How May I Help You?

People say that customer service is dead and well, it is. That’s why every time I call a customer service number I cross my fingers and hope with all my might that it’s automated. I would much rather deal with a machine than try to explain to Habib, who insists that I call him Kevin, and only speaks enough English to order a pizza, that I need to cancel an account. “Kevin, plug ‘Why don’t you have a website?’ into your translator and then go get someone who speaks English to give me the answer.” Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against foreign people. I just think it’s possible that American employers play a little fast and loose with the term “fluent” when they are asking about language skills. But let’s get real, it’s not just the companies that contract overseas, most places hire unskilled people to answer technical lines and just hope for the best. I know this for a fact. I used to work in one. So let’s get in the way-back machine so I can break it down for you.

Roughly ten years ago I did 2 years hard time in a call center that fielded technical support questions for a major computer manufacturer. This was back when people actually got their computer fixed instead of just buying another one because they were crazy expensive. I had exactly 8 days of computer training and 2 days of phone training. This qualified me to fix someone’s computer. Over the phone. So really, they were fixing their own computers. I quickly found out that my lack of skill was not really an issue because one out of five callers had a question that was rectified with complex instructions such as “the power supply has to be plugged into a working outlet.” or “click on the little speaker and take the ‘x’ off of it and your sound should miraculously return.”  

Companies that are this big contract these services from hundreds of tiny call centers around the world. The call centers are in no way affiliated with the computer company, so it wouldn’t matter if you burst in with some flesh eating bacteria that could only be treated with the saliva of the company owner, they still could not “call upstairs and get him.” As a matter of fact, they wouldn’t have any more idea than a customer where to call in Texas to reach him. Our call center had about 500 operators divided into teams of 20. Each team had a “coach.” When you ask to speak with a manager, this is who you will end up speaking with. This person does not work for the computer company either. They cannot “make it happen” or “cut you a break.” They can only hang up on you. I promise that they’re not sitting around wringing their hands afraid for their jobs when you declare that you’ll never do business with the company again. As a matter of fact, the operator is probably holding down the mute button while he calls others over to laugh at you. Eventually this particular giant computer company sent all of their “tech support” overseas as well and left only their sales department here in America. They want to make damn sure they can take your order, but once you’ve paid for the product, well they don’t really care if you can understand Kevin. So please please let me press one for English and then four for account management. For crying in the sink, don’t make me speak to a person.

For the Love of Coffee

I am a gas station coffee junkie. I love it. Yes, I realize that in the today’s coffee saturated society, gas station coffee is like going to a steak house and ordering a bologna sandwich, but I love it. Particularly the cappuccino that comes in the purple cup with the black lid from the S&S. I don’t know what it’s called, but I always get french vanilla most of the year, and pumpkin spice around the holidays. I need it. Not like I need air, because I can live without coffee, but more like I need toilet paper. I can function without it, but it’s gonna suck.

The only problem with gas station coffee is that for reasons unknown to anyone but the manufacturer, the coffee is heated to about 7000 degrees. It’s so hot that I think it’s really steam that comes out of the little nozzle and is caught by the cup. You can’t handle the outside of the cup without wrapping a couple of napkins around it, and don’t even think about drinking it for at least half an hour. This is where the torture begins.

I get that delicious tall cup of coffee into my car and the heavenly steam starts to fill the tight space and overwhelm my senses. Maybe just a tiny sip. I lift the cup to my mouth and the steam from the tiny drinking hole in the lid gives my lips a little thump. Ok, not yet. Put it down. The smell continues to surround me. My brain is breaking into song, “that coffee smells good, that coffee smells good, I wanna drink it, gimme that coffee.” I dance a little to the coffee song in my head. I can’t help it. It’s catchy. Ok, I have to do the trick, because I have to have a sip of that coffee.  This should only be attempted by experienced coffee drinkers. I seal my lips around the drinking hole and gently blow the steam out of the tiny anti-suction hole. Once the air coming out of the tiny anti suction hole is cool, I know I have cooled the very top layer of the coffee. I can carefully tip the cup and slurp off the top, cooled layer. Just a little. A big slurp will result in the loss of my sense of taste for at least a week. Momentarily satisfied, I set the coffee cup back down. I spend the remaining 20 minutes or so alternately dancing to the coffee song in my head and blistering my own mouth.

The coffee does not need to be this hot, but since it is, they should really put one of those temperature sensors on the cups. Like the ones on fish tanks, but slightly modified. It would look more like this:

Is it Naptime Yet?

Not having any children myself, I have had to quickly learn the little interesting things about watching kids that no one talks about. After years of being surprised and reacting badly, these are the top ten things I’ve learned about kids.

1.       You may relish the rare quiet moments when you have a house full of children, but there is a very specific formula that you must remember in order to maintain minimum household and bodily damage. One or two children being quiet merely means they are blissfully occupied. Three quiet children usually means a mass conspiracy. If you suddenly find yourself in a silent home with four children in it and they are not sleeping, it’s time to panic. Find them immediately because something is being destroyed or someone is being held captive.

2.       If girls are left alone with makeup and hair accessories, at least one little brother will eventually emerge in drag. This is usually hilarious but unfortunately it is rare to capture such a thing on film.

3.       When giving the kids any kind of activity, don’t think this will allow you to have a moment of peace. If you don’t check in every few minutes to see what they’ve created, they will bring it to you. They will even wake you up or knock on the bathroom door to show you. This is apparently imperative part of the creative process.

4.       “I’m bored” does not mean that the child wants you to find him or her something to do. It is code for “I would like your undivided attention.”

5.       Children have no concept of travelling sound. If you play your cards right, they will believe that you have superpowers. This gives you a substantial advantage.

6.       Sending kids outside when they get rowdy will only ensure that they will destroy something outside rather than inside.

7.       When kids are in trouble they are totally freaked out by close proximity and eye contact. It’s like bad behavior kryptonite.

8.       When four kids are getting showers, they will use every towel in the house and yet still find a way to flood the bathroom.

9.       Kids will remember and repeat everything you say. It’s even more fun for them if it’s highly inappropriate. They especially like to say these things in front of their parents. Laughing only encourages this behavior, however, kids have this uncanny ability to note when you are amused even if you are outwardly scowling, saying, “Don’t say that. It’s not nice.”

10.   When bringing kids into your home you have to make a conscious decision to relinquish some control. If you are afraid of messes or that they’ll break something every time they move, no one will have a good time. Put on your fun cap and remember that messes can be cleaned up. Years from now, no one will remember that it took an hour and a half to clean up the kitchen after making lasagna, but everyone will remember how much fun it was, that it was super good, and the kids did it all by themselves.

It's not funny...it's chocolate!

So I love to cook. Even more, I love to eat what I cook, so it’s pretty important to me that things taste good. I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I’m pretty good. I can make just about anything, but there are two very simple things that continue to elude me even after many, many disastrous attempts. I cannot fry chicken or make a decent brownie. I just can’t figure out how to get the chicken done without burning the crust. This results in either bloody chicken or some kind of fried chicken jerky. Either way, it’s not delicious.

Brownies are always too soft and cake like or so gooey they fall apart. Even the mixes don’t turn out the way I want them to. I want to make those dense, rich almost fudge-like brownies you buy in the bakery. The ones that are so good that you don’t want to move anything but your mouth because you don’t want to waste any energy that you could be using for tasting. So I decided to forgo the recipes altogether and just make something that would taste good. After 5 attempts I have succeeded. I have made the perfect brownie…but I didn’t write down the recipe because I was making it up as I went along. So I made it again, and this time I wrote it down. I am selflessly sharing my masterpiece with the masses. There’s no need to erect statues or name hospitals in my honor, I’m glad to do my part. Drum roll please…

2 eggs

2 tsp. vanilla

1 2/3   c. sugar

½ c. peanut butter

¼ c. veg. oil

3 tbsp. water

1 heaping tsp. instant coffee

¾ c.  cocoa powder

1 1/3 c. self rising flour

¼ tsp. salt

Preheat oven to 350 degrees, grease 13x9 pan

1.       Dissolve instant coffee in water, mix in eggs, sugar, peanut butter, vegetable oil, vanilla   and cocoa powder. Beat until smooth.

2.       Add flour and salt. Mix until combined. Batter will be abnormally, hella thick. Don’t worry, its right.

3.       Spread into pan (it’s easier if you lay a piece of plastic wrap over the ball and mush it out).

4.       Bake at 350 for 18-20 minutes.

5.       Try to let it cool before you eat the hell outta that deliciousness.

Now, onto the chicken... 

Food and Me. I'm Thinking a Fall Wedding...

I was surfing the internet recently when I came across a format for keeping a food diary. It’s an idea that’s always intrigued me because I really have no idea what I put in my mouth during the course of any given day. There wouldn’t be any excuses, I couldn’t explain away that extra half a sandwich or just pretend it never happened. It would all be right there, in black and white. Terrifying.

My relationship with food is somewhat unnatural. I have never understood those little skinny girls that claim to “forget to eat.” Really? So that gnawing pain in your gut didn’t tip you off that you might be hungry? Let’s get real. No one forgets to eat on a regular basis. It’s a just a convenient excuse for you to explain away those size zeros without disclosing your incredibly dangerous eating habits. I’m exactly the opposite. I convince myself that handful of chips didn’t count because I was looking for some lunch when I ate them. They weren’t on a plate, so it wasn’t actual eating. Food comforts me and excites me. As much as I like to drink (that’s a totally different blog), food is my drug of choice. I’m beginning to realize that as much as I love it, it might be best if we started seeing other people. You know, before I start wearing sweat pants not just out in public, but exclusively.

So. The food diary. I guess the whole point is to see how many calories you’re consuming in addition to acting as sort of a determent since writing it down would make it real. So here we go. I wake up and go into the bathroom to brush my teeth. During this normally routine act, one of my cats decides that my bare leg is a scratching post and I accidentally swallow some toothpaste. Does toothpaste have calories? Do I need to write this down? It’s not a normal occurrence; usually I’m really good at brushing my teeth. I make my way into the kitchen and make my coffee. I splash in some flavored creamer and a spoon of sugar. I put an Eggo in the toaster. When it pops up I smear some peanut butter on the hot waffle and take it, my coffee, and my food diary and sit in front of my computer. I start to write down what I’ve had so far, and it looks something like this:



Yeah, I licked it, and I did a little dance too.



Midway through trying to find out how many calories are in a “smear,” I realize that I’m on my third cup of coffee and I did not enter it into the diary. Apparently I would have to measure stuff if I were to effectively do this. I say, “would” because I have no intention of actually doing that. I’m not turning food into a chore. Maybe I’ll just stop eating while I’m deciding what I want to eat. That will probably help a little. Now where’s my drawstring pants? No the really comfortable ones with the knot set on “lounge?”

Germaphobe

People are weird about germs. I see people carrying around those little bottles of hand sanitizer, squirting little piles of gel in their hands after they touch anything and vigorously rubbing their hands together. I’ve even seen them on key chains. I understand the need in certain situations, like if you work in a hospital. There are sick people everywhere and people think nothing of sticking your pen in their mouths while they wipe their kid’s nose, then handing it back to you; and these people have actual communicable diseases. When I worked at a hospital, I sanitized all the time. I even rubbed down all my pens twice a day. There’s illness everywhere. It’s where staph goes for happy hour.

It just seems unnecessary to pull out hand sanitizer after handing money to a cashier in a grocery store. Especially since that same person probably didn't use it after putting the money into their wallet. I’ve never seen anyone use it after visiting an ATM. It almost makes me wish I was sick so I would have a weapon that would really make them squirm. Germs are everywhere. No matter how hard you try, you can’t eliminate them all. And you shouldn't try. By not exposing yourself to everyday bacteria you are only making yourself more vulnerable to them. Besides, let’s face it, most of the sanitizing and hand washing is just for show.  

The people that scream foul over double dipping are the ones that think it’s adorable to feed their dogs from their forks. So you’re saying that a minuscule amount of my spit on a chip that may or may not have transferred into the dip is less sanitary than eating after a dog. I’ve seen my dog eat cat turds. I think it’s safe to say that I have never eaten cat turds. Not even by accident. Or they wipe the overflow baby food off their kids face and then put it in their own mouths. Baby’s put everything under the sun in their mouths. They might have actually eaten a cat turd. Again, I have not. The same people that sanitize slides at McDonalds before they let their kid play on them scream “5 second rule” when that same kid drops a french fry. I don’t care that their kid is eating off the floor.  Hell, I eat off the floor. There’s just no need to use germs as a way to make you feel superior.  We get it. You’re super clean. The rest of us are germ ridden piles of filth.

Shoo Fly

So, I am happily sitting on the couch with my laptop, checking on all my stuff when my serenity is invaded by a single fly. It’s one of those half dead ones that clumsily flies into everything and currently it is clumsily flying into my laptop screen. Repeatedly. I brush it away. It comes back. I try to reason with it, telling it that it would be much more satisfying and dramatic to bump into the window, as freedom does not lie on the other side of the laptop screen, but he just won’t listen. He has signed his own death warrant. I close the laptop, grab the nearest catalog and after a brief cat and mouse game, the fly meets his untimely death. I open the computer back up and start working. Apparently the dead fly has a few buddies. Now there are two more bumping the screen. What the hell? I try to show them the dead carcass of their fallen comrade in hopes that they will become frightened of the mean human and go elsewhere but alas, flies are dumb. Two more flies bite it.

As I am pushing their bodies into a pile with the rolled up catalog, I start to hear this banging and cussing come from the kitchen. At first the banging is spaced out. As the cussing grows louder, so does the banging and the blows are coming one right after the other. Curiosity brings me to the kitchen where I see a very frazzled Dewie alternately swinging a dish towel and fly swatter. She looks up at me with crazy eyes and whispers, “They’re everywhere!” They are indeed.

“Where the hell are they coming from?”

“I. Don’t. Know.”

We check the garbage cans and compost. Nothing seems out of order. No strong odors or maggots. Well, I guess you wouldn’t see maggots if that were the case because they’re already flies, but nonetheless there are no maggots. We take everything out just in case, and spray all the cans with Lysol. We check the windows to make sure they’re not cracked. They just appeared. Probably a hundred of them. Ok, not that many, probably 50 of them. And, they’re old, slow flies too. These aren’t young, agile flies. These are old, loud buzzing, bump their ass when they fly kind of flies. They’re so old and slow that the dog is catching them in her mouth. It’s like there was a mass escape from a fly nursing home. The good news is that they should be dying soon. I mean the life span of a fly is what? Two weeks, maybe. These guys have to be on like day 13.  I think I’ll find something to do outside today, then maybe when I come in I can just sweep up their old, dead asses with a broom.

Fishin'

So my friend Wendy and I walk down the hill in her back yard to the river and start inspecting the fishing poles. We manage to find enough hooks, sinkers and unbroken line in the rain filled tackle box to rig up a pole. She looks at me, “Are you gonna swim?”

“Probably.”

“Will you take the big ones off the hook for me? I don’t mind the little ones, but I’m afraid the big ones are gonna fin me.”

“How do you take them off when you’re by yourself?”

“I don’t. I just drop the fish in the bucket and get another pole. Randy takes them off when he gets home.”

“Nice.” This is why I love Wendy. She makes up her own rules as she goes along, totally disregarding normalcy of any kind. Scout and I wade in the water, looking for a clean rock to sit on that is unoccupied by crawfish while Wendy rigs up her pole and casts off a few times. She is using hot dogs as bait and has the full attention of the dogs. With every cast the dogs run in the water about 3 steps as if to say, “I wanted that! Why do you keep throwing that away?” I just know she’s going to end up catching one of the dogs. I guess I’d have to take them off the hook too. After losing her bait a few times, she walks back up the bank to get a different hook. The dogs swarm in on the hot dog like a swat team. It’s gone before anyone can get to it. Wendy sighs and makes that annoyed, looking to the side face. Without a word she climbs back up the hill to the house to fetch another one. This time she brings it back in a plastic bowl with a lid. She baits her hook and the dogs swarm again. As soon as she turns her back, Scout comes in all crouching tiger style and snatches the whole bowl. Wendy grabs it before she can round the corner of the giant tree. Scout actually tugs back, putting up a fuss that someone is trying to take her treasure. Wendy puts the bowl right by her feet and casts again. She reels in a little fish about the size of my hand. “You can’t keep that. It’s too little.”

“Why not? I can clean it with a really little knife.”

“It’s not even two bites. Throw it back.”
“It’s my fish, I’m keeping it.”

“Alright.” She unhooks it and throws it back. She just likes to argue. A few minutes later she pulls out a good sized fish. She looks at me with her giant, excited eyes with her eyebrows raised.

“That one is plenty big enough. Awesome!”

“Can you come take it off the hook?” I unhook it and toss it in the bucket. Once I’m over there, I can see over the ledge into the spring.

“Hey Wendy, there’s a school of at least 6 fish in there that are about as long as my arm.”

“What kind are they?”

“I don’t know, the swimmy kind.”

“Are they fat or skinny?”

“I don’t know. What the hell constitutes a fat fish? Besides, they’re 30 feet away and under water.”

She comes over to look. She gets that big eyes look again and does a little dance. “Catfish!”

“Get on it.”

She puts a bigger hook on the line and casts right into the spring. The current is strange and instead of carrying the bait away from the ledge, it swirls it back up under it where the hook gets caught on who knows what and snaps the line. She pulls up a sinker and some mangled, stretched line. “Son of a…” She reloads and casts again. The line hangs, she tugs, it snaps. Meanwhile the giant fish are just hanging out, staring at us, probably having a chuckle at our expense. “Why don’t you walk down the bank a little so you’re not casting over the edge of the ledge?” She gives me a “thank you captain obvious” kind of look and inches her way down the bank. She casts again. Even though she is past the ledge, the bait drifts back against the current and under the ledge. This is when Wendy starts to lose her shit. The cussing starts quietly, under her breath as she gently tugs the line. It’s like the line and her patience are one in the same. As the line gets thinner I back up a few steps and hunker down for the snap. Snap! Boiiiiing! Wendy’s eyes become wild and frantic. She beats the fishing pole against the water, measuring out her words to correlate with each slap.

“Now! No! One! Gets! A! #$%ing! Hotdog! Are you #$%ing Happy NOW?!?!” her words echo down the river and the woman sun bathing on the dock next door lifts her head and lets out a chuckle. Wendy gives the spring one last glare of death. She turns around, leans the pole against the tree, then looks up, completely normal.

“Wanna swim now?”

“Yep.”

Molly VS Mosquito

For her birthday, Dewie requested a steak on the grill. That request in easy enough, but when I went to look at the grill it had a nest of black widows in it and the grates were rusted clean through in several spots. I knew that grill has just about had it, which is why we haven’t used it all summer. Besides, I’m kind of sick of the gas grill; I want a good old fashioned charcoal grill. The food tastes better and I think I’m ready for the additional challenge of heat regulation. Hank Hill would be very disappointed, but I think he’s wrong. I want to taste a little bit of the heat, that’s kind of the whole point. Otherwise I’ll just pan fry it.  So we run out to Walmart and pick up a cheap, no frills, plain ole charcoal grill. It’s the end of the season so the price has been significantly reduced which makes me happy. It’s in a flat box which makes me unhappy. I hate putting stuff together.

We get it home and start unpacking it. Ok, so this isn’t so complicated, but why do the directions tell you to assemble it from the top down? That just doesn’t make sense. As usual, I believe I know better than the manufacturer and begin assembling it from the ground up. That’s right, folks. I do read the directions, then quickly disregard them because I think I’m always right. It’s a character flaw, I know, but I digress. As a result of not reading the directions, I find myself in the precarious position of trying to hold all four legs in an upright position (for the record, I still only have two hands) while trying to balance the drum on the cuppy things and attach them to the legs. Out of necessity, I borrow Dewie’s two tiny hands.

 As she’s juggling two of the legs and cuppy things she innocently asks, “Is this how they tell you to put it together? It seems like it would be easier to attach each leg to the bottom of the grill.” Well, yeah I get that now.

“I know, right? These directions are stupid. You don’t need to look at them, let’s just throw them out.”

“You didn’t follow them again, huh?”

“No.”

Ok, we have to make this work or I have to completely disassemble the stand of the grill and start over. We tip the grill upside down and balance the legs on the drum itself. Better. With one hand full of grill legs and the other desperately trying to twist on a wing nut, I start to feel it. There is a severe itching in my general ankle area. I rub it with my other foot. It intensifies. I rub it again. Then I hear it.

“Is there a !#$%ing mosquito in here?!?!”

“Yeah I think it came in when we were bringing in the grill.”

I try slapping at it with my foot while twisting the wing nut. It flies away from my ankle only to land on my neck.

“It’s on your neck.”

“Yeah I got that. Will you hold that still so I can move my hand.”

“Hold it still with what? My third arm?”

Meanwhile the mosquito is sucking away like a deranged vampire. I twist that wing nut as fast as I can, but I have three more to go. I’ve gotten myself in a position where I actually have to spit the wing nuts into the grill drum because I can’t let go of anything. It’s really hard to cuss out your frustrations with a mouth full of wing nuts. Two left Twist, twist, twist. Suck, suck, suck. Finally the legs are loosely attached. I drop everything and hop around the room simultaneously scratching and slapping myself. Dewie pipes up, “Did you get it?”

“No.”

The grill is assembled and the steaks are cooked. A feast is had by all. We drag our full, happy selves into the living room to watch some tv, and I hear it. ZZZzzzzzzzzzt! Son of a…. I already have welts the size of a quarter covering most of my exposed skin and the bastard is back for more. How much can one tiny but evil mosquito eat? Even though I’m not really cold, I cover myself with a blanket. I get an itch on my elbow. I absent mindedly scratch it. I look down and realize that it’s a new one. I leap up and wave the blanket around like a flag in a thunderstorm. Dewie just looks confused. I try to explain by yelling, “It’s in the blanket! It’s in the blanket!”

“Are you going to finish soon, or am I going to be forced to watch this around you?” Huh. No sympathy there. I could be dying from Malaria right now. Because I apparently have the sweet meat that mosquitos love and Dewie doesn’t get bitten nearly as often, it’s almost as if she thinks I’m doing it on purpose. I sit back down and tuck the blanket around me like a barrier. I can’t concentrate on the television because I’m watching and listening for that damn mosquito. I just sit there, watching and spontaneously clapping and swearing like I have Tourette’s. It’s just a price you have to pay for having a girlfriend with the sweet meat.



That little green thing in the martini glass is not an olive, it's a tiny chunk of my dignity.



Water Safety

I recently found out that my “Can I get a…?” neighbor has a warrant out for his arrest for stealing laptops from his former employer. A month or so ago, he asked me if I wanted to buy his laptop because he got an iPad and didn’t need it anymore. He went to all the trouble of bringing the iPad with him and fiddling with it as he was talking as if he was so enthralled with it he couldn’t possibly be lying about where he got the laptop. I told him I usually buy my electronics from a store and thanked him for the offer. He has seen my own laptop in the living room when he comes to the door and he has asked me if that “TV in there is plasma or LCD.” Twice. The only comfort I have that he’s not going to rob me blind when I leave the house is that for some strange reason he is terrified of my dog. He makes comments about how big she is all the time and asks if she bites, to which I answer, “Only if I tell her to.”

The problem is every time I walk Scout or take her with me in the car, I hate that he knows she’s not home. He’s always lurking on the porch, watching everything. Poor dog has to jog around the backside of the block because I don’t like my house being out of sight. I was thinking of ways to safeguard my few little measly belongings, and I think I’ve got it. We literally go medieval on their asses. We bring back the moat.  Think about the awesomeness that would entail should one dig a moat.

Burglars will have to plan ahead and bring a boat. Boats are heavy and cumbersome to carry, so chances are, they’ll skip the house with the moat all together. If they were desperate enough to bring a boat, moving any kind of electronics would be mighty risky. They would have to limit themselves to jewels and silverware, neither of which I own. Well, I have silverware, but not the silver kind.

It will discourage unwanted visitors. Jehovah’s Witnesses will be holding their little Watchtowers standing at the end of the sidewalk with the guy that wants to sell me meat out of a truck just staring at the draw bridge, wondering how in the world they’ll ever reach the doorbell.

If you stock the moat, you can fish from your windows. If you fish from your kitchen window, you can catch, clean and cook in one convenient area.

Locking someone out of the house would provide hours of hilarity.  

“Let down the drawbridge! This isn’t funny!”

“Alright, I’ll open the window, but you have to swim for it.”

“I can’t swim!”

“Here, use this empty milk jug. I’ll tie a string on it.”

Manic Tuesday

As you may be aware, I have not felt very well as of late. I somehow managed to keep my germs to myself because clearly Dewie feels just fine. I was curled up on the bed reading this afternoon when Dewie bursts into the bed room pushing the vacuum cleaner. She yells over it, “This isn’t bothering you is it?” I guess not. I shook my head, gave her a thumbs up and went back to my book. She takes the vacuum into the tiny bathroom off the bedroom which because it has nowhere to go, amplifies the sound by about 4 thousand percent, and proceeded to vacuum the rug and I guess the tile floor. I read the same sentence about four times before I just put the book down. I can’t concentrate because she’s been in there for 10 minutes and I’m way too curious about what she could be vacuuming in a four by six foot room for that long. Then I hear the higher whine of the hose attachment. Rrrrrrrrrr-eeee-rrrrrrr-eeeeeeeee. What the hell? Is she vacuuming the ceiling? I crane my neck, but it’s no use. It’s an awkward angle and there’s just too much Dewie, machine and moving for me to make out what exactly is going on. I decide to wait it out. She finally comes out and starts down the hall. I peek in the bathroom and sure enough it looks cleaner, but I still can’t see what took 15 minutes. The vacuum roars for another 30 minutes then mercifully shut off. The wheels squeak across the floor and the beast roars back to life. Damnit. She must have just run out of cord. Finally, it shuts off again and this time remains quiet.

Then I smell pine sol. I guess she’s mopping. I hear her yell, “Get comfortable somewhere, I don’t want you to track up my wet floor!” I decided to head toward the living room. The couch has fresh vacuum lines on it and all the small furniture is stacked on top of the big furniture. I make a little nest in the corner of the couch. Dewie flies through with the mop in one hand and a clothes basket in the other. “I have to get the clothes out of the drier.” Ok then. After an appropriate floor drying amount of time I walk into the bedroom to find her changing the sheets. Although ecstatic about clean sheet day, I am more concerned about her sudden burst of manic energy. Her eyes are wide and manic when she yells, “IS THE FLOOR DRY??” I grab her shoulders and look into her eyes, trying the gauge the size of her pupils. I can feel her vibrating under my fingertips. “What?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I’m just tired of the dog hair all over the house and the sheets needed changing and when I’m done with this I’m going to warm up some of that soup for dinner, and maybe make some biscuits, you want some nice biscuits?”

“I like nice biscuits.”

 Maybe I’ll have time to mow the lawn it’s really nice outside, have you been outside? It’s really nice and there’s a nice breeze.”

“A nice one, huh?”

“Yeah. I might not have time to weed whack, but maybe mow. Do you think the grass is too wet? It’s been raining all day. It’s nice and sunny now though…” As she continues to talk I walk into the kitchen and get a juice cup. I hold it up to her “Has it been sunny long enough to dry out the grass? What? What’s that for?”

“I’m going to need you to pee in this.”

“Pee in that? I don’t have to pee. I can’t pee in that. I’m just in a good mood.”

“You’re acting a little meth-y.”

“I’m not meth-y! I just have this sudden burst of energy. I folded up all the clothes.”

“The nice ones?”

 “Shut up.”

Waking Up

NyQuil Fog

So I’ve been pretty sick lately, and none of my normal creature comforts are giving me any relief. I’m just bored, and sick and tired of being sick and tired, so I decide to take my double gulp of NyQuil a little early and hit the sack. I cuddle up in bed amongst all my blankets and animals and put on SVU so I can stare at Detective Benson until I fall asleep. But it’s hot. No wait, it’s freezing in here. Is the air even working? I finally settle with one bare foot and arm hanging out of the covers. Ahhh. Finally getting comfortable. I can barely make out Detective Benson on the tv. She’s so …. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

 Suddenly I’m in the interrogation room and Roseanne is pounding the table and hammering questions at me. “Wait, who the hell are you?”

“I told you I’m Detective Benson.”

“Nuh-uh. You’re totally not hot.”

“Honey, that’s all done with lighting and makeup, no one on tv is really hot.”

“Well, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings or anything, but you’re totally messing with one of my favorite fantasies, so could you maybe go get Fin or something. Maybe he can say something painfully obvious in his gangster voice. That’s always hilarious.”

The dog is barking. More like yelping. Maybe her leg is caught in a bear trap and she’s trying to gnaw it off. I have to find her! Someone hits me in the stomach. I open one eye and see that Scout is dreaming as well. Her legs, all four in perfect working order, are running through the air and her floppy lip barely lifting with each high pitched dream bark. Maybe she’s chasing a rabbit. I won’t ruin it for her. Reality is slippery right now and my eye slides closed. I hear dripping in the bathroom and reluctantly get up to check it out. The faucet is dripping. Drip. Drip. Drip. I turn the knob as hard as I can, but it continues to drip. I try turning it again, only this time the friction from the ridges on the knob rips my skin and now I’m bleeding. The faucet drips, my hand drips. Clear drip. Red drip. Clear Drip. Red Drip. I watch the blood and water swirl down the drain for a minute, then look down at my hand. There is no pain, but half of the skin on my hand is peeled back, like taking off a wet glove. Ok, I have to be dreaming, right? I tell myself in my dream to go back to sleep and I walk toward the bed, my skin glove flopping against my thigh with every step. The dog’s leg is in a bear trap. I have to help her. Then I hear Fin is in ultra-cool street voice, “Yo! Cough medicine makes you dream some crazy shit!” The sound of my own giggle wakes me up. The dog continues to chase her dream rabbit. I scratch her head to wake her up just in case she’s dreaming some crazy shit too. Then I start the next episode of SVU.

Skim Milk Duds

I was happily munching away on some Milk Duds when I noticed that there was a label on the side of the box that said, “35% less fat than other leading chocolate candies.” My first thought was “who the hell cares?” When I thought about it further I realized that was exactly the question the advertisers needed to ask themselves. A lot of companies seem to be jumping on this healthy food bandwagon, and they’re totally missing the point. The kind of person that enjoys milk duds in the middle of the day for no occasion whatsoever is not the kind of person that gives a rat’s ass how much fat or sugar is in their candy. It’s CANDY. It’s supposed to be bad for you. I’ve never seen a dietician standing in the candy aisle at Walgreens holding up a box of milk duds while explaining to a fat person that the milk duds are a better snack choice.

Fast food chains are doing this too. McDonald’s in particular has started with the salads and Happy Meals with milk and apple slices. If you’re choosing to eat at McDonald’s you have already decided that you are willing to accept a little more lunch lady arm jiggle in exchange for a crappy food high. Besides, the food (and I use that term loosely) at McDonalds a carefully constructed chemical concoction that contains no natural ingredients. I don’t trust them with fresh produce. They don’t know about refrigeration and germs. It’s not necessary to learn any of that when the food is made of some sort of edible plastic. And milk and apple slices for the kids? You’re going to bring your kid to McDonald’s and make them eat apples? That’s just cruel. Feed them apples at home. Fast food should be a treat. If you’re eating there so often that you need healthier options for your kid, then you really need to visit a grocery store. Those shiny red and green things next to the bananas are the apple slices before they’re cut up and bagged. Get yourself a knife and you’re on your way. Besides, apple slices don’t cancel out the fact that they ate that cheeseburger or those four little chicken flavored McNuggets any more than a diet coke cancels out a Big Mac.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not doggin’ on McDonald’s. I love me some filet-o-fish sandwich, but I in no way believe that there is actually fish on that sandwich. I don’t know what the hell it is, but it’s good. I would not be shocked to find out that it contained as astronomical number of calories and tons of fat, but I don’t go to McDonald’s for a healthy treat. Anyone who does is really grasping at straws. I’m not sure which is worse, that advertisers think they’re tricking people into thinking that candy and fast food is healthy, or that some people actually buy into it.

**An interesting side note, the spell check in Word did not pick up any of the McDonald’s terms. (Big Mac, Filet-o-fish etc.) What does that say about society?

Tolerate Thy Neighbor

When we moved into this neighborhood, it basically consisted of old people that have lived in these houses pretty much since they were built in the 50’s and 60’s. It was quiet and full of adorable senior citizens. Everyone called you “dear” and they said things like, “Can I trouble you for…” and “Back in aught 5…” The street is currently in a state of transition. The old people are dying off and their families are unable to sell the houses, so they’re renting them out. It’s sad, really.  The flower gardens are mowed over for convenience and no one gives a crap about anything. This has resulted in a strange mix of neighbors, most of which I wish would be evicted. Here’s the breakdown:

Madam Bipolar

Madam Bipolar is a single mom with I think three kids. I have to give her props because her kids are very well behaved and respectful. Most of the time it’s quiet over there. However, about twice a month, she loses her effing mind. You hear screaming and crashing and above the carnage is her sobbing wail of “I try soooo haaaaard! Nobody appreciates NOTHIN’!” Now, I can remember my mother having similar breakdowns when I was a kid, but not every two weeks. This woman needs medication. Seriously.

Crazy guy

The man that lives adjacent to us has a pretty severe case of agoraphobia. This is clear because he hasn’t bought any new clothes since 1974 and he actually has mutton chops and an afro. It takes him 30 minutes to muster the courage to walk to the end of the driveway and check the mail. I have offered to help him, but he just runs away. Literally. He’s very afraid of people and I’m not really sure how he is able to live on his own. It’s not unusual to see him standing on his back porch, peering around the corner, watching us in the kitchen. I really don’t think he’s dangerous, just lonely and doesn’t know how to interact with people. Although it is fun when he tries to mow the lawn to just casually walk outside. He actually leaves the mower where it is and runs inside the house.  The first time that happened I had to call Dewie and show her my magic powers. He’s recently moved out, but he’s still in and out because he and his elderly parents are trying to sell the house.

“Can I get a..?” Guy

When these people first moved in, I really thought they would be cool. It wasn’t long before they started coming over to ask for stuff. “Can I get a cigarette?” “Can I get a ride to the store?” “Can I get a ride to work?” I really don’t know how you have to be raised to think it’s ok to just ask people for things over and over without reciprocating. The number of people in that house is slowly increasing as well. It started out with three, and now they’re up to six. They live on the other side of crazy guy and since he moved out, they think they can park in his driveway. I don’t know why this bothers me so much and it probably wouldn’t if it was someone else doing it. But they are “takers.” It doesn’t belong to them and they don’t have any right to use it. I hate these people.

Goldilocks

Goldilocks is strange older woman that lives across the street. She lives alone as far as I can tell. She has long bleached out blond hair which she always wears hanging down her back in a heavy sheet. She wears a sports bra, shorts, and a surgical mask when she mows the lawn. It’s both repulsive and intriguing. She also puts plastic flowers around her mailbox and decorates her house for every single holiday known to mankind. She’s weird, but she’s really nice. She can stay.

Mrs. Schaffer

Mrs. Schaffer in an old crotchety woman that sits on her screened in porch in 204 degree weather and carefully watches the neighborhood. She is aggravating and doesn’t even have the good grace to pretend she’s not being nosy. When you walk by her house she yells at you from the porch, “Molly, have you seen Mr. Hill recently? I haven’t seen him in days. I’m afraid he might have gotten himself drunk, tripped in that shop of his and busted his head open. He could be laying there dying as we speak.” 

Mr. Hill

Mr. Hill lives on the corner. He’s a drunken mechanic that works on cars at his house. He doesn’t have a valid driver’s license, yet somehow still gets away with test driving things he’s “fixed” around the neighborhood. I’m surprised he hasn’t taken out a mailbox yet. His wife keeps his yard carefully manicured, probably to counter the effects of her husband’s drunken antics.

Terry

The only normal neighbor we have. He and his wife are really friendly. The only complaint I have is his need to childishly peel out whenever he leaves on one of the four thousand motorcycles he has. I guess you can’t have everything.

The Tool

The last neighbor I have is a complete tool and I wish him ill will on a regular basis. He doesn’t actually live in the house next door; he lives on the next street, but takes care of it. Supposedly his mother lives in it, but in 5 years I have never actually seen a human enter or exit the house. I think it’s all some kind of elaborate scam. I don’t know why they’re doing it, but they are. First of all the house is painted a horrifying shade of bright aqua. That alone is reason enough to hate him. They also have very mature, gorgeous fruit trees in their yard. Trees that are heavy with fruit every damn year; oranges, pink and yellow grapefruit, tangerines, pears and pomegranates. Every year the tool refuses to let me pick that fruit and every year I watch it rot on the tree. When he comes over to “mow,” he cuts my honeysuckle vine off the fence and he throws debris that comes out of his trees over the fence into my yard. I hate that he makes me sneak into that yard after dark all ninja style and fill a pillow case with delicious, tree ripened, fresh fruit when he could just give it to me. Bastard.

Forking Itch

It started with a little tickle right along the edge of my left shoulder blade. I thought there might be a bug on my shirt so I grabbed the bottom and fluffed it out a few times to knock it off. It was then that I realized that that tickle was on my skin rather than on my shirt. The quick puffs of air only intensified the sensation. The tickle grew to a slight itch. I wrapped my arm across my back as far as it would go and even pushed up on my elbow with my other hand, but I still could not reach the source of my discomfort. Because I could not reach the spot, my brain decides to put an urgent stamp on the situation.

I desperately find the nearest door jamb and rub up and down like a bear on a tree in an attempt to ease the itch. The friction from this action created a patch of burning skin that circled the original annoyance. Now I was itching and burning. A dull surface was not helping the situation. I needed something sharp. I point my squirmy, dancing discomfort toward the kitchen, open the silverware drawer and take out a steak knife. That’s when the inner dumbass alert signals. “Don’t do it, Molly. That’s too sharp. You know it is. Slicing off a ribbon of skin will not make it stop itching.” I had a vision of a myself peeling a strip of my back skin from my shirt only to discover that it still itched, so I anchor the strip on the counter between two fingers and scratch it with my finger nail and I am temporarily distracted enough to forget about my itch. You’re right, dumbass alert. You often are.



Which one of these is the cootie fork??



The tickling on my back snaps me back into reality and I reach for a fork. It reached perfectly and with the right angle and pressure applies just the right amount of delicious, scraping relief. Goose bumps rise along my arms and I am in sheer ecstasy. I think I might have actually moaned a little. I absent mindedly drop the fork back in the drawer. Queue the dumbass alert, “You did not just do that.” I look down to see a tangle of forks and I have no idea which one it is. I don’t know what is on my back that itches with such urgency. It could be a patch of dry skin or an oozing group of poison ivy blisters. Either way it’s not really something I want to put in my mouth. I grab all the forks and throw them in the sink and reach for the dish soap. “That’s what you get, idiot.” (The dumbass alert always gets in the last word.)