Daily Diatribes

I love Halloween; it’s my favorite holiday. I love spooky decorations and I love candy. Put the two together and you have the perfect holiday!! No gift giving to worry about, no egg-dyeing or pie baking. Halloween is everything a holiday should be. It’s minimum stress with maximum pleasure and I love it.

For Halloween, I have two costume ideas. One is to be the economy. I can’t think of anything scarier than the economy. But I’ve been having a hard time coming up with a blueprint for it. I’m toying with a ghost format a la “Christmas Carol”. I could wear chains weighted down with AIG and Wa Mu stock prospectuses (prospecti??) and wander around and moan senselessly about deregulation. Maybe I could wear a Phil Gramm face.

My other idea is to go braless, and every once in awhile, lift my shirt and scream “They’re falling, they’re falling”!! My boobs make an excellent analogy for the stock market because they are definitely down over 900 points and falling!! However, I will probably go with the first option since my chest might be too scary for the general population.

On this most festive of days, I am stretched to the breaking point. My washing machine is broken and the mountains of laundry that have proliferated in the three days since the machine went nuts add to the spooky ambiance of the house. When I called the repair center, the lady cheerfully told me a technician would be at my house between the hours of 8 and 5. I’m glad she narrowed it down like that; I’d hate to waste a whole day sitting around waiting for the repairperson…oh wait, I WILL BE wasting the whole day!! Luckily, I have so much to do at home that I don’t mind.

Because all my neighbors are coming over tonight to eat chili before we go trick or treating. Every year, we hook up a trailer and haul all the kids around the neighborhood for trick or treating. It’s great fun and it keeps the little ones from getting too tired because our neighborhood has lots of hills. Hugo is cooking the chili, so my duties there are limited. Unless you count the excessive amount of time I spent yesterday dusting and mopping so no one would have an asthma attack from all the dust. I hate our damn maid….she is such a slacker!!!

And did I mention tonight is the homecoming dance at the high school and I have to take Napoleon to pick up his date? I will take many pictures of the happy couple and then my chariot will convey them to the Cheesecake Factory for a pre dance meal. While all the neighbors are at my house eating my chili, I will be battling horrendous traffic driving teenagers around town. If I’m lucky, I might manage to make it home for trick or treating.

In honor of the date, I made Napoleon clean out my car. He did an excellent job and vacuumed every single crevice. Last night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I realized the paperwork for the extended warranty on the washing machine was in my car. This morning, I sent Napoleon to look for it and he couldn’t find it anywhere. In fact, he was pretty sure he had thrown it away. Hugo then sent him dumpster diving to see if he could locate the paperwork. He didn’t find it, but he DID find the key to our safety deposit box which he had thrown away. As he was crawling out of the can, I suddenly remembered my purse seemed rather heavy, so I asked him if he might have placed it in there for safekeeping. He opened it up and there it was, right on top. Still, it was good he had gone dumpster diving, since we just replaced the last safety deposit box key we lost. All’s well that ends well I always say!
Tomorrow is the big Eagle Scout Court of Honor and we have people coming in from out of town to stay with us. In preparation for that blessed event, I have been forced to rent a backhoe and clean MA’s bedroom so it can be used for house guests. Mere words are not enough to describe the pleasure of that activity. Luckily the guests are low maintenance, but the cleaning is a nuisance!!

I hope you all have a happy, safe and MUCH less hectic Halloween than me! The repair people just called and they are on their way, so I may actually be able to make a dent in the laundry mountain before the festivities begin!!

I logged onto Birmingham Blues today (hey Kathy!!) and saw it was “Write to Marry” day. I am supposed to write a post in support of gay marriage. Not having anything else to blog about today, I decided to join.

Marriage is a sacred institution. Many people get married every day. An equal number seem to get divorced every day. I have been married to the same person for 17 years. It’s gotten kind of boring but I am too fat and lazy to divorce him and find someone else. Plus, I would have to get a job and support myself and I don’t see that happening. I scream at him a lot and nag at him to keep the fire going. Occasionally, he does something wonderful that makes me remember why I married him, but mostly it’s a lot of screaming and nagging. It seems to work for us.

Why should straight people have all the fun? Why shouldn’t gay people get to share the misery along with us? I say share it equally and let’s all be miserable together. My uncle has been with his partner for over 25 years which is a waaaaayyyyy better track record than most people can claim. I think they should have the same legal rights as the straight couple that only stays together for 25 days. Or, if you’re Britney Spears, 25 hours.

In fact, gay marriage may be just the thing to get the country out of its current economic crisis. By legalizing gay marriage, the number of weddings one is invited to is bound to increase. More weddings means spending money. No one would be caught dead at a gay wedding wearing an old outfit, so new clothing will have to be purchased. A gift will have to be bought. Parties will be hosted to honor the happy couple. Everybody wins!! Retailers are selling, people are eating and drinking in their new clothing, and gay people have equal rights. What’s not to love about this scenario???

So for God’s sake, legalize gay marriage already!! It’s hardly the most serious or distressing issue facing our country today. Besides, think of the cake they’ll be serving at those weddings!! I love wedding cake!! And maybe there will be a chocolate fountain too! Anyone getting married soon?

Apparently it’s pretty difficult, especially if your name is Jennifer. Apparently because I am the current secretary of state of Ohio or because I gossip too much, or simply because of cosmic forces beyond my control, things have not been easy for me lately. Ordering a cake for Napoleon’s Eagle Scout Court of Honor has taken me three days and approximately 17 gallons of gas and I’m still not convinced we will have a cake this Saturday.

My quest began last Friday when Hugo and I were out together doing our usual day off activities. Knowing the big day was approaching rapidly, we were trying to get a head start on some of the minutiae necessary for such a solemn occasion. We went to the Boy Scout shop and bought plates and napkins. We bought tablecloths. We bought a giant poster board for his display of badges. And we tried to order the cake.

First we went to the Winn Dixie. I like their cakes best because they apparently use full strength lard in their icing. Frankly, you could slap icing on a brick and I would eat it. The icing is the important part. I am highly distrustful of people who scrape their lard infused flowers off and just eat the cake. That’s a sure sign of communism if you ask me. Don’t even comment to me you don’t like icing because then I will know you are a Communist and I may declare a jihad on you.

It took ten minutes and three trips to the front to ask them to page the bakery worker, only to be told, when she finally appeared, that they could not reproduce images on a cake. We wanted the graphic from the invitation to adorn the cake and it could not be done. My dreams of Winn Dixie’s sugar and fat laden icing slowly swirled down the drain. And so, with great reluctance, we went to the Publix to order a cake.

I don’t hold a grudge and I was willing to give them a second chance even though I was not able to give my check card a proper burial. I don’t like their cake icing because it’s light and fluffy, not thick and sugary, but beggars can’t be choosers. We went back to their bakery and the bakery manager, a corpulent man who always wears a blue surgical cap and blue surgical booties, took our order. He tsked over our picture and said “This is too small; can you get me a bigger one?” This was his only problem with our order and it was a reasonable request, so I promised I would return with a larger picture.

Tuesday morning, with less than a week to the big day, I took the enlarged picture in to the bakery. Dr. Bakery Man was not in, so I gave my picture to the assistant manager who had a mouth full of very bad teeth. She took one look at the picture and said “I can’t do this.”

This took me by surprise since Dr. Bakery Man had only requested a larger picture so I asked why. “Because it’s a licensed image,” she told me, handing it back to me.

“No it’s not,” I told her, “it’s clip art.”

She was shaking her head as I said this. “Nope, I can’t do it. It says BSA which is copyrighted. I wish I could help, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Dr. Bakery Man didn’t see a problem with it,” I told her. “But I guess I’ll just cancel my order and go elsewhere,” this last I said with much dignity. The Publix has messed with me one time too many and the jihad is still on. Death to the infidel dogs.

Now I was in a bit of a panic. I went to Hugo’s office to share the bad news with him and forced him to take me out to lunch. After we ate, we decided to go to the Wal-Mart to order the cake. After all, you can get everything at the Wal-Mart. Again, we waited in the bakery for ten minutes before someone finally showed up to help us. He was a very nice man, but he was not the cake maker. The cake maker had come in at 4 a.m. to make the donuts because the donut maker didn’t show up and then she went home. He was actually the bread maker, but he felt pretty certain he could write down our order and the cake baker would be in the next day if we had any questions. We asked him about the picture and he said he didn’t think reproducing it would be a problem. Unfortunately, I had left it in my car which was parked at Hugo’s office so he told me I could bring it tomorrow.

Today is tomorrow, or Wednesday if you want it less confusing. I took the picture to Wal Mart and the cake baker was standing behind the counter. I handed it to her with a smile and said “I ordered a cake yesterday and the guy told me to bring my picture back in for you. Is this big enough”?

She shook her head, which I took as a bad sign. “Did he not tell you the picture machine is broken? I can’t do this.”

My smile faded away. “Um, what do you mean you can’t do this?” I think I might have shrieked a little because she backed up a little bit and said “our machine is broken. But I can call another store for you if you want me to.”

Hyperventilating, I nodded my assent. She proceeded to call three different stores and at every store, the machine was broken. I am sure the odds of that happening to a normal person are nothing short of astronomical, but for me it’s SOP. She looked at me apologetically and said “you can go to the Wal-Mart in Chelsea; their machine works.” Considering the store is about 20 miles away from me, I declined her kind offer and went out to the car. I called Hugo who advised me to go back to the Publix and suck up to the management. I briefly visualized me cavorting in a sexual manner with Dr. Bakery Man, because I am so attracted to men in blue booties, but I was able to wrestle the image from my mind before I lost my breakfast.

Instead, I called Nancy M, who always gives good advice and she told me to call Sam’s Club. I called their bakery and when the lady answered I said “do you have a picture machine for cakes?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Does it work?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said again, and I could tell she was puzzled.
“Would you have a problem printing a picture of an Eagle holding a boy scout emblem?” I asked.
“Not at all.”
“I’ll be right there!” I said.
“Ma’am,” she said sternly and I quickly added “I’m just coming to order the cake; I don’t need it until Saturday.”
“Oh, well, then we’ll see you soon,” she said.
I raced off to Sam’s Club, picture in hand, hoping my quest would end on a happy note. Back to the bakery department I zoomed, stopping briefly to sample some Poppycock. Hey, it’s not a visit to Sam’s if you don’t get a free sample of something!! I arrived in the bakery and filled out the form as directed. Breathlessly, I handed her the form and the picture.

She looked at the picture, tsked, shook her head and said “I can’t do this.”

Again with the “I can’t do this”!! It’s as if all the bakers in town were conspiring against me, conspiring to keep us from celebrating Napoleon’s accomplishments with a big sugary cake. I am a cursed woman.

“What’s the problem?” I asked wearily.
“The picture is too big,” she said. “It’s not gonna fit on our scanner. She continued talking but I couldn’t hear her for the rushing sound in my ears. Too BIG?? First it was too small, then it was too licensed, then it was impossible and now it’s TOO BIG??!!!

I interrupted her. “Can I bring you a smaller one?” I asked desperately. “Because you don’t even KNOW how much trouble I have gone through to try and order this cake!!!”

“Sure,” she said. “If you take it up to the front, the photo department might be able to shrink it for you.” I thanked her, took the picture and trudged back up to the front. I didn’t even grab another tiny cup of Poppycock, so despondent was I. I showed the picture to the photo technician and she agreed to try and make it smaller. It took fifteen minutes, but she finally had a 5×7 for me and I raced it back to the bakery. “Will this work?” I asked the baker.

She placed it on their machine and after several long, agonizing minutes, it printed perfectly. “I think this will work,” she said and I sagged with relief. I walked back out to my car and called Nancy to share the good news. We agreed to meet at an Italian restaurant to celebrate my good fortune.

And so the cake is ordered. I have no faith though, that it will actually be what we want. Probably when we pick it up, it will be covered with pink roses and say “HAPPY 75TH BIRTHDAY MYRA” but I don’t care. I’ll slap a piece of notebook paper over the words and serve that sucker anyway!!

It’s a slow newsday here in the hood. The teenage daughter is still vile; on Saturday she had a complete mental breakdown because she had “NOTHING TO WEAR”!! Earlier that day, I had walked into Abercrombie with her and offered to buy her something. I choked on the over-sweet perfume the employees spray all over the place and my head pounded to the over-loud beat of the blaring music as we walked around. And she chose nothing. Turned her nose up at every single thing the store offered. Well, except for a $60 jacket made of sweatshirt material and lined with fur. She was mightily offended when I laughed out loud and told her to get a job. We exited the store, me gratefully, she in a huff.

Today I am supposed to be cleaning house. Napoleon’s Eagle Scout Court of Honor is this Saturday and we have out of town guests staying with us. I should be shoveling out bedrooms and changing sheets, but instead I am drawn to the computer. Because I’d much rather play Pogo than dust furniture. Unfortunately, Lulu the wonder dog is at my feet and she is a bit gassy today. In fact, there are fumes emanating from her that no living creature should emanate. Occasionally a whiff drifts by my nose and I choke and gag, eyes watering as I desperately attempt to claw my way out of the fog. Is there anything worse than a dog fart?

My husband and son just WISH they could claim something this putrid. Why do men gain such extreme gratification for producing sounds and smells from their bodies? I imagine this goes all the way back to pre history, when Urg and his son Doob produced the first farts after eating rancid mammoth. I can imagine their eyes widening in delight when the silence of the cave is suddenly punctured with a “PPPPPFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTT”, accompanied by a noxious fog. As the other cave dwellers make a hasty exit, straight into the jaws of a waiting T-Rex, Urg and Doob high five each other gleefully. This would certainly describe Hugo and Napoleon when one of the manages to “let one”. Pigs.

So yeah, that’s all I have for you today. Dog farts. Maybe while I’m cleaning, I’ll be inspired to write something really deep and meaningful. Then again, maybe I’ll just be inspired to play another round of Pogo Addiction Solitaire. Like I said, it’s a slow newsday!!

I am feeling somewhat pensive today, having spent an afternoon cleaning the house. Cleaning gives me too much time to think and thinking leads to frustration and pretty soon I am gritting my teeth, feeling enraged toward anyone who has so much as looked at me wrong in the last ten years. To clear my head, I decided to take a shower. This had the added bonus of removing the grime my body accumulated while I was excavating the goddess’s closet.

Speaking of the goddess, she always uses my shower. I don’t know how your house is, but in my house, everyone uses my bathroom. There are 3 1/2 baths in my McMansion, and no shortage of shower space. Still, MA only recently started showering in her own bathroom. The goddess has never even set foot in the tub in her bathroom. Why should she when mine is so roomy?

While I showered and thought my dark thoughts, a group of toys caught my eye. Because the goddess uses my shower, her toys tend to accumulate in it. Every so often, I remove the Barbies when their hair starts to clog up the shower, but insidiously, they find their way back. I half believe the movie “Toy Story” had it right and those toys move around when we’re not looking. See, it’s not my bad housekeeping!! The toys move!!

Here’s what I found in the shower today: two horses, one black and one brown; two children creepily dressed in Mickey Mouse outfits; an Orca; and a cheetah. The children were a McDonald’s Happy Meal giveaway a few years ago. They are creepy because they have Mickey Mouse ears permanently affixed to their heads. We all know it’s only a matter of time before the Disney Imagineers find a way to mutate a gene and cause children to be born with permanent Mickey Mouse ears and warble “It’s a Small World” incessantly. The rest of us will rally and try to stop the Disneyfication of the world, but the company is too strong and too powerful. Pretty soon we’ll all be Disneyfied. And so those children look malevolent to me, an evil harbinger of things to come.

As a matter of fact, the black horse in my shower happens to be the horse from “Mulan”, a Disney flick from the 1990’s. In my opinion, “Mulan” is the best Disney cartoon ever made. Mulan kicks ass. Mulan takes names. Mulan falls for the guy, but only after she saves his life several times. And he comes after her, not the other way around. The Disney gods made a pathetic attempt to princessify her back at the beginning of the decade, but she thwarted their evil plans by refusing to dye her hair blonde and wear blue contact lenses. She continues to kung fu the bad guys to this day. Yeah…Disney in my shower. The gods must be crazy.

Furthermore, we got Charlie the Cheetah from the Rain Forest Cafe in Animal Kingdom. I believe he was purchased shortly before the goddess disappeared from our sight for a heart stopping twenty minutes. Yes, I lost the goddess in Disney World; please refer to the April 2006 entry entitled “Terror in Disney World”. So I have a pretty clear memory of that day and I remember buying a bag full of plastic animals for her. We also have the melamine plates with each Rain Forest Cafe character on them. Disneyfied; that’s what we are!!
I tried to imagine what the goddess does with this weird assortment. Biff and Becky ride their horses while Charlie the Cheetah bounds happily along and the Orca frolics in the waves? Biff and Becky ride their horses to hunt Charlie the Cheetah as the Orca frolics in the waves? The Orca eats Biff and Becky while Charlie the Cheetah works over the horses?? The storylines are myriad and my imagination is boundless. It could be any of these things.

I guess I will never know what she does with this cast of characters. The pleasure of animating your toys is reserved only for children, the mentally unstable, and anyone who works for Disney. I carefully moved the gang to a corner of the shower so I wouldn’t step on them. I suspect their days in my shower are numbered and I don’t want to deprive the goddess the opportunity to flex her imagination muscles. They atrophy more quickly than they should!

Here is a synopsis of a weekend spent with my teenage daughter. It would take a far more gifted writer than me to adequately convey the eye rolls, shoulder shrugs, hair tosses and the sheer contempt oozing from the very pores of my child, but I am going to take a stab at it.

Thursday: I have begged her all week to pack. I was in no condition to supervise and frankly, at 13, she ought to know how much clean underwear she needs. That night I peek in her bag and contemplate what she has packed for a weekend in Florida, where the temps will be in the high 70's. The bag contained two pairs of jeans, a pair of corduroy pants and several tank tops. No bathing suit. No shorts. I sighed and left it. At least she didn't pack the ski jacket.

Friday: We arrive in Florida and check into our room. I have ordered a rollaway bed for MA because we are sharing the room with another soccer girl and her mom. I like to sleep alone whenever I can. I hate sleeping with someone else. I think the Flintstones were on to something with those twin beds but Hugo won’t go for it. Anyway, I didn’t feel like sleeping with MA because she moves around a lot, hence the extra bed. MA immediately pitched a fit when she saw the rollaway and informed me she was not sleeping on it. I disagreed and said she was sleeping on it because I was not sharing my bed with her. She moaned. She jibbered. I turned out the light and ignored her, but she continued to caterwaul about the injustice of me sleeping in the nice bed while she was forced to sleep on a rollaway. I finally screamed that if she made one more sound I was going to suffocate her to death. She shut her mouth but continued to writhe around on the bed, making as much noise as possible. Delightful.

Saturday: After the two soccer games, we went back to the room to change. MA took a shower and then sat on the floor in a towel, contemplating the two bags she had brought along. Apparently neither bag contained anything suitable to wear. “It’s your fault mom,” she said snidely, “because you took all my shirts out.” What?? When did I take the shirts out?? I racked my brain, but the gray matter contained no memory of me removing articles of clothing from her bag. I shared this with her but she was adamant that I had removed her shirts. I must have removed them because they were no longer in her bag and it was the only logical explanation. She finally borrowed some clothes from Jordin, but continued to glare at me malevolently. Do I know how to ruin a weekend or what???

Once the princess was dressed, we joined the rest of the team for pizza, then we went to the Go Kart place. By this point I was over her. I wanted nothing more than to weight her down with some sandbags and toss her into the bay but those bodies almost always wash back ashore. Dammit. So we went to ride Go Karts. She complained the whole way there. She didn’t want to ride Go Karts. She didn’t know how to drive one. She was no good at it. It didn’t sound fun. She complained while I bought the tickets. Finally, one of the moms agreed to ride with her and do the driving. Because it takes a whole lot of skill to drive a Go Kart in a circle and MA just wasn’t up to the challenge. After the Go Karts we went back to the hotel and she began her litany about the bed again. I wanted to die.

Sunday morning: MA and Jordin went out to the car. I opened the patio door to let in the ocean breeze, while I started packing up the room. I sat down by MA’s bag to put her clothes away and instead, I pulled out a shirt. “Look at this,” I said to Jordin’s mom, Stephanie, “a shirt. Oh, and look…another one!! And here’s one more!! Isn’t that strange? I thought I took all these out!!”

Stephanie was laughing and then she suddenly pointed behind me and screamed “Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I shot to my feet like I’d been jabbed with an electric prod. My heart was racing approximately 330 beats per second because I had no idea what she was screaming about. “WHAT????” I screamed back.
“There…..There was…..there was a BIRD!!!” she gasped, “right by your BUTT!!!!” There was a sign on the patio advising guests not to feed the birds. Apparently everyone does anyway. So the birds like to walk into the room to see what’s for dinner. When Stephanie saw it behind me, she thought it was a rat at first, a rat about to take a bite out of my rear end. By the time she realized it was a bird, she had already done the screaming thing. I don’t think the bird scared me nearly as much as Stephanie did. It took thirty minutes for my heart rate to return to normal.

Sunday afternoon: After a nice brunch, we decided to do some shopping since we didn’t have to be at the field until 2:30. MA wanted to get an airbrush t-shirt but all the airbrush places were closed. I guess the senior citizens who migrate down for the winter don’t buy a lot of t-shirts. We finally found a Wal Mart that offered the service for the bargain price of $35 a shirt. We placed our order and then went on to the outlet mall. I specifically wanted to get her some school clothes and so we went to Aeropostale.

But that wasn’t good enough for the little princess. She pouted in the store. She wouldn’t look at anything. I don’t know what the hell she wanted me to buy….Dolce and Gabbana maybe?? Finally, after I threatened to storm out, she deigned to try on a shirt. On the way to the dressing room, she also snagged a pair of jeans. I walked in with her because I wanted to check the fit so I would know what size she needed. She wriggled into the jeans, took a deep breath, held it, and managed to button the jeans. She stood up and they were glued to her body like a scuba suit.

“Take those off and I’ll get you a bigger size,” I said. Wrong thing to say because what she heard in her tiny teenage mind was “you’re a fat cow, with thighs the size of tree trunk.”

“They fit fine,” she said, her face turning purple as her circulation slowed to a trickle.
“No, they don’t,” I said and I demonstrated by trying to insert a finger into the waistband. I could barely get my fingertip in. “See, they’re too tight. Let me get you another pair.”

“No,” she said, “I like these.” What followed was an epic battle of wills with me being the ultimate victor. I refused to pay for a pair of jeans she outgrew before they were even paid for. I did not emerge unscathed however, having been called “mean”, “annoying” and “unfair”. It was my fault the jeans didn’t fit. Just like it was my fault she didn’t have any shirts. Accepting responsibility for my actions is important.

Sunday evening: The ride home was long. The girls lost their final game and they were tired. I got lost on the way out of Destin, even with the GPS. The idiot doesn’t give you enough warning before the turns; when he says “turn right”, I’ve already passed the turn. On a desolate back road, the thing quit working completely. Stephanie took it, pushed all the buttons, tinkered with it, all to no avail. It wouldn’t come back to life. I kept saying ” I know it’s not the charger because the red light is on. It has to be something else.” When I picked up my phone to call Hugo and report the problem to him, the problem became evident. The charger that was plugged in was, in fact, my phone charger. The GPS wasn’t plugged in at all, which is why it wasn’t working. Yes, it was definitely time for this trip to be finished.

We got home shortly after 10 p.m. and MA went to bed. I slumped on to the couch wearily and closed my eyes, exhausted from a long weekend with Sibyl/Reagan/Carrie. The worst thing about having a 13 year old daughter is the knowledge that I will be doing this all again in five years or so. I am checking in to French citizenship right now!!

Today I went to volunteer in the school where the blonde goddess matriculates. One would suppose, given my soccer mom/Suburban driving status that she might attend an upscale school, but nothing is farther from the truth. Indeed, I am fond of referring to her school as “Little Ghetto School in the Hood”, primarily because she has learned how to perform many different gang signs and can actually speak Gangsta. There is nothing more….well, I don’t actually have an adjective to describe my feelings when my child with her long blonde ponytail and Dresden blue eyes tilts her head to one side and says “yo mama….wat up??” Really…no words here.

I am actually very pleased with her school. Despite its status as the oldest school in the system, as well as one of the poorest, it’s sparkling clean and it has as many extras as the nicer schools do. My child is learning the world consists of many colors and cultures and that not everyone is as blessed as we are with material things. Her school is a breeding ground for tolerance and acceptance.

And unfortunately, also for vermin. As I mentioned, it’s an older school and as many older buildings in the Deep South are, it’s plagued with the occasional insect. I was working in the library this morning, helping in the computer lab. As the goddess’s class filed past me, I heard the librarian snap “keep moving, keep moving, it’s not the first time you’ve seen one of those.”

As the last child walked past me, I reluctantly fell into line, afraid to face what I knew would be my worst nightmare. Sure enough, on the wall, was a large dark blotch. With wings. It was the dreaded PALMETTO BUG!!! Actually, that’s too nice a description. Truly, it was the biggest freakin’ mutant roach I have ever seen in my life. It was at least the size of my palm, with giant antennas as thick as fingers. It was BIG!!! I backed into the corner farthest from it, close to an exit, because if it took flight, I was going to do the same and head right out the door and back to the suburbs.

It meandered lazily across the wall and up toward the ceiling, looking for God only knows what. The librarian hissed at me “go to the office and tell them we have a situation.” She didn’t need to ask twice; I hightailed it the hell out of the room.

I darted into the hall, chest heaving, looking around wildly for someone, ANYONE, who could help us. I ran toward the main hallway and encountered the assistant principal, walking along and whistling cheerfully. I screeched to a stop, panting, and said “Dr. N….need help…..Roach in the computer lab…..it’s after the children….FOR GOD’S SAKE MAN THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!!!!!!”

He eyed me curiously and said “um, well, let me go to the office and put my coffee down and I’ll see what I can do.” He backed away carefully, keeping an eye on me, and then pivoted and walked quickly toward the main office. I went back to the lab and found the situation unchanged. Roach still on the wall, trying to decide which child to carry away first. Children completely oblivious to the danger. Parental volunteer (that would be me!!), slobbering in fear.

An eternity and five minutes later, the door opened and in walked Ms. Brenda. She does everything in the school. I see her exhorting the children to eat their vegetables in the lunchroom. I see her in the hallway, directing traffic. And today I saw her as a savior, armed with a broom and a dustpan.

Fearlessly, she strode over to the wall, raised the broom and smacked the monster. Holding its corpse against the wall with the broom, she dragged its mangled body down and it dropped neatly into her dustpan. And she never blinked an eye. I collapsed into a chair and moaned “Thank you SO MUCH!!!”

“You’re welcome,” she said cheerfully. “They are nasty, aren’t they?” Which I contend is the understatement of the year!!

With the danger averted, the children resumed their task at the computers and I walked around gingerly, helping wherever I could. And vowing to myself that one day I will move to the Arctic where even roaches can’t survive. Although with my luck, I’d be in my igloo and roaches in little parkas would invade!!

The infidel mongrels have bestirred my rage!! Yesterday, still in the throes of the evil stomach virus, I rose from my bed of pain and set out in search of Gatorade. And a baked potato. My quest led me to the Publix, bright and clean, full of wholesome and nutritious foods. And Gatorade.

I walked the aisles doubled over, unable to straighten because of the cramping in my abdomen. And as I walked I felt with certainty that my bowels would be moving again very soon. In panic, I finished my shopping and went to the front to pay. By now, the cramps were so intense I was sweating and I knew it was only a matter of time before my need for the bathroom would escalate to the breaking point. I completed my transaction and sprinted slowly to the parking lot in my hunchback pose. As soon as I got to the car I realized I had left my check card in the Publix. I slung my groceries into the trunk and started back in, but the pain was too much. In defeat, I crawled into the car and roared away home, clenching my nether cheeks together most vigorously. I made it up the steps with nary a moment to spare.

I spent the afternoon sipping the Gatorade for which I had fought so hard and eating my baked potato which I had finally managed to secure. And I started to feel a bit better. I took the goddess to her soccer game and then took MA to confirmation class. On the way home, feeling better by the moment, I stopped at the Publix to pick up my card. I knew it had to be there, so I had not bothered to call ahead. I just assumed they would have it at the service desk.

Oh, but I was WRONG!!! A whopping FIVE HOURS had passed since I had last darkened their door. When I asked the guy at the desk for my card (he was young and had no front teeth….why??) he lisped “Oh I think it’th in the thafe. Lemmee thcheck.” A few minutes later, he came back shaking his head and said “It’th not there. Lemmee athk about it.”

He summoned another infidel who smiled and said “Oh we shredded that. The manager doesn’t want us keeping customer cards.” The world went gray. Shredded???? They shredded my card???? My beloved check card that buys me lunch and gas and goodies at Target??? They SHREDDED IT??????

The toothless wonder was arguing on my behalf, trying to make it right. “Are you thure? I know I thaw a card that thaid Thjennifer on it. I thought it wath in the thafe.”  She was shaking her head as he spoke and said “No, the manager shredded it before he left. I’m pretty sure.” And she shrugged. After all, it was no skin off her fat ass; she can use her damn check card whenever she wants!!!! 

Toothless Guy was very, very nice and he took my name and number and promised to follow up with me, but I knew it was no good. And sure enough, when I stopped today, it was shredded. I hadn’t even gotten the whole story out before she said “We shred them if they get left here.”

“Look,” I told the girl at the counter, “that’s a very bad policy. I understand the policy, but geez….how about a 24 hour grace period??? I was sick,” I continued, “and I came in to get Gatorade to re-hydrate my body and I was in so much pain I couldn’t walk upright. I knew right away I had left my card but I couldn’t even make it back in here because your bathrooms are in the BACK OF THE STORE!!! So my two choices were to come back and get my card while crapping on myself or to go home and come back and get the card later. I am a loyal customer, I’m in here nearly every day and this is how you repay me??? By kicking me when I’m down?? Why don’t you run over my puppy and break my crayons too?” Ok, I didn’t say that last part, but I should have!!! She was very apologetic, the asst. manager was very nice, but the fact remains they shredded my debit card. It was shiny and green and it gave me much joy and now it’s gone. “You know, my bank can get me another one the same day,” the asst manager said, trying to put a good face on it.

I wanted to smack her and say “well GD bully for you cow, but my freakin’ bank is gonna tell me 3 to 5 days and I’m leaving to go out of town tomorrow so that’s hardly gonna help me is it??? Communist cow!!!!” I concluded my polite tirade instead, and turned and left the store, muttering under my breath. “shredded my kjdfldjfla debit card stupid mother jlasjkdfjalj never gonna shop here aljdljflajd dumb ljaldfjalsdjfljs.”

I went straight from the Publix to the Regions bank where Susan, my helpful manager friend, confirmed my diagnosis of three to five days. “We can get you one tomorrow, but it will cost $25 to expedite it,” she said. “Only if we can bill it to Publix,” I growled.

So a jihad has been declared!! Death to the infidel Publixians and their shredding policy!!! I shall take my transactions to another store, one that respects me and my card. Except there really aren’t that many grocery choices around here. I guess I’ll be back at Publix again. Their produce is really pretty and sometimes they cook there and hand out samples. If you time it right, you can get a free lunch there! But I’ll be paying with cash from this moment forward. Maybe I’ll bring in all my pennies so they have to count them and roll them. Infidels! 

I am sorry I’ve been absent for a few days. Now I am so far behind I’ll never catch up and I have so much to share with the world including another heroic plunge down the steps and the mysterious saber toothed cashier. But unfortunately, I am still battling a demon stomach virus.

Monday night I was snuggled up in bed with MA, watching “The Shining”. Which we both found hysterically funny. I know for some people it’s the scariest movie ever made, but to anyone who has read the book, it borders on ridiculous. Especially Tony the Talking Finger. I’ve got a talking finger too, and it says all kinds of things to people who cut me off in traffic. But that’s another story.

As we were giggling through the movie, I noticed there seemed to be several more gallons of saliva than normal in my mouth. And my stomach was making strange rumbling noises. Thinking food would help, I made a bowl of Lucky Charms and ate them in bed. They’re magically delicious and fortified with 11 vitamins and minerals, making them the perfect food. I would later come to regret this decision.

We were about halfway through the movie when Napoleon came staggering in from his Boy Scout meeting and announced he had thrown up during the meeting. Luckily, he made it to the bathroom although I feel sure there is some sort of vomit merit badge the other scouts could have earned by cleaning up the mess. They have one for everything else. My stomach twisted again and in horror, I realized I was probably dealing with the same thing. By the end of the movie, I was in agony. The kids went to bed and Hugo plopped down and started snoring immediately, leaving me wide awake and in agony.

I twisted and turned restlessly, unable to find a comfortable position. As I lay there in pain, I realized I had been raped by aliens and was about to give birth to an alien baby. I recently saw an episode of “House” where this kid is convinced he has been abducted by aliens and they had implanted something in him. So I knew an alien could totally have impregnated me and now I was giving birth to its unholy, many legged spawn. It made perfect sense. Remember the scene in “Alien” where the alien shoots out of the guys stomach? I was certain that would be happening to me at any moment. By 1 a.m. I was ready to die.  At 3:30, the Lucky Charms made a magical reappearance. I don’t even think they were digested.

After that, the pain subsided somewhat. All day yesterday, though, I felt terrible and had no appetite. I’m not complaining about the no appetite since my body could probably live off of its fat stores for three years or more but I hated feeling pukey. Hugo graciously came home early and took MA to soccer practice. By this time, Napoleon had made a complete recovery and was bounding around the house eating everything that wasn’t nailed down. I watched enviously, but I was afraid to test the waters. It was about this time that I became fixated on the thought of a baked potato.

‘Wouldn’t a baked potato be good?” I thought to myself. ‘It’s warm and comforting and mealy and it wouldn’t offend anything in my stomach.’ The more I thought about it, the hungrier I got. Finally I called Hugo and asked him to stop at Wendy’s and bring me one home.

“We’ll see,” was his response which caused me to fantasize about mutilating him with sharp objects. Because by now, the idea of a baked potato was so firmly fixed in my mind that nothing else would do. I had to have one. Probably I was still pregnant with the alien baby and needed to feed it.

“Honey, I really need you to get me one, ok?” I begged.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he repeated. I hung up, sighing. I really hope he dies first. Because I don’t see him being the most sympathetic and nurturing caretaker in the nursing home. If I fall and break a hip, I’m screwed. He’ll park me in the hall in a wheelchair and take up with one of those hussies in the rec room.

When he and MA weren’t home by 7:30, my hopes rose. Perhaps he really was going to get me food. My stomach rumbled, possibly in anticipation or possibly because alien babies like to rumble occasionally. I called him again, eager to see when he was bringing the food. “Hey,” I said when he answered, “are you at Wendy’s?” My mouth was already watering.

“No, we went to the Publix instead,” he said. “I got you some frozen mashed potatoes.”

Abruptly, the bottom dropped out of my world. Even the alien baby was silent. He got me MASHED POTATOES?? Cold, slimy, frozen mashed potatoes which in no way resemble the warm, mealy goodness of my fantasy baked potato?? I saw red.

“I hate mashed potatoes,” I screamed in a very mature voice and I slammed down the phone. He arrived home a short time later and I refused to talk to him. He had a frozen pizza which he and MA heated up and then proceeded to devour while sitting in front of the TV. Jerks.

Today I am still sick. My collarbones hurt. I didn’t know that was possible, but mine do. There is a band of pain around my midsection. And I was still fixated on the baked potato. I called Hugo to see if he would bring me one. Of course he said no. I hope he doesn’t think he’s EVER having any kind of marital relations with me again!! I’ll get my alien lover to suck out his brain through his nose.

I was so consumed with the desire to have a baked potato that I decided to go and get it myself. I figured I would drop the dogs off at his office for a bath and then go to the barbecue restaurant just down the street from the office where they serve ginormous baked potatoes. When I pulled into the parking lot, I saw his truck was gone. “It figures,” I thought, “He’s gone to eat without me. Probably eating a baked potato, the craphead!!!”

I got out of the car and took the dogs into the office. The girls greeted me cautiously and asked me to not to come any farther into the office because they didn’t want my germs. I guess I need to start wearing a mask when I go out. Kevin, one of the guys who used to work for us, was hanging out in the lobby as well. I started telling them the baked potato saga. The girls were properly horrified. “He couldn’t even bring you a baked potato???” Ashley exclaimed in disbelief.

Kevin shrugged and said “hey, potatoes are potatoes, right?” We all just stared at him. In what universe are baked potatoes and mashed potatoes even remotely related??? Stupid men. Baked potato=warm and mealy. Mashed potatoes from freezer section=cold and slimy.

Ashley said “mashed potatoes aren’t anything like baked potatoes!!”

A word to the wise: if a woman says she wants a baked potato, that’s what she wants. Don’t bring her any substitutions because they are not acceptable. Especially if she has been impregnated with a ravenous alien baby or has been up puking half the night.

Wednesday afternoon, I let Napoleon drive me to the grocery store. He is so busy, it’s hard for him to get any driving time and even harder for me to spend a few moments of quality time alone with him. So when he got off the bus, I tossed him the keys and off we went.

My main objective was to fill a prescription for MA, so we went to the pharmacy first. I parked the cart in the aisle and walked into the pharmacy area. Napoleon stood by the cart for a minute or so, then realized it was parked right next to a large display of feminine sanitary products. He quickly jumped away from the cart and followed me in to the pharmacy.

“I can’t believe you parked the cart right there,” he grumped. “That’s SO GROSS!!!”

“Oh get over it,” I said. “It’s a fact of life. And as a matter of fact, I need to pick some up today.”

This caused the typical teenage boy reaction of “nasty” and “I’m not pushing the cart with those in it” and other assorted protests of disgust. Being me, as soon as I dropped off the scrip, I headed straight for the feminine aisle. He danced on the periphery, making faces of disgust at me. I took my time, perusing the various products carefully, prolonging his agony. “Should I get the ones with Wings or the deodorant ones?” I called to him. He disappeared. It was lots of fun. I finally made my selection and tossed them into the cart.

From there, we wandered aisle by aisle, with me occasionally selecting fruits and vegetables and him begging me for every single item of junk food he saw. Do they EVER grow out of that?? It was while we were on the candy aisle, that my inner demon asserted herself and the psychological harm done to my child may never be reversed. I was looking at the chip selection and he was riveted by the candy. He called my attention to some item and I looked over and saw he was completely engrossed. Without stopping to think, I reached into the cart, grabbed the package of sanitary napkins and said “hey Napoleon, CATCH” and tossed them at him.

He caught them reflexively and never looked up from the candy. I stood there savoring the moment, watching as my fifteen year old son stared at the candy while clutching a large package of sanitary napkins to his chest. Yes, I am a sick, sick woman.

Finally, he looked down, realized what he was holding and damn near jumped out of his skin. “OH MY GOD MOM ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME????!!!!!!” he screamed. He threw the bag in the cart and made a great show of wiping his hands off on his pants. Because there is nothing more vile than kotex cooties. They’ll get you every time.

But that’s not the best part. Close to the best part, but not quite the best. When we got home, I was talking on my cell phone (imagine that!) and so he got all the groceries out and carried them up to the house. Apparently, when he walked in, MA greeted him, grabbed the bag and said “Oh good I was waiting for those.”

I looked up from my conversation to see Napoleon staggering back down the hill, clutching his chest as if he’d been shot. He collapsed against the side of the car and said weakly “Those….those were for….MA???????” His face had a greenish tinge and for a minute I really considered calling 911. It was bad enough I had purchased Kotex and worse still that he had handled them. But to find out they were for his younger sister was more of a shock than his system could take.

Today is Friday and he seems a bit better although he still has the occasional twitch. It may be a long time before he agrees to go shopping with me though. Even if I let him drive, it’s not worth the trauma he would have to endure!!