Daily Diatribes

And so it goes with a blog. In the several years I’ve been doing this, I have seen the pattern repeated over and over again. A person drops from five posts a week to three. Then it drops down to two. Then it drops to one post every few weeks. Then a month goes by. Then six weeks. You scan in vain, hoping for a new post, a crumb, some sort of hope you haven’t been forsaken by a person whom you’ve never met and yet who is more important to you than the people you see every day. But it’s a vain hope, for the blog spark has died and they have moved on to some other pursuit.

I’m not quite there yet, but with this back to school thing I’m afraid my blogging days may be numbered. I spend so much time on the computer now doing schoolwork that I don’t want to be on it for one second longer than is absolutely necessary. Pogo is a thing of the past. My Mafia is languishing; I haven’t even done the Moscow jobs yet. My Bejeweled Blitz stats suck. If I’m not going to take care of my Mafia jobs, do you really think I’m going to blog?

Still, there’s a bit of life in the old girl yet. I still seek out absurdity and desire to faithfully chronicle it here; I just don’t have as much free time as I used to. But I’ll throw a few crumbs your way, oh ye faithful few who still read this rag.

We are spending the Thanksgiving holidays at the beach. This would be great fun but for the rather copious amount of homework I had to bring with me, to be completed by Friday. So while the family frolicked in the sand today, I was hunched over the computer perfecting my lesson plans. Which is actually much harder than it sounds. Oh sure, you brain surgeons out there think your job is hard, but anyone can cut a few wires in someone’s head. I am MOLDING the brains of tomorrow and to do so requires precision training. Don’t knock it Dr. Know It All; you get the big paycheck but I get the summers off. Who’s the sucker in this equation??

I managed to get my project finished and submitted and was able to join the family for dinner. Afterward, we strolled along the sidewalk looking in the shops. In the middle of the sidewalk they had a set of FunHouse mirrors. I walked up, took a peek and sighed. I looked three feet tall and six feet wide. Big whoop! The regular mirror makes me look short and fat. It’s not like I need a special mirror to do that.

But the concept raised a question in my mind. If FunHouse mirrors make regular people look like midgets, what do midgets look like in them? Not to offend any little people who might read this blog, but seriously, what happens?? Do they look taller? Or do their chins merge right into the tops of their shoes? I shared this with my friend Grace and she was immediately on the lookout for a midget to experiment with.
“What about her?” she hissed at me. “Is she a midget??”
“No sweetie,” I said, “she’s just short and fat.”
“Darn.”
Let me say here I really love that kid. We have a special bond!! Yeah, so anyone who knows what happens when midgets look in FunHouse mirrors, please post here. Because it is a burning question!!
Midgets aside, I have also discovered a new hobby. Last Friday night I had the house almost to myself. Stalin and Napoleon were camping. The goddess was spending the night out. I only had MA and two of her friends and they were holed up, watching horror movies (or surfing porn or sniffing glue, but they weren’t bothering me!!) And I was bored. And when I’m bored, I do what all red-blooded Americans do. I channel surfed.

I landed on Cinemax and they were airing one of those really high-quality soft core porno movies they like to show after 10 p.m. I was absolutely riveted, so I muted the sound and watched. Those women’s boobies DO NOT MOVE!! No matter how much thrusting and gyrating goes on, the BOOBS DO NOT BUDGE!! Fascinating! Closer inspection revealed that one of them was the victim of a really bad boob job. You could actually see the implant. This was good stuff, so I settled in to watch.

I felt all guilty and dirty about it, but the movie was so funny and I couldn’t stop watching. There is something really wholesome about watching soft core porn with the sound off. Like the purple dinosaur says, you have to use your imagination! Since I had the sound off, I had to supply my own storyline You know how much I hated that.

HOTEL EROTICA 3 (or something like that): Tyffanee and Jimmy check into Hotel Erotica. Jimmy is wearing a button down plaid shirt and horn-rimmed glasses (that’s foreshadowing right there….”HORN” rimmed…..good stuff!!) and Tyfffanee is wearing a shirt unbuttoned to her navel and short-shorts. Jimmy has his chemistry set because they are checking into Hotel Erotica so Jimmy can CURE CANCER! He is very close, but unless he checks into Hotel Erotica with Tyffanee, he will never get the formula right and therefore will not win the Nobel Peace Prize. They go up to their room and right away, Jimmy opens up his chemistry set to get started on his cancer cure. Right away, Tyffanee changes into her black bikini with the g-string bottoms. She implores Jimmy to go swimming, but he waves her away, concentrating on his cancer cure. He pours a few liquids into a beaker and frowns intently. Hmmm, Shrek green. Not quite the right color for a cancer cure. But close….very close!!!
Tyffanee gets all pouty and goes outside. She wanders into an arbor and finds MiSStee performing a sexual act of the oral nature on Brandon, who is naked from the waist down and leaning against a tree, eyes closed in what is supposed to be pleasure, although I suspect it is actually intense pain from his bare booty rubbing against the bark of a tree. Jimmy comes up behind Tyffannee, wanting to apologize for ignoring her to cure cancer, and they watch MiSStee and Brandon get it on. What is really interesting about the scene is every time the camera shifts from MiSStee to Tyffanne and back, MiSStee has lost more clothing. In three shots, she is completely nude and she and Brandon undulate together.
All this time, Jimmy is looking annoyed, wondering why he is wasting time watching sex acts when there is all that cancer in the world, begging to be cured. So he goes back up to the room and pours more liquids together. Hmmm…Big Bird yellow. Not quite the right color for a cancer cure. But close. Very close!! So Jimmy wanders out to the pool and sees DesstinNee and Arnold doing the dirty in the pool. Naturally he stops to watch because that’s what you do at Hotel Erotica. It’s what makes it such a good location for hard core science; all those pheromones in the air. And just like that, it clicks. Jimmy rushes up the stairs, pours some more liquids together and VOILA!! SMURF BLUE!!! The RIGHT COLOR FOR A CANCER CURE!!
Elated, Jimmy rushes down to the bar to share the good news with Tyffannee, who has been down there pouting, hoping to find someone she can have sex with against a tree. He sets the beaker on the bar and wanders around trying to find her. But obviously Jimmy didn’t pay much attention to Bill Nye the science guy’s hard and fast rules of Beaker Safety: never leave your newly discovered cancer cure on the bar because someone might knock it over into the ice dispenser. Which is exactly what happened. And Jimmy’s perfect, Smurf Blue cancer cure ended up in everyone’s drinks!!
And then the worst happened. Jimmy witnessed first hand that his Smurf Blue Cancer Cure did not cure cancer at all. Instead, it made everyone want to FORNICATE!! And that’s exactly what happened. Anyone who got a drink with the Smurf Blue Cancer Cure ice cubes in it became immediately overcome with lust and began fornicating with whomever happened to be on hand. Crestfallen, Jimmy returned to his room, to find the luscious Tyffannee there, ready to console him. Which she does without the aid of the Smurf Blue Cancer Cure. So Jimmy put his chemistry set away and swore never to ignore Tyffannee again. And they all screwed happily ever after!!!

Yes, I am a sick puppy. I watched that movie from beginning to end and it was the most fun I’ve had in months!! Which ought to tell you just how shallow and meaningless my life really is right now!! I could go on and on here, but I think I’ve titillated you enough for one night!!! Stay tuned for next week’s episode “True Taxicab Confessions of a Scrabble Nut Who Checks into a Sex Hotel to Earn a Triple Word Score”!!

Last week I had an epiphany. I was aimlessly murdering fellow mobsters in Mafia Wars when I realized I wasn’t getting any younger. Idly, I clicked the “ATTACK” button again and again, letting my mind wander as I committed murderous mayhem in cyberspace. Something about ending the lives of “Letitia the Lefty” and “BALLZ” made me consider the fragility of my own life. Even though forty is the new twenty, I need to stay healthy. Preventive care is important to me. Just that week, I had been to see Dr. Renee to get a measles shot.
That’s right, I had to update my MMR. When I applied to college, I was supposed to submit proof of vaccination, only I never did because I thought they were kidding. Really…a blue card at my age?? Trust me, if I haven’t gotten a shot for it then it’s because I’ve actually HAD the disease. But turns out they were deadly serious and put a hold on my account. I couldn’t register for classes until I gave them that damn old blue card. Idiots.
Updating the vaccines made me uncomfortably aware of the fact that not only was I aging, I was not taking good care of myself. For example, at the beginning of the year, I lost twenty pounds and was looking really good. Then I started college and gained the Freshman Fifteen, only I’m a graduate student and I thought I was immune. Turns out even forty year olds can stress eat their way into plus size clothing. I was homesick alright; homesick for all those long, lovely mornings in my pajamas when I lounged around and did nothing in particular after the kids left for school. And apparently there’s no immunization for Lard Ass. Last week, I got on the WII Fit for the first time in months and the little guy on the screen only made me feel worse. He clapped his little cartoon hands to his little cartoon head and shrieked “Mom, YOU’RE OBESE,” shaking his head in disbelief. Asshole. At least I’m a REAL GIRL you cartoon freak!!!
I also realized I was overdue for my pap smear. Very overdue. In fact, I think Bush was still in office the last time I had one (and no Bush jokes, please, of any variety…) I decided right then and there to make an appointment. I whacked a final mobster, grabbed the phone book and made the call.
It’s Dr. Renee’s fault I was so overdue. Back in the day, when I was still young and carefree, I would go to Renee for my pap smears. Her office is easy to get in and out of and I never have to wait long. The staff loves me and will do anything for me. Unfortunately, once our relationship escalated from doctor/patient into a real friendship, I had to end the gynecological visits. There’s something not quite comfortable about eating lunch with someone who has been in your genitalia up to the elbow, palpating your uterus. I had to find a new doctor for that particular procedure and I hate using a gynecologist. Their offices are always located at the hospital in case some damn baby has to be born in the middle of my pap smear. I’m afraid I’ll be left hanging with my legs in the stirrups while the doctor rushes off to catch an infant  But I had no other choice so I reluctantly chose a gynecologist.
I figured it would be a couple of months before I could get an appointment. Those gynecologist types are always booked three months out and getting an appointment is nearly impossible. To my unpleasant surprise, however, she said “I have one slot left for next Monday….we’ll see you then!!” I hung up and realized I had cancer. It was too coincidental that I needed a pap smear and the very busy doctor’s office just HAPPENED to have a cancellation. When my kids came home, I hugged them hard; who knew how long I had?

So today was the big day. I shaved my legs and my armpits. I washed really well. I put on clean underwear and socks and my ‘going to the doctor’ outfit. Then I headed for the doctor’s office. Naturally, it’s located in an office tower next to the hospital. I parked in the parking deck and rode the elevator down to the crosswalk. I walked across, then took another elevator down. I walked outside, crossed a parking lot, entered another building and took another elevator up. Are you freakin’ kidding me??? It’s like they don’t want you to find the office!! Only those who are worthy and pass the test actually get a pap smear. Everyone else dies of ovarian cancer while they’re wandering around the parking deck.
Grimly, I rode up to the sixth floor, then stood outside her office for a moment. I almost turned back. Only pain and humiliation waited beyond the doors, but it was my fate. It was my duty to my children to get a pap smear so I could live to torment them another day. I opened the doors and went in, past the point of no return.

I signed in and they gave me a clipboard with some papers to fill out. I sat down and was happy to see an entire page of optional tests I could apply for.  I am a hypochondriac. I take medicine for it and it’s pretty well controlled, but when presented with a list of medical tests I could have performed on myself without even begging for them, I lost my head. Why yes, go ahead and check my cholesterol! Can’t be too careful these days. I’ve seen that commercial with the skinny chick who falls down on the red carpet; I wouldn’t want that to happen to me! Granted, I would probably be tripping over my own feet, not falling down because of high cholesterol, but you can’t be too careful these days! And go ahead and check a CBC. I have been feeling a little anemic lately, now that you mention it. What? You want to do a urinalysis too? Sure, why not? I have to pee anyway!! Stool sample for colon cancer?? Um, hell yes!! Ever hear of Katie Couric’s dead husband??? All told, I think I ran my bill up about $300.
Pretty soon, they called me back. I peed in the cup. I tipped the scale at fifteen pounds more than I did at my last visit. Then I got nekkid and sat down to wait. Pretty soon, the doctor arrived and told me to lie back and get comfy. The moment of reckoning had arrived. I scooted my butt back, put my feet in the stirrups and stared stoically at the ceiling, mentally preparing myself for the violation.
Then it happened. At the very moment she was invading my privacy, the exam room door opened. The nurse yelped and jumped over to shut it. “Who in the world was that?” asked the doctor.
“I don’t know,” the nurse said. “I was in a hurry to shut the door.” I tried to relax, but the mood was broken. Now I was hyper aware of the procedure. Just as she was violating another region (remember that stool check!!) the door opened….AGAIN!!
The nurse jumped over and shut it quickly. Turns out it was someone’s CHILD opening and shutting the door!! Which just goes to prove I can’t get privacy ANYWHERE!! I never go to the bathroom without someone popping their head in to see what I’m doing. Apparently all children everywhere feel comfortable barging in on me no matter what I am doing.  Such is the curse of motherhood.  I knew exactly who the child was; I had seen the mother in the waiting room  dealing with a three year old, a toddler and pregnant with another.  She looked white and tired and I felt sorry for her.  However, I dearly wished she could control her child a little better; having a pap smear is bad enough, but having someone else’s child interrupt it escalated it to a whole new level of uncomfortable.  My pity has a certain limits after all!

Finally the procedure was done and the doctor told me I could get dressed.  Before she left she asked “Have you had your mammogram yet this year?”

Um, that would be a negative, considering it had been over two years since I had  come in for a pap smear.  I shared that with her and she told me to make an appointment for one before I left.  I got dressed, walked down the hall to the appointment desk and asked for an appointment.

She clicked a few things on the computer, then said “Would you like to do it right now?”

I didn’t even think twice.  Everything else had already been violated, so why not go for the whole shebang?  “Let’s do it,” I said.

She asked me a couple of questions including “Do you have breast implants?”

I looked at her in disbelief and said drily “do you want me to take my shirt off and show you?  My nipples drag the floor.”

She absolutely howled with laughter.  Personally, I didn’t think it was all that funny, seeing as how I was dead serious, but if it brightened up her Monday and got me through the door more  quickly, so be it.  She told me how to get to the mammogram office and I was out the door, ready to get it over with.

Mammograms have been blogged about exhaustively.  There’s not much left to say about them.  Except that they are the most humiliating, uncomfortable life saving procedure a woman has to endure.  I stripped from the waist up.  Then I put on a paper gown that was supposed to make me feel more comfortable.  Since it flapped open in the front and I had to keep pulling it back up, it really didn’t achieve much.

The tech jacked up the mammogram machine as high as it would go.  I practically had to stand on my toes.  I thought my chin was going to be included in the film.  Then I had to stand perfectly still, boob smashed flat in a machine, dignity laid bare.  All things considered, it was less humiliating than the interrupted anal probe.  At least I have boobs to scan; she said some of the patients she sees really just get “nipple grams”.  I lack a lot in my life, but I don’t lack in that department.  See above comment.

Finally, I was free to go.  I got on the elevator, went down to the first floor, crossed the parking lot, rode the elevator to the walkway, walked across the walkway and took the elevator back up to the parking deck.  And got in my car and drove away.  I had a hairy moment at the exit when I got behind a car driven by a woman who had to have been at least 112.  She had to open her door and lean out to put money in the parking ticket machine because she had evidently walked past all 237 validating stations inside the hospital.  I waited for agonizingly long minutes as she fed first one and then two dollars into the slot.  The third one was limp and kept folding in half, flapping aimlessly in the wind.  She kept trying to force it back in, her liver spotted hand shaking ferociously.  Finally, I threw it in reverse, backed up, and got in the other lane.  I was gone before she ever managed to force single number three into the slot.

And just like that the yearly visit was over.  I had shared my cancer concern with the doctor and  just before she left, she winked and said “well, it all looked pretty good and I didn’t see any obvious signs of cancer.”  And she laughed a bit.  No one ever takes me seriously.  But the good news is I’m all caught up for a whole year.  All my orifices checked out!  I could have been abducted by aliens and been subjected to less probing.  The only difference is there should be no alien baby outcome after this visit.  And if there is….well, that just gives me something new to blog about!!

My goddess has a love life that would make your average high school senior green with envy. Every year a new boy latches on to her, completely overwhelmed by her long blonde locks and her big blue eyes. At the age of eight, she has already been on more dates than her older sister. As soon as I type this blog, I am going to the ACME website to order the girl a chastity belt. And we have been watching the real estate section, looking for an affordable tower so we can lock her up. Cause I don’t know what else to do with her!
Last year, in second grade, she was pursued all year by a young gentleman with a very deep Southern accent. He would call here and say “Heeeeeeeyyyyy…..is the Gawdesssss thayre?” He wrote her love notes. MA and I intercepted one, read it, and howled for weeks. Here is the text, which I immediately committed to memory: “I like the goddess. She is hot. She might kiss me. I said HEY hot girl!!” Do you see what I am dealing with here???
They went on two dates. He invited her to go see the dinosaur show, an exhibit of animatronic dinosaurs that stomped around on stage. She was enchanted, naturally, and as they drove away, it was plain to see her young suitor was completely smitten. What’s not to love about a girl who loves dinosaurs?
A few weeks later, I took them to the zoo. They rode a camel together. I’m pretty sure that in some cultures, riding a camel together equals some sort of marriage arrangement. “Now we have ridden the camel so you must go to your tent and move your things to my tent and you will be my woman” or something along those lines. I think some goats may have to change hands, though, and they never did make it to that stage. The school year ended and so did the relationship.
Third grade began with a new suitor. We went to meet the teacher and the teacher next door stuck her head in and told the goddess “Bubba (not his real name) is so sad you are not in his class this year. He’s just devastated.” The goddess just smirked. I gaped at her: really??? Another boy??? Good God, what was I going to do with this child????
Apparently Bubba was head over heels in love with her. For Halloween, he sent her an invitation to his annual Halloween throw-down. It was enclosed in an envelope he had constructed himself. Inside was a note and lots of illustrations. There were two stickers with pawprints, right next to each other, one labeled ‘goddess’ and the other labeled ‘bubba’. He already knows the way to her heart; the goddess is a sucker for dogs. In the note, he thanked her for the eraser she had given him and offered her a pink animal bracelet; another sign of a serious relationship.
If you don’t have children under the age of 25, the animal bracelet phenomenon might have escaped you. Animal bracelets are rubber bands in the shape of animals. The stores can’t keep them in stock. Someone is retiring even as we speak off the proceeds of his rubber bands. Why didn’t I invent animal shaped rubber bands?? Bubba giving an animal bracelet to the goddess clued me in to the fact that he had serious intentions. Why, oh why did the good lord give me girls???
So a few nights ago, Bubba’s mother called me and said “you are going to think I am crazy, but we are going to Christmas Village this week and I thought Bubba might enjoy it more if the goddess went along.” She was very nice and we laughed together over our children’s fledgling romance. And in the back of my mind, I’m thinking “Oh my GOD!!!!! The child is only EIGHT!!! What will she be like when she’s TWELVE?????”
I took a good hard look at her. I don’t get the attraction. She looks like every other eight year old girl out there. Granted, she does have exceptionally beautiful blue eyes (I can say that because mine are brown and I’m jealous of anyone who has blue eyes) but aside from that, she looks normal. She even wears glasses now. And yet, the boys can’t stay away from her. The next ten years are going to be very, very long.
I am about to go and ready my eight year old child for her date. She has already picked the outfit: black jumper, white turtleneck, tights and mary janes. I am sure Bubba will not be able to keep her eyes off her. And while they’re gone, I am going to do some online research and find a convent school that takes girls her age. I need to lock her away NOW, before the hormones develop!! Once the hormones kick in, I’m sunk for sure!

Lately, the goddess has taken to visiting the school nurse. I guess when she gets bored in the classroom, a visit to the nurse breaks the monotony. Either that, or she has inherited my hypochondria. Considering I take her to the doctor every time she breathes funny, it’s not really all that surprising.
Last Tuesday, on my way home from class, I checked my voicemail and discovered a message from the school nurse. She was concerned because the goddess had been into her office a couple of times, complaining of abdominal pain. She thought it might be a good idea if I came and got the goddess. I rolled my eyes.
Here’s a little trivia about the goddess. She doesn’t like to poo. In fact, she holds her poo as if it is her most prized possession, one she can’t bear to be parted from. When she finally, reluctantly, lets it go, a plunger is usually required, because the poo is usually the length of her colon. There are truck drivers out there who speak her name with reverence.
So right away, I knew retained poo was the source of the abdominal pain. I called the nurse back to tell her and she informed me that Stalin had already been in to retrieve the goddess. That’s the key difference between mothers and fathers: mothers NEVER go and pick children up from school unless a limb has been severed. If there are no bodily fluids emitting from the child, there is no reason for said child to come home. Why ruin a perfectly good day at home with the presence of your child?
I called Stalin and sure enough, he had the goddess in his possession and was en route to his mother’s house. He thought I was going to be in class all day, although, in fact, I had told him otherwise that very morning. We are working on his listening skills. We agreed to meet at a gas station to make the exchange.
When I roared up to the gas station, the goddess hopped out of Stalin’s truck, climbed into my car and announced she was hungry. “I thought your stomach hurt,” I said to her.
“It feels better now,” she chirped. Naturally she was feeling better now that she had been sprung from school.
“Well,” I said, “since you were so sick and had to come home, I think we better stick with soup for lunch.” This did not set well with her at all; I think she was envisioning a gourmet meal from her favorite drive thru. “And,” I continued, “since you’re so sick you had to come home, I think you need to go straight upstairs and go to bed. You need to start feeling better so you can go to school tomorrow.”
Her eyes widened and I could see the gears turning. This was not working out the way she had planned. “Well, take me back to school then,” she said.
“Sweetie, I can’t take you back once you’ve checked out,” I told her. I’m not sure if that’s true, but if it’s not, it should be. “And since you’re home now, you are sick and you can’t play or watch TV.”
She howled. She protested. I mercilessly fed her gruel and marched her upstairs. I forced her to stay up there all afternoon. Whenever she stuck her head out to complain, I hollered her back in the room. It was the longest afternoon of my life. She wasn’t allowed to play outside or eat junk food. No computer and no video games. She was a prisoner and so was I. But I was convinced she had learned her lesson after her afternoon of misery. God knows I had learned; I’m removing Stalin’s name from the call list.
Or so I thought. Today I was subbing and my phone rang. By the time I dug it out, I had missed the call, but the phone showed it was a call from one of the schools. All calls from my kid’s schools come out on one line, so you have no way of knowing which school called. But my sixth sense warned me that it just might be a call from the school nurse. An hour later, my phone rang; it was the school number again. “I have to answer this,” I told the kids and with great trepidation, I answered.
Sure enough, it was the nurse. Sure enough, the goddess had been in for a visit. In a very serious tone, the nurse informed the goddess was complaining of a headache. Apparently the goddess was claiming she had hit her head the day before and was now suffering because of it. And then the nurse said (as God as my witness, she said this): “Upon examination, her head was still a bit tender, but her pupils were equal and reactive.” WHAT? Is she trying out for a spot on “Gray’s Anatomy”??? Equal and reactive my ass, the child was suffering from nothing more than an old fashioned case of “I’m bored, let’s go see what the nurse is doing-itis”!!! I could diagnose that one in my sleep!
I then shared the following information with the nurse: I had been with the goddess for the entire day and she had not suffered any serious head injuries. In fact, she had played all day, come home and eaten a plateful of macaroni and cheese, chicken nuggets and corn, topped off with a rather large quantity of Halloween candy. Not typical behavior for your average concussion victim. I informed the nurse that I was not to be called again unless the child was either vomiting profusely or lying unconscious in a corner.
The nurse laughed a little and hung up quickly; I think she was” afraid of me. As all thinking rational people should be; I’m a little on edge lately, what with the schoolwork, the housework, the three children, the multiple volunteer responsibilities, etc. I then turned to the computer and typed the following note to the teacher: Can we please limit the goddess’s trips to the school nurse? Unless she is bleeding profusely from all orifices or has fallen into a coma, there is no reason for her to go to the nurse. Thanks!” The teacher emailed me right back and assured me she would take care of it.
When the goddess got off the bus that afternoon, she had been miraculously healed of her afflictions. Someone call Jimmy Swaggart, it’s a miracle!!! There was little sign of the critical head injury that had caused her to visit the nurse repeatedly. In fact, she managed to play outside all afternoon with little sign that she was being hindered by a debilitating head injury.
Only time will tell us if the goddess has learned her lesson. I may take some ’special medicine’ up to school and leave it with the nurse. Next time the goddess comes to her for a visit, she can take my special concoction of Fish oil, Castor oil and Olive Oil. That ought to cure what ails her!! Or at the very least, get her bowels moving!