Did your post-holiday blues kick in yet? You know that feeling. All the presents have been opened, leaving only the mess of empty boxes and the realization that you have to find a home for all your new stuff. The cookies and cheesecake and pies and candy are mostly gone, but the sugar cravings continue, as does the bloated waistline and weight gain. The lights on the houses are just a reminder that you need to put your own decorations away. Without the holidays to anticipate, all that is left is the bleakness of winter, the unrelenting cold, the itchy dry skin, and the emptiness as you realize that for the time being, you have nothing to look forward to and a long way to go until your next break from work. So if those blues haven’t started yet, they should be by now, huh?
Two days after Christmas, my post holiday blues began. My family drove home from Atlanta, where we visited my sisters for the holidays. We went out for dim sum before we left, one of my favorite holiday traditions, but following days of overeating, a few thousand pounds of dumplings can make for some pretty serious heartburn. I said my goodbyes, hoping no one would squeeze me too tightly, and burped my way to the car.
After a few days in a row of eating too much and sleeping poorly, I was in desperate need of a nap. The best nap in the world is the car nap, unless you are the driver. The droning of the DVD blaring behind me along with my husband talking and the bags in the car rattling in the back was all it took to lull me to sleep. I must have conked out with my head on sideways, because when I woke up, my neck was killing me.
My neck tends to bother me most of the time, in the way that all people over forty have a body part that doesn’t like being part of the total package anymore. Some people constantly complain about shoulder pain or low back pain or tennis elbow, even if that arm has never held a racket. For me, that body part used to be my left knee, which has been studied by doctors before who discounted the pain as pre-degenerative arthritis and told me to deal with it. But lately, my neck has been making a push as the most irritated body part. It just hurts, man. It’s a pain in my ass, that pain in my neck.
We got home and I had to help unload the car like a freaking hunchback because my neck hurt so badly. My husband carried the duffle bags upstairs and I unloaded them, carrying the first load of laundry to the washing machine. When I bent over to put the clothes in the machine, I threw up in my own mouth. Nice, huh? It might all be the same going down, but coming up, it is just puke, which in my case I re-swallowed.
I decided to skip dinner and sit on the couch with a heating pad on my neck. The longer I sat there, the more I thought a new pillow would be a wise move, so I got ready to drive to the store to buy one. Before I left, I petted my long-haired cat. At some point between that action and arriving at the store, I rubbed my eye and transferred some cat hair directly into my orbital socket, where unbeknownst to me, it wrapped itself tightly around my eye like a barbed wire tourniquet. My eye started tearing, then progressed to a full blown allergic reaction, complete with pus, swelling, and bright redness. Did you ever see that scene in “Papillion” where the character played by Dustin Hoffman rubs ground glass in his eyes? I was living it. I took my contact out a couple of times to suck on it, the most sanitary way to clean a contact I know, but surprisingly, it didn’t help at all. When I checked out with my pillow, the salesclerk looked slightly above my head, avoiding direct eye contact. I can’t say I blame her.
When I got home, I went back upstairs to put the clothes in the dryer, puking a little in my mouth again, and then went to the bathroom to take out my contacts and wash my face. I put my contacts in the case and looked closely in the mirror. Luckily, the cat hair was completely covered in a big string of mucus that I pulled out of my eye like rope. I scrubbed my face with cleanser, and when I filled my palms with water to rinse, I jammed my finger so hard up my left nostril that I ripped it open. The skin on the inside rim of my nose flapped loosely, and the space where it had been was rapidly filling up with blood. There really was nothing else to do but sit on the floor and cry, so that is what I did.
Then I dried off my face, shoved a wad of tissue in my bloody nose, and put on my glasses. If raping my own nostril isn’t a good reason for the blues, I don’t know what is.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Back Alley Plumber
I fixed my own sink last week. That might not be impressive to you, but for me, it’s a miracle. My husband is a master fixer of things, so I don’t usually have the need to fix things, other than dinner. He can Macgyver almost anything together, which is one of his many positive assets, and honestly, one of the reasons I married him. One of the benefits of marriage, in my mind, is never having to call a repairman. Or reach things off of high shelves. Or take my car to get it fixed. Not that I expect him to fix it, just that I don't ever want to have to speak to another mechanic if I can avoid it.
But back to my sink, which had been clogged on and off for over a month. I have that kind of woman hair that can block up a drain, wrap itself around your toe, and sneak its way into your pasta dinner. I have a lot of hair too. I shed like an old cat, frequently and indiscriminately. I also have a bad habit of rinsing the hair gel and the hair that gets stuck in it off my hands, which means that every day a wad of hair and hair glue gets washed down the sink, only to end up lining the pipe, where it collects over time until eventually the water can no longer find passage and pools in the sink. At that point, my husband pours half a bottle of Drain-o into the mess, chemically burning the hair wad just enough to let the water drain in a small whirlpool, but not fast enough to actually suck soap bubbles or gobs of toothpaste. My sink tends to look like a Civil War battlefield.
After burning the hair wad twice, it was clear that more effort was required to unclog the clog. My husband said he would take the drain apart and remove the clump, but he didn’t take action in a timely way. I am not really allowed to write about my husband, so that he will remain, in fact, my husband, but I must explain here that he and I have differing opinions about how time works. In my mind, if I ask him to do something, like fix my sink, he should do it as soon as is convenient, or within three days, whichever comes first. He doesn’t agree. He thinks the perfect time to do a chore is when he actually does it. You could ask him to do something and if he gets around to it a year later, there you go. Mission accomplished.
I asked him to unclog the drain, but he didn’t meet that three day criteria I explained a moment ago. Plus, it’s a sink; I use it pretty much a gazillion times a day. I have the kind of drain with the little lever that you pull up to close it, rather than the kind with the grate in the base of the sink. The thingy-do that closes the drain does not come out of the sink; it is attached somehow, using some sort of algorithm that is beyond my comprehension, so it isn’t like I could just pull it out of the sink and start digging around. I did attempt to use my lesser pair of tweezers to extract a clump of something, but it wasn't not long enough to find the blockage.
I got one of those cheap dry cleaner hangers, the metal ones with the tube of cardboard where the pants hang or sweaters are folded. I removed the cardboard tube, straightened out the hanger arm, stuck the hooked end into the sink, and jimmied it up and down. I pulled the hanger out, and nothing happened. I tried again, on the other side of the drain-blocking thing, ramming the hanger in as far as it could go and moving it around. This time when I pulled it out, a huge clod of hair and slime and mold came out on the hooked end. Encouraged, I stuck it in a third time, twisting it a little, and dislodged another small clot.
My husband walked into the bathroom and asked me what I was doing.
“I just gave the sink an abortion!” I said proudly, pointing to the clog that I had flung on the side of the porcelain basin.
“That’s nasty,” he said.
I turned the water on, watching it flow freely through the drain.
“I did it,” I said proudly. “I fixed my own sink!”
“Cool,” he answered nonchalantly. “Now I don’t have to take that drain apart.”
I wiped the clump out of my sink with a wad of paper towels and turned the water on higher, delighted that the sink did not fill up with water.
It turns out that wire hangers have a purpose after all, other than playing Joan Crawford. It also turns out that I don’t have to rely on my husband to fix everything around the house, but for the love of God, don’t tell him that. Everyone needs to be needed, and I am pretty sure there is something wrong with the toilet in the laundry room.
But back to my sink, which had been clogged on and off for over a month. I have that kind of woman hair that can block up a drain, wrap itself around your toe, and sneak its way into your pasta dinner. I have a lot of hair too. I shed like an old cat, frequently and indiscriminately. I also have a bad habit of rinsing the hair gel and the hair that gets stuck in it off my hands, which means that every day a wad of hair and hair glue gets washed down the sink, only to end up lining the pipe, where it collects over time until eventually the water can no longer find passage and pools in the sink. At that point, my husband pours half a bottle of Drain-o into the mess, chemically burning the hair wad just enough to let the water drain in a small whirlpool, but not fast enough to actually suck soap bubbles or gobs of toothpaste. My sink tends to look like a Civil War battlefield.
After burning the hair wad twice, it was clear that more effort was required to unclog the clog. My husband said he would take the drain apart and remove the clump, but he didn’t take action in a timely way. I am not really allowed to write about my husband, so that he will remain, in fact, my husband, but I must explain here that he and I have differing opinions about how time works. In my mind, if I ask him to do something, like fix my sink, he should do it as soon as is convenient, or within three days, whichever comes first. He doesn’t agree. He thinks the perfect time to do a chore is when he actually does it. You could ask him to do something and if he gets around to it a year later, there you go. Mission accomplished.
I asked him to unclog the drain, but he didn’t meet that three day criteria I explained a moment ago. Plus, it’s a sink; I use it pretty much a gazillion times a day. I have the kind of drain with the little lever that you pull up to close it, rather than the kind with the grate in the base of the sink. The thingy-do that closes the drain does not come out of the sink; it is attached somehow, using some sort of algorithm that is beyond my comprehension, so it isn’t like I could just pull it out of the sink and start digging around. I did attempt to use my lesser pair of tweezers to extract a clump of something, but it wasn't not long enough to find the blockage.
I got one of those cheap dry cleaner hangers, the metal ones with the tube of cardboard where the pants hang or sweaters are folded. I removed the cardboard tube, straightened out the hanger arm, stuck the hooked end into the sink, and jimmied it up and down. I pulled the hanger out, and nothing happened. I tried again, on the other side of the drain-blocking thing, ramming the hanger in as far as it could go and moving it around. This time when I pulled it out, a huge clod of hair and slime and mold came out on the hooked end. Encouraged, I stuck it in a third time, twisting it a little, and dislodged another small clot.
My husband walked into the bathroom and asked me what I was doing.
“I just gave the sink an abortion!” I said proudly, pointing to the clog that I had flung on the side of the porcelain basin.
“That’s nasty,” he said.
I turned the water on, watching it flow freely through the drain.
“I did it,” I said proudly. “I fixed my own sink!”
“Cool,” he answered nonchalantly. “Now I don’t have to take that drain apart.”
I wiped the clump out of my sink with a wad of paper towels and turned the water on higher, delighted that the sink did not fill up with water.
It turns out that wire hangers have a purpose after all, other than playing Joan Crawford. It also turns out that I don’t have to rely on my husband to fix everything around the house, but for the love of God, don’t tell him that. Everyone needs to be needed, and I am pretty sure there is something wrong with the toilet in the laundry room.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Do You Like Your Princess Like You Like Your Coffee?
Can you name all the Disney princesses? They are easy to remember if you separate them by old school and new school. Did I say separate? I meant to say segregate.
Let’s go old school for a minute. There’s Snow White, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty, all of whom had a pretty tough upbringing for a bunch of pretty white women. Think about it: Snow White had a price on her head, Cinderella lived like a slave, and Sleeping Beauty was cursed from birth. They all lived sad lives, pinning their hopes on being saved by a man, although usually some old fairy or dwarf stepped in and changed their fate before the prince rode in and got the credit for it.
The 1990’s brought a new group of princesses whose lives had less to do with the men that saved them and more to do with creating their own destinies. Ariel, who was really just a spoiled teenage brat, had the hots for some man, and disobeyed her father so she could get laid, or was it legs? “Beauty and the Beast” came out next, with the first princess who didn’t start out as royalty. Belle at least was respectful of her father, so respectful that she was willing to risk her life for his, trading places with him to be the Beast’s captive while Daddy walked away a free man. Again, like the old school princesses, Ariel and Belle each found love with a prince and lived happily ever after.
Then Disney felt the pressure of affirmative action. Jasmine, the Arabic love interest of Aladdin, was a princess with a good head on her shoulders, yet she still fell in love with a pauper who conned his way into her heart. Pocahontas, the Native American daughter of a tribal chief, got about as much attention as actual Native Americans, even though she had a skimpy little outfit with her boobies jutting out and, oh, some good songs. And don’t forget Mulan. She had it all. She was an Asian cross dresser who saved China, a nation that would have preferred to leave her on a rock to die from exposure or put her up for adoption by a childless American couple in their forties. Every time I watch that movie I want to eat an egg roll.
Now, Disney is smart enough to know that in today’s anti-immigration climate, it doesn’t make sense to introduce a Hispanic princess. They decided black was more politically correct than Latino, considering we have a black president and all. So they rolled out the latest princess, Tiana, who sounds more like a Russian princess than a New Orleans gal, if you ask me. She didn’t even want to be a princess, and now that I think about it, I don’t really remember how she got sucked into the whole frog transformation thing. I remember there was some gospel sounding music, and some voodoo, but other than that, her story was a big $10 nap. The point is that America was ready for a black princess, so Disney gave us one, and added another skin tone to the marketing color wheel.
Which brings us back to Walt Disney World. No matter what theme park you attend, you have the opportunity to meet and greet some of your favorite Disney characters. At Hollywood Studios and Animal Kingdom, most of those characters are either old favorites like Mickey, Minnie, Donald, and Goofy or gender neutral popular ones, like the cast from Playhouse Disney or Toy Story. If you go to the Magic Kingdom or Epcot, however, you can score a little princess action. They have princess dining experiences at both parks where you can meet your favorite white princesses or even a half fish/half white princess. But try finding a princess of color at either place, and you will waste all the time you saved getting fast passes.
As you may recall, my family just went to Walt Disney World over the Thanksgiving holiday. My daughter S loved “The Princess and the Frog” and very much wanted to see Tiana. We are not one of those families who will wait in line to meet characters and get autographs unless the lines are short. My daughters even make their own autograph books and bring a free hotel pen with them, because they know their dad and I don’t want to waste our time and money getting signatures from unknown women who best fit in the costumes. But every time we found some princesses, they were all white as, well, snow.
S asked about Tiana every time we passed one of those yellow shirted Disney character escorts, but no one knew where she was. She tried looking in the windows at the Ashkerhaus at Norway in Epcot. She even waited for a second round of princesses at Cinderella’s castle, but alas, it was the same story there. No Tiana. And then, in our last hour at the Magic Kingdom, in between Main Street USA and Adventureland, in a little out of the way gazebo on the wrong side of the tracks, we found her. Princess Tiana, the second class princess, was standing in the cold, with a short line of black children waiting patiently to meet her.
“See?” I told S, “there she is! I knew they would have her somewhere. I just didn’t think we would have to search for four days to find her.”
“Can I meet her?” S asked.
“No. Are you crazy? We aren’t waiting in that line.” And that was the end of that.
My prediction for the next one? Indian. As in India Indian. I am sure there is a rich fairy tale or two that can be told from that rich cultural history, and the costumes they can sell will be amazing. Plus, it will be less controversial than a Jewish American Princess, don’t you think?
Let’s go old school for a minute. There’s Snow White, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty, all of whom had a pretty tough upbringing for a bunch of pretty white women. Think about it: Snow White had a price on her head, Cinderella lived like a slave, and Sleeping Beauty was cursed from birth. They all lived sad lives, pinning their hopes on being saved by a man, although usually some old fairy or dwarf stepped in and changed their fate before the prince rode in and got the credit for it.
The 1990’s brought a new group of princesses whose lives had less to do with the men that saved them and more to do with creating their own destinies. Ariel, who was really just a spoiled teenage brat, had the hots for some man, and disobeyed her father so she could get laid, or was it legs? “Beauty and the Beast” came out next, with the first princess who didn’t start out as royalty. Belle at least was respectful of her father, so respectful that she was willing to risk her life for his, trading places with him to be the Beast’s captive while Daddy walked away a free man. Again, like the old school princesses, Ariel and Belle each found love with a prince and lived happily ever after.
Then Disney felt the pressure of affirmative action. Jasmine, the Arabic love interest of Aladdin, was a princess with a good head on her shoulders, yet she still fell in love with a pauper who conned his way into her heart. Pocahontas, the Native American daughter of a tribal chief, got about as much attention as actual Native Americans, even though she had a skimpy little outfit with her boobies jutting out and, oh, some good songs. And don’t forget Mulan. She had it all. She was an Asian cross dresser who saved China, a nation that would have preferred to leave her on a rock to die from exposure or put her up for adoption by a childless American couple in their forties. Every time I watch that movie I want to eat an egg roll.
Now, Disney is smart enough to know that in today’s anti-immigration climate, it doesn’t make sense to introduce a Hispanic princess. They decided black was more politically correct than Latino, considering we have a black president and all. So they rolled out the latest princess, Tiana, who sounds more like a Russian princess than a New Orleans gal, if you ask me. She didn’t even want to be a princess, and now that I think about it, I don’t really remember how she got sucked into the whole frog transformation thing. I remember there was some gospel sounding music, and some voodoo, but other than that, her story was a big $10 nap. The point is that America was ready for a black princess, so Disney gave us one, and added another skin tone to the marketing color wheel.
Which brings us back to Walt Disney World. No matter what theme park you attend, you have the opportunity to meet and greet some of your favorite Disney characters. At Hollywood Studios and Animal Kingdom, most of those characters are either old favorites like Mickey, Minnie, Donald, and Goofy or gender neutral popular ones, like the cast from Playhouse Disney or Toy Story. If you go to the Magic Kingdom or Epcot, however, you can score a little princess action. They have princess dining experiences at both parks where you can meet your favorite white princesses or even a half fish/half white princess. But try finding a princess of color at either place, and you will waste all the time you saved getting fast passes.
As you may recall, my family just went to Walt Disney World over the Thanksgiving holiday. My daughter S loved “The Princess and the Frog” and very much wanted to see Tiana. We are not one of those families who will wait in line to meet characters and get autographs unless the lines are short. My daughters even make their own autograph books and bring a free hotel pen with them, because they know their dad and I don’t want to waste our time and money getting signatures from unknown women who best fit in the costumes. But every time we found some princesses, they were all white as, well, snow.
S asked about Tiana every time we passed one of those yellow shirted Disney character escorts, but no one knew where she was. She tried looking in the windows at the Ashkerhaus at Norway in Epcot. She even waited for a second round of princesses at Cinderella’s castle, but alas, it was the same story there. No Tiana. And then, in our last hour at the Magic Kingdom, in between Main Street USA and Adventureland, in a little out of the way gazebo on the wrong side of the tracks, we found her. Princess Tiana, the second class princess, was standing in the cold, with a short line of black children waiting patiently to meet her.
“See?” I told S, “there she is! I knew they would have her somewhere. I just didn’t think we would have to search for four days to find her.”
“Can I meet her?” S asked.
“No. Are you crazy? We aren’t waiting in that line.” And that was the end of that.
My prediction for the next one? Indian. As in India Indian. I am sure there is a rich fairy tale or two that can be told from that rich cultural history, and the costumes they can sell will be amazing. Plus, it will be less controversial than a Jewish American Princess, don’t you think?
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Hang 'Em High
You never know what you are going to get with a play date. You throw a couple of kids together, their little cogs spinning, that unbridled imagination, and usually something you never would have expected happens.
Once, when my eleven year old daughter E was about three and a half, she was playing at a friend’s house. The other mom and I had poured generous glasses of wine for ourselves and sat downstairs to talk. While we were busy with that, the girls played alone upstairs, which looking back was probably a major lapse in judgment. By the time that play date was over, my friend’s daughter wore a diaper, expertly put on by my daughter, who unbeknownst to us had taken a big dump in the potty chair, you know, the kind that sit on the floor with no water or flushing mechanism? She didn’t mention it to anyone, and my friend didn’t discover it until about four hours later, when the entire upstairs of her house reeked of old turd.
Once, when my eleven year old daughter E was about three and a half, she was playing at a friend’s house. The other mom and I had poured generous glasses of wine for ourselves and sat downstairs to talk. While we were busy with that, the girls played alone upstairs, which looking back was probably a major lapse in judgment. By the time that play date was over, my friend’s daughter wore a diaper, expertly put on by my daughter, who unbeknownst to us had taken a big dump in the potty chair, you know, the kind that sit on the floor with no water or flushing mechanism? She didn’t mention it to anyone, and my friend didn’t discover it until about four hours later, when the entire upstairs of her house reeked of old turd.
Nowadays, what with my daughters being older and all, I don’t have to worry much about unannounced bowel movements and amateur diapering. Instead, play dates seem to involve a lot of skits, songs, and plays, all of which I remind me of why these kids need a good strong education and a career path. Still, every once in a while, I get treated to a little burst of inspiration that makes me wonder what the hell were those kids thinking.
“Hey, Mom, look at this!” my daughter, S, yelled at me from the second floor. She and her friend, KB, had been playing quietly up there, perhaps too quietly.
We have a balcony that overlooks the downstairs family room. I glanced up, and hanging over the railing, from what looked like poorly tied nooses, were two of S’s Build-A-Bear stuffed animals. One was a monkey wearing a dress, and the other was Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer. The monkey was swinging in the breeze, while Rudolph looked like his neck snapped from the weight of his body hanging. His nose was still glowing. I have heard that when a man dies sometimes he will get an erection at the moment of death, but I didn’t realize it applied to Rudolph’s nose as well.
“What did they do wrong?” I asked her.
“What do you mean?” S said. She is a child of the 21st century, and therefore doesn’t know a lynching reference when she sees one.
“What was their crime? Why were they sentenced to hang to the death?” I tried again.
“They aren’t dead, Miss B,” S’s friend told me.
“They aren’t? Have you checked Rudolph’s pulse? He looks pretty dead to me."
“Mom, stop it,” S said. “They aren’t dead. They are flying.”
“Just Rudolph,” KB said. “Cause reindeers fly.”
“Of course he is. But what about the monkey? Unless she one of those flying monkeys from “The Wizard of Oz. Those are the only monkeys I know that can fly.”
“No, she isn’t flying. She is swinging from a tree. On a vine,” S added.
They didn’t look like they were flying and swinging to me, but maybe that was what was going through their minds when they saw the bright light. Isn’t that all that matters? That they died happy?
I’m not complaining, mind you. They didn’t go through my stuff looking for my giant bras and vibrators. They didn’t play with my make-up and break my lipstick. They didn’t dress up in my high heels. They didn’t spray what was left of my discontinued favorite perfume on each other and waste it. All they did was dangle a couple of Build-A-Bears from some homemade gallows. They didn’t dismember them or drag them ten miles down the road, so it’s all good, right? And the best part? They are old enough to remember to flush a toilet.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Turn the Other Cheek
My friend MJ is pregnant, and I couldn’t be happier for her and her baby daddy. MJ is one of those rare human specimens, built like two percent of the population. At almost six feet tall and hovering somewhere between a size two and a size four, MJ has a model’s body, very different from my own troll physique. Secretly, I am thrilled she is preggers because I can’t wait to see what a bowling ball is going to look like on her frame. MJ is not as thrilled about that part. She called me the other morning in a snit.
“What do you want, ho?” I greeted her warmly on the phone.
“I have a stretch mark on my ass!” she whined in my ear.
MJ’s ass is, or was, a thing of perfection. Never before was an ass made to wear a thong, if anything at all, and display it for all the world to see. Understanding how rare a perfect ass is, MJ was never one to keep it to herself. I encouraged her exhibitionistic ways by giving her fabulous panties as gifts, panties that were meant to be flashed. I could see how a stretch mark on her booty would upset her.
“I hate to break it to you, but you already had a stretch mark on your ass,” I replied.
It’s true; she did, as most women above age fifteen do. Our bodies grew faster than the skin could accommodate. Granted, you have to look for her stretch marks with a magnifying glass and a bright light, as opposed to my cellulite, which, much like a crater on the moon, can be seen with the naked eye from about 238,000 miles away.
“Yeah, but this is a new one, and it’s red, and you can see it. What should I do about it?” she said.
“Why are you asking your fat friend what to do about a stretch mark?” I asked. “Google it!”
The last thing I know how to fix is a stretch mark. Want to know how to bake a cake? I’m your girl. Need me to pick up your kids from school and feed them? No problem. Want me to organize your class party with a budget of $14.73 in loose change and an old paper clip? Done and done. But keeping a perfect ass perfect? You are on your own.
“You’re no help!” she sounded desperate.
“No, I’m not,” I agreed. “Good luck with that.”
Maybe I should have been more helpful. Would I let Mt. Rushmore erode? Would I fill in the Grand Canyon? Would I dam up Niagara Falls? A thing of beauty should be preserved for future generations. Except I am not envious of those natural wonders.
So long, perfect ass.
“What do you want, ho?” I greeted her warmly on the phone.
“I have a stretch mark on my ass!” she whined in my ear.
MJ’s ass is, or was, a thing of perfection. Never before was an ass made to wear a thong, if anything at all, and display it for all the world to see. Understanding how rare a perfect ass is, MJ was never one to keep it to herself. I encouraged her exhibitionistic ways by giving her fabulous panties as gifts, panties that were meant to be flashed. I could see how a stretch mark on her booty would upset her.
“I hate to break it to you, but you already had a stretch mark on your ass,” I replied.
It’s true; she did, as most women above age fifteen do. Our bodies grew faster than the skin could accommodate. Granted, you have to look for her stretch marks with a magnifying glass and a bright light, as opposed to my cellulite, which, much like a crater on the moon, can be seen with the naked eye from about 238,000 miles away.
“Yeah, but this is a new one, and it’s red, and you can see it. What should I do about it?” she said.
“Why are you asking your fat friend what to do about a stretch mark?” I asked. “Google it!”
The last thing I know how to fix is a stretch mark. Want to know how to bake a cake? I’m your girl. Need me to pick up your kids from school and feed them? No problem. Want me to organize your class party with a budget of $14.73 in loose change and an old paper clip? Done and done. But keeping a perfect ass perfect? You are on your own.
“You’re no help!” she sounded desperate.
“No, I’m not,” I agreed. “Good luck with that.”
Maybe I should have been more helpful. Would I let Mt. Rushmore erode? Would I fill in the Grand Canyon? Would I dam up Niagara Falls? A thing of beauty should be preserved for future generations. Except I am not envious of those natural wonders.
So long, perfect ass.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
10 Items or Less
I stopped at Publix the other day to pick up a loaf of bread to take to a friend’s house for dinner. I got in line behind an older woman who had a single bottle of white wine. I say older, meaning older than me, maybe in her sixties. I realize that a woman twenty years my junior could very well say the same thing about me (I got in line behind an older woman with a single loaf of challah).
Anyway, I was in line with my single item, and the woman was being chatted up by the older (there’s that word again) male cashier. He had a lovely Irish accent, very melodious and pleasant to hear. After the woman finished paying for her wine, he told her to enjoy her wine, and she got her back and left.
“Of course she is going to enjoy it. It’s wine. How could she not?” I joked with the cashier.
“You have a point,” he said, scanning my bread. “Maybe she is an alcoholic though. Maybe she has to drink it just to get through the day. Maybe she doesn’t like it at all; she just has to have it. That’s $3.17 for the bread.”
“That may be true,” I agreed. “Except she only had one bottle, and it looked pretty good. Not like Mad Dog or anything.” I dug through my wallet and found exact change, which I handed to the cashier. “Which goes back to her enjoying the wine, since she has good taste and is not drinking in excess.”
“Another good point, but what if she is taking to a friend’s house because she is getting divorced? Or because someone died?” He handed me my receipt.
“God forbid,” I said. “She looked too happy for that. I am going with she will enjoy it. I know I would.”
“Here you go,” he said to me, holding up my loaf of bread. “Enjoy your bread.”
“Oh, this? It’s not for me. I don‘t eat bread,” I said.
Anyway, I was in line with my single item, and the woman was being chatted up by the older (there’s that word again) male cashier. He had a lovely Irish accent, very melodious and pleasant to hear. After the woman finished paying for her wine, he told her to enjoy her wine, and she got her back and left.
“Of course she is going to enjoy it. It’s wine. How could she not?” I joked with the cashier.
“You have a point,” he said, scanning my bread. “Maybe she is an alcoholic though. Maybe she has to drink it just to get through the day. Maybe she doesn’t like it at all; she just has to have it. That’s $3.17 for the bread.”
“That may be true,” I agreed. “Except she only had one bottle, and it looked pretty good. Not like Mad Dog or anything.” I dug through my wallet and found exact change, which I handed to the cashier. “Which goes back to her enjoying the wine, since she has good taste and is not drinking in excess.”
“Another good point, but what if she is taking to a friend’s house because she is getting divorced? Or because someone died?” He handed me my receipt.
“God forbid,” I said. “She looked too happy for that. I am going with she will enjoy it. I know I would.”
“Here you go,” he said to me, holding up my loaf of bread. “Enjoy your bread.”
“Oh, this? It’s not for me. I don‘t eat bread,” I said.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
It's The Thought That Counts, and the Count is Up to Seventeen
I don’t remember giving my teachers gifts for the holidays when I was in school. I might have made a card or drew a picture for one that I particularly liked, but it never occurred to me that gifts were to be given to teachers. My mother certainly never made an effort to show any appreciation to my teachers for such a tough job. They chose to become teachers, knowing that the pay sucked and that most of the students cared barely more than their apathetic parents.
Teaching is a thankless job, like garbage collecting and water treatment. My kids don’t understand why we don’t pay people more to do the things we don’t want to do ourselves. I have tried explaining that it has to do with levels of skill and education, but I see their point. I don’t want to scoop used condoms and dead fish out of my drinking water, in the same way that I don’t want to make sure my daughters know how to do long division or memorize the periodic elements. Maybe we should pay people more to do the truly horrible stuff. We could get some of that income from, say, Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian, two people who seem to be compensated way more than their skill set deserves.
Since my daughters have been in school, I have learned that presents for teachers are not just a nice gesture; they are an expected little bonus, like the now twenty percent tip that servers to compensate for their shitty wages. I am happy to do it, really, because at the end of the day, these men and women have an impact on my children. They teach them so much more than grammar and multiplication tables, and they deserve a bit of thanks. I make an effort to get more than an apple coffee mug or some note cards with rulers and chalkboards on them. I get them things they might want, like gift cards for coffee and restaurants or candy that people actually want to eat. I pay attention to the things they like or want, and when the holidays roll around, I make an effort to please them, because it’s the thought that counts, or so I hear. If I was really going to be thoughtful, I should give them each a can of mace and a taser.
While I am happy to honor the teachers in my children’s life, at some point, I need to draw the line. Why is that, you might ask? Well, it’s simple, really. My children don’t just have one teacher each, you see. They have many teachers, and many activities, and many people who we need to thank and recognize. I sat down and made a list of just how many, and it came to seventeen.
Seventeen. There’s the fifth grade teacher (1), the challenge/gifted teacher (2), the art teacher who does the after school program that E auditioned for (3), the third grade teacher (4), the third grade teacher’s assistant (5), the computer teacher(6), the French teacher (7), the third grade art teacher (8), the administrator of the small private school where S is a student (9), the administrator’s assistant (10), the piano teacher (11), the guitar teacher (12), the tennis coach (13), and the ballet and jazz teachers (14), (15), and (16).
I made a master list, including each teacher by name, and E reminded me of her bus driver (17) since that too is a thankless job.
“Don’t forget Miss Diane,” she said. Every adult in the South has a Miss, Mrs. or Mr. in front of his or her first name, as a sign of respect. It’s confusing when it comes to your friends, but it keeps you from sounding like your mother in law.
“Who’s Miss Diane?” I asked, as I had never before heard that name.
“She’s my bus driver,” E said.
“I have her down already,” I said, showing her the list. “See? Bus driver.”
“Well, she has a name, and it’s Miss Diane,” E answered back.
“Not if it isn’t on the list,” I said.
I want to write “To Bus Driver” on her gift, just because she wound up as number seventeen on the list of too many people to thank, which seems like fifteen too many. Maybe next year we’ll kick it old school. I’ll buy a big bag of apples and the girls will shine them on their pinafores and present them to their teachers. Here you go for a job well done, a pay freeze and a dirty piece of fruit.
So if your gift is late or not up to your standards, don’t blame me. Blame those seventeen (17) teachers. Or the wise men. They are the ones who started this whole gift thing anyway. How wise was that?
Teaching is a thankless job, like garbage collecting and water treatment. My kids don’t understand why we don’t pay people more to do the things we don’t want to do ourselves. I have tried explaining that it has to do with levels of skill and education, but I see their point. I don’t want to scoop used condoms and dead fish out of my drinking water, in the same way that I don’t want to make sure my daughters know how to do long division or memorize the periodic elements. Maybe we should pay people more to do the truly horrible stuff. We could get some of that income from, say, Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian, two people who seem to be compensated way more than their skill set deserves.
Since my daughters have been in school, I have learned that presents for teachers are not just a nice gesture; they are an expected little bonus, like the now twenty percent tip that servers to compensate for their shitty wages. I am happy to do it, really, because at the end of the day, these men and women have an impact on my children. They teach them so much more than grammar and multiplication tables, and they deserve a bit of thanks. I make an effort to get more than an apple coffee mug or some note cards with rulers and chalkboards on them. I get them things they might want, like gift cards for coffee and restaurants or candy that people actually want to eat. I pay attention to the things they like or want, and when the holidays roll around, I make an effort to please them, because it’s the thought that counts, or so I hear. If I was really going to be thoughtful, I should give them each a can of mace and a taser.
While I am happy to honor the teachers in my children’s life, at some point, I need to draw the line. Why is that, you might ask? Well, it’s simple, really. My children don’t just have one teacher each, you see. They have many teachers, and many activities, and many people who we need to thank and recognize. I sat down and made a list of just how many, and it came to seventeen.
Seventeen. There’s the fifth grade teacher (1), the challenge/gifted teacher (2), the art teacher who does the after school program that E auditioned for (3), the third grade teacher (4), the third grade teacher’s assistant (5), the computer teacher(6), the French teacher (7), the third grade art teacher (8), the administrator of the small private school where S is a student (9), the administrator’s assistant (10), the piano teacher (11), the guitar teacher (12), the tennis coach (13), and the ballet and jazz teachers (14), (15), and (16).
I made a master list, including each teacher by name, and E reminded me of her bus driver (17) since that too is a thankless job.
“Don’t forget Miss Diane,” she said. Every adult in the South has a Miss, Mrs. or Mr. in front of his or her first name, as a sign of respect. It’s confusing when it comes to your friends, but it keeps you from sounding like your mother in law.
“Who’s Miss Diane?” I asked, as I had never before heard that name.
“She’s my bus driver,” E said.
“I have her down already,” I said, showing her the list. “See? Bus driver.”
“Well, she has a name, and it’s Miss Diane,” E answered back.
“Not if it isn’t on the list,” I said.
I want to write “To Bus Driver” on her gift, just because she wound up as number seventeen on the list of too many people to thank, which seems like fifteen too many. Maybe next year we’ll kick it old school. I’ll buy a big bag of apples and the girls will shine them on their pinafores and present them to their teachers. Here you go for a job well done, a pay freeze and a dirty piece of fruit.
So if your gift is late or not up to your standards, don’t blame me. Blame those seventeen (17) teachers. Or the wise men. They are the ones who started this whole gift thing anyway. How wise was that?
Monday, December 6, 2010
Under the Boardwalk
Does this count as the first or the second blog of the twelve blogs of Christmas? Math, including counting, was never one of my special skills. So who wants a little story from Disney? Okay, kids, gather round.
Disney World has often been thought of as a magical place, unlike anywhere else in the real world, and for the most part, I agree. My family and I love to go to Disney, and we have a relatively new tradition to go there for Thanksgiving. Every year, we yank our children out of school and take off the whole week to spend in sunny Orlando, where dreams come true. It started as an excuse to not spend the holiday with my crazy mother, who liked to up the nutbag ante every year, to the point where none of my extended family chooses to spend Thanksgiving together, just so we don’t have to spend it with her. When, at six or seven, my daughter E told me she hated Thanksgiving, I knew I had to come up with some way to make it fun instead of dysfunctional. What’s more fun than going to Disney World, I ask you?
You may not feel the same, but I love Disney. I love the hotels, piss poor values that they may be. I love each of the theme parks in their own way. I love to go to the different restaurants, ride the rides, look in all the stores, and especially people watch. If you took any one aspect of Disney, though, and looked at it individually, no doubt you would want your hundreds of dollars back. What we tolerate in that magical world we would never settle for in the real one.
Let’s start with the hotels, which are far from perfect. The rooms are relatively small, Internet access is not included, the towels and water pressure are shitty, and every other television channel is an infomercial for Disney. I’m already at your property, so stop selling it to me. Every year that we go down to Disney, we like to stay at a different hotel. We mostly stick to the deluxe ones, since my husband is 6’2” and takes up most of a double bed on his own. The deluxe hotels are the only ones with queen sized beds, and at Disney prices, we can’t really spring for two rooms, so we cram ourselves all in one room and then fight over who has to sleep with whom.
Unfortunately, I am very popular as a bed partner in my family. Everyone wants to sleep with me. I usually don’t snore, I don’t require an entourage of stuffed animals, and there is little risk of a Dutch oven on my side of the bed. Quite frankly, I don’t care which family member chooses to sleep with me, as long as I don’t get kicked too much or have mouth breathing right in my face. The constant bickering over it, however, is more than a little annoying.
The hotel themes are the essence of Disney magic though, and that’s where the added value comes in. This year we stayed at the Boardwalk Inn, which is like a beach resort in the Northeast, circa 1920’s. The lobby had the right amount of old fashioned beachy details, down to the replica of the wooden roller coaster and the knickers worn by the bellmen. You almost expected to see men with handlebar mustaches escort women in long woolen bathing suits down to the shore.
I loved it. The rooms themselves were nothing special, and since we didn’t feel like paying extra each night for a good view, ours was of a service road behind the hotel. We had plenty of pillows and even a towel sculpture of a Mickey head, because if it’s good enough for Carnival Cruise Lines, then it’s good enough for Disney. Outside the hotel was a boardwalk complete with restaurants, bars, shops, and even a surrey bike rental. More on that another day and another blog. The best part of the property, without question, was the swimming pool.
Each hotel has a quiet pool for old people and an over the top killer pool for the rest of us. At Coronado Springs, it looks like a Mayan temple. At the Polynesian Hotel, it has a volcano. At the Boardwalk, the pool had sculptures of elephants and the carousel bar, only without horses you could ride, although that would have been a nice touch. The best part was the water slide that looked like an old fashioned wooden roller coaster. At the bottom, where you land in the water, you first passed through a Bozo the clown type face, complete with creepy eyes, curly red hair, and a big pink tongue. The morning we decided to go swimming was the day we flew home, and the air was a chilly seventy degrees. All the Disney pools are heated, which make them bearable for Yankees but still too cold for normal Southerners.
It wasn’t too cold for children, unfortunately, which meant that my husband and I shivered in the water at the bottom of the slide while our girls took turns slipping down that creepy clown’s tongue. My husband commented that it looked like they were being born, and we joked that I should have had a makeover down there for childbirth, just for giggles.
If any of you readers are knocked up, maybe you might want to try it. Dye those pubes bright orange, get them nice and curly, and draw on some clown eyes, maybe add a red nose and some exaggerated clown lips on your, well, you know. Imagine your delivering doctor’s surprise to see you push a baby right out of a clown face. Just maybe, if your doctor is a big Disney fan, he or she might say, “Hey, your snatch reminds me of that slide at the Boardwalk Inn!”
Making memories. Isn’t that what it’s all about?
Disney World has often been thought of as a magical place, unlike anywhere else in the real world, and for the most part, I agree. My family and I love to go to Disney, and we have a relatively new tradition to go there for Thanksgiving. Every year, we yank our children out of school and take off the whole week to spend in sunny Orlando, where dreams come true. It started as an excuse to not spend the holiday with my crazy mother, who liked to up the nutbag ante every year, to the point where none of my extended family chooses to spend Thanksgiving together, just so we don’t have to spend it with her. When, at six or seven, my daughter E told me she hated Thanksgiving, I knew I had to come up with some way to make it fun instead of dysfunctional. What’s more fun than going to Disney World, I ask you?
You may not feel the same, but I love Disney. I love the hotels, piss poor values that they may be. I love each of the theme parks in their own way. I love to go to the different restaurants, ride the rides, look in all the stores, and especially people watch. If you took any one aspect of Disney, though, and looked at it individually, no doubt you would want your hundreds of dollars back. What we tolerate in that magical world we would never settle for in the real one.
Let’s start with the hotels, which are far from perfect. The rooms are relatively small, Internet access is not included, the towels and water pressure are shitty, and every other television channel is an infomercial for Disney. I’m already at your property, so stop selling it to me. Every year that we go down to Disney, we like to stay at a different hotel. We mostly stick to the deluxe ones, since my husband is 6’2” and takes up most of a double bed on his own. The deluxe hotels are the only ones with queen sized beds, and at Disney prices, we can’t really spring for two rooms, so we cram ourselves all in one room and then fight over who has to sleep with whom.
Unfortunately, I am very popular as a bed partner in my family. Everyone wants to sleep with me. I usually don’t snore, I don’t require an entourage of stuffed animals, and there is little risk of a Dutch oven on my side of the bed. Quite frankly, I don’t care which family member chooses to sleep with me, as long as I don’t get kicked too much or have mouth breathing right in my face. The constant bickering over it, however, is more than a little annoying.
The hotel themes are the essence of Disney magic though, and that’s where the added value comes in. This year we stayed at the Boardwalk Inn, which is like a beach resort in the Northeast, circa 1920’s. The lobby had the right amount of old fashioned beachy details, down to the replica of the wooden roller coaster and the knickers worn by the bellmen. You almost expected to see men with handlebar mustaches escort women in long woolen bathing suits down to the shore.
I loved it. The rooms themselves were nothing special, and since we didn’t feel like paying extra each night for a good view, ours was of a service road behind the hotel. We had plenty of pillows and even a towel sculpture of a Mickey head, because if it’s good enough for Carnival Cruise Lines, then it’s good enough for Disney. Outside the hotel was a boardwalk complete with restaurants, bars, shops, and even a surrey bike rental. More on that another day and another blog. The best part of the property, without question, was the swimming pool.
Each hotel has a quiet pool for old people and an over the top killer pool for the rest of us. At Coronado Springs, it looks like a Mayan temple. At the Polynesian Hotel, it has a volcano. At the Boardwalk, the pool had sculptures of elephants and the carousel bar, only without horses you could ride, although that would have been a nice touch. The best part was the water slide that looked like an old fashioned wooden roller coaster. At the bottom, where you land in the water, you first passed through a Bozo the clown type face, complete with creepy eyes, curly red hair, and a big pink tongue. The morning we decided to go swimming was the day we flew home, and the air was a chilly seventy degrees. All the Disney pools are heated, which make them bearable for Yankees but still too cold for normal Southerners.
It wasn’t too cold for children, unfortunately, which meant that my husband and I shivered in the water at the bottom of the slide while our girls took turns slipping down that creepy clown’s tongue. My husband commented that it looked like they were being born, and we joked that I should have had a makeover down there for childbirth, just for giggles.
If any of you readers are knocked up, maybe you might want to try it. Dye those pubes bright orange, get them nice and curly, and draw on some clown eyes, maybe add a red nose and some exaggerated clown lips on your, well, you know. Imagine your delivering doctor’s surprise to see you push a baby right out of a clown face. Just maybe, if your doctor is a big Disney fan, he or she might say, “Hey, your snatch reminds me of that slide at the Boardwalk Inn!”
Making memories. Isn’t that what it’s all about?
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
The 12 Blogs of Christmas
Well, as you probably have noticed, my ability to produce amusing stories for you has been severely limited as of late. Now, I know it would seem that if I put down the television remote and the fancy box of chocolates, I would have all the time in the world to regale you with bon mots. Not so. I am in fact busy as hell, and while I frequently have "post to blog" on the to-do list, it is the one thing that consistently is sacrificed to the rest of the banal chores and errands. Top it all off with last week's family escape to Walt Disney World for Thanksgiving, and even you can admit that I might have had a thing or two more pressing than typing up 1,000 words to delight you.
But hey, it's the holiday season. Who doesn't want a little treat or two or twelve? So, my plan is to share a few vignettes from Thanksgiving, the week of S's Nutcracker practice, or whatever else happens between now and the anniversary of the birth of Your Savior. That's right; I will attempt to have something coherent and hopefully funny to say twelve times in the next twenty-five days. On no particular subject, and in no particular order, but what do you want, exactly? It's free, and if you have an iPad, you are probably reading it on the toilet anyway (yes, MJ, I do mean you).
Let's start with the twelve days of Christmas, shall we? If I gave a shit, and I don't, I would Google why twelve days, and what's with all the birds and servants? Sounds like a medieval feast to me, which might explain the almost fortnight part of the song. And you know those folks were drinking their fair share of mead, ale, and grog. Maybe "The Twelve Days of Christmas" is really a drinking song. It's the "100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" of the holiday season, both because of its length and because no sober person wants to sing it the whole way through.
This morning, in between brushing teeth and tying shoelaces, my daughter S and I, who both enjoy singing to our crazy cats, created our new version of "The Twelve Days." I have no doubt that at one time or another, every household in America has come up with its own lyrics to this holiday classic that delight them and perhaps even make singing that God-awful song more bearable. Today's version involved replacing certain words with the word "cat."
It went something like this:
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, a cat stuck in a pear tree.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, two turtle cats...
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, three French cats....
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, four calling cats...
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, five golden cats...
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, six cats a'laying...
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...
Actually, we didn't go any further with it. I couldn't remember how many cats were leaping and milking and laying and a'swimming, and it was time to go to school, and we weren't drinking, so we kind of fizzled out. Even the cats grew tired of the song and walked out of the bathroom, where all good singing takes place, as you know.
Sometimes, when we sing to the cats and we can't remember the words, we just meow instead of humming. We do it often enough that I find myself meowing along while grocery shopping or at the Home Depot. Cats aren't even allowed in those stores, unless they are seeing eye cats, which are very difficult to train.
It gives new meaning to crazy cat lady, huh?
But hey, it's the holiday season. Who doesn't want a little treat or two or twelve? So, my plan is to share a few vignettes from Thanksgiving, the week of S's Nutcracker practice, or whatever else happens between now and the anniversary of the birth of Your Savior. That's right; I will attempt to have something coherent and hopefully funny to say twelve times in the next twenty-five days. On no particular subject, and in no particular order, but what do you want, exactly? It's free, and if you have an iPad, you are probably reading it on the toilet anyway (yes, MJ, I do mean you).
Let's start with the twelve days of Christmas, shall we? If I gave a shit, and I don't, I would Google why twelve days, and what's with all the birds and servants? Sounds like a medieval feast to me, which might explain the almost fortnight part of the song. And you know those folks were drinking their fair share of mead, ale, and grog. Maybe "The Twelve Days of Christmas" is really a drinking song. It's the "100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" of the holiday season, both because of its length and because no sober person wants to sing it the whole way through.
This morning, in between brushing teeth and tying shoelaces, my daughter S and I, who both enjoy singing to our crazy cats, created our new version of "The Twelve Days." I have no doubt that at one time or another, every household in America has come up with its own lyrics to this holiday classic that delight them and perhaps even make singing that God-awful song more bearable. Today's version involved replacing certain words with the word "cat."
It went something like this:
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, a cat stuck in a pear tree.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, two turtle cats...
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, three French cats....
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, four calling cats...
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, five golden cats...
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, six cats a'laying...
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...
Actually, we didn't go any further with it. I couldn't remember how many cats were leaping and milking and laying and a'swimming, and it was time to go to school, and we weren't drinking, so we kind of fizzled out. Even the cats grew tired of the song and walked out of the bathroom, where all good singing takes place, as you know.
Sometimes, when we sing to the cats and we can't remember the words, we just meow instead of humming. We do it often enough that I find myself meowing along while grocery shopping or at the Home Depot. Cats aren't even allowed in those stores, unless they are seeing eye cats, which are very difficult to train.
It gives new meaning to crazy cat lady, huh?
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