Wiping The Crazy Off My Face: 6/1/07

Friday, June 29, 2007

Biological Magnetite

There is so much crazy running around loose in the world right now, I almost feel normal.

Almost.

Among the worst of the insanity, we have terrorism, AIDS, hunger, racism, and Paula Abdul.

Last night as I was experiencing another of my wicked bouts of insomnia, I flipped over to Bravo knowing for sure they would provide something just brainless enough to lull me to sleep.

Unlike all my husbands, Bravo never disappoints.

“Hey Paula” is a “reality” show about the “wonderful” dancing/singing/judging “talent” that is Paula Abdul. (I love quotation marks. They can make any word at all absolutely drip with “sarcasm”.)

If you haven’t seen this show, you have to stop whatever you’re doing right now and jot down a reminder. Trust me when I tell you that no matter how bad you might feel about yourself for whatever reason, watching Paula transition from drunk to drunker to slobbering will boost your self image instantaneously.

You’ll turn off the tube; raise your hands toward Heaven in gratitude and whisper, “At least I’m not her”.

Listen, this show would be funny if I didn’t feel so bad for her. She’s clearly bumped her head one too many times because she is absolutely oblivious to how nuts she is. In fact, it seems like she’s pretty sure she’s the only sane one in the entire country and everyone else is just out to get her.

Which makes her paranoid, which everyone knows is only three steps up the crazy ladder to full blown psycho.

Although I am admittedly completely mentally impaired, I’ve always known it. To my mind, if a person knows they are crazy it is indisputable evidence that they are somehow better than the kind of person who is crazy and has no idea.

I figure if I know I’m nuts and admit it freely, I’m not going to wake up one day and want to pass the time between handfuls of meds by sewing extra pockets on all my clothes or painting my front porch purple to ward off the evil spirits that attach themselves to the tires of my car when I’m pumping gas.

FYI, evil gas pumping spirits are the worst. They are as hard to remove as mustard off a white shirt or blood from a blunt object that was allegedly used to make your husband stop leaving his dirty socks in little balls.

In any case, I am genuinely sorry for Paula Abdul and it is my hope someone in her gang of kiss asses magically grows a pair of pears and tells her she needs to get some help. Not in one of those Brittney joints either. An honest to goodness padded-walls and plastic spork kind of place is what she needs.

Give me a call, Paula’s Peeps. I’ve got several on speed dial.

Oh! By the way, this column is called Biological Magnetite because I am all powerful and I can call it whatever I want. In the interest of education however, Biological is defined as “Logic from the Bayou” and Magnetite of course is a reference to how we 80’s girls used to wear our jeans.

You’re welcome.
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Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

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Monday, June 25, 2007

I'm using these words today - -Pilgrims, Valtrex & Marty's House of Fish.

I know a lot of stuff.

I know how to make chocolate gravy…which almost no one does. I also know what chocolate gravy is…which almost no one does.

I know how to drive a stick. I know all the words to the Star Spangled Banner. I know how to fix anything in my whole house using nothing but a butter knife and a bottle of Maker’s Mark Whiskey.

What I do not know however, is where to find East, West, North and South.

When I am asked to point North by some jack leg who thinks it’s funny because I am a grown woman who doesn’t know her directions, I simply point to the sky. According to all the maps, Heaven is very north. Right over Canada actually.

North is up, South is down, West is left and East is right. That’s because in my mind lives a flat version of the United States map which comes complete with little arrows and the letters, N, S, E, W. That’s what I refer to when making a directional decision.

This weekend my son the Big Dog was set to run in the State finals for track. Weeks ahead, I booked a hotel room, made all sort of plans and even wrote down the MapQuest directions step by step.

Evidently when I wrote them I had just finished fixing something in the house, because upon having my son read them to me as I drove, it was plainly evident that I was drunk.

Long story short, I went east when I should have gone west and we went somewhere we had no business being. My son, a male since birth and therefore incapable of finding any humor in getting lost, expressed his dissatisfaction with me by bulling up and getting all kinds of mad.

“Mom! What are we going to do? I’m gon’na be late for check in and they won’t let me run!”

The madder he got, the more I laughed and the more I laughed, the more he threatened to risk grave injury to himself by jumping from my speeding vehicle and running the whole way to the track meet.

Thankfully I had done what I always do when it falls to me to drive somewhere I’ve never before been. I padded our trip time with a couple hours to compensate for the inevitable getting lost. This ain’t my first time at the rodeo, kids. Nor will it be the last time I get lost on my way to it.

What is wrong with me? I truly do not understand how people can just look up in the sky and figure out which direction they are supposed to go based on shadows and the sun. What are we, Pilgrims?

I have tried and tried to make myself learn whatever needs to be learned to get it, but I’m guessing the part of my brain that should hold that sort of information has become the overflow holding room for all the thoughts I have about that Valtrex commercial. You know the one. He has genital herpes and she doesn’t and they want to keep it that way.

That thing freaks me out. I can’t understand why a lovely girl like that is snuggled up to Mr. VD guy and riding bikes with him for no good reason.

I say dump him and find someone who you don’t have to trust to take a required daily medication so that your vagina doesn’t fall off when pedaling away on your bike trip up Mount Denial.

Whenever I have asked my husband to explain directions and how they work, I am met with some insane explanation that always goes something like this, “I know that we are driving Southwest because Bill’s old house…not the one he’s living in now with his third wife but the one he was living in while he was still married to that one chick you didn’t like because she had that slow eye. Remember her, Honey? She was nice. I can’t believe you didn’t like her just because one of her eyes was a little odd.”

“Baby! I never knew if she was talking to me or checking to see if a zombie was readying to jump her from somewhere off to the side. You know I’m afraid of zombies. I could never relax because her wandering zombie eye kept me in a constant state of high zombie alert.”

“Anyway, Bill’s house is west of James’ house and just south of Marty’s House of Fish. That’s how I know.”

Yeah. That makes perfect sense now. I think I’ll get my butter knife & my bottle and assemble a table.
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Summertime - - - So, so good. Perfection all over the place.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Here I am with my constant craving.

Dear Lyle Lovett and kd lang,

First of all, I want you to know that I am deeply in love with you both in a way that should scare you a little as everyone knows people with obsessive-compulsive disorder often become dangerous when you make them fall in deep love with you.

Or when you get them wet.

I’m no fair weather psycho, either. I have loved you through the good times and the bad times.

Lyle, I was always right there with you. No matter how high your hair got or even that one time you ate some fried chicken laced with crazy and married Julia Roberts, I continued to be your biggest fan.

Not biggest fan as in some lady who hasn’t left her bed in 22 years because of her addiction to Oreo’s and pudding, but biggest fan as in I am a Lyle Lovett fanatic.

And kd, remember the crazy, pointy glasses and weird cowgirl/biker bitch attire back in the day? I was right there with you, Baby loving every minute of what quite frankly scared most of America to death. As a Southern Baptist girl, I could have been run out of town for my kd devotion.

Turns out I was run out of town for reading Maya Angelou. It was bound to be one or the other I guess.

So imagine my insane and potentially brain-exploding excitement when I found out the both of you are coming to a city near me in early July! Two of the greatest loves of my life are going to actually be a mere couple hours away from my house!

Sweet lord. How is a girl supposed to sleep a wink knowing something like that? I can barely stop running around my house screaming, “kd and Lyle are coming to Kansas!!!”

(Please pardon all the exclamation points. Typically I do not throw them around all willy nilly, but when kd and Lyle are going to be in my state…together no less…nothing says excitement like overuse of punctuation!!!!!)

“I will purchase tickets for my daughter and myself to go and see these, the gods of my music collection,” I said. My 23 year old has a deep love for you as well as I forcibly thrust your songs upon her while she was too young to fight back and could be easily brainwashed.

Coincidentally she also flaps her arms like a bird whenever she hears the word “marsupial”. We were poor and brainwashing a small child is surprisingly entertaining.

I popped on over to the website to purchase two tickets thereby ensuring that my daughter will love me more than her Father and I have to say I was somewhat surprised. I may be a little out of touch with all you crazy rock n’ roller types, but I had no idea tickets to see the objects of my affection cost about as much as my gallbladder operation.

Are you kidding me with this? Really? You really think I am going to spend that kind of money to get tickets for my baby girl and I just so we can faintly hear you from the nose bleed section of the Starlight Theatre?

Oh you bitches. You know me too well. I may have already gotten rid of my thyroid and gallbladder, but as long as I still have one good kidney, there is ticket hope yet.

Classified ad: For sale – One gently owned, reasonably priced kidney. Still attached but can be packaged and sent to any location in the lower 48 and Canada upon payment. Some assembly required.

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Listen to them both, or you can never come here again.

Monday, June 18, 2007

Sweet tea and tears.

This weekend a colleague and her husband were killed in an automobile accident. I suppose some will say there is at least a measure of comfort in knowing they went together.

When faced with incomprehensible tragedy, humans have to search for anything that makes it seem a little less random and a little easier to grasp.

Since I was a little girl, I have understood what death is as my rural Southern upbringing meant I was not to be protected from it. Up until I was eighteen and cancer took the Grandmother with whom I was living, our deceased relatives were always brought back home to be with their families until the funeral.

A long, black hearse would back up to the front door of Maw-Maw’s house and men dressed in black with thin ties and perfectly parted hair would wheel my aunts, uncles, cousins and great-grandparents into our version of a formal living room.

I have a very vivid memory of myself running across the front yard, pigtails swinging, loudly announcing my Uncle Ed’s arrival.

Inside the house and surrounding the casket, carnations and chain-smoking relatives stood watch, while in the kitchen a myriad of Southern Baptist women from the community laid out more salty ham and lemon meringue pie than even the saddest family could eat.

Occasionally a female cousin might play something softly on the old player piano sitting directly across from the one who'd gone on. Having myself taken piano lessons in the second and third grade, I once thought I was ready to get the coveted pats on the back coupled with a few teary Bless Your Heart’s by playing the only song I knew. I quickly learned Down at Papa Joe’s was not as appropriate as my cousin's Old Rugged Cross.

Throughout the night the coffin remained open, but protocol demanded that two males who were not closely related to the deceased sat guard beside our loved one until the morning. The smell of strong coffee, cigarette smoke and carnations is one that sort of burns itself in your memory, a peculiar mix of comfort and pain all at once.

Because Maw-Maw loved me and didn’t want the memory of death in the house to give me nightmares, she would scoop me up, take me to the side of the casket and instruct me to kiss my relative good-bye. I was never afraid or hesitant, but I imagine the rest of the world would find it curious that I knew dead people felt like cold stone even before I knew my ABC’s.

Of course there were as many tears as glasses of sweet tea, but the crying was always peppered with whispers of explanation.

“Jesus ended his suffering and called him home. He’s in a better place now.”

“She missed her husband so much. Thank the Lord she’s finally with him in Glory.”

No one ever said, “This makes no damn sense,” because in that world, death made perfect sense. Everyone who died did so exactly the way they were supposed to, at exactly the time they were supposed to, end of story.

Today, years and worlds away from that life, all I can think is that Jeanie’s death makes no damn sense.

She was the nicest person you’d ever want to meet and I guarantee you’d have liked her because she was that kind of person.

She had sparkly eyes with tiny, permanent squint lines from years of laughing out loud. Her voice was wonderfully gravelly and deep in a way that always put me in mind of Jessica Rabbit. The few times I actually heard her swear, she’d lower that voice to a whisper as she said the offending word.

She called me a “hoot” and as only a handful of people in my professional life can do, she brought out the most gregarious part of me. I loved being in the same room with her and I loved talking to her on the phone and there are so few in my line of work about whom I can make that statement.

I spoke to her last only a few days ago when among other things, she made me write down her email address because she wanted a copy of something I’d written. It was one of only a handful of ferocious letters to the editor I’ve ever written and she went on and on about it as if I’d authored the President’s Inaugural Address. I promised I would send it that afternoon, but as is often the case with too many things in my busy life, it went undone.

Every day I’d see my scrawled note to self reminding me to email her and every day, I was too busy. A small, ridiculous thing to think about in the midst of this tragedy, but I think maybe it’s the small, ridiculous things that bother us the most when something like this happens.

There is nothing to do now but send flowers to the family she left and attend her funeral because that’s what we do, right? Flowers, funeral, move on.

I will get up and go to work tomorrow and do my best to act as if nothing has happened because discussing it too much is bothersome and off-putting to those for whom death is not something you get close to. On Wednesday, I will put on black and say good-bye to this lovely lady in an appropriate and wholly civilized way.

How odd that I find myself longing for the uncivilized good-byes from my past. How I hope for her family that they have the benefit of a quiet time alone with her so they can grieve out loud and say all the things they wish they’d said before she was snatched away.

I will miss you, Jeanie. I'm so sorry.

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Calling All Angels

Friday, June 15, 2007

Crazy wears blue eye-shadow.

I am insane.

Due to a birth defect present in many children born to Southern women, my 13 year old boy suffers from a mad love of NASCAR. Sure I’m ashamed of him because of it, but the law says I have to love him anyway.

I try to reduce the number of outbreaks every chance I get, but my ex-husband AKA the boy’s father, does everything he can to ensure The Big Dog never overcomes it. There is dirt racing every Friday night and of course, watching fast cars on TV go round and round whenever possible.

So why then for his birthday last month did I purchase for him a ride in a NASCAR at the Kansas Speedway? This would be where the insane part comes in.

It was one thing to buy the certificate for the 15th of June when the 15th of June was weeks away. It is another thing to actually watch my little boy strap in a vehicle this afternoon that promises to go about 175 mph.

I couldn’t get him a nice sweater or a slinky? Everybody knows a slinky is fun for a girl and a boy. A nice wool sweater only enhances the amusement.

Momentarily he and I will drive the distance to the Big City and I will feed his disease in a way it’s never been fed. I imagine he will leave there firmly convinced that college can wait, track is for sissies and wondering aloud which religion has the best direct line to God so he can join up and ask The Big Guy for a race car and a fire suit.

Throughout my life I have done some idiotic things in the name of love but this was one of the biggest. I would consider faking a serious illness to avoid it, perhaps even throw up a little blood, but I am convinced he would hitch a ride with the first Speedway bound vehicle he happened upon. As Michael Jackson drives around our neighborhood frequently, I’d better get going. I have to bust the tube top out of storage, paint on plenty of blue eye-shadow and make sure I have enough time to pick up a pack of smokes for Mommy and some Redman for the boy.

Oh my sweet lord. I think I really am going to vomit blood.
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Probably the best "love song" ever in the history of the entire world.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

Lullaby and good night.

Mr. Man and I are exactly alike and completely different. The exactly alike part is the reason I married him. (Plus he asked me and of course I never say no to a marriage proposal.)

The completely different part is the reason that sometimes when he’s sleeping, I stand over him with a pillow asking myself if he’ll wake up and struggle.

OK, that’s not true. I never ask myself if he’ll struggle. He’s a heavy sleeper.

Me: “I had another dream about the Frozen Pea Guy who works at Wal-Mart. This time I wound up pregnant with his frozen green baby and we moved in the electronics department and lived in domestic bliss under the fair-priced TV’s until the Wal-Mart manager gave me free gum and I left Frozen Pea Guy and moved in with him in the dairy aisle.”

The Man: “I never dream about anybody but you and yet you spend every night running around with every man you see. I’m faithful to you even in my dreams.”

(Take a break here to chew back the gag in the back of your throat. Have you ever heard such a blatant line in all your born days? Clearly the man forgot I was born 43 years ago and not 43 hours ago.)

Me: “Not every man I see, Buddy. Only most men I see. PS: you’re a liar. Everybody dreams about stuff. You can’t control it.”

The Man: “I can control everything for I am Mr. Man…King of Everything, Everywhere, Forever and Ever, blah, blah, blah.”

Or something like that. If I notice something shiny while I’m having a conversation, I’m gone.

Me: “I’m fat. Do I look fat? Do you think I’m fat?”

The Man: “No, you’re not fat, Honey.”

Me: “Do you swear on your gun I’m not fat?”

The Man: “You are NOT fat. You WERE fat a couple months ago, but you’ve really lost a lot of weight. You look great now.”

Me: “What do you mean I WERE fat? What do you mean I look great NOW? You knew I was fat and totally not looking great and you didn’t tell me?”

The Man: “Baby, you know you were heavy after your thyroid surgery. You know you gained a lot of weight. A LOT of weight. So much weight that I found a picture of you standing by your desk in your office from a few months ago and your face was HUGE. You’ve lost it all now though and you’re the most beautiful woman in the world and I love you so much, I can’t even stand it.”

Me: “You look tired, Pookie. I think you should go take a nap.”

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She's My Ride Home (no video... just audio) How much do I love Blue October? Crazy, crazy much.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Divorce in Ten Easy Steps

I am a big fan of marriage. I’m an even bigger fan of divorce. That’s why I do both as often as possible.

Frequently I am asked, “Hey, Sher. How can I too get a divorce?” Because I am a person who believes in helping my fellow man no matter how stupid their questions may be, I have decided to offer my top ten tips for causing, getting and ending in divorce. Of course, this is by no means an exhaustive list as I am an expert and as such, have at least a book’s worth of divorce how-to instruction.

But this will definitely get you started.

1. The very first thing one must do to ensure any marriage will end in divorce is to marry the wrong person in the first place. I realize it can be difficult to determine if the person you want to marry is truly the wrong person, but this is an important step and one you cannot overlook. If you are a woman, I suggest choosing a man who swears at his Mother or tells you he’s only jealous because you’re so pretty. If you’re a man, always go with the woman who says yes when you pop the question during sex. You can’t miss.

2. Once you’ve found the person you hope to grow to hate, try to marry as quickly as possible and spend as much money as you can in the process. Nothing gets the divorce ball rolling like rushing to the altar…unless it’s going in debt to do it.

3. If you can produce offspring within the first one year or less of your marriage, you are totally on the right track. A screaming, smelly midget who never leaves is exactly what every newly married couple needs. The best part is that kids come in super handy later on when it’s time to start sending hateful messages to each other.

4. Spend every single second together. Don’t go anywhere without the other one, don’t have interests that the two of you can’t share, and if your partner even thinks of going somewhere without you, throw an honest to goodness fit. Only people who aren’t planning on getting a divorce need friends during their marriage. After all, there will be plenty of time once you are separated to convince everyone it was your spouse’s fault you were a snob.

5. Argue as often as possible, about as many things as possible and with as much drama as possible. Scream, throw things, spit, whatever it takes. It also helps to bring up things he or she has done in the past. Ladies, now is the time to remind your spouse you didn’t appreciate the fact that he got drunk at his bachelor party. Sure, he apologized and sure you said you forgave him but forgiving does not mean forgetting. If he didn’t get you the ruby ring you wanted for your anniversary, hit him. Every woman knows men are mind readers. (They keep the technology in their testicles so you won’t find it.)

Guys, unless you bought your wife on www.UglyVirgins.com, she was “with” someone before you and she still wants him. You know she never “forgot” to wash his favorite shirt because doing the laundry and cooking supper is how women show love. If you take the time to explain to her how your ex used to show love, you have automatically scored bonus divorce points and will advance onto the next round.

6. When the sex shifts from hourly to bi-weekly and nobody is bruised or splinted in the making of it, you should assume you no longer love your partner and they no longer love you. Simple math says sex equals love.

7. Marriage is always fifty-fifty. To be certain everything is equal, I recommend a score card.

8. Belittle your partner’s appearance as often as you can find the time. He/she does not look the way they did on your wedding day and there can be no excuse. Call attention to their weight gain, hair loss, sagging skin and that stray hair on their belly button that keeps growing back. You are gorgeous and you look exactly the same if not better. You are way out of their league.

9. Men, the word bitch is your ace in the hole. Whether used loudly or under your breath, women respond to it. Scientifically you will appreciate knowing that every woman is born with a limited tolerance to hearing it. Your job is to repeat the word until you figure out where her threshold is.

Ladies, it’s interesting to note that men value pop relationship quizzes. It has something to do with testosterone. If he cannot tell you what you were wearing the first time he ever saw you, he hates your guts and is having an affair.

10. Throughout my years of research, I have found the compare/contrast method works best in a determined march towards divorce. Take a look at all the marriages around you and meticulously compare yours to theirs. While watching television and movies, note the ways your spouse is not at all like the ones you see. Marriage really is a freaking fairy tale and everyone but you is living the dream.

Not to worry though. If you follow my advice you’ll have at least a couple more chances to find wedded perfection at the end of the rainbow. It’ll be right next to the pot of gold and the small man with red hair and pointy shoes. (Maybe you can marry him.)
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The way tainted love was meant to be.

Sunday, June 10, 2007

I can't dance if I want to.

I’m not allowed to dance. My son says my dancing freaks him out and if he ever sees me doing it again, he will walk right out the front door and he won’t stop until he gets the image of me dancing out of his head.

I can’t help it. Occasionally I need to bust a move.

Most of the time it happens in the kitchen. It isn’t that I like to cook, ‘because I don’t, but it’s more about the joy that is dishwashing liquid. The elation generated by the idea that I can play with citrus-scented bubbles any time I want can only truly be expressed by interpretive dance.

I am also not allowed to sing. I should clarify that actually.

I am not allowed to sing when family members are listening. Don’t think I can’t sing though, because I can sing like nobody’s business. What I lack in pitch I make up for in volume and showmanship. My songs are often accompanied by hair-flinging circa Cher, closed eyes compliments of Celine and a nice strut and pursed lips courtesy of a geezer named Mick.

I’m a one woman tribute band.

I hate that I’m not allowed to sing because I so love to sing and most especially when I am plugged into the iPod. How in the world is a person not supposed to sing when they have an iPod? I sound freaking fantastic when I have those little ear buds implanted because I have the uncanny ability to sound exactly like everyone from Christina Aguilera to Frank Sinatra.

If you ever want to see my show, feel free to sit in the street in front of my house when the grass is tall. I look forward all week to mowing day because that’s when I’m outside, away from my critical family, and therefore free to do what I do best.

Walk back and forth in straight lines.

I am also free to express myself vocally. I usually open with “Relating to a Psychopath” or “Mack the Knife” and depending upon how responsive the neighbors and/or passing traffic are, I like to close with “Can’t Help Falling in Love”, just like The King.

By that time I'm sweating just like The King, too.

I don’t dance while I’m mowing though for fear my son will catch a glimpse and go on a walk about and I will never hear from him again. And of course because break-dancing and high speed, super sharp blades is really more a Criss Angel thing.

Not for nothing, but I am deeply and emotionally in mad, crazy love with Criss Angel. I’d say I want to have his babies, but I don’t think any woman could carry one to term as I would guess the fetus would continually disappear during ultra sounds. (But of course would momentarily reappear atop the Eiffel Tower with a straight jacket draped over it’s arm.)

In closing I’d like to say that I am firmly against familial banning of one’s basic right to rock whenever the need to do so overcomes them. In fact, I plan on contacting the Barack camp fort wit to be sure I know where he stands on the issue.

Or dances. I so hope he dances on the issue.

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Already posted it. Still love it. Deal with it.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

Fried okra and fried logic. It's all good.

Growing up in the great state of racism and tobacco had its advantages. I can’t come up with many right now, but in all fairness, I had no time to prepare for your incessant prying.

There was the food. That was good.

Lots of biscuits and gravy and sweet tea and always some manner of animal insides fried until crispy.

There was the cache of good looking Southern boys who wore Wranglers with the requisite round imprint of a Skoal can on the back pocket and whose pick-up trucks and/or Camaro’s bore the Rebel Flag and at least one loaded shot gun in the back window.

That was scary.

And there was Southern marriage. That was all kinds of good, if good means disturbing and not at all healthy in any way, shape or form.

True story.

When I was in my sophomore year of high school (and openly dating grown men who today would be ambushed by Chris Hansen and his Dateline militia for doing the things we did before 11 PM on a Saturday night), there was a girl in my choir class named Karo who was also dating someone who was plenty old enough to know better.

(Before you go thinking Southern people name their kids after tasty syrup products, Karo is not her real name. It’s just that I learned my lesson after writing of an old boyfriend only later to be told he was on God’s payroll and my description of him was at the top of Google’s search listings for his name. I changed it as I figured church-goers didn’t want to know one of their pulpit guys was at one time a young horn-dog.)

Anyway Karo and her tall, weird looking, twenty-something honey wanted to get married in the worst way. She was fifteen after all and not getting any younger.

Every morning before she went to school and he went to his job, he’d drive to her house and wake up Karo with a kiss and a bowl of her favorite cereal in bed. Fruity Pebbles, no doubt.

Then while she was poofing her hair he’d go out and crank her car for her, always making sure that it was just the right temperature inside and that the perfect song expressing his deep pedophiliac love for her was playing at just the right decibel level.
I’m guessing something by Air Supply.

Their love was the gold standard of creepiness.

One day, Karo came to chorus and told me that Old Balls… I mean, that guy she was dating, had asked her Daddy for her hand and had been turned down cold. Even though in North Carolina it wouldn’t have been uncommon for her to be somebody’s wife before she could legally drive a car, she was an only child and her parents weren’t ready to let her go.

Karo was so distraught, she could barely sing the words, “Shine little glow worm, shimmer,” through her salty tears.

Her anguish had eased markedly however just about three days later when she arrived in class with a big grin and an even bigger diamond on her wife finger.

“We just told him the truth,” she said to me in explanation of Daddy’s change of heart.

For a brief moment I thought she meant the truth about what Old Balls was actually doing when he tucked her in after every date.

“We explained to Daddy & Momma that we were really and truly in love and that we wanted to spend as much time as possible together before the Rapture.”

How’s that now?

Even the good Southern Baptist girl I was recognized the gospel crazy in that logic.

“He told Daddy that he could tell by the signs that Jesus would be coming back in a year or two and he wanted to spend every minute of that time with me because there is no marriage in Heaven and so once we get raptured, we couldn’t be together any more. Daddy said he couldn’t argue with that, so we’re getting married!”

I’ve thought about poor Karo and her lawfully wedded criminal about a million times over the years. I wonder whether he still starts her car in the morning and brings her breakfast in bed.

I also wonder just how pissed off the two of them are that Jesus did not have the decency to come back already so they could finally enjoy the sweet release of what amounts to a Heavenly, completely God-sanctioned divorce.

And if I might be so bold, I wonder exactly how funny Jesus thinks this is. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn He is in fact delaying His big day just to teach the love birds a little lesson in theology. Perhaps something in a “Thou Shalt Not Use My Name in Pursuit of Hillbilly Stupidity” commandment would be in order.

Oh, but who am I to throw redneck stones? I once married a man because he knew all the words to the Old Rugged Cross. Ok that’s not true, but he did have a bigger shotgun than any of the other boys. Nothing says loving like a big gun in your window.
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Now I'm all feeling all kinds of 80's. This is the song I want played at my funeral, by the way.

Monday, June 04, 2007

What’s In Your Cone?

Do you like yourself? Me neither.

I think it’s the way you eat spaghetti that bothers me the most.

Just kidding. But seriously, stop slurping your noodles. Nobody likes a noodle slurper.

Sometimes I wonder who I really am and whether I really do like me. Do all people wonder that or has everybody figured it all out and nobody bothered to send me an email to let me in on it?

Sure, you can send me emails about everything from Bill Gates giving away his millions to anyone on the planet who agrees to believe everything they read; to how to increase the size of my manliness so my woman will stop staring at other guys; to pictures of fluttering fairies that have the power to bring me immediate wealth and health…or to kill me while I’m sleeping if I don’t send them to every person I’ve ever known.

But let somebody figure out the answer to the biggest question in life and mums the word.

I think part of the problem with knowing who I am has to do with the fact that everyone else thinks they know me.

My parents think I’m the ten-year-old girl who cried when one of her brothers clocked her in the head with a rock and made her bleed. (Still have the scar, by the way.) So to them, I am the one in the family from whom all things upsetting must be hidden or I will cry and spontaneously pass out.

That’s a little true. I have been known to cry and I find passing out is a good way to avoid many unpleasant situations.

My kids think I have the answer to all life’s problems and they like to give me pop quizzes from time to time just to test me. If a Mom left Albuquerque at 1:00 PM, driving 75 mph in a Ford Focus with one window down and the passenger’s side front tire a little low, how long would it take her to bake 250 cupcakes for her son’s entire school with only one egg and a fever of 103?

As I am older than my offspring and therefore have accumulated more knowledge simply because I’ve been around longer, I do have the solution to lots of things life can throw at them. (The answer to the quiz, by the way, is 1 hour. That’s fifty minutes to yell at her son and ten to go to the store and buy 250 cupcakes.)

My friends think I am a very loud, over the top woman who can be counted on to say what everyone else in the room is thinking.

I guess that is sort of me as well. Sometimes I forget to change the filter between my brain and my mouth and stuff leaks out my lips.

My husband thinks of me as the warden who patrols the halls of our house looking for even the slightest sign of noncompliance. If the hand towel in the bathroom is dirty or giant man shoes have been left in a designated no shoe zone, he knows it is likely I am going to sound the sirens and rain fire down upon him.

Between you and me, maybe I am a little warden-ish when a situation calls for it. They say marriage is an institution and every institution has to have someone who runs the place. I voted for me and since I ran unopposed, I’m it.

I guess maybe I’m sort of all those people, but I’m not sure how well I like any of them. I think I’d rather be a Vanilla Woman instead.

You know the kind. Perfect from head to toe, never screws up anything, never says or does anything inappropriate, always has her life under control and doesn’t allow anything to upset her apple cart. When she walks into Baskin-Robbins, she chooses vanilla… one scoop....in a cup…always. No wild flavors or nuts in her cone.

While she’s taking tiny nibbles, I however am the one with a giant bucket of ten different flavors covered in nuts and whipped cream with hot fudge all over my face and most definitely some dribbled down the front of my shirt…who is embarrassed she’s an ice cream-zilla, but can’t seem to help herself and knows for sure as messy as it is, she’ll probably order the exact same thing next time because she just can’t help herself.

If you, or someone you know, really does like yourself and has found a way to keep it all together in Vanilla perfection, be sure to email me. If you promise I’ll win the lottery, I’ll even send it to all my friends.

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Friday, June 01, 2007

And I ran.

I’m a runner. I’m one of those people you see running around town in tiny running shorts and cool running shoes that cost approximately as much as a 1989 Toyota but are totally worth it because I don’t want other runners to point and laugh.

Yep. I’m a runner.

I have been running since…golly, let’s see now. I love running so much it feels like it was just yesterday that I decided I’d really like to run around something for no good reason and headed out to the track to get in condition.

Maybe that’s because it was just yesterday. Yesterday at 2PM to be more specific.

Because my crazy tall thirteen-year-old son is an official track star I guess I thought it must run in the family. (Sweet pun intended.) I should have paid more attention in school during whatever class it was that explained kids do not pass things onto their parents.

It was probably the one during which Tommy Carswell and Kaye Lovelace sat in my immediate learning area distracting me from whatever it was the teacher was saying at the front of the classroom. I recall something about dead frogs and blood cells, but given her crooked nose and pointy teeth, I figured it was one of her recipes.

“Let’s run together,” I said to my boy. “It’ll be loads of quality mother-son time!”

Of course it’s common knowledge that what every thirteen year old boy wants more than anything is to have the sport he excels in and thoroughly enjoys suddenly “shared” with his Mom. I’m sure his dreams of the NFL are now sullied from the fear I will suit up and run onto the field to wipe off his face with a spit-soaked Kleenex.

Between you and me, my plan was to show up at the track, walk around a few times and tell him I had woman cramps or something. I figured he’d be relieved I needed to go home and I’d still get the God credits for being an involved Mother.

My giant offspring had different ideas.

“Ok Mom,” he said looking down at me and putting one hand on my shoulder, “you can do this. You are going to run around this track twice before we leave today and I’m going to be beside you every step of the way.”

I realized it was going to take more than ovarian pain to get me out of this. I wondered how a person fakes a compound fracture without actually fracturing something. Just as I was about to grab my knee and scream out that one of my most important leg bones had spontaneously broken right through my skin, the boy yelled, “Go Mom!”

So I went.

I was running! And there wasn’t even anything chasing me.

Within 30 seconds however, I was like the big, bad wolf in the fairy tale (who coincidentally I married later in life), huffing and puffing as if I’d smoked a carton of Lucky Strikes on the car ride over.

You know I couldn’t quit though because just as he’d promised, the tallest thirteen-year-old male in America was running right beside me. Well, I guess it was more walking than running really. Actually it was more walking backwards, to be perfectly honest.

I said I was running. I never said I was running fast.

“You can do it, Mom! I believe in you! You’re running, Momma! I’m so proud of you!”

His positive affirmations were so precious and encouraging, but the level of exhaustion I was suffering made me want to punch him in the nose. The only thing that kept me from laying him out was the fact that I haven’t been able to reach his nose in six months and I was also pretty sure I no longer had the use of my arms anyway.

Long story short, I ran a 400, walked a 400, ran another 400 and then walked two more 400’s. Although I suffer from math impairment due to my Mother’s addiction to Juicy Fruit when pregnant with me, even I can see that’s a lot of 400’s.

He wants us to go back tomorrow after lunch and do it all over again. As I adore my son in a big way, I will happily comply.

So long as one of my super important leg bones does not spontaneously pop right through my skin before we get there, that is.

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Is it bad that I want to adopt this guy for all the wrong reasons? I'd put him in a cage and make him sing this song to me in order to get his cup full of Young Guy Chow.