Good Housekeeping always has those articles about health and good living. Here is one I found entitled “Good Advice for Staying Centered, Coping and Living Fully.” It lists 6 simple ways to help reduce stress in anyone’s life. Let’s see if it will work for me.
At the beginning of the article, it says the first thing you need to do is define what the stress looks like in your life. For me, stress is 5’9” about 175 lbs with blond hair (what’s left of it), blue eyes with that ‘You turned out to be such a disappointment’ look in them. Once you have defined your stress, one needs to determine the best course of action for clearing the stress from one’s life. For me, this was accomplished in divorce court. However, this doesn’t work for crazy kid schedules, hectic jobs or shortage of cash for credit card debt that suddenly appeared out of nowhere. So what do the experts say?
1. Smooch Spontaneously: “A study of 2,000 couples showed that those who kissed only during lovemaking are eight times more likely to report suffering from stress and depression than those who frequently kiss on the spur of the moment.” Sweet! I like this study; however, Dateman lives 40 minutes from my house leaving the spontaneity out of any smooching plans that I might have. I tried kissing Mark Harmon during his NCIS reruns, but he never seems to kiss me back. Therefore, my only alternative is a 95 lb. Rhodesian ridgeback dog with toilet breath, and she is only too happy to slap her dog drool upon my face, which truly concerns me.
Calling Robert’s Rules of Order: Can we have a sidebar conversation? “This is not a meeting, and this certainly doesn’t qualify as a quorum because it is just you and me. Which technically, it is just you because I am just that nagging voice in your head,” said brain in his typical condescending voice.
“You just put my hand down! Control Freak”
Sidebar conversation:
Dateman doesn’t want to be called Dateman anymore because he has moved up the relationship latter and became boyfriend. To me, Dateman sounds more like a Marvel cartoon hero wearing tights and a cape while he is about to save the love of his life, Sweet Polly Purebred, from mortal danger because the bad guy, Dick Dastardly, has tied her to the train tracks, and the train is speeding towards her. However in my mind (which has been described as a mix can of nuts), the term boyfriend sounds more like the guy from 10th grade who may or may not meet you at the school dance. It all depends if he can get a ride from his older brother and passed his algebra II chapter test. Do you see my dilemma?
Therefore, here are some of the names I have come up with to elevate Dateman to a new alias. Send me a comment, and let me know if you think Dateman should get a new alias?
- Friend (which is how my aunt refers to him “How is Your Friend?” as she whispers the last two words as if he was a double agent of some kind, and the CIA and KGB are listening in on our phone conversation.)
- Marlboro man (given his propensity to chronicle the mid-western life style and to wear Wrangler jeans with boots)
- Magnum (since he kind of looks like Tom Selleck minus the Hawaiian shirt and those embarrassing short shorts)
- The Blade (defined as a dashing, swaggering, or jaunty young man. I love the word “jaunty” it reminds me of Gene Kelly and Cary Grant or Rock Hudson in those Doris Day movies. They were a dreamy movie couple. Weren’t they?)
- The Gaffer (meaning old man, and the term just cracks me up)
“Hey, can we get back to kissing?” demands brain
Most definitely, I would like to be kissing Dateman right now. Especially, if it is anything like the kissing scene from “Spiderman” where our hero is hanging upside down, Mary Jane peels back just enough of the Spidey mask to reveal his lips, and then they kiss and kiss and kiss. All of this is done while they are in an alleyway, and it is raining. “Good God, your libido is about to explode. Think of your Grandmother making you a cup of tea.”
“Lemon and sugar, Hey, I am so going to kick your butt!”
2. Put the kettle on: The University College of London (of course) noted that people who drank black tea 4 times a day for 6 weeks had lower levels of Cortisol after a stressful task. Cortisol? Isn’t that a pain medicine? “That cortisone, Einstein,” says brain, “I hear Paris Hilton has a brain vacancy maybe I can apply for that job?”
Now, don’t get me wrong I love a good cup of black tea especially Earl Grey or some Irish breakfast tea, but the only side effects I ever seem to get are yellow teeth and having to urinate 20 minutes after each cup. Maybe it is the act of getting up and walking away from the stress to relieve oneself from liquid waste; thus causing a reduction in stress levels. “Maybe it is the 4 oz. of whiskey you dump into each cup that gives you the ‘I just don’t give a shit’ attitude towards your life,” remarks brain.
“Tattletale!”
“So when you are in a drunken heap on the floor? Don’t you find that a bit stressful to explain?”
“No, I just say I am looking for a contact.”
“What about the snoring?”
“I can find my contact better if it is reverberating from the noise.”
“Oh Lord, I am trapped the head of a loony.”
3. Eat healthy: Having a balanced diet will maintain your daily intake of much needed vitamins and minerals. In turn, your body will respond in kind with much more energy and vitality. I was raised on this advice from my mother who stated “Only bad mothers serve their children frozen foods, and I love you. Here eat an apple”. She was the master of manipulation. If she tossed in a hug and kiss, she had you eating a pork chop, which has been fried for 10 minutes on each side until it resembles rawhide. Anyway. This is fine as long as you are under the age of 30, and before your body starts doing all kinds of really weird stuff with the food you eat. Lactose intolerant, allergic to this or that, acidy foods causing mouth ulcers, etc. The food group I am the most pissed at is the fiber group. Eat fiber so you won’t get colon cancer. Eat fiber so you’ll have healthy regular bowel movements, and you won’t be bloated or grumpy. Eat fiber to get rid of toe nail fungus or whatever. See here is the thing. Scientifically, fiber is the rough stuff that scrubs your colon so no nastiness remains and causes harm to one’s intestinal track thus polluting your body with unnecessary byproducts from the digestion process. Great. It’s a sucky job, but it needs to be done, right? I don’t know why corn chips don’t qualify as fiber. Have you ever accidentally swallowed large broken corn chip pieces? Those bastards are like little razor blades shredding the sides of your esophagus as they travel down to your stomach.
“Get to the point,” cries brain.
This fiber thing has one tremendous side effect, which is gas. I am not just talking about gas as a cute little toot that squeaks out of your butt every once in a while. I am talking about the smell of a decaying animal that seeps from one’s rectum at the most inappropriate moments in one’s life. Like while standing in line at one of those fashion boutiques, you know the one where you make 4 times more than the sales clerk, but for some reason, she is condescending and treats you like crap. Or when you are having a performance review with your boss, and there are only two of you in the room. That one really sucks. How about when you are out dancing with the girls, all of a sudden you realize you are the only one on the dance floor, and everyone is looking at you and whispering. This is the moment I visualize when my therapist asks “Have you ever wanted to die?”
As a side note: I did just finish a bag of Bar-b-q Fritos, and I only had a minor incident with one stabbing my tongue. Now I have to run 83 miles just to burn off the 300 calories and 29% grams of fat. Holy freaking cow!
“Hey, ADD girl, fiber remember?” screams brain.
“Yum, Fritos. Oh, fiber, yeah I’m done with that topic,” says me
4. Take the Cuddle Cure: Researchers at the UNC – Chapel Hill recently found that if Dateman was naked while wearing the Batman utility belt…”System overload, let’s get to work,” commands brain. Dategirl slowly closes her eyes as she lays her head on the desk. “Oh come on, she is drooling. This is sloppy work, people. Visual! I need a visual. Oh my, definitely keep the utility belt!”
MythKeeper
Friday, January 29, 2010
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
The Sexual Education of Molly Brown:Part 1
It was just a simple freaking question. I am not really sure why my mother had to go a screw it up. Now to be fair, I am sure mother had good intentions. However, it had the same results as dropping the atom bomb on your backyard and then saying “I thought it would reduce the grass cutting chore.”
Molly did what any child would do. When she had a question, she went and asked her mother. “How do babies come out?” It is a typical question from a 6 year old. The reply went something like this.
“Why do you ask,” demanded Mother.
“Lisa’s mom is going to have her baby soon, and I don’t know how the baby is going to come out of her belly?”
There was a pause…
“Go and get me one of your baby dolls and a turtleneck sweater.”
So Molly ran to her bedroom to gather the objects. Much to mother’s surprise, Molly returned. She handed the objects to her mother. Mother took the baby doll, shoved it into the bottom of the shirt towards the neck so the head was peeking out.
“Now, this part of the shirt is the woman’s vagina (What the hell is that? thought Molly). When the baby is ready, it simply comes down the birth canal (Molly pictured the boat ride at the shore.) through the vagina (Is that a city?) and is born,” said Mother. At that very moment, Mother took her other hand and went up into the neck of the shirt and pulled the baby doll out of the shirt and handed it to Molly.
“Any more questions?” asked Mother. This is the moment when I would like to travel back in time and say to my mother, “Have you lost your frigging mind?” You just couldn’t have said, “Mommies go to the hospital to have babies.” No, I have to get the 2nd year medical school dissertation from a woman who was an education major in college. Great! Let’s check in with little Molly to see what kind of radio-active, psychological fall-out has just occurred.
A look of desperate horror came over Molly’s face as she walked back to her bedroom and sat on the floor. She looked from the doll to the shirt and back again to the doll. The Epiphany: Oh my God, Lisa’s mom puts on a turtleneck shirt and then she reaches into her tummy and pulls the baby out through the neck. “Why do I have this baby shirt?” Molly screamed from her bedroom.
At that very moment, the psychological damage had been done. It would be the last sex question she would ever ask. And so began the sexual education of Molly Brown.
In tenth grade, Molly had the misfortune of having Miss Verbeck, a lesbian and part time chicken farmer, as her sex ed health teacher (Yes, there is some weird crap in my head, but that I didn’t make up). Since it was an all girls’ class, a great deal of time was spent studying the female genitalia and reproductive cycle. The information she imparted about the labia and the clitoris verged on pornographic. The only thing that was missing was the postman, plumber, or vacuum cleaner sales man showing up in the classroom with his special delivery (wink…wink). Let me put this in context for you, it was 1979, and parents really didn’t give a crap back then. But enough of me blaming the lack of parental interest in education for my problems, let us see how the semester unravels, shall we?
Since the class had spent 2 weeks on the female reproductive system, the time had come for the male talk. “Oh joy of joys,” thought Molly. It was just like the anticipation on Christmas Eve when you knew deep down in your soul you were getting your very first bike. Molly quickly sat in her seat and took out her notebook and pencil. She was ecstatic. This is it. The age of enlightenment was before her. With a pencil firmly at the ready, Molly waited for the slide. The lights dimmed, and the slide appeared on the white screen.
There it was in all its glory; the holy grail of Sex Ed. The cross section of a penis appeared before her like a glowing angel of Mercy. Molly quickly glanced over to Sarah, the girl sitting next to her, with great wonder and smiled. Miss Verbeck started talking.
“This is the male genital region (She makes it sound like a part of Switzerland). As you can see, there is a penis (giggling started), and a scrotum (A totem? What? Wait.) which contains the testicles which produces sperm. The sperm is transported via the urethra (Transported? As in bus or truck?) to impregnate the female egg. Any questions?”
Molly thought for a moment. Now she knew that urine traveled down the urethra causing boys to pee. While looking at the diagram, Molly determined that urine used gravity and muscle control. This made sense because the bladder was above the penis. However, the testicles were below the penis. How in the world would the sperm be forced out of the testicles? Molly looked at the diagram one more time.
“Next, we will discuss venereal diseases.” And just like that, the slide was gone. 53 seconds. What? Are you kidding me? That’s it. 53 seconds? (That’s the amount of time it takes for George Bush to sound like an idiot. Oh wait, that’s 5 seconds. Never mind…) we get more information from the bathroom walls. Sarah whispered to Molly as she began to raise her hand, “So, how does the sperm get to the egg?”
“Girls! Pay attention,” screamed Miss Verbeck as she slammed her wooden pointer on the desk. The girls jumped in fear and sank in their seats. And at that moment, Molly’s formal education in sex was complete.
So the good news out of this complete and utter mess called an education is that Molly was able to learn a vagina was a female body part and neither the neck section of a turtleneck sweater nor a city in Romania.
As for how sperm is extracted from the testicles and impregnates the female egg? Here is my diatribe: When you are working as a covert operative for the US trying to infiltrate the Nazi’s during World War II, it is good to leave out the important bits of information so your side can, oh I don’t know, win the war and stop genocide! This is when I find it completely acceptable to use knowledge as a weapon. To get to the point, as if I ever really have a point, is that Sir Francis Bacon (whose mother was Anne Cooke Bacon, which just cracks me up) had a point that knowledge is power.
So we leave Molly in a puffy cloud of ignorant bliss to learn the rest of her sexual education from deciphering the scribbles on the bathroom stalls and from those cunning snipers of sexual warfare, teenage boys.
Molly did what any child would do. When she had a question, she went and asked her mother. “How do babies come out?” It is a typical question from a 6 year old. The reply went something like this.
“Why do you ask,” demanded Mother.
“Lisa’s mom is going to have her baby soon, and I don’t know how the baby is going to come out of her belly?”
There was a pause…
“Go and get me one of your baby dolls and a turtleneck sweater.”
So Molly ran to her bedroom to gather the objects. Much to mother’s surprise, Molly returned. She handed the objects to her mother. Mother took the baby doll, shoved it into the bottom of the shirt towards the neck so the head was peeking out.
“Now, this part of the shirt is the woman’s vagina (What the hell is that? thought Molly). When the baby is ready, it simply comes down the birth canal (Molly pictured the boat ride at the shore.) through the vagina (Is that a city?) and is born,” said Mother. At that very moment, Mother took her other hand and went up into the neck of the shirt and pulled the baby doll out of the shirt and handed it to Molly.
“Any more questions?” asked Mother. This is the moment when I would like to travel back in time and say to my mother, “Have you lost your frigging mind?” You just couldn’t have said, “Mommies go to the hospital to have babies.” No, I have to get the 2nd year medical school dissertation from a woman who was an education major in college. Great! Let’s check in with little Molly to see what kind of radio-active, psychological fall-out has just occurred.
A look of desperate horror came over Molly’s face as she walked back to her bedroom and sat on the floor. She looked from the doll to the shirt and back again to the doll. The Epiphany: Oh my God, Lisa’s mom puts on a turtleneck shirt and then she reaches into her tummy and pulls the baby out through the neck. “Why do I have this baby shirt?” Molly screamed from her bedroom.
At that very moment, the psychological damage had been done. It would be the last sex question she would ever ask. And so began the sexual education of Molly Brown.
In tenth grade, Molly had the misfortune of having Miss Verbeck, a lesbian and part time chicken farmer, as her sex ed health teacher (Yes, there is some weird crap in my head, but that I didn’t make up). Since it was an all girls’ class, a great deal of time was spent studying the female genitalia and reproductive cycle. The information she imparted about the labia and the clitoris verged on pornographic. The only thing that was missing was the postman, plumber, or vacuum cleaner sales man showing up in the classroom with his special delivery (wink…wink). Let me put this in context for you, it was 1979, and parents really didn’t give a crap back then. But enough of me blaming the lack of parental interest in education for my problems, let us see how the semester unravels, shall we?
Since the class had spent 2 weeks on the female reproductive system, the time had come for the male talk. “Oh joy of joys,” thought Molly. It was just like the anticipation on Christmas Eve when you knew deep down in your soul you were getting your very first bike. Molly quickly sat in her seat and took out her notebook and pencil. She was ecstatic. This is it. The age of enlightenment was before her. With a pencil firmly at the ready, Molly waited for the slide. The lights dimmed, and the slide appeared on the white screen.
There it was in all its glory; the holy grail of Sex Ed. The cross section of a penis appeared before her like a glowing angel of Mercy. Molly quickly glanced over to Sarah, the girl sitting next to her, with great wonder and smiled. Miss Verbeck started talking.
“This is the male genital region (She makes it sound like a part of Switzerland). As you can see, there is a penis (giggling started), and a scrotum (A totem? What? Wait.) which contains the testicles which produces sperm. The sperm is transported via the urethra (Transported? As in bus or truck?) to impregnate the female egg. Any questions?”
Molly thought for a moment. Now she knew that urine traveled down the urethra causing boys to pee. While looking at the diagram, Molly determined that urine used gravity and muscle control. This made sense because the bladder was above the penis. However, the testicles were below the penis. How in the world would the sperm be forced out of the testicles? Molly looked at the diagram one more time.
“Next, we will discuss venereal diseases.” And just like that, the slide was gone. 53 seconds. What? Are you kidding me? That’s it. 53 seconds? (That’s the amount of time it takes for George Bush to sound like an idiot. Oh wait, that’s 5 seconds. Never mind…) we get more information from the bathroom walls. Sarah whispered to Molly as she began to raise her hand, “So, how does the sperm get to the egg?”
“Girls! Pay attention,” screamed Miss Verbeck as she slammed her wooden pointer on the desk. The girls jumped in fear and sank in their seats. And at that moment, Molly’s formal education in sex was complete.
So the good news out of this complete and utter mess called an education is that Molly was able to learn a vagina was a female body part and neither the neck section of a turtleneck sweater nor a city in Romania.
As for how sperm is extracted from the testicles and impregnates the female egg? Here is my diatribe: When you are working as a covert operative for the US trying to infiltrate the Nazi’s during World War II, it is good to leave out the important bits of information so your side can, oh I don’t know, win the war and stop genocide! This is when I find it completely acceptable to use knowledge as a weapon. To get to the point, as if I ever really have a point, is that Sir Francis Bacon (whose mother was Anne Cooke Bacon, which just cracks me up) had a point that knowledge is power.
So we leave Molly in a puffy cloud of ignorant bliss to learn the rest of her sexual education from deciphering the scribbles on the bathroom stalls and from those cunning snipers of sexual warfare, teenage boys.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Mowing the Lawn
Monty Python’s Flying Circus Presents…
Neighbor: And now for something completely different: a man with three buttocks…
Mum, Dad: [from upstairs] We've done that!
Neighbor: Oh, all right. All right! A man with nine legs.
Off-Camera Voice: He ran away.
Neighbor: Oh… bloody hell! Er… a woman with a lawn mower…
The lawn mowing chore has to be the most annoying house maintenance job man has ever invented. Yes, even over cleaning gutters or kitchen floors. The latter being the worst task for me. I still think all kitchens should have stainless steel floors with drains in the middle of them, and a mandatory kitchen appliance would be an under the counter pressure washer. But I digress.
I have on rare occasion mowed a lawn. Growing up with a bunch of older brothers there was no reason for me to mow the lawn. Even if first string sibling was on the injured list, the second or third string lawn boy was waiting on the side line ready to prove that they had the right stuff. It was more like if you didn’t mow the lawn the way mother wanted it mowed, she would show you she had the right stuff which was either at the end of a ping pong paddle or her left shoe. And if you are wondering, no I didn’t grow up in the generation of “aren’t children precious, and please don’t stifle their individuality, children are people too” era of child rearing. The parents in my generation were under the firm believe that children were meant to be seen and not hear, and if mom didn’t see her kids all Saturday and Sunday because they were playing in the woods with some ax murdering psychopath, well that would have been just fine at least we were learning a skill.
“Oh boy, can we stay on topic?” moaned Brain.
So, I now have to mow the lawn. What’s the big deal? Well, dear readers sit back and relax as you observe from your front porch.
Issue Number 1: My front lawn is on a hill.
Issue Number 2: The middle of my front lawn is one of those lovely natural areas where the squirrels are happy to run and frolic about joyfully amongst trees and lots of shrubbery.
And now for something completely different…
Pet Shop Owner: Oh yes, the, ah, the Norwegian Blue... What's, ah... W-what's wrong with it? Mr. Praline: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. It's dead, that's what's wrong with it. Owner: No, no, 'e's ah... he's resting. Mr. Praline: Look, matey, I know a dead squirrel when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now. Owner: No no, h-he's not dead, he's, he's restin'! Mr. Praline: Restin'? Owner: Y-yeah, restin.' Remarkable squirrel, the Norwegian Blue, isn't it, eh? Beautiful fur! Mr. Praline: The fur don't enter into it. It's stone dead! Owner: Nononono, no, no! 'E's resting! Mr. Praline: All right then, if he's resting, I'll wake him up!
(shouting at the cage)
'Ello, Rocky! Mister Rocky Squirrel! I've got a lovely fresh pail of nuts for you if you wake up, Mr. Rocky Squirrel...
(owner hits the cage)
Owner: There, he moved! Mr. Praline: No, he didn't, that was you pushing the cage! Owner: I never!! Mr. Praline: Yes, you did! Owner: I never, never....
(He pulls the squirrel out of the cage and...)
Brain screams…”Put down the squirrel and no one gets hurt. Let the girl finish her insipid lawn mowing story.”
Issue Number 3. I have violets, clover, moss, vole holes, and 517 blades of rye grass which are clumped together in a pattern that resemble the country of Denmark.
Issue Number 4: I am the proud recipient of the water main pipe thingy (yes, 4 years of college and that is the only term I have for it) which sits 6 to 7 inches (that’s the imperial standard 6 inches not the men’s locker room six inches) out of the ground about a foot from the curb dead center in my yard. It is a lovely feature; I think I might place two rocks next to it and see how long it takes for someone to knock on my door.
Issue Number 5: My lawn mower is electric. Now before all you organic granola, tree hugging democrats get all orgasmic on me, please re-read the above 4 issues. Waiting…waiting… image coming…Yes, I know your rose colored glasses just shattered with a cold hearted slap from reality. Here’s a tissue, dab your eyes, and wipe the snot from your nose.
And finally…
Issue Number 6: The only electrical outlet is located on the back wall of my carport.
Each individual piece is rather delightful item to itself, but once combined; mowing my yard is like going to Disneyland with a broken leg and being tethered to a pole. It just not the pleasant experience I have seen on “Leave to Beaver” when Wally tried mowing lawn for the first time. So, what sadistic lawn mowing bastard decided an electric lawn trimming device was the best option for our lawn care services? Oh yes, it was Xhusband. Ug…
So the wild green plant life needs trimming. What is one to do? Well, I must drag the mower from the shed in the back yard through the dog poop and collapsing swing set, down the rock invested side yard littered with old kid yard toys (pretty much if I cannot see it, you shouldn’t be able to either) into the front yard. String three exterior extension cords together. Now this would appear to be a simple task. However, one has to twist the male and female plugs in a specific pattern to make sure they don’t pull apart. If you look in your sexual reference manual, page 53, the Pretzel position is how the cords end up looking. Refer the following verbal description:
Curling her right leg around your right side and straddling her left leg. Use your left hand...
“Stop,” yells Brain, “vomit impulse is coming in from the stomach…”
Where to start? Hum… left side near drive way. OK, seems as good as any. It is a thin strip of land; it would be a small accomplishment, and one that will build self-esteem with the new mowing skills I am about to acquire. Mowing down the property line, maybe. Make note to self to know precisely where the property line is. Nearing flower bed. Must make turn. But to where? Go straight back up from whiniest I came or just make a right hand turn? In my state of quandary, I just start mowing the lawn like one would vacuum a carpet. At this point a nagging feeling crept from my brain. “You look like an idiot; this isn’t a carpet. Remember what the Hubs told you?” I thought for a moment. It seems to me that some where during my 20 year marriage Xhusband made mention of mowing the lawn in a particular pattern. Yes, I am sure he mentioned it several times. Why didn’t I retain that information? Quite simple really, I saw no need for both of us to be experts in the same areas. So, I was happy to smile politely as he jabbered on about which mowing pattern was healthier for the grass. You might think it rude, but Xhusband did the same for me when I babbled on about the differences between using cleanser vs. soap scum removal liquids for the tub. So I searched my brain for any information at all on lawn patterns.
“What do you think I am a Google search engine?” Brain said to me rather rudely.
“Pretty much,” I replied back to myself.
In a mumbling voice, “Google search my ass…”
“What?”
“There are two entries. One stating that mowing needs to be done in some sort of grid pattern. The other entry states something about blade height. Here is the audio,” Brain stated
“Wow, you can do audio?” I replied as my X-husband’s voice started to replay in my head.
“During the summer months, the blade is to be approximately blah, blah, blah. Notice neighbor X has applied this rule and blah, blah, blah, blah. However, Neighbor Y did not abide by this rule and their lawn has died and has brown spots. Now here is the interesting thing about brown spots, [blank for 2 minutes]. “
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air? Nixon playing with scissors again?”
“Nope from the looks of the data feed, you slipped into a short coma. Now if you had simply chosen to ignore him, which is where the blahs appear, I can run a dialog simulation routine against it. I would use the topic and various blah, blah. Hey, you cannot ignore a conversion from your own brain. This is [blank]” Brain said furiously to no one.
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air?” I repeated
“I need to talk with my union representative, I need to reassigned. I hear Sarah Palin needs a brain…”
Little did I know that the lawn maintenance knowledge has been handed down from father to since 1919. From the dawn of time, men hung out in backyard sheds and made whiskey. It was not that men really liked making whiskey; they just needed a reason to get away from their wives. So once Prohibition was in place, the men all got together and decided that they needed another outdoor activity to keep them out of the house and away from chores and children. Thus, lawns were invented.
At this point, I head towards the green menagerie of vegetation near the curb I like to call a lawn. After surveying my options, I decide to run the lawn mower parallel to the curb. Seemed like a good plan until the mower stopped working. Crap. The plug must have come undone. I run up the hill to the carport and check the plug…looks good. I run down the hill and checked each attachment of the extension cord…everything’s fine. I get back to the mower and stare at it. “It’s a lawn mower; it cannot speak,” mocks brain.
“Good, that means the paranoid/ delusional meds I’m taking are working.”
“Not really, but check the plug that goes into the lawn mower.”
“Oh, look at that.”
The above action was repeated about 3 or 4 times. Each time a different plug in spot had come undone. Add in various cord trappings by bushes, trees, a water pipe, and a dog, and you have woman running around frantically in her yard wrestling with an extension cord. It has been about 30 minutes, and I am still not finished. Did I mention the size of my lawn? It is about 110 feet wide by 6 feet deep. So it should take anyone with a gas mower, what, 5 minutes? In the middle of my antics, my 80 year old neighbor who has a lawn which resembles a carpet came over to say hello. And it went something like this.
“Hello dear. It is lovely to see you as always.” He is such flirt.
“Hi, Howard.”
“I see you are mowing your lawn. Such a fine woman shouldn’t be mowing her own yard. Maybe we can find you a nice man to help you.” And with that, he literally looked up and down the street. Just then Eric Idle jumped out of the bushes wearing a garter belt, bra and panties and mows my lawn with a toy lawn mower that blows bubbles.
Neighbor: And now for something completely different: a man with three buttocks…
Mum, Dad: [from upstairs] We've done that!
Neighbor: Oh, all right. All right! A man with nine legs.
Off-Camera Voice: He ran away.
Neighbor: Oh… bloody hell! Er… a woman with a lawn mower…
The lawn mowing chore has to be the most annoying house maintenance job man has ever invented. Yes, even over cleaning gutters or kitchen floors. The latter being the worst task for me. I still think all kitchens should have stainless steel floors with drains in the middle of them, and a mandatory kitchen appliance would be an under the counter pressure washer. But I digress.
I have on rare occasion mowed a lawn. Growing up with a bunch of older brothers there was no reason for me to mow the lawn. Even if first string sibling was on the injured list, the second or third string lawn boy was waiting on the side line ready to prove that they had the right stuff. It was more like if you didn’t mow the lawn the way mother wanted it mowed, she would show you she had the right stuff which was either at the end of a ping pong paddle or her left shoe. And if you are wondering, no I didn’t grow up in the generation of “aren’t children precious, and please don’t stifle their individuality, children are people too” era of child rearing. The parents in my generation were under the firm believe that children were meant to be seen and not hear, and if mom didn’t see her kids all Saturday and Sunday because they were playing in the woods with some ax murdering psychopath, well that would have been just fine at least we were learning a skill.
“Oh boy, can we stay on topic?” moaned Brain.
So, I now have to mow the lawn. What’s the big deal? Well, dear readers sit back and relax as you observe from your front porch.
Issue Number 1: My front lawn is on a hill.
Issue Number 2: The middle of my front lawn is one of those lovely natural areas where the squirrels are happy to run and frolic about joyfully amongst trees and lots of shrubbery.
And now for something completely different…
Pet Shop Owner: Oh yes, the, ah, the Norwegian Blue... What's, ah... W-what's wrong with it? Mr. Praline: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. It's dead, that's what's wrong with it. Owner: No, no, 'e's ah... he's resting. Mr. Praline: Look, matey, I know a dead squirrel when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now. Owner: No no, h-he's not dead, he's, he's restin'! Mr. Praline: Restin'? Owner: Y-yeah, restin.' Remarkable squirrel, the Norwegian Blue, isn't it, eh? Beautiful fur! Mr. Praline: The fur don't enter into it. It's stone dead! Owner: Nononono, no, no! 'E's resting! Mr. Praline: All right then, if he's resting, I'll wake him up!
(shouting at the cage)
'Ello, Rocky! Mister Rocky Squirrel! I've got a lovely fresh pail of nuts for you if you wake up, Mr. Rocky Squirrel...
(owner hits the cage)
Owner: There, he moved! Mr. Praline: No, he didn't, that was you pushing the cage! Owner: I never!! Mr. Praline: Yes, you did! Owner: I never, never....
(He pulls the squirrel out of the cage and...)
Brain screams…”Put down the squirrel and no one gets hurt. Let the girl finish her insipid lawn mowing story.”
Issue Number 3. I have violets, clover, moss, vole holes, and 517 blades of rye grass which are clumped together in a pattern that resemble the country of Denmark.
Issue Number 4: I am the proud recipient of the water main pipe thingy (yes, 4 years of college and that is the only term I have for it) which sits 6 to 7 inches (that’s the imperial standard 6 inches not the men’s locker room six inches) out of the ground about a foot from the curb dead center in my yard. It is a lovely feature; I think I might place two rocks next to it and see how long it takes for someone to knock on my door.
Issue Number 5: My lawn mower is electric. Now before all you organic granola, tree hugging democrats get all orgasmic on me, please re-read the above 4 issues. Waiting…waiting… image coming…Yes, I know your rose colored glasses just shattered with a cold hearted slap from reality. Here’s a tissue, dab your eyes, and wipe the snot from your nose.
And finally…
Issue Number 6: The only electrical outlet is located on the back wall of my carport.
Each individual piece is rather delightful item to itself, but once combined; mowing my yard is like going to Disneyland with a broken leg and being tethered to a pole. It just not the pleasant experience I have seen on “Leave to Beaver” when Wally tried mowing lawn for the first time. So, what sadistic lawn mowing bastard decided an electric lawn trimming device was the best option for our lawn care services? Oh yes, it was Xhusband. Ug…
So the wild green plant life needs trimming. What is one to do? Well, I must drag the mower from the shed in the back yard through the dog poop and collapsing swing set, down the rock invested side yard littered with old kid yard toys (pretty much if I cannot see it, you shouldn’t be able to either) into the front yard. String three exterior extension cords together. Now this would appear to be a simple task. However, one has to twist the male and female plugs in a specific pattern to make sure they don’t pull apart. If you look in your sexual reference manual, page 53, the Pretzel position is how the cords end up looking. Refer the following verbal description:
Curling her right leg around your right side and straddling her left leg. Use your left hand...
“Stop,” yells Brain, “vomit impulse is coming in from the stomach…”
Where to start? Hum… left side near drive way. OK, seems as good as any. It is a thin strip of land; it would be a small accomplishment, and one that will build self-esteem with the new mowing skills I am about to acquire. Mowing down the property line, maybe. Make note to self to know precisely where the property line is. Nearing flower bed. Must make turn. But to where? Go straight back up from whiniest I came or just make a right hand turn? In my state of quandary, I just start mowing the lawn like one would vacuum a carpet. At this point a nagging feeling crept from my brain. “You look like an idiot; this isn’t a carpet. Remember what the Hubs told you?” I thought for a moment. It seems to me that some where during my 20 year marriage Xhusband made mention of mowing the lawn in a particular pattern. Yes, I am sure he mentioned it several times. Why didn’t I retain that information? Quite simple really, I saw no need for both of us to be experts in the same areas. So, I was happy to smile politely as he jabbered on about which mowing pattern was healthier for the grass. You might think it rude, but Xhusband did the same for me when I babbled on about the differences between using cleanser vs. soap scum removal liquids for the tub. So I searched my brain for any information at all on lawn patterns.
“What do you think I am a Google search engine?” Brain said to me rather rudely.
“Pretty much,” I replied back to myself.
In a mumbling voice, “Google search my ass…”
“What?”
“There are two entries. One stating that mowing needs to be done in some sort of grid pattern. The other entry states something about blade height. Here is the audio,” Brain stated
“Wow, you can do audio?” I replied as my X-husband’s voice started to replay in my head.
“During the summer months, the blade is to be approximately blah, blah, blah. Notice neighbor X has applied this rule and blah, blah, blah, blah. However, Neighbor Y did not abide by this rule and their lawn has died and has brown spots. Now here is the interesting thing about brown spots, [blank for 2 minutes]. “
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air? Nixon playing with scissors again?”
“Nope from the looks of the data feed, you slipped into a short coma. Now if you had simply chosen to ignore him, which is where the blahs appear, I can run a dialog simulation routine against it. I would use the topic and various blah, blah. Hey, you cannot ignore a conversion from your own brain. This is [blank]” Brain said furiously to no one.
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air?” I repeated
“I need to talk with my union representative, I need to reassigned. I hear Sarah Palin needs a brain…”
Little did I know that the lawn maintenance knowledge has been handed down from father to since 1919. From the dawn of time, men hung out in backyard sheds and made whiskey. It was not that men really liked making whiskey; they just needed a reason to get away from their wives. So once Prohibition was in place, the men all got together and decided that they needed another outdoor activity to keep them out of the house and away from chores and children. Thus, lawns were invented.
At this point, I head towards the green menagerie of vegetation near the curb I like to call a lawn. After surveying my options, I decide to run the lawn mower parallel to the curb. Seemed like a good plan until the mower stopped working. Crap. The plug must have come undone. I run up the hill to the carport and check the plug…looks good. I run down the hill and checked each attachment of the extension cord…everything’s fine. I get back to the mower and stare at it. “It’s a lawn mower; it cannot speak,” mocks brain.
“Good, that means the paranoid/ delusional meds I’m taking are working.”
“Not really, but check the plug that goes into the lawn mower.”
“Oh, look at that.”
The above action was repeated about 3 or 4 times. Each time a different plug in spot had come undone. Add in various cord trappings by bushes, trees, a water pipe, and a dog, and you have woman running around frantically in her yard wrestling with an extension cord. It has been about 30 minutes, and I am still not finished. Did I mention the size of my lawn? It is about 110 feet wide by 6 feet deep. So it should take anyone with a gas mower, what, 5 minutes? In the middle of my antics, my 80 year old neighbor who has a lawn which resembles a carpet came over to say hello. And it went something like this.
“Hello dear. It is lovely to see you as always.” He is such flirt.
“Hi, Howard.”
“I see you are mowing your lawn. Such a fine woman shouldn’t be mowing her own yard. Maybe we can find you a nice man to help you.” And with that, he literally looked up and down the street. Just then Eric Idle jumped out of the bushes wearing a garter belt, bra and panties and mows my lawn with a toy lawn mower that blows bubbles.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Guardian Angels and Bathroom Gods
There are moments in my life when I can feel that some seraph is watching over me. For instance, there was a time in college when I went to bed in a state of drunkenness. If my dad is reading this, it was the only time I got drunk in college, I swear! OK, I cannot pinky swear on it. Alright, maybe that time in the boys dorm. Do you work for the CIA or what? Never during a school night. Stop looking at me that way! OK, never on a Wednesday night because that’s when I always seemed to have a night class. Can we get back to me slumbering after over indulging on the libations? At some point in the middle of the night, I started to vomit. This is usually a good way to purge the toxic concoction brewing in my stomach, but I was lying on my back and started choking. This is where my angelic guidance councilor decided that it was best for me to puke on my roommate in the bunk bed below instead of dying and gave me enough sense to turn my head. This is good because, I know my brothers, and they would have had “Died like Mama Cass” written on my tombstone. Now my angel thinks his big favor for me is done and spends his time in playing poker; so he can be an extra in the next Ocean’s 11 movie.
Many people have a vision of what their guardian angel looks like. Maybe their angel is Clarence, the warm and gentle soul from “It’s a Wonderful Life” or the beautiful cherub looking Roma Downey in “Touched by an Angel”. Nope. Mine happens to look like Dwayne Schneider from “Once Day at a Time”. Life would be fabulous if it was Tom Selleck in a tool belt, but no, I get a greasy haired weasel in a denim vest and white t-shirt. Go figure.
Flash forward ten years…
My company was getting ready to broadcast the CEO’s end of the year speech. So, what they do is set up TVs in designated areas and broadcast out to us minions. This is a great “Big Brother” idea except that you have to get there early to get a seat. So, I did just that. Well, it is morning, and I had just finished my usual glass of milk and cup of hot tea with my breakfast. I knew I wouldn’t last an hour, so I quickly ran down a hall to where I thought I had seen a drinking fountain. Which for any one that works in an office building knows where there is a drinking fountain up against the wall there are toilets within a 15 feet radius.
I dash madly into the bathroom and darted into the nearest stall. Sweet Jesus, relief from a full bladder is like the sweet sirens from heaven have descended upon you and are singing quietly in your ear. You are calm, quiet and smiling as your once distended bladder regains its original shape and size and the pain slowly dissipates. It was during this calm bliss that I noticed something. A pair of black dress shoes walked past my stall. Not just any black dress shoes mind you, a pair of black wing tips in about size women’s 11. Now in the 1990’s, I was a big fan of wearing Doc Martins with dresses. If it was good enough for Demi Moore and Meg Ryan with their prissy tomboy look, it was good enough for me. I admired the shoes for a full 2 seconds, and then something occurred to me. These shoes didn’t come with skinny clean shaven legs; they came with dress socks and professionally tailored dress slacks in a dark navy with a very light pin strip. OK, that is taking the tomboy look a little too far for me, but to each their own. If you want to be a woman and dress like Donald Trump; who am I to question your fashion sense. Just be warned, you will have your face blurred out in the Glamour magazines “Fashion Does and Don’ts” section. Fascinated with this new fashion trend, I literally watched the wing tips not walk into the stall next to me but stroll up to the far wall, and then the unspeakable happened the owner of these fine dress shoes began urinating.
At that moment, panic began to slowly seep into my body. I was ready to live my life out from within the bathroom stall and re-enact Howard Hughes last years at the Desert Inn in Las Vegas. As the wing tips finished their business and walked back across the floor towards me, I followed the foot steps with my eyes. The dress shoes paused for a moment as the owner pulled open the main bathroom door. I was a stall door away from being busted when I noticed something. I looked down at my shoes and was for the first time horrified by what I saw. These were fabulous red patent leather loafers with these cute tassels on them which I wore with a khaki skirt and a red blouse. I glanced back and forth between my adorable red flats and the large black dress shoes which stood before me. Slowly, I lifted my feet off the ground and began to re-enact the bathroom scene from “Witness” with that boy with those ginormous ears. The wing tips quietly proceeded out of the bathroom. In the middle of this act of desperation, I realized that I was doing a crouching tiger stance by placing my feet up to the toilet seat and hugging my legs. I was so horrified by my predicament, I couldn’t even finish going to the bathroom.
This is one of those moments in your life when you pray to God. And being a really bad Catholic, I gave God about 5 seconds. Nothing! Quietly, I whispered “Schneider?” Noda! Panic set in, and I started praying to any god or goddess that would listen. Zeus, Hades (I’m not picky when I am in a bind.), or any other god who had stepped foot on Mount Olympus. Zero from the incestuous deity crowd. So, I quickly jumped from Christianity, through Paganism, right to Druidism. I started praying to the bathroom stall god (It’s one of those lesser known gods.), so I decided to move up the food chain, as it where, to the bathroom door god. Then like a republican in a closet at the Watergate hotel, I quietly listened to hear if any more men’s shoes had entered. None. Any hallway noises to indicate movement towards the bathroom door? Silence. While still remaining crouched on the toilet, I slowly opened the stall door. Then like a gazelle, I sprung off of the toilet, out of the stall and opened the door to the hallway. I quickly looked both ways down the corridor, no one in sight, and sprinted down the hall like I was a Frenchman during the Nazi invasion. When I got to the end of the hallway, I turned to see if anyone had seen me. Schneider was shooting dice up against the wall with Roma Downey. He gave me the thumbs up.
Many people have a vision of what their guardian angel looks like. Maybe their angel is Clarence, the warm and gentle soul from “It’s a Wonderful Life” or the beautiful cherub looking Roma Downey in “Touched by an Angel”. Nope. Mine happens to look like Dwayne Schneider from “Once Day at a Time”. Life would be fabulous if it was Tom Selleck in a tool belt, but no, I get a greasy haired weasel in a denim vest and white t-shirt. Go figure.
Flash forward ten years…
My company was getting ready to broadcast the CEO’s end of the year speech. So, what they do is set up TVs in designated areas and broadcast out to us minions. This is a great “Big Brother” idea except that you have to get there early to get a seat. So, I did just that. Well, it is morning, and I had just finished my usual glass of milk and cup of hot tea with my breakfast. I knew I wouldn’t last an hour, so I quickly ran down a hall to where I thought I had seen a drinking fountain. Which for any one that works in an office building knows where there is a drinking fountain up against the wall there are toilets within a 15 feet radius.
I dash madly into the bathroom and darted into the nearest stall. Sweet Jesus, relief from a full bladder is like the sweet sirens from heaven have descended upon you and are singing quietly in your ear. You are calm, quiet and smiling as your once distended bladder regains its original shape and size and the pain slowly dissipates. It was during this calm bliss that I noticed something. A pair of black dress shoes walked past my stall. Not just any black dress shoes mind you, a pair of black wing tips in about size women’s 11. Now in the 1990’s, I was a big fan of wearing Doc Martins with dresses. If it was good enough for Demi Moore and Meg Ryan with their prissy tomboy look, it was good enough for me. I admired the shoes for a full 2 seconds, and then something occurred to me. These shoes didn’t come with skinny clean shaven legs; they came with dress socks and professionally tailored dress slacks in a dark navy with a very light pin strip. OK, that is taking the tomboy look a little too far for me, but to each their own. If you want to be a woman and dress like Donald Trump; who am I to question your fashion sense. Just be warned, you will have your face blurred out in the Glamour magazines “Fashion Does and Don’ts” section. Fascinated with this new fashion trend, I literally watched the wing tips not walk into the stall next to me but stroll up to the far wall, and then the unspeakable happened the owner of these fine dress shoes began urinating.
At that moment, panic began to slowly seep into my body. I was ready to live my life out from within the bathroom stall and re-enact Howard Hughes last years at the Desert Inn in Las Vegas. As the wing tips finished their business and walked back across the floor towards me, I followed the foot steps with my eyes. The dress shoes paused for a moment as the owner pulled open the main bathroom door. I was a stall door away from being busted when I noticed something. I looked down at my shoes and was for the first time horrified by what I saw. These were fabulous red patent leather loafers with these cute tassels on them which I wore with a khaki skirt and a red blouse. I glanced back and forth between my adorable red flats and the large black dress shoes which stood before me. Slowly, I lifted my feet off the ground and began to re-enact the bathroom scene from “Witness” with that boy with those ginormous ears. The wing tips quietly proceeded out of the bathroom. In the middle of this act of desperation, I realized that I was doing a crouching tiger stance by placing my feet up to the toilet seat and hugging my legs. I was so horrified by my predicament, I couldn’t even finish going to the bathroom.
This is one of those moments in your life when you pray to God. And being a really bad Catholic, I gave God about 5 seconds. Nothing! Quietly, I whispered “Schneider?” Noda! Panic set in, and I started praying to any god or goddess that would listen. Zeus, Hades (I’m not picky when I am in a bind.), or any other god who had stepped foot on Mount Olympus. Zero from the incestuous deity crowd. So, I quickly jumped from Christianity, through Paganism, right to Druidism. I started praying to the bathroom stall god (It’s one of those lesser known gods.), so I decided to move up the food chain, as it where, to the bathroom door god. Then like a republican in a closet at the Watergate hotel, I quietly listened to hear if any more men’s shoes had entered. None. Any hallway noises to indicate movement towards the bathroom door? Silence. While still remaining crouched on the toilet, I slowly opened the stall door. Then like a gazelle, I sprung off of the toilet, out of the stall and opened the door to the hallway. I quickly looked both ways down the corridor, no one in sight, and sprinted down the hall like I was a Frenchman during the Nazi invasion. When I got to the end of the hallway, I turned to see if anyone had seen me. Schneider was shooting dice up against the wall with Roma Downey. He gave me the thumbs up.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Email to Xhusband's Girlfriend
This is a recent email I sent Xhusband to give to his girlfriend for when she goes visiting with X to his mother’s house. Of course, names have been changed to protect the innocent, and I embellished to make it more interesting. But I really did send a similar email…background info…It’s my Xmother-in-law’s birthday, and we are going down to throw her a birthday party.
Yes, I know your question. If you are the Xdaughter-in-law, why in the hell are you going to the “Monster-in-law’s” birthday party? Well, you see it goes something like this. My child wants nothing to do with their father or grandmother. But out of family obligation and general nagging on my part, the child will go visit with the grandmother once in a while and only if I go along. Why? Because I protect the child from the grandmother’s verbal flatulence.
Email starts now…
Tell Wendy, the Xhusband’s girlfriend, if she comes; I'll teach her survival skills on dealing with your mother, Margaret.
Things never to do...
1. Load the dishwasher. No one ever does it properly, even her own children that she trained to load the dishwasher, so don’t even bother.
2. Take the opposite side in politics. Not unless you really like to debate issues or just want to hear her explain how stupid you are (politely, of course).
3. Throw away food even if it has green mold on it.
a. Expiration dates are for the weak minded. No one is going to tell Margaret when her food has gone bad.
b. You are throwing money away when you throw food away. What the hell are you thinking!
4. Cook food using her pots and pans. Always bring a pre-made dish that can be thrown in the oven or just go out to dinner. No mess in the kitchen makes for a happy Margaret.
5. Never bring anything with coconut or even eat it in front of her. Her late husband and her son love it, but too bad. Get it at someone else's house.
6. If you bake or cook, don't make it fancy. She doesn't appreciate it, and you have just wasted money and given her an excuse to complain. Just remember, Swanson makes it so you don’t have to!
7. When buying gifts, just stick to gift certificates. She will be happy which in turn makes you happy. Unless of course you plan on buying her something that is very expensive. This also comes with a hook. It has to be what she deems is expensive. For example, the crystal Waterford clock Xhusband bought her for her birthday a few years back. It sits on the mantel to be shown off to friends. Buying her expensive soap, hand creams, chocolates, coffee is not a good idea; she places no importance on fine milled lavender soap imported from France. In her mind, Dove is a good soap, so why would you want to spend over a dollar for a bar of soap just to get clean.
Here are some basic rules for Wendy to follow...
Rule 1. Bring stuff to do. If she knits, reads, scrapbooks, sharpens knives or makes shrunken heads, tell her to bring a travel bag of her hobby. She may not need it, but just in case, she can pull it out and use it to not listen to Margaret, but still be polite and be in the same room.
Rule 2. Drink lots of water, so Wendy will have to get up and go to the bathroom frequently. If she doesn’t have to go to the bathroom, just use it as an excuse to take a break. While I am in the bathroom, I usually sing a happy song in my head, (That annoying song “Walkin’ on Sunshine” usually does the trick.) and I just generally remind myself that I am a good person, and Monster is the nutter. If this doesn’t work, I bang my head on the marble countertop until there is internal bleeding.
Rule 3. Practice meditation while Margaret is mindlessly talking about a recent story she read in her local paper. Pick a happy place in one’s mind and just go there. All the while nodding one’s head and saying things like "I agree, oh really, that's interesting". This is where I walk on the beach, go to Paris, design a garden, or stand in that pit in the basement of the “Silence of the Lambs” movie. It drones out Mother-in-law’s voice, and all Wendy will hear is 'blah, blah, blah..."
Rule 4-10. "On the Job Training" is needed depending on what is happening at the moment. (eating dinner, shopping, helping her around the house, driving, etc) Just have the general understanding that you are a mindless idiot. If you adopt this attitude, things will run smoothly and no one will get hurt.
The Last Resort Rule. Claim to have a headache and go take a nap. While in the guest room, Wendy will have to put the alarm clock from 1958 (I’m not kidding.) in the dresser drawer to help block out the constant buzzing noise from the clock. I usually line the drawer with the 5 year old magazines to make it more sound proof. As for the grandfather clock which chimes every fifteen minutes, it usually drives me insane. But if you are using the Last Resort Rule, you have already been driven to insanity by the mother-in-law, and at this point, the constant ringing of the chimes is a welcome relief where the pain of it all reminds you that you are still alive. This thought may or may not be a comfort. It depends on how many hours you have left in the mother-in-law’s house.
Regards,
Xwife
Yes, I know your question. If you are the Xdaughter-in-law, why in the hell are you going to the “Monster-in-law’s” birthday party? Well, you see it goes something like this. My child wants nothing to do with their father or grandmother. But out of family obligation and general nagging on my part, the child will go visit with the grandmother once in a while and only if I go along. Why? Because I protect the child from the grandmother’s verbal flatulence.
Email starts now…
Tell Wendy, the Xhusband’s girlfriend, if she comes; I'll teach her survival skills on dealing with your mother, Margaret.
Things never to do...
1. Load the dishwasher. No one ever does it properly, even her own children that she trained to load the dishwasher, so don’t even bother.
2. Take the opposite side in politics. Not unless you really like to debate issues or just want to hear her explain how stupid you are (politely, of course).
3. Throw away food even if it has green mold on it.
a. Expiration dates are for the weak minded. No one is going to tell Margaret when her food has gone bad.
b. You are throwing money away when you throw food away. What the hell are you thinking!
4. Cook food using her pots and pans. Always bring a pre-made dish that can be thrown in the oven or just go out to dinner. No mess in the kitchen makes for a happy Margaret.
5. Never bring anything with coconut or even eat it in front of her. Her late husband and her son love it, but too bad. Get it at someone else's house.
6. If you bake or cook, don't make it fancy. She doesn't appreciate it, and you have just wasted money and given her an excuse to complain. Just remember, Swanson makes it so you don’t have to!
7. When buying gifts, just stick to gift certificates. She will be happy which in turn makes you happy. Unless of course you plan on buying her something that is very expensive. This also comes with a hook. It has to be what she deems is expensive. For example, the crystal Waterford clock Xhusband bought her for her birthday a few years back. It sits on the mantel to be shown off to friends. Buying her expensive soap, hand creams, chocolates, coffee is not a good idea; she places no importance on fine milled lavender soap imported from France. In her mind, Dove is a good soap, so why would you want to spend over a dollar for a bar of soap just to get clean.
Here are some basic rules for Wendy to follow...
Rule 1. Bring stuff to do. If she knits, reads, scrapbooks, sharpens knives or makes shrunken heads, tell her to bring a travel bag of her hobby. She may not need it, but just in case, she can pull it out and use it to not listen to Margaret, but still be polite and be in the same room.
Rule 2. Drink lots of water, so Wendy will have to get up and go to the bathroom frequently. If she doesn’t have to go to the bathroom, just use it as an excuse to take a break. While I am in the bathroom, I usually sing a happy song in my head, (That annoying song “Walkin’ on Sunshine” usually does the trick.) and I just generally remind myself that I am a good person, and Monster is the nutter. If this doesn’t work, I bang my head on the marble countertop until there is internal bleeding.
Rule 3. Practice meditation while Margaret is mindlessly talking about a recent story she read in her local paper. Pick a happy place in one’s mind and just go there. All the while nodding one’s head and saying things like "I agree, oh really, that's interesting". This is where I walk on the beach, go to Paris, design a garden, or stand in that pit in the basement of the “Silence of the Lambs” movie. It drones out Mother-in-law’s voice, and all Wendy will hear is 'blah, blah, blah..."
Rule 4-10. "On the Job Training" is needed depending on what is happening at the moment. (eating dinner, shopping, helping her around the house, driving, etc) Just have the general understanding that you are a mindless idiot. If you adopt this attitude, things will run smoothly and no one will get hurt.
The Last Resort Rule. Claim to have a headache and go take a nap. While in the guest room, Wendy will have to put the alarm clock from 1958 (I’m not kidding.) in the dresser drawer to help block out the constant buzzing noise from the clock. I usually line the drawer with the 5 year old magazines to make it more sound proof. As for the grandfather clock which chimes every fifteen minutes, it usually drives me insane. But if you are using the Last Resort Rule, you have already been driven to insanity by the mother-in-law, and at this point, the constant ringing of the chimes is a welcome relief where the pain of it all reminds you that you are still alive. This thought may or may not be a comfort. It depends on how many hours you have left in the mother-in-law’s house.
Regards,
Xwife
Monday, June 8, 2009
2 Hour Meeting
A 2 hour meeting is starting in about 10 minutes. I treat this meeting as I would an 8 hour road trip. I plan out what snacks and drinks I will need for this assembly of the grey matter. But 2 hours is a really long time for someone who is mildly ADHD. So, I must determine refreshments, activities, and maybe work in a bio-break if needed. All of this is necessary to get me though the meeting without my head slamming on the table from being driven into a coma induced by technical jargon and just general boredom.
Now that I have secured all the necessities, here are several things that I do to keep myself occupied during the snore fest so I don’t go running about the room causing trouble like a 4 year kid at an adult wine and cheese party.
Mental games:
- Determine the number of calories in a peanut butter cookie if I only ate the crunchy outside and not the soft inside.
- Calculate the last time I had sex without staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out when the dog needs her next flea pill. OK. That’s no fun…Make it into an algebra equation where X=last time had I sex in a phone booth. Factor in a location like downtown London; they have cooler phone booths. Then divide by environmental factors such as during a rain storm while not drinking hard liquor. “Oh, that only happens in those trashy romance novels that you read,” says Brain. “It’s a 2 hour meeting, and it’s my fantasy. Get out of my head.” I shout. “Sorry, I am your head. If I leave, you will start to resemble that wilting head of lettuce that has been hanging out in the vegetable crisper for two weeks.”
Time check: 1 hour and 55 minutes to go.
- Can I calculate in miles per hour how fast hair grows? My brain is rolling around my skull laughing hysterically. “Jerk.” I think to myself.
- When was the last time I flossed my teeth? “Oh geez, you should go back to the hair growth question.” Brain manages to say between burst of laughter.
Random Thoughts:
- Tom really needs a hair cut; he looks like Bozo the clown gone mad.
- How does the ink in a pen not spill out?
- This Chamomile tea is good.
Time check: 1 hour 45 minutes to go.
- Can I fire my Brain for bad management? “I heard that!” says Brain in a very pissy tone.
- Does Jarrod really get invited to every meeting? Or does he just wonder from meeting to meeting?
- Will I get to see Dateman soon? “Hey, stop smiling so much. The meeting people will think you’re not paying attention,” orders Brain. “No way, this is a much better thought then the architectural redesign of a database. Hummm.” “Oh for God sakes, snap out of it.” “You’re a prude,” I protest loudly to Brain.
- The meeting leader says the phrase ‘slice and dice the data’ and I think, “Oh, a salad would be good for dinner.” Brain sneers “Once again, you have miss the point of the conversation.”
- Is it hot in here? Oh no, here comes a falling sleep head bobble.
- Time for a Kegle exercise. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
- How come Lori can never complete a sentence, but at the end of each incomplete thought she says, “You know what I mean?” Brain screams at Lori, “No, I don’t know what you mean. You didn’t finish the sentence! You bubble-headed twit, but I do like her blouse. That is a great shade of periwinkle.”
- Can I subtly scratch my nose so people won’t think I am picking my nose?
Time check: 1 hour 35 minutes to go.
- “Humm, Dateman…Crap! Did you just dope slap the inside of my head?” “Pay attention this is important,” demands Brain. “Meeting Leader is going to repeat himself at least three times, besides I like my topic better.” “You cannot think about such things at work,” says Brain in disgust. “Oh yes I can, and when did you become a Puritan anyway?” I state firmly to myself.
- What will my next Facebook entry be?
- Jack is eating a Snickers bar. Yum, maybe I’ll have spaghetti for dinner. “What? How did you get from candy to Italian food?” “Well, nougat reminds me of.” “Please don’t,” pleads Brain, “I was there the first time and that entire process makes me nauseous. I think the right brain synapses are playing practical jokes again.”
- Just who buys Cynthia’s clothing? She must raid the closets of the old folk’s home and then have her 3 year old kid dress her. What the hell is on that sweater? Are those sea shells with different happy faces on them? And what is up with her hair? She looks like a cocker spaniel who licked an electrical outlet.
- BBQ Fritos would taste really good right now.
Time check: 1 hour 15 minutes to go. “Looking good…”
- Maybe my migraines are really being caused by a brain tumor? Make note to self to ask doctor. “That’s a stupid note to self. I’m not logging it,” says Brain. “Stop giving me migraines,” I yell back at Brain. “You see, I cannot work under these conditions. You are so snippy to me during these meetings.”“Am I PMS’ing?” “You cannot image the pressure I am under to run an entire body. You never say thank you or appreciate anything I do.” “It’s an emergency. I need chocolate!”
- I wonder if I can make it to the French Bakery during lunch?
- When is the new Harry Potter movie coming out? “I told you mid-July. You cannot remember anything,” says Brain snappishly. “Well, if you would stop the random thoughts,” I bark. “Oh, it’s entirely my fault, now is it? When are you going to be the grown-up.” “Bio-break.” I whisper to the person next to me and quickly walk out of the room before I have a break down on myself.
Information I took away from the meeting:
The meeting leader is demonstrating how he architected his project. And from his point of view, it is really good. Apparently, I should do the same thing. Because rumor has it my project is floundering and is about to crash and burn. So of course, he is so fabulous and has come to rescue me from myself. “You see what I am saying to you,” he says to me. I love this statement…that is when brain shouts…”Yes, I am not a freaking idiot.” But out of my mouth falls the words…”Oh absolutely, what a good idea.” Brain says…”You are such an ass kisser.” “No I am not, I just want him to shut up and stop repeating himself.”
Time check: 1 hour to go. “You can do it.”
General Meeting Etiquette:
- If you bring food, it has to be non-crunchy food.
- How to look like you are taking notes, but you are really writing your next blog entry.
- Always get a seat with quick convenient access to the door, so you can take a bio-break without walking in front of the projector.
- Don’t read a text message and then laugh out loud. Big Bossman will give you one of those “Do you want a pink slip?” looks.
Time check: 45 more minutes….”Pay attention. I can do this, right?” I chant to myself.
“OfficeGirl, you see what I am saying to you,” asks Meeting Leader. “Yes, I like new approach. The improvement to the process will stream line the output to be much more efficient for the end users.” I state as if I had a clue. I hear screaming in my head; it is Brain. Must get more chocolate to calm her down.
Now that I have secured all the necessities, here are several things that I do to keep myself occupied during the snore fest so I don’t go running about the room causing trouble like a 4 year kid at an adult wine and cheese party.
Mental games:
- Determine the number of calories in a peanut butter cookie if I only ate the crunchy outside and not the soft inside.
- Calculate the last time I had sex without staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out when the dog needs her next flea pill. OK. That’s no fun…Make it into an algebra equation where X=last time had I sex in a phone booth. Factor in a location like downtown London; they have cooler phone booths. Then divide by environmental factors such as during a rain storm while not drinking hard liquor. “Oh, that only happens in those trashy romance novels that you read,” says Brain. “It’s a 2 hour meeting, and it’s my fantasy. Get out of my head.” I shout. “Sorry, I am your head. If I leave, you will start to resemble that wilting head of lettuce that has been hanging out in the vegetable crisper for two weeks.”
Time check: 1 hour and 55 minutes to go.
- Can I calculate in miles per hour how fast hair grows? My brain is rolling around my skull laughing hysterically. “Jerk.” I think to myself.
- When was the last time I flossed my teeth? “Oh geez, you should go back to the hair growth question.” Brain manages to say between burst of laughter.
Random Thoughts:
- Tom really needs a hair cut; he looks like Bozo the clown gone mad.
- How does the ink in a pen not spill out?
- This Chamomile tea is good.
Time check: 1 hour 45 minutes to go.
- Can I fire my Brain for bad management? “I heard that!” says Brain in a very pissy tone.
- Does Jarrod really get invited to every meeting? Or does he just wonder from meeting to meeting?
- Will I get to see Dateman soon? “Hey, stop smiling so much. The meeting people will think you’re not paying attention,” orders Brain. “No way, this is a much better thought then the architectural redesign of a database. Hummm.” “Oh for God sakes, snap out of it.” “You’re a prude,” I protest loudly to Brain.
- The meeting leader says the phrase ‘slice and dice the data’ and I think, “Oh, a salad would be good for dinner.” Brain sneers “Once again, you have miss the point of the conversation.”
- Is it hot in here? Oh no, here comes a falling sleep head bobble.
- Time for a Kegle exercise. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
- How come Lori can never complete a sentence, but at the end of each incomplete thought she says, “You know what I mean?” Brain screams at Lori, “No, I don’t know what you mean. You didn’t finish the sentence! You bubble-headed twit, but I do like her blouse. That is a great shade of periwinkle.”
- Can I subtly scratch my nose so people won’t think I am picking my nose?
Time check: 1 hour 35 minutes to go.
- “Humm, Dateman…Crap! Did you just dope slap the inside of my head?” “Pay attention this is important,” demands Brain. “Meeting Leader is going to repeat himself at least three times, besides I like my topic better.” “You cannot think about such things at work,” says Brain in disgust. “Oh yes I can, and when did you become a Puritan anyway?” I state firmly to myself.
- What will my next Facebook entry be?
- Jack is eating a Snickers bar. Yum, maybe I’ll have spaghetti for dinner. “What? How did you get from candy to Italian food?” “Well, nougat reminds me of.” “Please don’t,” pleads Brain, “I was there the first time and that entire process makes me nauseous. I think the right brain synapses are playing practical jokes again.”
- Just who buys Cynthia’s clothing? She must raid the closets of the old folk’s home and then have her 3 year old kid dress her. What the hell is on that sweater? Are those sea shells with different happy faces on them? And what is up with her hair? She looks like a cocker spaniel who licked an electrical outlet.
- BBQ Fritos would taste really good right now.
Time check: 1 hour 15 minutes to go. “Looking good…”
- Maybe my migraines are really being caused by a brain tumor? Make note to self to ask doctor. “That’s a stupid note to self. I’m not logging it,” says Brain. “Stop giving me migraines,” I yell back at Brain. “You see, I cannot work under these conditions. You are so snippy to me during these meetings.”“Am I PMS’ing?” “You cannot image the pressure I am under to run an entire body. You never say thank you or appreciate anything I do.” “It’s an emergency. I need chocolate!”
- I wonder if I can make it to the French Bakery during lunch?
- When is the new Harry Potter movie coming out? “I told you mid-July. You cannot remember anything,” says Brain snappishly. “Well, if you would stop the random thoughts,” I bark. “Oh, it’s entirely my fault, now is it? When are you going to be the grown-up.” “Bio-break.” I whisper to the person next to me and quickly walk out of the room before I have a break down on myself.
Information I took away from the meeting:
The meeting leader is demonstrating how he architected his project. And from his point of view, it is really good. Apparently, I should do the same thing. Because rumor has it my project is floundering and is about to crash and burn. So of course, he is so fabulous and has come to rescue me from myself. “You see what I am saying to you,” he says to me. I love this statement…that is when brain shouts…”Yes, I am not a freaking idiot.” But out of my mouth falls the words…”Oh absolutely, what a good idea.” Brain says…”You are such an ass kisser.” “No I am not, I just want him to shut up and stop repeating himself.”
Time check: 1 hour to go. “You can do it.”
General Meeting Etiquette:
- If you bring food, it has to be non-crunchy food.
- How to look like you are taking notes, but you are really writing your next blog entry.
- Always get a seat with quick convenient access to the door, so you can take a bio-break without walking in front of the projector.
- Don’t read a text message and then laugh out loud. Big Bossman will give you one of those “Do you want a pink slip?” looks.
Time check: 45 more minutes….”Pay attention. I can do this, right?” I chant to myself.
“OfficeGirl, you see what I am saying to you,” asks Meeting Leader. “Yes, I like new approach. The improvement to the process will stream line the output to be much more efficient for the end users.” I state as if I had a clue. I hear screaming in my head; it is Brain. Must get more chocolate to calm her down.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Dress Shopping
Dress shopping has pretty much driven me into a deep state of depression. Medication may be needed by the time a dress is purchased. I am hoping for massive quantities of Thorazine where I can sit and drool while staring at the paint on the walls after this shopping event is complete. The dress is for an important date. Dateman is going to take me out for my birthday; there will be dinner and dancing. And yes, that is ballroom dancing, like the Foxtrot or the Waltz. [Small pause while my family and close friends collect themselves from falling on the ground with laughter at the thought of me doing a proper dance.] The story goes like this. I took ballet and tap dancing lessons as a child for one year. My mother and grandmother agreed I needed to gain some pose in my step. You see when I walked through a doorway; I would enviably run into the doorframe. Being graceful is not within my DNA pattern. I was a tall, thin, gangly girl growing up who was given about as much grace as Chevy Chase during a SNL skit. Therefore, I took to ballet like Vikings took to table manners. When it came time for the next year’s registration, the dance instructor kindly told my mother my talents were not in dance, and maybe I should take up an instrument where I would do less damage. You see, it is not good to do a pirouette and wipe out two or three other dancers in the process.
Mr. Date is fully aware of Dategirl’s lack of dancing skills from a previous date and has agreed to take her dancing for her birthday anyway. At this point, we might start to question Dateman’s judgment. Either, he is the sweetest man alive or a reincarnation of the Marquis De Sade. A firm rule has been decreed. Mr. Date leads without exception unless of course we find ourselves in a drunken stooper at a Stone Temple Pilot concert where we are standing two feet away from a mosh pit, and then he is quite happy to let me lead. I suppose it is a good rule. However, I do like to break it from time to time. Especially, when we are on a dance floor near tables or walls, I find it very hard to believe that he is not going to ram me into the waiter’s drink station to try and cripple me. This is usually where I come to a complete stop or try to quickly run in another direction. Thus, causing the following actions:
Leg tangling
Knee to the groin
Accidental head butting
All of which he frowns upon while dancing. The most amazing part of him teaching me to dance is that he doesn’t mind when I step on his feet. Probably, it is less painful then a trip to the hospital from a concussion caused by one of my Circus O’lay panic attacks. Maybe, I should be taking Paxil to ease my anxiety over dancing. Sidebar: Dateman has stated that I never need to worry about fulfilling “The girl with a stripper pole” fantasy for him. We discussed it, and I told him I would be happy to do it. However, I would have to wear a helmet and shin guards. Let’s visualize shall we? Humm… It doesn’t matter how sexy the bra and panties are when you are wearing a Hello Kitty bicycle helmet and an inflatable donut strapped on as a butt guard. The man has a good point.
So let us get back to what to wear? Let’s go shopping; Macy’s is always having a sale.
“Come On Down! Dategirl, you're the next contestant on The Price Is Right! What garment options are behind door number one? Johnny?”
The Hippy dresses: electric blue, orange and green splotches of color all on same dress. Bob, there is no cut to the dress, and it is as limp as a gay man’s handshake at a Rambo convention. Oh and just for fun, there is a 10 inch bright yellow daisy right were the crotch might be. It is perfect for the desperate over 40 divorcee.
The ‘Leave it to Beaver’ mom dress: this dress is sleeveless with a scoop neck and a form fitting bodice with a cute matching mini cardigan. Then at the waist, the dress flares out to a 95 degree angle from the torso making Dategirl look like a cross between June Cleaver and an ax murdering a ballet dancer.
“Those sound nice, Johnny. What else do we have for our reluctant cougar?”
The Prostitutes for God dress: these dresses are more confused then a transvestite at a paraphernalia sale at an adult book store. This dress could be worn by a nun where the length of the dress comes down to about a ¼ inch from the peri-menopausal swollen ankles only to show off a nice cluster of varicose veins. Cross that with a street walker where the top of the dress barely has enough material to cover one deflated, sagging boob let alone two of them. And forget about the arms, Bob, those flabby pieces of flesh are just out flapping in the wind for all to see.
The Multiple Personality dress: The tag on this dress states it can be worn as a dress or a skirt. Humm… Let’s see. It is brown broomstick skirt with a string attached at the top front. This is the ‘Please stay up as a dress’ device. So it can be warn as a really long skirt or a really short dress where both options make our ‘hopelessly 40” look like she is wearing a brown paper bag with rubber bands attached at the top to secure the garment.
Time is ticking and girl you need a dress. What are you going to do?
In a crazed frenzy, I began looking in every department in the store. In the suit section, I was hoping to maybe wear a sexy blouse with an A-framed skirt going for the sultry sophisticated look. All I found were lots of spinster Fema-natzi suits that seemed to scream, “This vagina is closed.” So in an act of desperation, I wondered around the lingerie department hoping to find a really pretty dress slip to wear because it covered more of me than the dresses I saw earlier. Apparently, this Macy’s has the corner market on Granny Panties to go with the Barbara Bush suit collection. I’ll keep that in mind if I decide to become Amish!
As luck would have it, Macy’s has a boutique line of really expensive clothing hidden in a back corner. The dresses were perfect: sexy not trampy and smart not frumpy. The actual retail price is...$128.00 F*$%&$! Crushed, I put the dress back on the rack. I started to walk out of the department store defeated. I had been in every department store in the mall and every side store except the Deb shop. It should be illegal for anyone over the age of 19 to make purchases in that store. Anyway…When out of the corner of my eye, I saw a very small rack that had a Sale sign above it. Yes I know. I have shopped enough at Talbots and J.Jills to know that the clothing on sale rack is still more than I can afford. Oh, look a t-shirt is on sale for $34.99. Could some body just shoot me? So, I flipped through the clothing in a mindless daze. And there it was. An Empire waist, scoop neck, cute short sleeve dress that when I held it up, it came to my knee. Perfect. It was in a big eggplant and black paisley print. My colors, yes! I go and try it on. I have to have this dress. Suddenly, Bob Barker comes out of nowhere and says “The actually retail price is…$38.99 sold to our first contestant in the rose print granny panties, a desperate housewife from North Carolina. Johnny, can you tell her what she has won?”
“Well, Bob, the empire waist lengthens her legs giving her a lean appearance. As an added bonus, the empire waist combined with the neckline makes her boobs look larger and perkier than they have looked BBF (Before Beast Feeding).” Dategirl screams uncontrollably while jumping up and down in the dressing room when looking down at her shoes, a pair of Clark mules; who are so tired, they can only manage a squeaky murmur for help. Dategirl sits on the floor, stares at her shoes/dog chew toy and quietly pops a Paxil. “All right shoe shopping, here I come with my two different sized feet!”
Mr. Date is fully aware of Dategirl’s lack of dancing skills from a previous date and has agreed to take her dancing for her birthday anyway. At this point, we might start to question Dateman’s judgment. Either, he is the sweetest man alive or a reincarnation of the Marquis De Sade. A firm rule has been decreed. Mr. Date leads without exception unless of course we find ourselves in a drunken stooper at a Stone Temple Pilot concert where we are standing two feet away from a mosh pit, and then he is quite happy to let me lead. I suppose it is a good rule. However, I do like to break it from time to time. Especially, when we are on a dance floor near tables or walls, I find it very hard to believe that he is not going to ram me into the waiter’s drink station to try and cripple me. This is usually where I come to a complete stop or try to quickly run in another direction. Thus, causing the following actions:
Leg tangling
Knee to the groin
Accidental head butting
All of which he frowns upon while dancing. The most amazing part of him teaching me to dance is that he doesn’t mind when I step on his feet. Probably, it is less painful then a trip to the hospital from a concussion caused by one of my Circus O’lay panic attacks. Maybe, I should be taking Paxil to ease my anxiety over dancing. Sidebar: Dateman has stated that I never need to worry about fulfilling “The girl with a stripper pole” fantasy for him. We discussed it, and I told him I would be happy to do it. However, I would have to wear a helmet and shin guards. Let’s visualize shall we? Humm… It doesn’t matter how sexy the bra and panties are when you are wearing a Hello Kitty bicycle helmet and an inflatable donut strapped on as a butt guard. The man has a good point.
So let us get back to what to wear? Let’s go shopping; Macy’s is always having a sale.
“Come On Down! Dategirl, you're the next contestant on The Price Is Right! What garment options are behind door number one? Johnny?”
The Hippy dresses: electric blue, orange and green splotches of color all on same dress. Bob, there is no cut to the dress, and it is as limp as a gay man’s handshake at a Rambo convention. Oh and just for fun, there is a 10 inch bright yellow daisy right were the crotch might be. It is perfect for the desperate over 40 divorcee.
The ‘Leave it to Beaver’ mom dress: this dress is sleeveless with a scoop neck and a form fitting bodice with a cute matching mini cardigan. Then at the waist, the dress flares out to a 95 degree angle from the torso making Dategirl look like a cross between June Cleaver and an ax murdering a ballet dancer.
“Those sound nice, Johnny. What else do we have for our reluctant cougar?”
The Prostitutes for God dress: these dresses are more confused then a transvestite at a paraphernalia sale at an adult book store. This dress could be worn by a nun where the length of the dress comes down to about a ¼ inch from the peri-menopausal swollen ankles only to show off a nice cluster of varicose veins. Cross that with a street walker where the top of the dress barely has enough material to cover one deflated, sagging boob let alone two of them. And forget about the arms, Bob, those flabby pieces of flesh are just out flapping in the wind for all to see.
The Multiple Personality dress: The tag on this dress states it can be worn as a dress or a skirt. Humm… Let’s see. It is brown broomstick skirt with a string attached at the top front. This is the ‘Please stay up as a dress’ device. So it can be warn as a really long skirt or a really short dress where both options make our ‘hopelessly 40” look like she is wearing a brown paper bag with rubber bands attached at the top to secure the garment.
Time is ticking and girl you need a dress. What are you going to do?
In a crazed frenzy, I began looking in every department in the store. In the suit section, I was hoping to maybe wear a sexy blouse with an A-framed skirt going for the sultry sophisticated look. All I found were lots of spinster Fema-natzi suits that seemed to scream, “This vagina is closed.” So in an act of desperation, I wondered around the lingerie department hoping to find a really pretty dress slip to wear because it covered more of me than the dresses I saw earlier. Apparently, this Macy’s has the corner market on Granny Panties to go with the Barbara Bush suit collection. I’ll keep that in mind if I decide to become Amish!
As luck would have it, Macy’s has a boutique line of really expensive clothing hidden in a back corner. The dresses were perfect: sexy not trampy and smart not frumpy. The actual retail price is...$128.00 F*$%&$! Crushed, I put the dress back on the rack. I started to walk out of the department store defeated. I had been in every department store in the mall and every side store except the Deb shop. It should be illegal for anyone over the age of 19 to make purchases in that store. Anyway…When out of the corner of my eye, I saw a very small rack that had a Sale sign above it. Yes I know. I have shopped enough at Talbots and J.Jills to know that the clothing on sale rack is still more than I can afford. Oh, look a t-shirt is on sale for $34.99. Could some body just shoot me? So, I flipped through the clothing in a mindless daze. And there it was. An Empire waist, scoop neck, cute short sleeve dress that when I held it up, it came to my knee. Perfect. It was in a big eggplant and black paisley print. My colors, yes! I go and try it on. I have to have this dress. Suddenly, Bob Barker comes out of nowhere and says “The actually retail price is…$38.99 sold to our first contestant in the rose print granny panties, a desperate housewife from North Carolina. Johnny, can you tell her what she has won?”
“Well, Bob, the empire waist lengthens her legs giving her a lean appearance. As an added bonus, the empire waist combined with the neckline makes her boobs look larger and perkier than they have looked BBF (Before Beast Feeding).” Dategirl screams uncontrollably while jumping up and down in the dressing room when looking down at her shoes, a pair of Clark mules; who are so tired, they can only manage a squeaky murmur for help. Dategirl sits on the floor, stares at her shoes/dog chew toy and quietly pops a Paxil. “All right shoe shopping, here I come with my two different sized feet!”
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