What's In Your Purse Today?

In my purse:

i.Phone. Listed here first because of its various lifesaving qualities. Without it, I would not be able to eavesdrop on police and fire radio traffic, check my horoscope, pump myself with funk-a-delic music, check the weather in Alaska and Central America, pop bubble rap, and text people because I hate to talk on the phone.

Rubber Poop. I carry this emergency rubber poop in my purse for various strategic purposes. It's most useful for saving your seat at a meeting or something. But it's really awesome for crowd control. That does not mean rubber poop will calm down a crowd. Just the opposite. I can control a crowd of tourists by covertly plopping the poop in the middle of a crowded walkway. I can make them hop, push, yell, giggle, straddle, gag, and cause mobile anarchy.

Medicine. Including, but not limited to, ibuprohen, anxiety medication, Benedryl, and an epi-pen in case someone goes into shock, then I get to stick 'em like in Pulp Fiction. *STAB*

The Evil Lip Liner. I don't know why it's still in here. I hate it for two reasons: 1) It is constantly trying to pass itself off as a pen so that I will pull it out when I'm trying to write a check in line. (side note: Checks are for losers). 2) I don't even have any lips to necessitate lining. They are so thin that once I put the lip liner on, there is very little need for the actual lipstick part since my whole lip in its entirety is covered by a thin line of blossoming plum.

Swiss Army Knife. I picked up this little gem at Aint Diane's estate. I tried to clip my daughter's toenail with the scissors but they were so lame that they bent her nail and then ripped it. "Ouch Mommy!" I live in a nice area so I haven't needed the knife for anything ... yet. I guess I just like it for the toothpick. I just used it two minutes ago to sweep out a piece of cilantro!

Measuring Tape. Left over from the days of interior design. I just can't imagine not having it it my purse. I use it all the time. Used it today, twice. Plus, if I'm trying to win over a little kid, I can use as bait to make them smile at me.

3 x 5 Notebook. For all my thoughts and lists. Oh my God the lists. Here's a few in the most recent pages:

* Rapid Fire Thoughts (listed are some ideas for stories that include "Fondue Festival" and "Apple Dolls and Crafts Fairs")

* Barbara Boxer and Dianne Feinstein's addresses and telephone numbers, just in case I need to let them know how I feel and what I think is right and wrong and stupid.

* Party lists for three different family parties I've thrown in the last month, mostly it's about the fondue though, my new love.

* Sunglasses that I need to replace because my 23-year old son looked at me in utter shock and disgust. "Do you really wear those?" he laughed? He thought they were a prop, I guess. "I mean they look like you got them at a liquor store ... in Alaska!" "What' wrong with them?" I protested with a pout. "I see old men wearing these in Alaska, mom." Whatever asshole.

What's in your purse today? And if you're a man or some kind of a weird female who doesn't carry one, what's in your glove compartment?

One Last Thing Before I Die

I was filling in some calendar dates on my iPhone yesterday when I realized that I was purposefully leaving clues so that, in the event of my murder or kidnapping, the authorities would be able to find me (or my body).

I sometimes fantasize about what my family would do without me, what kind of a eulogy I would get, who would pick out the music, will Kathy remember that she promised to remove and destroy anything that might embarrass me in my otherwise peaceful afterlife. I worry that I'll die before I finish each book so I try to read a little faster.

When I was seven I found a tiny little red spider in my bed. I had never ever seen one like it before so I considered it might be deadly. I also assumed it had already bitten me and I might be slowly dying. Even then I had a knack for the melodrama so I wrote a note on a piece of paper and tucked it under my pillow so it could be found during the discovery of my body. It simply said "it was a little red spider that killed me"

So just in case this is my last day, I need to tell you something important:

Watch "Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia" on FX tonight at 10pm. It's really good.

A Cowboy, a Blackout, and a Horse

I went to Texas for a family reunion when I was 19-years old. This was right after I did the hair show for Sebastian Hair products where they used me to introduce one of their newest colors: Banana Yellow. [what do you mean I haven't blogged that story yet! On it.]

To the average Texan, I looked like a wicked city girl straight out of that crazy MTV show on the TV. I was the closest thing they had ever seen to Cyndi Lauper and believe me, I was not embraced by adoring fans.

I walked into a Circle K for a pack of smokes and stood at the counter watching while the clerk rang up everyone in a pair of Lee's first. Then after everyone had left, it was my turn. The leper. I didn't get her standard southern greeting "How ya'll doin' today?". I just got a hateful stare right and silence. After asking for my brand again, she slid them across the counter so that she wouldn't catch my yankeeness (I'm sure they think its a real disease affiliated with that AIDS that came over from homosexual monkeys from Africa).

Back at the family home, one of the rancher's boys invited me out to a party. Or I might have just insisted so he took me. I probably forced myself on this guy with a promise of "a good time." Sucker.

The party was at a large hall with banquet tables, streamers, and lot of free beer. He walked in with me and quickly set me down one of the folding chairs. There was country music, cowboy boots, and line dancing. Some two-step too. But nobody would come near me. And that's the last thing I remember about the party.

Fast forward to 1:00am. The cowboy must have rolled me out of his truck in front of the family homestead where I managed to climb two flights of stairs in a house that's probably 200 years old. Most of my immediate family was sleeping there and my stumbling footsteps thundered through the quiet halls and into the tiny old bathroom with the light you turned on by pulling a chain.

I pulled my tight spandex pants down to pee and that's when I found my crotch was entirely a deep black and blue. I was horrified to think what must have just happened to me. All I could remember was a lot of pissed off cowboys and their bitchy uptight girlfriends giving me hard looks while I drank, and drank, and drank. Me with my banana yellow Flock of Seagulls hairdo and spandex rocker-girl pants.

I panicked and ran to my mother's room so she could panic too. Thud thud thud .... "Mom! Look what happened to me! What's wrong with me?!" I cried as I spread eagle for my poor mother who was still half dreaming in the moonlight room of her youth. I dragged her into the bathroom for another look and she was stumped. "Oh I don't know what that is Sharon!" she said concerned-like. "Does it hurt?" "Kind of" I replied, but there was no other information. No more answers or clues, so I passed out.

It wasn't until the next morning when I remembered I had gone horseback riding ... drunk. Instead of posting with he saddle, I just banged into it, again and again and again. I was kind of limp and rubbery so I hung on for a long time. Even though the horse tried hard to get me off by jumping over stuff, running me into the fence, and just refusing to budge.

Here we are twenty-something years later and I still don't know if it was the cowboy or the horse. Everything is big in Texas.

The Magic Incantation for Finding Things

The minute I say this out loud:

"I think [name] stole my [thing]"

it will magically appear and thus remind me that I'm a paranoid anti-social lame brain because it was right where I left it. Either in that special place where I'll remember it later. Or the secret drawer where nobody ever looks. That's why I can never accuse anyone to their face. I have to say it behind their back so that I don't owe anyone an apology. Because there's nothing worse than saying "I'm sorry." Except for maybe "I was wrong."

After I had finished removing the truckloads of trash from Ain't Diane's house and after the estate sale, we called in the Salvation Army to remove the final remnants of an overly gathered life. However, when I returned the next day I looked for my expensive vacuum and it wasn't there! I had specifically asked my mother to put a note on it and not let them take it. But no, it was gone. It was the final nail in my resentment coffin engraved with "Thanks a lot, Aunt Diane."

I was so full of self-pity and righteous indignation that I had to spend an hour composing myself before I even spoke to my mom. I tried to have a forgiving spirit. Then I tried to talk myself out of wanting it back because it was used to suck up all the rat shit while I kept saying in my head "they're only Raisinettes, they're only Raisinettes, they're only Raisinettes." I reflected on my poor mother's stress in loosing her sister and dealing with the estate. How could I expect her to keep track of my one thing? I tried to give the vacuum to the universe saying "It has gone on to someone who needed it more" and that just made me want to drive to Salvation Army and yank it from some poor person's hands. "Mine!" I'd say. Nothing worked.

At last, I reached a fake gentle tone in my heart and called my mom to ask about it. She was seriously apologetic and took it all on herself. My youngest daughter hugged me and said "I'm sorry the Army guys took your vacuum, mom." Sigh. My mom gave me $200 to replace it. Instead of saying thank you, I said something shitty like "Well, I suppose that will be a start. It was a very expensive vacuum, mom."

I researched my options on the Internet, reading reviews from consumers and experts alike. It took me three days. I went to three different local stores so that I could feel, lift, push, and open them. After all that, I simply went to Sears and purchased the exact same model I had before and it was less than $200. I asked for some bags because I hate running out and plus I wanted to spend all of that $200. Then they gave me the receipt which I had to drive all the way over to the loading dock. While waiting in the line, I tell someone who doesn't care that my vacuum was taken by the Army guys. Finally they brought out a large box and told me it was light enough for me to lift and carry myself. Thanks.

It was so cumbersome that it sat in the back of my car for another day before I lugged it in my front door. I brought the little plastic bag of vacuum bags over to my new hall closet to "put them where they go" and guess what was standing there staring at me? My old vacuum. I swear it was mocking me. My first instinct was: Hide it, nobody has to know.

I went with my second intuition (which seems to always be better than my first) and called my mom and confessed. She laughed so hard I could hear her eyes closing and I pictured her leaning way back in her little office chair. Like the good mom that she is she laughed at my ridiculousness. I returned the vacuum to the stupid loading dock which has all the ambiance of the Planned Parenthood office in B.F. Egypt.

As of today, I'm missing my giant cutting board that I just bought and my bread knife. I'm pretty sure one of my girlfriends snatched it either during a party or they broke in afterwards and ran away with it. So, now that I've officially blamed someone else, I'm ready to find them in some conspicuous place that makes me feel horrible about myself.

Lucky the Turtle

There's something about naming your pet "Lucky" that invites irony. This pet turtle lost his legs in a UFC fight with a raccoon but he didn't let that slow him down. His owners forked out $900 to to amputate his front legs and glue on these furniture sliders. Here's the whole story that I know you need to know about.

If I lost my legs in a fight with a raccoon, I'd like to have them replaced with one or two of the following prosthetics:
a) Giant springs
b) A replica of Cheryl Crow's legs
c) Machine guns (a la Planet Terror)

Now in my extensive research (i.e., Google) I've found a blog entirely devoted to animals in casts. Just for the record, I also love to watch people fall. Even old people. I'm wicked.

Steve the Turtle

Sean was five. He needed a pet like he needed candy. Bad. It took years for him to discover the truth about me: I'm incapable of keeping living things alive. Unless it makes noise it's doomed to a slow dry death. Crying and whining is an audible alarm system that nature has put inside children so that their parents will do anything to make them stop. Including, and not limited to, shopping, cooking, feeding, and cleaning.

Back then we lived in an apartment in a town that people made fun of. But it was affordable for me. Being a "renter" meant we were limited to the types of pets we could own. There was always a contractual ban on any animal that might be, in the slightest of ways, fun. Birds are too loud, fish tanks are to heavy, dogs are too destructive, cats pee too much.

Little Sean begged and begged to have a turtle and since this seemed like an inexpensive animal to own, he was given a little green box turtle with red marks on the side of his head. He looked pretty sporty. For a turtle. I thought it might be a hermaphrodite, or at least a-sexual. But we decided that he looked masculine. Most turtles do unless they have a bow on their head and even then, they just look like a bad present. So we named him Steve. We got a terrarium and a dish. The feeding instructions were simple: Fresh vegetables and water.

Perhaps Steve was happy in the beginning. When Sean picked him up his fat legs would wiggle up into the shell like four cold green weenies. Sean tried to teach him his name by sitting down on the carpet and slapping his thighs. "Steve! Here Stevie! Come on, Steve!" But the turtle couldn't learn anything. Quickly Sean lost interest and the turtle became sedentary, like a paperweight on Valium. Steve didn't know how to market himself. The tank became smelly and dingy. This made the turtle super unattractive to us. Sean would dutifully throw in some lettuce, shredded carrots and fill up the mayonnaise lid with water. But the turtle just sat there and stank.

One day, Bob, a friend who happened to work for Animal Control, visited. Sean was pleased to show off his pet turtle and he took Bob into his room. Quickly Bob stomped back into the living with an angry look on his face and said to me, quite rudely "Did you notice something was wrong with the turtle?" Besides being a stinky, boring, sexless, rock, no we hadn't noticed anything. "Well did you notice that it wasn't eating any of the food you keep dropping in?" Understandably one would assume that would be noticeable. "Or the smell? Didn't you notice the tank stinks like shit?!" Well of course that was quite noticeable but we were willing to accept the turtle's aroma since it didn't have other bad habits like barking or smoking.

With nothing but blank looks and shrugging shoulders in response, Bob finally got to the point "How long has that turtle been dead?!" He was disgusted with his discovery. Frankly Steve's prognosis resolved a lot of problems we had with him and he became more interesting.

That's why we don't have plants.

Attention Transvestites and Cross-Dressers

I was sitting around with my girlfriends the other night, before the Ain't Diane Estate Sale, boring them with the overwhelming details of trying to unload 70 years of unnecessary habitual collections and treasures in one week. One of the most difficult items to find homes for was her clothes. She was at least 6' tall, wore size 12 shoe, and her bra was a 42DDFF. Not everyone could just slip on one of her outfits and go on a job interview.

One of the girls suggested that transvestites and cross-dressers would really appreciate her wardrobe. Seriously brilliant! So I put an ad on Craigslist something like this:

ATTENTION TRANSVESTITES AND CROSS-DRESSERS

Here's an estate sale for you!
Size 12 womens dress shoes
Size L and XL clothing for a 6 foot person
Plus Giant Bras!

I was thrilled at the prospect of placing Ain't Diane's clothing on someone spectacular. Someone in need. Someone with a size 12 foot! I fantasized about High School track coaches and Hewlet Packard engineers riffling through her beaded dresses and leather fringe jackets exclaiming "Oh My God! Can you believe this fits me?!" I wanted to see her giant multicolored sling backs on a big hairy man walking in the next Freedom Day Parade. I wanted to bring some adventure to these clothes. Ain't Diane would love it.

Before the estate sale, I received this message:

hi, wow you actually sell my size shoes-12....can you tell me what style shoes
and general condition as would have to drive from far away, do you have many ? thanks,
Bob

I just loved Bob already. I was warm all over thinking that he'd find some shoes that would fit him. I know how hard it was for Diane, so being a man it must be a constant process of disappointment. Too high, too narrow, too small, too boring.

On the day of the sale, I was waiting with great anticipation and enthusiasm for all the trannies and cross-dressers who'd arrive with their colorful tote bags and cash. I assumed most would arrive in their man clothing so they might be a little difficult to spot right away. But I'd look for big men with a little twinkle in their eye that said "I've got a secret." I watched for men who seemed nervous or uncomfortable and I was going to help them select some items and support them. I was ready for them.

Nothing. Only little tiny Mexican women were buying these tremendously gargantuan clothing. I couldn't conceive of what they'd do with a size 12 ladies shoe, but a buck is a buck. Then finally a large man walked in with a twinkle in his eye. His hair was all gerry curled out and his voice was sing-songy. Ah ah!!! Found one! He looked through things around the house with little interest and I wondered if he was trying to get up the nerve to rummage through the closets. I decided that I should take him under my wing.

"Excuse me, are you Bob?" I asked somewhat suspiciously.
"No. My name is Manny." and he looked at me like I'm crazy.
"Oh, can I help you find anything?" I said with hopefulness.
"No, I'm just here with my wife." Bummer.

It was sad, really. He would have looked better in the creme colored Liz Claiborne suit with the gold peek-a-boo sandals.