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. 

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

It all started with a picture. There I was having a blast, delicious adult beverage in one hand, cigarette in the other, laughing at something I’m sure was hilarious. But looking at the picture did not bring me joy. Instead I felt more than a little horrified. I looked at the woman in the picture and did not see my normal chubby self. What I saw was a big, giant blob of diabetes with a cancer chaser in each hand.  Damn.

As many of you know, food and me, well we’re not so secret lovers. I’m not just talking about junk, it’s all of it. Bright, delicious fruits and veggies, fresh soft breads, nuts, seeds, yogurt, ice cream, chocolate, foreign, unpronounceable cheese, sea creatures, land creatures, you name it, I love it. And I eat it. A lot of it. Now in the past, I have been able to drop 20 or 30 pounds in a week or two. The shock value and water loss alone is usually a good five or six pounds the first day. I’m a good dieter… short term. So imagine my surprise when after the first day of my new diet I stepped on the scale and I had only lost 2 pounds. What the hell? So we’re gonna play it like that are we? I don’t need a calendar to figure out that my body has decided that it’s too old for this nonsense and has decided to hold onto the chub-a-lub with a death grip. This can only mean one thing. This one’s for good. Sigh. So with one week down (and nearly nine pounds gone) and a lifetime to go, it’s time for me to get real with myself.

1.      While it is true that the camera adds ten pounds, it does not add fifty. While everyone takes a horrible picture every now and then, you will not pacify yourself with lunacy.

2.       You will not use your menstrual cycle as an excuse to eat crap. It’s an easy out, and you know it. Just stay away from sharp objects and suck it up.

3.       The food you eat while making food counts. Stop it.

4.       You will not eat things just so they don’t go to waste. They’ll do you more good in the garbage than on your ass.

5.       Adding things to coffee (chocolate, caramel, peppermint candy, schnapps, etc) does not erase its calories. They’re still there, even if you choose to dismiss them as food accessories.

6.       You will not justify eating bad food by telling yourself that it’s better than worse food. A peanut butter and honey sandwich may be better than a hamburger, but you still need to put it the hell down.

7.       I will not explain away poor choices by telling myself that I deserve a “treat.” You know damn well that the real treats will be accompanied by balloons and a theme song, not eaten at midnight while hiding behind the refrigerator door.

I’m sure there’s more, but you get the idea. No more excuses. Here I go; turning the page. And I know, I’m working on the smoking. Let’s focus on one trauma at a time.  

Wretched Friends

I spent the afternoon helping Wendy clean out her future mother in law's pond. It was disgusting, very hard work, but tons of fun. After creating a sizable heap of what I dubbed "mermaid hair" on the bank (I don’t know, it was some kind of curly stuff that resembled green Spanish moss), we decided to call it quits. We cleaned up our mess and headed back up to the house, both covered in mud and some sort of silt that clung to the hairs on our bodies and made us look like we had strong, burly man hair. Everywhere. Realizing that we were not making much headway with the garden hose and noticing that I have mud in places one should never have mud, I asked Mrs. Bonds if I could jump in the shower. She obliged. About halfway through the shower, I started to feel dizzy and nauseated. I knew from experience that I had gotten too hot and needed to sit down before I passed out. I turned the water on cold only and sat on the little shower bench. The feeling intensified. I knew I had to get out of that hot little room, so I threw on my clean clothes and headed out into the living area. Wendy, having seen this particular combination of symptoms before, takes one look at my clammy pale face and asks, “Oh no. Are you going to throw up?”

“I think it’s passing.” About that time another wave of nausea hits me and I quickly look around for a proper receptacle. The bathroom is not an option, it’s too far away and the doorway is blocked by Randy and his dad with computer parts strewn about. I’ll never make it. I only have one option. I run to the kitchen and arrive just in time to wretch in the sink. Wendy and her mother in law are a mere 20 feet away, and although they are making sympathetic noises, I know they must be repulsed. I try to apologize, but another wretch pulls the words from my mouth, this time it’s deeper and is accompanied by a repulsive guttural burping sound. Lovely. 

I notice Wendy has gotten up and is rifling through some snacks on the counter. She holds some up and asks, “You want some fig newtons? You like fig newtons. I don’t really get it, but I guess you like what you like.” I try not to laugh and heave again. “No? Maybe a granola bar. There’s some granola bars with chocolate. Looks taaaaasty. Wanna 'nola bar? Do ya?” She dangles the granola bar by the corner of the rapper.  Finally my cheese grits from this morning make an appearance and I know I have to be nearing the finish line. “I think I’m going to have one of these chocolate thingies. Maybe two. You know if you’re hungry you shouldn’t be shy. They don’t mind if you have a snack. You really should eat something.”

I manage to squeak out, “I’m gonna punch you in the neck.” While I rinse out my mouth and sheepishly clean the sink with cleanser I found under the sink. 

Why No One Wants To Play With Me

During a recent discussion with Dewie regarding games we played as children, it suddenly dawned on me that I never had a lot of friends growing up. I still don’t. I usually have a main friend, maybe two and then a gaggle of people I just know. As I look back, it probably has a lot more to do with me than moving around a lot or any of the other ten excuses I can come up with.

When I was a mere whippersnapper, one of the games we often played involved raking piles of leaves or pine needles into a floor plan of a house. Although I preferred to play this game alone, sometimes a brave friend would attempt to put up with my need to control everything and offer to play.

Let’s take a ride in the way back machine, shall we? As I’m happily sectioning off the kitchen, cabinets and a roomy pantry in which to store our stick and rock food, I realize with a start that I have forgotten to add a bathroom. I address the little friend who has up until now busied herself with collecting cook-worthy acorns, a job I undoubtedly assigned her, “Hey! I forgot the bathroom. Why don’t you add one?”

She looks at me, excited that I have given her a task that requires more skill than a squirrel, “Ok, yeah! Where should I put it?”

“I don’t know, where ever it makes sense.”

                I turn my attention back to my awesome pantry and soon hear the scratchy sounds of the rake arranging leaves. After a few minutes I walk over to check her work. I am horrified.  “Why in the world would you put the bathroom in front of the front door?!” I squat down to point at the offending bathroom, my long braided pigtail bouncing against my knee.

                “I don’t know. I didn’t know where to put it.”

                “If someone were to visit, do you think they would want to pass someone sitting on the toilet to get to the living room? Does that make sense to you?”

                “Ummm, it’s a leaf house. I don’t think anyone’s going to visit.”

                I take a deep breath, stand up and put my hands on my hips. I calmly address my little friend, making sure to speak slowly so that she understands. “Are you playing make believe or not? I’m going to make believe that the Queen of England is coming over for tea in a few minutes. Then I’m going to make believe that you really had to use the bathroom. Then my make believe Queen of England is going to walk past you pretending to pee on your leaf toilet. Is that what you want?”

                The little friend sighs and picks up the rake. “Where do you want the bathroom?”

                “I point to the hallway. Right there, off the hallway. Be sure to put the good towels out. The Queen is coming.”

Shower Dance

Ever since the great flood, we have been chasing creepy crawly uninvited guests out of the house. I understand that they are just seeking shelter, but this one is occupied. They really need to move on. 

So yesterday I had just stepped into the shower and as I starting working the water through my hair I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye. I focused on the blur and there it was, between the shower curtain and liner. A roach the size of my thumb. I’m totally not exaggerating. Hold up your thumb. Go ahead, I’ll wait. Hold up your thumb and picture two giant waving antennae growing out of the top of it. Gross, right?  At first I couldn’t move.  I was shocked out of my paralysis when it started to inch up the curtain. It was nearly to the top and the last barrier between me and that vile creature was quickly diminishing.

“DEEEEEWIE! HEEEEEEEELP!”

“What?”

“HELP ME! I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”  She runs in the bathroom.

“Giant roach coming over the curtain. I don’t know what to do. I’m naked and wet and it’s gonna get me!” She peeks into the shower.

“Ooooh yeah. That’s a big one.” Why is she talking all calm like that? This is an emergency!

“GET IT!”

“Where’s Sgt. Swat?”

“On top of the fridge. HURRY!” Dewie disappears. The roach reaches the top of the curtain. “DEWIE! IT’S COMING OVER THE TOP! IT’S COMING OVER THE TOP! I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO! I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO! WHAT IF IT GETS ON ME?” The roach hangs there with its little sticky legs hanging over the top, waving its gross long antennae menacingly.

“Well at least turn the water off. Why are you saying everything twice?”

“I DON’T KNOW! ” Dewie draws back like she’s going to smack it. “YOU CAN’T SMACK IT THROUGH THE CURTAIN; YOU’RE JUST GOING TO FLIP IN ON ME! IT’S GONNA GET ON MY LADY BUSINESS! OH GOD WHAT IF IT GETS ON MY LADY BUSINESS?!?!”

“Just be still and get out of the way.”

“How can I be still AND get out of the way? Put a towel down so I can get out of..” Dewie smacks the roach. It tumbles into the tub, still very much alive. Panic moves my ass. While releasing a squeal I’m not particularly proud of, I shove Dewie out of the way and tear out of the shower, dripping water all over the place. As I stand there making a puddle I start channeling the Cobra Kai Sensei. I can’t stop yelling, “FINISH HIM! FINISH HIM!”

Dewie recovers from the shove and smooshes that bastard on the bottom of the tub, and then throws him in the toilet.

“Flush it twice, just in case.”  She flushes the roach down the toilet.

“You ok?”

“I’m not sure. Beat the curtain and make sure there aren’t anymore.”

“It’s fine. Finish your shower.”

And I did. Nervously. I did almost bust my ass when I saw the little magnet thingy in the bottom of the liner. But I recovered. Barely.

Drunky Drunkerson from Drunktown

Thanks to a vague reference by one of my best friends on a facebook post, I have been fielding messages regarding one of the most ridiculously stupid, humiliating nights of my life. So here it is, laid out there for everyone to see. The whole story. The story of the night I beat the living hell out of myself.

It happened a while back, maybe 7 or 8 years ago. My good friend Wendy and someone else we worked with at the time whose name is also Wendy, and I left work and headed off to a hole in the wall bar where the drinks are strong and cheap. It was hot that day and I gulped down three screw drivers right off the bat. I admit, this was stupid, but I was thirsty and it was happy hour. This means that the drinks that were normally $2.50, already an amazing deal, especially since the drinks were heavy on cheap vodka and light on orange juice were now $1.25. I mean the drinks are so strong they’re translucent.  After my initial thirst quenching binge, I was averaging about four an hour. The price was right and I was just in the mood to drink. Feeling that I was nearing the point of no return, I handed Wendy my wallet for safe keeping. You may be wondering why I did this. Let me explain. Apparently when my brain is swimming in liquor it believes that I am a very wealthy person and everyone is my friend. I am a bartender’s dream. Being the good friend that she is, when it appears that I am channeling my imaginary trust fund, Wendy holds my wallet. She’s awesome like that.

After several hours, I noticed that Wendy is missing. Apparently the party was moving to a different bar and I was riding with fake Wendy, but I was unaware of this. I turn to fake Wendy and ask her where Wendy went. She looks confused.

“Umm. I’m right here.”

“Noooooooo, fake Wendy. Where’s MY Wendy.”

“Oh, we’re heading over to Rodeo. She just left.”

Here’s where I panic. I know she has my wallet and I also know that if I arrive home without it, Dewie is going to murder me. I run out of the bar just in time to see Real Wendy getting into her car. As I step down out of the doorway my flip flop gets caught on the metal grate door mat thingy and I fall face first into the concrete. I actually knock myself unconscious. When I come to, the owner of the bar is kneeling over me. He was a biker type fellow with long, gray, wavy hair, and the porch light was shining through his hair creating kind glowing halo around his face. In my barely conscious, drunken state I looked him in the eye and muttered, “Oh my God, was I wrong? Are you Jesus? Am I dead?” To which he laughed hysterically and continued to hold a wet towel to my bleeding mouth. Meanwhile, fake Wendy is horrified and real Wendy who is barely visible behind Weegie (the bar owner) has fallen to her knees with frenzied laughter. My head slowly clears and I realize what just happened.

Fake Wendy says, “Maybe we should just take her home.”

To which I stupidly reply, “Nah, I’m fine. Who’s driving me?”

To which real Wendy says, “Go get in my car. I got this.”

 I slowly get up and head in that direction.  On the ride over to Rodeo it suddenly dawns on me that I can’t feel my teeth. Thinking I left them on the front stoop of the bar, I turn to real Wendy, smile really big and ask her if I still have all my teeth. She recoils, which scares me until she says, “Don’t bleed in my car.” And I realize that the face was a reaction to my BLOODY teeth, not missing ones.  We arrive at the new bar and real Wendy turns to me before we get out, hands me a napkin and says through giggles, “You still have blood on your face. Oh and fix your hair.”

As we walk up to the door, real Wendy is walking a few steps behind me. The door is glass, but blacked out with some sort of tinting which my stupid swimming brain registers as “open.” It was not. I walked right into the door. I don’t mean I bumped it. I walked into it with all the confidence of simply walking over a threshold. With my face. I vaguely remember the bouncer snorting with laughter before I once again, you guessed it, lost consciousness. I had managed to knock myself out twice in one night. Real Wendy is actually shaking with laughter and can barely stand as she “helps” me into the bar and parks me at a table.

 I remember very little from that night after that point, other than there was a strange step up into the bathroom that once again caused me to bite it, but that time was physically unharmed, not that I would have noticed an extra bruise or two. 

**RIP Weegie. We miss you.**

Drive Me Crazy

I drive like an old lady. I totally get how that’s irritating to a lot of people. I’m cautious… very cautious. I rarely take yellow lights. I always leave at least a cars length between me and the car in front of me, well, truthfully much more than a car’s length. I change lanes blocks before I actually need to just in case I can’t get over. I rarely go more than 10 miles an hour over the speed limit. I’ve been in a lot of car accidents, but only one of which was my fault. I am all too aware that I cannot control what others do, so I hyper-control myself. I’m afraid of stupid drivers and I’m annoyed with inconsiderate drivers. I know I’m not a perfect driver, or even a good driver, but compared to a lot of people I should be teaching a national class or something. It amazes me that people complain about other drivers doing exactly the same thing they’re doing.

For example, I have ridden with a particular person (who I will not embarrass with mentioning names, but it starts with a “D” and rhymes with chewy) who has complained about being tailgated while leaving approximately three feet between her car and the car in front of her. Really? You find that rude and dangerous? Hmmm. Interesting. It occurred to me that maybe some people don’t realize that they’re being douche bags. I feel it’s my civic duty to educate. So here they are:

Molly’s Rules of Non-Douchey Driving.

1.       Driving ridiculously fast in residential areas or downtown.

 Residential neighborhoods are full of oblivious children and pets and the streets are fairly short.   Unless you’re driving a DeLorean with Michael J Fox riding shot gun, there’s no reason to attempt to generate one point twenty-one jiggawatts between stop signs. It should also be noted that this produces no results in a city environment either; the most obvious clue being when I pull up beside your “badass” self at the next red light. No matter what the movies tell you, driving fast does not make you cool.

2.       Shopping Center Entrance Etiquette

When entering or exiting a shopping center or mall parking lot, the people entering the parking lot always have the right of way. If you look really closely, they do not have a stop sign. However, the people exiting do have a stop sign. Do not turn into the entrance and stop. Keep going. It is not a four way stop. You don’t take turns. If you are exiting the parking lot, you wait until the light changes and people stop coming in to exit. Yes, you might have to wait a few minutes, but that’s why we put music in cars. Chill.

3.       The turn lane is not a parking space

This one is specifically for truck drivers. Don’t get me wrong, I know they’re doing a job and I’m down with that. As a matter of fact, I often go out of my way to help them on the highway. I move so they don’t have to slow down and I slow down to hold up traffic when they need to get over. I've got no beef with the big rigs in general, BUT it is never ok, not for any reason at all, to park your giant vehicle in the turn lane and “run in” to anywhere. Especially a Waffle House. Those emergency flashers don’t create a parking space and your immediate need for smothered, covered and scattered hash browns does not constitute an emergency. If you don’t fit in the parking lot, go somewhere else. Which brings me to my next point:

4.       If you don’t fit in the parking lot, go somewhere else

This problem may be unique to Florida. Huge, bigger-than-a-Greyhound Winnebago’s, driven by people who clearly have no special driving skills, just rolling through town, crushing everything in their wake like King Kong on wheels. Your insatiable craving for some chicken McNuggets or a stuffed crust pizza is not reason enough to park your rig sideways in 8 parking spots or worse, in the middle of the parking lot, completely blocking the drive thru. I’m sorry that those parking lots do not accommodate your vehicle, but you know those wobbly things that catch you when you finally exit your fortress? They’re called legs and they can carry you for more than 10 feet. Park somewhere else and walk. Also it is never acceptable to pull across and block three lanes of traffic when making a left hand turn and wait for the traffic to clear in the other direction. You’re the one driving that ridiculously huge vehicle. You get to be accommodating, not the other way around.

5.       When merging, slow down, don’t speed up.

If two lanes suddenly turn into one, the world will not implode on itself if the person beside you merges ahead of you. It would just be horrifying if that person goes slower than you would like and causes you reach your destination 3 minutes later. Small children may suddenly take ill, puppies and kittens will die, and rain forests will burn brighter and hotter. All because that guy in the other lane pulled in front of you when you merged back there. Bad things happen when you’re not first. You. Must. Be. First…because you’re a douchebag with control issues.

6.       GET! OFF! MY! ASS!

I brake suddenly for squirrels. Real and imaginary. Back off. 

UGH!

I knew something was wrong when I took a three hour nap two days in a row. I don’t sleep during the day. I make fun of people that sleep during the day. My favorite game is something I call “nappin’ stack.” The object of this game is to stack as many handy things on top of the napper as possible without waking them. A good session provides 10-15 minutes of hilarious amusement. My point is that I’m just not a napper. Then the very slight nausea started. It was barely there at first. I wasn’t even sure if I was just hungry or my stomach was upset. Maybe it was just stress.

I soon found that the addition of solid food eased the nausea… and added excruciating stomach cramps. A very generous dinner of smoked ribs at my favorite barbeque joint courtesy of my visiting parents resulted in an evening of feeling like my stomach was trying to strangle itself. The next morning I felt a little better but didn’t chance anything more than coffee and water. When Dewie got up a little before noon (she worked the night before) she talked me into drinking some Ovaltine. I was nervous, but it settled surprisingly well, so she talked me into some toast. Mistake. I headed for the bed, holding my stomach where I proceeded to roll around and whine expletives. I hear Dewie come in.

“Your belly hurting again?”

“YESSSSSSSSS.”

“Maybe it’s your gall bladder. You remember that gall stone you passed a couple of years ago. You thought you were dying.”

“Owwwwwwwww. I didn’t think I was dying, I thought I was going to give birth to something. This is different. Bloody hell!…I may be dying this time.”

“Maybe it’s your appendix.”

“Son of a…  motherfu… owwww… it’s not my damn appendix. It’s not my gall bladder. It’s not my intestines. I don’t have to poop. It’s not some vague pain in my general abdominal area. It’s my actual stomach.”

“Well, you have to eat.”

“I got this from TOAST! What the hell is lighter than toast? Little capsules of air?!?! It feels like my food stirring monkeys are trying wring out my stomach. UGGGGHHHHH. ”

“Maybe some broth.”

“Gaaaaaaah! I’m not drinking hot water. It’s dumb. I think I can afford to go a couple of JESUSSSSSS! days without food. I’ll just drink plenty of water. Like a new diet program.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know, probably some kind of HOLY SHITBALLS!! OWWWW stomach virus … with an unfortunate Tourette’s side effect. “

“If you don’t eat, how will you know when it’s over?”

“I’ll know I can eat when the HOLY HELL! UHHHHH! water gives me diarrhea. I just hope my immune system knows that this is not a job for the rabid moneky squad. It better break out the pirates.” 

Streaming Pile of Television

Streaming television is a fantastic thing. I love watching an entire season of a show consecutively without being tied to any kind of schedule. The drawback is that occasionally Dewie will flex her age difference muscle and force me to watch some awful show from her youth. Admittedly, I got into Dark Shadows, mainly because the over the top dramatics cracked me up. We still use the “Barnabas stare” as a punch line. Bewitched is entertaining enough, especially if it’s an episode featuring Endora. Her condescending, snarky attitude makes me feel better about douche-y Darren saying things like, “I forbid you to get involved!” and “I expect you to concentrate you efforts on keeping this house!” The westerns are tolerable on a periodic basis, though I had to develop a song to tell them apart. It is set to the tune of the Bonanza theme song and goes like this, “Little Charles Ingalls on a show as Little Joe it’s called Bonanzaaaaaa! It was on a long time ago, and it’s not in black and white (that’s Gunsmoke).”

However, recently Dewie has been watching this show called Adam 12. The writing and acting is painfully horrible and the plots are predictable within the first 3 minutes of the show. There is only one way to fight these shows. Pick it to pieces. It goes something like this…

“So… why is no one named Adam?”

“The car is called Adam.”

“So the show’s about a car?”

“Ugh. No. The show is about Jim and Pete.”

“Does the car have special powers or something?”

“No! It has nothing to do with the car.”

“Then why are they saying Adam 12 every 30 seconds?”

“It’s the name of the car!”

(Pete wrecks his car and is apparently injured.) “Did he just announce that his spleen is ruptured? How could he possibly know that? Does the car double as an MRI? Is that its special power?”

“No. The car is not an MRI and it does not have special powers.”

“Wow. Jim just told that other coppy guy that they had to find Pete because they were close. Real close. 

This show is pretty homo-tastic. I think they’re like share a shower close.”

“That is funny. I never noticed that as a kid.”

“Yeah, in the last episode they were buying potholders and doilies from an old lady.”

“The pot holders were for Jim’s wife. He’s married.”

“I think he bought them to so he can make breakfast for Pete. After they share a shower.”

Dewie giggles. “Maybe.”

“Look at how close they are. I think Pete is gonna kiss him. Look at him!”

“I think I would remember if he kissed him.”

“Yeah. Probably.” The next episode starts. “Oh. Come on! You’re telling me a 78 year old woman remembers those kinds of details when a burglar is waving a gun in her face. He was on smack? Are you serious? The old granny not only knows what heroine is, but knows its street name in 19 sixty whatever?”

“Maybe she’s just a sharp old lady.”

“Hey! Look! That must be the bad guy. Six feet tall, sandy hair, green button down, gray slacks, brown boots. Just like the old lady said. Wait up… he doesn’t appear to be on smack. It may be a case of mistaken identity…”

Dewie giggles. “Shut it.”

“Look at how he’s wrestling with that guy. I think the ambiguously gay duo was based on these guys. These guys are so Ace and Gary. Well, gracious me! There’s another guy that looks like he could be the bad guy. Six feet tall, sandy hair, green button down, gray slacks, brown boots. Oh and wait a minute…I think he may be on the smack.”

“We don’t have to watch this.”

“No. I love it.”

Part of This Nutritious Breakfast

Ok, so I kept telling myself that it was none of my business, but I’ve been asked to weigh in directly at least 4 times. Here it is. The Time magazine cover with the breast feeding three year old creeps me the hell out. I understand the point. I really do, but in its haste to get people’s attention, they have crossed the border into vigilante mom land and no one but other vigilante moms can tolerate being there for even a miniscule amount of time without breaking into seizures of eye rolling that persist until you spontaneously and repeatedly yell, “Shut the F@#$ up!” like some crazed Tourette’s soaked mental patient.

Now, admittedly, I have to turn on my cerebral brain when I witness anyone breastfeeding an infant. Frankly, my emotional self is just uncomfortable with it. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I don’t have children. Maybe it’s because I have never viewed breasts as meal receptacles. What I do know is that this is my problem and no matter how weirded out I am by it, there’s nothing wrong with it. I do have issues with people that glare at a restaurant full of customers as if they are daring someone to say something as they plop their engorged boobie on the dinner table. I know it’s natural, but if there wasn’t a baby attached to it, that same woman would go to jail.  Have a little class. Throw a blanket over your shoulder. Or better yet, don’t schedule dinner at the same time as your baby’s next feeding. We get it. You’re all maternal and what not.

The specific problem I have with the magazine cover is the age of the child and the pose of the mother. If that very same woman was wearing a hooters uniform, those same vigilante moms would have already organized a posse to hunt the responsible party down like a scared animal. I’m not buying the whole “nutritional value” crap either. That kid probably spent the morning playing Xbox followed by a lunch of Crustables and cheese doodles. If your kids eat three meals a week at McDonald’s you don’t give a rat’s ass about his nutrition. This leaves one of two possible scenarios. Either the mother refuses to admit that the child is no longer an infant (he probably also drinks out of a sippy cup and has a pacifier in his mouth while he stomps hookers to death playing Grand Theft Auto) or she is getting some sort of emotional fulfillment out of it. Either way, it has nothing to do with the kid or what’s best for him. Call me old fashioned or anti-woman or whatever, but a kid shouldn’t have to run in from recess to breastfeed. 

Can You Hear me now?

I walked out of Weezie’s Salon when I’d just had my hair cut. As I was opening my car door, a man in the passenger seat of a car parked two spaces down from me caught my eye. He was looking right at me. His scraggily hair and trucker hat perfectly accessorized his grease stained pocket t-shirt. All of his windows were down and there was a teenaged boy in the back seat. He was also looking at me.

The man yells in my direction, “You know where Weezie’s is?”

The front door of the salon is no more than 30 yards from where he is parked. Confused by his question, I point at the door. “Um… Right there?” The boy in the backseat starts to giggle.

“To the right of it?”

“To the right of what? It’s right there.” I point again. The man pulls his eyebrows together in confused aggravation. He stares at me like I’m an idiot. The boy in the backseat is emitting a full on belly laugh.

“You know where Domino’s is?”

I point to two doors to the right of Weezie’s door. Now I’m getting annoyed. “It’s right there. Is this a test?”

He looks angry now. Maybe I insulted his (ahem) intelligence. He turns around to look at his son who is now having convulsions in the back seat. As he turns, I catch a glimpse of his left ear. He is wearing a bluetooth. It takes me a full 5 seconds to realize that not one word of his conversation was directed at me. I look at his son who is now so hysterically tickled that he is drooling on himself. As he meets my eyes. I grin at him.

“Thanks a lot, buddy.”

He manages to form the words, “My pleasure.” between gasps for breath. Giggling, I get in my car and head home.