Sorry 'Bout it!

I’ve developed a mysterious allergy to peaches. I suggest that we ban cobbler from public places and demand sensitivity training so that people are more considerate of my lack of cobbler. Oh, and peach farmers shouldn’t be able to grow or sell peaches where I can smell them. What do you mean that sounds ridiculous? I am outraged! 

Ok, so am I the only one that’s getting sick to death of everyone having a cause? No more bake sales because kids have peanut allergies. Don’t use Netflix because they don’t rate all their movies or have ineffective parental control options. That art is offensive. Never ever talk about sex or show naked people. Don’t do drugs. Music and literature should be G-rated. Everyone gets a turn and no one fails. WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN?!?!

Well, what about them? I am not anti-child, and I understand that as parents, the sun rises and sets on their kids. But here’s the thing… it’s not society’s job to keep parents from having to discuss uncomfortable topics or to keep their kids safe. On the contrary, it’s a parent’s job is to prepare their kids for the adult world, not to make the world into a Disney theme park, all sweetness and sunshine and rainbows.

It’s not just the kids, though. It’s everything. This country has gone mad. Everything is regulated or banned from pressure cookers to size of your soda. It’s just so out of hand. Everyone seems to be screaming freedom with one side of their mouth and trying to ban something with the other.

I don’t want to live in a society where everything is sanitized for the highest common denominator.  I enjoy provocative art. I eat the hell out of peanuts. I do on occasion fail and sometimes my turn gets skipped over. I've been known to dump giant sodas into my already ample ass. Sometimes I take a near fatal dose of Benadryl and eat peaches before I slip into a coma because they’re delicious. Deal with your own issues. Teach your kids to deal with theirs too, because frankly I think that hooker art is amazing, and I don’t care how you explain that to your kid. I didn’t sign up for that job.  You did.

Rice Creepies

I’ve been home for about 12 hours. I’ve spent the last week or so on a lovely island in Portland, Maine, where my mom and I attended the wedding of a childhood friend, Rachel. While there, Rachel arranged for us to stay in the home of one of her friends. Miss Judith is a 70 year old hippy who only wears purple and makes jewelry out of sea glass that she collects from the coast. The first night, we only met briefly. She seemed nice enough. The next morning she offers to make us some hot rice cereal with fruit which we happily accept.

Miss Judith is one of those people that talks nonstop and frankly, I started to tune her out after a few minutes. Then, I heard a word that piqued my interest. Did she just say orgasm? I look up from my phone and watch her busily mixing frozen raspberries into a white mash and turn my ears back on in time to hear her say, “My granddaughter’s fiancé can’t give her an orgasm.” Ok, so I must have missed some important segue into this topic. How in the hell would she know that? That’s weird, even by my standards. She now has my full attention. She continues, “Actually my daughter called me when she lost her virginity.” What the hell is she talking about? I become aware that I’m making that squinty-eyed confused face where my eyebrows touch and my mouth pulls up on one side. I make a point to relax my face as my brain desperately searches for a situation in which this conversation could possibly be appropriate. Miss Judith continues, “Actually both my daughter and granddaughter called me when they had their first orgasm. My granddaughter had hers with a black woman and toys.”

A million smart ass remarks file through my mind at warp speed, but that area of my brain is so over stimulated that it shuts down. I realize that I have the most unlikely, amazing set up ever imaginable and my brain has short circuited. I have no response. I have no idea what to do with that information.  I search Judith’s face for traces of insanity, but only find an open, honesty that further confuses me. I feel like I might be dreaming and the situation takes on a surreal quality as I hear my mother say, “Whatever floats your boat, I guess.” 

Oh dear God, please let this be a dream. I imagine having a conversation with my own grandmother about orgasms and how they might be achieved. I feel a little nauseous and dizzy like I might pass out. In my mind, the word “vagina” buzzes through the phone line and penetrates the wrinkled ear of my grandma. For a split second, I picture my grandmother as a sexual being. I can’t breathe and I feel like I might find my name on a sexual offender’s list for just thinking about it. I concentrate on the floral table cloth and silently hope that breakfast is ready soon. I really need something else to concentrate on. Suddenly innocuous words like, “ripened fruit” and “honey” have taken on sexual overtones. I am trapped between the table and wall, but I have to leave. I have to get out of this situation.

As I stir my cereal, I start singing in my mind, “Be-lieve it or not, I’m walking on air. I never thought I could feel so free-hee-heeeee.”

I hear Miss Judith still yakking, “He told her that Hispanic women are notorious for having a difficult time reaching orgasm,”

“FLYING AWAY ON A WING AND A PRAYER!”

My mother interjects, “Sounds to me like it’s HIS problem, not hers…”

“WHO COULD IT BEEEEEEE? BELIEVE IT OR NOT, IT’S JUST MEEEEEE!” I’m out of lyrics, so I eat the rest of my breakfast as quickly as possible and excuse myself to take a shower.  For the next few days, I hear, “My granddaughter called me when she had her first orgasm. It was with a black woman and toys.” echoing through my brain. I may never be the same.

Nailed it

“Hey, Dewie. Now that you haven’t bitten your nails in a while you should totally let me give you a manicure.”

Dewie scrunches her face up in an expression that’s half way between disgust and annoyance. “I don’t want pretty nails.”

Sighing, I reach for her hand and inspect her newly grown nails. “It’s not about having pretty nails, it’s about good hygiene, like brushing your teeth.  Look at them. They look all raggedy.”

“Fine. Manicure me.”

“Also I will make them sparkly.”

“No Sparkles.”

“Ok, but a little glitter might do you some good. You know, help you out with your sour puss problem.”

“I do not have a sour puss problem …and absolutely NO GLITTER!”

“Ok, well I do a really good chrome. It’s a black base with a silver topcoat, looks totally badass. Or I also 

do this really neat thing with a bright orange basecoat and a gold topcoat. It looks like fire. You want fire nails?”

“I can’t pull off badass. Maybe just a clear coat.”

“Ok, so a clear coat over the chrome. Good thinking. You want to protect it.”

“NO CHROME!!”

“Geez, alright. You could just humor me, you know. It does come off, for crying in the sink. Your thumb nail is wicked ridgy.”

“Yeah, I know. They seem to be getting worse in the last couple of years. Can’t you do that thing you do with the sander thing?”

“Buff it out? I don’t know. These are really deep ridges. I’m afraid you would be left with a cellophane nail by the time I got them all off. I mean seriously, your nail is like a damn ruffles potato chip. I've seen ridges this deep on really old men, but never on a girl.”

“And just how many girls’ nails have you actually inspected?”

I feel a grin tug at the corner of my mouth.  “Well, there’s that group of strippers on Saturdays. It takes a while because they want all that fancy stuff on their nails, the jewels and whatnot. It’s awesome because they pay me in lap dances.  That booty dust does tend to linger, though. It gets all pushed into your jeans. Then, if I feel like it and have some time left over, I head over to Hooters. Those girls are a little easier; mostly French tips. They pay me in chicken wings though, so not as much fun. Here lately they've been bringing in a whole group of their slutty friends, so I’m not sure if I’m going to keep doing it. It’s starting to become a production…”

“ALRIGHT! If I let you do the chrome will you stop?!”

“Yep.”

“Fine.”

“Yay!!! You sure you don’t want to hear about hooker Wednesdays?”

“Just stop.”

Moving on...

As I look forward to a fresh new year, all sparkly and appealing in its promise of a fresh start, I feel it’s important to look back and acknowledge the lessons of 2012. So, what have I learned in the last 365 days? I think a top 10 list is in order!

10. If there is a room in your house that your husband has absolutely forbidden you to enter, call the police. He’s a serial killer. It’s probably full of newspaper clippings and the driver’s licenses of dead girls.

9. Marshmallows give my dog the screaming skitters. Not just normal diarrhea, but constant, dry heaving out of your butt kind of runs. You might as well set up shop on the porch and wait for the storm to end. Yummy for people. Horrifying for dogs.

8. Workout clothes make awesomely comfortable pajamas. You wake up ready for your workout and you have half the laundry.

7. The best way to win over a kid is to let them do stuff their parents would never allow. Some examples of this are setting things on fire, playing in the mud and breaking things. **Important note** No matter how much you trust a kid, these activities may cause a giddiness that snowballs quickly. It’s important to supervise closely.

6. Plumbers are not magicians. They just have to right tools. In other news, using the wrong tool will likely make whatever you’re “fixing” much, much worse.

5. People will always spontaneously drop by when you’re not wearing a bra. Being properly dressed seems to keep them away.

4. Even in a panic, a hammer is not an effective way to kill a roach. It is however, a very good tool for cracking tile.

3. Some people are just not fans of science and reason. Most of these people are on Facebook.

2. If you have any form of an anxiety disorder, there’s a good chance you can be on TV; several times on multiple networks.

1. And my new personal philosophy courtesy of RuPaul, “Don't be afraid to use all the colors in the crayon box.”

On the 4th Day...

So I recently learned that it's "four colly birds" and not "four calling birds," so my brain image has altered somewhat...

Lamont's Pile

I freaking hate Wal-mart. I guess there’s just something about those stupid, antagonizing smiley faces and cheap plastic wares that bring out the people who observe no semblance of societal rules. Now, if I wanted to see hoards of people dressed in inappropriately sized clothing, or say I enjoyed coming across a poopy diaper roll in the discount DVD bin, or perhaps being blocked into an aisle by several adults and their combined 78 dirty, screaming children having a conversation like they’re sitting on the porch, then I would go every day.  But alas, I do not enjoy this. Not even a little.

Unfortunately I live in one of those little towns that Wal-mart has killed. There is simply nowhere else to go for certain items. For this reason I find myself, a head cold dampening my normally chipper attitude, headed toward the giant blue W with a wad of tissues in my pocket. When we arrive, the parking lot is nearly full. Terrific! I try to psych myself up.

“Now, Molly, it’s only going to be worse if you go in with a bad attitude. Be calm, be patient and this will be over before you know it.” I take a deep breath and head into the store. It is strangely empty given the number of 15 year old minivans in the parking lot. Ok, so maybe this won’t be so bad. I look at Dewie. 

“What do we need?”

“Well, you wanted to get some garland and maybe another string of lights and we need toothpaste in the big bathroom, you wanted to see if they have that Diva Cup knock off thing here, and while we’re here we might as well get bread and we’re out of butter.”

“Ok, so we make a circle? Get toothpaste first?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

As we round the corner into the toothpaste aisle, we encounter a child, probably 9 or 10 (WAY old enough to know better) pulling random toothpaste off the shelf and making a pile in the middle of the floor. His name is Lamont. I know this because his father keeps saying it. His father has his back turned, looking at the deodorant on the opposite side. Without even turning around to look at him, he keeps repeating, “Lamont! You better not be into anything over there. I mean it. (He apparently means it.) Lamont! Are you making a mess? Lamont! Lamont! Lamont!” Unable to get the giant, probably unnecessary cart through the aisle, I can feel the rage bubbling up from my guts.  Dewie grabs the sleeve of my shirt and whispers, “We’ll just go around.” But this is not to be. Evil Molly takes over my body. Well, my mouth, anyway.

“AY! Lamont! You serious with this crap?” Lamont looks up like he’s just come out of a trance and the dad finally turns around.

“Damnit, Lamont! Where is your mother?!” The man grabs the boy by one arm and starts to pull him down the aisle. “RITA?! RITA!? Where you at??!” It’s like a tic. He can’t stop repeating it. Loudly. The boy looks a little shell shocked, shuffling behind with wide eyes.

As he passes, I can’t help myself from saying, “Ooooh. Lamont, you in trooooouble. “ I know, sometimes I’m temporarily taken over by a five year old. I’m working on it. Well, not really. I kind of like her.

We pick up our brand of toothpaste from the pile in the floor and head over to the Christmas decorations. I found everyone. They are huddled over bins of wrapping paper and crowded around shelves of glittery ornaments. I stop dead in my tracks. I notice a couple of varieties of garland on display on an end-cap, well away from “Santa’s Workshop.” I grab the best of the choices. “I like this one.”

Dewie looks confused. “Thought you wanted something with brighter colors…”

“I LIKE THIS ONE!!”

We quickly acquire the remaining items on our list without incident and leave the bright lights and smell of corndogs behind us.

In a related note, if you’re female and menstruating, check out the Diva Cup. It looks awesome. (I just lost 80% of my male readers right there.) PERIOD!! TAMPON!! (Ok, there went the rest of them.)

Warrior

I was groggily making coffee this morning when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked up at the ceiling and saw something reddish-brown waving in the air vent. I immediately thought it must be a roach. What else could have possibly reached the vent in the ceiling? And it looked big. Nasty big. Trying my best to suppress the burgeoning panic, I go in search of the broom. I bang the broom handle into the metal grate and watch the nasty creature move slowly to the other side of the vent.

Instantly, my mind pictures masses of giant roaches crawling through the air ducts. I briefly entertain the idea of cranking up the heat, wondering if it would be hot enough to cook them. I imagine masses of vile insects crawling from every vent in the house to escape their sadistic fate. I shudder at the thought. Maybe it’s just the one. I can pretend I never saw it. But what if it’s pregnant with tiny roach babies? Ok, maybe if I bang it really hard it will fall out and I can kill it. I prepare for battle.

I lay my tools out on the kitchen island. Sargent swat (the supersonic fly swatter made of hard rubber) sits next to the paper towels and Clorox kitchen and counter spray for its proper disposal. This has to be quick. If it crawls under something, the mission will be a horrendous failure. My brain will constantly flash on pictures of it crawling on me wherever I go. Not knowing where it is worse than looking at it. I sing the first verse of Eye of the Tiger to psych myself up. I grasp the broom in my sweaty, shaking hands, take a deep breath and give the vent several quick, hard whacks. The offending creature falls to the floor.

My body betrays me and I react like a scared little girl. I let out a squeal that I should be ashamed of, but I’m not, and franticly brush my body and generally flail in place. After my quick outburst I calm myself and look for the roach which is probably long gone by now. I gather the courage to direct my eyes toward the floor.

And there it sits. Half a cinnamon stick I stuck in the air vent last year for spicy goodness. I take a deep breath and return my heartbeat to a normal rhythm. I carefully place all my roach hunting tools back where they belong.

I pick up the cinnamon stick and sniff it. I should put a new one in the vent. This one doesn't smell anymore. 

It's All About The Crust...

So on occasion, I throw a dramatic tantrum strictly for comedic effect. It’s a service I provide free of charge that lightens a dark mood or dissolves anger. Trust me. It’s funny. So one delightful afternoon I walk into the kitchen to find Dewie making a peanut butter sandwich while opening an envelope. She stares at the paper she pulled out with that wrinkly eye look and her mouth slightly agape as if silently saying, “What the hell?”

“What’s up, buttercup?”

“Huh?” She looks up at me like she’s never seen me before. “Oh, this.” She holds up the paper. “I don’t understand what… they didn't  no they definitely didn't put my overtime on here. What the hell? I worked two weekends in a row and then nothing?!?!”

“Oh, well, yeah that sucks, you should call them or something, but when I say ‘what’s up, buttercup’ then you say something back that rhymes. It’s like a game.”

She scowls at the paper. “I don’t want to play.”

“Are you too mad to play?”

She looks at me like she’s going to say, “what the hell is wrong with you?” but instead she says, “Yes. I’m too. Mad. To. Play.” Just like that. All spaced out.

“Well then I’m mad too! What the hell? How DARE they mess up your check? WHO THE HELL DO THEY THINK THEY ARE?!?!” I purse my lips in rage and dramatically slap a pack of toilet paper off the counter that had come in with the groceries but not found its way to the hall closet yet. The toilet paper bounces off the cabinet and makes it into the next room. I ball up my fists, throw my head back and growl. “AAARRRGGGGGRRRLLLL!!!!!”

I can tell Dewie’s trying not to laugh. She stands up with her sandwich in one hand and a paper towel in the other. She rolls her eyes and looks at me. “Are you quite finished?”

I make my eyes all ginormous and cop an attitude. “Maybe I am and maybe I’m not!” With that I slap the sandwich out of her hand. I am genuinely surprised that it has made its way to the floor. I didn't think I hit it that hard. She stares at it on the floor and watches as the dog slowly slinks her way over, watching us out of the corner of her eye and scarfs it up and then promptly gets out of the line of fire.

She looks kind of annoyed. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Really?! Are you new here? You had to know I was coming for the sandwich. Why weren't you holding it tighter?”

“I didn't know I needed a death grip on my damn sandwich! I was getting to the good crust! I always save that part for last! You ruined the good part of my sandwich!”

“Oh, no. I ruined the good crust?! What ever will we do? If you would have just played the game none of this would have happened.”

“Fine. Make me a new sandwich, bit..”

“ALRIGHT! I’ll make you a new sandwich. But I'm going to do it angrily.” 

Squirrel!!

We left the windows open last night. It was a little chilly but it felt amazing. This morning, I grabbed my coffee and walked into the living room. It was cold in there and I was deciding if I wanted to chance shutting the windows, knowing that the temperature would soon rise. I’m looking at the window when suddenly this squirrel actually jumps on the screen. He stared at me with frantic eyes and twitched his bushy tail. He was kind of cute.

“Hey there little buddy.”

Twitch, twitch. Twitch, twitch.

“Are you just visiting, or do you want to come in for a while? I made coffee. I could get you a bowl of peanuts. They’re salted, though. Maybe some corn.”

Twitchity twich, twitch, twitch.

“You’re adorable. Are you the most best looking man in your squirrel community? I bet all the girl squirrels are all like, ‘That twitchy-tail fella is the most handsome squirrel in all of squirrel-town. I wish he was my baby daddy.’ Yes they do, don’t they?”

Twitchy-twitch.

Then I hear it. That clicky, hocking sound cats make when they’re hunting. Nooooo.  I turn around and my giant, warrior cat is hunched down, poised to strike. I look at the squirrel. I look at the cat. I look at the squirrel. “Don’t just sit there, run for your life squirrel!!!”

Frantic eyes darting. Twitchity, twitch, twitch.

I turn to Duncan. “Please. Don’t. He’s not actually in the house. I beg of you. Please. Don’t. Do. It.”

What the hell is wrong with this squirrel? I clap my hands. “Scram, squirrel! Run like the wind! You are in mortal danger!!”

Twitch, twitch. Twitch, twitch.

I walk toward Duncan hoping to distract him. He seems to know this and makes his move. The world stops and turns all crouching tiger, hidden dragon. He takes to the air, jumps off my thigh and hits his mark. He lands on the screen. The squirrel finally moves, but the screen is not made to withstand Duncan’s 20 pound frame and Duncan flies out the window along with the screen. Without missing a beat , he takes off after the squirrel like it was his intention to push the screen out all along. The squirrel scales the fence and Duncan watches it disappear. He jumps back through the gaping hole and sits on the windows sill, licking his paw.

The house is silent and I am frozen. Did that effin’ just happen? It must have happened because the screen is outside. I finally find my feet and head outside to put the screen back in. 

Ant In My Pant(s)

Dewie and I were sitting on the porch this morning with our delicious coffee beverages, arguing about whose turn it was to bathe the dog.

“I’m pretty sure I did it last. Remember, because I had to ask you to get her up on the benches because she was being all belligerent and whatnot and she weighs 700 pounds,” Dewie proudly and overconfidently stated.

“That’s true, but you’re forgetting the last time was when I was watching the kids and we tromped through the flooded cornfield. I gave her a bath before we went in the house, Mistaken Wrongington from Incorrectville. Should I do my victory dance now, or wait until you’re covered in soap and dog hair?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot that one.”

“OWWW! Son of a… What the hell?!?” Suddenly the back of my knee is on fire. I start slapping at my pants like a deranged bongo player.

“What’s the matter?”

“Stings! Holy @#$%ing SH@#! For the love of all that is holy get it out!”

“What is it? Is it a bee?”

“I DON”T KNOW!!! I can’t see through my pants!” I frantically pull up my pant leg searching for whatever is trying to murder me.  Nothing. I can’t find anything. I drop the pant leg thinking whatever it was has escaped its horrible cotton prison. Immediately it starts again. “What the hell?! OWWWW! JEEEZ. STUPID #$%^ER!!!!” Alright, now I’m in a panic. I start to take my pants off.

Dewie screams at me, “Where is your underwear?!”

“They’re pajamas! Who wears underwear with pajamas?!”

“Well at least go in the house first!” 

“What if it gets away inside the house?! It’s MELTING MY FLESH OFF! Do you want that crawling into the bed?!

“You’re not showing your ass to the neighborhood! We’ll catch it. GO INSIDE!”

I stumble in the door, desperately tugging at my pants. I brush my legs in case it’s still stuck to me.  My knee pit is covered in welts, but the perpetrator is still on the lam. I turn the pants inside out and a single winged ant is crawling around on the inside of one leg. One ant. Sometimes I hate Florida.