Daily Diatribes

My son is the heir to the family name. We only have the one son and there is no potential for future sons. The family fortunes live and die with Napoleon. And judging from his interactions with the opposite sex….well, let’s just say he’s the end of the line!!

Napoleon is dating a cheerleader. Not too shabby for a self proclaimed band geek. But I predict this will be a short lived romance. Not because Napoleon isn’t absolutely adorable; that’s not the problem. No, the problem lies in his extremely pragmatic attitude toward money in particular, and life in general. Last week, for example, I asked him if he was planning on taking B out on a date. Since at the time, both of them had lost their driving privileges, the answer was not in the immediate future. He was intrigued by the possibilities however.
“Where should I take her?” he asked.
“Well,” I said, reaching far back into fuzzy memories, “dinner and a movie would be nice.”
“No,” he said decisively, “I don’t like movies. They’re too expensive.”
“Well, son, it’s not about you, it’s about what she might like,” I said.
“I’ll just take her to dinner,” he said, ignoring my helpful advice. “What about The Melting Pot? Is that expensive?”"
“Ummmm….wellllll….” I hedged, “I guess it’s probably about $50 for two.”
“Oh forget that!” he said. He thought for a few minutes and then the proverbial lightbulb pinged over his head. “I know, I’ll take her to Chilis!” he said.
“Well, that sounds good,” I replied.
“Yeah, they have that “Two For Twenty Menu”! We can order from that!”
Stalin guffawed and said “SON….you can’t take her out on a date and then tell her she can only order from one section of the menu!!! Even I never did that!!” (only because that special wasn’t running at the time we were dating!!)
“I know,” I offered, “take her to McDonald’s and tell her she can order ANYTHING she wants off the Dollar Menu. ‘Nothing’s too good for you baby!! The sky’s the limit! You can have TWO cheeseburgers!’” I would like to say he dismissed this idea, but unfortunately, he looked interested, so we quickly changed the subject.

Fast Forward to this morning. Homecoming is in a few weeks and the planning has begun. Napoleon, the incurable romantic, already has the details worked out. I passed him in the hallway this morning and he said “Oh, mom, B and I have this Homecoming thing all worked out. We’re going to the game (he’s in band, she’s a cheerleader, so they have to go) then we’re going to the dance and then we’ll come back to our house and eat pop-tarts!!”
Right then I knew my son was going to be a bachelor for the rest of his life. Pop-tarts…..REALLY??? “Son, you can’t feed her pop-tarts for homecoming,” I told him.
“No, she’s fine with it,” he said. Probably because she is harboring some fantasy that he is kidding about the pop-tarts and really plans to surprise her with a catered dinner for two. If that’s what she’s hoping for, she apparently hasn’t REALLY met my son!
“Son, at least offer to cook for her or something!!” I begged desparingly.
He looked pained and said “Mom, really, it’s ok. Besides, I’M GOING TO GET HER HER OWN BOX OF POP-TARTS!!!!” Oh, well THERE YOU GO!!! What girl can resist her very own box of Kellogg’s pop-tarts?? Truly he makes Don Juan look incompetent!! Knowing Napoleon, though, they probably won’t even be Kellogg’s pop-tarts. They’ll probably be Great Value…or worse!!

I thought it was bad enough having a daughter, but this….this has surpassed anything MA has thrown at me so far. I can handle sneaking around and illicit trysts at the movies. But my son as the world’s cheapest date????? That’s a lot to swallow. I guess the only bright side is he won’t be asking us to bankroll homecoming. I’m guessing with the corsage and the pop-tarts, it shouldn’t cost him more than ten bucks!! I don’t know which makes Stalin prouder: his son is dating a cheerleader or his son is cheaper than he ever dreamed of being!!

****Note: Hugo is being renamed Stalin in these pages….I think it’s a better fit!***
At the risk of sounding immodest, I am an amazing woman. I am extremely blessed with an overabundance of ability and charm. Sometimes it amazes me that so much accomplishment and personality are packed into one small person…me! Some days I want to just sit and bask in my own awesomeness. I mean, who wouldn’t?

Actually, Stalin doesn’t recognize my uniqueness. You would think he would go down on his knees every day and thank GOD for bringing me into his life. You would THINK he would recognize how he is blessed beyond all reason and be properly grateful for it. I am amazing and he should kiss the ground I walk on every single day!! But no, Stalin is constantly fixated on those few, tiny, infinitesimal flaws that surface very occasionally. Why he can’t overlook them and just worship me mindlessly is beyond my comprehension.

Take my car problems for example. I might have a bit of an issue with cars. I recently downsized from my Suburban to a mid-size sedan (and doesn’t THAT sound stodgy???). You would think driving a car would be a breeze compared to the Suburban, but I am actually having some trouble with it. I mean, I could drive the HELL out of my Suburban. Granted, it took some time to master it. I backed into a few things. I knocked the mirror off the side backing out of my garage. Trifles, really, compared to some of the horror stories I’ve heard. I know a woman who hit one of the posts holding up the carport and she took the whole thing down. Once I got the hang of it though, I drove like a pro. I could whip that sucker into a parking space between two tanks and have plenty of room on either side to open the doors. In six years, I learned how to maneuver that baby.

This car, however, is an adjustment. The dimensions are different. I can’t quite get a fix on how much room I have in the front. I find myself quite often grazing the curb. It never fails to shock me because there seems to be adequate room in the front and yet I still clip the curb. Aside from that, I’m doing pretty well. Or so I assumed. I was driving to a scout meeting on Sunday night and a mysterious light on the dashboard appeared. The light was in the shape of an exclamation point and a grave warning accompanied it. “TIRE PRESSURE LOW”. The car didn’t seem to be listing to one side or the other, though, so I drove on to the meeting. Our friend Tom would be there and he is a car genius. I knew he could solve the problem.

After the meeting, he produced a tire checker thingy. I turned on the car and showed him the light. He then spent ten minutes tinkering around, trying to see if the car’s electronic system would tell him which tire was low. I helpfully suggested he just check all the tires and he shot me a dirty look. Finally, he pulled out the manual to see how to get the information and the manual helpfully informed him he needed to check all four tires. I just smiled angelically. So he turned off the car, got out and checked the tires.

The first two tires were absolutely fine. When he got to the third tire, he exclaimed (in a very unnecessarily loud voice) “DAMN JENNIFER WHAT DID YOU DO TO THIS THING???” I bent over and peered at the tire, which was black and round, just like the rest of them.
“Um, nothing?” I said.
“Look at this; you CHEWED THE HELL out of this tire!!” he said (again, a bit more loudly than I like)
I bent closer and sure enough, the rim was mangled. Interestingly, it was mangled 3/4 of the way around. I have skills I don’t even know I possess. “This is why your tire is leaking,” he said and inserted the tire thingy. Sure enough, it was 10 thingies lower than it was supposed to be. “You need to get this over to the gas station and inflate the tire,” he said. I stared at him. “You DO know how to inflate the tire, don’t you?” he asked.
I hate to sound like a helpless, incompetent female, but, in fact, I don’t do car things. I possess so little innate mechanical ability, it frightens me. It’s an accomplishment just for me to tie my own shoes every day.

Heaving a sigh, Tom agreed to follow me to the gas station and pump up my tire. When we got there, the air thingy was in use, so Tom stalked around my car, shaking his head. “Do you even know what you hit?” he asked, staring at the tire.
“Well, probably the curb,” I said.
“You would have felt it,” he said, “judging by the damage.”
“Hmmm, well,” I fidgeted a bit, “I, um, well I hit the curb a lot.” I looked down at my feet to avoid meeting his gaze which I am sure was disbelieving and maybe a tiny bit judgmental. Just because I hit the curb a lot doesn’t make me a bad person, or even a bad driver. It just makes me, well, a curb hitter.
“Jennifer,” he said sternly….and then he stopped. I guess he realized just what a lost cause I am. Luckily the guy using the air thingy finished up and handed me the nozzle, so I quickly handed it to Tom, successfully ending his lecture. He filled up the tire capped it, shook his head at me one final time and watched me as I drove away. It was amazing what a difference the air in the tires made. Suddenly the car wasn’t bouncing around nearly as much as it had been before. That’s definitely one of the morals you need to take away from this story: well inflated tires make for a smoother ride.

Anyway, I knew it was only a matter of time before Stalin discovered the chewed rim and leaking tire, so I bit the bullet and called him as I drove home. “Hey,” I said when he answered, “a weird light came on in the car, telling me one of my tires was low and Tom checked it and it was. He said I might have a leak.” I was saving the part about me being responsible for the leak until I had to reveal it. Unfortunately, Stalin is a questioning kind of guy.

“Did he say what the problem might be?” he asked.
“Um, well, it might have been mehittingthecurbwhileIwasdriving,” I said.
“WHAT????” he squawked. “What the HELL HAVE YOU DONE TO THE CAR NOW?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said. “You can look at it when I get home.”
I hung up and figured the worst was over. I got home and he didn’t say a thing about it. He didn’t even go to look at it until the next morning. But when he did….oh boy. “HOW IN THE &^*&(&(*^*(&08(_(_*08 DID YOU MANAGE TO DO THIS?????”
“I hit a curb!” I yelled down to him.
He was actually beside himself. I wasn’t down in the garage with him, but I had this visual of Stalin jumping around in rage like Rumpelstiltskin after the Queen refuses to give up her kid. (Why did Rumpelstiltskin want that kid anyway? Was he going to eat it?) That’s how angry he sounded.
But that was the end of it. The garage door opened and he got in his car and drove away without another word. Presumably this was to avoid the manslaughter charges he would face if he strangled me. Although if the jury was all male, he would probably be acquitted. Men have a tendency to stick together and to not be amused by curb jumping. Really, though, it’s not like I’m cooking meth in the basement. I’m not kidnapping hitchhikers, chopping them up and storing the leftover bits in the freezer. I just occasionally run the car into things. As character flaws go, I think that one is pretty minor. Other than my driving, I’m perfect! Just ask me!

Yesterday was my very first day of the 17th grade. Yep, that’s right, by my calculations, I am now entering my 17th year of education. That’s almost half my life spent matriculating and I still can’t figure out how to put music on my Iphone. I guess education doesn’t necessarily equate competence.

I was really worried about starting school. Monday night, I got a very chipper email from the professor of one of my classes advising us we needed to bring a composition book to class. He helpfully included a Wikipedia link to describe a composition book in case we were unfamiliar with them. I felt very smug because I had no problem visualizing one and knew immediately I was going to be the smartest kid in the class. By the end of the first day I imagined myself taking over the class, teaching the unit on differentiating between paper clips and binder clips. I don’t know much, but by God I know my office supplies!! However, the email went on to advise us we might want to bring our computers to class because we were going to be using Blackboard Vista and it would be helpful if we had our own computer. My superiority complex screeched to an abrupt halt.

I know what a Blackboard is. I know what a Vista is. I have never thought of them in tandem. And with my advanced knowledge of office supplies, I knew good and well you couldn’t write on a computer screen with chalk so just how was I going to use Blackboard on a computer??? That was when I realized college at 40 was in no way going to resemble college at 20. I did some deep breathing, took a Xanax and went to lie down in a darkened room.

On Tuesday, Meredith came and picked me up in my driveway. I was lugging along my computer, a notebook, various office supplies, three books to read, a hairbrush, some hairclips, a pair of scissors, and the newspaper (I hate being caught with no reading material). Meredith looked at me, shaking her head and said “you don’t need all that.” I obstinately insisted on lugging it with me anyway. She dropped me off near my building and with great trepidation, I walked inside. I had no problem finding the class, but I was slightly late. I hate being late, especially when I am lugging a35 pound bag of crap I don’t actually need. For the next 90 minutes, I listened breathlessly as the professor outlined his syllabus and explained the course objectives. I was really doing it!! I was a college student!!

After class, Meredith and I headed over to get my student ID made and grab some lunch. We walked briskly, me huffing and puffing with the weight of my bag as we walked. It was only about 96º outside with 150% humidity. The student ID….I hate having my picture taken after I have been at a soccer tournament all weekend. I’m not terribly photogenic anyway. Take my picture when I’m deeply tanned, which is 11 months out of the year, use really dim light and, well, all you can really see in the picture is my teeth. I hate my photo ID’s because I usually look a lot like Osama bin Laden, only with better skin. I grabbed the ID and shoved it deep into my wallet; it will never see the light of day again.
Then it was off to the bookstore to buy my books. That was a very unpleasant experience. I expected books to be expensive. I thought I was mentally prepared. However, when I selected the book I needed from the shelf and saw the sticker price of NINETY SIX DOLLARS I actually swooned. It’s a soft cover book with perforated pages so you can TEAR THEM OUT!!! Let me tell you, I’m not tearing ANYTHING out of this book. I’m not going to crease the binding. I will wear gloves as I turn the pages. Because this book might as well be made out of 24 karat gold. Actually, gold might be a bit cheaper right now.

Our assignment is to read the first chapter. When I got home, I very gingerly opened the book and began to read. And quickly realized I am far too snarky to be majoring in education. There’s an entire section about what to expect at school orientations. Um, I go to school orientations every year. I have three kids. Someone is making NINETY SIX DOLLARS A BOOK to tell me what happens at a school orientation??? I don’t need to be going back to school, I need to be writing textbooks. That’s where the real money is. There’s one paragraph that consists of nineteen questions for you to ask at orientation. I counted the question marks. I would like to get paid to write a book of questions. I have lots of them.

By far, the best discovery in the book has been the section on saftey, located in chapter two (I read ahead!!). This falls under the category of NonInstructional Responsibilities. The authors have compiled a list to help you, the teacher, avoid dangerous situations in the classroom. Here are just a few:
*Students should never be encouraged or allowed to taste unknown substances* Damn. I guess that means I can’t use them to work out the kinks in my new crack recipe.
*Instruct students NEVER to handle or bring dead animals into the classroom.* Is this actually a burning problem in education these days? I thought guns were a bigger problem in schools than dead opossums, but I just started, so maybe I’m not in the know yet.
*Do not allow students to climb or to be in positions where they may fall* Because everyone knows you can’t really get a feel for what a preposition is unless you experience it. “Jose is ON the shelf and is jumping OVER the desks TO the chalkboard tray.
*Avoid allowing students to overheat or overexert themselves.* Why does everything have to be so politically correct? Why can’t they just come right out and say NO SEX IN THE CLASSROOM???
*Never touch an electrical cord with wet hands or when standing or leaning in water.* This one just pains me. Really? I paid this much money just so I can learn how NOT to electrocute myself? Thank God they are truly preparing teachers for the classroom. Because otherwise, teachers would be frying themselves left and right and the schools would be constantly hiring new teachers. If the authors had been thinking, they would have left this rule out because they would sell more textbooks.
*Under no circumstances should human body fluids be used for science investigation or any other reason.* Well crap, there goes my whole unit on how Sperm swim and what their flagella look like. Never mind Johnny, give me the cup and the Penthouse magazine back. Guess we’ll have to go back to the biology book for this one!

So I’m thinking this might not be the profession for me. I’ve only had one day of classes and I am already rolling my eyes. I am a bit freaked out by the number of projects we have already been assigned. This is going to seriously cut into how much time I devote to my Mafia. Thank God my standards for housework are already so low; no one will really notice the difference!! Tomorrow I have to turn in a concept map I create after reading chapter 1 on my textbook. I am going to work in my Concept that paying NINETY SIX DOLLARS for a textbook is criminal. I wonder if I’ll get an A?

Yesterday I was in the bathroom, admiring my properly hung toilet paper, and perusing the Reader’s Digest, which is the quintessential magazine for bathroom reading. The articles are always insightful, usually have a good moral and, most important of all, are the right size for a quick jaunt to the potty. You can start and finish an article in the same visit which is important to someone as busy as myself. My bathroom is filled with Reader’s Digest magazines. Feel free to stop by any time and check out my library; just don’t mess with the toilet paper.

But I digress. As I was reading, I happened upon a snippet from a book called “The Superior Wife Syndrome” by Carin Rubenstein. (They print snippets presumably so you will rush out and buy the Reader’s Digest condensed version of the book, which isn’t the whole book but contains lots more snippets.) My interest piqued, I scanned it and immediately knew I had to own this book. Consider the following: “especially after having children, a large number of husbands deliberately surrender family concerns and responsibilities and begin to expect their wives to take charge. And in many marriages, that assignment eventually includes nearly everything. It’s as if husbands…..can fiddle , while wives burn through most of the tasks of adult life.” I must have this book!! Because the author has described my life perfectly!!

I’m not saying Hugo is a bad guy. I love my husband. He earns a good living, makes more than enough money so I can stay home and surf Facebook all day and he never complains about his wrinkled laundry. He even chuckles a bit when I shamefacedly admit I haven’t folded laundry in days because I have been working on a particularly difficult problem with my Mafia. He knows I’m insane and loves me anyway. But despite being a highly successful business owner and dealing with complex problems every day, he can’t order a pizza. That’s my job because he doesn’t know where the phone book is, doesn’t know how to dial the phone, wouldn’t know what kind of pizza to order or even which pizza chain to call for that matter. Actually, except when he is on the job, he is really less competent than your average fetus. It’s not much of a stretch to say that all he does is go to work while I handle absolutely everything else. If I die tomorrow, the family is in deep doo-doo.

Here is a sample of an actual conversation we had yesterday, one which I am considering sending to Carin Rubenstein for inclusion in her sequel. We were discussing the possibility of taking the goddess to Disney World. Every January there is a huge veterinary conference in Orlando and it coincides with her birthday. It’s a win all the way around. He gets to write off the trip as an expense, he gets the CE’s he needs, he doesn’t actually have to go to Disney World because he has to go to classes and the goddess is happy. We were discussing the conference and he suddenly said “I can’t go that weekend because we have a scout trip to New Orleans planned.”

I got a little heated. “What do you MEAN you have a scout trip planned? That’s her birthday!”
“Well, I didn’t know it was her birthday,” he said defensively.
Reader, I saw bright, blood RED!!! Channeling my inner bitch, she who is only too happy to make an appearance to rip out some gizzards, I said bitingly “well DEAR ever since the day the goddess was BORN her birthday has been on the same day EVERY YEAR!!! It’s not like Easter, the day doesn’t change with the lunar cycle, it’s ALWAYS THE SAME!!! It’s the damndest thing but EVERY YEAR, on January 17th, her birthday rolls around!!!!! And it is ALWAYS on MLK weekend!!” Dang, I really can’t capture the sarcasm in black and white. It was some of the best sarcasm I’ve had in a long time. If I could bottle and sell it, I’d make a fortune.

“Well, you could go by yourself,” he offered timidly.
“Oh, that’s just GREAT,” I said. “The whole point was to go when you could go to the conference so we wouldn’t have to pay for it. I guess I’ll just find some other way to celebrate the day of her birth while you fool around in New Orleans.” Big jerk. I then proceeded not to speak to him for the rest of the morning. And gleefully repeated the story to several of my female friends who agree wholeheartedly that the man is a nitwit.

Or take last Saturday when the goddess was invited to two birthday parties which were scheduled back to back. I was supposed to be camping in Georgia with a scout group, but the plans changed at the last minute and the group decided to go downtown and visit an indoor rock climbing facility instead. Either way, Hugo was supposed to be the one taking her to the parties but he couldn’t seem to grasp the concept. Right up until the moment I left on Saturday morning, the man was convinced I was going to take the goddess to the birthday parties since I wasn’t going to Georgia. Every couple hours he would say “now you’re coming back to take her to the parties, right?”

“No Hugo,” I would answer patiently. “I need you to take her. One is at Sweet and Sassy, which is near the mall and the one is at Gina’s house. I think you can manage.”
“But I don’t KNOW where Sweet and Sassy is,” he would mewl piteously and I would patiently explain that it was in the shopping center behind the mall, the place with the LARGE PINK LIMO parked out front. Kind of hard to miss it. When I also informed him I hadn’t had time to buy gifts, he actually threw a tantrum. Asked me what he was supposed to do about that??? I said slowly, enunciating my words very clearly: “GO TO WAL-GREENS…..BUY A CARD…..OPEN THE CARD……PUT A TWENTY DOLLAR BILL IN THE CARD…..CLOSE THE CARD…..SEAL THE ENVELOPE…..DELIVER THE CARD TO THE PARTY WITH THE GODDESS.”

I was frustrated. Is this brain surgery??? Rocket Science??? The man has an advanced degree and about 16 times my earning power, but he can’t figure out how to get a freakin’ party gift?????? What is wrong with this man???
By now I was pissed off, so I grabbed MA and we left. We met up with our group, went to the climbing place and learned how to belay. I sat down to take a break (because belaying is HARD WORK!!!) and saw that I had three missed calls from home and two from Napoleon. Against my better judgement, I called home. After all, I reasoned, it could be a medical emergency. And it was. Hugo was in the throes of a nervous breakdown about driving the goddess to her party. “Now WHERE is this place again?” he barked at me. I explained its geographical location for the 237th time. “Well, I don’t know if she’ll make it or not,” he said.

I finally gave up. Threw in the towel. Waved the white flag. Told him I would call a friend and ask her to take the goddess to the party instead. “Well, what about the gift?” he asked. “Will she get that too?”
“Sure Hugo,” I said wearily and hung up the phone. While everyone else was clambering around on the rock walls having a good time I called my friend Elizabeth who agreed to come and get the goddess and buy the gift. Amazingly, even though Elizabeth had never been to Sweet and Sassy, she managed to find it and deliver both girls safely. She even got the present. While Hugo?? Well, who knows what he was doing. Laying in his crib, staring at his mobile and sucking on his toes???

God created two genders for a reason. He created man to lift heavy things, earn a paycheck and reproduce. Then God saw what He had done and created woman to handle everything else. Does anyone really blame Eve for eating that apple?? Hanging out in the garden with Adam all day probably drove her to it!

This issue has been bothering me for some time. I hesitate to bring it up here in this forum because I am aware of just how unpopular my stance is. I know the comments will range from derisive to outraged and may possibly affect some of my friendships. But it has bothered me for so long and this is my blog, after all. I can take a stand and defend it to the end. I must be true to myself and my own beliefs. To do otherwise would completely destroy any self worth I might possess.

I have considered this issue long and hard and from many different angles. I have spent countless hours surfing the net, exhaustively researching it. I have quietly polled friends and neighbors to get their thoughts. And I know from my research that my opinion is in the minority. There are few out there who share my views on this subject. People are outspoken on both sides, but in the end, the opposition has greater numbers. However, I’m comfortable with my own decisions. I am a rational, thoughtful woman and this is a free country. No matter how unpopular my position is, I can continue to promote and defend it. I love you all, but I am drawing a line in the sand right now and saying out loud, with no reservations: I WILL HANG MY TOILET PAPER TOWARD THE WALL!!! So there.

Oh, I'm sorry. Did you think this was going to be about health care reform?? Who cares about that when there are far more serious matters at hand. I am about to launch a revolution that will change the way the world wipes its ass. Because I am sick and tired of the OVER THE TOP movement!! I realize you will disagree, but I know I am right about this. Toilet paper is mean to hang with its free end against the wall. That's how it's designed. To hang it any other way is a crime against man and nature. It's a perversion of toilet paper engineering. And God knows I HATE perversion. Well, unless it involves some canola oil, a couple of midgets and a cricket bat....er...never mind.

Yesterday I walked into my bathroom to find that some well meaning guest had thoughtfully replaced the roll of toilet paper. However it was incorrectly placed. The free end was at the top. This caused me to grit my teeth. I removed the roll and replaced it correctly. The free end seemed to heave a sigh of relief as it draped gracefully down against the wall.

Because that’s the point. The free end is always loose, so you never have to peel the toilet paper away from the roll. By its nature, toilet paper squares are designed to cling stubbornly to each other, causing the person on the toilet much frustration as she or he attempts to pry off a square or two. It becomes even more frustrating when one is dealing with a low grade toilet paper versus the high fiber count paper I prefer in my own home. Cheap toilet paper is a bitch to get off the roll. It’s so thin it’s almost transparent. There is nothing worse than sitting on a public toilet that is probably teeming with bubonic plague (or worse!!) and trying to wrestle a few measly squares off the industrial size roll. Hung properly, it becomes a non-issue. The free end hangs there, inviting the consumer to quickly grab a few sheets, clean up and get the hell off the potty. Which is why it is so vitally important to hang the roll correctly.

Let me provide a physics problem to illustrate the problem: F=the force exerted to remove a sheet of paper and M=the Mass of the Paper. T=Torque or the amount of resistance required to exert the force to allow the sheet to tear free. So for our purposes the following equation should provide sufficient evidence of my theory: F+M
Anyway, despite what Miss Manners says, I believe my way of hanging the paper is the only correct way. I know many will argue, but I don’t care. This is my blog, I am the Supreme Being and in my blog, the roll hangs AGAINST THE WALL!!! I am going to start my own lobbying group. I will go to Washington and I will not rest until I have achieved my goal of enacting laws to ensure toilet paper is hung according to my specifications in all public buildings. Anyone found hanging toilet paper AWAY FROM THE WALL will be punished to the fullest extent of the law. Call me ridiculous, but I have to take a stand here!! Now I’m off to contact Charmin to see if can get some financial support for my movement…um….my cause.

Monday night I attended a CPR training session. The instructor was a fireman/paramedic and it was the best training I’ve ever gotten. That he managed to get through the session despite the teenage boys who giggled maniacally every time he said “deep, hard thrusts” is a testament to his abilities as an instructor. You can all breathe a little easier out there because your dear blogger is now capable of bringing you back from the brink of death. I know you’ll sleep well tonight.

I love being CPR certified. It’s like being a member of an exclusive club. I get a special card. I have special abilities that not everyone has. I am like a superhero. I stroll down the street, my superhero senses heightened, anticipating danger at every turn. The old lady on the corner…is she about to breathe her last?? Does she need CPR? That toddler in the park….could he be about to choke on a goldfish cracker?? Will he need the Heimlich? Never fear, good citizens, because I have my CPR card and I am armed and ready for your every medical emergency.

Just imagine me at the Wal-Mart, doing my back to school shopping. I am perusing the displays of crayons, debating the merits of Crayola versus Rose Art when a shrill scream pierces the air. My head snaps up, and I immediately scan my surroundings, searching for the source of danger. My super charged eyes see that a large man has gone down next to the display of camouflage hunting accessories. A sobbing woman kneels next to him, crying out piteously for help. I toss my crayons aside and sprint toward them, pulling out my CPR card as I dash.

Arriving on the scene, I push her aside and grasp the man firmly by the shoulders as my instructor has taught me. “Sir, are you ok?” I shout in his face. No response. “Call 911,” I scream at the sobbing woman. She gapes at me for a moment, then pulls out her cell phone and starts dialing.

I turn my attention back to the victim. I grasp his chin as I have been taught and tilt his head back. I assess him for signs of breathing. I try to ignore the fact that he consumed raw onions for lunch, something only too obvious with my head practically in his open mouth. And is that Skoal caught in his teeth….oops, CONCENTRATE!!! I ascertain there is no breathing so I prepare to administer the rescue breaths. And then I begin to question why I ever certified in CPR.

During the certification process, as you are blowing air into a plastic dummy, it doesn’t seem so gross. And whenever I daydream about my heroic feats of rescue, the victim usually bears a rather startling resemblance to George Clooney (I usually bear a startling resemblance to Catherine Zeta Jones in these little vignettes, but that’s not really relevant here). Facing the reality of a victim who in fact, resembles Archie Bunker on crystal meth is another thing altogether. I stare into his gaping maw and try to imagine forming a tight seal and blowing; I throw up in my mouth a little.

Then, bound by the promise on my little card, I pinch his nose shut, take a deep breath, and blow. His chest doesn’t move and I am mystified. Begin muttering to myself “grasp chin firmly, place heel of hand on forehead, tilt back, tight seal…blow….WTF???” I reposition him and try again. This time his chest rises a little; not enough, but I figure it’s better than nothing. Then I prepare to start compressions. I pull his shirt open, exposing his large, fish belly white, incredibly hairy chest. There is so much hair I’m not sure I’m even dealing with a human. Can you revive a bear with CPR? Gingerly, I place my hands on his chest and begin my compressions. “One and Two and Three and….” by Six I am exhausted and dripping with sweat. Really? I’m supposed to do thirty of these things? By 17, I am ready to keel over myself. I imagine the headline: Woman Dies of Heart Attack While Administering CPR. If it could happen, it would definitely happen to me.

I get to 30 and nearly collapse on top of the victim. However, it’s time to blow in his mouth again. Trembling with exhaustion, I lower my head to his mouth, and blow as hard as I can. Which causes him to regurgitate. Fortunately, I manage to jump back before any of it gets on me. But now I have to clean the chunks out and blow again. I consider shredding my CPR card right then and there, tossing the fragments on his inert body and walking away, but the values instilled in me by my CPR instructor are too strong. So I clean out his mouth and blow again, promising myself a bottle of Ipecac and a date with the toilet bowl as soon as I’m done.

A crowd has gathered and they silently watch as I thump away on his chest. No one offers to help. The paramedics have not shown up yet, evidently trusting me to keep things going until they feel like rolling in. I count compressions and curse under my breath with each thrust. “1 and 2 and screw CPR and 3 and 4 not doing this no more and five and six I hate this sh*t and 7 and 8 this man I hate….” I neared thirty and I knew I was close to collapsing. My arms were shaking, I was light headed and I began to see a bright light, beckoning me from beyond. I think it was actually one of those blue light special things, but I was approaching delirium.

I call thirty and then move to his mouth to blow another breath. That’s when he coughs and sits up, his great man breasts dangling into his lap. He shakes his head groggily and says “what happened.”

“You suffered a cardiac arrest and I revived you,” I pant.

“Oh,” he said. He spies the pile of vomit and smacks his lips. “Dang,” he said sadly, “that was one heck of an Angry Whopper. Sure hate to see it wasted.”

I throw up in my mouth again, then stand up and stagger away before he can speak again. I head off to the pharmacy, hoping to find an industrial size bottle of rubbing alcohol I can gargle with.

Ok, so maybe getting certified in CPR wasn’t such a good idea after all. Next time, I’ll skip the CPR class altogether and head to Books a Million instead. Where I will steadfastly ignore any cries for help I hear. Let someone else administer CPR; I will be far too busy looking for the sequel to “Big Spankable Asses”!!