Do you remember playing typewriter when you were a kid? One person would stack their arms, one atop the other, while the other person would pretend to type, the keyboard being those stacked arms. You would type away on those arms, and when you reached the end, you would slap the person’s face as if it were the paper carriage. You pretty much could only play this game once before the other person caught on to the face slapping and would not allow a repeat performance, so the two of you would have to find fresh victims until eventually everyone had been slapped across the face and thus the game was over, until summer camp or a new kid came to school.
Kids today, dagnabit, can’t play typewriter, because they don’t know what a typewriter is, except for obsolete, which it is. It has gone the way of record albums and tape recorders and VHF channels and FM radio, because video killed the radio star,and consequently, they have had to come up with new games to torture one another.
My older daughter, E, got in the car the other afternoon, a little on the giddy side. She has taken to sitting in the front passenger seat, which irritates the living crap out of me. For the past ten years, that passenger seat has been my storage bin,inbox, snack shelf, and coat rack. There is, quite frankly, no room for another human there next to me. I want to banish her to the back of the bus, but she insists on going all Rosa Park on my ass.
But back to the story.
E sat next to me and began her afternoon routine of sharing the day’s news.
“Did you have a good day?” I asked her.
“Not the best. The boys who sit next to me were driving me crazy,” she complained.
She sits next to two boys, at least one of which is a little sweet on her. They like to bug her because A. it is how they shower her with attention, and 2. it is great fun to bug her. She always responds. I am on their side.
“What were they doing?” I asked.
“They wouldn’t stop talking about their balls.”
I wasn’t expecting that answer from my fifth grade child.
“And what were they saying about their balls?” I bravely asked.
“One of them kept complaining about his balls hanging out. Balls, balls, balls. Gross. I finally had to get all teenage complainy and whiny. You know, how I do at home? I never do that at school but I did today because they needed to know how much it bothered me.”
I couldn’t believe she admitted to knowing about her annoying as crap teenage complaining and whining. I also couldn’t believe how comfortable she seemed saying the word balls.
“Did you tell your teacher? Or did they stop?”
“No, they stopped when I acted like I was going to cry. I told my friend on the school bus, though, and she said she understood about bad days because someone gave her a five star this afternoon.”
Now things were getting interesting.Well, as interesting as balls.
“What,” I asked, “is a five star?”
“A five star is when someone slaps you hard with an open palm on your bare skin. It leaves a mark like a big red star.”
I looked at her white thigh on the passenger seat next to me, her too short for school shorts riding up so maximum flesh was exposed.
“You mean like this?” I said, slapping her left thigh hard enough to make a satisfying smack noise.
“Owww!” She shrieked and doubled over her legs.
I laughed. I laughed hard. Her thigh turned bright red, and sure enough, it looked a little like a star.
“Both hands on the steering wheel, Crazytrain!” She yelled at me, rubbing her thigh.
While I don’t like having my 11 year old child in the front seat with me, the opportunity to talk about balls and give her a five star more than makes up for the inconvenience of where to put my purse. And that nice smack sound was pretty good too. And she called me Crazytrain, which was also a treat.
Plus, it makes me think of that Rick James and Charlie Murphy skit from the Dave Chappelle show. And thinking of Dave Chappelle is always a good thing.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Living the Dream
Do you have freaky ass dreams when you are overtired? I do and always have. They are Technicolor fiestas of every weird thing I have seen or heard, like my brain just vomits details into a narrative that no therapist can unravel. Sometimes, my dreams have recurring elements, like my childhood dream of a witch on a broom chasing my brother and me round and round the dome of the planetarium. And I don’t even have a brother! Or the recurring haunted house dream I had after my father passed away, the one that took place at his farm house in Pennsylvania that would morph into any house I had seen or visited in recent days. Those dreams usually involved a cellar or attic and ended before I could see what was doing the haunting. The more tired I am, the more convoluted my dreams become, and the more tired I am when I awake. Last week was exhausting on many different levels for me, and my brain decompensated by treating me to a few doozies.
The most detailed dream that I remember was an epic that lasted all night. It began with Elton John holding a concert in my driveway. He was the old bloated bad Justin Beiber Elton, not the young flamboyant feather festooned Elton.
For the record, I am not an Elton John fan. I don’t have anything against him, except maybe his late 80’s music. I don’t want to see him in concert, but I don’t mind seeing him on an old Muppet Show.
Anyway, not only was he playing music in my driveway, he was recording a video for his new song, “The Big Hair Song.” Catchy title, no? He strummed his guitar (think George Michael playing “Faith”, because I got my queens confused) in my yard while all my neighbors and friends stood around, thrilled to be part of the video. At some point, not only was I watching all this, I was actually filming it. I rode in the back of a truck holding a big movie camera, which then circled around in the street and stopped in front of my house.
I hopped out of the truck and followed Elton down the street, which was no longer my street but now the street where my friend BD lives. As I kept a safe distance from Elton, I noticed a raccoon scurry out of a bush and up to the curb, where he too watched the musician strolling down the street with his guitar. Suddenly, Elton morphed into a wolf in the middle of the road, but not like a werewolf. He was more a metallic robotic wolf, all modern and smooth lines, not a sci-fi robot wolf with nuts and bolts and sheets of metal riveted together. I rushed up BD’s walk to tell her to come outside, that Elton John was on her street and turned into a wolf and she needed to see it. Before I could knock on the door, BD rushed out of her house, only she wasn’t herself, she was an Afghan hound. She ran over to Elton, where they proceeded to sniff each other’s butts like dogs do when they say hello.
After this display of dog on metal wolf action, I walked back to my house, the crowd dissipating somewhat. BD, now in her human form, was there, along with my gym friend SF. SF is originally from Peru and a devout Catholic. I spent the rest of my dream trying to convince SF that she was really Jewish because her father was Jewish which meant that she was as good as in. She argued the point over and over that she was raised Catholic, that her mother was Catholic, and that there was no way she was Jewish. I told her it didn’t matter what she thought she was, she was a Jew anyway because her father was, and that no matter what she chose to believe, it didn’t negate the fact that she was a Semite.
And that was the first dream, which left me totally exhausted.
The next night I found myself just as worn out, and I slept the sleep of the disturbed. I had a dream that I visited a new friend’s house. I just met this dude, the father of one of my daughter's classmates, on a field trip with her class, and I had a dream I went to his house because I needed to use the bathroom. He showed me where it was, and instead of being a regular bathroom, a room with a sink, toilet, and shower, it was just a large square of grass surrounded by four glass walls.
I asked him if he intended me to squat and do my business on the indoor lawn patch like a dog, and he assured me he would hose it off when I was through. I squatted low on the grass, my feet flat, and peed, thinking to myself that I sure hope I did not have to do more than that because there was no way I was crapping on this man’s grass. I remember him giving me a little wave while turning his hose on the lawn while I showed myself out of the house, and then I woke up.
I have quite a few dreams about peeing. I don’t know about the clinical interpretation of pee dreams, but the way I see it, my brain is trying to wake me up before I wet the bed. One of my great fears in life is that one day I will be too old to wake up before that happens. I am going to have to sleep in the geriatric version of Huggies Overnites.
I would also like to point out that the above dreams did not occur because of any chemical enhancement. No Ambien, Benedryl, or melatonin was used in the making of these dreams, just my own crazy brain. I don’t know why or how dreams are the way they are, but after a few nights like that, I sure do need some rest.
The most detailed dream that I remember was an epic that lasted all night. It began with Elton John holding a concert in my driveway. He was the old bloated bad Justin Beiber Elton, not the young flamboyant feather festooned Elton.
For the record, I am not an Elton John fan. I don’t have anything against him, except maybe his late 80’s music. I don’t want to see him in concert, but I don’t mind seeing him on an old Muppet Show.
Anyway, not only was he playing music in my driveway, he was recording a video for his new song, “The Big Hair Song.” Catchy title, no? He strummed his guitar (think George Michael playing “Faith”, because I got my queens confused) in my yard while all my neighbors and friends stood around, thrilled to be part of the video. At some point, not only was I watching all this, I was actually filming it. I rode in the back of a truck holding a big movie camera, which then circled around in the street and stopped in front of my house.
I hopped out of the truck and followed Elton down the street, which was no longer my street but now the street where my friend BD lives. As I kept a safe distance from Elton, I noticed a raccoon scurry out of a bush and up to the curb, where he too watched the musician strolling down the street with his guitar. Suddenly, Elton morphed into a wolf in the middle of the road, but not like a werewolf. He was more a metallic robotic wolf, all modern and smooth lines, not a sci-fi robot wolf with nuts and bolts and sheets of metal riveted together. I rushed up BD’s walk to tell her to come outside, that Elton John was on her street and turned into a wolf and she needed to see it. Before I could knock on the door, BD rushed out of her house, only she wasn’t herself, she was an Afghan hound. She ran over to Elton, where they proceeded to sniff each other’s butts like dogs do when they say hello.
After this display of dog on metal wolf action, I walked back to my house, the crowd dissipating somewhat. BD, now in her human form, was there, along with my gym friend SF. SF is originally from Peru and a devout Catholic. I spent the rest of my dream trying to convince SF that she was really Jewish because her father was Jewish which meant that she was as good as in. She argued the point over and over that she was raised Catholic, that her mother was Catholic, and that there was no way she was Jewish. I told her it didn’t matter what she thought she was, she was a Jew anyway because her father was, and that no matter what she chose to believe, it didn’t negate the fact that she was a Semite.
And that was the first dream, which left me totally exhausted.
The next night I found myself just as worn out, and I slept the sleep of the disturbed. I had a dream that I visited a new friend’s house. I just met this dude, the father of one of my daughter's classmates, on a field trip with her class, and I had a dream I went to his house because I needed to use the bathroom. He showed me where it was, and instead of being a regular bathroom, a room with a sink, toilet, and shower, it was just a large square of grass surrounded by four glass walls.
I asked him if he intended me to squat and do my business on the indoor lawn patch like a dog, and he assured me he would hose it off when I was through. I squatted low on the grass, my feet flat, and peed, thinking to myself that I sure hope I did not have to do more than that because there was no way I was crapping on this man’s grass. I remember him giving me a little wave while turning his hose on the lawn while I showed myself out of the house, and then I woke up.
I have quite a few dreams about peeing. I don’t know about the clinical interpretation of pee dreams, but the way I see it, my brain is trying to wake me up before I wet the bed. One of my great fears in life is that one day I will be too old to wake up before that happens. I am going to have to sleep in the geriatric version of Huggies Overnites.
I would also like to point out that the above dreams did not occur because of any chemical enhancement. No Ambien, Benedryl, or melatonin was used in the making of these dreams, just my own crazy brain. I don’t know why or how dreams are the way they are, but after a few nights like that, I sure do need some rest.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
What A Load of Crap
Baby showers are sweet girly events, created to honor the new mother and her little bun in the oven by lavishing her with gifts she never thought she would need, like nipple cream and diaper stench containment systems. Usually, the mom to be is surrounded by her peers, other women who are also having babies or thinking about it, and they all ooh and aah over all the cute little outfits and nod sensibly at the stroller systems and offer up unsolicited advice and childbirth stories of their own, all in an effort to feel more connected to the pregnant guest of honor or to the whole idea of parenting. Sometimes the showers have themes, like teddy bears or baby booties or bottles. It all sounds so innocent, even though it is celebrating someone having sex, which normally doesn’t warrant a party or gifts or innocence, for that matter.
I threw a baby shower for my friend MJ recently, who is just weeks away from exploding with her second child. MJ has an eleven year old daughter, so she’s in desperate need of baby gear, since they have reinvented almost everything at least twice since she last changed a diaper. In those eleven years, she has also, well, aged eleven years. Her shower was not a party with women in the same mommy boat; in fact, the guests at her shower drank glass after glass of pink champagne, secretly thrilled that they weren’t the ones having a baby late in life, having to start over with sleepless nights, thousands of diaper changes, and yes, the terrible twos.
I picked a theme for her shower, one that really speaks to MJ. It was poo. MJ, who is a big fan of body functions in general, is never one to shy away from a poop story. I can’t tell you how many times I have heard how her daughter, as a baby, was able to shoot her poop through the doorway onto the opposite wall, in an amazing feat of baby intestinal strength. For MJ, a good baby poop story is the silver lining in the dark cloud of constant diaper changes. So who better than her to embrace the idea of simultaneously entertaining classy women while grossing them out?
In addition to the lovely hydrangeas that festooned the buffet and coffee tables, I strung tiny newborn diapers on some kitchen twine and swagged it over the mantel, a new form a shabby chic that would have brought a tear to Martha Stewart’s eye. My older daughter E even taped a diaper to the front door so that all the guests would know they had come to the right place.
I had prepared a couple of shower games as well. One of them was guessing the circumference of MJ's pregger belly, using toilet paper instead of something charming like grosgrain ribbon. A roll of toilet paper sat on the sofa console table with some pens so the guests could label their guesses. By the middle of the party, streams of toilet paper hung around the room as if we all expected a mass rush on the bathroom, only to find an empty roll.
The best game, however, was my version of a guess what’s in the diaper game. I read online about putting different kinds of baby food in diapers and having the shower guests identify the flavors. I took it a little further. I used candy bars, five different kinds, and melted them in the microwave before smearing them on those diapers. Snickers, Twix, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Three Musketeers, and my personal favorite, Hershey’s Milk Chocolate with Almonds, were each melted and dumped just so inside the absorbent middle of the diapers. Had I been thinking clearly, I would have gone with a Mr. Goodbar, but I did the best I could. I placed them each atop a silver serving tray, the irony of which was not lost on MJ, and encouraged the ladies to smell and even taste each one to determine what kind of candy each diaper held. I have to admit, not a single quest would taste them, but I did snap a few good pictures of MJ’s friends and business associates with their noses deep in those loaded diapers.
We all had a lovely time, and MJ got a bunch of stuff she needed and wanted, and then everyone went home with goodie bags containing cookie stuffed cookies and candies and tiny little bottles and Mohawk babies, because who doesn’t love a baby with a Mohawk? I kept that diaper garland up for days afterward because I really liked the look of it, although my husband pointed out that decorating with diapers is less of a fashion statement than it is one on mental health.
I feel for MJ, though, because she is starting over with a baby. Babies are wonderful and cute and their heads smell good, but they are a lot of work. A lot. They don't sleep like normal people and you have to feed them from your breasts, which is just like a cow, and they can't talk and they poo and pee all the time. At least she will have some new poop stories to tell.
I threw a baby shower for my friend MJ recently, who is just weeks away from exploding with her second child. MJ has an eleven year old daughter, so she’s in desperate need of baby gear, since they have reinvented almost everything at least twice since she last changed a diaper. In those eleven years, she has also, well, aged eleven years. Her shower was not a party with women in the same mommy boat; in fact, the guests at her shower drank glass after glass of pink champagne, secretly thrilled that they weren’t the ones having a baby late in life, having to start over with sleepless nights, thousands of diaper changes, and yes, the terrible twos.
I picked a theme for her shower, one that really speaks to MJ. It was poo. MJ, who is a big fan of body functions in general, is never one to shy away from a poop story. I can’t tell you how many times I have heard how her daughter, as a baby, was able to shoot her poop through the doorway onto the opposite wall, in an amazing feat of baby intestinal strength. For MJ, a good baby poop story is the silver lining in the dark cloud of constant diaper changes. So who better than her to embrace the idea of simultaneously entertaining classy women while grossing them out?
In addition to the lovely hydrangeas that festooned the buffet and coffee tables, I strung tiny newborn diapers on some kitchen twine and swagged it over the mantel, a new form a shabby chic that would have brought a tear to Martha Stewart’s eye. My older daughter E even taped a diaper to the front door so that all the guests would know they had come to the right place.
I had prepared a couple of shower games as well. One of them was guessing the circumference of MJ's pregger belly, using toilet paper instead of something charming like grosgrain ribbon. A roll of toilet paper sat on the sofa console table with some pens so the guests could label their guesses. By the middle of the party, streams of toilet paper hung around the room as if we all expected a mass rush on the bathroom, only to find an empty roll.
The best game, however, was my version of a guess what’s in the diaper game. I read online about putting different kinds of baby food in diapers and having the shower guests identify the flavors. I took it a little further. I used candy bars, five different kinds, and melted them in the microwave before smearing them on those diapers. Snickers, Twix, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Three Musketeers, and my personal favorite, Hershey’s Milk Chocolate with Almonds, were each melted and dumped just so inside the absorbent middle of the diapers. Had I been thinking clearly, I would have gone with a Mr. Goodbar, but I did the best I could. I placed them each atop a silver serving tray, the irony of which was not lost on MJ, and encouraged the ladies to smell and even taste each one to determine what kind of candy each diaper held. I have to admit, not a single quest would taste them, but I did snap a few good pictures of MJ’s friends and business associates with their noses deep in those loaded diapers.
We all had a lovely time, and MJ got a bunch of stuff she needed and wanted, and then everyone went home with goodie bags containing cookie stuffed cookies and candies and tiny little bottles and Mohawk babies, because who doesn’t love a baby with a Mohawk? I kept that diaper garland up for days afterward because I really liked the look of it, although my husband pointed out that decorating with diapers is less of a fashion statement than it is one on mental health.
I feel for MJ, though, because she is starting over with a baby. Babies are wonderful and cute and their heads smell good, but they are a lot of work. A lot. They don't sleep like normal people and you have to feed them from your breasts, which is just like a cow, and they can't talk and they poo and pee all the time. At least she will have some new poop stories to tell.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Ready? Aim. Fire!
Pardon me for a moment while I get out my soap box and dust it off. I feel a rant coming on.
I drove downtown the other day and passed on of those new fangled billboards with an ad for a gun shop on it. The guy in the ad, presumably the owner, had a giant and gorgeous dead leopard draped over his shoulders, which I guess he shot with one of those guns he sells. That ad pissed me off in several different ways, which I will now list, if I can remember them all.
1. We live in freaking South Carolina. How many people around these parts are going big game hunting? It’s all deer, squirrels, and ducks in this neck of the woods, all of which you pretty much can hit with your car. Maybe you might see the occasional wild boar or lost black bear. But leopards? Not so common in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
2. I am not a big fan of hunting in general, but if you plan to eat what you shoot, then I can respect it. Food is expensive. Hell, I am paying $5.99 a pound for organic boneless chicken breasts at Costco, so I understand that a little free and free range meat is a good thing. Leopards, on the other hand, are probably not such good eating. Nor are they local or sustainable. You have to go to where the leopards live, unless you are buddies with Ted Nugent or something. Big game hunting has nothing to do with feeding your family and everything to do with power and control. Look at that beautiful animal, I love it so much I am going to kill it? I don’t think so.
3. I am also not a big fan of guns. I’ve never even seen one up close and personal. But seriously, the Second Amendment was written at a very different time in history. Those colonial fuckers didn’t have a police force or a national guard or a war on drugs. They didn’t have roads or grocery stores or an infrastructure. So it made more sense in the 18th century for everyone to arm themselves. They needed to hunt for food and protect themselves from opportunists and Injuns. We don’t have the same issues today with our personal safety. We have cell phones to use in an emergency. We have easy transportation and security alarms and mace key chains.
4. And handguns? Does anyone really hunt with them? Who walks up to a deer and shoots it with a pistol? They are for shooting other people, are they not? That argument that guns don’t kill people, people kill people, is nonsense. People kill people with guns, not show tunes!
5. Why is violence such an acceptable part of society? I thought for a moment about saying American society, but really, it is a global problem. We don’t cane people here, or chop off heads or hands in a public square. We are quite fond, however, of all things involving shooting or blowing up. Based on our television dramas, you would think the whole world revolved around forensics and detective work, or the legal action that follows such investigations. If our movies are to be believed, we have quite a little problem with serial killers. And what is the fascination with blood spewing? We have increasingly violent video games, but if you put any of those teenagers in front of a live birth, they would all hurl based on the amount of blood and gunk involved in bringing a life into this world.
6. Why is it more entertaining to watch a life end violently than a new life begin peacefully? The pussy might not be pretty, but pussy is pussy! (See number 5.)
7. Now this may be a tangent, but I would have less of a problem with a billboard with a scantily clad busty woman sucking her own index finger than I do with the man draped in a dead cat. We don’t have a problem with extreme violence, but sex is a disgusting sin? Well, I don’t know about you, but I rather screw than get shot in the head. In fact, you don’t have to hold a gun to my head. I’m pretty much happy to do it.
8. Did it occur to the people who sold the ad that the billboard isn’t that far away from the city zoo? The zoo where we just got leopard triplets? I bet those kitties are shaking in their little fur coats over that one. And those poor little kids who have to see that ad. How confusing for them. "Mom, did that man shoot one of the new leopards?" 'No sweetie, but he would if he could."
I know I should keep at this until I get to ten reasons, but fuck it, I’ve lost my steam. Time to put away my soap box and go do the laundry. Or go clean my gun. Or maybe go watch some porn. As long as it isn’t a snuff film.
I drove downtown the other day and passed on of those new fangled billboards with an ad for a gun shop on it. The guy in the ad, presumably the owner, had a giant and gorgeous dead leopard draped over his shoulders, which I guess he shot with one of those guns he sells. That ad pissed me off in several different ways, which I will now list, if I can remember them all.
1. We live in freaking South Carolina. How many people around these parts are going big game hunting? It’s all deer, squirrels, and ducks in this neck of the woods, all of which you pretty much can hit with your car. Maybe you might see the occasional wild boar or lost black bear. But leopards? Not so common in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
2. I am not a big fan of hunting in general, but if you plan to eat what you shoot, then I can respect it. Food is expensive. Hell, I am paying $5.99 a pound for organic boneless chicken breasts at Costco, so I understand that a little free and free range meat is a good thing. Leopards, on the other hand, are probably not such good eating. Nor are they local or sustainable. You have to go to where the leopards live, unless you are buddies with Ted Nugent or something. Big game hunting has nothing to do with feeding your family and everything to do with power and control. Look at that beautiful animal, I love it so much I am going to kill it? I don’t think so.
3. I am also not a big fan of guns. I’ve never even seen one up close and personal. But seriously, the Second Amendment was written at a very different time in history. Those colonial fuckers didn’t have a police force or a national guard or a war on drugs. They didn’t have roads or grocery stores or an infrastructure. So it made more sense in the 18th century for everyone to arm themselves. They needed to hunt for food and protect themselves from opportunists and Injuns. We don’t have the same issues today with our personal safety. We have cell phones to use in an emergency. We have easy transportation and security alarms and mace key chains.
4. And handguns? Does anyone really hunt with them? Who walks up to a deer and shoots it with a pistol? They are for shooting other people, are they not? That argument that guns don’t kill people, people kill people, is nonsense. People kill people with guns, not show tunes!
5. Why is violence such an acceptable part of society? I thought for a moment about saying American society, but really, it is a global problem. We don’t cane people here, or chop off heads or hands in a public square. We are quite fond, however, of all things involving shooting or blowing up. Based on our television dramas, you would think the whole world revolved around forensics and detective work, or the legal action that follows such investigations. If our movies are to be believed, we have quite a little problem with serial killers. And what is the fascination with blood spewing? We have increasingly violent video games, but if you put any of those teenagers in front of a live birth, they would all hurl based on the amount of blood and gunk involved in bringing a life into this world.
6. Why is it more entertaining to watch a life end violently than a new life begin peacefully? The pussy might not be pretty, but pussy is pussy! (See number 5.)
7. Now this may be a tangent, but I would have less of a problem with a billboard with a scantily clad busty woman sucking her own index finger than I do with the man draped in a dead cat. We don’t have a problem with extreme violence, but sex is a disgusting sin? Well, I don’t know about you, but I rather screw than get shot in the head. In fact, you don’t have to hold a gun to my head. I’m pretty much happy to do it.
8. Did it occur to the people who sold the ad that the billboard isn’t that far away from the city zoo? The zoo where we just got leopard triplets? I bet those kitties are shaking in their little fur coats over that one. And those poor little kids who have to see that ad. How confusing for them. "Mom, did that man shoot one of the new leopards?" 'No sweetie, but he would if he could."
I know I should keep at this until I get to ten reasons, but fuck it, I’ve lost my steam. Time to put away my soap box and go do the laundry. Or go clean my gun. Or maybe go watch some porn. As long as it isn’t a snuff film.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
A Purell Moment
My husband is a real stickler for washing new clothes when he brings them home from the store. It doesn’t matter to him if they are socks, briefs, or a button down shirt; he throws any and all new clothing into the wash before he will wear them. I used to think he did this just to create more work for me, seeing as how I am the laundry maven and all. I agreed with him to a point. I also wash all my new panties, nighties, and socks before I wear them, but it never occurred to me to wash everything. Not even after all the hoopla about bedbugs in clothing stores. But my little jaunt to TJ Maxx yesterday changed all that. I am now solidly on my husband’s side, and let the record show, HE IS RIGHT! And I am not afraid to admit it.
So, here we go. Swallow that last bite of cookie. Put down your iced tea. It’s going to get a little hairy.
I stopped by TJ Maxx yesterday, not for anything specific, because, seriously, who goes to TJ Maxx for something specific? It’s one step up from a flea market, which doesn’t stop me from shopping there, although after yesterday, it might. I was looking for stuff for a beach condo I am decorating, but when I didn’t find anything quite right, I scooted over to the bathing suits and perused the selection.It's about that time of year, and it's never too early to find a perfect swimsuit for less than a night's stay at a four star hotel.
As luck would have it,I found a really cute suit, which is a miracle because good bathing suits are harder to find than Waldo. The swimsuit was a black strapless one piece with a little twisty bandeau top and a very slight flouncy skirt. It was a far cry from an old lady tent swim dress, but it still provided the kind of coverage that a woman over forty with a slight weight problem and a little body dysmorphic syndrome could feel good about wearing. It did not have a product tag on it, just the store price tag, but I checked the size on the label and felt confident it would fit me. I liked it a lot but I didn’t have time to try it on, so I took it, along with a cute black and white top that I found, to the checkout counter.
I handed my shirt and swimsuit to the clerk and asked, “What is your return policy for swimsuits? I didn’t have time to try this on.”
She scanned the tag and said, “As long as you have your receipt and the original tag on it, you can return it.”
“What about the panty liner thing? Does it have to have that too?” I asked, turning the crotch inside out. “Oh Jesus, that’s disgusting! Don’t worry about it, because I am not buying it!”
We both looked at the crotch of the bathing suit. It had been used. On the black fabric was evidence that a naked crotch had touched it. In layman’s terms, there was a snail trail.
The cashier voided the bathing suit, continuing on with her spiel, “Well, if you purchased the suit, you would need to retain your receipt and keep the tags on it so you could return it later.”
“Maybe your return policy is too liberal,” I suggested, “if things can be returned in a used condition, like that.”
She shrugged her shoulders and, get this, hung the bathing suit back on the hanger, readying it to go back to the sales floor! The customer service cashier was watching us curiously and sidled over.
“What’s wrong with that bathing suit?” she asked.
“She don’t want it,” the cashier said.
“No I don't. Because it’s been worn. And used. And soiled,” I said.
“Put it in the damaged goods bin,” the customer service cashier said.
My cashier did as she was told and finished ringing up my shirt. I skedaddled to the car and bathed myself in hand sanitizer.
I bought the black and white shirt, but I took it back today. Ewww. It was too close to that bathing suit. As an aside, when I was waiting in line to return the shirt, a woman got in line two ladies behind me, stood there for a minute, and then asked if we were waiting in line to check out. Really? "No, I said, "We are waiting because it's fun."
When a sign tells you to keep on your panties when trying on bathing suits, do it. There is a reason. I might have to go so far as to wear those free little foot condoms when trying on flip flops too. Maybe I should just start shopping in a Hazmat suit. Or I could go all FLDS and make my own prairie dresses. At least they don’t come pre-slimed with someone else’s va-jay-jay smear in them. And for the record, let me say once again, MY HUSBAND IS RIGHT. But only about washing new clothes before they are worn.
So, here we go. Swallow that last bite of cookie. Put down your iced tea. It’s going to get a little hairy.
I stopped by TJ Maxx yesterday, not for anything specific, because, seriously, who goes to TJ Maxx for something specific? It’s one step up from a flea market, which doesn’t stop me from shopping there, although after yesterday, it might. I was looking for stuff for a beach condo I am decorating, but when I didn’t find anything quite right, I scooted over to the bathing suits and perused the selection.It's about that time of year, and it's never too early to find a perfect swimsuit for less than a night's stay at a four star hotel.
As luck would have it,I found a really cute suit, which is a miracle because good bathing suits are harder to find than Waldo. The swimsuit was a black strapless one piece with a little twisty bandeau top and a very slight flouncy skirt. It was a far cry from an old lady tent swim dress, but it still provided the kind of coverage that a woman over forty with a slight weight problem and a little body dysmorphic syndrome could feel good about wearing. It did not have a product tag on it, just the store price tag, but I checked the size on the label and felt confident it would fit me. I liked it a lot but I didn’t have time to try it on, so I took it, along with a cute black and white top that I found, to the checkout counter.
I handed my shirt and swimsuit to the clerk and asked, “What is your return policy for swimsuits? I didn’t have time to try this on.”
She scanned the tag and said, “As long as you have your receipt and the original tag on it, you can return it.”
“What about the panty liner thing? Does it have to have that too?” I asked, turning the crotch inside out. “Oh Jesus, that’s disgusting! Don’t worry about it, because I am not buying it!”
We both looked at the crotch of the bathing suit. It had been used. On the black fabric was evidence that a naked crotch had touched it. In layman’s terms, there was a snail trail.
The cashier voided the bathing suit, continuing on with her spiel, “Well, if you purchased the suit, you would need to retain your receipt and keep the tags on it so you could return it later.”
“Maybe your return policy is too liberal,” I suggested, “if things can be returned in a used condition, like that.”
She shrugged her shoulders and, get this, hung the bathing suit back on the hanger, readying it to go back to the sales floor! The customer service cashier was watching us curiously and sidled over.
“What’s wrong with that bathing suit?” she asked.
“She don’t want it,” the cashier said.
“No I don't. Because it’s been worn. And used. And soiled,” I said.
“Put it in the damaged goods bin,” the customer service cashier said.
My cashier did as she was told and finished ringing up my shirt. I skedaddled to the car and bathed myself in hand sanitizer.
I bought the black and white shirt, but I took it back today. Ewww. It was too close to that bathing suit. As an aside, when I was waiting in line to return the shirt, a woman got in line two ladies behind me, stood there for a minute, and then asked if we were waiting in line to check out. Really? "No, I said, "We are waiting because it's fun."
When a sign tells you to keep on your panties when trying on bathing suits, do it. There is a reason. I might have to go so far as to wear those free little foot condoms when trying on flip flops too. Maybe I should just start shopping in a Hazmat suit. Or I could go all FLDS and make my own prairie dresses. At least they don’t come pre-slimed with someone else’s va-jay-jay smear in them. And for the record, let me say once again, MY HUSBAND IS RIGHT. But only about washing new clothes before they are worn.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Some Adderall Might Help
Sitting down to write is always a lesson in focusing and tuning out as much as it is about the process of actually writing. I usually have a bunch of ideas in mind, wondering only if I am able to construct them into an essay rather than a snarky Facebook status update. It’s not that I don’t have anything to say, although, truth be told, I don’t. I am a stay at home mom. Either everything is funny, poignant, or hmmm-producing, or nothing is. Sometimes I drive home from errands thinking about calling a friend and realizing that I don’t have anything to say. So I drive on, frowning to myself. I doubt it is any different than the doldrum life of an office worker. In fact, I know it isn’t. I used to be an office worker. That was boring too.
Wanna know what I did today? That depends on if you are having trouble sleeping.I could tell you about going to the gym, as I sometimes do. Nothing rib-tickly happened there today. No one fell down in the kickboxing class, although I was tempted to roundhouse the woman behind me who had an issue with invading my personal space. She even put her water bottle on top of my sweaty towel, so I did not feel bad when I bent over and dripped all over the mouth piece. Yoga afterwards was nice and peaceful. Nothing to report there either. I do wonder though if I am the only one who sweats like a pig in that class. It’s not hot yoga, it’s only room temperature yoga. Maybe I am still sweating from the combat class. It was nice and stretchy and I enjoyed it very much, thank you.
Next I went to Whole Foods. I secretly wished for free samples of something because hell, I just did two classes at the gym. Nothing free today. Just grocery shopping and my usual seventy something dollar tab. So I drove home. I ate lunch. I tried to not eat any chocolate. I talked to my friend MJ on the phone, who also didn’t feel like working and had very little to say. I took a shower, I started a load of laundry, and I sat down to write.
The house is empty, so you would think it would be an ideal time to write, but again, not so much. I am listening right now to a carpenter bee trying to eat its way through my window pane. I can’t see the bumbly fucker, but I can hear it, buzz buzz, like a tiny little dental drill. I can even see the pile of sawdust or whatever the hell it is outside the window. You know how you can’t sleep when you go camping outside in the summer because of that mosquito hum in your ear? Try writing with a carpenter bee outside your window.
If that wasn’t annoying enough, add the two cats that live in my house. They like to sleep a lot, but not when I try to write. It’s like they know I am working, much like my husband or children do. All I have to do is tell my family I am going to write and for the next hour it’s “Mom” this and “Mom” that. The cats have their own version of irritating me. It involves running up and down the steps, down the hallway, and over the furniture, chasing each other in a complete circuit of both floors of the house. When one of them gets angry, there is hissing and growling. When one of them can’t find the other, there is howling and meowing. And when they wear each other out, they find me and lounge across my desk or nibble on the plant by the treadmill. Bees buzzing outside the window. Cats chewing leaves on the floor. Sounds peaceful, doesn’t it? Right now, my big tuxedo tom cat is making bedroom eyes at me while making biscuits on my monthly planner. Did I mention he purrs like a jackhammer? Do lions and tigers purr? It’s got to be quieter than my cat.
If that weren’t distracting enough, how about listening to the washing machine upstairs? I l have an upstairs laundry room, which I love for convenience but fear for the potential of flooding. I can’t think of another sentence right now because I am listening to the basin fill up with water. I hope it stops soon. It hasn’t ever overflowed, since that is the toilet’s job, but still, I hope it stops soon. If I don’t formulate a thought shortly, it’s going to be time to put the clothes in the dryer.
Did I mention how loud the fan is on my laptop? Jesus, it’s like a wind tunnel in here. Who can concentrate with that constant droning? Buzz, purr, slosh, hum. What was I saying again? Oh yeah, something about writing. Which I would love to do, but now it’s time to meet the school bus.
Wanna know what I did today? That depends on if you are having trouble sleeping.I could tell you about going to the gym, as I sometimes do. Nothing rib-tickly happened there today. No one fell down in the kickboxing class, although I was tempted to roundhouse the woman behind me who had an issue with invading my personal space. She even put her water bottle on top of my sweaty towel, so I did not feel bad when I bent over and dripped all over the mouth piece. Yoga afterwards was nice and peaceful. Nothing to report there either. I do wonder though if I am the only one who sweats like a pig in that class. It’s not hot yoga, it’s only room temperature yoga. Maybe I am still sweating from the combat class. It was nice and stretchy and I enjoyed it very much, thank you.
Next I went to Whole Foods. I secretly wished for free samples of something because hell, I just did two classes at the gym. Nothing free today. Just grocery shopping and my usual seventy something dollar tab. So I drove home. I ate lunch. I tried to not eat any chocolate. I talked to my friend MJ on the phone, who also didn’t feel like working and had very little to say. I took a shower, I started a load of laundry, and I sat down to write.
The house is empty, so you would think it would be an ideal time to write, but again, not so much. I am listening right now to a carpenter bee trying to eat its way through my window pane. I can’t see the bumbly fucker, but I can hear it, buzz buzz, like a tiny little dental drill. I can even see the pile of sawdust or whatever the hell it is outside the window. You know how you can’t sleep when you go camping outside in the summer because of that mosquito hum in your ear? Try writing with a carpenter bee outside your window.
If that wasn’t annoying enough, add the two cats that live in my house. They like to sleep a lot, but not when I try to write. It’s like they know I am working, much like my husband or children do. All I have to do is tell my family I am going to write and for the next hour it’s “Mom” this and “Mom” that. The cats have their own version of irritating me. It involves running up and down the steps, down the hallway, and over the furniture, chasing each other in a complete circuit of both floors of the house. When one of them gets angry, there is hissing and growling. When one of them can’t find the other, there is howling and meowing. And when they wear each other out, they find me and lounge across my desk or nibble on the plant by the treadmill. Bees buzzing outside the window. Cats chewing leaves on the floor. Sounds peaceful, doesn’t it? Right now, my big tuxedo tom cat is making bedroom eyes at me while making biscuits on my monthly planner. Did I mention he purrs like a jackhammer? Do lions and tigers purr? It’s got to be quieter than my cat.
If that weren’t distracting enough, how about listening to the washing machine upstairs? I l have an upstairs laundry room, which I love for convenience but fear for the potential of flooding. I can’t think of another sentence right now because I am listening to the basin fill up with water. I hope it stops soon. It hasn’t ever overflowed, since that is the toilet’s job, but still, I hope it stops soon. If I don’t formulate a thought shortly, it’s going to be time to put the clothes in the dryer.
Did I mention how loud the fan is on my laptop? Jesus, it’s like a wind tunnel in here. Who can concentrate with that constant droning? Buzz, purr, slosh, hum. What was I saying again? Oh yeah, something about writing. Which I would love to do, but now it’s time to meet the school bus.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
She Said Yes!
Have you heard the news? Barbie and Ken are finally getting married! I know, I was surprised too. I never thought he would pop the question, certainly not to Barbie anyway. But there they are, sharing the same cardboard box in their own special display at Target. I always assumed both Ken and Barbie secretly fancied GI Joe, with his close cropped hair, rugged beard, and hot camouflage attire. But Barbie needed someone less blue collar to be her life partner. After all, she has a lot on her plate. She is a busy modern gal, but with her busy social calendar, surely it will be nice to have a legitimate escort to accompany her. Think of it, no more nights alone in the Dream House, wishing a man would call. No more solo cruising on the Party Boat. No more driving around by herself in the glamour convertible. Plus, she will have a live-in stylist with her. Who better than Ken to offer Barbie some fashion advice?
Truth be told, Barbie doesn’t really need Ken. She has her own car, her own house, and more jobs than I can remember. She has been everything from a flight attendant to a teacher to a doctor. Hell, she has even been a mother and a bride. But never before has she actually been a fiancée. How many little girls have played with their Barbie bride, wishing that Ken would actually ask her to be his, instead of just wearing a tux and looking uncomfortable? Anything is possible in Barbie’s pink world, even a marriage of convenience.
And Ken, poor Ken. Even though he has been Barbie’s companion for years, his sexual orientation has always been called into question. Sure, it’s easy to stereotype him as gay. He hasn’t aged a day in over fifty years. He is neat as a pin. He was born with that six-pack, and while he has had some unfortunate haircuts over the decades, his winning smile and boyish good looks haven’t faded. He has had to take a back seat to Barbie forever, much like Oprah’s Steadman, also a lifelong bachelor whose sexual preference is tabloid fodder.
I bet after all those years of rumors and innuendo, Ken just asked Barbie to marry him so that everyone shut up and leave him alone. I hope it works better for him than it did for Michael Jackson.
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