Category Archives: Snarcasm

Mama Knows Booze and Superheroes

Either the universe is trying to tell me something, or Ashton Kutcher is following me around with his Punk’D crew. Whenever I walk into a grocery store, some sort of awkward BS ensues. Perhaps I am not supposed to go grocery shopping.  Maybe I’m supposed to send my husband or my son out for everything and just stay on my couch throne with my cat and watch Shameless all the live long day.  NAH! If I did that I wouldn’t have such fabulous stories to share.

So, today my son and I were out running errands, which included buying taco fixings and liquor.  Because it is Friday, ya know. So, since we prefer one-stop shopping, we went to the only grocery store in our hood that also sells liquor.  We do not normally shop at this store, and today I was reminded why.

We walked through the produce section, stopping to pick up lettuce, and then all the way to the back of the store, where the official liquor section is. As soon as we were about to enter the liquor section, we were greeted by a tall (I think she was tall, but I’m five foot nothing so everyone is tall to me) blonde woman wearing a store name tag. She looked me up and down and then looked over at my son.  I thought she was going to tell me that he could not come in with me because he is not 21.  He is at the unfortunate age of 20 and a half.  Some stores won’t even allow underage people through the door.  So, I was waiting for her to ID him.  Instead, she greeted us warmly.

“How are you?” She said in a booming voice.

I said fine and asked how she was.

She said fine and kept standing at the entrance to the liquor section, staring at me.  She would not move. She told me she was reorganizing the liquor.  She kept standing there.

I said, “Oh. OK. Well, I will be quick. I know exactly what I need.”

“Mama doesn’t judge,” she said.

I laughed a little because I thought she was joking and because I laugh in uncomfortable situations. I took a step forward and she still didn’t move.  Finally, I squeezed between her and a box of riesling and headed for the vodka, leaving my son to figure out how to get past her with our cart.  I guess she stepped out of the way because my son got in.  Since, I was focused on the vodka and not my man-child, as all good mothers would be, I did not see her actually move.

I grabbed a bottle of vanilla Absolut and put it in our cart. I told my son to just stay there rather than try to maneuver the cart around the small liquor section. Mama walked from the vodka aisle over to the scotch section, two rows over.

I told her, “I need three bottles then I will be out of your way.”

She said, “Oh mama doesn’t judge!” She spoke like she was straight out of a Tyler Perry movie. Plus, I was starting to feel like she was judging, but I didn’t really care.

Then, she continued talking to my son and me, all the while referring to herself as Mama. I hadn’t heard anyone who is not a puppet on Sesame Street do this so consistently since Bob Dole ran for president. By the way, did you know that people who refer to themselves in the third person are called illeists?  It actually has a name! And here I was just calling them assholes, but I digress. Let’s get back to Mama.

As she continued on her Mama monologue, my first thought was, “Did she mix up her day and night allergy meds?” The pollen count has been high.

Then I thought, “No. She’s been sampling the goods.” This led me to one of the best ideas I have ever had, “Maybe I should get a job at a liquor store!”

I grabbed the Fireball from the end cap by the vodka, and then I headed to the scotch section, which was where Mama was stocking.  I just wanted to get out of there quickly, so I grabbed the scotch that she was currently putting on the shelf, as there was a bunch of it stacked on a cart in front of the entire scotch section.  It was a HUGE bottle of 12-year-old Glenlivet.  So, NOT cheap.

“Mama is a Jack Daniel’s girl!” she announced, as I grabbed the scotch.  Somehow, this was not surprising. I couldn’t quite picture Mama savoring some Glenlivet by the fire. I was willing to bet that Mama had put Jack in her coffee before coming to work. Maybe she had some sort of Jack Daniels pump that continuously monitored her blood alcohol level and pumped Jack in her system to keep her at Mama level.

I brought the scotch to the counter and grabbed the Fireball and vodka from the cart. I just wanted to pay and get out of Mamaland.  As I was putting the bottles on the counter, I noticed a package of Stoli mini bottles in different flavors. I put it on the counter and said, “I always like to try new flavors.”

“Mama doesn’t judge.  Oh no. No judgment from Mama,” she said.  Then she repeated, “Mama is a Jack Daniel’s girl.”

At this point, I literally looked around for a camera crew.  This had to be some sort of prank.  Nope.  It was just me, my son, and Mama.

Mama rang up each item and stopped a couple of times to double check that she had scanned everything.  This was when I thought, “Maybe she is on Vicodin or something. She’s really friendly and a little slow.  Maybe that’s it.”

Well, since I don’t own or manage the store, I didn’t stop to figure it out.  I put my liquor in the cart and scurried out with my son to get the rest of our taco fixings.  When we got out of earshot, I just said, “Okiedokie” to my son, to which he replied, “That was more painful than ordering at Panera.”  He was right about that.  Our last visit to Panera was painful, but he wasn’t with me at Kroger on loud superhero day. Now THAT was worse.

A couple of months ago, I went to Kroger super early in the morning.  Since I was up anyway, and since my hair looked like it was straight out of the Play-Doh Barber Shop, I decided to go to Kroger at 8:00 am so I could AVOID people. No such luck.
Apparently, my Kroger is the main district Kroger or whatever because there is always some strange crap going down there. This particular day was like a nightmare for introverted people with bad hair.

There I was, looking for the American cheese that the cat and the Maltese both like. The cat doesn’t eat cat treats or any other kind of cheese, and the Maltese is on heart pills that must be smooshed in cheese so she will take them. So, it was important to get the right kind. I had not gotten to Starbucks yet, so I was REALLY concentrating on the cheese. That’s when the loud music and some doofus talking like a game show host came over the speaker. At 8:15 in the damn morning. Did I mention I had no coffee and homeless chic hair?

Then, I saw the superheroes. Nope. I was not hallucinating and I had not had any of Mama’s Jack Daniel’s. There were people running around in superhero costumes. In the damn grocery store at 8:16! I ran my hand through my hair and looked down. I grabbed my pets’ cheese and a few more items and attempted to get to the cash registers.

Holy crazy crowd of geeks, Batman! The front of the store was blocked. I said a meek, “Excuse me” and tried to inch past Spiderman, Wonder Woman, and some woman who was obviously from corporate. I know this because she gave me her “I had my Starbucks! Bless your heart with that hair” smile.

She said, “HI!” as I passed her.

I said, “Why is this happening?”

She told me they were having a “bag off” for cash and prizes. The woman next to her said that she was competing. I patted her on the shoulder and told her, “I hope you have some liquor.”

I paid for my stuff, visited the in-store Starbucks and got the hell out of there. I have never gone back without being caffeinated.

Maybe I should just stop shopping.  I think between Amazon and Jet, I should be able to get everything I need.  I can just supplement my diet with Chinese delivery and pizza, to make up for the lack of refrigerated or frozen food.  It’s just not worth the awkwardness to go to an actual store.

Middle Aged Crossfit Failure

 

My husband is a big Groupon fan. The man loves to save money. He is always buying some sort of package deal.  A couple of weeks ago he bought a Groupon for 10 “Functional Fitness” classes at our local Crossfit gym. If you are not familiar with Crossfit, it is a meathead weight lifting and gymnastics combo for the truly insane. That is the official definition.  Anyway, these classes were supposed to be for beginners. So, I went along with the husband.  After all, we know a couple of people who LOVE Crossfit.  Here is how it worked out for me.

Day One – I breeze through my first ever Crossfit class at 44 years old. Well, I didn’t BREEZE through it exactly.  I got a touch out of breath during the burpees, and those butterfly leg, arms all the way up sit ups were no picnic. My couch pouch kept getting in the way. But I did it. I did the whole half hour class. Thirty solid minutes of sweating. I didn’t cheat with the lunges, either, even when the instructor was not looking.

As soon as I got home, I took a shower to get the gym floor dirt off of me. Did I mention the burpees? I pretty much ate the floor during those. So, I also did three loads of laundry to get the gym off of my clothes, carrying the full basket up and down the stairs with minimal tenderness in my thighs. I thought I was a warrior.

Day Two – I notice something different as soon as I get out of bed. I am walking like a brand new porn star who just filmed a gang bang flick using no lube. Walking is tough, but sitting on the toilet is impossible. I put both hands on the toilet seat and gingerly lower myself to a seated position while crossing my eyes and saying “Holy mother of fuck!”

Getting up from the toilet requires a firm hold of the door knob. I vow to myself that I will not leave the house until this pain goes away. I DO NOT want to have to touch the toilet or doorknob in a public bathroom, and with my IBS it would be a necessity at some point. I work from home so it’s doable to just not leave the house for a bit. Plus, it should only take a day or so for this soreness to go away, right? I am not a complete couch potato. I exercise a few times a week. I shouldn’t be sore for that long.

I try two Motrin with breakfast. Nothing. So, I use that “Deep Blue” essential oil I bought back when I was a sucker. I toss it in the trash as I actually feel WORSE after applying it.  Fucking snake oil.

By the end of the day, I am so tired of being in pain that I go into the bathroom and take a Tylenol #3 leftover from a dental procedure last year. I might as well have taken a Sweet Tart.  It’s like a placebo. I follow it up with vodka at dinner. Still no pain relief. I stop myself at two drinks because I don’t want to be that woman who dies from mixing a pain pill and vodka while trying to walk normally again.

crossfitDay Three – Before I get out of bed, I think that my pain should probably be better now. This is proven incorrect as soon as I move. It’s been a couple of days, right? Really?! Really?! I almost fall while getting out of bed. Walking is still challenging, and I still have to go up and down stairs while clinging to the rail and using all of my arm strength to stabilize my useless quads. Now, just to add to the fun, my lower abs and whatever those muscles are on the side of your boobs have started to hurt like a fothermucker, too.

I hobble around the house, cursing Groupon, my husband, Crossfit, and especially myself every time I have to go upstairs, which is too often. It seems like it hurts worse today than yesterday. This is just cruel. Who are these people who do Crossfit regularly? I pour myself a big glass of wine right at 5:00. It does nothing.

Day Four – My right leg is slightly better, but my left still bites me when I move. I take a hot bath, so hot that I sweat, and put Biofreeze on my thighs as soon as I get out. This makes me feel 20% better for like 30 minutes. Go me.

I finally give in and do a Google search for “horrible never-ending pain after Crossfit.” My results tell me to drink more water and “stretch it out.” Because water cures everything, right? I give the one finger salute to the computer screen and start gulping water. The only thing this does is make me have to pee even more often than I do already. So, this means I have to get on and off the toilet more often. Have I mentioned how much I hate the world right now?

Day Five – I’m finally able to sit on the toilet this morning without frantically gripping the seat and lowering myself like an 80 year-old nursing home patient. I call that a win.  It is still hell to walk down the drive way to retrieve the recycling bins, but I get it done. I got down the stairs without doing the sideways crab walk and clinging to the rail with both hands. I only had to cling with one hand. I got more than 1,000 steps in on my Fitbit. My “FUCK!” count is way down. It’s a miracle. I finally feel like I may live.

So, I paid $45 for ten classes and only used one. My husband keeps saying he is going to do another class even though he was in the same amount of pain I was in. I will never go back. I would rather say goodbye to the remainder of my $45 than pay thousands of dollars for surgery and rehabilitation after being carried out of Crossfit on a stretcher.

What about you? Are you a Crossfitter, a couch potato, or somewhere in the middle? Let me hear from you in the comment section.

This was originally published on  Knot So Subtle.

 

A Tale of Two Fathers

Now, don’t go getting too excited. This is not a story about how I was raised by a nice gay couple. Nope. I was born way back in the 70’s. Two men were not allowed to get married and adopt a baby. This was REALLY frowned upon back in the polyester and disco era. The only two men who could openly live together back then were Burt and Ernie, and they had separate beds even if they were in a one-bedroom apartment. Nope. This is a story of the two fatherly type men in my life – my never around biological father and my fantastic stepfather.

This is where I get my sarcasm and my pre-diabetes.

Like everyone else on the planet, I have a biological father. I mean, duh, we all need TWO parents in order to become a person, right? But I use the word “parent” very lightly when it comes to my father. Really, “sperm donor who cheated on my mom and left for good when she was 7 months pregnant” is more accurate. Yep. My mom finally had enough of her husband’s Mad Men level philandering and kicked his ass out when she was full of pregnancy hormones. He left, taking both cars with him. Asshole.

I saw my father about five or ten times in my life. When I was first born he told everyone that I “looked Asian” and that I couldn’t possibly be his kid because my mom was a big ole cheater.   Not true. Then, as I grew older, I began to look EXACTLY like my paternal grandmother, his mama. So, he could no longer deny that I was his. He did, however, continue to deny to pay child support, but I digress.

fathers
I don’t have any pictures of me WITH my father, but he did take this picture of me at the park, hanging with a duck.

The few times that I did talk to my dad as a kid, I liked him. My mom always told me what a crappy husband he was, and I knew that he rarely visited me, but I still liked him when I did see him. We seemed to share a dry, sarcastic sense of humor. He was intelligent, musical, and a little mystical at times. He read my Tarot cards and told me stories about the ghosts that haunted his house. I found him fascinating and like all kids of divorce, I used to wish that my parents would be back together. It never happened.

The last time I talked to my father was horrible. I was 14 and my mother had just married my stepfather. I was excited because my stepfather was going to adopt me and then I would have the same last name as him and my mom. We were going to be like a “normal” family. Growing up as the lone custodial child of a single mom (my brother lived with my father), I was always chasing “normal.” So, I was THRILLED that my stepfather was going to adopt me.   I told my father the good news over the phone one night. He got angry and said, “Well then you’re not my daughter anymore.” He hung up. I never talked to him again. He died the next year, at age 49, of a heart attack in a Denny’s parking lot. I was 15.

At first, it hurt to lose my father, even though I barely knew him. All of the future “should have beens” came rushing through my mind. He should have been there to see me graduate from high school, and college, too. He should have been there to walk me down the aisle when I got married, both times. He should have taken me on vacations to spend time with his parents and his sister and her kids. To this day, I really don’t know his entire side of the family. I thought we had years ahead of us to work through our fucked up father daughter relationship. We didn’t. To this day, I will not let someone leave or hang up the phone if they are angry with me.

I got out of the “my father died” funk when I realized he really wasn’t ever a father to me. Now, my stepfather, on the other hand, was a father to me. Not only did he teach me how to cook, clean, and not be an asshole, the man taught me that he had my back, right from the beginning.

fathers
This is where I get my ability to make lasagna and clean a kitchen floor on my hands and knees.

Before my mom even married my stepdad, he was there for me. Since he was 19 years older than my mom and already retired, he took me to the orthodontist and other appointments when mom was working. So, during these drives in his 1977 HUGE green Lincoln Town Car, we had some good talks. One time, I told him about a boy at school who was picking on me. This boy was calling me “pig lips.” I never really thought much about my lips one way or another, but once this jackwagon pointed out that my lips took up half my face, I spent most of the time trying to pucker inward and hide the majority of my huge lips. My stepdad set me straight.

One day, he sat me down on the couch and put a pile of fashion magazines on the coffee table. He flipped through them and said, “Look at all of these gills (he was from Boston and didn’t pronounce his R’s). They get shots in their lips to make them fullah,” he informed me.

“Well, they’re stupid!” I said with all of the seriousness an embarrassed 13-year-old girl can muster.

He didn’t stop; he kept flipping through the magazines, pointing out the “gills” with full mouths, and telling me I had what women paid plastic surgeons to get. It took me years to believe him. Now that I’m in my 40’s, I’m glad for my pig lips because they look a lot less pruny than skinny lips.

One of the best things my stepdad ever did was teach me how to drink. He had a very liberal policy on alcohol. He figured if you don’t make it a “big no no” then kids wouldn’t want it so much. I think he’s right about that. My stepdad bought me my first drink at one of those private clubs in Boston (I don’t remember if it was the Elks, the Eagles, or what, but you know what I mean). I was 15 and he had just picked me up from the airport. I had flown up to meet him in Boston, where he was visiting family. My mom was going to fly up in a few days. On the way home from the airport, he had to stop by this lodge of sorts and talk to a friend. My guess is it had something to do with betting on something as the man’s only vice was gambling. So, we sat down at the bar to wait for his friend and my stepdad asked me what I wanted to drink.

“A screwdriver,” I said, being sarcastic and not really knowing what the hell a screwdriver was.

He ordered it for me, and the bartender actually gave it to me. I drank it. Now, this was not the first time I ever drank alcohol. It was the 80’s and there were these things called wine coolers that high school kids could somehow get from stores who sold to teens. I’ve got lots of stories about wine coolers, but that is for another blog.

After that, my dad let me have drinks here and there. On New Year’s Day when I was 17, I came home from a sleepover with my friends. I told my parents about how one of my friends had drunk too much and barfed. I had not had any alcohol at all, so I held her hair. My dad immediately went into a lecture on “how to drink.” Here are his rules:

  • Stay away from the “dahk” stuff. (Dark stuff — Whiskey, dark rum, etc)
  • Stay away from the sweet stuff. (No froo froo drinks)
  • Don’t Mix. (That one is pretty self-explanatory. Stick with the same drink.)
  • Pace “yahself. Just keep a little buzz.” (Don’t over do it.)
  • Have some “watah.” (Stay hydrated.)

The man was right. I got all the way through college and young adulthood without barfing from drinking. I was 31 the first time I puked from alcohol, and that was the first of only three times. The three times that I have gotten sick from booze have been because I broke one or more of the drinking rules.

My stepdad was not only a great father to me, but he was an amazing grandfather during the short time that he was in my son’s life. After my son was born, I went back to school to get my Master’s degree. My mom and my stepdad babysat my son. They took him everywhere with them, to the mall, to the grocery store, everywhere. My stepdad even let my son “help” him build a trellis. Unfortunately, my son’s time with my stepdad was too short. He died when my son was 3.

Father’s Day is always kind of tough for me because I don’t really have a father anymore. I do have lots of wonderful men in my life who are fathers. First of all, there’s my husband, who, like my stepdad, took on the role of stepfather to my son. Then, there’s my son’s biological father who has maintained a good relationship with our son even though we live several states away. He also always paid child support, unlike my father. Last but not least, there is my father-in-law, who is a kind, warm, and friendly man. He would have to be; he raised my wonderful husband.

 So, we’ve talked about me enough. What are you up to on this sappy Hallmark card holiday weekend? Leave me a comment. I love hearing from you.

Middle Age: The Verbal Charades and Bad Hair Years

According to a few random Google search results, I have found out that 45 is the official beginning of middle age.  This means my son has been INCORRECT in calling me a middle-aged woman for the past ten years.  I was still considered a YOUNG adult until now.  Now I am 45 and ½.  So, I’m in the infancy of old age, but I can tell that I am definitely middle aged based on my shrinking vocabulary and shriveling hair.

It used to be that I could flat iron my hair and look good for three days.  Now, I fall asleep on it for 30 minutes and wake up looking like a Founding Father.  You know, I get that stringy “I’ve been forming a new nation and I have no time to run the boar’s bristle thing through my hair” style.  Because that’s what the founding fathers would’ve called a brush when they were middle aged.

Sometimes, my hair looks so bad that I just want to put it in a ponytail, but even that won’t work.  I get these little hairs that bow out on both sides of my neck.  I end up looking like a more haggard Ben Franklin. Not only has my hair gone all Ben Franklin on me, but I can’t form real verbal sentences.

It seems like the day I turned 45, I forgot a bunch of everyday words.  So, I substitute phrases with “thing” in them.

Closet Thing = Pantry

Foot Thing = Ottoman

I can just imagine what would happen if I were on Jeopardy.  I would know SO MANY of the answers; I just would not be able to actually say them.  Cue the music.

THIS IS JEOPARDY!!

Fast forward through canned audience applause and Alex introducing the contestants.

Lisa: Movie Stars for $400, Alex.

Alex: This actor is known for his role in Taxi Driver.

Lisa: OH! I know him.  Fuh – Um, sorry! Wait! He’s that Italian guy with the mole.  And he’s in all of the mafia movies with that other Italian guy.  Crap! Um! He was in that one movie with that one dark-haired guy who recently had prostate cancer.  You know, the one who has the funny comedy team parents.  He played that guy’s father-in-law. And he had a cat.

Alex: Yes. Who is Robert De Niro is correct!

Young contestant: But she never said, “Robert De Niro!”

Alex: Shut up, kid.  You’ll be middle-aged one day!  She said, “Robert De Niro.”

So, that’s middle age for me, so far.  There are other shitty things, like aches in joints I didn’t know I had.  (Young people, I’m talking about the joints that connect bones, not the kind that is legal in Colorado.)  There are a lot of good things about middle age, too.  One is that I don’t really give two shits if my hair looks like Ben Franklin’s.  I notice it, but I don’t get upset about it.  Well, not TOO upset.

What about you? Are you middle aged?  Do you have that I could sign the Declaration of Independence hair?  Can you still speak in full sentences without some version of “you know! That thing in the kitchen that cuts the food?”  Leave me a comment and let me know I’m not alone.

 

 

Finter, Winter, Sprinter, and Summer, oh my!

Boo Boo knows how to keep warm.
Boo Boo knows how to keep warm.

I can remember sitting on the patio of a restaurant in Cape Coral, Florida, saying goodbye to local friends and colleagues before my husband, son, and I moved to Fort Wayne, Indiana. I felt pretty good about the move. South Florida had gotten gritty, crowded, and nothing like it was when I was growing up there. I knew it would be cold up north, but I also knew there would not be tourists or as much traffic. I knew prices would be lower. After all, we were buying a house that was twice as big as our Florida home for LESS money.

One of my Florida friends, a bridesmaid in my wedding and fellow teacher, warned me about the cold. She was originally from New York and told me that my nose would constantly run and bleed all winter. She also told me I would never feel warm, no matter how many layers I put on. I rolled my eyes. I worked from home. I would just crank up the heat. No big deal. HA! You were right, M.

As I mentioned in Bite Me Polar Vortex, winter was cute when we first moved to Fort Wayne. There were deer in our backyard since our house was near the woods. The snow was like glitter. It was almost like Santa himself would appear on our lawn, which was buried under glitter, at any moment.

My new neighbors told me how wonderful it was to have four seasons, and how they could not imagine living in Florida. I looked forward to these four seasons I had always learned about in school: winter, spring, summer, and fall. I soon learned, that the seasons have different names when you are a Floridian.

Summer

This is truly my favorite time of the year because it is very Florida-like. A couple of years ago, temperatures in the Midwest got up to 100. I LOVED IT. Even though I hate reptiles, I must be one. There is nothing better than hot rock weather. So, from about mid-May until the beginning of September, I am OK with going outside.

Finter

Most people call this season “fall” or “autumn.” Really, for a southern person, it’s just winter light, or finter. It’s cold, windy and dreary. It even tends to snow in late October. UCK! The leaves are pretty, but finter still sucks.

Winter

This is by far my least favorite time of the year. I now understand why Pagans started having winter festivals and celebrations hundreds of years ago. It was to keep people from committing suicide. Winter is dark and cold and just all around miserable.

Sprinter

People like to think that spring begins at the end of March. It does not. Up here in Yankee land, the leaves do not grow back and flowers do not bloom until at least May. Early spring is still winter-like. It’s the time of year when you can get pinged in the head with freezing rain, hail, or sleet.  I still don’t know the difference. I just know that it’s hard and cold and miserable.

So, what are the seasons like where you live? Are you lucky enough to live in Florida, Southern California or Hawaii? Feel free to tell me all about how warm it is. I promise not to hate you. : )

Great Dane Lab
Sophie is the only one who is dumb enough to like winter.

The Jordache Smell

 

“You’ve been wearing those same pants all week,” Dickhead (not his real name) said to me in front of everyone in the hallway right after sixth-grade math. Until that moment, I had a crush on him. I looked into his smirking face and hated him and his dark good looks.

“Um, no I haven’t. I have a couple of different pairs, and anyway I washed them.” I stammered, trying not to cry.  This was total bullshit, as I had only one pair and we did not own a washing machine.  We took our clothes to the laundromat once a week.  My dad, whom I rarely saw thanks to divorce and his lack of interest in his own children, had just bought me a pair of dark blue Jordache jeans. I was so excited that I wore those jeans five days in a row, a big middle school no-no. So, instead of having “the Jordache look” I probably had the Jordache smell. No amount of Love’s Baby Soft could cover that up.

 

Dickhead and the others laughed at me as I walked away, turning red and feeling embarrassed about having only one pair of designer jeans. This was worse than the time I got my period on my chair in science class. I marched down the hall, staring straight down at my Trapper Keeper and trying to suck the tears back into my eyes. This is when I realized that I was poor.

I’m surprised it took me that long, as our little family (just mom and me – my brother lived with my father) had received government cheese twice.  It wasn’t bad, really. It was just a big block of American cheese. Also, I had taken some cold baths by candlelight when our electricity had been turned off due to non-payment. If the free cheese and cold baths hadn’t tipped me off, I probably should have realized we did not have money when we had to move into a two-room efficiency apartment with no kitchen. We did dishes in the bathroom sink and cooked dinner on a hot plate. We ended up staying only for a weekend because the landlady got drunk and hit on my mom. The apartment was attached to the landlady’s house. My mom borrowed some money, and we moved back to our two-bedroom, two-bathroom place somehow.

Even with all of these blaring clues, the poverty did not hit me until I became a middle school fashion outcast. Everyone had designer jeans, and I got made fun of a lot for not having the proper clothes. My father, during one of his rare moments when he remembered he was my father, had taken me to Burdines in his little MG convertible to buy the jeans the week before Dickhead called out my poor hygiene. I was THRILLED about the jeans, obviously. Today, they sell Jordache at Walmart, but back in the early 80’s they were only at Burdines or Macy’s or Jordan Marsh – places where poor people didn’t shop.

jordacheShortly after this, at Christmas, my mom’s boss bought me a pair of Gloria Vanderbilt black denim jeans because my mom could not afford them. I had seen the commercials and just had to have them. So when my mom’s boss asked her what I wanted for Christmas, she told him. He didn’t know what size I was, so he just grabbed a pair at Jordan Marsh and told my mom to exchange them. Of course, the pair he gave me was size “tall and skinny.”  I have always been size “short and stout as the little teapot.” After I exchanged the jeans and got the right size, I was able to rotate my pants throughout the week. I even got a pair of Sergio Valente jeans from my mom, but I hated them because they had pink threading. My mom has always loved pink.  I prefer black.

When I was in eighth grade, two amazing things happened.  First, the county changed the school boundaries.  This enabled me to leave McNichol Middle where everyone picked on me, and start attending Olsen. On my first day at Olsen, I met Hillary, a super nice girl who introduced me to all her friends. I finally had NICE friends who were not mean to me. Hillary also helped me dress better. She told me I needed to get Guess jeans and huge EG socks. Hillary also taught me how to layer my tank tops to match my layer socks. She helped me with my eye makeup so that I didn’t look like Ozzy Osbourne pretending to be a raccoon anymore.

 

The second amazing thing is my mom met my step-dad.  Until then, my mom had been super protective of me.  I wasn’t allowed to do much. My step-dad encouraged her to let me hang out with my new friends. I went to the mall, to the movies, and to the beach like a normal 13-year-old Floridian. My step-dad also liked to shop. He would bring me home Guess jeans and other cool things from Macy’s.  I had the right clothes and the right friends. Life was finally coming together.

I still got picked on by some kids for being chubby, having pimples, crying in math class (I’ve always loathed numbers) and sucking at every team sport ever played in middle school PE. I still had bad hair days because I insisted on having my hair chopped into an 80’s do, against Hilary’s advice. Overall, though, eighth grade was a big positive turning point.  I didn’t even wear my Jordache jeans anymore.  Guess was WAY cooler.

Originally published on  Knot So Subtle .

Thoughts on Jesus from Your Friendly Neighborhood Buddhist Thinking Atheist

Disclaimer:  Though I was forced to memorize Bible verses in the Lutheran school I attended in Kindergarten and first grade, and though I sat through many Bible lessons in Baptist summer camp, I am in no way familiar with the Bible.  I tried to read it as an adult, but became angry at the misogyny.  I am not looking to learn about the Bible, and if you knock on my door with a pamphlet, or just to chat about Jehovah, I will sick my poop-eating dog on you.  She kisses.

The whole Cosmosgate (Thanks to Megan S for this groovy term!) thing has me super irritated.  Did you know that there are people out there who are offended by Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson’s new version of Cosmos? A station in Oklahoma even went so far as to “accidentally” cut the evolution part out of the premiere episode.

This irritates me to no end.  I have friends who are Christians, and they have no issue with learning about science, too. Who are these people who are terrified of Cosmos?  It seems like there are always people speaking for Jesus, and making up crazy things that he cares about.  Even with my limited knowledge of all things Jesus, I’m pretty sure that he would probably be more concerned about famine, war, and the way we treat each other in general than the endless list of things people seem to care about on his behalf.

For example, Jesus probably does not care if you:

  • Eat meat on Fridays.   He’s got bigger fish to fry.  Pun intended.
  • watch Cosmos.   If God really did create the universe, Jesus is totally cool with you learning about it.
  • use the term “Mother Nature.”  I witnessed someone criticize someone else on Facebook for asking Mother Nature to make the weather better.  This person was angry because OBVIOUSLY “God makes the weather.”  Don’t get me started.
  •  drink alcohol.  HE MADE WINE.  He DOES care if you drive drunk.  This could hurt someone, and that is a no no.
  •  kneel to pray.  He just doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who would require this.
  •  get married if you are a priest.  If he’s all about love, everyone should have the opportunity to find lasting love.
  •  what you do on Sundays.  With all of the calendar changes throughout time, how do we even know if Sunday is Sunday? And so what if you are working to support yourself or a family.  That’s a good thing.
  •  wear a cross around your neck.  Think about it.  He DIED on the cross.  Crucifixion was the go to execution method back then.  This is kind of like wearing an electric chair around your neck.
  •  say his name in vain.  Personally, I would be thrilled if someone hollered out my name whenever they hurt themselves or had an emotional moment.  Feel free to do this if you want.  You can drop the R to make things easier.

My step-dad, who was raised Catholic and became an atheist, used to say, “Jesus was a hippie.”  I think he’s right.  From what I gather from my religious friends, Jesus was all about helping people and maybe having a glass of wine or two.  He did after all make the stuff.

The nectar of the gods
The nectar of the gods

Depo Provera is FABULOUS!

Recently, I had to undergo an exploratory D&C to determine the cause of some rather nifty cramping and crime scene-level bleeding. The doctor discovered and removed some polyps, which helped a little with the cramping, but it didn’t solve the problem completely.

After the surgery, I met with my doctor to discuss options for eliminating my horrific perimenopausal symptoms once and for all. Since I’d suffered a deep vein thrombosis a few years prior, and because I am forty-plus, estrogen was not an option for me. Progesterone medications were my only non-surgical alternatives. After talking with my doctor, it seemed that the Depo-Provera shot was the best choice for me.

Like most people would, I decided to do a Google search to see what others had to say about Depo. Big mistake. It seemed like there were nothing but horror stories out there. Everyone talked about becoming fat and homicidal after getting the shot. One woman even said she wanted to kill her kids when she was on Depo. Since I’m already chubby and mildly grouchy, this worried me.

Then I made another mistake. I reached out to my Facebook friends. I specifically asked if anyone had anything POSITIVE to say about Depo. Most people told me I would bleed to death, binge on Skittles, and growl. Terrific.

Still, despite what I’d discovered on the Internet, I chose to get the Depo-Provera shot. I was really nervous when I went in for my first one, but I’ve actually had five now, and guess what? I have not gained ANY weight at all, and I feel happier, not angrier. In addition to this overall sense of well-being, I’ve noticed a few more great side effects of Depo:

1. Energy. Depo-Provera makes me feel more focused and energized. I’m able to get work projects done more quickly, and I don’t feel as physically tired during the day. I tend to be a Type A person anyway, and the Depo kicks my obsessive-compulsive disorder up a notch. The Type B people out there might see this as a bad thing, but it works for me. I completely scrub out my refrigerator and freezer shortly after receiving each quarterly shot.

2. No Foreign Objects. For some reason, the medical community—as well as a lot of women my age—have a collective hard-on for the intrauterine device (IUD). I personally cannot say “NOPE” enough to that concept. As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, I am simply not comfortable with someone, even a medical professional, shoving a foreign object past my cervix and into my uterus. It would be too traumatic. This is why I had to have a D&C instead of an in-office, wide-awake uterine biopsy.

Even if the doctor could get an IUD inside me, my anxiety would never allow me to stop fixating on it. Any little stomach pain and I would assume that the IUD was gouging my innards or migrating someplace where it wasn’t supposed to be. Other than the brief poke of a needle, Depo-Provera does not necessitate a foreign object being placed into my body.

3. Endometriosis. I haven’t been officially diagnosed with endometriosis, because it’s a tricky diagnosis—it can hide in the Fallopian tubes or even the colon. However, my mother had endometriosis, and I have many of the symptoms, so my doctor recommended the Depo shot for me as a treatment for endometriosis, too. We are covering birth control, perimenopausal bleeding and cramping, and possible endometriosis all in one little shot. Yes, please.

4. Three Months. I only have to deal with taking this medication four times a year. Each shot lasts three months. When I was on the pill, I used to forget to take it sometimes. Also, if I took it on an empty stomach, I would get nauseated. Who has time for that impending puke feeling? Not this girl.

In short, my Depo experience has been fabulous. I’m so glad I didn’t listen to the numerous dramatic warnings from well-meaning people. Everyone’s body is different: birth control pills with a high amount of estrogen always made me bleed like crazy; some people gain a lot of weight on progesterone. This is why you should only take advice from your doctor, not your 4,765 Facebook “friends.” For me, Depo is a gift. It is the only thing that really works. My doctor tells me I can stay on it until menopause, and that makes me so happy.

Originally published on In The Powder Room in November, 2015.

Resolutions I Can Actually Keep

Like a lot of you out there, I make resolutions every New Year’s Eve.  I usually don’t publish them, or talk about them, because I know myself and I know I will fail at each and every one of them.  This is because I have some mental block that makes me do more of whatever bad behavior I’m trying to quit.  So, if I swear that I am going on a low carb diet, I will start the day with no carbs and end it by eating a roll of raw cookie dough.  It’s really a good think I never got into drugs.

So, this year, I’m trying something different.  I’m publically announcing my resolutions.  I figure if I tell everyone of my intentions, you all can keep me on track. Also, I’m picking resolutions that are doable.  Here they are, in no particular order.

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  • Drink less alcohol – except if I’m stressed out or if Donald Trump is president.
  • Use more positive language – Instead of saying, “I hate going outside” I will say, “I really, truly enjoy being inside where it is warm, dry, not windy, and doesn’t suck.”
  • Stop insulting myself – no more turning sideways when I look in the mirror and asking myself when I’m due. Instead I will ask myself how old the newborn that I obviously just had is.
  • Keep up my tireless anti-phone crusade – continue teaching people that emailing, texting and instant messaging are far more polite ways to communicate than actually calling someone and interrupting whatever they are doing with a loud screechy phone ring.
  • Spend less time on social media – only check FB once a week unless I’m in a waiting room, need to stalk someone, or have given up on ever doing anything productive.
  • Be a better dog mom – pet my dogs without telling them “mommy loves the kitties better.” In my defense, they don’t speak English.
  • Stop dieting – this usually means I eat nothing but protein and vegetables for breakfast and lunch and then down a pizza and Twinkies for dinner.

That’s it.  Those are my resolutions.  I’m confident that I can keep these because I BELIEVE I can.  I never thought I would lose twenty pounds last year or finish writing that novel I’ve been working on for four years anyway. What resolutions are you making this year? What resolutions have you failed to keep? Let me hear from you in the comment section.

 

 

 

Christmas Wrapping with the Cat

Are we running out of ribbon?!
Are we running out of ribbon?!

That says WRAPPING, not rapping. So, if you came here to see me sing a down and funky Christmas tune with Andre, you will be sadly disappointed. Andre can’t rap, and he also can’t wrap, but he at least tries to do the second. By tries to wrap, I mean that he likes to “kill” just about everything that is needed to wrap a present. Of course, I could just go into a room and close the door and wrap presents without a cat jumping on everything that moves, but WHERE would the challenge be? I’m pretty sure I burn about ten extra calories a minute just from moving the cat and redoing things. So, I have become an expert on this, and I would like to help you learn to wrap your presents and still be a loving kitty mama or papa.

It’s simple, really. Here’s how you wrap presents with a kitty, in 70 short steps:

  1. Take out wrapping paper
  2. Unroll paper
  3. Grab first gift
  4. Put gift down next to paper
  5. Remove cat from on top of wrapping paper
  6. Put gift on paper
  7. Take cat off of gift
  8. Cut out chunk of wrapping paper with cat teeth marks in it.
  9. Wrap gift, taping paper as you go.
  10. Notice cat fur on tape.
  11. Try to peel tape off of paper.
  12. Push cat off of package.
  13. Try to pick cat fur out of tape
  14. End up getting nail polish on the tape, too.
  15. Remove tape, ripping paper
  16. Throw used, furry tape aside
  17. Wad up paper and throw in trash.
  18. Notice cat has tape stuck on paw.
  19. Chase the cat to remove tape from paw.
  20. Tell the dog to stop chasing the cat with you.
  21. Grab cat and remove tape from cat’s paw.
  22. Go back to wrapping room.
  23. Unroll paper.
  24. Put present on paper.
  25. Cut paper.
  26. Almost stab cat with scissors after he jumps on paper.
  27. Move cat off of paper.
  28. Wrap and tape gift.
  29. Take out ribbon
  30. Remove ribbon from cat’s mouth

    I like the skinny ribbon better! I know it's in here!
    I like the skinny ribbon better! I know it’s in here!
  31. Cut bitten part of ribbon off.
  32. Get a Lysol wipe to clean cat spit off of scissors that touched ribbon.
  33. Push cat away with left foot while leaning right to tie ribbon.
  34. Wipe cat spit from ribbon.
  35. Shriek in pain after cat bites left foot.
  36. Apply alcohol and Band-aid to left foot.
  37. Hope the gift receiver is not allergic to cats
  38. Notice your foot is still bleeding.
  39. Call your husband from your cell phone even though he is downstairs.
  40. Go to the hospital to get stitches in your foot.
  41. Return from hospital with an antibiotic prescription
  42. Hobble upstairs to the wrapping room.
  43. Close the door so the cat cannot HELP.
  44. Listen to the cat beat on the door and yowl.
  45. Open the door and let the damn cat in.
  46. Call your husband on the phone again and ask for a stiff drink.
  47. Gulp down drink and grab the next present.
  48. Notice you have Christmas gift bags.
  49. Open a bag.
  50. Reach for tissue to put in bag.
  51. Notice cat is in bag.
  52. Lure cat out of bag with tissue paper.
  53. Grab wrapping paper.
  54. Grab present.
  55. Realize you never put a nametag on the first present.
  56. Unwrap first present because you forgot whom it was for.
  57. Throw first present in gift bag after removing cat again.
  58. Put tissue paper in gift bag.
  59. Remove that one wet piece of tissue.
  60. Throw wet tissue in trash.
  61. Wash hands, hoping it was only cat spit again.
  62. Get more tissue.
  63. Put tissue in bag.
  64. Call for another drink.
  65. Grab second present.
  66. Notice it is for your son.
  67. Grab roll of Santa paper.
  68. Unroll paper.
  69. Accidentally bonk cat on head with present while racing him to the paper.
  70. Move unconscious cat over and finish wrapping.
Where's that bag?
Where’s that bag?

See! It’s really not tough to get your present wrapping done and be a loving pet parent. Kitties like being involved in everything. Whoever said they just ignore you probably never had a cat. Happy Holidays from Andre and me!

Disclaimer: While this was based on a true story, Andre was never unconscious, and I never had to go to the hospital. The rest is true. Liz, there is cat spit on your present, girl.

Update: Andre passed away on January 4, 2017.  I miss him so much.