When You Pluck Your Chin Hairs in Public, I WILL Judge You

You know how there are some people you can tell you won’t like – before they’ve ever said a word to you – just on how they act? Sometimes I know things that way. That’s right, I pre-judge you if I hold the door open and you saunter through without saying thank you. I pre-judge if you loudly blab on your cell phone in the doctor’s waiting room or on the treadmill at the gym. (Because people who talk loudly in public are never saying anything worth eavesdropping on. I’d like a person who bellowed about their exciting family secrets or police records. But no, it’s always an exhaustive list of potential cat names or what they bought at the Porkly Workly manager’s special. So insensitive, boring people that way.) I pre-judge you if you hold up a whole line of cars because you had to stop right there at that double yellow line so you wouldn’t have to miss your turn or double back. I could go on – you know I could – but you get the idea.

The common theme for me is inconsideration. I’d have to say that all of my peeves boil down to that one trait. You leave your dog outside to bark all day while you’re at work or have your hearing aid turned off? Inconsiderate. Think you’re the self-appointed pace setter of the road and you’ll do 25 mph in the left lane neck-and-neck with a semi because The Bold and the Beautiful doesn’t start til two thirty or just because nobody has any business going faster than that? Inconsiderate. Do you butt into my conversation with the retail employee I’ve waited 10 minutes for just to ask “one quick thing” that takes several minutes and a call to management? Inconsiderate.

I have pre-judged the grandmother of one of Slappy’s classmates. She’s got a hulking physique, long bushy blonde hair that’s brighter than the first forsythia of spring, and is stuffed into an electric blue Ford Focus that is guaranteed to be in my way whenever I’m on school grounds. Last week she pulled away from school pick up, drove as far as the school’s entrance driveway, put on her right blinker, then apparently put it in park and opened her grandson’s backpack to read all the day’s happenings while a dozen cars waited behind her. If she’s the first one to the car line, she’ll only pull up as far as the “best” spot, right where the curb dips and the kids are let out, instead of pulling up to the beginning of the pick up area. Because you know how those five-year-olds hate to expend any more energy than they have to. God forbid they work off one of those Double Stuff Oreos she sent in because she’s that kind of suck up.

A couple of days ago, I arrived at school a little early from errands and there’s Brunhilde, parked in the sweet spot. As I pulled past, I saw that she was looking in her rearview mirror and plucking her chin with tweezers. MmmOkay, I could see noticing such things when one is alone, sitting in a car for half an hour with no social networking connection. Hey, maybe she gets there early just so she can attend to her beauty needs in the privacy of a schoolyard flooded with natural light. I don’t know, but after parking in front of her – at the beginning of the pick up area, thank you very much – and checking Facebook on my phone, I glanced up to the rearview mirror and she was still plucking. Sweet Jeebus, it must have been a chin hair emergency. Of course now I’m riveted and watch the whole grooming show. I guess she too was riveted by the sight of so many chin hairs glistening in the spring sunshine, because I can’t imagine doing that kind of thing in plain view of people you are certain to see again, yet the whisker work continued as cars pulled up all around her.

And I think that if you’re going to send Double Stuff Oreos on snack day and pluck your chin hairs in public and generally make a vehicular nuisance of yourself, for Pete’s sake make sure you do something spectacular at the end of the year picnic. Here’s to waiting and hoping.

Tori Spelling's People Will Clean Up Marshmallows

Another jolly thing to do when hopped up on pills and writhing in pain is to read about what Tori Spelling thinks is fun. No, I swear.15mg of oxycodone and a fentanyl patch can make Tori Spelling almost fascinating. I’m sure I read about Tori’s gift suggestions in People magazine, but apparently it was such a quality report that no trace of it can be found online. Anyway, Tori Spelling thinks marshmallow shooters are a “super fun” gift idea for kids. On amazon.com you can find one that boasts its “pump-action rapid fire shoots mini marshmallows over 30 feet. The easy-to-refill magazine holds 25 marshmallows for non-stop action.” Doesn’t that sound fun and easy? Easy to load… possibly (but not likely), but what about clean up? I bet these sadistic toy developers are also responsible for that barrel of laughs, Elefun. Spend several minutes aggravating your lumbago in search of dozens of wispy butterflies, stuff them down an elephant’s snoot, then turn it on and watch all the butterflies explode out of the trunk, and then… you guessed it. Pick them up and stuff them back in. Oh the kids love that game. So much fun for them.

Anyway, I looked through some customer reviews of marshmallow shooters on Amazon, and was bemused to find complaint after complaint from despairing parents lamenting warm, sticky marshmallows stuck in barrels, but almost nothing about the aftermath of said rapid-fire action. I read elaborate descriptions of how to dry out moist marshmallows, advice on administering corn starch and removing jams with pencils. Complaints that the magazines don’t hold ENOUGH marshmallows or that it is, in fact, NOT easy to load, despite the toy sadists’ claim. Eventually, a person named Julie noted that “they turn to mush in your yard and then your kids will drag sticky spots all over your house. Oh yes – the dog will throw them up.” But hey, 3 out of 5 stars for the fun factor, right? Another far-sighted person bought it thinking her dog would clean up the mess. She ought to have read Julie’s review first. Somebody else bought it to shoot the neighbors from his apartment balcony (the only sensible use I came across.) Finally, a couple of reviews from sniggering grandparents suggested that with age does indeed come wisdom. And a certain degree of malice.

I was left wondering why Tori thought marshmallow shooters were such fun, and it seems pretty clear it must be one of two reasons: Either Tori has several paid personnel to prime the barrels and dislodge half-melted marshmallows from designer sofa cushions, vintage Persian rugs, professionally landscaped lawns, etc., or she somehow incorporates clean up into a workout regime. Could the novelty of picking up something from the floor be a huge part of the fun factor? Is it a refreshing break from master cleansing, in-home mani pedis and restylane touch ups? Frankly, at least some of that sounds like more fun.

Body Gospel

During my two months with Saint Jesus Malverde and prescription medication, I spent a lot of time watching television. Bad television, at all hours. Splendaville’s NBC affiliate happily broadcasts paid Christian programming at various interludes, including The 700 Club, which comes on right after The Today Show. You can limp out of the room to Kathie Lee and Hoda doing shots and making over dowdy audience members and return to a seemingly normal news broadcaster who will then confuse you by announcing with a straight face that in Ohio two thousand teenagers declared their virginity for Jesus.

One of the finest programming options I came across was Jack Van Impe Presents. This quality Christian showcase has the primetime slot of midnight on Sunday, and stars Doctors Jack and Rexella Van Impe. Dr. Rexella, a breathy, hair-sprayed, pointy-chinned blonde, starts things off by reading a headline from the week with wide-eyed bewilderment. Then Dr. Jack, silver-haired and squinting with prophetic visions, applies an apocalyptic Biblical filter that will lead the faithful to the conclusion that the End of Days is near and that one must acquire a $24.95 DVD about recognizing the Mark of the Beast or how the European Union is developing a new world order that will track the earth’s six billion people with skin implants.

Since presumably at this point your wallet is out and you’re doing some spiritual push-ups, the natural segue is a paid infomercial (the NBC affiliate must be raking it in) for the Body Gospel workout DVD. It’s not just workouts set to Christian music; it’s a fellowship of fitness where you can breathe new life into your healthy temple, decreasing your waistline while expanding your faith. (One ecstatic reviewer on Amazon deemed it “Perspiration with a Purpose”. I think she’s confusing it with Bible-sanctioned procreation.) The infomercial offers an array of faith-based fitness for only $79, including Stretch in the Spirit, Gospel Glory, Power and Praise (they’re fools for alliteration, aren’t they?), and Core Revelation. Plus for 80 bucks you get extras like the Total Transformation Guide with workout calendar and daily scripture.

In my opioid haze I wondered if God was telling me to get off my fat ass and heal myself. But then I wondered, do I really have time to Work Out for a Higher Purpose? Drs. Jack and Rexella are preparing for The Rapture and One World Government, so shouldn’t I be spending these last days buying informational DVDs, converting my currency into euros, and deciding where I want my EU tracking chip?

 

Sister Patsy Gets It Together, and Bails

Guess I’d better explain myself. I had a slow but spectacular collapse over the Christmas holiday and spent the next month and a half deteriorating in a recliner I now call Saint Jesus (hay-SOOS) Malverde, who is the patron saint of Mexican drug traffickers. Mind you, all my drugs were ethically prescribed by an orthopedic surgeon and a pain center that had all the hopeful ambiance of a methadone clinic. So that was a good time. A month ago I had spinal surgery with titanium implants and am now looking forward to a lifetime of enhanced airport security screenings, but Phartacus and Slappy are putting up with all my high-maintenanceness because they know I’ve got metal rods that may spring out like Wolverine if they piss me off. This kind of cred makes me almost as cool as my good friend who had cancer as a child and gets around on what the boys reverentially refer to as her “robot” leg. If you’re a small boy, forget plastic and silicone: upgraded metal body parts are the road to awesome.

Anyway, my not writing has more to do with the copious amounts of pain and medicine that flooded my system for the past two months than my riveting social calendar while hanging out on Saint JM. I’d taken enough prescription pain killers to set up house in the Bahamas with my lawyer and film crew, and while anyone who’s seen recent celebrity capers would no doubt vouch for the exciting thoughts that emanate from the chemically dependent, I hadn’t been able to form coherent sentences in quite some time. The good news is that I’m recovering and off the pills. The bad news is I have constant loud ringing in my ears as an apparently peculiar side effect of something or other I was on. I guess it’s better than hearing voices.

So now I’m getting back into the glamorous routine of getting children ready for school, driving them to and from school, volunteer teaching at an early-morning arts workshop at school, dropping off baked goods at school, making sure schoolwork is completed… wait, I’m sure there’s something else. Oh yes, laundry.

On the way home from school yesterday morning, I decided to investigate a local Flab Fighters meeting. I had tried it several years ago, when Phartacus was a toddler and Slappy just a squirmy carseat baby, and discovered a room full of doting retirees ready to play peek-a-boo and paddy cake. They also helped with the kids. Anyway, nice as they were, I didn’t feel connected to the conundrums of how to bake Horace’s favorite buttermilk biscuits at 5pm or how to fit dieting in with their health issues, so I stopped going.

But after a couple of months of recliner living and shoveling in candy as a pain coping mechanism, I thought checking it out wouldn’t be a completely crazy idea. I know you won’t be shocked to read that the local FF meeting is held in a church. Last time, the meeting room at Holier Than Thou was just a basement hall, but since then they’ve put in a sort of mini pulpit at one end. A little raised platform with a podium and quilted banners with squares of crosses, doves, and words like “Jesus”, “Peace”, and “Pray”. After receiving my name tag and sitting in one of the folding chairs facing the pulpit, I wondered if maybe The Lord was taking a personal interest in our muffin tops. Should I confess that I’d eaten cherry pie and Reddi Wip for breakfast? Oh wait, wrong church. 

Just as I started to worry that we might be called forward to witness about last night’s dessert transgressions, the meeting was called to order, and so began 45 minutes of more clapping than a preschool graduation. I clapped for Reba (I’m not making that name up), who reached her 10% goal, and Wenndy (that's right, two "N"s) who lost five pounds. I clapped for Dorothy’s husband Frank (really), who came to the meeting under duress. I clapped for several Carols (yes) who had started walking together and who were excited to spread the word about a recipe for microwaved cake in a mug. The Carol sitting next to me was also very excited about some FF lemon snack bars she’d just purchased after weigh-in, and got into an actual wrestling match with the Carol next to her, trying to cram a bite in her mouth despite the woman’s struggles. The meeting concluded with a discussion about Reba's adorable hat and boots. The Carols were excited about them.

By the time it was over my hands and brain were both numb and I had lemon crumbs embedded in my fleece. Not to mention all that talk about food had made me hungry. I escaped without joining, came home, and sprayed Reddi Wip directly into my mouth. Now what.

Wee Willie Weenie and The Good Time Patio Band

It’s Carnival time in The South, that celebrated high season of costume balls, Mardi Gras, revelry and feasting that occurs between Epiphany and Lent. What, that’s not going on at your house right now? Pity, because I can assure you it’s a grand and glorious time over here. My feathered mask and velvet gown are draped coquettishly across my bedroom chaise, awaiting the whisper of my silk stockings as I slide them on before tonight’s diversion.

First, however, there’s business to be done, in the form of taking down the Christmas décor. Since the master of the house is away on a hunting campaign, the houseboys are engaged in polishing the silver and the downstairs maid seems to have absconded, I wrap myself in a peignoir and slip out to the porch to unwind the fading garlands from the columns.

Before I’m even outside I can clearly hear the sound of drums thumping steadily to music. Perhaps our neighbors, Creepetta and The Hamburglar, have started their fête early? A Saturday afternoon patio party to kick off the season? Perhaps that wretched absconded maid misplaced their houseboy’s hand-delivered invitation?

Alas, no, it soon becomes clear there is no patio party burbling merrily amongst the neighbors’ leaf bags, brambles, yard art, and nonfunctional vehicles. It seems their son, Wee Willie Weenie, is merely practicing his drumming somewhere within. He’s a dear lad, really, along in his high school years by now and still delicate as a downy thistle. He spends his brief outdoor excursions shrieking in terror at bumblebees and dragonflies, whimpering softly while raking leaves and creeping timidly to the mailbox, eyes bulging at the prospect of the narrow street ahead, stretching endlessly, tantalizingly in either direction into a world of possibilities far beyond the hairs of Creepetta’s disturbingly prominent mustache and The Hamburglar’s allergy-riddled rides on the lawnmower, huddled beneath wide-brimmed hat and surgical mask…

But I digress. Surely all this vigorous drumming will put vitality in the boy’s constitution, strengthen his Gumby arms and stiffen his knobby spine. In fact, I think it’s working already –- the drumming seems louder every minute. It’s certainly stiffening my spine, so imagine the benefits he’s receiving. Bravo! Wee Willie Weenie, and bravo! Creepetta and Hamburglar, for such insightful use of the discretionary income you gained from your latest litigious pursuits against your employers.

Laissez les bon temps roulez. 

It's Over

Nothing quite says the holidays are over like driving through a gray, rainy New Year’s Day to the In-Law’s house for black eyed peas and a discussion of living wills.

Sleepovers for Grown Ups

It’s New Year’s Eve, and The Mister, Phartacus, Slappy and I are going over to the friends’ house soon. The Epiphany friends from earlier this month, who will be leaving at some point. They are kind, mellow, thoughtful, funny people, and they have a spacious house and suggested we might like to spend the night. This sounds like excellent idea, and we’re going to decline it. We’re going to decline it because, since moving to Splendaville, we’ve had two New Year’s Eve sleepovers with Grown Ups, and both have been disastrous.

The first Grown Up New Year’s sleepover invite was issued by a family we’d gotten to know through the Mother’s Milk club I’d joined. The Wookies liked to think of themselves as the center of the social circle, and invited a couple of families over to bask in their largesse. Unfortunately, tensions that day were running even higher than usual, as the day prior their youngest, delicate, allergy-riddled child had fallen off the bed and broken her arm. Innately sensing danger, The Mister and I tried to back out, but they weren’t having it. So we went over to their house and the ill-fated boozing commenced. Mr. Wookie had never seemed to approve of me for daring to suggest that weekend after weekend of boys’ days out hunting deserved some comparable girls’ time. He also made it clear he disapproved of how I parented my child and that I didn’t unquestioningly take his advice on which route I should use to drive home. So evidently he decided a fun revenge would be to have a few drinks, come up and tell drunken me some outrageous lie about his wife, and watch me stagger over and repeat it. I can’t even remember the rumor he started, I just remember him pouncing on me the minute I asked Mrs. Wookie what on earth Mr. Wookie was on about. A bit later in the evening, Mr. Wookie decided The Mister was flirting with Mrs. Wookie.

Now, I don’t want to be uncharitable… Oh, hell, too late, right? Why beat around the bush. OK, not to put too fine a point on it, but there were several hundred pounds, several chin hairs, and two tiny piggy eyes on Mrs. Wookie. No chance of flirting, I feel pretty confident about that. So that made for another couple of drama-filled hours –- interspersed with mandatory hourly shots –- after we put the kids to bed. Thankfully, midnight intervened and the husband of the other fortunate couple distracted us by stripping naked and leaping onto Mr. Wookie’s ATV for a joyride around the property. I got some neat photos, then The Mister and I slunk upstairs to our assigned bunkbeds and got the hell out of Dodge as soon as dawn broke.

Grown Up New Year’s Sleepover disaster #2 occurred at our house a few years later. The Belushis were a family in our circle who also had two little boys and were eager to do something for New Year’s, so we invited them over, and somehow, the missus of Neighbor In Swim Trunks From Two Sizes Ago, (see also this) since NISTFTSA is a chef and was working that night. (I think he now chefs for the Splendaville prison, having been unable to play nice in any of the restaurants.)  Anyway, NISTFTSA’s missus is a big pothead, which turns out to have been a dream come true for Mrs. Belushi. The Mister and I had gotten a new mattress for Christmas, and had lazily thoughtfully put the old one down in the Toys R Us crack den playroom for Phartacus and Slappy to jump on for a few days. A couple of drinks later for me, and God knows what else for Missus NISTFTSA and Mrs. Belushi, those two were lying on the mattress watching the room spin and groaning like sated zombies.

Eventually Missus NISTFTSA stumbled home through the backyard and Mrs. Belushi pulled herself off the mattress, just in time for Phartacus, by now on an evening playdate and sugar-induced high of his own, (Not a pot-induced one, I would like to clarify. That was snuck outside while I was busy watching children.) to leap off the sofa, miss the mattress, and crack a molar. After we got the kid front settled down and bedded, I cracked a molar of my own on a popcorn kernel. At which point, apparently, the Belushis thought it would be the right time to suggest a few lines of cocaine. The Mister and I politely declined and slunk off to our new mattress, eyeballs bulging like the squares we really are. The next morning, as I watched my bedroom ceiling spin, felt my tooth throb, and groaned in zombie-like fashion myself, Mrs. Belushi bounced into the bedroom and sprang onto my new mattress, laughing and apparently none the worse for wear, to wonder what on earth was the matter with me. I had been out-partied for sure.

So even though the Epiphany friends, who are falling asleep on the sofa by 9pm most evenings, are not a thing like the sleepover friends of yore, The Mister and I agree we’ve had abysmal luck on the Grown Up Sleepover front, and I like them too much to find out if this year the guest of shame will be me. So the plan is to be home well before midnight, watching the ball drop if we can manage it, trying not to crack any molars or do anything disastrous. Happy New Year, and please wish me luck.

Merry Christmas Phartacus

I had small plans for this Christmas Eve. Just me, The Mister, Phartacus, and Slappy making cookies for Santa, reindeer food, decorating a gingerbread house, listening to Bing and Ella, etc. You know the drill. Honey-baked ham for dinner, check Santa’s progress on NORAD’s Santa tracker, tuck into bed and wait for Santa’s bounty. Well, Santa’s got a bit of a conundrum now, and you’ll realize I’ve named my offspring well.

 Merry Christmas, Phartacus. Love, Slappy

Free Souse With Purchase

For months I have tried to remember to take a camera with me to the Porkly Workly, but alas, I’m lucky to remember the grocery list and, on a very good day, the environmentally-responsible market bags. I have been determined to document on this blog a disturbing product called souse, which hangs innocuously amongst the Oscar Mayer bologna and mesquite-smoked turkey as though it were some sort of normal, reasonable food item you might slip into your kid’s sandwich. At first unpleasant glance, you see pinkish-white ridged chunks floating in a viscous base sprinkled with green and red flakes. Peruse the ingredient list and -- dear God -- you’ll discover that souse is a pork product you’d have thought vanished from human consumption a hundred years ago, if not right after the first time someone tried it. The main ingredients in souse are (cue theme from Psycho): pig snouts, pig hearts, pickles, and gelatin. Heave. Here kids, have some jellied pig snout with pickles!

Though the Splendaville Porkly Workly has evidently been doing a brisk enough trade in souse to have offered it for as long as I’ve lived here, apparently even regional delicacies have a limited appeal. The souse was on sale for 99 cents, and I decided this blog was worth the expense, so I put it in my cart, along with some pot pies and cheap wine, and went to check out with a basket full of good times.  The checkout girl scanned my Porkly Workly card, rang up my items, and informed me that my exclusive membership had saved me 99 cents. In other words, free souse with purchase.

Epiphany Comes Early

It’s been a long week. The Mister was out of town on a hunting trip for the first couple of days, and between part-time work, the early morning class I volunteer teach at school and all the rushing around that the holiday season brings, by Thursday I couldn’t believe the week wasn’t over. I staggered blearily through this morning, in a foul mood over a thousand trifles.  By mid-afternoon I’d regrouped and found some Christmas spirit and was decking the halls with boughs of holly, berry sprigs, red bows. As the sun set, our wee dwelling was festive with bright swags and warm candlelight, and the smell of Friday night homemade pizza filled the air with a savory garlic aroma. Our dear friends, fellow West Coast weirdos and school carpool lifesavers, had picked up Phartacus and taken him to the school basketball game with their kids. They dropped him off and stayed for an impromptu cocktail and nosh. The candles flickered and Ella crooned in the background as my friend suddenly said, in a low voice, that her husband had been promoted and they will be moving to Chicago.

It took a few moments for it to set in, and I tried to make sensible conversation while my throat closed and my eyes stung. They stayed for a couple of hours, during which time I made several trips to the bathroom to take deep breaths and drip Visine into my eyes, willing them to stay clear. It’s a secret, you see, that their kids don’t know yet because it won’t be made official until after the holidays. Which means I can’t let Phartacus and Slappy know that their best friends will be leaving soon. I dread their tears more than mine.

My heart is breaking.

Typing that secret, sitting next to Phartacus, I knew I couldn’t hold it in any longer, and went to the bathroom and lay down on the tiles, sobbing quietly so no one would hear. I tell Phartacus I’m catching his cold, because I can’t tell him yet, and I don’t want to ruin his Christmas. Because it will. I know Phartacus. Slappy too.  And that makes it just that much worse.

I’m three-fourths devastated to be losing the best friends we have here -- both for me and for the boys –- and one fourth jealous to be left behind in Splendaville while our deserving friends move onward and upward. They’ve earned it; they’ve been here five years and worked their asses off. It’s a dream job. It was only a matter of time.

We’ve been here 8 years. I thought it would be only two. No dream job beckons. I hate being left behind, happy as I will make myself be for them.

I feel lost. I can’t imagine school and weekends without these friends. I want to curl up in my bed and cry til spring.