It’s Christmas, that time of year when we spend money on people who don’t need a single damned thing, drag box after box of decorations out of the attic until our house literally pukes Christmas, and, most importantly of all, when the more insane among us indulge in our once-a-year foray into exterior illumination. Usually that exterior illumination thing is the job of my husband. He’s more creative, better at it, possesses a better grasp of the concept of electrocution, and finally doesn’t effin hate it as much as I do. I find it to be an exercise in creative cussing.
This year, due to his impending knee surgery, rather than turn our house into a homing beacon for the shuttle, my husband chose to reorganize the inside of our house, i.e., throw out the old shit from our cabinets and closets. I, being the good and dutiful wife, stepped up to the plate, took one for the team and tackled the outside Christmas lights.
I’m here to tell you that if you should decide at any point in your life that you could use a refresher course in loud, creative, inventive, spontaneous cursing, here’s the plan for you. It works. I swear. It works and I have the scars to prove it all over my forearms and the backs of my hands. Give it a whirl.
Your step by step instructions to world class potty mouth are as follows:
1. Look out your back door and decide that the 12 foot wall of holly trees lining the left side of your patio behind your brick and slate bar and behind your honkin huge Weber gas grill would look really pretty with twinkle lights poked all through them.
2. Look at the sky and decide that it's not THAT cold and what's a little rain.
3. Tote all the outdoor lights in your possession outdoors.
4. Notch the end of a yard stick because you've gotten this brilliant idea, your second one of the day, that you can merely "poke" the lights into the branches with the yard stick.
5. Bundle up and turn on the outdoor speakers so you can listen to Christmas music, drink coffee with one hand, poke lights with the other, and be festive.
6. Plug in the first strand of lights to test them. Look at em all funny like when they don't work, like you weren't actually expecting that to happen. Check each bulb. Plug them in again.
7. Chuck them out into the yard and get another set. Test them. Grin when they work.
8. Approach carnivorous holly row, plug lights in to THAT outlet and begin poking wires into branches. Try again. And again. Cut notch bigger. Try again. Cuss.
9. Set down coffee and climb your butt up on top of the bar and start poking again. Cuss. Shove lights into branches with your bare hands. Remember you should have gotten gloves and cuss again.
10. Cuss some more when your hand comes out with 3 holly leaves clinging to your skin because the pointy ends are embedded in your hand.
11. Continue looping and poking. And cussing.
12. Get second strand of lights and sigh when you realize you've really only moved about 12 inches down the row of bushes.
13. Plug in lights. Glare at them like you mean it. Consider checking each bulb. Unplug them and chuck them out into the yard. Plug in another set.
14. Continue poking lights into branches and removing holly spears from your skin and scream as the lights that worked 10 seconds ago alllll go out.
15. Shake light strand vigorously until lights come back on again. Gingerly continue shoving lights into bushes.
16. Pinwheel arms and clutch holly bush in arms as you realize you've come to the absolute no-more-room end of the bar. Balance, look right and realize there is still a 6 foot stretch of holly bushes yet to be completed.
17. Remove pointy holly things from neck and forehead.
18. Slither off edge of bar and schlep out to shed and get the really tall ladder.
19. Drag 500 pound grill out of the way, climb up ladder you swore you’d never ever climb again as long as you lived, steel yourself, grab a hand full of lights and cram them into the holly. Scream and THEN cuss when you realize you were just IN the shed where the leather work gloves are located and left them there. Shove in another hand full of wires.
20. Get to edge of patio and realize holly bushes continue 3 more feet out into flower bed.
21. Wonder if you can electrocute your stupid self because it's started to rain, cuss, realize you'll ever finish if you stop now, and try to balance ladder in a combination of stone pavers, mulch and grass.
22. Climb gingerly up ladder and leap off to the right because you know it’s nothing but pavers to your left when ladder starts to be uncooperative.
23. SLAM ladder down into the mulch and grass and climb back up, rapidly poking, screaming, bleeding, cussing and balancing before leaping off ladder again.
24. Kick ladder.
25. Wish desperately that you'd worn heavier shoes.
26. Suck on hand wounds while standing back to admire your handiwork.
27. Drag grill back in place, throw ladder back into shed, find tweezers.
28. Walk into house and bellow at family to get the hell out there and admire the beautiful thing you've done for them for the holiday.
29. Find the vodka.
Merry Christmas.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
Me and the Great Big Horsey
I’d like you to close your eyes and picture this.
A horse trailer. Not tremendously long, but large enough to hold two horses in the back, side by side, and saddles and other equipment in the front. Picture standing behind it, gazing into the open trailer. No horses at the moment, but room for a horse on both the left and the right sides. Focus on the left side and see the large pile of hay at the front with a large hanging leather hay bag reaching from one side of that stall to the other, hanging about waist high and a large padded bar directly in front of it to keep the horsey from moseying on out the side door. See the open side door directly to the left of the bag of hay. Picture straw scattered throughout the trailer. Now picture the massive pile of horse dookey at the very top of the ramp as you enter the trailer from the back.
Got it? Good.
OK. Now picture me, standing out in the sun on a 100 degree day, sweating my you-know-what’s off, in a tank top, shorts and flip-flops (that flip-flop thing is gonna be key here in a minute or two), holding onto my buddy, a wonderful but very feisty 16 hand jumper named Chris, who belongs to my friend and neighbor and who would rather have me give him cheek noogies, nibble on my belly pack, my cell phone, my hipbone, my shoulder and put his head against my chest so I can scritch his ears, than stand quietly while the nice sweaty lady behind him curses under her breath while she braids his tail and his mane. Why am I standing there slowly melting and playing babysitter for Chris? Because my friend is at one of the rings with the Ringlet watching her daughter, Ringlet’s friend’s, jumping round. For nearly half an hour.
OK. Switch back to the horse trailer and see me, with the halter lead in my hand, mincing my way up the ramp of the trailer in my flip-flops, dodging the dookey, and asking Chris very politely to get his big furry can back up in the trailer please. See Chris saying no. See Chris giving me the “Listen, I’ve been in that stupid trailer all day and if you think you’re getting me back up in there now that I’ve been set free, you’re out of your puney human mind” stare. See me getting jerked back out of the trailer with barely time to leap over the dookey before I fly back down the ramp. See me settle myself and set my shoulders. See me lecture a horse. See the other lady get behind Chris and push while I coax him back up the ramp. See Chris dodge the ramp and try to run around the SIDE of the trailer while still hooked to the lead line clutched in my hands and see me once again leap the load.
OK. Picture this happening about four times. Now. See us line that horse back up with the trailer, me count to three and yell GO and the lady give a tremendous push and me coax and pull for all I’m worth and see the surprised look on my face when the horse comes up the ramp and into the trailer. Fast.
See me with absolutely nowhere to go as this horse finally does what I ask him to do and is heading straight for me and my nearly naked feet. I did the only thing I could do. I got a nice, tight death grip on his lead, dropped under the bag, rolled back into the hay, rolled to the inside, checked where his hooves were and rolled back the other way, rolled right out the open side door and came up on my feet with the lead line still in my hand.
Ten feet away were three women in chairs in front of their trailer watching the whole thing with gaping mouths and wide eyes. I did the only thing I could think to do.
I took a bow.
They applauded and said “Man, my body won’t MOVE like that.”
I said, “Neither will mine until you give it a da#$ned good reason to.”
Mission accomplished.
A horse trailer. Not tremendously long, but large enough to hold two horses in the back, side by side, and saddles and other equipment in the front. Picture standing behind it, gazing into the open trailer. No horses at the moment, but room for a horse on both the left and the right sides. Focus on the left side and see the large pile of hay at the front with a large hanging leather hay bag reaching from one side of that stall to the other, hanging about waist high and a large padded bar directly in front of it to keep the horsey from moseying on out the side door. See the open side door directly to the left of the bag of hay. Picture straw scattered throughout the trailer. Now picture the massive pile of horse dookey at the very top of the ramp as you enter the trailer from the back.
Got it? Good.
OK. Now picture me, standing out in the sun on a 100 degree day, sweating my you-know-what’s off, in a tank top, shorts and flip-flops (that flip-flop thing is gonna be key here in a minute or two), holding onto my buddy, a wonderful but very feisty 16 hand jumper named Chris, who belongs to my friend and neighbor and who would rather have me give him cheek noogies, nibble on my belly pack, my cell phone, my hipbone, my shoulder and put his head against my chest so I can scritch his ears, than stand quietly while the nice sweaty lady behind him curses under her breath while she braids his tail and his mane. Why am I standing there slowly melting and playing babysitter for Chris? Because my friend is at one of the rings with the Ringlet watching her daughter, Ringlet’s friend’s, jumping round. For nearly half an hour.
OK. Switch back to the horse trailer and see me, with the halter lead in my hand, mincing my way up the ramp of the trailer in my flip-flops, dodging the dookey, and asking Chris very politely to get his big furry can back up in the trailer please. See Chris saying no. See Chris giving me the “Listen, I’ve been in that stupid trailer all day and if you think you’re getting me back up in there now that I’ve been set free, you’re out of your puney human mind” stare. See me getting jerked back out of the trailer with barely time to leap over the dookey before I fly back down the ramp. See me settle myself and set my shoulders. See me lecture a horse. See the other lady get behind Chris and push while I coax him back up the ramp. See Chris dodge the ramp and try to run around the SIDE of the trailer while still hooked to the lead line clutched in my hands and see me once again leap the load.
OK. Picture this happening about four times. Now. See us line that horse back up with the trailer, me count to three and yell GO and the lady give a tremendous push and me coax and pull for all I’m worth and see the surprised look on my face when the horse comes up the ramp and into the trailer. Fast.
See me with absolutely nowhere to go as this horse finally does what I ask him to do and is heading straight for me and my nearly naked feet. I did the only thing I could do. I got a nice, tight death grip on his lead, dropped under the bag, rolled back into the hay, rolled to the inside, checked where his hooves were and rolled back the other way, rolled right out the open side door and came up on my feet with the lead line still in my hand.
Ten feet away were three women in chairs in front of their trailer watching the whole thing with gaping mouths and wide eyes. I did the only thing I could think to do.
I took a bow.
They applauded and said “Man, my body won’t MOVE like that.”
I said, “Neither will mine until you give it a da#$ned good reason to.”
Mission accomplished.
Friday, June 29, 2007
The 11th Commandment: Thou Shalt Not Be Surprised When Men are Stupid
The 12th Commandment: Thou Shalt Gather Rocks Suitable for Throwing
It’s pretty clear to me that during the course of this commentary, possibly already, many men who read this are going to be offended and insulted. To them, I say “Fox smells his own hole.” Or something like that because it’s been my experience that when an observation is made on the human condition, the people most offended are the ones most guilty of being a prime example of the very comments that set them off in the first place.
Women pretty much already know about all of this, so for us, it’s just going to be a head nodding, knowing smile kind of bonding session that could possibly lead to the kind of one-upsmanship only found in circles of women discussing their husbands.
OK. We know for a fact that in the male of our species, the common head cold is fatal. We know that although almost ALL ailments are fatal in men, the fact that they are almost certainly dying and can’t seem to remind us of that fact too many times, will still not be enough of a motivating factor for them to shuck their fevered asses to a physician. We know, and have commented at length on the fact, that if procreation were up to men, dinosaurs would still rule the earth. Yet even so, even in the face of their well-advertised pain and rapidly declining life span, they are still capable of acts they consider manly and heroic and women rightly label dumb as shit.
Take my husband as an example why don’t you? Not quite three days ago, while attending his twice-weekly karate class, he managed to absorb a kick from a second degree black belt that was perfectly timed, perfectly placed and perfectly excruciating in that it broke three of my husband’s ribs and detached the supporting musculature, thereby creating pressure against his lungs, making it not only painful, but impossible to breathe deeply. I know it had to hurt like a mad bastard because he drove himSELF to the emergency room. (Yes, I know. That’s an entirely different blog entry, thank you.) He’s been moaning, crying and doped up ever since. Night of the living dead doped up. Squinty eyed, shuffling, speaking barely above a whisper, chewing his food like a 90 year old man, not quite passed out doped up. Yet this morning, he calls me and he says to me “OK. I know you’re going to be angry, but I’m doing it anyway. I’m taking a pill and I’m doing it anyway.” I asked him to please explain just what the hell he was talking about. It appears that he was taking advantage of our neighbor, the mighty and infinitely snoopy Medusa, being out of town and adding another section to our six foot high, solid board on board fence in her absence. By himself.
Translated, this means he was going to be running power tools, digging a three foot deep hole, mixing and dumping concrete, and building an 8 foot section of solid board fence with three broken ribs and torn muscles, jacked to the gills on pain killers.
I said “are you completely insane?” He said “maybe, but the fence’ll be done by the time you get home.”
Frankly, I’d like to start the wagering right now. I’ve got 10 bucks riding on the fence being partially done, and him face down in the dewy lawn, snoring, while the power saw skips madly across the yard. Any takers?
It’s pretty clear to me that during the course of this commentary, possibly already, many men who read this are going to be offended and insulted. To them, I say “Fox smells his own hole.” Or something like that because it’s been my experience that when an observation is made on the human condition, the people most offended are the ones most guilty of being a prime example of the very comments that set them off in the first place.
Women pretty much already know about all of this, so for us, it’s just going to be a head nodding, knowing smile kind of bonding session that could possibly lead to the kind of one-upsmanship only found in circles of women discussing their husbands.
OK. We know for a fact that in the male of our species, the common head cold is fatal. We know that although almost ALL ailments are fatal in men, the fact that they are almost certainly dying and can’t seem to remind us of that fact too many times, will still not be enough of a motivating factor for them to shuck their fevered asses to a physician. We know, and have commented at length on the fact, that if procreation were up to men, dinosaurs would still rule the earth. Yet even so, even in the face of their well-advertised pain and rapidly declining life span, they are still capable of acts they consider manly and heroic and women rightly label dumb as shit.
Take my husband as an example why don’t you? Not quite three days ago, while attending his twice-weekly karate class, he managed to absorb a kick from a second degree black belt that was perfectly timed, perfectly placed and perfectly excruciating in that it broke three of my husband’s ribs and detached the supporting musculature, thereby creating pressure against his lungs, making it not only painful, but impossible to breathe deeply. I know it had to hurt like a mad bastard because he drove himSELF to the emergency room. (Yes, I know. That’s an entirely different blog entry, thank you.) He’s been moaning, crying and doped up ever since. Night of the living dead doped up. Squinty eyed, shuffling, speaking barely above a whisper, chewing his food like a 90 year old man, not quite passed out doped up. Yet this morning, he calls me and he says to me “OK. I know you’re going to be angry, but I’m doing it anyway. I’m taking a pill and I’m doing it anyway.” I asked him to please explain just what the hell he was talking about. It appears that he was taking advantage of our neighbor, the mighty and infinitely snoopy Medusa, being out of town and adding another section to our six foot high, solid board on board fence in her absence. By himself.
Translated, this means he was going to be running power tools, digging a three foot deep hole, mixing and dumping concrete, and building an 8 foot section of solid board fence with three broken ribs and torn muscles, jacked to the gills on pain killers.
I said “are you completely insane?” He said “maybe, but the fence’ll be done by the time you get home.”
Frankly, I’d like to start the wagering right now. I’ve got 10 bucks riding on the fence being partially done, and him face down in the dewy lawn, snoring, while the power saw skips madly across the yard. Any takers?
Monday, June 11, 2007
The Things We Do For Love
“Like walkin’ in the rain and the snow and there’s nowhere to go . . .”
Sorry. Everything’s a friggin song cue for me and I loved that stupid song way back when.
Let me preface this by saying that I know I indulge my daughter. I know her father indulges her to an even more outrageous degree, but I also know that my daughter is pretty level headed, responsible, appreciative and an all around good and funny kid, as well as great, if not expensive, company in a shoe store. I know she has too much and is it because I had too little? I doubt it. I have no reasons and I don’t think I need any so let’s just get that out there, shall we? I know.
Secondly, we have more gaming systems between my house and the land yacht than Paris Hilton has boyfriends that used to be her most recent BFF’s boyfriend. Nevertheless, the Ringlet decided when the Nintendo Wii came out that possessing one was necessary for her survival. I thought it was merely redundant, but I looked into it anyway and found that it was something new, something fairly revolutionary in gaming and it was a gaming system that would get you up off your kiester and could actually cause you to break a sweat. Now I was interested.
But I wasn’t tremendously interested in shelling out the money for yet another box upon which to play games. So I made a deal. She saves enough money for the entire system, extras and all, and I’ll then split the cost with her 50/50. She agreed quickly. I showed her what it was gonna cost her. She paled considerably, but didn’t back down. A deal was a deal. We shook on it and I promptly forgot about the whole business. I know my child, you see. There was no way in the world she was gonna save that kind of money when there were cool useless things at the school store to be had, nifty new games for her Gameboy just calling her name, and a new stuffed animal that she had a name for before it even made it through our front door. I had apparently forgotten about the money she managed to save for her first pair of heelies, but still, that was a lot less than the kind of cash it was going to take to pull this off. I relaxed. I was safe.
Months came and went and she saved her allowance, pestered for chores, baked muffins to sell to me for her dad’s lunch, helped her father, saved, saved, saved, fished around for loose change, and in general did all the things kids do when they need money and can’t get a job at 7-11 at the age of 9. They mooch, but at least it’s productive mooching. Closer and closer she came to the required amount and as she got closer, she asked me to start checking on where we could buy one and what they cost now (like it was going to get better). I checked and I found out prices and I also found out that there wasn’t a Wii to be had outside of getting hacked into tiny little financial chunks by the scam artists on line. She would have to wait.
And she saved and she scrimped and she mooched and she didn’t spend a cent of her vacation cruise money she had been given and she came to me a week ago and said “I have the money. I have more than enough so can I get the Wii now?” I gulped. I started making calls.
Not a Wii in town. Nothing. Anywhere.
But.
Toys R Us was getting a shipment in a week. They would be getting no more than 39 total Wii systems, no you couldn’t reserve one and it would be first come, first served and if you didn’t get one, it would be back to waiting for another undetermined length of the time for the next shipment, tough chit.
I mulled it over. I talked to her Mr. Ringie. I made my decision. Please keep in mind that I have never waited in line for concert tickets. I have never gotten somewhere the night before, armed with a sleeping bag and a flashlight and a cooler in order that I might get a ticket, any ticket, so that I might be in attendance at a sold out show. I’ve never even gone to the mall for the midnight madness shopping that now and then crops up around the holidays. I never punched out anybody over a cabbage patch doll. Ever. I thought it was stupid. I still do.
But I had spent the last year watching a nine year old kid slowly but surely build up a fund in her little piggy bank with an eye toward something she wanted. She was looking ahead and she was resisting impulse, keeping that eye directed firmly toward the ultimate goal and I was bound and determined that a kid that young who had tried that hard to earn money to buy something that expensive all by herself and had not once asked me to “just go on and get it for me” was not going to be disappointed if there was something I could do about it, short of holding the Wii delivery guy at gunpoint.
So when the alarm clock went off at 5:00 a.m. Sunday morning, I quietly crawled out of bed, quickly got dressed, made a thermos of coffee, grabbed the iPod, a bag chair and a book and out the door I went.
I was first in line at the Toys-R-Us and I am here to tell you that the look on my daughter’s face when she met me at the door (hours later, thank you) with her share of the cost of the Wii clutched in her hand, when she happily handed it over to me, was well worth the 4-plus hours spent in a canvas chair in front of the Toys-R-Us front doors not drinking all my coffee because I realized only after the fact that there was no bathroom available and I would have peeed down my own leg before losing my place in line.
But I can also tell you that the next time she gets a wild hair and saves up all her money for something you just can’t pick up off any old shelf, it’s going to be HER alarm clock that goes off at 5:00 a.m.
Sorry. Everything’s a friggin song cue for me and I loved that stupid song way back when.
Let me preface this by saying that I know I indulge my daughter. I know her father indulges her to an even more outrageous degree, but I also know that my daughter is pretty level headed, responsible, appreciative and an all around good and funny kid, as well as great, if not expensive, company in a shoe store. I know she has too much and is it because I had too little? I doubt it. I have no reasons and I don’t think I need any so let’s just get that out there, shall we? I know.
Secondly, we have more gaming systems between my house and the land yacht than Paris Hilton has boyfriends that used to be her most recent BFF’s boyfriend. Nevertheless, the Ringlet decided when the Nintendo Wii came out that possessing one was necessary for her survival. I thought it was merely redundant, but I looked into it anyway and found that it was something new, something fairly revolutionary in gaming and it was a gaming system that would get you up off your kiester and could actually cause you to break a sweat. Now I was interested.
But I wasn’t tremendously interested in shelling out the money for yet another box upon which to play games. So I made a deal. She saves enough money for the entire system, extras and all, and I’ll then split the cost with her 50/50. She agreed quickly. I showed her what it was gonna cost her. She paled considerably, but didn’t back down. A deal was a deal. We shook on it and I promptly forgot about the whole business. I know my child, you see. There was no way in the world she was gonna save that kind of money when there were cool useless things at the school store to be had, nifty new games for her Gameboy just calling her name, and a new stuffed animal that she had a name for before it even made it through our front door. I had apparently forgotten about the money she managed to save for her first pair of heelies, but still, that was a lot less than the kind of cash it was going to take to pull this off. I relaxed. I was safe.
Months came and went and she saved her allowance, pestered for chores, baked muffins to sell to me for her dad’s lunch, helped her father, saved, saved, saved, fished around for loose change, and in general did all the things kids do when they need money and can’t get a job at 7-11 at the age of 9. They mooch, but at least it’s productive mooching. Closer and closer she came to the required amount and as she got closer, she asked me to start checking on where we could buy one and what they cost now (like it was going to get better). I checked and I found out prices and I also found out that there wasn’t a Wii to be had outside of getting hacked into tiny little financial chunks by the scam artists on line. She would have to wait.
And she saved and she scrimped and she mooched and she didn’t spend a cent of her vacation cruise money she had been given and she came to me a week ago and said “I have the money. I have more than enough so can I get the Wii now?” I gulped. I started making calls.
Not a Wii in town. Nothing. Anywhere.
But.
Toys R Us was getting a shipment in a week. They would be getting no more than 39 total Wii systems, no you couldn’t reserve one and it would be first come, first served and if you didn’t get one, it would be back to waiting for another undetermined length of the time for the next shipment, tough chit.
I mulled it over. I talked to her Mr. Ringie. I made my decision. Please keep in mind that I have never waited in line for concert tickets. I have never gotten somewhere the night before, armed with a sleeping bag and a flashlight and a cooler in order that I might get a ticket, any ticket, so that I might be in attendance at a sold out show. I’ve never even gone to the mall for the midnight madness shopping that now and then crops up around the holidays. I never punched out anybody over a cabbage patch doll. Ever. I thought it was stupid. I still do.
But I had spent the last year watching a nine year old kid slowly but surely build up a fund in her little piggy bank with an eye toward something she wanted. She was looking ahead and she was resisting impulse, keeping that eye directed firmly toward the ultimate goal and I was bound and determined that a kid that young who had tried that hard to earn money to buy something that expensive all by herself and had not once asked me to “just go on and get it for me” was not going to be disappointed if there was something I could do about it, short of holding the Wii delivery guy at gunpoint.
So when the alarm clock went off at 5:00 a.m. Sunday morning, I quietly crawled out of bed, quickly got dressed, made a thermos of coffee, grabbed the iPod, a bag chair and a book and out the door I went.
I was first in line at the Toys-R-Us and I am here to tell you that the look on my daughter’s face when she met me at the door (hours later, thank you) with her share of the cost of the Wii clutched in her hand, when she happily handed it over to me, was well worth the 4-plus hours spent in a canvas chair in front of the Toys-R-Us front doors not drinking all my coffee because I realized only after the fact that there was no bathroom available and I would have peeed down my own leg before losing my place in line.
But I can also tell you that the next time she gets a wild hair and saves up all her money for something you just can’t pick up off any old shelf, it’s going to be HER alarm clock that goes off at 5:00 a.m.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Duck Duck Goose
In my town, we have this large, man-made lake in the center of the town park which borders my neighborhood. Since time out of mind, the ducks have been a fixture at that lake (more like a big cement pond if you will), and much like other countries who worship their cows and such, it's considered a cardinal sin not to just about total your car avoiding the ducks who choose the exact moment of your approach to waddle their feathered asses across the street, usually with about a dozen little fuzzy youngins trailing along behind them. Geese are fair game, but you run down a duck at the risk of punishment by crucifixion if you so choose.
I'm pretty good about missing the ducks. Had a lot of practice. Usually get some warning of their approach too, but not this morning. The daughter and I were tooling along on our way to drop her off at school and had just rounded the far corner of the lake to head down the long stretch of street bordering the east edge of the water. She was whipping up on me in "punch buggy" as usual and I happened to glance to the left at a woman walking her dog on the sidewalk. What I didn't realize was that her dog was about to scare up a whole flock of those crap on your car creatures who, when frightened, make a bee-line for the lake and they most definitely do not look both ways before crossing. I saw one duck heading for the street and thought "I can beat him", when out of nowhere, no less than 15 of the big bastards came flapping and crapping across the street. Directly in front of my car.
Everything flew off the back seat. Our seatbelts locked up, the iPod flew off the console and anti-lock brakes took hold with that "THDTHDTHDTHDTHD" racket and we came to a screeching halt just in time for them to blow over the hood of the car and across the grill on their frantic bolt for the lake. A veritable wave of feathers was flying past my windshield. People on their morning walks had stopped to see and of course to make sure no ducks were injured because that's paramount - screw the car-make sure the ducks are OK - and one guy hollered at me "Hey lady. Hold up. You got one under your car and he's almost out!" At least four other people were bent over, supporting themselves with their hands on their knees, laughing and wiping their eyes. My daughter was busy rooting around on the floor looking for the iPod and the gum that had flown out of her yap. I was just sitting there, glaring at the GD ducks and thanking God for having the foresight not to place another person who was late for work in a car immediately behind me. Ducks. I hate ducks. I have this friend with a chipmunk problem that she’s handling with a very creative use of antifreeze. Maybe I'll ship all the damned ducks up to her pool to play with the chipmunks and then upgrade my first class ticket to hell so I can sit next to someone from PETA.
I'm pretty good about missing the ducks. Had a lot of practice. Usually get some warning of their approach too, but not this morning. The daughter and I were tooling along on our way to drop her off at school and had just rounded the far corner of the lake to head down the long stretch of street bordering the east edge of the water. She was whipping up on me in "punch buggy" as usual and I happened to glance to the left at a woman walking her dog on the sidewalk. What I didn't realize was that her dog was about to scare up a whole flock of those crap on your car creatures who, when frightened, make a bee-line for the lake and they most definitely do not look both ways before crossing. I saw one duck heading for the street and thought "I can beat him", when out of nowhere, no less than 15 of the big bastards came flapping and crapping across the street. Directly in front of my car.
Everything flew off the back seat. Our seatbelts locked up, the iPod flew off the console and anti-lock brakes took hold with that "THDTHDTHDTHDTHD" racket and we came to a screeching halt just in time for them to blow over the hood of the car and across the grill on their frantic bolt for the lake. A veritable wave of feathers was flying past my windshield. People on their morning walks had stopped to see and of course to make sure no ducks were injured because that's paramount - screw the car-make sure the ducks are OK - and one guy hollered at me "Hey lady. Hold up. You got one under your car and he's almost out!" At least four other people were bent over, supporting themselves with their hands on their knees, laughing and wiping their eyes. My daughter was busy rooting around on the floor looking for the iPod and the gum that had flown out of her yap. I was just sitting there, glaring at the GD ducks and thanking God for having the foresight not to place another person who was late for work in a car immediately behind me. Ducks. I hate ducks. I have this friend with a chipmunk problem that she’s handling with a very creative use of antifreeze. Maybe I'll ship all the damned ducks up to her pool to play with the chipmunks and then upgrade my first class ticket to hell so I can sit next to someone from PETA.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Sometimes, Women Confuse the Hell Out of Me
Other Women Confuse Me.
The way I see it, if I, a woman, can’t figure out how some women think, then men are hopelessly doomed when it comes to trying to read the signals, understand the talk, and figure out whether or not their next comment is going to earn them a hug or a swift kick in the dick.
Recently, I was talking with a girlfriend of mine and the subject invariably turned to the customary litany of man complaints, affectionately known as man bashing by the female persuasion, and indignantly referred to as “you women are never happy” by that other gang. It’s almost a rule of nature that no matter who you’re hanging with, when conversation runs thin and you’re almost out of things to say, switching the topic to men will afford you with at least another 10 hours of lively chit chat. On this particular day, my friend was bitching about how men stare at her. Naturally, I became interested and quickly formulated some commentary in my noodle, in preparation for the bash fest to follow, and sat back to hear the story. Seems she had purchased a new bathing suit, one of those suits where you pay approximately $20.00 per square inch of material and the total price of the suit was about $80.00 which should give you at least some idea of just how big this suit wasn’t. She had worn it to her local public pool and quickly found herself the center of attention, with the wives glaring balefully and the men either snatching quick, surreptitious looks or trying to simultaneously stare while sucking in their guts and not get busted by the glaring wife at his side. Many failed. At this point I began to feel the confusion. There was no complaint of rude commentary, no stories of being hit on, no grab-assing, and not a single “Hey baby woo woo!!!” howl anywhere to be found. Not a single person said a single word to her, offensive or otherwise, during the entire pool excursion. She was stared at to differing degrees. She was noticed and, if her story is to be entirely believed, she was envied and probably the target for an all-female lynching party involving Nair and Sharpies had she strayed too far from the herd, but that was about it.
I sat there a minute and puzzled it out. And because I’m a woman and I don’t HAVE a dick and am therefore not hampered by the fear of a quick or any other kind of kick in it, I asked her. I asked her the obvious question (at least pretty effing obvious to me), and the question was “If you didn’t want people to look at you, why did you wear that concoction of dental floss and tea doilies?” She proclaimed “Because I wanted to. I liked the suit and I should be able to wear it if I want to.” I replied, “OK. Fair enough. But you look me square in the eye and tell me that on some level, you didn’t buy that suit and then turn around and wear that suit around approximately a couple of hunnert strangers IN public because it looked damned fine on you, you knew it did, you knew it would attract attention and you would be noticed, because you will never convince me you bought it and wore it to a public pool because it was just so comfortable you couldn’t resist because the day comfort is defined by being slowly sawed in half from the bottom up will, that will also be the day I go to that same pool, hand my kid a video camera and do a hand stand naked and you KNOW damned well I can’t do a hand stand.”
Do you understand my confusion because she didn’t. I know for a fact, and am perfectly willing to admit, that I am fully aware of what kind of attention I’m expecting or anticipating when I don a particular outfit. If I throw on old baggy jeans and a sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up, yank my not quite clean hair back in a rough ponytail, root around under the bed for some flip-flops that actually match, and pat my make-up bag affectionately on my way out the door, I’m figuring I’m going to be able to pretty effectively fly under the general population’s radar at the very least. If I added a guitar case to the mix, I could probably do well, financially speaking, parking my ass in front of the local Safeway and singing a few tunes while people chucked their spare change into the case.
BUT if I stand in my closet, eyeball up those Seven jeans that by most people’s standards are just a wee bit too tight, snatch up a low cut tank top, gel up my hair and get it curly and shaggy out to HERE, match up the jewelry, actually open the make-up case, and head out, wobbling only slightly on a pair of 3-1/2 inch semi-slutty woven leather slides, I know what I’m doing. I’m dressing for attention. I do it, you do it, we all do it. Now that’s not to say I’m not going to have a snappy, equally offensive come-back at the ready for the Neanderthal that can’t help but vocalize, but I’m not going to be offended if somebody notices, looks at or even stares at me. Actually, I’ll be offended if I take that kind of time to go out and nobody notices me at all.
So you’ll pardon me if I’m a little confused that a grown woman could dress in what could be considered band aids and string at a public pool and then be offended that people had the audacity to look at her.
And to all the men in the world who might be reading this, you have my apologies, my sympathies, and may rest assured that for now, my “Things to Bitch About Where Men are Concerned” list just got a little bit shorter.
The way I see it, if I, a woman, can’t figure out how some women think, then men are hopelessly doomed when it comes to trying to read the signals, understand the talk, and figure out whether or not their next comment is going to earn them a hug or a swift kick in the dick.
Recently, I was talking with a girlfriend of mine and the subject invariably turned to the customary litany of man complaints, affectionately known as man bashing by the female persuasion, and indignantly referred to as “you women are never happy” by that other gang. It’s almost a rule of nature that no matter who you’re hanging with, when conversation runs thin and you’re almost out of things to say, switching the topic to men will afford you with at least another 10 hours of lively chit chat. On this particular day, my friend was bitching about how men stare at her. Naturally, I became interested and quickly formulated some commentary in my noodle, in preparation for the bash fest to follow, and sat back to hear the story. Seems she had purchased a new bathing suit, one of those suits where you pay approximately $20.00 per square inch of material and the total price of the suit was about $80.00 which should give you at least some idea of just how big this suit wasn’t. She had worn it to her local public pool and quickly found herself the center of attention, with the wives glaring balefully and the men either snatching quick, surreptitious looks or trying to simultaneously stare while sucking in their guts and not get busted by the glaring wife at his side. Many failed. At this point I began to feel the confusion. There was no complaint of rude commentary, no stories of being hit on, no grab-assing, and not a single “Hey baby woo woo!!!” howl anywhere to be found. Not a single person said a single word to her, offensive or otherwise, during the entire pool excursion. She was stared at to differing degrees. She was noticed and, if her story is to be entirely believed, she was envied and probably the target for an all-female lynching party involving Nair and Sharpies had she strayed too far from the herd, but that was about it.
I sat there a minute and puzzled it out. And because I’m a woman and I don’t HAVE a dick and am therefore not hampered by the fear of a quick or any other kind of kick in it, I asked her. I asked her the obvious question (at least pretty effing obvious to me), and the question was “If you didn’t want people to look at you, why did you wear that concoction of dental floss and tea doilies?” She proclaimed “Because I wanted to. I liked the suit and I should be able to wear it if I want to.” I replied, “OK. Fair enough. But you look me square in the eye and tell me that on some level, you didn’t buy that suit and then turn around and wear that suit around approximately a couple of hunnert strangers IN public because it looked damned fine on you, you knew it did, you knew it would attract attention and you would be noticed, because you will never convince me you bought it and wore it to a public pool because it was just so comfortable you couldn’t resist because the day comfort is defined by being slowly sawed in half from the bottom up will, that will also be the day I go to that same pool, hand my kid a video camera and do a hand stand naked and you KNOW damned well I can’t do a hand stand.”
Do you understand my confusion because she didn’t. I know for a fact, and am perfectly willing to admit, that I am fully aware of what kind of attention I’m expecting or anticipating when I don a particular outfit. If I throw on old baggy jeans and a sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up, yank my not quite clean hair back in a rough ponytail, root around under the bed for some flip-flops that actually match, and pat my make-up bag affectionately on my way out the door, I’m figuring I’m going to be able to pretty effectively fly under the general population’s radar at the very least. If I added a guitar case to the mix, I could probably do well, financially speaking, parking my ass in front of the local Safeway and singing a few tunes while people chucked their spare change into the case.
BUT if I stand in my closet, eyeball up those Seven jeans that by most people’s standards are just a wee bit too tight, snatch up a low cut tank top, gel up my hair and get it curly and shaggy out to HERE, match up the jewelry, actually open the make-up case, and head out, wobbling only slightly on a pair of 3-1/2 inch semi-slutty woven leather slides, I know what I’m doing. I’m dressing for attention. I do it, you do it, we all do it. Now that’s not to say I’m not going to have a snappy, equally offensive come-back at the ready for the Neanderthal that can’t help but vocalize, but I’m not going to be offended if somebody notices, looks at or even stares at me. Actually, I’ll be offended if I take that kind of time to go out and nobody notices me at all.
So you’ll pardon me if I’m a little confused that a grown woman could dress in what could be considered band aids and string at a public pool and then be offended that people had the audacity to look at her.
And to all the men in the world who might be reading this, you have my apologies, my sympathies, and may rest assured that for now, my “Things to Bitch About Where Men are Concerned” list just got a little bit shorter.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
When it's Time to Let Go (a Little)
There comes a time in the life of every parent, whether they like it or not, when they discover that you can only do so much for your child, can only push so hard and help so much, and then you have to cut them loose and hope and pray that they were listening at least part of the time. I’d have to assume that this particular watershed moment arrives far too quickly in the life any parent whose child is enrolled in any kind of athletic program that offers the opportunity to go to any sort of competition, i.e., afternoon of nauseating, nail biting, gastrointestinal catastrophe. For the parent. The kid’s having an effing blast.
I faced this moment a few days ago when my 9 year old daughter entered her very first ever karate tournament on a weekend when her instructor couldn’t come along and I toted along the child of another parent just to make things that much more interesting. Fortunately for me, a third child entered and brought along both of his parental units who turned out to be just as freaked out as us and seriously nice to boot. The fact that they got my rather unusual sense of humor was another plus since we ended up spending the entire day together, trying desperately not to clutch one another as a result of repeated nervous meltdowns. To add to my gradual downward emotional spiral, my video camera batteries were tragically as old as the video camera itself and held a charge for all of maybe 10 minutes, so I was constantly running back and forth to the gymnasium wall where I had plugged in the charger and swapping batteries.
Check in began at 9:00 a.m. and ran until 11:00 when the tournament was scheduled to start and don’t ask me what I was thinking to insist that we had to be there right at 9:00. I suppose I was thinking “hey get there early and have more practice time!”
I am stupid. What it was turned out to be “get there early and have two more hours during which you can completely lose your mind.” Actually, it DID work out because it DID give the kids another couple of hours to run through the katas they were going to perform. What I didn’t realize was that when the tournament started, they would call all 150+ kids out to the floor, never to return to their parents until their event had concluded. WHAT!!! They can’t DO that!!! I need to be with her!! She NEEDS ME! I need to continue to work this kata with her my God she’ll forget everything we’ve worked on for the past month if I can’t have her still working on it during the hour or so before she’s to compete what in the name of GOD are you people THINKING!!! Yes, I know she can rattle off over 16 katas but she'll forget THIS one if I'm not driving her crazy practicing it over and over right up to the very second she needs to perform. I watched her walk away and I thought “This is it. This is just IT. All that work. Over.”
Right about that time, one of the judges approached me to score in his judging ring and, figuring it would be a reasonable distraction, agreed to keep score even though I had no idea what the hell I was doing. I kept score with minimal hand palsy until I looked over to another judging ring and saw my youngin’ in the yer up next area, at which point, the head judge saw me go white and told me to go on over and watch her round. I managed to get out my chair with no assistance, snatched the video camera out of my husband’s hands and positioned myself (braced myself) in the best possible vantage point. Took in a huge gasp of air. Let out. And waited.
She’s a double stripe green belt and currently anticipating the test for her brown belt. She was in a group of two brown belts, one of which was one step below his black belt, and one other green belt. That made her group one of the few groups who had four or more kids in it. They gave trophies only to the top three. I think I might have stopped breathing for a while. It was then that it occurred to me that her ring was also the main ring, with the three highest ranking judges and positioned right smack dab in front of the bleachers and the entire crowd. DAMN. I started thinking about how her natural method of dealing with stress is to begin to leak from the eyes. She cried all the way through her last belt test and I could just see it happening again here. I watched her as she watched the other kids' katas and she calmly sat there. And then it happened. They called her name and I nearly barfed and peed myself at the same time. It was at this moment that my schooling on letting go began.
She rose to her feet with a loud “oo-ah”, bowed, faced forward and marched to the center of the ring where she whirled to face the panel of judges, brought herself to attention, bowed and rather than choke up, freeze and start to cry, my child bellowed out her name, her rank, her instructor, her style of karate and the kata she was going to perform. Her eyes never wavered, her chin never dipped and her expression never broke. She bowed, she took four giant steps backward, bowed, turned around to face away and gave the top of her uniform one hard yank and her belt an even harder yank, spun back around to again face the judges, bowed and when she stood up, her face had changed. Somewhere in that head of hers, the instruction from her teacher to get ugly, get mean, perform, sell it and make them think they can actually see the person you’re pretending to fight had taken root. She was glowering and she was on fire. From the first second she moved and screamed out her first kia, I knew all my fears were for nothing. She blazed through the kata, smooth, strong, powerful and sharp. Under pressure, in the face of three heavy hitting black belt judges and at least 200 people in the crowd, she nailed it like she’d never nailed it before and finished as powerfully as she’d begun. She bowed. She had a seat. I did NOT cry. I swear. Then she lined back up for the scoring. And my stomach rolled over at least five times.
She had faced two kids doing very complicated brown belt katas, one of which was done beautifully and the other done in a rather unenthusiastic manner and I know she was remembering her instructor telling them that flash isn’t everything. A marvelously, perfectly performed middle level kata will blow away a harder kata that isn’t performed as well provided the judging is fair. The other green belt was pretty good and I was terrified. I had never faced having to deal with my child’s disappointment and I was convinced I was going to have to see her face crumple now. I was so incredibly proud of her, so amazed at her control, a control I'd never seen before, that it tore me up to think that she could do so very very well and end up disappointed anyway. I didn't want that for her. Cause I'm a Mom.
The scoring came down. My heart stopped but at least the camera battery was holding out. She walked away with the second place trophy wearing the biggest smile you ever saw in your life.
I could breathe again.
In conclusion I’ll tell you that she didn’t enter sparring. She wasn’t too keen on fighting kids with whom she wasn’t familiar but on the way out that night, after having watched all the sparring rounds, she clutched her trophy to her, turned to me and said “I should have sparred.” I asked her why, and she grinned at me and said “Cause I could have kicked the crap out of most of those kids and gotten ANOTHER trophy.”
I guess I’ll be buying some headgear this week.
I faced this moment a few days ago when my 9 year old daughter entered her very first ever karate tournament on a weekend when her instructor couldn’t come along and I toted along the child of another parent just to make things that much more interesting. Fortunately for me, a third child entered and brought along both of his parental units who turned out to be just as freaked out as us and seriously nice to boot. The fact that they got my rather unusual sense of humor was another plus since we ended up spending the entire day together, trying desperately not to clutch one another as a result of repeated nervous meltdowns. To add to my gradual downward emotional spiral, my video camera batteries were tragically as old as the video camera itself and held a charge for all of maybe 10 minutes, so I was constantly running back and forth to the gymnasium wall where I had plugged in the charger and swapping batteries.
Check in began at 9:00 a.m. and ran until 11:00 when the tournament was scheduled to start and don’t ask me what I was thinking to insist that we had to be there right at 9:00. I suppose I was thinking “hey get there early and have more practice time!”
I am stupid. What it was turned out to be “get there early and have two more hours during which you can completely lose your mind.” Actually, it DID work out because it DID give the kids another couple of hours to run through the katas they were going to perform. What I didn’t realize was that when the tournament started, they would call all 150+ kids out to the floor, never to return to their parents until their event had concluded. WHAT!!! They can’t DO that!!! I need to be with her!! She NEEDS ME! I need to continue to work this kata with her my God she’ll forget everything we’ve worked on for the past month if I can’t have her still working on it during the hour or so before she’s to compete what in the name of GOD are you people THINKING!!! Yes, I know she can rattle off over 16 katas but she'll forget THIS one if I'm not driving her crazy practicing it over and over right up to the very second she needs to perform. I watched her walk away and I thought “This is it. This is just IT. All that work. Over.”
Right about that time, one of the judges approached me to score in his judging ring and, figuring it would be a reasonable distraction, agreed to keep score even though I had no idea what the hell I was doing. I kept score with minimal hand palsy until I looked over to another judging ring and saw my youngin’ in the yer up next area, at which point, the head judge saw me go white and told me to go on over and watch her round. I managed to get out my chair with no assistance, snatched the video camera out of my husband’s hands and positioned myself (braced myself) in the best possible vantage point. Took in a huge gasp of air. Let out. And waited.
She’s a double stripe green belt and currently anticipating the test for her brown belt. She was in a group of two brown belts, one of which was one step below his black belt, and one other green belt. That made her group one of the few groups who had four or more kids in it. They gave trophies only to the top three. I think I might have stopped breathing for a while. It was then that it occurred to me that her ring was also the main ring, with the three highest ranking judges and positioned right smack dab in front of the bleachers and the entire crowd. DAMN. I started thinking about how her natural method of dealing with stress is to begin to leak from the eyes. She cried all the way through her last belt test and I could just see it happening again here. I watched her as she watched the other kids' katas and she calmly sat there. And then it happened. They called her name and I nearly barfed and peed myself at the same time. It was at this moment that my schooling on letting go began.
She rose to her feet with a loud “oo-ah”, bowed, faced forward and marched to the center of the ring where she whirled to face the panel of judges, brought herself to attention, bowed and rather than choke up, freeze and start to cry, my child bellowed out her name, her rank, her instructor, her style of karate and the kata she was going to perform. Her eyes never wavered, her chin never dipped and her expression never broke. She bowed, she took four giant steps backward, bowed, turned around to face away and gave the top of her uniform one hard yank and her belt an even harder yank, spun back around to again face the judges, bowed and when she stood up, her face had changed. Somewhere in that head of hers, the instruction from her teacher to get ugly, get mean, perform, sell it and make them think they can actually see the person you’re pretending to fight had taken root. She was glowering and she was on fire. From the first second she moved and screamed out her first kia, I knew all my fears were for nothing. She blazed through the kata, smooth, strong, powerful and sharp. Under pressure, in the face of three heavy hitting black belt judges and at least 200 people in the crowd, she nailed it like she’d never nailed it before and finished as powerfully as she’d begun. She bowed. She had a seat. I did NOT cry. I swear. Then she lined back up for the scoring. And my stomach rolled over at least five times.
She had faced two kids doing very complicated brown belt katas, one of which was done beautifully and the other done in a rather unenthusiastic manner and I know she was remembering her instructor telling them that flash isn’t everything. A marvelously, perfectly performed middle level kata will blow away a harder kata that isn’t performed as well provided the judging is fair. The other green belt was pretty good and I was terrified. I had never faced having to deal with my child’s disappointment and I was convinced I was going to have to see her face crumple now. I was so incredibly proud of her, so amazed at her control, a control I'd never seen before, that it tore me up to think that she could do so very very well and end up disappointed anyway. I didn't want that for her. Cause I'm a Mom.
The scoring came down. My heart stopped but at least the camera battery was holding out. She walked away with the second place trophy wearing the biggest smile you ever saw in your life.
I could breathe again.
In conclusion I’ll tell you that she didn’t enter sparring. She wasn’t too keen on fighting kids with whom she wasn’t familiar but on the way out that night, after having watched all the sparring rounds, she clutched her trophy to her, turned to me and said “I should have sparred.” I asked her why, and she grinned at me and said “Cause I could have kicked the crap out of most of those kids and gotten ANOTHER trophy.”
I guess I’ll be buying some headgear this week.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Why I Beat My Head on My Desk
Idiot: Good morning. Thank you for calling _________. How can I help you.
Me: Hello. I’m looking for an adapter for a Presario 2100 Laptop computer.
Idiot: What’s it for?
Me: It’s an adapter for a laptop.
Idiot: What do you use it with?
Me: A Laptop. A computer?
Idiot: That might be specific.
Me: What might be specific?
Idiot: That might be a specific part.
Me: Yes, it is a specific part. It’s an adapter for my laptop computer so it will turn ON and STAY on.
Idiot: That sounds like you need an adapter.
Me: Yes. That’s what I said. I need a Presario 2100 Laptop computer adapter. Not a universal one. I had one. It’s broken and I want THIS one.
Idiot: It might be the connector on your computer.
Me: No. My laptop is at this very moment sitting on the desk of my computer repair guy who has already looked at it and said the computer’s fine. I need the adapter. The adapter is bad.
Idiot. You know, your adapter might be bad.
Me: No shit. I know that. That’s why I need the ADAPTER.
Idiot: You might have a short in your adapter.
Me: Yes. Whatever. Here’s the exact model number.
Idiot: That’s the model number?
Me: Yes
Idiot: That’s a part number for an adapter.
Me: YES. I know that. Do you have it?
Idiot: It doesn’t match my model numbers so I can’t guarantee that part will work.
Me: What model are you looking at?
Idiot: It’s a different brand and model.
Me: I told you that I need THIS brand and model.
Idiot: Oh! But I don’t carry that.
Me: Are you serious? How long during the course of our conversation have you known that.
Idiot: I thought you wanted to buy a computer.
Somebody just wander on out to the local office supply warehouse for me and find the guy with head stuck up his own ass and cram a computer adapter up there to keep his head company please and thank you.
Me: Hello. I’m looking for an adapter for a Presario 2100 Laptop computer.
Idiot: What’s it for?
Me: It’s an adapter for a laptop.
Idiot: What do you use it with?
Me: A Laptop. A computer?
Idiot: That might be specific.
Me: What might be specific?
Idiot: That might be a specific part.
Me: Yes, it is a specific part. It’s an adapter for my laptop computer so it will turn ON and STAY on.
Idiot: That sounds like you need an adapter.
Me: Yes. That’s what I said. I need a Presario 2100 Laptop computer adapter. Not a universal one. I had one. It’s broken and I want THIS one.
Idiot: It might be the connector on your computer.
Me: No. My laptop is at this very moment sitting on the desk of my computer repair guy who has already looked at it and said the computer’s fine. I need the adapter. The adapter is bad.
Idiot. You know, your adapter might be bad.
Me: No shit. I know that. That’s why I need the ADAPTER.
Idiot: You might have a short in your adapter.
Me: Yes. Whatever. Here’s the exact model number.
Idiot: That’s the model number?
Me: Yes
Idiot: That’s a part number for an adapter.
Me: YES. I know that. Do you have it?
Idiot: It doesn’t match my model numbers so I can’t guarantee that part will work.
Me: What model are you looking at?
Idiot: It’s a different brand and model.
Me: I told you that I need THIS brand and model.
Idiot: Oh! But I don’t carry that.
Me: Are you serious? How long during the course of our conversation have you known that.
Idiot: I thought you wanted to buy a computer.
Somebody just wander on out to the local office supply warehouse for me and find the guy with head stuck up his own ass and cram a computer adapter up there to keep his head company please and thank you.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
When Little Girls Grow Up
When Little Girls Grow Up
My husband has a difficult time, more difficult that most (think: insane neurotic opinions) when it comes to the concept of his little girl becoming something other than a little girl. He insists that she’ll be allowed to date when she’s 36. He’s praying that the locating chip that is being developed for human use is perfected and on the market before she’s 18. When she talks about boys in a manner other than to describe what idiots they are, he gets white in the face and insists that that kind of talk just needs to end right now.
Imagine his shock and horror last night. Our back-yard neighbors who live on the other side of the hedge are some of our closest friends and one of their daughters is Ringlet’s close friend and almost her exact age. I’ve been talking with P (my neighbor) about the things we’ve noticed start to change in our daughters, physical changes, impending puberty, and other kinds of things and naturally, if one of us speaks to one our kids about it, the other one better do it too before the discussion begins between the kids without the benefit of our input. So I sat down the Ringlet a day or two ago and explained what those belly cramps she’s been getting every couple of weeks that never lead to a big ol’ pooo might be signaling and even though she knows what a “period” is, I wanted her to be aware that she’s rapidly approaching the age where it could become a reality for her. Her response was nothing I didn’t expect. “Really? EWWW. OK. I can handle that, but I am NOT wearing a bra.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that with her genetics, that might not be something she should be too terribly concerned about.
The neighbors and their kids were over for dinner last night and while the adults were out back enjoying a warm evening around the patio table, the girls were downstairs watching a movie. Mr. Ringie headed down to the basement for a bottle of water and when he came back upstairs, I heard his voice ringing through the back window at us, ordering us to go DOWN those stairs and tell those GIRLS that they didn’t have ANY business discussing the thing about which they were speaking. We said “You do it”. He said “NO!” We said “Well, at least tell us what they’re talking about.” and he said “They are TALKING about getting their PERIODS.”
It was all we could do to get our fists into our mouths in time to keep from braying right in his poor face.
“But honey, why can’t they talk about that?”
“They’re not OLD enough to talk about that.”
“OK, how old is old enough? I mean, saying it’s not going to happen isn’t going to stop it from happening and we think it’s GOOD they can talk to each other about it. When do you think they’ll be old enough to discuss it?”
“When they’re older.”
“How old?”
“I dunno. FORTY would be good.”
“Great. We can talk about periods AND menopause and kill two birds with one stone.”
That poor guy.
But I will say that there IS something terribly cute and simultaneously weird about your child talking about her period and losing a baby tooth all in one evening.
My husband has a difficult time, more difficult that most (think: insane neurotic opinions) when it comes to the concept of his little girl becoming something other than a little girl. He insists that she’ll be allowed to date when she’s 36. He’s praying that the locating chip that is being developed for human use is perfected and on the market before she’s 18. When she talks about boys in a manner other than to describe what idiots they are, he gets white in the face and insists that that kind of talk just needs to end right now.
Imagine his shock and horror last night. Our back-yard neighbors who live on the other side of the hedge are some of our closest friends and one of their daughters is Ringlet’s close friend and almost her exact age. I’ve been talking with P (my neighbor) about the things we’ve noticed start to change in our daughters, physical changes, impending puberty, and other kinds of things and naturally, if one of us speaks to one our kids about it, the other one better do it too before the discussion begins between the kids without the benefit of our input. So I sat down the Ringlet a day or two ago and explained what those belly cramps she’s been getting every couple of weeks that never lead to a big ol’ pooo might be signaling and even though she knows what a “period” is, I wanted her to be aware that she’s rapidly approaching the age where it could become a reality for her. Her response was nothing I didn’t expect. “Really? EWWW. OK. I can handle that, but I am NOT wearing a bra.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that with her genetics, that might not be something she should be too terribly concerned about.
The neighbors and their kids were over for dinner last night and while the adults were out back enjoying a warm evening around the patio table, the girls were downstairs watching a movie. Mr. Ringie headed down to the basement for a bottle of water and when he came back upstairs, I heard his voice ringing through the back window at us, ordering us to go DOWN those stairs and tell those GIRLS that they didn’t have ANY business discussing the thing about which they were speaking. We said “You do it”. He said “NO!” We said “Well, at least tell us what they’re talking about.” and he said “They are TALKING about getting their PERIODS.”
It was all we could do to get our fists into our mouths in time to keep from braying right in his poor face.
“But honey, why can’t they talk about that?”
“They’re not OLD enough to talk about that.”
“OK, how old is old enough? I mean, saying it’s not going to happen isn’t going to stop it from happening and we think it’s GOOD they can talk to each other about it. When do you think they’ll be old enough to discuss it?”
“When they’re older.”
“How old?”
“I dunno. FORTY would be good.”
“Great. We can talk about periods AND menopause and kill two birds with one stone.”
That poor guy.
But I will say that there IS something terribly cute and simultaneously weird about your child talking about her period and losing a baby tooth all in one evening.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Crying my Way Through Terabithia
First of all, if you have yet to see this movie and intend to, especially if you're not familiar with the ending of this story, and if you hate a spoiler, stop right friggin now cause I'm gonna give away the ending. Don't say you weren't warned.
We took my 9 year old daughter to see The Bridge to Terabithia tonight. I wasn't particularly looking forward to it because there comes a time when you'd really like to get out of the house, buy some greasy popcorn and see a movie with something higher than a PG-13 rating, a few F-bombs and possibly a little skin. I'd seen the previews and figured I was headed into another cute little fantasy movie. I was wrong.
As the movie went on, I leaned to my daughter and said "OK. I'm confused." I figured it was my turn and just as I would have done to her had our roles been reversed into the usual place, she whispered back "Just watch the movie." Where were the mythical creatures? Where were the dragons and fairies? How effing long IS this movie? But as it went on, I found myself becoming more and more immersed in the lives and struggles of these children and came to realize that Terabithia was truly their place, the place that came to life because of the fertility of their imaginations and understood the strength that their friendship and the world they created together changed their lives.
Then came the dreaded ending and we found that Leslie had died and my little one fell apart, I fell apart, and in a theatre that was unusually full of teenage girls and young adults for a movie that had been showing for a while, the resounding snorting of snotty noses and rustling napkins doing double duty as Kleenex filled the space. Everybody was losing it, openly crying. Then we'd laugh and cry at the same time. Then we'd just flat out cry some more.
The whole movie was just wonderful, even if it did completely fuck up my makeup.
On the way out, under the harsh glare of the lights, we ran into people we knew who looked at us, smiled and said "You guys look like hell." And we did.
What I wasn't expecting was my daughter's eventual reaction to the bright idea of killing off Leslie. We got home and while I was upstairs getting into my jammies, my husband came into the bedroom and said "do you have any idea what your daughter is doing?" (He said "my" daughter, meaning not HIS daughter, so I knew it had to be good.) I said "Uh oh." He said "Go see for yourself."
I trotted down the stairs and found her in the big chair, with both the Terabithia book AND the phone book on her lap, cordless phone in hand. She looked up and said "I'm gonna call the people who made this movie and open up a can of whoop-butt about killing Leslie." I said "Hon, those people don't live around here and they're not in that phone book." She replied with "Fine. Give me a BIG phone book and I'll find them that way." Thank God she doesn't yet quite know how to use Google or there would be about 50 people with the last name of Patterson seriously pissed off by now.
The Bridge to Terabithia might be Disney and it might be marketed for kids, but it's a movie for all ages to enjoy and one guaranteed to test your inner strength and your waterproof mascara.
Go.
We took my 9 year old daughter to see The Bridge to Terabithia tonight. I wasn't particularly looking forward to it because there comes a time when you'd really like to get out of the house, buy some greasy popcorn and see a movie with something higher than a PG-13 rating, a few F-bombs and possibly a little skin. I'd seen the previews and figured I was headed into another cute little fantasy movie. I was wrong.
As the movie went on, I leaned to my daughter and said "OK. I'm confused." I figured it was my turn and just as I would have done to her had our roles been reversed into the usual place, she whispered back "Just watch the movie." Where were the mythical creatures? Where were the dragons and fairies? How effing long IS this movie? But as it went on, I found myself becoming more and more immersed in the lives and struggles of these children and came to realize that Terabithia was truly their place, the place that came to life because of the fertility of their imaginations and understood the strength that their friendship and the world they created together changed their lives.
Then came the dreaded ending and we found that Leslie had died and my little one fell apart, I fell apart, and in a theatre that was unusually full of teenage girls and young adults for a movie that had been showing for a while, the resounding snorting of snotty noses and rustling napkins doing double duty as Kleenex filled the space. Everybody was losing it, openly crying. Then we'd laugh and cry at the same time. Then we'd just flat out cry some more.
The whole movie was just wonderful, even if it did completely fuck up my makeup.
On the way out, under the harsh glare of the lights, we ran into people we knew who looked at us, smiled and said "You guys look like hell." And we did.
What I wasn't expecting was my daughter's eventual reaction to the bright idea of killing off Leslie. We got home and while I was upstairs getting into my jammies, my husband came into the bedroom and said "do you have any idea what your daughter is doing?" (He said "my" daughter, meaning not HIS daughter, so I knew it had to be good.) I said "Uh oh." He said "Go see for yourself."
I trotted down the stairs and found her in the big chair, with both the Terabithia book AND the phone book on her lap, cordless phone in hand. She looked up and said "I'm gonna call the people who made this movie and open up a can of whoop-butt about killing Leslie." I said "Hon, those people don't live around here and they're not in that phone book." She replied with "Fine. Give me a BIG phone book and I'll find them that way." Thank God she doesn't yet quite know how to use Google or there would be about 50 people with the last name of Patterson seriously pissed off by now.
The Bridge to Terabithia might be Disney and it might be marketed for kids, but it's a movie for all ages to enjoy and one guaranteed to test your inner strength and your waterproof mascara.
Go.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
When You Throw the Gag on Mama Bear
When you gag a mama bear, it ain’t pretty. In fact, it’s downright scary for those unfortunate enough to be standing around viewing the metamorphosis. And for better or worse, this mama bear is struggling mightily against the self-imposed gag order currently in place.
My mother told me something when I was little. She said “if you get into a fight, a scrape or a problem at school, don’t expect me to come running to fix it for you. You’ll have to handle it on your own. I’m not going to fight your fights for you.” The inspiration for this speech was the mother of a childhood friend who would, at the drop of a hat, launch herself into every single scrape, argument or perceived slight perpetrated against her own children and it drove my mother crazy. She believed in fighting your own battles and cleaning up your own messes. At the time, I didn’t quite get it. I also didn’t understand the amount of restraint required to sustain that particular decree. Now I do, because I've adopted it and made it a part of my own parenting regulations.
The things you learn when you have children of your own.
Those of you who know me know that I’ll take a lot of shit if it’s my shit. Throw anything you want my way and I’ll field it and handle it and usually I’ll do it without an abundance of anger or self-righteousness (OK, long lasting anger, no. Short term fury, yeah, probably). But if you shit on my friends, my family and especially my child, just stand back, get out of the frigging way and strap up because then it’s game on. Those of you who know me might also remember the beach vacation from hell this past summer when we took my daughter’s best friend since kindergarten with us to the Outer Banks.
They’re both now in the fourth grade and have been fast friends up until a day or two ago when the Ringlet came home to tell me that her friend (hereinafter referred to as “E” because otherwise I’ll make up another name for her that simply isn’t appropriate for a 9 year old) had been ignoring her and she didn’t know why. My back went. She continued with “I’ll try to talk to her or play with her and she won’t speak to me and ignores me.” The hair on the back of my neck started doing that little dance it does sometimes. We chatted and I talked to her a bit and while she seemed troubled, she wasn’t overly upset about it. I was the one who was steadily developing what my father likes to call “a serious case of the ass.”
Yesterday, Ringlet came home from school and I asked how the day went. She said fine. It was a good day. Except for the fact that E told me she’s not my friend any more. I screeched to a halt, turned around and demanded details. It seems that at a play date a E’s house over a week ago, E’s little sister, who resents Ringlet’s presence because it detracts from her time with her sister, informed E that Ringlet had said “bad” words to her and E’s comment to Ringlet yesterday was that “I’m not your friend any more because you said bad words to my sister.”
OK, I’m not the mother who automatically believes that my daughter can do no wrong. I know she can, I know she does and, on some level, I expect it. But in the bad word department, I know my kid. I’ve heard her correct the neighbor’s child who thinks cussing is cool. I’ve heard her tell her that if she talks that way, she has to go home. I mean, my God, she’s called ME down at times and she still won’t actually say a bad word in front of me, even if it's just to tell me what someone else said, without spelling it rather than say it. This kid doesn’t cuss. This I know because I know her, I'm the subject of her correction on the topic, and because I eavesdrop on her play dates at my house.
People, the flames were coming out of the top of my head. I told her that under no circumstances was she to even attempt to speak to this kid until she had a full apology. I told her that if she did, she should make it clear to E that she did no such thing (because she really was vehemently denying it and she's a pretty terrible liar) and that she didn’t need friends who would just cut her off like that, and I said a lot of things I can’t quite remember right now, but bottom line was that she was to ignore this little . . . . . ignore E right back and not give her the satisfaction of being courted or begged back into a friendship.
From my reaction, you would have thought that somebody had put Ringlet on stage in front of the whole school and shamed her naked. It was overkill at its very very finest.
All I know is that I’d better get a grip on this because if I don’t, it’s going to be a long long long hellish long miserable long traumatizing road through middle school and high school. For me.
Mr. Ringie’s reaction in the face of my overwhelming desire to get in my car, drive over there, bang down the door and go after her, her parents, her grandparents and the godamned dog? “They’ll work it out.”
**sigh**
He's right of course. I know that. I know I have to let her slog her way through these things because I know that children, especially girls, can be incredibly cruel and hurtful at times. But I hate being gagged, thwarted and forced to let somebody else handle their own issues. I hate it. Put it third on the list below spiders and dentists.
I dunno if I can do this. Somebody start the Bail Ringie Out of Jail Repeatedly for Crimes Perpetrated Against Minors Who Upset Her Kid Fund right fucking now. Because I'm gonna need it. That and a whole pile of little blue pills.
My mother told me something when I was little. She said “if you get into a fight, a scrape or a problem at school, don’t expect me to come running to fix it for you. You’ll have to handle it on your own. I’m not going to fight your fights for you.” The inspiration for this speech was the mother of a childhood friend who would, at the drop of a hat, launch herself into every single scrape, argument or perceived slight perpetrated against her own children and it drove my mother crazy. She believed in fighting your own battles and cleaning up your own messes. At the time, I didn’t quite get it. I also didn’t understand the amount of restraint required to sustain that particular decree. Now I do, because I've adopted it and made it a part of my own parenting regulations.
The things you learn when you have children of your own.
Those of you who know me know that I’ll take a lot of shit if it’s my shit. Throw anything you want my way and I’ll field it and handle it and usually I’ll do it without an abundance of anger or self-righteousness (OK, long lasting anger, no. Short term fury, yeah, probably). But if you shit on my friends, my family and especially my child, just stand back, get out of the frigging way and strap up because then it’s game on. Those of you who know me might also remember the beach vacation from hell this past summer when we took my daughter’s best friend since kindergarten with us to the Outer Banks.
They’re both now in the fourth grade and have been fast friends up until a day or two ago when the Ringlet came home to tell me that her friend (hereinafter referred to as “E” because otherwise I’ll make up another name for her that simply isn’t appropriate for a 9 year old) had been ignoring her and she didn’t know why. My back went. She continued with “I’ll try to talk to her or play with her and she won’t speak to me and ignores me.” The hair on the back of my neck started doing that little dance it does sometimes. We chatted and I talked to her a bit and while she seemed troubled, she wasn’t overly upset about it. I was the one who was steadily developing what my father likes to call “a serious case of the ass.”
Yesterday, Ringlet came home from school and I asked how the day went. She said fine. It was a good day. Except for the fact that E told me she’s not my friend any more. I screeched to a halt, turned around and demanded details. It seems that at a play date a E’s house over a week ago, E’s little sister, who resents Ringlet’s presence because it detracts from her time with her sister, informed E that Ringlet had said “bad” words to her and E’s comment to Ringlet yesterday was that “I’m not your friend any more because you said bad words to my sister.”
OK, I’m not the mother who automatically believes that my daughter can do no wrong. I know she can, I know she does and, on some level, I expect it. But in the bad word department, I know my kid. I’ve heard her correct the neighbor’s child who thinks cussing is cool. I’ve heard her tell her that if she talks that way, she has to go home. I mean, my God, she’s called ME down at times and she still won’t actually say a bad word in front of me, even if it's just to tell me what someone else said, without spelling it rather than say it. This kid doesn’t cuss. This I know because I know her, I'm the subject of her correction on the topic, and because I eavesdrop on her play dates at my house.
People, the flames were coming out of the top of my head. I told her that under no circumstances was she to even attempt to speak to this kid until she had a full apology. I told her that if she did, she should make it clear to E that she did no such thing (because she really was vehemently denying it and she's a pretty terrible liar) and that she didn’t need friends who would just cut her off like that, and I said a lot of things I can’t quite remember right now, but bottom line was that she was to ignore this little . . . . . ignore E right back and not give her the satisfaction of being courted or begged back into a friendship.
From my reaction, you would have thought that somebody had put Ringlet on stage in front of the whole school and shamed her naked. It was overkill at its very very finest.
All I know is that I’d better get a grip on this because if I don’t, it’s going to be a long long long hellish long miserable long traumatizing road through middle school and high school. For me.
Mr. Ringie’s reaction in the face of my overwhelming desire to get in my car, drive over there, bang down the door and go after her, her parents, her grandparents and the godamned dog? “They’ll work it out.”
**sigh**
He's right of course. I know that. I know I have to let her slog her way through these things because I know that children, especially girls, can be incredibly cruel and hurtful at times. But I hate being gagged, thwarted and forced to let somebody else handle their own issues. I hate it. Put it third on the list below spiders and dentists.
I dunno if I can do this. Somebody start the Bail Ringie Out of Jail Repeatedly for Crimes Perpetrated Against Minors Who Upset Her Kid Fund right fucking now. Because I'm gonna need it. That and a whole pile of little blue pills.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
SNAKE!!!!!!
Some of you know about my issues (i.e., phobia) where spiders are concerned. My husband gets a kick out of my panicky flights from rooms where dust bunnies posing as spiders have been spotted, but tends to simultaneously and conveniently forget about his own little problem regarding another creature, namely, his irrational and all-encompassing fear of snakes. He doesn’t call it fear. He refuses to acknowledge it as fear. He prefers to simply say he hates snakes. I know better. I don’t hate spiders. I’m scared to death of the friggin things and it has nothing to do with hate. I’m just scared shitless of ‘em. What my husband doesn’t know that I know is that I know the big secret, that secret being that you don’t scream like a little bitch when you are confronted with something you hate. You scream like a girl when you are confronted with something that scares the everlovin pants offa ya. So I’ll tell you the story of how I first realized that he didn’t actually hate snakes, but instead hated how badly they scared him. I got permission to tell it too but I’ll admit, I didn’t run this past him for editorial comments before publishing it so he’ll have to live with that little oversight and the resulting embarrassment.
Many years ago, back in the days when we were childless, if you don’t count the fact that having a husband should almost always count as having a child, I was relaxing in our family room, reading a book that didn’t have illustrations, and enjoying the early evening solitude, when I heard the garage door fly open and a voice I didn’t at first recognize scream “SNAAAAAKE!!!!! SNAKE IN THE GARAGE!!!!!”. I sat there a second and wondered if that had, in fact, been my husband, and debated as to whether or not I was supposed to actually do anything, and before the decision of “screw it” had fully formed in my head, the shriek of “SNAKE” came again, followed by “GET THE HELL OUT HERE AND DO SOMETHING!!!”. So much for the book, peace, quiet or solitude, and out the door I padded in my jammies and stocking feet.
There he stood, white faced and trembling on the opposite side of the garage and, being the kind, ever thoughtful, understanding and sympathetic wife that I am, I barked “WHAT?” He whispered, “There’s a snake in here.” “Where? Where is the snake?” said I. He pointed an unsteady finger at the big red toolbox tower immediately to my left, the same toolbox he bought one Christmas and tried to pass off as my gift and guess how long that idea lasted, so I got down on my hands and knees to take a peek under it. He immediately wailed “DON’T put your face down there, it’s gonna BITE you!” Ignoring him, I grabbed a flashlight and kept looking around and just as I was about to tell him that he was on crack and there was no snake under there, I saw it. I saw the beastie, the demon, the horror that had caused him to completely crack and abandon all pretense of control.
It was horrible! It was terrifying and beyond imagination. Oh, for the love of God, it was an 8 inch long baby garter snake, curled up in the corner and scared out of it’s head-of-a-pin sized mind. It wasn’t a snake. It was a glorified worm with eyes.
I snatched a pair of work gloves, hit the garage door button and as I reached under the toolbox to retrieve little Anaconda, Jr., my husband went bolting out into the yard in case I missed it and it tried to swallow him whole for having ratted him out. I grabbed Jr. and hauled him out from under the tool box and, to his credit, he did take a few jabs at my fingers with his itty bitty teeny tiny itsy bitsy widdle teeth. I shuffled to the yard and heard my husband say “Are ya gonna KILL it?” NO. I’m not gonna kill it. I’m gonna toss it down to the edge of the yard so it can go on home or where ever it is that giant man eating snakes go, and against his most strenuous protests, I got a firm grip on Jr.’s tail and underhanded him toward the end of the yard.
Or, better put, I TRIED to.
Because as I released him, he took another bite at my glove.
This time his teeth caught.
And rather than fly off into the night, he flew straight up into the air about 20 feet and landed right on my husband’s head.
And that is the night I realized beyond the shadow of a doubt that he didn’t hate snakes.
Both the snake and my husband made full recoveries.
Many years ago, back in the days when we were childless, if you don’t count the fact that having a husband should almost always count as having a child, I was relaxing in our family room, reading a book that didn’t have illustrations, and enjoying the early evening solitude, when I heard the garage door fly open and a voice I didn’t at first recognize scream “SNAAAAAKE!!!!! SNAKE IN THE GARAGE!!!!!”. I sat there a second and wondered if that had, in fact, been my husband, and debated as to whether or not I was supposed to actually do anything, and before the decision of “screw it” had fully formed in my head, the shriek of “SNAKE” came again, followed by “GET THE HELL OUT HERE AND DO SOMETHING!!!”. So much for the book, peace, quiet or solitude, and out the door I padded in my jammies and stocking feet.
There he stood, white faced and trembling on the opposite side of the garage and, being the kind, ever thoughtful, understanding and sympathetic wife that I am, I barked “WHAT?” He whispered, “There’s a snake in here.” “Where? Where is the snake?” said I. He pointed an unsteady finger at the big red toolbox tower immediately to my left, the same toolbox he bought one Christmas and tried to pass off as my gift and guess how long that idea lasted, so I got down on my hands and knees to take a peek under it. He immediately wailed “DON’T put your face down there, it’s gonna BITE you!” Ignoring him, I grabbed a flashlight and kept looking around and just as I was about to tell him that he was on crack and there was no snake under there, I saw it. I saw the beastie, the demon, the horror that had caused him to completely crack and abandon all pretense of control.
It was horrible! It was terrifying and beyond imagination. Oh, for the love of God, it was an 8 inch long baby garter snake, curled up in the corner and scared out of it’s head-of-a-pin sized mind. It wasn’t a snake. It was a glorified worm with eyes.
I snatched a pair of work gloves, hit the garage door button and as I reached under the toolbox to retrieve little Anaconda, Jr., my husband went bolting out into the yard in case I missed it and it tried to swallow him whole for having ratted him out. I grabbed Jr. and hauled him out from under the tool box and, to his credit, he did take a few jabs at my fingers with his itty bitty teeny tiny itsy bitsy widdle teeth. I shuffled to the yard and heard my husband say “Are ya gonna KILL it?” NO. I’m not gonna kill it. I’m gonna toss it down to the edge of the yard so it can go on home or where ever it is that giant man eating snakes go, and against his most strenuous protests, I got a firm grip on Jr.’s tail and underhanded him toward the end of the yard.
Or, better put, I TRIED to.
Because as I released him, he took another bite at my glove.
This time his teeth caught.
And rather than fly off into the night, he flew straight up into the air about 20 feet and landed right on my husband’s head.
And that is the night I realized beyond the shadow of a doubt that he didn’t hate snakes.
Both the snake and my husband made full recoveries.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
If Everyone Shared . . .
Taking a break from the usual nonsense that spews from my fingers, and presuming that there is anybody out there who reads this other than close friends, I'd like to take a minute to direct your attention to something that is near and dear to my heart.
Every year, I join hands with a special group of women to choose and then assist a family in crisis so that we might ease their burden somewhat through the holiday season. This year we've chosen a young boy and his mother. This little guy is only 7 years old and has been dealing with the loss of his father not much more than two years ago. He and his mom have been struggling along on their own.
He was just diagnosed with Leukemia.
If you have a moment, if you have a little something to spare, please consider helping this boy and his Mom. For more information, please visit www.davidsangels.org, our website for spreading the word about David and raising funds for his family.
Thank you for taking the time to read this plea for your help. Thank you for considering a contribution, and, if you made a contribution, thank you even more for performing such a kindness.
Every year, I join hands with a special group of women to choose and then assist a family in crisis so that we might ease their burden somewhat through the holiday season. This year we've chosen a young boy and his mother. This little guy is only 7 years old and has been dealing with the loss of his father not much more than two years ago. He and his mom have been struggling along on their own.
He was just diagnosed with Leukemia.
If you have a moment, if you have a little something to spare, please consider helping this boy and his Mom. For more information, please visit www.davidsangels.org, our website for spreading the word about David and raising funds for his family.
Thank you for taking the time to read this plea for your help. Thank you for considering a contribution, and, if you made a contribution, thank you even more for performing such a kindness.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
One Flush. One Flush Only Please.
Should you ever find yourself in the unfortunate situation of arguing with someone over whether or not it is possible for an 8 year old girl to completely stop up a toilet without utilizing the assistance of huge wads of toilet paper, merely through her own “doing”, and should they argue to you that it is NOT possible, not without using at least a couple of fist-fulls of TP, you have my express and explicit permission to thwap them over the head and bugle “HAA!!!! WROOONG!!!!” right in their shocked and suddenly-wishing-they-were-some-place-any-place-else faces.
Cause I now have proof that they are so very very wrong. If you need proof, come see. Apparently, I live with elephant girl.
I was running late again this morning and was freaking out a little because my blow dryer was barely whispering at my hair, much less blowing at it, it was one of those mornings where Ringlet needed both breakfast before we left and lunch packed for later and none of that had been done and I hadn’t been anywhere near my make-up and it was only 15 minutes before we had to run out the door to get her to school on time and I was already wondering how the hell I was gonna pull that off, when I heard the words “Mom!!! The toilet is plugged up!.”
OK. Good enough. You only have to trot in there, grab the toilet un-plugger-upper-thingie, work it loose and get going. 20 seconds. Tops. I came bolting from my room, button hooked into the hall bathroom and suddenly went skidding through the water that was standing about half an inch deep all over the bathroom floor. I had my arms out, I was sideways and it looked like I was hangin’ ten across the bathroom. The only thing that stopped me from plowing into the wall was the now soaking wet bath mat. I went splishing out of the bathroom, down the hall, snagged 3 bath towels and crawled my way back up the hall, soaking up the stream that was now running down the hall and proceeded to frantically mop up the water that appeared to be everyfrigginwhere. When I was convinced I had it all, I addressed the toilet head on, broke a sweat with that plunger thingie, shut one eye, reached for the shut off value with one hand, and flushed with the other. All good. All gone.
Looked at my watch, yelped at Ringlet to get on her shoes and get down stairs and get her stuff together already, snatched up what I needed and followed her down, doing that half-slide, half-run thing down the carpeted steps. I had my purse in one hand, bottle of water in the other, when I heard “Mom. There’s water dripping in here.”
WHERE!?!?
In here. In the living room. And yes. There was. A steady **drip drip drip** coming from the A/C hole/vent/thing in the ceiling. Snagged cereal bowl. Set it under the drip. Snagged Ringlet and OUT the door we went with my make-up bag now tucked firmly under one arm as well.
In the car, UP with the garage door, no need to look behind car - it’s still too warm for a snow blower, and careened out of the garage, down the driveway, and into the street where I turned to her and said “Hon, just how many times DID you flush that potty after it didn’t work on the first flush?”
Three. Three flushes after the first flush and even my math-challenged bud, Lisa, can figure out, no matter what color she uses to divide, that that’s a lot of water.
Yes, I told Mr. Moosenuts. No, I don’t wanna go home.
New Rule: No Poopin’ in My House in the Mornin’ No More.
Cause I now have proof that they are so very very wrong. If you need proof, come see. Apparently, I live with elephant girl.
I was running late again this morning and was freaking out a little because my blow dryer was barely whispering at my hair, much less blowing at it, it was one of those mornings where Ringlet needed both breakfast before we left and lunch packed for later and none of that had been done and I hadn’t been anywhere near my make-up and it was only 15 minutes before we had to run out the door to get her to school on time and I was already wondering how the hell I was gonna pull that off, when I heard the words “Mom!!! The toilet is plugged up!.”
OK. Good enough. You only have to trot in there, grab the toilet un-plugger-upper-thingie, work it loose and get going. 20 seconds. Tops. I came bolting from my room, button hooked into the hall bathroom and suddenly went skidding through the water that was standing about half an inch deep all over the bathroom floor. I had my arms out, I was sideways and it looked like I was hangin’ ten across the bathroom. The only thing that stopped me from plowing into the wall was the now soaking wet bath mat. I went splishing out of the bathroom, down the hall, snagged 3 bath towels and crawled my way back up the hall, soaking up the stream that was now running down the hall and proceeded to frantically mop up the water that appeared to be everyfrigginwhere. When I was convinced I had it all, I addressed the toilet head on, broke a sweat with that plunger thingie, shut one eye, reached for the shut off value with one hand, and flushed with the other. All good. All gone.
Looked at my watch, yelped at Ringlet to get on her shoes and get down stairs and get her stuff together already, snatched up what I needed and followed her down, doing that half-slide, half-run thing down the carpeted steps. I had my purse in one hand, bottle of water in the other, when I heard “Mom. There’s water dripping in here.”
WHERE!?!?
In here. In the living room. And yes. There was. A steady **drip drip drip** coming from the A/C hole/vent/thing in the ceiling. Snagged cereal bowl. Set it under the drip. Snagged Ringlet and OUT the door we went with my make-up bag now tucked firmly under one arm as well.
In the car, UP with the garage door, no need to look behind car - it’s still too warm for a snow blower, and careened out of the garage, down the driveway, and into the street where I turned to her and said “Hon, just how many times DID you flush that potty after it didn’t work on the first flush?”
Three. Three flushes after the first flush and even my math-challenged bud, Lisa, can figure out, no matter what color she uses to divide, that that’s a lot of water.
Yes, I told Mr. Moosenuts. No, I don’t wanna go home.
New Rule: No Poopin’ in My House in the Mornin’ No More.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Corndog Anyone?
You guys have some idea how often I visit truck stops. I've talked about the joy of finding yourself in a South of the Border truckstop after midnight, searching for directions because someone doesn't trust his state of the art satellite navigational device. When you travel in a motor home, truck stops are a required short little spin through hell. You can't just yank that land yacht into any little mom and pop gas station and hope to ever get back out again, so we tend to frequent truck stops when we travel because we know we have room to maneuver, the fuel tends to be cheaper there and you can't buy entertainment like you find at a Route 95 South truckstop for any price. And if you get lucky, sometimes they have a Burger King.
But there's another price to pay for everything that's good.
I was standing in the check out line, my "Bubba" radar on full alert, having given the clerk my credit card, and was waiting for the fuel pump to for the love of God STOP already, when a little fella with a shock of greasy black hair, big fat belly, and the most impish expression you ever saw on his face, came sidling up to me. He grinned. I cringed. He looked at the clerk, grinned a little wider, scooched over a little more my way, and said (get ready, here it comes):
"Gimme one of them there corndogs to go and hey little lady, you wanna come join me while I burp this thing up for an hour or two?"
I stopped cold.
I looked down at him.
He grinned back.
I thought, possibly out loud, but I'm not sure, "Jesus Christ on a cracker."
Then my traitorous lip twitched.
And I friggin cracked up.
Then we proceeded to get into an argument over whether "I'm the Happiest Girl in the Whole USA" was performed by Donna Summer.
I won.
But there's another price to pay for everything that's good.
I was standing in the check out line, my "Bubba" radar on full alert, having given the clerk my credit card, and was waiting for the fuel pump to for the love of God STOP already, when a little fella with a shock of greasy black hair, big fat belly, and the most impish expression you ever saw on his face, came sidling up to me. He grinned. I cringed. He looked at the clerk, grinned a little wider, scooched over a little more my way, and said (get ready, here it comes):
"Gimme one of them there corndogs to go and hey little lady, you wanna come join me while I burp this thing up for an hour or two?"
I stopped cold.
I looked down at him.
He grinned back.
I thought, possibly out loud, but I'm not sure, "Jesus Christ on a cracker."
Then my traitorous lip twitched.
And I friggin cracked up.
Then we proceeded to get into an argument over whether "I'm the Happiest Girl in the Whole USA" was performed by Donna Summer.
I won.
Last Call, Asshole
I have this great friend. Her name is Julie, but for reasons I won't get into, I refer to her as Flipper. She recently started a part time job bartending at her local American Legion. Because she has the same warped sense of humor as me, and in large part due to her scathing wit that she likes to claim is "in direct proportion to her bra size" and to which I replied, "Thank God mine's not because you can't friggin buy wit", I decided to ask, and she graciously agreed, that we post some of her better . . . encounters . . . . behind the bar here on the blog.
So whenever you see an entry with this title, you'll know that Flipper has had another busy week.
Names have been changed to protect the drunk as I can pretty much guarantee you that innocence has no place here.
AAAAAAAAAND, she's OFF!
Take it Flipper.
Things I Learned on my First Night Bartending:
“Hey honey, shake those up for me so I can hit the jackpot” - doesn’t necessarily mean they’re talking about pull-tab lottery tickets.
Bengals vs. Packers on Monday Night Football means some guy thinks he can say to me I’ll bet I can “Pack” your “Kitty”, but it also means I can reply, "honey I’ve coughed up hair balls bigger than you…".
Last call normally means one more drink and ya gotta go – not that you can be my last call of the night.
Things They Learned on my First Night Bartending:
If you’re gonna tell me your name is Donnie, don’t come in wearing a shirt with the name "Troy" scrawled across it, 'cause: a) I’ll assume you can’t read or b) ask you if you grabbed your boyfriend’s shirt off the floor instead of your own.
When I ask what you want, don’t think asking for my number will result in you receiving the number you’re looking for – what he got was one number that I happened to show him using my middle finger.
Just cause I’m new to you doesn’t mean I’m new…these boys have no idea who they’re dealing with…
Thus endeth the first installation of the Flipper Chronicals.
So whenever you see an entry with this title, you'll know that Flipper has had another busy week.
Names have been changed to protect the drunk as I can pretty much guarantee you that innocence has no place here.
AAAAAAAAAND, she's OFF!
Take it Flipper.
Things I Learned on my First Night Bartending:
“Hey honey, shake those up for me so I can hit the jackpot” - doesn’t necessarily mean they’re talking about pull-tab lottery tickets.
Bengals vs. Packers on Monday Night Football means some guy thinks he can say to me I’ll bet I can “Pack” your “Kitty”, but it also means I can reply, "honey I’ve coughed up hair balls bigger than you…".
Last call normally means one more drink and ya gotta go – not that you can be my last call of the night.
Things They Learned on my First Night Bartending:
If you’re gonna tell me your name is Donnie, don’t come in wearing a shirt with the name "Troy" scrawled across it, 'cause: a) I’ll assume you can’t read or b) ask you if you grabbed your boyfriend’s shirt off the floor instead of your own.
When I ask what you want, don’t think asking for my number will result in you receiving the number you’re looking for – what he got was one number that I happened to show him using my middle finger.
Just cause I’m new to you doesn’t mean I’m new…these boys have no idea who they’re dealing with…
Thus endeth the first installation of the Flipper Chronicals.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Red Rover, Red Rover
Happy Fourth of July to one and all and I hope your celebrations were safe, enjoyable and somewhat legal. I, for one, spent my fourth with several other families and their multitudes of children. It was safe and enjoyable, and tragically legal, but it was also frantic and loud and distracting and I now remember why I only have one child.
After four days of camping together (in air conditioned, multi-televisioned motor homes with microwaves, refrigerators and running water do you think I’m insane no way I’m leaving my house to go sleep in the dirt), somebody (me) had the bright idea that at the conclusion of the camping trip, the 4th of July, they should all come over to my house in order to clean out the refrigerators in our motor homes and get rid of the left overs. By this time, the kids, ranging in ages from 2 to 9, had just about had enough of each other, were exhausted, and my daughter in particular, went into solitary mode and wanted nothing to do with anyone. She's her mother's guts sometimes. But eventually, we cleaned up dinner, grabbed some chairs and blankets and headed the few blocks down to the park to get a good spot for the fireworks.
My town, while growing and much larger than I ever imagined it would be, still, on occasion, has that home-town gomery, Mayberry feel to it, and Independence Day is one of those days where everybody comes out, spends the day at the park playing games, throwing Frisbees, listening to the bands and standing in line for home made ice cream. In the evening, everybody settles in with their coolers and picnic baskets on blankets for the fireworks and we got there in plenty of time to grab up some prime real estate close enough to see, but still some distance from the bulk of the crowd. It was still light and the kids were getting restless, so the five of them old enough to do so started a game of tag that eventually developed into the black hole that most children's games become and attracted other children from all around us. Growing bored with that, the self-designated social coordinator known as my kid organized a game of Red Rover. Remember that game? Where the kids divide into two teams, lock arms and dare someone from the other team to get up a big enough head of steam to break through a set of locked arms? Yeah, that game. It would have been just an ordinary kid's game had it stayed a kid's game, which it didn't, and that’s where it got funny as hell.
Most of the families around us were watching the game since most of their kids were involved in it and just as it was getting a little boring, I heard a male voice behind me announce "OK, you've had enough time to warm up. Let's do this thing." Yup. One of the men from our group was strutting across the grass, leading the other two (one of whom was my husband) into the Red Rover fray.
Did I tell you about Doc? No? Lemme tell you about our friend Doc. He is the father of three, a law enforcement officer, completely wonderful, and a totally terrifying sight to behold. He is about 6' 10" inches tall, unabashedly bald, and completely enormous. He was wearing the biggest white T-shirt you ever saw and by God he was gonna play Red Rover with a bunch of little humans that looked like scampering puppies next to him.
They all lined up. They locked arms. Big, little, little, little, friggin HUGE, little, little and I heard a young voice, full of impish glee, bellow "RED ROVER RED ROVER WE DARE DOC TO COME OVER!!!!" My kid really needs to learn her limitations.
And the earth shook and here came Doc. It looked like a snow covered mountain had gone into motion and was slowly picking up speed as it rolled across the grass. Every single adult head turned. Those who had been relaxing suddenly were sitting up. Every little young arm tensed around the other young arm firmly in it's grip and little knees bent to improve balance and heads dipped and here came Doc. Every single kid in that line screamed with fear, excitement and glee but nobody let go. They hung on for dear life and here came Doc. All of him. And God bless than big bear of a man's soul, because as he hit the line of children, he threw up his hands in a mock display of hitting the wall, staggered back, tipped to one side, tipped to the other and, arms flailing, collapsed under the weight of 10 small children attempting to tackle him anywhere above his knees.
As they fell into a pile, the kids from the other side decided that it was more fun being on the other team and THEY piled on and eventually Doc clambered to his feet with about half a dozen children hanging off him like the world's filthiest animated Christmas tree ornaments and the entire section of the park watching this display burst into cheering appreciation. Not a few mothers breathed a hugh sigh of relief at the sight of their child having landed on TOP of the pile as opposed to UNDER the pile.
Doc stood tall, took a bow, shook off the flock of kids, grabbed a couple of hands, turned and rumbled "Red Rover, Red Rover, I DARE (insert my 5’8” tall husband’s name right friggin here) to come over."
I thanked God our wills were in place, the insurance was paid, and then turned to see the first explosion of color as it lit up the night sky.
Happy Independence Day.
After four days of camping together (in air conditioned, multi-televisioned motor homes with microwaves, refrigerators and running water do you think I’m insane no way I’m leaving my house to go sleep in the dirt), somebody (me) had the bright idea that at the conclusion of the camping trip, the 4th of July, they should all come over to my house in order to clean out the refrigerators in our motor homes and get rid of the left overs. By this time, the kids, ranging in ages from 2 to 9, had just about had enough of each other, were exhausted, and my daughter in particular, went into solitary mode and wanted nothing to do with anyone. She's her mother's guts sometimes. But eventually, we cleaned up dinner, grabbed some chairs and blankets and headed the few blocks down to the park to get a good spot for the fireworks.
My town, while growing and much larger than I ever imagined it would be, still, on occasion, has that home-town gomery, Mayberry feel to it, and Independence Day is one of those days where everybody comes out, spends the day at the park playing games, throwing Frisbees, listening to the bands and standing in line for home made ice cream. In the evening, everybody settles in with their coolers and picnic baskets on blankets for the fireworks and we got there in plenty of time to grab up some prime real estate close enough to see, but still some distance from the bulk of the crowd. It was still light and the kids were getting restless, so the five of them old enough to do so started a game of tag that eventually developed into the black hole that most children's games become and attracted other children from all around us. Growing bored with that, the self-designated social coordinator known as my kid organized a game of Red Rover. Remember that game? Where the kids divide into two teams, lock arms and dare someone from the other team to get up a big enough head of steam to break through a set of locked arms? Yeah, that game. It would have been just an ordinary kid's game had it stayed a kid's game, which it didn't, and that’s where it got funny as hell.
Most of the families around us were watching the game since most of their kids were involved in it and just as it was getting a little boring, I heard a male voice behind me announce "OK, you've had enough time to warm up. Let's do this thing." Yup. One of the men from our group was strutting across the grass, leading the other two (one of whom was my husband) into the Red Rover fray.
Did I tell you about Doc? No? Lemme tell you about our friend Doc. He is the father of three, a law enforcement officer, completely wonderful, and a totally terrifying sight to behold. He is about 6' 10" inches tall, unabashedly bald, and completely enormous. He was wearing the biggest white T-shirt you ever saw and by God he was gonna play Red Rover with a bunch of little humans that looked like scampering puppies next to him.
They all lined up. They locked arms. Big, little, little, little, friggin HUGE, little, little and I heard a young voice, full of impish glee, bellow "RED ROVER RED ROVER WE DARE DOC TO COME OVER!!!!" My kid really needs to learn her limitations.
And the earth shook and here came Doc. It looked like a snow covered mountain had gone into motion and was slowly picking up speed as it rolled across the grass. Every single adult head turned. Those who had been relaxing suddenly were sitting up. Every little young arm tensed around the other young arm firmly in it's grip and little knees bent to improve balance and heads dipped and here came Doc. Every single kid in that line screamed with fear, excitement and glee but nobody let go. They hung on for dear life and here came Doc. All of him. And God bless than big bear of a man's soul, because as he hit the line of children, he threw up his hands in a mock display of hitting the wall, staggered back, tipped to one side, tipped to the other and, arms flailing, collapsed under the weight of 10 small children attempting to tackle him anywhere above his knees.
As they fell into a pile, the kids from the other side decided that it was more fun being on the other team and THEY piled on and eventually Doc clambered to his feet with about half a dozen children hanging off him like the world's filthiest animated Christmas tree ornaments and the entire section of the park watching this display burst into cheering appreciation. Not a few mothers breathed a hugh sigh of relief at the sight of their child having landed on TOP of the pile as opposed to UNDER the pile.
Doc stood tall, took a bow, shook off the flock of kids, grabbed a couple of hands, turned and rumbled "Red Rover, Red Rover, I DARE (insert my 5’8” tall husband’s name right friggin here) to come over."
I thanked God our wills were in place, the insurance was paid, and then turned to see the first explosion of color as it lit up the night sky.
Happy Independence Day.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Sleeping with a Greyhound 101
1. If you don't have to, don't do it in the first friggin' place.
2. Sneak quietly up stairs, avoiding creaky one.
3. Slip quietly into bed. Avoid rustling sheets at all costs. Buy flannel.
4. Turn off light and get comfy.
5. Close eyes.
6. Swallow own tongue when cold wet needlenose goes up your butt.
7. Tell hound to go lay down in his own bed.
8. Repeat.
9. Repeat louder.
10. Shift quickly to avoid greyhound claws.
11. Tell hound to get the HELL down!!!
12. Move legs left to accommodate circling greyhound.
13. Try moving them to the right.
14. Keep one leg left and one leg right.
15. Call Denise Austin to tell her about the straddle split you've mastered.
16. Big sigh and close eyes.
17. Ignore shooting pains in legs.
18. Deep breath. Wait. Bad idea.
19. Wave hands to dissipate green greyhound fart induced cloud.
20. Decide shooting pains running up legs aren't getting better.
21. Sit up, reach down, wrap arms around hound and haul 350 pounds of pretend-sleep dog up and out of the circle of agony he has created and in which he's chosen to sleep.
22. Situate greyhound next to you with his head on your arm. Wrap arms around hound.
23. Ask husband where the hell he thinks HE's going.
24. Close eyes
25. Deep cleansing brea . . . (God yer dumb)
26. Relax
27. Try to move completely numb fingers on right hand.
28. Realize that awake-hound-head weighs about 5 pounds and sleeping-hound-head weighs about 50.
29. Wipe spit off face placed there by snoring, flapping greyhound lips.
30. Look at ceiling.
31. Look at clock.
32. Look at ceiling again.
33. Deep sigh. Yer gettin' used to the funk by now.
34. Wrap arm that still works tightly around hound.
35. Give hound big fat kissero right between the eyes.
36. Remember to bring vodka to bed with you next time.
2. Sneak quietly up stairs, avoiding creaky one.
3. Slip quietly into bed. Avoid rustling sheets at all costs. Buy flannel.
4. Turn off light and get comfy.
5. Close eyes.
6. Swallow own tongue when cold wet needlenose goes up your butt.
7. Tell hound to go lay down in his own bed.
8. Repeat.
9. Repeat louder.
10. Shift quickly to avoid greyhound claws.
11. Tell hound to get the HELL down!!!
12. Move legs left to accommodate circling greyhound.
13. Try moving them to the right.
14. Keep one leg left and one leg right.
15. Call Denise Austin to tell her about the straddle split you've mastered.
16. Big sigh and close eyes.
17. Ignore shooting pains in legs.
18. Deep breath. Wait. Bad idea.
19. Wave hands to dissipate green greyhound fart induced cloud.
20. Decide shooting pains running up legs aren't getting better.
21. Sit up, reach down, wrap arms around hound and haul 350 pounds of pretend-sleep dog up and out of the circle of agony he has created and in which he's chosen to sleep.
22. Situate greyhound next to you with his head on your arm. Wrap arms around hound.
23. Ask husband where the hell he thinks HE's going.
24. Close eyes
25. Deep cleansing brea . . . (God yer dumb)
26. Relax
27. Try to move completely numb fingers on right hand.
28. Realize that awake-hound-head weighs about 5 pounds and sleeping-hound-head weighs about 50.
29. Wipe spit off face placed there by snoring, flapping greyhound lips.
30. Look at ceiling.
31. Look at clock.
32. Look at ceiling again.
33. Deep sigh. Yer gettin' used to the funk by now.
34. Wrap arm that still works tightly around hound.
35. Give hound big fat kissero right between the eyes.
36. Remember to bring vodka to bed with you next time.
My Spider, George
I dunno if I’ve told you how I feel about spiders. If not, I’ll do it now. I hate spiders. I loathe spiders. I respect them, but I respect them in the same way I respect a psychotic madman wielding a hypodermic needle full of Ebola or some such shit. I’m also scared to friggin death of them. It all goes back to my childhood (don’t you hate it when people say that? You might as well crack a beer and pull up a chair when you hear those words. Those words, and the words “to make a long story short . . .”)
I was a kid, just a little kid, and I was sacked out on the floor of my living room, watching TV. It was evening and the TV was black and white if that gives you any idea of how long ago this occurred, and the comforting sounds of some stupid-ass show were filling the room when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. It was small. But it was there. Any of you live out in the country? Any of you recall those wolfy looking spiders? The ones with the boxy hairy bodies and the legs about four fucking feet long? Yeah. Those. Slowly I turned, bit by bit, inch by inch and there he stood, just outside the edge of the shadow cast by the sofa. Slowly he turned, bit by bit, inch by inch (talk about an I Love Lucy rip-off) and after a slight pause, he SHOT across the room straight at me.
I shit you not, I came up off that floor as though my ass had become an ejection seat and OUT of the room I went, screaming the entire way.
Later in life, as I stood in line at the pet store to purchase food for my snake (yes I said snake), one of the employees was cleaning out an aquarium looking thingy next to me. Thank God it was winter and I was wearing a heavy coat, because the tarantula housed inside that aquarium looking thingy made a break for it. Did you know tarantulas can jump like a million feet and that when they do, they will ALWAYS land on the arm of somebody who will immediately feel all the air rush out of their lungs and be unable to scream for help while they watch the Volvo sized spider slowly climb up their arm? Well they do. And it did. I ain’t been right since.
At this point in my life you would have think I’d have gotten over the worst of it and, to be honest, I’ve come a long way. I can stomp on em now if I’m wearing heavy shoes and long pants. Used to be I wouldn’t even do that fear that they would dodge my foot, jump on my pants and climb up the inside on my leg. I still won’t stomp em if I’m wearing shorts. Sandals are out too. Just can’t do it.
So imagine me last night, on my back deck, cleaning up after a father's day cookout. I looked up and saw what appeared to be a spider leap from a bush to the hanging plant right beside me. I froze and the words "WOULD SOMEBODY FOR GOD’S SAKE COME OVER HERE AND KILL THIS GODDAMNED THING ALREADY" were almost out of my mouth when I saw Mr. Spider then fly back in the opposite direction. I still don’t know why, but I shut my mouth and got a little closer. And I watched. Back and forth, back and forth, and then up and down and across he went, the busiest and most intense little furry monster I’d ever seen. Eventually, he hopped into the center of the shape he'd formed and began to circle around and around in an ever widening pattern. He was building his web and it was fascinating.
I'd never had an encounter with a spider web short of ripping them down with a broom with a very long handle, or running into one with my face as I walked through bushes and trees and erupted into ear piercing screams, so I watched him for as long as it took him to construct his web.
And NO I did NOT wait until he was finished and then bash him and his web all to shit and back. I let him live. I actually let a visible spider live and reside on my property with full knowledge of his evil little presence, and this morning when I went out to water the flowers on that deck, I edged over to see if he and his web were still there. They were and he was sleepin'. So I killed a fly and chucked it in.
I will name him George.
I will not hug him and I will not pet him.
But I will call him George.
And provided he stays the hell out of my house, I’ll keep on chucking flies in there.
I was a kid, just a little kid, and I was sacked out on the floor of my living room, watching TV. It was evening and the TV was black and white if that gives you any idea of how long ago this occurred, and the comforting sounds of some stupid-ass show were filling the room when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. It was small. But it was there. Any of you live out in the country? Any of you recall those wolfy looking spiders? The ones with the boxy hairy bodies and the legs about four fucking feet long? Yeah. Those. Slowly I turned, bit by bit, inch by inch and there he stood, just outside the edge of the shadow cast by the sofa. Slowly he turned, bit by bit, inch by inch (talk about an I Love Lucy rip-off) and after a slight pause, he SHOT across the room straight at me.
I shit you not, I came up off that floor as though my ass had become an ejection seat and OUT of the room I went, screaming the entire way.
Later in life, as I stood in line at the pet store to purchase food for my snake (yes I said snake), one of the employees was cleaning out an aquarium looking thingy next to me. Thank God it was winter and I was wearing a heavy coat, because the tarantula housed inside that aquarium looking thingy made a break for it. Did you know tarantulas can jump like a million feet and that when they do, they will ALWAYS land on the arm of somebody who will immediately feel all the air rush out of their lungs and be unable to scream for help while they watch the Volvo sized spider slowly climb up their arm? Well they do. And it did. I ain’t been right since.
At this point in my life you would have think I’d have gotten over the worst of it and, to be honest, I’ve come a long way. I can stomp on em now if I’m wearing heavy shoes and long pants. Used to be I wouldn’t even do that fear that they would dodge my foot, jump on my pants and climb up the inside on my leg. I still won’t stomp em if I’m wearing shorts. Sandals are out too. Just can’t do it.
So imagine me last night, on my back deck, cleaning up after a father's day cookout. I looked up and saw what appeared to be a spider leap from a bush to the hanging plant right beside me. I froze and the words "WOULD SOMEBODY FOR GOD’S SAKE COME OVER HERE AND KILL THIS GODDAMNED THING ALREADY" were almost out of my mouth when I saw Mr. Spider then fly back in the opposite direction. I still don’t know why, but I shut my mouth and got a little closer. And I watched. Back and forth, back and forth, and then up and down and across he went, the busiest and most intense little furry monster I’d ever seen. Eventually, he hopped into the center of the shape he'd formed and began to circle around and around in an ever widening pattern. He was building his web and it was fascinating.
I'd never had an encounter with a spider web short of ripping them down with a broom with a very long handle, or running into one with my face as I walked through bushes and trees and erupted into ear piercing screams, so I watched him for as long as it took him to construct his web.
And NO I did NOT wait until he was finished and then bash him and his web all to shit and back. I let him live. I actually let a visible spider live and reside on my property with full knowledge of his evil little presence, and this morning when I went out to water the flowers on that deck, I edged over to see if he and his web were still there. They were and he was sleepin'. So I killed a fly and chucked it in.
I will name him George.
I will not hug him and I will not pet him.
But I will call him George.
And provided he stays the hell out of my house, I’ll keep on chucking flies in there.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
How Many Women Does it Take to Change a Light Bulb?
Again.
Only me.
Went to my Mom's to help her figure out the remote control for her new TV set, her first new set in like a hunnert years or something, but if your mother is like my mother, then you know that it's never just one thing. There's always another task just quietly lurking around the corner. It's never just a simple task. Oh, it SEEMS like a simple thing when they ask, but in the end, it takes an hour instead of five minutes and in my case, usually involves the risk of bodily injury.
So as I sat there fiddling with the remote control, I told myself "wait for it" and eventually it came.
"Could you change a lightbulb for me in my bedroom closet and you might want to take that stool with you and let me get the flashlight cause it's dark in there."
***sigh****
Snagged the stool and trotted up the stairs with a fresh light bulb in my paw. Felt my way into the depths of her walk-in closet, let my eyes adjust to the gloom and climbed up the stool. Reached up and after a couple of rounds of "righty tighty, lefty loosey", loosened those aggravating little screws that hold the globey thing over the light bulb and gently pulled down the globe . . . and heard an ominous rattling sound inside Mr. Globe.
Peeked inside, squinted and said "shit."
Looked up. Squinted at the now lightbulbless fixture. Peeked inside globe again. Said that word again. Looked at my mother and said, "The light bulb fell out of the socket." She said "Well, that's handy here's the new one." I said "No, you don't understand. The screwey part that you put into the actual socket in the ceiling, you know, the metal thingy (sorry to get so technical) is still IN the socket thing and the light bulb fell OUT all by itself and I can't get the screwey metal thing out of the socket thing."
My mom said the same thing I'd said.
Down to the basement we went, flashlight in hand.
Next thing you know, there I am, standing in front of the fuse box. Me. With the electrical knowledge of a two year old, standing there in the webby darkness with my spider phobia firmly in command of my brain, getting ready to start flipping switches to turn off the correct breakers so I can go mess around with a piece of metal stuck in an electrical socket.
Eff me runnin.
Handed Mom the flashlight, reached in and flipped switches until the light in the basement went out, at which point Mom said "let me check upstairs" and went trotting out, leaving me standing in a pitch black room with questionable webby things all around my head . I quite calmly screamed at her to kindly get the hell back here.
Eventually, we got the right lights turned off (i.e., every stinkin' light in the house) and I grabbed a potato because I'd heard you could use a potato to address situations such as this, but, sadly, learned that there must be broken glass for the potato to get a grip and of all times for me to have the rotten luck of not having broken glass.
Clambered back up on the stool and peered at the problem. There was absolutely no way that thing was coming out of there short of utilizing drastic measures. Asked my mother for some tweezers. She inquired, "WHAT?!" I said, "tweezers, I need some tweezers." You have thought I asked her to go stick a fork in the toaster. I told her to just get 'em and I closed my eyes, held my breath, and braced myself as I gripped the edge of the metal part that used to be part of the light bulb with the tweezers and started twisting it out.
I'll have you know, there is a fresh light bulb in that socket, I don't have flash burns anywhere, I did most assuredly NOT give myself a bad home perm, and I didn't even fall off the stool.
Yes, I turned the breakers back on but I shoulda made HER go back into that spider warren and do it herself, but I wuv my mummy no matter what messed up project she ropes me into.
Next time, I'm taking my husband with me.
Only me.
Went to my Mom's to help her figure out the remote control for her new TV set, her first new set in like a hunnert years or something, but if your mother is like my mother, then you know that it's never just one thing. There's always another task just quietly lurking around the corner. It's never just a simple task. Oh, it SEEMS like a simple thing when they ask, but in the end, it takes an hour instead of five minutes and in my case, usually involves the risk of bodily injury.
So as I sat there fiddling with the remote control, I told myself "wait for it" and eventually it came.
"Could you change a lightbulb for me in my bedroom closet and you might want to take that stool with you and let me get the flashlight cause it's dark in there."
***sigh****
Snagged the stool and trotted up the stairs with a fresh light bulb in my paw. Felt my way into the depths of her walk-in closet, let my eyes adjust to the gloom and climbed up the stool. Reached up and after a couple of rounds of "righty tighty, lefty loosey", loosened those aggravating little screws that hold the globey thing over the light bulb and gently pulled down the globe . . . and heard an ominous rattling sound inside Mr. Globe.
Peeked inside, squinted and said "shit."
Looked up. Squinted at the now lightbulbless fixture. Peeked inside globe again. Said that word again. Looked at my mother and said, "The light bulb fell out of the socket." She said "Well, that's handy here's the new one." I said "No, you don't understand. The screwey part that you put into the actual socket in the ceiling, you know, the metal thingy (sorry to get so technical) is still IN the socket thing and the light bulb fell OUT all by itself and I can't get the screwey metal thing out of the socket thing."
My mom said the same thing I'd said.
Down to the basement we went, flashlight in hand.
Next thing you know, there I am, standing in front of the fuse box. Me. With the electrical knowledge of a two year old, standing there in the webby darkness with my spider phobia firmly in command of my brain, getting ready to start flipping switches to turn off the correct breakers so I can go mess around with a piece of metal stuck in an electrical socket.
Eff me runnin.
Handed Mom the flashlight, reached in and flipped switches until the light in the basement went out, at which point Mom said "let me check upstairs" and went trotting out, leaving me standing in a pitch black room with questionable webby things all around my head . I quite calmly screamed at her to kindly get the hell back here.
Eventually, we got the right lights turned off (i.e., every stinkin' light in the house) and I grabbed a potato because I'd heard you could use a potato to address situations such as this, but, sadly, learned that there must be broken glass for the potato to get a grip and of all times for me to have the rotten luck of not having broken glass.
Clambered back up on the stool and peered at the problem. There was absolutely no way that thing was coming out of there short of utilizing drastic measures. Asked my mother for some tweezers. She inquired, "WHAT?!" I said, "tweezers, I need some tweezers." You have thought I asked her to go stick a fork in the toaster. I told her to just get 'em and I closed my eyes, held my breath, and braced myself as I gripped the edge of the metal part that used to be part of the light bulb with the tweezers and started twisting it out.
I'll have you know, there is a fresh light bulb in that socket, I don't have flash burns anywhere, I did most assuredly NOT give myself a bad home perm, and I didn't even fall off the stool.
Yes, I turned the breakers back on but I shoulda made HER go back into that spider warren and do it herself, but I wuv my mummy no matter what messed up project she ropes me into.
Next time, I'm taking my husband with me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)