Daily Diatribes

There’s no good reason for my lack of posts. I just haven’t felt like it. The goddess has made a full recovery from the flu and no one else has gotten sick. Camp is over. Now that I’m no longer in panic mode I seem to have lost my focus. I heard they need someone to run the rodeo benefit for the homeless shelter though….no, I’m just kidding!!

That being said, my husband can’t replace the soap in the shower. It’s not his job. Somehow, when we got married, unbeknownst to me, jobs were assigned to each of us. I guess it was in the vows and I wasn’t listening. His jobs include going to work and depositing his paycheck in my account, getting the oil changed in the cars, and occasionally changing a lightbulb or unplugging a drain. I am responsible for everything else under the sun. It’s pretty fair to say I got the short end of the stick.

Replacing the soap in our shower is only one of my many duties. When the bar breaks in half, he gets careful and starts hoarding it. As it dwindles, he gets creative. He will extract slivers of soap from the drain and use them carefully, stretching the utility of a 1/4 of an 1/8 of a sliver of soap over two weeks. It’s not that he doesn’t know how to replace the soap. I tell him where we keep the soap. It’s not a mystery. I’m not trying to lord it over him with my knowledge of where we keep the Ivory. You don’t need a map to find it under the bathroom sink. It’s not guarded by evil minions of Mr. Bubble who threaten intruders with a trident. It’s right there for anyone to grab and unwrap. I have even gone so far as to place the soap on the bathroom counter in plain sight. But my husband WILL NOT be the one to unwrap the soap.

It’s the elephant in the room of our marriage. I have never mentioned to him how much the soap issue annoys me, but believe me, I am annoyed. I don’t understand why this and all other tiny details of household maintenance fall to me. The man went to college for eight years and can manage to skillfully extract ovaries the size of a pinhead from a teacup poodle. But he can’t open the freakin’ soap??? I would love to know where in the Bible it spells out “and man shall have dominion over all the animals and woman shall have dominion over the soap.” I don’t claim to be a Biblical scholar, but I’m pretty sure it’s not there.

Soap maintenance is only ONE of my many duties. I am also the family travel agent, in charge of all vacation plans, hotel reservations, and things of that nature. A person who is super organized, keeps colored binders with separate sections for every receipt, prints out all the confirmations and files them alphabetically would be terrific at making all the reservations. A person like me who makes reservations while simultaneously wiping out a rival mob on Mafia wars, flipping through a People magazine and screaming at the kids for running through the house is not the right person. We are going on vacation next week. We will be gone for two weeks and I can’t wait. We are going to Arizona for a week and then we are going to Philmont boy scout ranch in Cimarron New Mexico for a week. At least I think we are. Because the mess I made of all the reservations still hasn’t been resolved.

First, I registered us for Philmont. At first glance, it appeared even I was capable of doing this. I love to fill out online forms. I registered myself for a class and then I added all of the children. Then I went back and registered Hugo. Only it kicked me out of my class and put him in his class. So I started over. I spent an hour registering and re-registering. By the time I was done, I was registered for two classes, Napoleon was registered for one and Hugo didn’t exist. Napoleon was no longer registered for anything. Turns out I was supposed to register myself first, then start a new account and register Hugo separately but it didn’t mention that anywhere on the website. I am not exaggerating when I say it has taken TWO MONTHS for them to sort out what I did and they STILL don’t have it right. We owe them money for Hugo’s class which he only just got registered into last week…I think. The boy scouts have lost money on this deal because they keep having to refund our money and then re-accept it. They probably have issued orders to have me shot as soon as I step foot on the property.

And then I made the condo reservations. That was very simple. I found a place I liked, then called and made the reservation. It was done in a flash. Only, when I went to look at the reservation on the computer the other night, it wasn’t there. We own two different timeshares (yes, embarrassing but true) and I couldn’t remember which one I had used. Frantic phone calls did not seem to yield any evidence of a reservation with either company. I spent an hour searching frantically on the computer and making phone calls, all to no avail. Then I tried to make another reservation, which was easily accomplished. However, after I made it, I happened to look at the dates and realized I had made it for August instead of July. I tried to throw in the towel.

“I’m going to book group,” I snarled at Hugo. “You see if you can fix this mess.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” he lisped, peering at me all wide eyed and innocent. Because knowing how to diagnose and treat idiopathic canine Cushing’s Syndrome thingy or whatever the hell dogs get doesn’t qualify him to call an 800 number and ask to speak with a customer service rep.
“Apparently, judging from the manner in which I have F#)$*#)(*$#@)(Ued it all up, I don’t know how to do it either!” I retorted. When I got home, he had canceled the August reservation and gotten us hotel rooms for the dates we needed.

I should have been happy, but I wasn’t. Because I knew good and well I had made one. I spent three hours on Saturday morning, searching frantically. The computer kept assuring me I had no held reservations. I tried to track down the information from the credit card company, but I could only come up with the first page of the American Express statement that would have the information. And joy of joys, I can’t access my account online because I LOST THE MOTHER F()#*$)#@*$)#*$)#(@*G card!!!! F(#&$)(#@*$)(#@*NG Wal Mart and their F#@$U#O@$U#(U$NG self checkout lines!!!

At this point, I was positively obsessed with my reservation, or lack thereof, so I called AmEx and sat on hold for twenty minutes, listening to elevator music as I waited for an agent. I contented myself with attacking Mafias and blowing them up with my grenade launchers. Finally I got a lovely woman with only a slight accent. It took me ten minutes to explain what I needed, but she finally managed to confirm that my card had been charged on the date I had made the reservation. I spent another twenty minutes waiting to speak to a supervisor to see if they could fax or email me the information. I wanted to have all my ammunition ready when I called the godless, heathen timeshare people. AmEx, however, denied their ability to send me the info. They had been nice, though, so I stilled my grenade launcher, thanked them nicely and hung up.

I did some deep breathing for a few minutes, then I dialed the timeshare commies. I went through the automated menu at a furious pace; having entered my account number 237 times over the last 24 hours, I had committed it to memory. I got to an agent in record time. She answered pleasantly “It’s a beautiful day, my name is Kera, how may I help you?”
I intended to lull her into thinking I was a reasonable person before I unleashed the demons of hell on her so I said nicely “Yes, Kendra I was calling to see if you have any record of me contacting your establishment on April 15th?”
“Just a moment, while I check that for you,” she said sweetly. I closed my eyes and fantasized having my online Mafia arsenal at my fingertips so I could charge the timeshare headquarters and take the CEO hostage. I would reward week long stays in Hawaii to all who pledged their homage to me. I was dreamily envisioning my hostile takeover when she interrupted my musings with “is this regarding the Sedona reservation for July 11? Is there a problem?”
“Wha…huh….uh…..no….only…it’s not….showing up….online and I thought I….didn’t have…one….”
“Oh you poor thing,” she said sympathetically. “I’ll email you a confirmation right now, but it all looks good. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Um, no thank you,” I said meekly. I sat limply, staring at the computer screen, all the wind gone out of my sails. Why hadn’t any of the multiple people I had spoken to been able to find the reservation? Why had I wasted three hours of my life trying to resurrect a reservation that had never died in the first place. I couldn’t even fathom what had happened or why it had happened to me.

So yeah, that’s married life for you. I am in charge of all details, large and small. I am the finder of lost things. I am the keeper of the soap. I am the maker of the plans. And I am ther person who is going to be admitted to the psych ward for electro convulsive therapy after my husband sends me right over the freakin’ edge. Promise me, o faithful readers, that if something should happen to me and I become incapacitated or worse, that SOMEONE will come over and replace the soap at least once a month. My kids have to eat and my husband is going to lose all of his clients if he starts smelling worse than their animals.

I know my legions of fans are disappointed by my lack of blogging activity. Yes, I am exhausted from my week at camp. Yes, my house looks like a battalion of Imperial Storm Troopers tore through it. And yes, I had a scale model of Mount Everest on my dining room table constructed from unfolded laundry. But that’s not why I haven’t blogged.

We had a great time and the girls got lots of things at camp. They got lots of sun, lots of new experiences….and the flu. Yep, that’s right, the goddess came home with her very own case of Influenza. Saturday morning she started complaining she wasn’t feeling well. Saturday night her temp shot up to 103. Sunday morning I took her to an after hours clinic. They ruled out pneumonia and strep and told me it was viral. Sunday night I found out she had been exposed to the flu. Monday morning I took her to see Dr. Renee and received the confirmation. Type A FLU!! WOO HOO!!!

We had to fill the prescriptions for Tamiflu. We all have to take it because it is supposed to possibly keep us from getting it. You all should have invested in Roche stock Monday because I’m sure it shot up after we paid for five prescriptions. Tamiflu was bargain priced at EIGHTY SIX DOLLARS a scrip! I filled the goddess’s scrip, then went and sold plasma, picked up aluminum cans on the side of the interstate for recycling and turned a few tricks in a back alley so I could pay for everyone else’s meds. Right now I have no problem with the concept of socialized medicine!! Please, please, someone pick up the tab for me!!

Today I am happy to report she has been fever free for over thirty six hours. I think this means she is no longer contagious to others. It certainly means she has become more annoying and less pitiful. I have not developed the flu. I think the nightmare might be over. The downside to all this is I have nothing to blog about. Nothing has happened. I have had limited contact with civilization. So I will share a fun story from last week.

Thursday was a hellish day. At 6 a.m. my friend who had been handling the t-shirts called to tell me her husband had forgotten to pick them up the night before. She was going to get them herself, but the place didn’t open until 10:00 a.m. and she would be late to camp. Since she was supposed to be at camp teaching 55 little girls how to create murals, this was bad. She started trying to explain to me how I could teach mural making but I interrupted her. “I’ll get the shirts,” I said. “You come and paint.” I have ZERO art skills. I can’t even draw good stick people. I got to camp, stayed for the flag ceremony and then I hit the road. The shirts were at a place in downtown Birmingham and I was at least an hour away. Great start to my day!

I got the shirts, stopped at the Girl Scout shop to get more badges, stopped at the Publix to get rock salt for the camp ice cream we were making and then I finished my grand tour of the city at Hobby Lobby, where I had to buy two birdhouses. By the time I walked through their doors, I was exhausted. I had been ALL OVER the place and all I had to look forward to for my troubles was a scorching hot afternoon at camp. I was a little cranky. And the crank factor escalated when I got into the line with my purchases. The chick in front of me was on her cell phone, blabbing away. That’s fine, I like to talk on my phone too. But she was blabbing away while the cashier rang up her purchases and she never once made eye contact with the woman. RUDE….RUDE!!!

I hate Rude, especially when I am hot and cranky. I proceeded to fix the woman with my most evil stare, concentrated laser beams of hatred blazing into her back, berating her for her rudeness. Unfortunately, she was immune to the laser beams. She never turned around. The cashier had a very resigned look on her face; she was used to this sort of treatment. At that very moment, my cell phone rang. I answered it and without missing a beat I said VERY LOUDLY “I’m sorry, I can’t talk on the phone right now because I’m in a line at the store and that would be RUDE! I’ll call you back!” I hung up and resumed my staring. And she continued her blabbing as she grabbed the bag with her purchases and left the store without ever having acknowledged the cashier.

I greeted the cashier brightly and said “I can’t believe how rude that woman was!”
“I know,” she said. “And thank you SO MUCH for saying something. I can’t say anything, of course, but sometimes I really want to. She just better not complain if anything on her receipt is wrong!!” She rang up my purchases, then walked around to hug me. And she walked me to the door, blessing me the entire time. She gave me a final hug and a cheery goodbye as I exited the store. I drove away knowing I had made a difference in somebody’s life. I am a damn good girl scout!!

Well, that’s all I have for today. I have to go get dressed so I can run some errands. However, there is a large, winged cockroach on the floor in my bathroom; I just LOVE living in Alabama!! I threw a phone book at it, so I think it’s dead. Today the bug man will be making an unscheduled appearance at my house just as soon as I Google his number. I’m not about to pick up that phone book!!!

Right, so here I am after two full days of camp. It’s been going pretty well. Yesterday morning was Hell; every five minutes someone was walking up to me and asking me a question. I kept looking for the person in charge to get the answers and realized it was me. I screamed; I cried; I gnashed my teeth. I answered their questions to the best of my ability. I kept ‘forgetting’ my walkie talkie and no one could find me. I hate being in charge. I like to be the strong, silent support person in the background who keeps everything rolling and doesn’t get any acknowledgement until she dies and that’s when everyone totally realizes she was the one that did all the work and aren’t they soooo sorry that she’s dead now because there’s no one to take her place and they should have been MUCH nicer to her when she was alive….wait, lost my train of thought there.

Really, though, it’s been pretty smooth. Today, however, we got to camp and the goddess couldn’t find her lunch. I thought I packed it. I remembered making it. I remembered getting it out of the fridge. I guess I left it on the counter was my thought. I promised to get her another lunch at the Wal-Mart. Some of the day camp supplies needed replenishing anyway. Off I went, leaving the camp and all my cares behind. When I got to Wal-Mart, I couldn’t find the camp credit card. No big deal, I thought, I’ll just put it on my American Express. I love my AmEx and have a very spiritual relationship with it. It’s very pretty card, clear plastic with a blue rectangle right in the center. Esthetically, it’s pleasing. It buys me stuff I want, like new books and pedicures. I love it intensely.

I got to Wal-Mart and spent some time browsing and relishing the Arctic air conditioning. I slowly checked each item off my list as I found it. it was a Zen sort of experience. I felt calm and centered as I bought glue and scissors and Kool Aid. “Ohm, ohm, more glue, ohm, ohm, mod podge, ohm, ohm, crayons…” It was lovely. When I moved to the check out line, I realized all the ones at the entrance I had come into were self checkouts. Not so good. Here is how I feel about self check out lanes at the Wal Mart: if I wanted to scan my own items and bag them, I wouldn’t have gone to college. I would have gotten a job at the Wal-Mart and spent my days scanning things and putting them in bags, something that is much harder than it should be. You realize that when you hit the self checkout line. I always feel a new appreciation for cashiers after I spend fifteen minutes trying to make one bar code scan.

I was too lazy to walk to the other end of the store, though, and all the self checkout lanes were open, so I gritted my teeth and waded in. I had tons of small items to scan. At the self checkout lane, you can only have two bags in the bagging area. But when you stop to move one bag down to the ground, the check out machine gets mad and yells “ITEM NOT BAGGED.” I guess it’s worried that you’re sticking things in your purse. Every time it yells “ITEM NOT BAGGED” the one cashier has to come over and enter a code so you can continue scanning. Well, I had so much crap and so many bags, it was hollering at me every twenty seconds. Every time it hollered, it shut down, waiting for the cashier to reactivate it. A wave of homicidal mania was slowly overtaking me. I had an overwhelming urge to pick up the broom I was buying and beat the machine senseless. Especially when I tried to pay.

I slid the trusty AmEx into the slot. I followed the directions on the screen. I signed my name. The machine brooded about it for a moment, then announced “APPROVAL NEEDED.” Fucker. Naturally by now there was another customer using one of the machines. Naturally she had a gift card with $6.37 on it and she wanted the machine to take it. I’m not exaggerating the total; I was listening. The cashier spent TEN MINUTES trying to get the freakin’ machine to take the freakin’ card with its freakin SIX DOLLARS on it, all to no avail. Truly, if I would’ve had six bucks, I would have handed it over. ANYTHING to get out of the Wal-Mart.

FINALLY, the cashier threw in the towel and headed toward me, pausing to stop and help another biotch at another machine who had only been waiting for thirty seconds. When she got to me, I was foaming at the mouth and the whites of my eyes were showing, as my eyes were rolled back into my head. She calmly reached over, tapped in her code, and the machine promptly smiled at me, cooing electronically for me to sign my name again.

Ready to get the heck out of dodge, I signed. And that’s when it happened. My AMEX, which had been clenched in my fist as I signed, slipped out of my hand and fell into a damn crack beside the damn scanner on the damn machine. It was like losing a loved one. Time froze as I watched my AMEX, the love of my life, a true friend, slither down into oblivion. I didn’t panic; I figured the manager could come over and open up the little machine and hand me my card back, right? There appeared to be a lock on the thing and I can’t be the only dumbass to have ever dropped my credit card, right?

I told the cashier and she called the manager. The manager listened to the story and shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but it can’t be opened. There’s a credit card down there from when we first opened two years ago.” The world spun and I felt faint. It was….gone?? Nothing she could….do??? There had to be a way. To give her credit, she tried. She lifted up the scale and tried to lift the thing underneath it, but it was bolted down. I wanted to suggest someone get a jackhammer to remove all the bolts, but I knew it wouldn’t happen. Sniffling, I turned my back on the final resting place of my beloved and slowly walked away.

Sadly I drove back to camp, keenly aware of my loss. My shopping days are through now that my little plastic friend has gone away. I am in mourning. I would love to hold a memorial service and then invite everyone out for margaritas but I can’t do that. I have no way to pay for it since my sole means of funding such events is currently residing in the self checkout lane at Wal-Mart. Dammit. Oh, and the goddess’s lunch? Turned out to be in her freakin’ backpack exactly where I put it this morning. My AMEX died for nothing and I am bitter. Oh well, c’est la vie. I’ll just have to use my Visa instead!!

The week of my day camp draws ever near and as it looms, I find myself getting pissier. I am consumed with a desire to raise the spirit of Juliette Lowe from the grave, bitch slap her, and scream “What the Hell Were You Thinking?????” I hate all girl scouts and I hate their mothers. Really, I hate myself for volunteering. I need to administer a good bitch slapping to myself.

For starters, I’ve had three calls in the last day from people interested in attending the camp. Flattering, no doubt. But the deadline was April 15. We even put it on that day so people could easily remember it: pay your taxes, register your child for day camp. We all but filled out the forms for these folks. And you want to call me JUNE 10th and tell me your child wants to come???? Um, that would be a NO! And I said no….three times in twelve hours to three different people. My therapist will be so proud. Oh wait, I don’t have a therapist. Can I get some cyber love please??

And let’s not get me started on the volunteers. You get a discount if you volunteer your services. The usual people signed up to be full time volunteers. A few newbies signed up to help. And then I have the chicks that only want to give me one day. That’s cool, I know how it is to be a working mom. Been there, done did that! But still….if you sign up to volunteer on a day, that means you are volunteering to HELP, right? In whatever capacity required of you, right??

Apparently not. I had a woman who signed up to volunteer on Tuesday and she thoughtfully deducted the discount from her check. When I contacted her to tell her where I had placed her, she balked. And emailed the following: “I volunteered so I could spend time with my daughter and her friends and to help the Girl Scouts. If I can’t be with her, I’m afraid I’ll have to stay at work.” I emailed her back nicely and said “I don’t need you with your daughter’s unit, so you better stay at work.” What I WANTED to say was “Cow, if you want to spend a day with your kid, take the day off and freakin’ take her to the zoo! Or better yet, quit your job, pull her out of her expensive private school and make tacos three times a week like I do so I can stay home! Don’t expect me to spend half an afternoon trying to tweak the schedule that has taken TWO FULL WEEKS to create so you have your way just because you have to work!! Waah, waah, sob, sob, tell someone who cares hobag!!” I must say, this day camp is not bringing out the best in me.

Am I being unreasonable? If I sign up as a volunteer, it’s to do what YOU need me to do, not what I WANT to do. To me, that’s no different than Napoleon telling me last week that he was tired of being told by the boss what days he had to work. He is working for my brother in law’s lawn care service this summer. Strangely, my brother in law expects Napoleon to show up on the days he needs him. This did not sit well with Napoleon, who had envisioned long summer days spent watching 16 straight hours of ESPN while ingesting mass quantities of food. It was a June Cleaver moment when I told him “Son, if you were working for McDonald’s, you wouldn’t call them day by day to tell them whether or not you felt like coming to work. They give you a schedule and you come when they need you or you don’t have a job. That’s called THE REAL WORLD.” I got the blank eyed stare in return. He’s still working, though, so I guess he got the idea.

Anyway, I’m tired of dealing with everyone. I have stopped answering my phone. I’m ignoring all the emails. I have not made a hit list, although it’s tempting. I have locked away all the sharp objects. I am going to get through this experience without committing any felonies. Come next Friday, I am going to come home and drink large quantities of liquor as I gleefully burn all the registration forms. And then I’m going to burn my Girl Scout membership card. I may roast marshmallows over the fire and make one last round of Smores while it all burns!!! Bring your sit upons and you can join me!!

I am so crazed right now I can barely even think. I have been slaving over the schedule for the camp I foolishly volunteered to direct and I still can’t get it right. Every time I think I have it together, I find another hole. It’s like putting a puzzle together in the dark with only half the pieces!!

Today, I took a small break to take MA to the eye doctor. From there, we went to McDonald’s to lunch with some friends (the goddess’s friends…MA’s friends wouldn’t be caught DEAD in Mickey D’s!!). We sat in the play area to eat and I chatted with Amy and Nancy while the kids played. There was a little boy toddling around and I mentioned to them how cute I thought he was. He had those fat little feet that just BEG to be nibbled! Naturally, they fired back a whole slew of reasons why toddlers are best left to other people, including snotty noses and poopy butts. A few minutes later, their point was rammed home quite graphically.

I looked up because one of the girls called my name. As I glanced up, I saw the toddler laid out on one of the tables. And just WHY does one lay out a toddler on a table at the McDonalds? I’ll tell you why….so Mom can change his SHIT FILLED diaper right there in the dining room in front of God and everybody. My jaw worked for a moment, but no sound came out. My brain could not process the revolting images fast enough for me to verbalize them. ‘Diaper….Poop….table….people….EATING….,’ were just some of the words running through my mind. It’s not like we live in India. There are two sets of bathrooms in this McDonald’s and both of them are equipped with changing tables. Guess it’s too much to ask for someone to remove her child to the bathroom and handle his fecal matter in private. God FORBID she should walk across the room so as to spare the rest of us the touching sight of her hoisting his fat little butt up in the air so she can thoroughly wipe his crack.

I don’t even need to consult Miss Manners on this particular issue. Nowhere in the civilized world is it acceptable to change a child’s poopy diaper on a table where people sit down to consume food. There WASN’T EVEN A BLANKET UNDERNEATH THE CHILD!!!! HIS BARE BUTT WAS TOUCHING THE TABLE!!!! Anyone ever heard of e coli, that lovely little bug SPREAD THROUGH FECES????? There aren’t really enough words to express my horror!!! Never is it acceptable to change your child’s crap filled diaper in a room full of strangers who are eating!!! That I’m eating at McDonad’s is bad enough; do we really have to add insult to injury?? Barbecue sauce for the chicken nuggets anyone??

I finally managed to speak my thoughts aloud. Amy and Nancy were instantly riveted by the horrible sight. Naturally they expected me to go over and ream her out, but I was just too tired. If the woman thinks it’s ok to plop her kid’s shitty ass on the table, is there anything I can say to make a difference? I did, however, tell the manager so she could go and Clorox the table.

So there you have it. People are selfish, careless, unthinking and rude. Somehow, even at my advanced age, I am still surprised. I always expect better from people. And I never fail to be disappointed. Next time I will say something. Next time, I will march right up to the woman and tell her just how disgusting her actions are and how thoughtless she is being. Wait, what am I saying? I hope there is NEVER a next time!! Seeing it one time is once too many!!

This business of being forty years old is not amusing. There is not one single thing about being forty that has caused me to embrace it and rejoice. For one thing, it just sounds old. Forty sounds really close to fifty, which sounds really similar to filthy which is how I describe the state of being forty. Ugh. And just shut up everyone who is older than me; I don’t care. Today, I want to embrace my own agedness. I could care less about yours. I’m selfish that way.

Fun Forty Fact #1: Some evil demon (possibly the one who sends flies crawling up your nose) has gone throughout the world and caused all printed words to shrink up very small and made them just a bit blurry. It’s impossible to focus on them, no matter how you twist the paper. What the hell is that about?? Yesterday at the funeral, I was sitting with Kiki, who is MUCH older than me, and we were trying to sing along with the congregation. Unfortunately, we only had one song sheet between us and we engaged in a game of tug of war, each of us trying to bring the paper closer to our own face. We ended up not really singing the words because neither one of us could see them. I have wretched eyesight anyway and I didn’t need to add another layer to the vision impairment. Trifocals, here I come. 

Fun Forty Fact #2: I have complained about the gray hair before, but I just have to give it another mention. Why does it SPRING off my head?? Why does it wave around in the air gaily, drawing attention to itself? It will not be tamed. It insists on thrusting itself out for everyone to see. I would get it colored but I am deathly afraid my hair will turn green. Green is the new gray.

Fun Forty Fact #3: Facial hair. I have never in my life had facial hair. Until now. Yesterday I was inspecting my face up close in a mirror and was horrified to see black hairs sprouting out of my upper lip. I have always prided myself on my hairlessness. I have virtually no arm hair and before now, I’ve never had any facial hair either. Now I have a mustache that would make Tom Selleck green with envy. I am starting to look like an Italian grandmother. Next thing you know, hair will be sprouting out of that mole on my chin that is going to appear any moment. 

Fun Forty Fact #4: Literally everything gives me gas now. No matter what I eat, I can count on it making a reappearance in a haze of smog around my rear end. Mexican food can cause nuclear fallout. Hell, even toast is enough to generate a couple of good toots. It’s bad enough the eyesight is going and the mustache is appearing. Now I am well on my way to becoming a social pariah thanks to my innards. I’m glad I bought stock in Beano when the market was down.

Fun Forty Fact #5: My memory is failing. Today I got into an argument with Hugo. He was lurking around the computer around 7:30 this morning and I asked why he wasn’t at work. He looked at me like I was nuts and said “it’s my day off.” I proceeded to argue with him, informing him he had told me he was not going to have a day off until June, so he needed to go to work. He looked at me like I was insane and said “IT IS JUNE!!!” I knew that. Really.
Fun Forty Fact #6: Skin changes are scary. Last week, I developed a blister on my nose. It was perfectly round and it hurt, but it was hard to see. It was kind of clear. I pointed it out to Gina and Lucy. Lucy said “oh, it’s one of those subterranean zits”. Gina agreed enthusiastically and they engaged in a very animated discussion about these zits and in which location they hurt the worst. I remained unconvinced it was a zit. Two days ago the blister sort of disintegrated and my nose became very itchy. And there was a bump left where the blister had been, a very suspicious bump. Last night I pointed out the bump to a nurse friend. She asked me a couple questions and then said “it could be skin cancer; you need to get it checked out.” Great. Along with my lack of facial hair, I have always prided myself on my dark skin and an assumed immunity to skin cancer. Now it seemed I had a melanoma growing on my nose. Strangely enough, I wasn’t worried. In fact, I came home and slept remarkably well for someone who has just been diagnosed with Stage 5 skin cancer that has metastasized the the earlobes.

This morning I looked at it in the mirror again. Overnight, it had morphed from skin cancer into an ordinary whitehead. Disgustedly I popped it and now the whole thing is cleared up. On the bright side, apparently I am not prone to skin cancer. On the dark side, subterranean zits are one more gift from your body on its fortieth birthday. I guess the hot flashes are next. I’ll be relocating to Alaska when that happens!! 

I didn’t sleep well last night. This is partially because I am insane and partially because I received devastating news yesterday. A friend of a friend, which is a pretty slim connection, was killed in a horrible car accident on Saturday. Her eleven year old daughter was killed as well. I knew the mom, Millie, fairly well. We were not necessarily friends, but I would say we were very congenial acquaintances. Regardless, an accident like that, where a mother and child are killed, is news that will cause almost anyone to pause for a moment to ponder the whims of life and death.

Consider this: one minute you are driving along, a happy family of five and in the next, you are reduced from a family of five to a family of three. The entire trajectory of your life has changed. Everything you knew to be true no longer holds. Without even being consulted, you have been rudely jolted from a life of stability and security into a terrifying realm where nothing is safe or sacred. It freakin’ sucks when you really think about it!

Now I’m not a religious type. I am a practicing Catholic, but I cannot embrace the notion of a God who pulls the strings and moves us all around like pieces on a chessboard. We have free will and I don’t believe our death is predestined. I think it just happens when it does. So I won’t prattle on about “Why Did God Let This Happen” because it’s irrelevant. God didn’t let it happen; it just did. True spirituality comes into play when we make our peace with the fact that it did happen, that bad things happen and always will, and that all we can do is pick up the pieces and go on about the business of living.

I worry every day about dying and leaving my children behind. I worry equally they are going to die and leave me behind. Either way, as inevitable as it is, death sucks. It’s the great “Buh-bye” and I don’t like it. I totally sort of get why Voldemort wanted to conquer death; the whole prospect of death is a very scary thing and it’s totally out of my control. This is why I take medication; it takes the edge off the worrying! I still know my children are going to die, but I can still get through my day!!

Whenever someone I know dies, it forces me into the uncomfortable position of facing the inevitability of my own death. From there, I start a litany of ways I don’t want to die. For starters, I don’t want to be murdered. I don’t want anyone I know to be murdered. I never want to be the star of one of those crime shows Nancy finds endlessly entertaining. To paraphrase Jack Dawson “I want to die an old woman in my bed” and no other way will suffice. I don’t want to be burned alive; I freely admit here I am not a good enough Christian to be burned at the stake. I would probably get on my knees and start worshiping George Bush if it would keep me from being burned. I don’t want to be eaten alive. The prospect of being gnawed to death by a ferocious predator fills me with dread. If faced with a hungry bear in the wilderness I would likely crap my pants and drop dead on the spot. Far better than being eaten alive. I don’t want to fall, be stabbed, be run over, drown or freeze to death. I don’t want to be stalked by a maniac with a chainsaw and dismembered piece by piece….wait, I think that falls under being murdered. Sorry for the repetition. I don’t want to die a painful death for sure. But I’m so mean, it’s probably inevitable.

Anyway, pondering death and dying kept me up for awhile last night. And every time I thought I had finished and was about to drift off, horrible thoughts would pop into my head. They’ve been advertising that horrible movie “Drag Me To Hell”relentlessly. I’m fine with the scary gypsy lady. I’m fine with the demons trying to drag the heroine off into the underworld. What gets me is the fly. Over and over again they show this fly crawling up the heroine’s nose as she sleeps. Now THAT’S scary!! An insect crawling up your nose so it can lay eggs in your brain and eat your internal organs is more than I can handle.

I’ve always suffered from an over active imagination. I never needed any help to imagine monsters under the bed, in the closet or out in the hall. Images from scary movies stick with me for years. I still get panicky if the bed seems to move by itself ; could there be a demon in the room??? The fact that I am forty and STILL suffering is somewhat embarrassing, but I have never claimed any superior degree of maturity. Anyway, every time I started to drift off last night, I would get a clear, technicolor image of that fly crawling up her nose and my eyes would snap wide open, scanning the air for insects. I don’t need Xanax, I need a lobotomy.

These are my deep thoughts for the day. Death sucks but it’s inevitable. I don’t want to be eaten alive. I don’t want a fly to crawl up my nose and eat out my eyeballs. And I want to say Millie Dunn, you are missed. You and your precious daughter Katie are missed and your deaths have left a void in the lives of many. You may be gone but you will never be forgotten. I wish I had known you better Millie, but I am glad that I knew you.

Some women are called to be girl scout leaders. They are the women who can patiently lead a group of 7 year old girls through a craft involving pine cones and pipe cleaners. They radiate wholesome goodness, a sense of fresh air and high moral values. They are the sort of women and mothers all of us aspire to be. The girls in their charge become better people because of their contact with them.

Then there’s me. I took my girls on a fabulous camping trip, true. However, on Friday night, the tents were all up and we were bored, waiting for everyone else to show up, so we decided to cruise on into town. Helen Georgia is a Bavarian style village, nestled in the piney woods of North Georgia. It is possibly one of the cheesiest places in the continental United States, but the people are so friendly and the scenery is so beautiful you find yourself enchanted even though you know secretly, deep down, that the whole concept is unbearably schmaltzy. However, the girls were loving it and we strolled the sidewalks, peering into shops. They spied an old time photography shop and begged to be allowed to go in and have their picture made.

Being the softy I am, I agreed and in they trooped. I sat down, smiling, appreciating the wholesome goodness of the whole trip. Imagine my horror when, moments later they all emerged from their dressing rooms sporting fishnet hose and plunging scarlet dresses. They giggled merrily as the proprietor fitted them with hats, guns and tequila bottles. Then they perched on the bar and assumed murderous poses for the camera. “Mom, I love this, I feel just like a WHORE!!” my fourteen year old daughter squealed. Inwardly I groaned, imagining Juliette Lowe, the founder of Girl Scouts, rising up in her grave and shouting “This is NOT what I had in mind!!!!!” Especially when they all three pointed their guns at the camera and scowled fiercely, looking like Thelma, Louise and Bonny ready to go on a rampage. Good, wholesome fun.

Saturday we went tubing down the Chatahoochee river. Perhaps this sounds like fun to you. It even looks like it should be fun. You sit in a brightly colored inner tube and float lazily down the river. Until you hit a boulder and become so tightly wedged you have to flop out of your tube and slip around on the boulder until you manage to dislodge your tube, trying all the while not to slip down into the space between the boulder and snap your leg in half. This happens approximately every 17 feet, so a thirty minute float down the river turns into a two hour work out in hell. If you’re not stuck on a rock, then you are floating to one side of the bank or the other, into murky, smelly water that is likely filled with water moccasins waiting to inject their venom into your unsuspecting toes. Prehistoric mosquitoes buzz around you, withdrawing your blood and depositing encephalitis and lyme disease. Almost immediately I fell behind and watched my girl scouts float away, one by one. They have smaller butts and don’t get hung up on the rocks like I do. Brats. The water hovered just above the freezing mark; I felt like an extra in “Titanic” as my extremities slowly succumbed to frostbite. At the end of the trip, I slogged up the bank of the river, mumbling and cursing. Twenty minutes later, Kiki’s mother drifted into sight. As she floated by me, she yelled up “I had an experience; I nearly died!!! Bwahahahahahahahahaha………” I was immediately ashamed of myself. If Judy can face death and laugh, I thought, so can I.

We went back to camp and managed to cook our lunch before the rain started up again. The girls made s’mores and we relaxed and I thought “this is what girl scouting is all about.” I looked at my co leaders and said “let’s go out in the woods and kill an animal and roast it for lunch!!” They looked at me like I was crazy, so I subsided back into myself. As the rain started up again, we decided to go back into town. It was MA’s birthday and I had promised we would go out for dinner to celebrate. In town, we looked at the restaurants and I let her choose. Naturally, she chose one called “Margaritas”, a fine establishment which sported a frozen margarita/daiquiri bar and a dance floor. All the girls ordered daiquiris and all the moms got margaritas. Except me. I got water because I was still trying to attain perfect leader status. After the girls finished their nutritious hamburgers and french fries (where is the girl scout stew?? the camp goulash???) they wandered up to the dance floor and requested “Friends in Low Places.” As the band played raucously, they all piled onto the dance floor and gyrated wildly. As MA and her friend Grace danced by, one of the moms whispered urgently “do you think we’re making them into lesbians???” The highlight was when the drunk couple joined them on the dance floor and the woman taught them all to do the Texas Two Step. Line dancing and girl scouting were made for each other!!

Sunday we went white water rafting. The outfitter was about a ninety minute drive from the state park where we were staying. We drove straight up and over a mountain and then back down again. By the time we stopped in Booger Hollow, two of the girls were carsick. Yes, I said Booger Hollow. I spoke to a local (and I swear to GOD I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP…I’m not that creative!!!) and he said it got it’s name from a man who wandered up and stepped on a booger, which made a noise. When his companion asked what the noise was he said “oh, did you hear the booger holler?” Wow, just wow. So yeah, we went rafting and had an absolutely fantastic time. The weather was perfect right up to the moment we stepped off the river. Then the skies opened and it poured on us all the way back to camp.

And it was not an uneventful trip. About halfway back, we decided to stop and grab some food. One of the many girl scout leader attributes I lack is a sense of direction. As I turned out of the Burger King parking lot, I went the wrong way. I turned around and went in another wrong direction. I stopped for a moment, let the GPS get its bearings and then headed out again. It took us on a little side jaunt through town. I was eating a Whopper. I took a bite and a gooey splat of ketchup, mayo and mustard landed all over my hand. I tried to wipe it off on a napkin, but it didn’t work. Somehow I got it all over my face and, more importantly, up my nose. I know lycopene is good for you, but I don’t think there is any added benefit to snorting it. I was so consumed with getting all the goo off my face while driving, eating my Whopper and following the GPS that I wasn’t really paying attention to the road. Suddenly, the car was airborne.

It was one of those surreal moments where we were suspended in time and space and I was outside of myself, watching it all happen. What happened was we hit a speed obstacle…bump is really too tame a word….and everything in the car went flying up into the air. The girls screamed so loudly the group in the car behind us heard them. French fries and ketchup flew up into the air. Drinks tipped over. Girls were gibbering in fear. And me? I started laughing so hard I choked on a piece of Whopper. Then I was laughing and choking and crying and peeing. It sucks to be a forty year old woman with bladder control issues. I really thought I was going to have to pull over so Judy, who is a nurse, could administer the Heimlich on me. Fortunately, the whopper dislodged itself and headed on down to its final destination, but it was hairy for a few minutes. Of course the phone rang almost immediately and when I answered, we could hear the screams of laughter in the car behind us. They were able to avoid careening over the speed mountain and accurately predicted the flying food scenario. Bitches.

So yeah, that was our camping trip. It was lots of fun but I’m in no hurry to repeat the experience. I need to get the suspension in my car fixed, the dent in the top knocked out and check my daughter into a convent. I will say this: I may not be the most kosher girl scout leader but no trip that involves me is EVER dull!!

I just got back home an hour ago. I spent the weekend in the woods with the girl scouts, a lot of spiders and a marauding squirrel bear. We went tubing down a river and white water rafting. I have enough material for twenty blogs. However, I will start with one. It’s all about my ridiculous inability to sleep in strange places. I have had sleeping issues since I became an adult. I don’t sleep well unless conditions are perfect. I don’t like to sleep in the same bed with my husband or even the same room. I need it to be perfectly quiet, the pillow has to be just right, I have to have the right noise level and it has to be dark. No snoring in the room!! No moving the bed at all!! In short, I’m a freak. When I travel, I obsess for weeks about how I am going to sleep.

You can imagine how much I worried about this camping trip where we would be sleeping outdoors in less than favorable conditions. We planned to be gone for three nights and I did everything I could to prepare myself.  I went out and bought a battery operated fan. White noise helps me sleep. I packed my Xanax and my Tylenol PM. I figured one or the other would do the job. If I died of an overdose, at least I wouldn’t have to worry about sleeping anymore. I brought two pillows and an inflatable camp pad. I was as ready as I could be. It started raining that first night and it would not stop all weekend. It always rains when I go camping, that’s a given. I took a whole Xanax and climbed into my sleeping bag. I couldn’t get comfortable. I am a side-sleeper but either way I turned, my hips hurt. The pad between me and the pea gravel under the tent might as well have been made out of paper for all the padding it provided for my arthritic hips. It’s a terrible thing to cross the Forty mark!! Also, I couldn’t get the fan positioned properly in the tiny space I was allotted. First it was blowing in my face. Then I had it too far in the corner and I was afraid it would spark and set the tent on fire. Do battery operated fans even do that? Finally, I fell into an uneasy sleep.

And woke up coughing because it’s allergy season and I am plagued with post nasal drip. I had intended to bring water into the tent with me but of course I forgot it. I coughed as quietly as I could for a few minutes, then I resigned myself to the inevitable: I would have to leave the tent. I hauled myself up and crawled toward the front, trying not to bump into Lucy who was sleeping on a cot next to me. Naturally, I socked her in the head as I tried to open the tent, waking her up quite rudely. I apologized and gingerly reached for the zipper.

Have you ever unzipped a tent in the middle of the night? It sounds like a pride of lions roaring on the Serengeti. There’s no way to do it quietly. Red faced with embarrassment and woozy from the Xanax, I stumbled over to the picnic table and gulped some water. Kiki’s mother, Judy, heard the commotion and roared out “WHO’S OUT THERE????” I guess she was picturing someone from “Deliverance” lurking around, looking for victims. “Just me,” I said, hanging my head in shame. I took a few more sips of water and then went back to the tent. I tripped over the rope and hurtled in head first, narrowly avoiding landing on top of Lucy. I knocked over the fan as I plunged face first into the floor of the tent, waking everyone up with my crash. I crawled into a corner and laid awake, burning with shame at my inadequacies. That was the first night.

The second night, I decided to sleep in the car. The campsite was very small and we were unable to accommodate everyone in the tents. One of the other moms had slept in her car the night before. I offered stoically to take my turn. I figured it would be quieter and I might actually sleep better than I had in the tent. Just in case, I took two Tylenol PM. I lowered the back seat and found that if I positioned myself diagonally, I could stretch out full length. That’s one of the few perks of being short. Happily, I climbed in and settled myself in, reveling in the sensation of NO ROCKS under my body. I drifted off to sleep, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. (Did I mention it rained the ENTIRE weekend??) At 1:30 in the morning, I woke up coughing again. I had left my bottle of water in the front seat, so I crawled over into the middle section of the car to get it. After I calmed the cough, I decided it was a good time to visit the bathroom. As I reached for the door handle, I realized opening the door was a bad idea, but my sleep fogged brain couldn’t quite comprehend why. To my horror, as the door released, the horn started honking intermittently and the lights started flashing.

Because I had locked it from the inside, the car now thought it was being invaded. Being a loyal sort of car, it decided to warn me by courteously blaring its horn as loud as possible. Do you know how loudly a car horn echoes in a perfectly quiet campsite filled with sleeping families? I fell out of the car and realized I would have to get the keys to turn off the alarm. They were currently in the trunk area with my sleeping bag. No shoes, no glasses, I hobbled over the rocks to the back of the car, opened the door and groped around for the keys. I grabbed them and started pushing random buttons until the horn stopped. Weak with relief, heart pounding, I slumped against the car for a moment. I closed my eyes and envisioned an angry mob assembling with camp shovels and smore forks, ready to put me to death for waking them up. Too weak to even make it to the bathroom, I peed on the ground by the truck and climbed back in. And not a moment too soon, because headlights came around the corner and stopped. Apparently a park ranger came to investigate the source of the sound.  I huddled in the back and stayed perfectly still until he moved on. I didn’t sleep much the rest of the night.

The third night, I was convinced I would sleep like a log. We had gone white water rafting that day and I was exhausted from the long drive and the exhilarating trip down the river. By now, everyone who could do so was sleeping in a car. The endless rain had rendered the tents less than hospitable. Three of us headed to the parking lot that night. I didn’t even take anything for sleep, so convinced was I that sleep would not elude me. And indeed, I fell into a deep and peaceful sleep very quickly. At 1:30 a.m. an elephant jumped on the roof of my truck. At least that’s what it sounded like to me. I sat straight up so fast you would’ve thought someone had rammed a poker up my butt. I was instantaneously wide awake, ready for danger. Gradually I realized I had parked under a tree and a limb must have been dislodged by the heavy, persistent, annoying rain that was falling. It was almost certainly not an elephant or even a team of hillbilly commandos trying to force their way into my car to eat my brain.

‘Just a branch,” I reassured myself, looking wildly left and right. ‘Just a branch…not a bear trying to open the car to eat the tasty morsel inside. Not a serial killer. No, just a branch….’ Not much sleep after that little incident either.

I was out of the truck by 6:30 a.m. (5:30 central time) and heading to the showers. By 9:30, I had the campsite completely cleared and we were on our way home. I was so exhausted and all I could think about was my own dry bed. Tonight I will sleep the sleep of the righteous. No rain will pelt me, no horns will wake me and no limbs will fall upon me. I plan on sleeping for at least ten hours. Then I will regale you with tales of girl scouts gone wild!!!

I am having that problem again. Constipation of the mind! I need to take a mental laxative or some verbal Viagra so I can perform here!! I’ve started four blogs this week and abandoned them all in disgust because they’re stupid. I know part of it is because I have a camping trip looming on the horizon and I am anxious about it. I hate camping. I hate sleeping outdoors. I hate setting up tents and dragging endless amounts of equipment all over the country. I’d rather stay at a Holiday Inn Express. But I am dedicated to my volunteer profession of girl scout leader and by GOD we will camp!!! No matter how much I hate it. I am selfless and dedicated. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but selfless and dedicated!!

Yesterday I was saddened to see the new sex theme park they were building in China is not going to be built after all. Which really ticks me off since I have non refundable airline tickets. I guess we’ll have to go see the Great Wall or something lame like that instead of riding the Orgasmo coaster. Dammit. Here is just a bit of what we’re missing out on: “The park manager, Lu Xiaoqing, had planned to have on hand naked human sculptures, giant models of genitals, sex technique “workshops” and a photography exhibition about the history of sex, according to China Daily. The displays would have included lessons on safe sex and the proper use of condoms.” Who wouldn’t benefit from technique workshops? Another brilliant idea sacrificed to the prudery of modern society.

And speaking of condoms, here is an anecdote that reveals way too much about my personal life. Feel free to click away if you don’t want to know sordid details about my sex life….yeah, like anyone is going to disappear after THAT teaser!! We have always used condoms as our preferred method of birth control. Yes, I know I’m Catholic and “every sperm is sacred….yadda yadda yadda” but until the church offers to foot the bill for my rugrats, I’m using birth control. God can deal with me in the after-life! I can’t take the pill because I have an anxiety disorder and I am convinced taking the pill will cause killer blood clots in my legs that will break off and travel to my lungs. That happens at least three times a week on “House” and since he doesn’t have an office in Birmingham, I would rather avoid blood clots altogether. Besides, condoms are cheap. The only problem is neither one of us wants to be the one to buy them. It’s ridiculous that we have been married for 18 years and neither of us wants anyone in the world to know we’re “doing it”. Even though the presence of our three biological children generally clues people in to what we do in our spare time!

Well, we were at Sams which is the best place to buy condoms (buy in bulk so you don’t have to buy them as often!!!), and I casually strolled over to the pharmacy, grabbed the economy box and tucked it under the bottles of lotion in my cart. Then I went to check out. There were two youngish people in front of us with a bunch of party food in their cart. I smiled at them and said “are y’all having a party?” They looked at me suspiciously and said “yes we’re in charge of the graduation party at the Bible College.”I said “oooh, I love parties!”They smiled politely and turned away. Afterwards, Hugo informed me they were completely creeped out by the condoms. “I was hiding them,” I said. “No, you could see them clearly,” he told me. Great, with my “I love parties” line, those kids probably thought I was referring to orgies. As in “Let’s go to the Bible College and have an orgy!!” Nothing creepier than a middle aged woman with a jumbo box of condoms leering at you in the checkout line at Sams. Poor kids probably went back to school and held a prayer vigil for me!! Or jabbed pencils in their eyes.

When I got to the cashier, I laid all my stuff down, with the condoms on the bottom. Naturally she fished them out and then CLUTCHED them in her hand as she rang everything else up. I wanted to die. Literally, she was waving them around at one point. I know everyone in the whole store was fixated on the damn box. I was, anyway. I wanted to grab her microphone and scream “Yes I’m buying condoms but it’s because I cannot POSSIBLY reproduce right now because I am taking too many medications!! We are NOT having orgies with the neighbors or anyone at the Bible College!!!! It’s bad enough I have to do it with my husband; do I really LOOK like I want to be doing it with anyone else?????” 

Yeah, condoms. That’s all I’ve got for you today. But at least you know we practice safe sex here!! I’m going to go away now, back to planning day camp. I’ve bared my soul for you. Hope you appreciate it!! And remember, ALWAYS pay some kid $5 to go in and buy the condoms FOR YOU!!!