Monday, December 28, 2009

Christmas: It's why I need therapy.

Now that it’s over and I stand back to survey the damage, I realize it’s really not all that bad. I’m a bit overdrawn, hiding my car from the repo man, and the left side of my face is feeling a little slack from all the self medicating...but hey! The kid has a well stocked playroom and I’ve got enough ham in the refrigerator to feed an army of elves. Or just me. I like ham.

Christmas Eve day I did what I said I wouldn’t. I went shopping. My mom had to work so she gave me her debit card, a list of groceries needed to make that night’s fare, and strict instructions to go to the devil’s playground where I could get the most bang for her buck: Wal-Mart.

I hate Wal-Mart, but it’s a necessary evil in these parts. Where else can you get a shopping cart full of chips, dip, rubber soled bedroom slippers, a new hairdryer, and a pack of condoms all in one go? It’s also the stomping ground for the badly dressed. Every time I set foot in there I make sure I look like I walked off a Kenneth Cole runway lest someone decide to put my picture on that terribly funny website:

It was packed so full you could barely move. I threw the kid in the cargo area and elbowed my way through the aisles, searching for this and that. I was scanning the baking aisle for red food coloring, growing more and more frustrated. For the love of gawd, who wants a red velvet cake anyway! Then I saw one lone box stuck amongst the sprinkles and squeezable tubes of icing. As I strode toward it, arm out, a blonde bimbo in a faux leather and fur coat snatched it up.

Loudly growling and stomping my foot wasn’t very mature behavior, but it felt pretty satisfying at the time. The blond turned around, her red lipstick smeared over her top lip in an effort to add fullness, looked at me and said, “Oh, did you want this?”

“I need that”, I replied.

“Well, let’s see if we can find some more.”

She grabbed my hand and started towing me up the aisle. I glanced over my shoulder at the cart to tell the kid I wasn’t going away because she gets weird about things like that, but she was obliviously having a jug of buttermilk make out with a loaf of bread. The bimbo did indeed find the actual shelf of food coloring at the end of the aisle. She triumphantly handed me one, practically bowed and said, “Merry Christmas”, like she was Santa fucking Claus and had just handed me world peace in a bottle. I hate when strange people are nice when I’m in a mood to be rude.

I grumbled a thank you and hurried back to the kid, who in my absence had managed to pile eight bags of brown sugar in the cart. “Don’t touch anything”, I said sternly as I transferred them back to the shelf. “I didn’t do it”, she replied all wide eyed and innocent.

“Santa doesn’t bring presents to liars.” She promptly burst into tears, making a racket that caused the whole of Wal-Mart to turn around and look. Thankfully my sister arrived to take her away so I could finish what I started. As she carried my snotty child away in her arms, she looked over my sister’s shoulder and stuck her tongue out at me. You win some, you lose some.

After a few more thankfully quiet errands, I headed home. As soon as I walked in the door I was greeted with screams and a blur of red and white. The kid was running hell bent for leather through the kitchen in her underwear and my sister was behind her, brandishing a hairbrush and a pair of tights. I threw my things on the table, went to my room, and locked the door.

Pulling off clothes as I went, I walked to the closet, dug through my secret drawer, and pulled out a small bottle of Jack Daniels and a pill box. My emergency stash, used only for family gatherings and kid induced headaches. I took a Xanax, followed it with two healthy swallows of JD, and then lay on the floor in my underwear to wait. After about half an hour and two more swallows, I was ready to take on my father’s family.

My papa’s Filipino girlfriend is a notoriously bad gift giver. Throughout the night you could go from one huddle of people to another and the conversation was of the same vein.

“She gave me a ceramic yard angel. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

“Well she gave me a Hawaiian shirt in a 3X. Do I look like a 3X to you?!” (Actually, you do.)

“I got a framed photo of a pink flower.” (My cousin’s boyfriend)

Then they turned to me. “What did she get you?”

All smiles and sucking my liquor through a straw I replied, “Forty bucks and a sweatshirt. Ha!”

The envy was obvious. The motive was not. She dislikes me more than most of them so I was at a loss to understand why she’d given me a decent gift. Fear is about the only thing I could come up with. Maybe she was afraid I’d cut her. I can be pretty menacing when I’m around family...keeps them at a distance. I’m the cranky and rude, yet darkly funny relative. It could be worse. I could be the pushover or the medical moaner.

Anyway, there’s always one present that gets all the attention. Last year it was a $600 karaoke system that papa gave to his girlfriend. (Thankfully she won’t use it when I’m around anymore after a slightly awkward and drunken version of “I touch myself” in front of her church friends. I should really try karaoke in public...)

This year it was the interactive robot dinosaur papa gave to the kid. It walks, attacks, and makes over 100 noises. Even I was impressed with it. Everyone was crowding around, waiting on a turn with the remote. Somehow my cousin’s 3 year old brat got her sticky paws on it and we couldn’t get it back for about 20 minutes. Finally I intervened.

“Hey kid, give me that.”

“It’s mine”, she shrieked.

“Actually”, I said as I reached out my arm, “its Hannah’s, which means it’s mine by default. Hand it over.”

“Mine! Mine!” She started to back away, the look of a rabid dog on her face.

I picked up a stray pompom from the floor and waved it to the left. “Swish, swish, swish. Look!”

Momentarily distracted, she turned her attention to the pompom, allowing me to snatch the remote away with my right hand. She immediately began to wail while I danced gleefully away. Children love me.

By the time we got home with our booty it was around 9 and the kid was running on empty. I stuck her in the bed and she immediately passed out. My sister and I sat out the stuff from Santa Claus and soon followed suit. We had to be up early in order to open up presents before The Grandmother and the rest of my mom’s family arrived.

I was up and smiling at 6:30. I put on my new pink plaid bathrobe, started the coffee, and went to wake everyone but the kid. We were all situated in the living room with steaming cups when she came stumbling in, rubbing her eyes at 7. I took pictures of her awed expression as she looked over her new art desk and plethora of supplies that I’ll be sure to regret later.

We began to pass out presents. My mother, sister, Ray, and I all sat ours aside in a pile to be opened after the kid made her way through her enormous stack.

Everything was great until she opened the last present. She wanted more. “Dear gawd”, I thought, “I’ve raised a greedy little shit. No, no. It’s mom’s fault.” I allowed her to help open my presents to keep her happy. Sigh. The duty of a parent is never done.

I have to say, I got quite the haul this year. Even if my car does get repossessed and my cell phone gets turned off, rest assured, I will still be well dressed.

After a frenzy of cleaning, my sister and I decided that we were going to stay in our pajamas all day. And much to everyone’s disapproval, we did.

The Grandmother arrived with my Aunt D, Uncle B, and Aunt C in tow. My uncle stationed himself on the couch with his mandolin. That’s right, mandolin.

A harried Aunt D immediately approached me and said, “What have you got to drink around here?” I knew she didn’t mean soda, so I pulled a half empty bottle of rum out of the cabinet and mixed her a drink. Not an hour later I was walking through the kitchen and saw her emptying the last of my wine into a Solo cup.

“What are you doing?”

“I found this in the fridge.”

I sighed. I’d been saving that for later. No wine, no rum, and only one serving of Jack left in my hidden bottle.

After dinner I was sitting on the couch next to The Grandmother when she suggested my uncle play his mandolin. So he started a rousing rendition of “Dead skunk in the middle of the road” which sent Ray into a fit of laughter and my Aunt D to the bedroom to lie down. I got it all on video.

Later, when my drunken Aunt decided to emerge for a snack, the neighbor’s son happened to be stopping by to say hello to my mom. As he was walking out the door she said, “Is that your boyfriend?”

“No, that’s the neighbor’s son.”

“You didn’t invite a man to dinner?”


“Well, why not? Don’t you have a boyfriend?” She was swaying at the entrance to the living room and I attempted to brush past her.

“No, I don’t.”

“She doesn’t date”, my sister said.

“I sure wish you’d meet a nice man and get married”, The Grandmother said.

That sent the majority of the room into peals of laughter. Irritated, I looked at TG and said, “Well what if I like women?”

“I’ve been thinking that’s the problem”, she replied calmly.

“Yes, I should have brought my girlfriend to dinner”, I said sarcastically.

“Where is Rachel today?”


Evidently The Grandmother has been under the impression that my best friend and I have a closer relationship than we let on. Seriously. I’ve joked about it before, but on Christmas day she decided that she would tell me how deeply disappointed she was that I’ve been secretly seeing a woman...and an atheist woman at that. I was relieved when they finally left.

The rest of the weekend was devoted to spending my gift cards on outfits they’d never allow me to wear to work and taking down the Christmas stuff. Usually we wait another week or so, but I wanted it all out immediately. For some reason it makes me feel better to have it out of sight.

Right now I’m deeply enjoying my quiet office. The boss is occupied with catching up on her phone calls and everyone else has been put on notice to leave me alone. This week is all about recovery.

After all, I’ve only got four days and then it’s New Year’s dinner at The Grandmother’s. Maybe I can find someone suitable to bring while I’m out getting shitfaced the night before. That ought to put things to rights with this lesbian nonsense. I'm thinking someone with a few tattoos and a leather fetish.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

If I call this "Highway to Hell" would that be too obvious?

Everyone is on their own road to discovery and enlightenment.

Some roads are smooth and black with perfectly straight yellow lines. Some roads have a pot hole or two, a few curves, and maybe the lines are a bit faded. Some are never ending dirt roads under a canopy of trees, the light never quite penetrating through. Some are four lane freeways crisscrossed with bridges, but with plenty of signs to point the way.

I’m going to hazard a guess that my metaphorical road looks a bit like this:

It’s scenic. Around every turn there’s something beautiful. The view from that road is so spectacular that I can’t imagine choosing another route.

Until, that is, those bastard ass rocks start falling from above and smashing around my car that has one too many miles on it, a bumper that doesn’t match, and a fuel tank that’s always hovering close to empty. Oh, and sometimes the gas pedal gets stuck and I go careening around those deadly curves, desperately trying to keep things in line so that I don’t go plummeting off the side of this scenic mountain.

So basically what I’m saying is my road to discovery and enlightenment is trying to kill me. Let’s look at the evidence, shall we? Just this past weekend will do.

*Note: If you don’t want to read about my vagina. Stop. Reading. Now.

Friday night I was in the shower. Naked, because that’s how I roll.

I was shaving my legs and my bizness (for you newbies, that means vagina) because Cosmo says it’s the way to a man’s wallet heart...and also I may have let things run a little rampant lately. I mean, it’s not like anyone has been down there checking out the accommodations recently! Don’t give me any shit. Anyway, so I was shaving and I thought to myself, “Self, why not try something a little new and sassy. You can always go back to bald if you don’t like it. Let’s make it PRETTY! OOWA OOWA! Raise the roof!”

Like you don’t dance in the shower and talk to yourself in your head? Psssh, whatever.

“Design, design...what kind of design?”

Animals were out, because I’m not that talented. A circle would be weird, like a button, and that might distract from the real, more important button. Also, it made me think of that phrase “button, button, who’s got the button” and I’d likely giggle at in inopportune time and they’d think I was laughing at them and get all offended, like men do.

That left me with two options: heart or lightening bolt. Both of those are SO done, but I don’t have the dexterity to do a skull and crossbones. With the lightening bolt I could take my pants off and be all “SHAZAM!” With the, fuck it. I did the heart because it was the simplest. Nothing says love like a heart made of hair.

I started shaving the damn heart into my bizness and I was really concentrating. I had one leg propped on the side of the tub and the shower curtain open a bit for more light. Things were trucking along smoothly for a minute. Then, with one side down and one side to go, disaster struck.

WHAM! The door flew open and smacked into the wall, followed by the unmistakable sound of my sister in a rage.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t really concentrate on her distress as I was too busy with my own. When the door flew open and she started yelling like a banshee, it scared the living daylights out of me. I jumped and my hand jerked up at the same time, causing me to slice my bizness like a Christmas ham. I SLICED my BIZNESS.

On a pain scale of 1-10, I’d give it an 11 ½. Coming in right after the discontinuation of my make up at a solid 9 ½.

Had I known there were people behind her in the hallway I never would have screamed those sailor inspired obscenities, nor would I have opened up the curtain all the way and thrown the razor at her head. Maybe.

The cut was bad, but not nearly as bad as the bloody half heart. Symbolic maybe?

It was a good thing that I didn’t hook up with that guy later on that night. How does one explain a bandaged vagina?

Then there was Saturday.

My sister and I were supposed to leave early that morning and go shopping, but I was so hungover that I couldn’t leave my bed until almost noon. Of course that meant by the time we got downtown it was a madhouse.

The first place we went to was a toy store. There was barely enough room to move. Screaming kids and angry parents crammed the aisles, shoving each other and ripping off limbs when necessary.

I’m a fast shopper. I go in with a list, I get what’s on it, and I get the fuck out. So while my disinterested sister pushed the most busted ass shopping cart known to man behind me (seriously, it sounded like someone was shooting bee bees at a tin can every time the wheels went round and it had a “limp”), I plowed through the people and grabbed.

I was looking at a display of toy guns, you know, the kind that shoots foam dart thingies? I squatted down and found the one I was looking for on the bottom shelf. I reached for it at the same time as this kid, who I thought was after something else. He couldn’t have been more than 14 or 15 with shaggy black hair and he had a spiky belt to cut himself on if his pocket knife ever got dull.

We glared at each other. I yanked, he yanked, and we glared some more. I was too hungover to hang on much longer, all that yanking was making my head hurt. So I did the only thing I could. I accidentally on purpose tripped and stomped on his toes, causing him to yell and let go of the gun.

“Go Lee”, I yelled and took off around the corner. My poor sister tried to keep up with the busted buggy, leaving a trail of noise for him to follow. “Clang, pop, clang, pop, clang, pop.” He came after us, shouting and for no apparent reason other than being on the edge of sanity’s cliff; I turned around and pointed the toy gun at him, mouthed “motha fucka” while I did a little foot to foot dance, and left Lee to handle the damage.

Lee ignored him and he finally let her be. She found me a few minutes later and we finished up the rest of our shopping there without incident. Until we were at the checkout counter and the little shit decided to pop back in and cause a scene. I mean, really! Who does that?

There was a lot of pointing and his mother started yelling at me, saying I’d hit her son. The girl at the checkout looked confused and concerned, like she should turn me in or something. I’d already paid and they were bagging things up so I said, “Lady, I tripped and accidentally stepped on his toe. It’s a madhouse in here!” Then I took off before someone decided to investigate.

Unfortunately I ran into that kid and his mom all fucking day long. I think they were following me. I bought a hat just in case, but my sister refused to wear one because it would mess up her hair. Teenagers. All they care about is themselves.

Then there was the party on Saturday night that sucked ass. And more shopping on Sunday, this time with the mom, who has to scratch and sniff EVERYTHING, turning a two hour trip into a five hour trip. Etc, so forth and so on.

See what I mean? Beautiful scenery: nakedness in shower, lovely new merchandise and a full bank account, parties....etc.

Then BLAM!

Falling rocks and deadly curves: Sliced bizness, annoying teenagers, sucky entertainment and booze, psycho moms...etc.

I’ll bet you thought from the beginning that this post was going to be all mushy and “I’m happy and then people fuck it up by dying” or “Jesus rocks”.

Ha, well jokes on you. I’m not that deep.

Monday, December 21, 2009

Turns out I HAVE been kidnapped. By aliens.

Friday night I went out with friends and got a bit wasted. Well, if “a bit” counts as stumbling around and playing grab ass with other women.

At the second bar I ran into a guy I used to know in high school. Well, I was in high school at the time...he wasn’t.

He worked at the same place I did and had a pregnant girlfriend who also worked with us. Being 16, that didn’t matter a bit to me and we ended up starting a quiet affair. And by quiet, I mean quiet. Only one person ever knew about it and she wouldn’t have opened her mouth if you paid her. Mutual dirt, see. She was a much bigger whore than I was.

On our breaks we would sneak around the side of the building and make out. He even once talked me into a blow job, right out in the open. I later found out that there were cameras in that area. If anyone saw anything they never breathed a word, thank gawd. I’m sure they would have had a good laugh though. I wasn’t nearly as talented back then. Maybe there was a bit of arm flailing and awkward head bobbing.

We never actually had sex, but we came pretty close a few times. He would sit close to me at work and just stare at me, big brown eyes saying, “I’d like to dip you in cheese and spread you on a cracker”. Occasionally he would lick his lips. It was all quite ridiculous.

Sometimes he’d have to call me from a phone booth and he would stand there for an hour, just to “hear my voice”.

I don’t remember what our conversations were about, but there was a song called Dilemma by Nelly and Kelly Rowland and he would play it on the phone and sing it to me. It was “our song”. Years later, every single time I hear that song it reminds me of him. Not in an “I wish I could go back and do it again” way. More like a “that was interesting but I feel kind of shitty for doing it” way.

So when I walked into the bar Friday night and saw him standing there, looking five times hotter than he used to, I was thrown for a loop. Being drunk helped a bit too.

He walked right up to me with a big grin on his face and said, “You don’t remember me do you?”

“Oh, yeah...I remember you”, I replied.

This was followed by a few nicey nice, what’s been going on questions. He mentioned his kid and I said, “So are you and what’s-her-name still together?”

“No”, he said smiling. “What about you? Are you single?”


He laughed and said, “You know, every time I hear that song...I think about you. For the first couple of years I looked for you everywhere: around town, Myspace, Facebook...”

“I don’t have a Facebook...”

“I know, but you do have a Myspace...”

“Never use it.”

“Used to.”


“You’re still beautiful.”

Thinking: “Ooooooh shit.” Joking, I actually said, “You haven’t been pining away for me all these years, have you?”

He leaned closer and said, very serious like, “Yes, I have.”

At a rare loss, all I did was blush, smile, and fiddle with my drink.

He asked for my number and I gave it to him before my friends dragged me out the door.

He’s already texted me four or five times since then, but I’ve yet to respond.

I know you’re thinking, “Why the fuck not!”

There are several reasons:

- His baby mama is badass crazy. That’s drama I don’t need.

- He’s hot. Really hot. But I don’t feel any overwhelming sexual chemistry.

- At this point I’d just be using him for sex and my ego.

- It could never be anything but another fling.

I know. I’ve finally gone off the fucking deep end. Turning down sex that’s bound to be great (he’s storing a miracle grown cucumber in his shorts). Turning down ego stroking. Worrying about using a man. Ugh!

Who the fuck is this person and what has she done with me? Just what does she think she’s holding out for? And when is she planning on getting laid again, damn it?

In other news:

I’ve seen the bum one more time walking down the same road, but no one has seen him since. The motion lights have been repaired and the metal baseball bat is a permanent fixture.

As a matter of fact, I was on my way home the other night and I came to a license check. When the cop pointed his flashlight around the car, he noticed the metal bat riding in the passenger seat.

“What’s with the bat?”

“It’s for protection.”

“Against what?”

“Sexual deviants, bums, and the occasional rowdy house guest.”

“Cute. Are you concealing any firearms in the vehicle?”

“I’m not allowed to have firearms, but there are two Nerf guns in the trunk, if that’s relevant.”

Clearly irritated, “It’s not. Have a good evening.” He handed me my license back and waved me on through. I waved to the rest of them as I passed. Most of them have seen me half naked. Might as well give um’ hell when I get an opportunity.

In other, other news:

I’m feeling a little uninspired lately on the blogging front. Feel free (that means do it now) to help me out any way you see fit.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Kidnapping conspiracy or Vicodin haze?

Monday after work I met a friend for dinner at a swanky restaurant.

Well, she said we were meeting for dinner. In actuality we met for an appetizer and a drink. I was hugely disappointed as I’ve been drinking those diet drinks that taste like watered down chocolate and despair, and dinner at that restaurant has never failed to make me experience religion, however briefly. I stayed about an hour and headed home, sullen and hungry.

The last thirty minutes of the journey is a maze of back roads. With woods on either side it’s pitch black and not uncommon for deer or other small woodland creatures to wander out and cause a problem. Even though I know that, I don’t pay as much attention as I should. And I may or may not flatten said small woodland creatures in hopes of obliterating rabies. Fuck you PETA!

I was almost home, one road over from our gravel drive. I was singing Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer in an exaggerated country accent and moving my head like a puppet on Crank Yankers, when I had to slam on breaks.

There was a man standing in the middle of the road. He was wearing blue pajama pants and carrying a blue duffle bag. He had a beard and was puffing on a cigarette. I glared and muttered to myself as I maneuvered my car around him. He grinned at me.

When I walked in the door I was cranky. My back had been bothering me all day, my swanky meal turned to an appetizer, and some weirdo tried to make me a hit and run suspect.

“What’s the matter with you”, my mom asked.

I told her about my shitty day and when I mentioned the man she said, “The neighbors saw him too!” Then she called them and they went back to look for him, just to make sure there wasn’t any funny business going on, and he was no where to be found.

“I told your Papa about it. We think it’s probably Howard.”

“Howard? What the hell would Howard be doing around here”, I asked.

“Last I heard he was homeless and on drugs, looking for a place to stay, so he might have come around to check things out.”

My cousin Howard is a bit of an odd duck. He’s in his late 30’s, I think, and has a history of mental illness. That’s not saying all that much since most of my family is riddled with manic depression and bipolar disorder, but whatever, at least I’m sane. Right? Riiiiight.

He used to have a truck that he called “The Hump Me 2”. He spelled it out on the bumper with big, sticky letters that he later peeled off and put on his closet door. When he moved out we rented the place to a woman and her two young daughters. One of the girls had his old room and had to stare at the Hump Me 2 letters, which he’d tried to peel off, but it left a legible residue that refused to budge. That’s also the room he once shot himself in, but we didn’t tell them that. (Well, I did...but not until they were older and we started getting drunk together.)

Anyway, so I wasn’t too terribly worried about the man after hearing it might just be drug addled, homeless cousin Howard. And judge not lest I slap you in the face, people, because there’s no way in hell I’m taking in a mental druggie when I’ve got a four year old.

I forgot about it and went about my business. And my business turned out to be throwing my back completely out. It went from irritating pain to “FUCK I can’t move from this stooped position and if anyone touches me I’ll...whimper in pain”.

I thought I was going to die. I had to go lie down so I could moan in the privacy of my room because Ray complained he couldn’t hear the T.V. Whatever. Who really wants to watch a bunch of Mormon kids sing A cappella pop songs?

So I went to bed and watched Smallville on DVD. (Don’t judge me; fake teenage super heroes are the bee’s knees.)

But after a while I started to get nervous. Everyone else had gone to bed and there I was, stretched out helpless on the bed, with pull down blinds that are half an inch too short on each side so anyone could look in if they wanted. Not to mention that every now and then the dogs in the area would sound off, causing me to look toward the windows and bite my bottom lip.

I started to think:

What if it wasn’t Howard? What if it was an ex con escaped from a local jail? What if he was sleeping in my unlocked car or peeking through my blinds? What if he stole my cigarettes I left in the console?

If my back hadn’t hurt so badly I would have gotten up and retrieved them from the car and locked it. But after briefly chatting with a friend (who today told me he would like to be called “Krull the warrior king”, and I just this second realized that’s a quote from a chick flick called How to Lose a Guy in 10 days, and I plan on teasing him mercilessly) I finally fell asleep.

The next morning was hell. I was very late for work because I couldn’t move well and I had a ton of reports to get done before the department Christmas party. When I walked slowly and stiffly into the office with my pillow and heating pad clutched under my arm, the women stormed me, offering sympathy.

During the course of the day my mom called me four or five times. She had the day off and was doing her Christmas shopping with The Grandmother (which is probably why I got a fucking Snuggie) and wanted my opinion on this or that. By the time her last call came through, I’d had enough.

“WHAT NOW”, I shouted when I picked up the phone.

“Papa called the police to report that man being in the area.”

“That’s great”, I said sarcastically.

“And he found out that other people have reported him being in the area for the past week or so.”


“And the outside motion lights have been cut. They think he’s been sneaking into the office and sleeping there at night.”

“Oh shit.”

She continued talking, but I was in another world.

It really wasn’t Howard! Someone was going to kill me in the dark when I got out of my car! I was never going to have sex again! That thought was enough to make me burst into tears.

I began compiling a list in my head off all the men that could possibly want to do away with me:

1. My cousin’s husband:

He hated me from the moment we met for calling him a meat head. Which, by the way, is entirely accurate and the nicest thing I could ever bring myself to call him. He wasn’t above sneaking around on his wife. Who’s to say he wasn’t sneaking around the neighborhood in pajama pants, plotting his revenge?

I quickly discarded that idea. After all, the guy can’t even spell revenge, let alone plan it. Not to mention he doesn’t have a stupid beard.

2. Mr. Fisher Price:

I’ve been avoiding him on and off for years. He’s been pining after me, waiting and watching. Who’s to say he hasn’t finally snapped and taken to wandering about, ready to pistol whip me into submission? What if he’s been spying on me this whole time through those stupid gapped blinds and jacking off with tweezers underneath my window? ‘Cause trust me on this, that thing won’t even cross his palm. There’s no way in hell he’s beating that Vienna sausage without some kind of help. I’d imagine giving him head would be the equivalent of sucking on a ring pop...without the pleasant flavor.

But no, it’s likely not him either. He’s a fireman (not THE fireman, of course) and they aren’t allowed to have beards. And he also once told me he (shudder) doesn’t wear pajama pants...or anything else of the sort.

3. My mom’s ex boyfriend SpongeBob:

The guy is probably one of the creepiest fuckers I’ve ever met. His eyes are really close together; he’s got jet black hair that looks like a duck’s ass, and body wise he looks like a potato with those growths they get when you leave them in the bag too long. (Sprouts?) And let’s not forget the SpongeBob tattoo on his leg! Seriously?

He asked a mutual friend if I was single. ME. The daughter of his ex girlfriend. Every time I think about it I throw up a little in my mouth. That line from Silence of the Lambs plays in my head every time I see him or hear his name: “It puts the lotion on it’s skin or else it gets the hose again.”

But it couldn’t be him...the build was entirely different. This guy was taller and definitely not old potato-esque.

4. Lunch box boy:

Let’s assume he isn’t gay and definitely wants a crack at my ass cheeks. He could be irritated enough from the phone and coffee incident and the lunch box insult to follow me home. He’s...

Too tall. Damn it! I probably would have liked that one. “It’s ok if you hate me. There IS such a thing as hate sex, you know. Sure, I’ll shut up. Hey, what’s in the box?”

5. It could be the guy I slapped in the face because his performance left much to be desired....6. Or the one that was barely legal (Yeah, don’t mention that to anyone) who wanted to move to Texas and have babies...7. Or the hairy one that I threw that pity fuck at that never got over my vaginal awesomeness.

There are just so many options.

So last night I went home and took some Vicodin. For my back, you know. And when I went to bed I was thinking about it (my possible murderous stalker being “it”) and I decided I was going to sleep with my metal baseball bat for protection.

Because lets be honest here: My back was killing me and my karate skills are over a decade old. I can still probably do the leg sweeper move, when I’m not bent over in agony. The metal baseball bat was necessary since people who shall remain nameless don’t think I can be trusted with a firearm. Something to do with PMS.

So I fell asleep hugging the bastard. The bat, not the actual bastard.

When I woke up this morning I felt a lot better. No one had heard or seen anything the night before and according to our neighbor, Larry the goose recently attacked a visitor and would probably give my stalker the ole’ one two if he got too close.

Now it’s just a waiting game. Will I survive to deface the internet another day? Will I be arrested for striking an innocent man with my metal bat? Or will I be kidnapped, lotioned, and put in a hole?

Stay tuned.

Wednesday, December 09, 2009

The morning from hell

I’ve never been a morning person.

Unless, of course:

- Something I’m really, really looking forward to is happening that day.

- I’m still drunk from the night before and haven’t actually been to sleep.

- I’ve just had sex and I’m being woken up to have more sex.

That’s about it. Getting out of bed in the morning is one of the hardest things for me to do. It really brings out my temper. I can usually control myself quite well, but in the mornings it’s hit or miss. I try not to speak to anyone and they generally try not to speak to me. But for some reason, this unspoken rule doesn’t seem to apply to my mom’s boyfriend Ray.

People that are chipper in the morning piss me off. Just what the fuck do you have to be so happy about? The same routine happens every day. Except maybe it’s raining or maybe the dryer is making a strange noise so everyone is afraid to use it should it just happen to blow up and you have to actually iron your pants instead of fluff them. Ironing pisses me off.

I’m supposed to be the first person up, but it doesn’t always happen that way due to the invention of snooze buttons. The next person awake is Ray.

I’m not sure what his routine consists of exactly, but it sounds like a herd of buffalo are mauling each other in the kitchen. Then there’s the whistling and loud singing. Every morning. Seriously? You’re going to WHISTLE right outside my door? You have that much disregard for your ballsack? And singing “The sun will come out tomorrow”? Really?

Cue clenched fists, eyes rolled heavenward, teeth grinding, and big breaths.

This morning my alarm went off at 4:30 as usual. I beat it into submission every 15 minutes until I finally rolled out of the bed at 5:30. I could hear Ray pounding around and whistling in the kitchen. I padded across the room, poured contact solution in my eyes, and went straight for the coffee pot.

He paused in his whistling long enough to look at me, laugh and say, “Good morning!”

“Fuck off”, I growled at him.

He continued out the door, whistling his death song, and I continued toward the bathroom where I caught the first glimpse of myself. Hair stood up in all directions, one stubborn curl hung directly down the middle of my forehead and there were crease marks on my face. Nothing different there.

I was peeing (which I know you like to hear all about) when my cat Nugget came and stood with his front paws on my leg. “Eeeugh”, he said, because he can’t meow properly you know.

“Go ‘way Nug”, I grumbled as I shook him off my leg. He sat at my feet, his big green eyes staring up at me accusingly. Then he promptly vomited Purina cat food all over the toes of my right foot. I screamed and gagged. I don’t do well with vomit.

When I stood up to hobble to the tub and clean it off, I accidentally stepped on his tail. He squalled, wrapped both of his hairy arms around my leg and started biting the shit out of me. I grabbed him and held him up in front of my face, “GODDAMNIT NUG! WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM!”

That’s about the time Ray came back in to grab his to-go coffee he’d left on the counter, heard the ruckus, and came to investigate. He and Nug are boyfriends, you see, and he won’t tolerate any Nugly abuse. So around the corner he came and there I stood, with the door open (because that’s how I roll) and my pajama pants around my ankles and puke on my foot, shaking my addled cat in the air and screaming in his face while he countered with “Eeugh eeugh eeugh” noises.

“Put him down!”

“Here!” I tossed him the cat and slammed the door. I heard him say, “It’s ok Nug”, in his animal voice.

You know what I’m talking about, right? I don’t care who you are, when you talk to an animal that you like, you use a different tone. Sometimes one that’s so ridiculous it’s painful. Some people do it with children too. (Ray’s isn’t really that bad, but mine is. Maybe I should do a recording. I can just imagine your shock and horror.)

The rest of my morning routine went pretty smoothly until it was time to warm up the car. I opened the door and got smacked in the face with wind and rain and cold. Muttering under my breath, I backtracked and put on a jacket with a hood and tennis shoes. Upon reaching my car, I realized that my sister had parked so close to my passenger side that I wouldn’t be able to put the kid in the backseat. Muttering some more, I splashed over to the drivers side, got in, moved the car, and hurried back inside.

I went directly to my sister’s room. “If you ever park that close to me again, I’ll rip your face off.” (I swear I’m not usually a psycho shrew.)

She blinked at me, having just woken up. Another reason to hate her...she got 45 minutes more sleep than I did.

I bundled the kid, whining and sniveling about her coffee cup being empty and her TV show not being over, into her raincoat and herded her toward the door. I heard my sister in my mom’s room, “She said she’d rip my face off....”

I took our belongings out first and stashed them in the front seat and went back for the kid. I picked her up, carried her to the car, opened the back door and shoved her in her seat. She immediately started wailing.

“What? What? What happened?”

She continued to wail. The rain was pounding down on my back and ass as I was bent over her, searching for injury. “What? What happened?”

Finally, when I could feel it soaking past my jacket and into my shirt, she held out her little hand, covered in droplets of water and screamed, “I GOT ALL WET!”

OOOOK. Bite the tongue, shut the door, ignore ignore ignore.

I shut the door, walked around and got in my seat, dripping all over the interior. She’d stopped wailing and toned it down to the sniffles, which I also concentrated on ignoring.

I backed out, drove down our gravel road, took a left onto the main road, rounded the curve and slammed on breaks.

“What mama? What’s the matter?”

“Hold on kid.”

It was 6:40am and still pitch dark. My headlights were trained on an enormous tree lying across the entire length of the road.


I got out and stood in front of it, assessing the situation. If I waited for someone else to help me move it, I’d be late for work. If I moved it myself (there was no doubt in my mind I’d be able to move it myself because I’m hardcore like that), I’d probably get dirty. If I drove over it, I’d probably rip out that black piece that was still duct taped under the front. If I didn’t hurry and decide, I’d probably run out of gas before I made it to town. My idiot light was already on.

There was a split in the tree on my side of the road. I decided I’d kick it and see if could get it far enough out of the way to drive around. As I was kicking the tree, my neighbor pulled up on the opposite side. She poked her head out the window and said, “Want me to call somebody?”

“Who the fuck are you going to call?”


“Yeah, because he’s going to get his fat old ass out here and move this tree”, I said still vigorously kicking.

I made a bit of progress, but realized that I would have to try and roll it out of the way with my hands.

While my neighbor watched from her car I started pushing on the tree, leaning into it, my shoes slipping on the pavement behind me as if I were on a treadmill. The tree was giving bit by tiny bit and the bark was biting into my hands. My boobs were falling out of my top, my clothes were soaked underneath my jacket and I could feel the wet creeping through to my underwear. And the whole time I was letting the tree have it: “You sorry sonofabitch! Fucking move! SHIT! MOVE GODDAMIT! I’m gonna...”

Threatening a tree must be bad karma because I never got to finish the rest. The next shove sent part of it rolling down the embankment and sent me belly flopping onto the dirty, wet asphalt.

I’m ashamed to admit that I might have kicked my feet like a child throwing a tantrum. Just for a minute. My neighbor was roaring with laughter. She’s used to my clumsy antics, but not to seeing a grown woman wallowing on the ground and screaming in frustration and anger.

On the plus side, I’d managed to push half of the tree out of the way and my path was clear. Unfortunately I was also filthy and soaked to the skin...which was going to make me late after all.

I picked myself up and returned home to change.

So, how was your morning? I’m kidding, I don’t really care. Didn’t you just read all that?

Friday, December 04, 2009

One night at the movies long ago

The Kid in the Front Row asked me to write this post and since he's one of my favorites, I agreed. It's late, but that's typical. Read this shiz, check out his blog, and have a fantastic weekend.

Words are my passion – reading them, writing them, speaking them. Our love affair began early.

Movies came later. I was never a big watcher of television when I was young. I much preferred creating pictures in my head, putting together the pieces from a novel’s description and adding my own bits here and there.

Gradually I began to see more films. Still a book worm at heart, my first movie that wasn’t a Disney classic or silly comedy, was ‘Gone with the Wind’. It was beautiful. I wanted to be Scarlet O’Hara, I wanted to make out with Rhett Butler, I wanted to see it on the big screen the way it was meant to be seen. I realized I loved watching while words and action made a scene into something almost tangible. The feeling wasn’t so different from reading – you’re still sad when you finish because that’s it, there isn’t any more.

I did eventually see Gone with the Wind in a theatre. Like many other old movies, they brought it back for a short time. It was as beautiful as I thought it would be.

Since then I’ve become a movie junkie. I’ll watch anything and everything. If it’s a new release and it’s not a slasher film, you can bet I’ll be seeing it.

As a teenager, of course I went to the movies a lot. It was THE thing to do on dates and group outings. The only problem was that on these dates, no one ever wanted to watch the film. There were times when I wished I’d gone alone rather than have someone’s sweaty hand groping for mine, or something else if they thought they could get away with it, distracting me from the more important on-screen action. It’s still a pet peeve of mine to be bothered while I’m watching a movie.

When I was seventeen I had a bit of a crush on Vin Diesel. Muscles, luscious lips, and tattoos – what’s not to love? His new movie xXx had just come out and after seeing a trailer with him wearing nothing but low hanging long john pants; I knew I had to go.

The first weekend of its release I was broke, having spent all my hard earned money on a mediocre bag of pot, a pack of Marlboros, Pepsi, and a tank of gas. I was bummed that I’d have to wait to see the movie.

It was a Saturday afternoon and I was sitting on the floor of my room cleaning out my desk drawers when the phone rang. It was Ty, a guy I’d been occasionally seeing. He asked me what I was doing that night and when I replied I was broke and stuck at home, he offered to take me to dinner and a movie. Of course I immediately suggested xXx and he agreed, a bit reluctantly.

He was a bit of an asshole so of course I had a huge crush on him. He was a friend of my cousin’s and was always around, so he met my mother quite by accident. She hated him and only referred to him as “Spoonhead”.

When I asked her if I could go with him she was less than thrilled. I believe her exact words were, “If you must, but I don’t want Spoonhead in my house. Make sure you go outside when he pulls up.”

He picked me up in his family’s Suburban SUV. My mom needn’t have worried. He lay on the horn until I shouted out the front door, “Hold the fuck on!” We were so cute together. Like a young, white George and Weezie, but hornier and less funny.

I don’t remember what clothes I wore, but I remember forgoing underwear just in case. Not for during the movie, of course, for after. I’d be too busy watching Vin’s muscles undulate across the screen to care about Ty.

I assumed that he’d brought the Suburban for its extra backseat lovin’ room, but when I climbed in the front I saw that the back was slammed full of furniture.

“What that hell is all that?”

“We’re in the middle of moving.”


On the 45 minute drive to the city we smoked cigarettes and rapped together about bitches, baby mamas, and crunk juice. Ah, young love.

Taking me to dinner turned out to be an “Italian” buffet.

Let me just interrupt this program a moment and tell ya’ll how I feel about buffets. I HATE them HATE them HATE them. Have you ever watched people at a buffet? They stick their dirty, bare hands all over everything. They could have just rubbed one out in the car or scratched their sweaty ball sack. If I have no choice but to eat from a buffet, I take antibiotics when I get home and brush my tongue with bleach and water. Well, I take the antibiotics. Anyway...

So I watched him eat a huge plate of pasta while I nibbled on a breadstick. He hadn’t checked the movie times before we left for the city and we had over an hour wait. I couldn’t really tell you much about the conversation, but knowing Ty, it was less than stimulating. Of course, back then what the fuck did I care about stimulating conversation. The only stimulation I was interested in was below the neck.

We finally made it to the movie. It was so full that we had to sit on one of the sides with only two seats to a row, which I hated.

As soon as it started I was engrossed. I pay attention to nothing or no one around me when I’m watching a movie, and that night was no different. Ty thrived on attention.

“Scratch my arm”, he said.

I ignored him.

“Hey”, he said nudging me with his elbow, “scratch my arm.” He lay his arm, palm up, on the armrest.

(We had a few classes together and he would always sit either behind me or beside me and sleep while I ran my nails lightly up and down his forearm.)

I sighed and relented, hoping it would be the last time he bothered me. No such luck.

Not too long after that he started complaining about how stupid the movie was or, more accurately, how stupid Vin Diesel was. Because obviously, since I was drooling over Vin, there was no way he was going to get laid. Idiot.

About thirty or forty five minutes before the movie ended he wanted to leave.

“This is stupid, let’s go.”

“Fuck no.”

“I don’t want to stay.”

“I DO.”

I crossed my arms and wiggled further into the seat while he pouted and fumed. I wasn’t disappointed in the movie at all – plenty of action, a tiny bit of abbage, and great music. Several of the songs used are still favorites of mine.

When it was over he slouched out, hands shoved in his pockets, and I followed. I was thinking that I’d probably be making it up to him for the next hour and that didn’t bother me at all.

He was driving, weaving through the downtown traffic, when he turned to me and said, “So, wanna have sex?”

I shrugged and said, “Ok.”

I obviously wasn’t too thrilled about the way he asked.

“Where can we go?”

I looked out the window. “I don’t know. Why can’t we just do it in the car?”

“Because it’s full of stuff.”

“There’s still the front seat.”

“Not big enough for what I have in mind.”

“What? You inviting an audience?”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up, asshole.”





The meaner we were, the hotter it was. We were always bitching at each other and calling each other names. It worked.

He pulled up at a gas station, went in and bought condoms. I made a quip about not getting Magnums that earned me the finger.

Then we spent the next thirty minutes driving around and looking for a secluded spot. I refused to break into a house that was empty and almost finished being built, but I reluctantly agreed to the grassy hill behind a bank.

Yeah, that’s what I said. A grassy hill behind a bank. It was a First Citizens.

I followed him around the darkened corner, shrinking away from the lights in the parking lot. Behind the bank the hill was big and sloped sharply down where a very sparse copse of trees lined a busy road. There were several other businesses scattered around. It gave the illusion of being private, but it was no where near.

“Well”, he said.

I glared at him. “Well.”

He took off his jacket and spread it out on the ground. “Lay down.”

We bickered back and forth a bit, but the end result was the same: me lying on my back, on the ground, pants off, shirt on, and legs in the air. Who says romance is dead?

It should have been good. Everything else we did together was good and with the added elements of our fighting and doing it in public, I’d expected it to rock. It didn’t.

There was a rock digging into my back and I could hear people talking nearby and cars whizzing past. I tried to make things more exciting, but he seemed content to lackadaisically pump away, like he was filling his fucking car up with unleaded.

When it was over he had the nerve to ask me if it was good. Knowing I had almost an hour ride left, I gave a noncommittal answer.

The ride back was all cigarettes, rap music, and complaints again. When we pulled in my driveway he parked and looked at me expectantly. I’m not sure what he was expecting exactly...a blow job, a thank you, high praise for his cocksmanship. But what he got was:

“You ruined the movie!” SLAM!

I went back and saw it a week later with my girlfriends.

You live, you learn, you take the right people with you to the movies, and you switch banks.

And when the bank asks you why you’re leaving, you don’t say, “Because every time I step foot in here I think about the horrible sex I had in your backyard. Not your personal backyard...the bank’s backya....ok, um, bye.”

Tuesday, December 01, 2009

That's not the star of's the twinkle in my eyeball.

The day after Thanksgiving is usually the day I become possessed by the “Neurotic Christmas Spirit” and go balls-to-the-wall crazy.

But I’ve done no shopping, only the required amount of baking, and my tree didn’t go up until Sunday. SUNDAY! I didn’t even rearrange the ornaments after everyone finished hanging them.

The only tradition I insisted upon was that we listen to Barry Manilow’s Christmas album while we put up the tree.

I know what you’re thinking. “Barry fucking Manilow?! Really?!” But you can all shove it. Everyone has their little thing and my mom and I have been listening to Barry’s Christmas CD every year for...a very long time. His version of “Baby its cold outside” is a duet with this woman (I don’t know who) and she’s all moaning and shit. Classic.

My mom’s boyfriend Ray was absolutely horrified when my sister and I did an impromptu tango to “Have yourself a merry little Christmas”. He called us a bunch of freaks and went outside to man the grill and be...manly. We compromised and didn’t play Kenny G’s Christmas album so he would come back inside with the food.

So now it’s December first and I’ve done nothing but sing along with Barry and buy an elf that’s supposed to teach my child to behave.

The elf in question comes with a book and a plan. Basically he’s magic and reports back to Santa every night while the kid is sleeping. Every morning when she wakes up, he’ll be sitting in a different place and she’s not allowed to touch him or he won’t be magic anymore. The elf returns to the North Pole on Christmas Eve and comes back to do his spiel all over again next December first.

The storybook that accompanies the elf explains it all in childlike terms. Bad or good news- he’s giving Santa a rundown every night. Every pouting session, every foot stamp, every eye roll, every sucker punch to the kidneys – he’s gonna know about it.

The kid had to name the elf. She chose, for whatever strange reason, to name the little fucker Shefford. It took us five minutes to understand that it was Shefford because she pronounces it “Seffwoolld”. That’s the best I can do. Her R’s sound like a combination of O’s and L’s.

The only concept the kid has grasped so far (and I realize it’s only been in effect for one night) is that the elf is magic and comes awake while she’s asleep. I seriously doubt that it will have any effect on her behavior, but we’ll see.

This morning when I woke her up she didn’t even ask for coffee first. She said, “Did Seffwoolld come alive Mom?!”

“I think so honey.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to go see.”

I helped her down from the bed and she took off running across the hardwood floor, hair still covering her face and eyes half glued together from sleep. She didn’t make it three feet before she slipped and careened face first into the door jam.

“OW!” She screamed and kept on running. I stayed behind a minute to laugh like the caring mother I am. Had she not been on an important mission, that collision would have been “the end of the world”.

Other parents know what “the end of the world” looks like: snot, tears, wailing, and insistence that something or everything is broken. I spend a lot of my time in that place since the kid isn’t the hardcore destroyer that I was at that age. She’s very sensitive and when I laugh (which I do often) it doesn’t help matters much. I’ll work on it in therapy.

Anyway, she found Shefford atop the kitchen cabinets, cheeky painted grin in place. She immediately demanded to hold him and I had to remind her that he can’t be touched or the magic goes away. This resulted in pouting.

I foresee this month long “behavior game” becoming a problem. If it doesn’t end in tears and bloodshed, it’ll likely end in me forgetting to move the fucker and “Ooops! The elf’s out of the bag honey! There’s no such thing as magic until you’re old enough to know what an orgasm is, and believe me, Santa doesn’t give those out for Christmas.”

So the tree is up, the elf is installed, and Barry has had his sing-a-long.

Next on the agenda is present name drawing. I’ve somehow earned the privilege of being in charge of this year’s list of names at Papa’s house. That means I have to call all of our relatives on that side of the family and find out if they are coming to Christmas Eve dinner and if so, do they want to be in the pot.

There are a few advantages to being list master:

1) I can give my name to a big spender.
2) I can keep my name from going to the dollar store queen.
3) I know who has who and I will accept bribes for switching names.
4) I can deny name switching for the person I like least and give their name to the DG queen mentioned in #2.

I’ve been informed that my sister and another teenager, being underage and therefore ineligible for the drawing, will be watching to make sure I don’t cheat. I’ve been practicing my slight of hand with slips of paper up my shirt sleeves. We’ll see how it goes.

But really...I need to get my ass in gear. There are cookies to bake, presents to buy and wrap, and people to suck up to. Contrary to The Grandmother’s often voiced opinion, Christmas isn’t about Jesus.

It’s about me.