Daily Diatribes

Today is December 27th and my life is back to quasi-normal.  The extended family has been and gone.  The presents are stashed upstairs.  The wrapping paper is mostly thrown away.  The kitchen….well, the kitchen is still filled with dirty dishes, but it’s a work in progress.  I don’t know why I was dreading it all so much because now that it’s over, it seems I spent a ridiculous amount of time being angst ridden!

For Christmas this year, my son received the highly coveted WII.  I had an urge to sell it on E-Bay three days before Christmas because I could’ve funded his trip to Europe with the proceeds, but the Christmas spirit prevailed and it was under the tree.  He also got Guitar Hero 3 to play on the new machine.  Yesterday, while I was upstairs helping him pack, he urged me to take a break and play with him.

He went first and the game seemed pretty straightforward.  You hold a guitar and the chords pop on the screen.  They are color coded and all you have to do is press the corresponding colored button on the guitar and press down a black button at the same time.  It’s a little like the game Simon we played as kids, only not so much.  My son effortlessly sailed through difficult chords and riffs like a pro.

When my turn came, I gingerly placed the guitar strap around my neck and hefted the guitar.  It felt pretty good and  I envisioned myself as an older, wiser, plumper, wrinklier version of Blondie or that big haired dude from Twisted Sister.  I decided to play “Hit Me With Your Best Shot”, ‘made famous by Pat Benatar’ the Wii advised me.  Duh, I grew up in the 80’s and my Atari was way cooler than the Wii!

I lined my fingers up on the colored buttons and pushed start.  The red chord popped up on the screen and I pushed the red button, but I forgot to push the black one.  The guitar made a horrible sound and the band onstage winced.  I muttered sorry and got ready for the next one which was coming fast.  It was yellow and I pushed the green button.  The vocalist turned to stare at me.  My son started laughing.

The notes were starting to come faster and for the life of me I could not remember which finger was on which color.  I couldn’t look down to see because then I wouldn’t be able to see the music.  I looked down anyway and missed an entire stanza.  I looked back up, and red, yellow, green flashed by.  I pressed yellow, green red and the guitar squealed like a piglet.  The vocalist threw her hands up in disgust and walked off the stage.  My son literally fell off the couch howling as the audience booed me.  My on screen persona was a gigantic white man with long hair and a scowl on his face, with a build like a Transformer.  He made an Italian gesture toward the audience and threw his guitar down.  My audience  approval rating was 3% and the number of wrong notes I had hit was an astronomical 247.

“Shut up and stop laughing,” I snarled at my son, “and turn it on again.  I can do this.” 

He sat up and wiped away the tears and hit the reset button.  Once again, the colors began coming fast and furious and within seconds, I was booed off the stage again.  Do you know what it does to your self esteem when cartoon people boo you?  The bad was jeering at me and audience members were rushing the box office to get their money back.  I felt completely incompetent and useless.  My fantasy of being the uber-cool mom who could play guitar hero with the best of them slowly faded away. 

“Isn’t there a practice mode?” I asked him plaintively.  He grabbed the control and went to the menu.  Sure enough, there was a rehearsal setting.  “That’s all I need,” I said, “just some extra rehearsal time.”  He gave me a look that implied no amount of practice time would ever be enough to keep me on the stage.  I had a dreadful feeling he was probably right.

I picked the same song and we set it on the easy level.  Then I had additional options.  I could break the song down into sections, but I didn’t want to spend all afternoon on it so I opted for the whole song.  I was also able to choose song speed.  I chose the “Jerry’s Kid” speed, reasoning the average hamster could probably play it at that speed.

I pressed start and the music began with excruciating slowness.  Each chord was drawn out about 25 measures and the beat was almost nonexistent.  The first color flashed and I pressed it too soon and missed.  It quickly became apparent I was not going to play any better this way.  The notes were TOO slow and I couldn’t seem to hit them at the right time.  I finally quit, mostly because I was afraid my child was going to laugh himself into an epileptic fit.

Ok, so I’m not Guitar Hero material.  Today I was upstairs cleaning his room while he is jetting off to Europe.  MA wandered in and invited me to play tennis.  I do not play tennis in real life.  Parts of me jiggle a lot when I run, and it’s not just the top half either.  It’s the middle half and the bottom half too.  So I don’t run.  But virtual tennis sounds like a much easier proposition, so I agreed.  She set up the game and handed me the controller.

I looped the strap around my wrist and assumed what I considered to be an appropriate tennis stance.  She pressed a button and “WHACK” the ball came flying across the net.  I was the little black dude on the screen named Cracker and he jumped and did a somersault and missed the ball completely.  Rosy, my teammate, competently hit it back over the net.  It came back over and Cracker jumped again.  Somersaulted again.  Missed again.  Rosy slammed it back over the net again and scored a point.  I was huffing a bit and sweat was popping out at my temples, but I shook it off and got ready for the next serve.

Cracker is obviously not related to Venus Williams.  He comported himself like a fool on the court, missing shots left and right and jumping around like a maniac.  He possessed no finesse and no tennis skills.  He was a liability to his partner.  And he is out of shape, just like me.  Our team managed to win the first match based solely on Rosy’s skill.  I wanted to quit, but MA taunted me into playing again.

This time I was ready for it.   The first ball was hit to me and I swung with all my might.  I watched in amazement as Cracker hit the ball and it flew across the net and out of reach of my opponent.  ”YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I thundered and danced a jig.  Within minutes, I was almost as competent as MA, returning every ball hit to me and causing little black clouds of rage to form over the heads of my opponents.  I was on fire!  Eat your heart out VENUS!  CRACKER IS IN THE BUILDING!!!!!

We played two games and by the end of the second one, I was hurting.  I could feel the atrophied muscles in my upper arm, the ones I never use, screaming in protest at the physical activity.  I felt the beginnings of tennis elbow.  And I was sweating lightly.  Truly, Wii is not for the faint of heart.

As I write this, my son is boarding a plane headed for Germany.  While he is gone, I am going to sneak back upstairs and learn how to play Guitar Hero.  I will dazzle him with my skills when he returns!  Or not!

By now, I am well and truly sick of the whole thing.  I am done with the eggnog, done with the sausage balls and done with the gift giving/buying/wrapping.  I want my previous life back.  The one where I don’t dress up every night and go to parties where I drink way too much wine and eat too many carbohydrates.  The one where I am not expected to create decoupage toilet paper holders for all of my friends.  And especially, I am done with Christmas carols.

They start in September when Cracker Barrel first introduces all of its holiday stuff.  You walk into the Old Country Store, your mind full of homemade biscuits and hashbrown casserole and you hear them.  The biscuits dancing over your head are slowly replaced with an image of….snowmen??  In September??  Then you realize what you’re hearing and a scream of despair reverberates through your brain…..NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!  It’s not even Halloween yet!! 

By the time Christmas gets here, Jingle Bells has been playing non-stop for two solid months.  Bing Crosby has crooned “White Christmas” so many times, he’s hoarse.  The Little Drummer Boy has turned in his wooden drum and gone on tour with Metallica.  Christmas music has become trite and stale by Christmas.

That’s why I like to listen to Special X-mas on XM radio.  I play it as often as I can because some of these songs are true works of art and can only be heard once a year on this station.  My children are becoming nasty and warped, much like their mother.  My daughter came in one day last week, looked at me bemusedly and said “Mom, I think they’re singing Merry Christmas in Hell.”  Yep, that’s my kind of music.

The station doesn’t even bother with that old chestnut “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer”.  It’s so overdone.  No, they play “Grandpa Got Runned Over by a John Deere”, which celebrates the settlement the family receives after they sue John Deere for gross negligence and criminal misconduct.  It’s a tune that will definitely warm the cockles of your heart.

I was driving the kids to the movies yesterday and “Santa Eats Little Kids” played.  What a great tune and I can’t understand why it doesn’t get the same airtime as “I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas”.  I find the notion of Santa being a cannibal infinitely more realistic than some kid wanting a ‘hippo hero’.   I love the line where Santa gets the kids on his lap so he can pick the meatiest one to dine on that night.  The song gleefully goes on to tell us that all parents are in on the conspiracy, so don’t bother asking them for help. 

Today, on the way home from church, we heard “I Found Santa’s Brain”.  It was in a jar under the singer’s bed and it was ‘more gray than red’ and ’smelled like dried tuna’.  I can’t understand why the song is not more requested than, say, “Christmas Shoes” or “Rudolph”?  The goddess was perplexed by the whole song:  “What did he find under his bed mommy?”  “He found Santa’s TRAIN,” I replied.  Why warp her too soon?

There’s a great tune called “Merry Freakin Christmas” which I particularly adore.  And anything off the South Park Christmas album is pretty good.  If anyone remembers Mystery Science Theater 3K, which I loved, the cast has several Christmas songs out, including ”A Patrick Swayze Christmas”.  The song defies belief, so I’ll just leave the link here for you.  Wish I knew how to do the neat thing Willow does where the video shows up and you just click, but I don’t know how.   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ZyJCV_dyug

I love Weird Al and I laughed until I cried when I heard “The Night Santa Claus Went Crazy”.  Something finally snaps in Santa’s brain, and he blows up the workshop and grinds Rudolph up into reindeer sausage.   Here’s a sample and don’t tell me the man is not a complete genius: 

Well, the workshop is gone now, he decided to bomb it
Everywhere you’ll find pieces of Cupid and Comet
And he tied up his helpers and he held the elves hostage
And he ground up poor Rudolph into reindeer sausage
He got Dancer and Prancer with an old German Luger
And he slashed up Dasher just like Freddy Krueger
And he picked up a flamethrower and he barbequed Blitzen
And he took a big bite and said, “It tastes just like chicken

You can keep listening to Gene Autry warble “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” and Roger Whittaker sing “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”  Me, I am going with Special Xmas because it is the ONLY thing keeping me going right now!!

To the 17 people who read this blog, have a Merry Christmas/Happy Hannukah/Blessed Kwanzaa/Special December Day!  I love you all!

I hate the holidays.  Have you figured that out yet??  The Christmas cards are pouring in, each family cuter and more photogenic than the last.  Well, except for Gina’s.   She looks like she’s about to axe murder her family in the picture!  I haven’t even sent out cards yet.  I probably won’t get around to it because I suck.  And what about the homemade gifts?Yesterday, who pulls up in my driveway, but Dr. Renee Medicine Woman, bearing a beautiful handmade gift.  It’s not enough that she’s a successful doctor.  It’s not enough that she is a skinny ass bitch.  No, she has to go ahead and top all that by making a lovely, hand stamped candle holder, complete with a tiny, good smelling votive, all ready to be lit.  Great; I was going to give her cheese.  How classy am I?  I love her gift, but the pressure is too much to bear, more than my Lexapro can handle.  Maybe I need to see her for a Xanax prescription!It’s not that I don’t want to make handmade gifts.  I have the genetic instincts to be Martha Stewart.  I simply lack the follow through and the actual necessary skills to make anything.  I can’t use a glue gun.  I don’t even own one.  And if I did, what on earth would I make???I’m not one of those people who saves my toenail clippings and bellybutton lint all through the year, waiting for the moment to use those scraps to churn out perfect replicas of the Mona Lisa on toilet paper rolls.  It’s just not in me.  I would like to use my own earwax to make you a set of tapers to grace your dining room table, but it ain’t happening.  Too freakin’ much work!!  How about some nice cheese instead?Nancy M. gave all of her friends a plastic chip and dip bowl and an oven mitt.  I gave her nothing because I am a good friend and don’t want to burden her with a good gift.  Cindy, however, had no class whatsoever and gifted Nancy with a beautiful, fluffy white robe.  What an even exchange that was:  plastic chip and dip vs. fluffy white robe.  You do the math!  Poor Nancy was devastated and there was nothing she could do.  Nothing except mumble thank you for the robe and slink off, vowing to buy Waterford chip and dips next year. So in the spirit of all that is good and pure about the season, I’m not giving you shit.  I’ve already told y’all I’m not baking cookies, candies, or constructing winter chalets out of graham crackers and icing.  You can check the handmade gift off the list too.  Frankly, anything my six  year old made would be better than what I could create.  However, if I am in the neighborhood, I will drop by with a gift of cheese and a generous dash of my searing wit.  What could be better than that?

My Dad once gave me a book called “Taking Back Your Kids” which I am sure he sincerely intended to be a helpful gift.  When I donated it to Hannah Home a few weeks ago, having never opened it, it was with the equally sincere hope that someone else would find it helpful.  After all, I’m doing a damn good job and I don’t need any advice from the so-called “experts”.

I have never been one for the parenting books.  I read “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” from cover to cover, but otherwise, I have been muddling through the business of parenthood on my own.  Frankly I usually disagree with the authors.  None of them favor spanking children, while I have found through my own experience that a good beating will cure what ails them.  You know that old proverb…..a beating a day keeps the parole officer away??  I think it’s a mantra to live by! 

I also read a few pages of The Strong Willed Child once, when my son was about to be tossed out of preschool, but I didn’t learn anything helpful, other than beating children is not a good idea according to the author.  And yet I managed to keep my son from being expelled even without James Dobson’s words of wisdom.  Mostly, when I read those sorts of books, I feel even worse about myself as a parent.  Why am I not spending every waking moment making homemade play dough with them and teaching the to sing Russian folk songs??  Should I remove all the gluten from their diets or all the sugar or should I feed them nuts and bark with no added preservatives??  No wonder my kids are bad; they can’t recite any Shakespearean sonnets and they eat Cheetos!!  When I read what the experts do to make their children better citizens of the planet I feel like a low down dirty failure. 

So as a service to help educate my readers, I am going to make a list of what I consider to be helpful resources.  They are designed to make everyone feel better about his or her parenting style.  Consider it a compendium of worst case scenarios, a collection of “and I thought I  was the meanest mother in the world!” stories.   And if you’re not a parent, the list might at least make you a better hamster owner.

1.  Mommie Dearest is probably the forerunner for this category.  Who doesn’t look like a better mother compared to Joan Crawford?  I make my kids eat their vegetables, but I’ve never left them at the table for twelve hours, sobbing over a piece of bloody, mad-cow disease ridden beef!  And those wire hangers!!  We don’t even use wire hangers; I keep the white plastic ones from Wal-Mart.  I see no reason to read a book that makes me feel like a worse mother and when I read this one, I defintely come out on top. 

2.  A Boy Called It or some title like that.  I read it in Zany Brainy one summer while my daughter participated in their summer reading program.  The poor kid in the book was abused in every way possible by his deranged mother.  I will admit I am not the greatest mother in the world.  However,  I have never forced my children to sleep under the basement stairs.  They all have lovely, comfortable rooms and beds with clean sheets.  Negative to the poisoning, stabbing and burning too.  In fact, compared to his mother, I am a virtual paragon!  I shine with maternal goodness when weighed against Dave Pelzer’s crazy mother.  So anytime I need to reinforce my self-esteem, I turn to this story.  Yes, I administer the occasional “ass whuppin” but I draw the line at torture and mutilation.

3.  The Glass Castle is a great story.  The parents are not abusive, just deeply crazy and rather neglectful.  The story opens with the author’s earliest memory, which is cooking hotdogs for herself at the age of three and suffering third degree burns when she overturns the pot on herself.  I never let my children cook their own porksicles; I always nuke them myself.  In another memorable scene, the family is driving through the desert and the author is bounced out of the car (the bottom is rusted out) and left behind.  Now I frequently THREATEN to leave my kids on the side of the road, but I have never left one and then gone on my merry way without realizing I had lost a child.  The house the children live in is rotting slowly and crawling with roaches.  Rainwater drips in on everything and everybody.  Grandma is trying to feel up little Jimmy.  Compared to the parents in this story, I am Donna Reed with a generous dash of June Cleaver!! 

4.  Flowers in the Attic which is a classic for anyone who came of age in the 1980’s.   I may not be the best mother in the world, but I will not lock my kids in the attic during their formative years, forcing them to lust after one another in an unnatural manner.  As far as I know, my husband is not my half uncle.  And I have never once tried to poison the children with powdered sugar donuts, tempting as the thought may be.  In fact, I am a paragon of virtue compared to her.  I may not sing them Russian folk songs and teach them the accompanying dances, but by golly I’m still not doing such a bad job! 

5.  Running With Scissors is a book I really enjoyed.  The author is sent to live with his mother’s psychiatrist, who is crazier than anyone.  What a wonderful story for someone seeking to boost his or her ego about raising children.  There’s a big difference between sending your kids to stay with a grandma who smells of mothballs for a night and sending them to live with a head shrinker who thinks God is speaking to him through his bowel movements.  Mind you, I’ve had a few revelations through my own, but they are usually dietary. 

I’m not advocating child abuse as the preferred method for raising children.  Instead, I am purporting we learn from the example these bad parents have set for us and try to do a better job with our children.  And also, when we read these stories, we can lift our heads a bit higher and be secure in the knowledge we would never put out a lit cigarette on our child.  Well, unless the little shit provoked us by talking too loud when we are trying to recover from our Budweiser binge….anyway, you know what I mean.  I’m not the best mother in the world, but I’m not the worst either!!  And I am happy to be in the middle!

I am surprised I have not been reprimanded for my lack of posts, but it has been VERY busy around here.  I hate the holidays.  I hate the “Christmas Shoes” song.  I hate that it got stuck in my head yesterday after Gina and I crooned it for someone, and then tried to explain why the song was so hilarious.  And most of all, I hate holiday parties.  Especially the ones that are my responsibility.

The madness began on Friday with the goddess’s holiday party at school.  It was actually pretty low key; I bought a tray of chicken nuggests and someone else brought cookies.  Still, I had to be there, and I had to run around and get stuff for it.  Hassle.  Yesterday, we had a basketball game, followed by a girl scout party at my house, followed by a movie viewing at my friend’s house.  The last was the best; it was just three of us and we watched “It’s a Wonderful Life”, which I love despite the obvious hokiness of it.  I entertain myself throughout the movie by rewriting the script to fit today’s politically correct world.  Mr. Gower, the druggist who slaps George around?  In jail for child abuse.  The kid who turned the key to open up the pool so George and Mary would fall in?  In juvie hall for malicious mischief.  Sam Wainwright??  In the federal penitentiary for insider trading.  I’m really surprised someone hasn’t filmed an updated version of the movie.

Today, we got up, went to 8:30 mass and then to Sunday school, where there were still more parties.  The goddess and I rushed through the social hall on our way to her class so she could get a donut.  As we rushed to class, she slipped on the sidewalk and fell, but her donut NEVER TOUCHED THE GROUND!!!  It was an amazing thing to see.  She went down on both knees but kept the plate up in the air and the donut didn’t so much as wiggle.  Truly, she is my child!

After church, we rushed off to a Singing Santa Brunch.  I entertained my children by planting a kiss on Santa’s cheek.  I thought about slipping him the tongue, but his wife was right there, so I held myself back.  We hit the buffet and sat down to listen to Santa sing karaoke.  Only in America.  He had a pretty good voice, but on “Winter Wonderland”, Mrs. Claus decided to add some harmony.  Bad call.  I sighed with relief when it was over and then Santa said “Well Mrs. Claus…ho ho ho….maybe we ought to sing that one more time!!”  And they did.  I guess we were on the naughty list this year and that was our punishment.  Or maybe it was payback for the kiss!

I am now using my thirty minute reprieve to type this post, then I have to rush off to another girl scout meeting and another holiday party.  Then I get to come home and entertain MA’s soccer team here from 5 to 7.  And then I am done.  No more h0liday parties.  I quit.  I hate being in charge.  I don’t want to plan anything else.  At least not until the Super Bowl. 

I hope you all have a merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I hope you are not watching your mail for my Christmas card ’cause I doubt it’s coming this year!!  Please come visit me in the psych ward after the holidays; I’ll be busy making you all macrame bracelets for next Christmas!

I love You Tube!!

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s8Y_vEKbZhU

Ok, maybe not dentures, but pretty darn close.  I take pride in being a good mother.  My children bathe regularly.  They are nearly hitting the food pyramid recommended servings of fruits and vegetables every day.  They go to bed at a decent hour every night.  I limit their television viewing to healthy shows like “Suite Life of Zach and Cody” and The Weather Channel.  And they visit the doctor and dentist on a regular basis (especially the doctor!!).

Yesterday, I took my girls to the dentist, smugly confident it would be the usual glowing six month report.  “Your children are lovely,” they would say to my delight, “and their teeth are so pearly white.  How lucky you are!”  I would modestly nod my head, unable to deny the complete physical perfection of my children. 

However, reality came crashing down on me yesterday.  MA was first, and her teeth were predictably glowing and pearly white, as they have been every six months since she was two.  “A perfect smile,” the dentist declared.  No orthodontia in my daughter’s future; she has a Colgate Smile.

Then came the goddess.  She lay on the exam table, her golden hair spread about her in a halo, her tiny milk teeth shimmering ‘neath the fluorescent light.  The dentist, however, did not seem to appreciate the Rockwellian tableau arrayed before him.  He tsked and shook his head and looked at the hygienist and they both looked at me accusingly.

“See this highlighted area?” he asked, pointing to an image on the computer.  There on the screen was an image of my baby’s teeth, in technicolor.  “Look at this,” he said, moving the cursor.  “THAT’S A CAVITY!!!!”  Violins screeched discordantly and the room whirled around as I struggled to process what he was saying.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “what did you say?”  Surely he was looking at the wrong x-rays.  My perfect children have perfect teeth.  How dare he imply otherwise?  Perhaps a change in dental providers was in order.

“Hmmm,” he murmured, “and look at this one.  Are you flossing her teeth?”

I sat down weakly, unable to comprehend what was happening.  “Fl….Fl….floss her….teeth?” I stammered.  Surely he was joking.  With my jam-packed schedule of volunteering, lunching and Pogo, when was I supposed to floss her teeth?  Besides, she goes ballistic when I cut her toenails; she would probably launch into orbit if I tried to floss her teeth.

“Look right here,” he said.  “See how the teeth have a spot between them?  That,” he said severely, “is a cavity.”  He looked at me reproachfully and my parental self esteem dwindled away to nothing.  My baby, the light of my life, the love of my heart, has rotten teeth.  That toothless smile that slayed me when she was five won’t be so cute when she’s twenty-five.  There goes her shot at Miss America.

“Are they her permanent teeth?” I asked meekly.

“No, they’re baby teeth, but they must be filled,” he said.  “It will be a couple of years before they fall out and we’ve caught it early.  If we don’t fill them now, I won’t be able to treat them.”

The goddess lay serenely on the table, blissfully unaware I had failed her.  Unaware, that I, her caretaker and protector, had allowed the CAVITY CREEPS  to infiltrate her teeth and spread their infamous rot and decay.  I sniffled a bit and the dentist looked at me kindly.

“Her teeth are really tight and close together,” he said, “and brushing isn’t getting the job done.  SHE MUST FLOSS!”  He made the pronouncement in the voice of God speaking to Moses from the burning bush.   

I babbled promises of floss and fluoride rinses as the goddess slowly sat up, realizing something was amiss.  Helpfully, MA chimed up and said “You have a CAVITY!”

The goddess looked at me for confirmation, and I couldn’t meet her eyes.  The dentist started talking about appointments and laughing gas and drills, and the goddess’s eyes widened in horror.  My eyes widened in horror.  ‘If I start drinking today,’ I thought, ‘I might be drunk enough by Friday to bring her back to have the cavities filled.’

The dentist wrapped up the talk and sent me to the appointment desk.  I scheduled the appointment for Friday morning.  So don’t mistake her piercing screams for weather sirens.  Same pitch, but different causation.  And for the future, I invested about $20 in all TYPES of dental floss equipment today!!  CAVITY CREEPS BEWARE!!!!

If you have a minute today, log on to www.winanmri.com and watch Cooper Green Hospital’s video clip.  Then vote for them!  Cooper Green is a hospital in downtown Birmingham, serving the uninsured and underinsured.  I know they could use a free MRI…who couldn’t? Maybe I should submit a clip and get one for my house. Then I could do a whole body MRI on the children once a week to make sure they are healthy!

The worst thing that can happen to either of my older children is to get stuck alone with me in the car.  Because, being the diligent and concerned mother I am, I take the opportunity provided to discuss sex with them.  As you can imagine, the disturbs them mightily.  Especially since I ambush them out of the blue.  I will suddenly turn to my son and blurt out ”Son, how’s your weiner doing these days?  Any questions you need to ask me?”

Sadly, I am not exaggerating about this.  I like to keep those lines of communication open and I like to be honest with my kids.  Maybe one day they’ll thank me for it.  Or maybe one day they’ll climb a tower and shoot a bunch of people and blame me for it because I asked too many invasive questions about their private parts.  Whatever happens, I feel someone needs to talk to them about sex and it might as well be me.

Along those lines, I had a conversation with my daughter the other night.  We were driving to basketball practice when I attacked.  “So, MA, do you have any questions about sex you need to ask me?”

She glared at me and said scathingly “MO-THER,” in a tone implying I am less useful to the planet than a single-celled organism.

“Hey, I’m just asking,” I said in a friendly way.  “I mean, are any of your friends having sex?  Does anyone want to have sex with you?  Because you should wait until you’re done with law school before you even consider having a boyfried, let alone sex.”  I figure if I keep planting the seed, maybe it will take root!  Either seed….law school or abstinence, although both would be a triumph!!

She was rolling her eyes so frantically I was actually afraid she was having a seizure.  “Mom, you are sooooooooo embarassing,” she whined.  “Why do you have to ask me stupid questions???”

I continued to attack relentlessly.  “Because I love you and I want you to be safe.  You do realize any contact you have with anyone’s….er….um….genitals…is considered sex and you can get diseases and die, right?”  I like to go straight to the worst case scenario.  Go ahead and impress upon them the likelihood of death and it just might keep them from doing something stupid.

“What are genitals?” she asked.  I recognized this as a diversionary tactic, but I played along.

“It’s just a fancy word for you private parts,” I told her.  This is where the conversation began to get surreal.  I realize for some of you, the conversation was surreal from the opening gambit, but it was mostly normal for us.  It was when she asked “Isn’t there like a disease you can get that’s called like GENTILE something?” that I lost control of the talk.

“No sweetie, it’s not gentile,” I corrected her.  “You’re thinking of GENITAL herpes.”  Lots of conseratives love to blame the Clinton administration for corrupting our children with sexual images, but myself, I am blaming Big Pharma (I saw that term in Time magazine, fell in love with it, and have been dying to use it!!!).  The radio station MA and most of her peeps listen to runs ads for Valtrex all through the day.  Voice…”I thought I was safe when my herpes wasn’t active, but I didn’t realize I could give it to her at any time….that’s why I take Valtrex once a day to protect her….”   So glad my child now knows all about herpes and its transmission! And how ’bout that Viagra Garage Band???  Did you know what a four hour erection was when you were a kid???  Well our kids sure know!

Anyway, I continued to explain the difference between genitals and gentiles.  After all, it’s a rather important distinction, Gentiles being non-Jews and genitals your reproductive organs.  Although I see how it can be confusing. 

MA tossed her hair and said “I think it should be called GENTILE herpes.  It sounds better!”

I am sure Jewish people all across the world would be thrilled.  Gentile herpes, the virus limited only to those of the non-Jewish persuasion, leading to the dominance of Jews around the globe!  In fact, the Jewish community may be in league WITH the drug companies to create just such an occurrence. 

“Well, sweetie,” I said, “it may sound better, but I think at this point in history, it might be too confusing to switch.  After all, we’ve been calling non-Jews Gentiles for thousands of years.  It might be confusing if we started referring to them as GENITALS at this late date!”

She thought for a moment and then shrugged and said “well, I still think GENTILE herpes sounds better.”  And there you have it!  If I was Captain Picard I would simply point and say “make it so number one” but unfortunately, I don’t have the power.  So for now, genitals will remain the preferred terminology for your weiner and gentiles the preferred term for non-Jews.  And she managed to successfully end our conversation without answering any of my questions, since we were pulling into the parking lot.  I wonder if Dr. Ruth had these sorts of problems with her children?

I used to be a really nice person.  I never argued with anyone.  I calmly listened to people rant and rave and I spoke quietly, trying to be a peacemaker.  Even if I was seething inside, I didn’t argue.  It just wasn’t in my nature. 

But in the last few years, something inside me snapped.  I stopped listening calmly.  I started arguing.  Maybe it’s hormonal or maybe, as Gina says, I have finally gotten a backbone.  More importantly, I started a list inside my head.  Just like Santa Claus, it’s a list of who is naughty and who is nice.  Woe betide those on the naughty list.  If you own a business, I will not frequent it.  If you are a person, I will speak of you contemptuously.  And I will blog about you, of course without crossing the line into libel.  Or is it slander?  I get them confused.

So here is my 2007 Naughty and Nice List (we’ll start with nice since it’s shorter):

Nice:

1.     LaToya at Enterprise Rent a Car in Dothan.  She fought ferociously to get  me a minivan after my Suburban was smacked.  She stared down a roomful of people and said “Don’t y’all TOUCH that minivan….it’s mine.”  Considering the length of her fingernails, it’s little wonder no one argued.  We love you LaToya!!!

2.     Joe, for making my blog the talk of the blogosphere.  It’s amazing.  He’s a genius.  I love you Joe!!!

3.     Well, ok, let’s move on to the naughty list.  It’s more fun anyway.

Naughty:

1.     The grocery store at which I used to shop and no longer frequent whatsoever, despite their frighteningly large selection of strange foods.   I stayed loyal as long as I could, foregoing the evil temptations of the Publix with its fresher produce and delightful deli.  But one night an evil cashier refused to acknowledge she had already handed me my cash back and caused a scene and I had to wait ten minutes for the manager to verify she had, indeed, not given me my money.  Bad cashier!  Bad manager!  Bad grocery store!  I could ignore the roach I saw in the bathroom.  I could forgive the rat head in the can of green beans (not my can, but it’s a true story!!!) but doubting my word pushed me over the edge and out the door.  I don’t get cash back very often, but when I do, I want it without an argument.  That would be the moral of the story!

2.      The Arby’s man who gave me such an attitude.  Ok, basically anyone who deals with the public, even though he or she hates the public and wants us all to die horrible, miserable deaths by consuming the fat laden, artery clogging products he or she gleefully sells at fast food restaurants.  We’ve all had crappy jobs.  That’s life.  Suck it up and be nice or find another job.  Preferably one in a deep dark hole filled with rats and worms.

3.     Squirrels.  Fuzzy tailed minions of Satan, some find them cute and cuddly, but those of us in the know recognize their bid to take over civilization.  The news this year has been filled with “tails” of the little buggers attacking people and shorting out electricity all over the world.  Bad squirrels.  Hope they all rot in hell.  Let Satan deal with them; he loves them!!

4.     Habib and the rest of his faceless minions in third world customer service centers all across the globe.  Ok, I don’t personally blame Habib.  It’s not his fault the crappy company outsourced customer service to his part of the world.  He’s just trying to earn his lousy $10 a day for a job that pays $20,000 plus benefits in the US.  But someone must be held responsible.  Shit rolls downhill and Habib is at the bottom of the hill.  So he is the one who gets splattered and cursed.  Sorry my friend; that’s just the way it is.

5.     The person who indicated it was ok for a minivan to cross traffic, thereby causing her to slam into my car.  The person then drove away.  It was likely a squirrel or possibly even Habib.  Whoever the culprit might be, I have been Suburban-less for over two weeks, thus dramatically reducing my share of ozone destroying and gas consuming.  I am way behind the princesses in their Hummers.  I’m going to have to drive extra hard next week to make up for it!

6.     The woman in the Zaxby’s drive-thru today who argued with the disembodied voice taking her order.  She wanted to use a coupon and the disembodied voice informed her it was only good in Alabaster.  She proceeded to argue, unsuccessfully, that her coupon should be honored since this Zaxby’s once printed a coupon a long time ago, which misled her into thinking it would accept all coupons.  She lost and wasted a lot of my time.  All I wanted to do was get my deep fried grease fingers and go home. 

7.     The people who DID NOT come to my party yesterday.  Yes, I had a party.  And I invited you.  And even if I didn’t invite you, you were still invited and you should have come.  It was a flop.  The first flop I have ever hosted.  It was to showcase the beautiful jewelry made by my friends Christy and Julie.  So if you want to redeem yourself, call me and order some jewelry.  Otherwise, I will mock you again for not coming to my party. Bitches.  (Mojo, this doesn’t pertain to you since you told me you weren’t coming.)

8.     The Green Bay Packers for losing to the damn old Dallas Cowboys, thereby causing my younger, annoying sibling to call me repeatedly to harass me.  My sibling who only WISHES Sonny Bono or Anton Ohno, or whatever their stupid quarterback’s name is, could even remotely compare to the fabulous, incredibly talented, remarkably GORGEOUS hunk of man that is Brett Favre.  Bite me Brother!!  We’ll kill them in the playoffs, the game that really counts!!!

Well, I was aiming for ten, but I am running out of oomph.  It’s hard to remember all the people and events that have pissed me off this year, for they are legion!  I may have to continue this into another post.  So I’ll just end it here; HO HO Freakin’ HO!!!