITIONS WITH A FROSTY, WINTRY MIX!" (Yeah in January, whatter the odds?!) In these parts, wintry mix means SNOW, ICE, AND PROBABLE DEATH!! Well, yeah, certain death if I run out of Chardonnay. She was almost in tears extolling the virtues of her brave comrades in the field, risking life and limb to reports these BIG KABUKI DANGEROUS WEATHER CONDITIONS (i.e., a snowflake.) I was waiting for her to recite their living wills on TV. Geeze....

As a veteran hurricane window-boarder-upper and champion storm Chardonnay drinker, I have to take issue with this drama. Wussies! While I am afraid for my life, freezing to death JUST HAS TO BE less painful than boarding up all of the windows and trying to see the satellite imagery of Hurricane XXXVVVIII on the four inch black and white TV from Wal-Mart that has been part of the hurricane preparedness kit since 1987. GET A GRIP!!

Here came Jerry and his voice of reason...."Look outside."

Sho 'nuff, the snow was pretty much gone, the roads were clear, and no one (us) had to sink their patio furniture in the pool to keep it from blowing away. In fact, it was clear enough to make a trip (send Jerry) to Food Lion to give our good friends Kendall Jackson and Alice White a ride home. Y'know, better to have a "wintry mix" of friends!!!

Trust me, I KNOW how to prepare for bad weather!!!

There's No Place Like Heaven for the Holidays!

2007-05-21T01:34:00.000-07:00

Well hello again, or, as the locals say, "well hey there y'all!" Jerry, Jenda, and I have all got a cold. North Carolina has the craziest weather. I have never lived anyplace where you can experience spring, summer, fall, and winter in the same day! The state motto is "Esse Quam Vederi" (To Be Rather Than to Seem) but it is actually Latin for "Don't Like the Weather? Give it an Hour!" My own personal motto is now "Stupidus Relocatus from Floridus!"

So here we are, just having celebrated Christmas. Holidays here are so different from South Florida. Take Halloween, for instance. In my old neighborhood, all of the kids got dressed up, or should I say down since it was still 95 degrees with 80% humidity. All of the neighbors participated (some of the freaky ones dressed up, too!) and handed out tons of candy. For really cute toddler types like Jenda, all she had to do was smile and say "Trip oo tree" and she just racked up! After canvasing the neighborhood, we would take Jenda home and explain earnestly that some unscrupulous people wanted to hurt little kids and would actually stick bad things in the candy, like solicitations for home security systems and low cost no obligation term life insurance questionnaires, so that was why Mommy and Daddy had to eat all of the best tasting but most potentially dangerous candy! She was 18 months old and docile, so we had it made.

Fast forward to NC and things have changed. We were getting ready to close on the house this year at Halloween, so Jerry wanted to come trick or treating in the neighborhood where the house is, and I wanted to go to the Town of Kernersville Festival, where they close off all the streets and let the kids trick or treat downtown. Jerry and I went back and forth over this.

"I think we should get her used to the neighborhood, let her see the lay of the land!"

She's two for God's sake. It's Halloween, not a reconnaissance mission. And we have a thirty year mortgage. We're not going anywhere anytime soon. Let's go to the little rah-rah downtown.

"Well, we can try to fit in both." Then, looking in the local Kernersville paper, "The Tuesday News", so called because they put it out once a week....really! There's NO news here. "Here is something...a 'safe and fun-filled family alternative to Halloween'..."

Okay, I'll bite.

"One of the churches (60 in the 15 square miles that make up Kernersville, no shit!) is sponsoring 'A Trip Through Tribulation and Rapture...a safe and family oriented alternative to Halloween'..."

Blank stare, because even for someone like me, that's a pretty sick joke and I can't wait for the punchline. (Folks, it's May, I'm still waiting.)

Are you %@^#!*& kidding me? You're a horrible person and God left your sorry ass behind is supposed to be fun and not scary? That right there is enough to guarantee that all of these little small town kiddies wind up on drugs, or in therapy, or taking drugs with the therapist! That's effing sick!!!

"I just brought it up as a suggestion."

Let me make a suggestion. I suggest that you put that thought right out of your head, because if you take Jenda anywhere NEAR that $#!^, lemme tell you how fast YOU are going to see Jesus, 'kay?

So we went trick or treating in the neighborhood....Jenda marched bravely to each door...in NC, they reach into their candy baskets and give little trick or treaters EXACTLY ONE PIECE of candy.....

Says Jenda.."I want more candy", to which the natives reply, "ain't she cute, bless her heart!" and then don't hand out anymore candy.....

So we go downtown. Local businesses are handing out goodies. Several of the local churches are manning booths downtown.

"IF YOU DIE TONIGHT, WILL YOU GO TO HEAVEN?" I must just look like pure hell, because several of them latch on to me to try to convert me. They are either too stupid to realize that I am beyond saving, or they are just gluttons for punishment.

Yes, I say, I will certainly go to Heaven. Right after I celebrate the equinox and sacrifice small animals on the altar of equal rights for all and the hope of women and blacks in the White House.

That pretty much stopped them cold. Jerry of course spent the evening keeping Jenda a safe distance away in case the thunderbolt ricocheted off of me and hit her by mistake.

Then, fast forward to Christmas. A happy, magical time. I counted down the days of the season not with an Advent calendar but by counting the daily visits from the other religious types determined to save my soul. (I SWEAR!!! They are like cats and old people.....they will NOT give up!) Since we were still getting settled, we really did not go all out with decorations....we had stockings, a fake tree that has seen better days....(back in the 90's), and plastic unbreakable ornaments that Jenda plucked off the tree and left for us in surprising places....(like the downstairs toilet.) Anyway, we didn't need to go crazy with lights. Jenda talked us into getting a plastic yard Santa, but that was it. Besides, we had the house down the street. Lemme tellya....

This is a relatively small two-story house where on any given day, there are three to four pickup trucks and two cars crammed in the driveway. I do know that the Manson Family is locked up, the Jonestown people are really no longer an issue, so I just can't IMAGINE who the hell all is living there, but I identify two of them as Cletus and Pootus. I have wonderful Christmas memories of sitting out on my front porch with a glass of Merlot (red, not white, in honor of the season!) watching these two yahoos get lickkered up to hang Christmas lights. Aah, yes...the sights, sounds, and smells of Christmas. The sight of Cletus falling from the second story when trying to loop lights from the house to the little dogwood tree ten feet from the house. The sound of him falling THUD! to the ground..."Hey...I'm all right (pronounced ah-ite!)....get me another beer, Pootus!" and the smell of burning hair and blown transformers as their winter wonderland went horribly wrong!

When they finally finished, it would seem that they achieved their goal of having their house be visible from outer space. Our house was the black hole....I can hear the folks on MIR...
("Crackle, buzz...look down to your left at Chez Pootus, a veritable winter wonderland...to your right...whatthe...well, I guess that's a fabled 'Black Hole'...")

The good news was that the Cletus/Pootus display saved me a huge electric bill, because I could literally keep my lights off and read and crochet by the light pouring in my windows from their house. I just sipped my Merlot and used their power.

Tell me I don't know how to celebrate the holidays!

Bless your hearts and love to you all!!

Only Women Bleed

2007-05-20T02:03:00.000-07:00

So hello again and happy New Year to y'all from North Carolina! We are just plugging along here in Kernersville. We are firmly ensconced in our new house and life is good! I don't know how much I have told you about the house but here I am to fill y'all in....

We bought a 3br/2.5 bath two story. I know I told you about the fact that we could not park our cars in the garage, but Jerry has fixed that. In fact, he called me at work the other day to let me know...

"Honey, I have a surprise for you!"

Oohhh...Platinum or Xanax?

"I totally cleaned out the garage...we can get our cars in it and it is spotless. Really...we can PARK in there!"

I raced home 6 hours early, who cares, I have vacation time, and LO! AND BEHOLD! The garage was spotless! I pulled my car into my spot and the earth moved, and angels wept! OMG, I said, this is incredible. You must have worked your ass off!! (Bear in mind that the day before, when he finally installed the garage door opener, he pushed the button to open and close it so many times the city almost cut off our utilities!)

Anyway, after admiring the clean garage for what seemed like hours (he never makes like this when I finally mop and dust!) I went into the kitchen from the door in the garage and stopped dead in my tracks.

Literally.

Suffice it to say that we can no longer eat at our dining room table.

Jerry, I said, you didn't clean anything. You just relocated the shit from the garage to the dining room table. Blank stare, jaw on the floor.

"Honey, you DO understand!"

Meanwhile, Jenda got hold of all of my tax records and I can see me with the accountant..."Yes, this is our relocation paperwork and charitable donations with a nice Burnt Sienna, threaded through with Midnight Blue!"

So anyway, more about the house. It is a two-story house, a bit smaller than we wanted but really good for three people. I HATE the bathrooms because there is NO storage and there are no medicine cabinets. I need someplace to put my stuff...I can't have Jenda flushing another $50.00 Clinique Dramatically Different Moisturizing Lotion.... trust me, it could happen to you! So, I went to the local Target (more about this in another episode!) and bought a ready-to-hang medicine cabinet with a hinged door and mirror. Seemed easy enough to me, so of course I made Jerry hang it.... no more using that damn E-Coli excuse! Of course, he managed to chip a chunk out of the mirror, which I just KNEW I would find by accident barefoot getting out of the shower.

"Nah___ You'll be fine. It probably went behind the toilet somewhere. No biggie."

Not for you.... you never clean back there. Whatever.... I just know I have a date with a sliver of glass.

But time went on, and no glass, and I began to believe that I was wrong.

I was wrong.

Sho 'nuff, I WAS cleaning, but I was clear on the other end of the room. I was wiping down the counters and behind the faucet, I saw a small piece of plastic wedged behind the tap. Couldn't get it out with the cloth.... no biggie. I'll just dig it out with my finger.

Three thoughts went through my mind simultaneously...

1. That ain't (we use that word up here!) plastic.

2. Damn, that glass traveled far.

3. F*&%@#$ THAT HURTS!!!

I yelped and grabbed my finger, which had passed the bleeding stage and went straight to hemorrhaging. Jenda toddled into the room! Oh, thank God.... salvation!!

Jenda....help Mommy!

"Got booboo?"

Yes...(bear in mind I was just BLEEDING LIKE CRAZY and could not find any band aids!) Go get Daddy!

"Need to go to Super Weenie Hut Junior Hospital?"

Yes...go get Daddy.

"Okay...I going...lookie, my shoe!"

Please!

Jenda left and was gone for some time. Bear in mind there were no clean towels in the bathroom (because no one lugs them upstairs besides me) and no band-aids and I was not ABOUT to bleed on the carpet.... believe me fingers bleed ALOT!!

So I waited for Jenda to come back with Jerry and I re-read my American Express Cardmember agreement to kill time...here came Jenda, but no Jerry.

Jenda, where's Daddy?

Blank stare...."Dora?"

DADDY!

"'Kay!"

She left again and I solved Sudoku while I was waiting. I was losing blood, though, getting weaker. I used my waning strength to scream for Jerry, bang on the wall, and use a toothbrush bristle to write my living will on a square of Charmin.

FINALLY.... I was seeing black roses bloom before my eyes, I was fading fast. I collapsed next to the counter where Jerry found me, in a heap with my arm up, blood flowing down like a river, and my middle finger extended.

Y'all figure it out.

"Wassamatter?! Why are you bleeding? What happ...hey...you didn't get any on the carpet!"

NO, I DIDN'T, BECAUSE I WOULD HAVE TO CLEAN IT AND I AM DYING HERE, NO SHIT, AND I AM IN PAIN!!!

What came out was "Chewff! Grackle dack!" Severe blood loss is no laughing matter!

Jerry handled everything..."here, get up!" He man-handled me to my feet, turned on the cold water at full blast, and crammed my finger under the cold, nerve-damaging water.

I found my religion that night in the bathroom. My life flashed before my eyes and I prayed that a higher power would end my pain. I prayed for death under that hateful cold water as my bleeding finger went numb and fell off from the pain...and then.... a moment of clarity, a vision from God.

I kept this to myself and when I finally regained the ability to speak, I confronted Jerry and Jenda.

Jenda, I sent you to get Daddy sometime last week, and Jerry, I have been screaming and banging on the wall for days. What the &*^%?

"I swear, the acoustics are REEEEEELY good in this house. I never heard a thing...and Jenda came to ask me for a popsicle and I wouldn't let her have one without asking you first. So here I am."

Hmmmm...

So here I sit, writing to all of you. That vision from God? Do unto others. So, I took every roll of toilet paper out of the upstairs master bathroom. Jerry went in there some time ago, and I already gave Jenda a popsicle and turned up Nicktoons REEEEL loud.... let’s just test those acoustics and see...WAIT.... did y'all hear something?

NAHHHHH.... Me neither!

Bless your hearts.... love y'all!

It must have been the chicken!

2007-05-19T01:40:00.000-07:00

Hi all, or as they say in these parts, "hey there y'all!" Things are moving right along. We are getting moved into our house and Jerry and I are truly living the American Dream. We have a single family home with a two car garage that we can't get our cars in to!

For the latest, Jerry has been REALLY sick recently. It actually started back in September, and I suppose a better wife would have taken more drastic measures before now. She probably has alot of Platinum jewelry. Anyway, Jer called me at work the other night and asked when I would be home.

I'm leaving in 10 minutes. Why?

"I miss you."

We have an almost three year old toddler, so nookie is out of the question. Oh God, he's REALLY messed up!!! I should have taken him to the ER months ago, sweet Jesus I am sorry I will be right home.

So, I get home and Jerry is passed out on the sofa and Jenda has spread Cheerios all over the floor and Dora is just BLARING out of the DVD player. No different from any other night except Jerry has a temp of 104+. I take charge for the moment and decide that we are going to the hospital right now.

Guess what folks......

There is no BLEEPING hospital in Kernersville!!!!! I am sure that Arnold Ziffle is rooting around somewhere having drinks with the traveling company of "Deliverance" but no ER!!! Okay. Think fast.

We make the drive to Moses Cone Hospital in Greensboro, 40 minutes or so, and in we go, me wondering if Moses Cone is a person or some weird religious vortex.

"Do you have insurance and what's your emergency?"

Yes, I have crappy insurance, which is an emergency in and of itself. My husband is ill, and I am here with his sick ass and my two year old at almost 3 in the morning and I have no Platinum jewelry or Xanax.

"Bring your husband back. Y'all can come in with him." No offer of Xanax.

So in we go and they put Jerry in an examining room. In comes a very sweet nurse and a doctor. "What seems to be the problem?"

Says Jerry, "My stomach feels bloated, my lower back is killing me in my kidneys and down into my legs, and I am burning up. I feel like I have to throw up."

OMG I say, he's pregnant!!

(Nurse, single mother of three, works nights, pays all the bills, laughs. Doctor, pompous ass, trophy wife, sportscar, does not laugh. Dork!)

Jenda, who watches WAY TOO MUCH Spongebob Squarepants, says, Need to go to Super Weenie Hut Junior Hospital!

You go, girl!

So they run tests, CAT scans, more tests, ask questions, blah, blah. Doc comes back. "How is the pain?"

He's fine, I say. Turns out Doc wasn't talking to me.

"Do you need a painkiller?"

"No" says Jerry.

YES!! I scream! Give him painkillers, because if I am going to have to clean Cheerios up off the floor every night after work, ONE OF US had better be doped up!

Anyway, more tests, until I finally tell Jerry that Jenda and I will be sleeping in the car out in the parking lot, call my cell when they release you, pray we don't get hauled in for vagrancy, sayonara.

Out comes Jerry with the sun....what's wrong?

"They don't know, but they gave me some painkillers and antibiotics, blah, blah". Good thing he wasn't too messed up to drive.

Two days later the call came. Speakerphone. "Jerry....Good news and bad news...we ran tests and the results of the CAT scan show you don't have kidney stones. You do, however, have E COLI!

The wine glass dropped right out of my hands and shattered onto the floor. It's okay, though, it wasn't Waterford. But I hated to waste my Kendall Jackson syrah!

WHAT THE http://us.f580.mail.yahoo.com/ym/Compose?To=F@#$%&?

"Sir, do you have any idea where you might have gotten E Coli?"

We had no idea, but promised to think about it and call back. I grilled Jerry, no pun intended, and he assured me....no petting zoos, no bagged spinach, no Taco Bell. Hmmm....

It occurred to me later....back in September, he bought a rotisserie chicken from Harris Teeter (honest to God that is the name of the store! Remember the little old lady who was run off the road in Ft. Lauderdale? If she had married the grocery store owner, she could be Tillie Tooter Teeter! HAHAHA!) Anyway, Jerry brought the chicken home, ripped off a drumstick and started munching. As I was cutting off some chicken for me and Jenda, I realized it was NOT FULLY COOKED!!! I warned Jerry, who, being a man, said, "I'll put it in the microwave. It'll be fine." Needless to say, Jenda and I did NOT eat it. I called the hospital back to tell them I had discovered the source.

" E Coli usually comes from beef....I don't think chicken would be the culprit."

Trust me, bless your heart, whatever. It was the chicken.

"Could it be anything else?"

I remembered that Jerry also drinks the tap water here. I tried it once. I spat it out. Too clean. In Florida, the water is just FULL of sulfites, minerals, bacteria, and all sorts of other crap that keeps your system healthy by giving it something to fight. I think the clean water here weakened Jerry's immune system, making him susceptible to E Coli from those raw-chicken-peddling-death merchants at Harris http://us.f580.mail.yahoo.com/ym/Compose?To=!@#%^ Teeter!!! And to think he used our VIC Card to buy the chicken! Damn!

The doctor pretty much assumed that I was insane or on painkillers and quickly got off the phone. I knew that I was on to something. I can report that Jerry is doing MUCH better. We have not eaten much chicken, but he still drinks the water. I am still on a strict regimen of Diet Coke during the day and Kendall Jackson Chardonnay thereafter. There are also some local vineyards in this area and the wines are pretty good. I am actually feeling a bit weak. I need a little more Kendall Jackson Chardonnay, for medicinal purposes......that's better! I am now so healthy I could just faint! Miss you all, love you bunches, and for God's sake, drink more wine and eat less raw chicken!! Bless your hearts!!!

Livin' In the City

2007-05-18T11:49:00.000-07:00

Hi again from NC! Here is the latest.

Jerry and I put an offer on a house today. It's located in Kernersville, home of Prissy Polly's Pig Pickin' bbq....from my last email. I think it is a good offer, so we are waiting to hear. Our agent was so pleased with herself (to be finally getting rid of us!) She said, beaming, "I am asking that they leave all of the appliances!"

Okay....leave them where?

"In the house."

Where the hell else would they leave them? Blank stare...I do alot of that here.

"Bless your heart! Appliances are personal property. People usually take them when they move."

Run, Toto. We're not in South Florida anymore.

"I'll give you a call Monday to let you know what the sellers say."

Okay. Call me on the cell. I'll be at Home Depot buying appliances.

So we leave, and I go on to lunch, then work. Jerry's parents have stopped in on their way to Maggie Valley, NC, where the really rich people have homes. Great to see them, except they picked the weekend of homecoming AND the Chrysler Classic, so of course the nearest hotel room is in Atlanta. I asked Jerry where they would be staying.

"With us, in our apartment, duh!"

Back to my blank stare. Four adults, one toddler on sugar high (thanks, gramps!) and one bathroom. Great idea, duh!

Of course, had to take said inlaws to Prissy Polly's. Armed with the bbq knowledge that Jerry and I so painstakingly gleaned, they knew to order Lexington, except Gramps, who ordered chili (more blank stares, but now I was not alone!) There was our friend from the first visit.

Are you from Kernersville? We are relocating here....do you like it?

"Yeah, but I'm not from these parts. I'm from Cain (KAAAYYUN.) Do y'all know KAAAYYUN?"

Other than the brother of AAAYYYBULL, no.

"Well it's reeeeyulll small, we didn't have cable tv or nothin', so that's why I like it here, cuz this here's a city."

(I can report that bbq spit from your mouth projectile fashion WILL come off of latex paint. Clothes are another matter altogether.)

"Where y'all from?"

Ft. Lauderdale.

Sympathetic smile reserved for the feeble minded. "Bless your heart. This must seem like kinda a small town to y'all!"

No blank stare this time. I now know that you can put someone down, condescend, or be "jinuwine"...as long as you sugar coat it with "Bless your heart", well, no hard feelings. I am learning.

Truly, bless your hearts. I love and miss you terribly!!!!

2007-05-18T11:41:00.001-07:00

Greetings from Greensboro, NC! I must say it is really nice here and the bbq is just primo! I now know the difference between EASTERN and LEXINGTON and gosh did I learn that quick.

Jerry and I went to (no lie) Prissy Polly's Pig Pickin' Barbeque for lunch. This very sweet girl asked for our order and we got the bbq sandwich plate. She asked..."y'allwanteasternerlexinton" to which I replied, "whatthe...?"

So she said, "do yall wont (pronounced won't) eastern er lexington" so Jerry and I just looked at each other, then looked blankly at her. She must have assumed pretty quickly that we were retarded, because she said, "dooooo yahllll wonnnnttt EASTERN or LEXINGTON?"

Once we assured her we could in fact speak English, we were able to procure some rather good bbq. We went back recently, and there was the same girl, and they had posted signs at the cash register defining the difference between Eastern and Lexington...eastern is a vinegar base and lex is a tomato base. Anyway, I was encouraged that Jerry and I were able to be change agents at the bbq joint, in spite of the fact that the town of Kernersville thnks we should be run out of town on a rail....if you ever visit these here parts, you better know your 'que, or the NC natives'll kick your ass!