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.”