Blogger Queen

Ready, Aim, Let Go

2011-01-19T18:38:00.000-08:00

I had just finished a pathetic attempt at lap swimming in my local gym. Only managing to accomplish about 14 laps, I hoisted my wet self up on the side of the cement pool, slosh, I felt so heavy. Heavy with water, anger, and frustration with the world. I sat on my butt and swung my legs in the cool water while I contemplated my latest failure. Next to me was a hunched over old man who appeared to be perhaps 100 years old and Chinese.

I noticed he didn’t have his own lane so I politely inquired “Do you want my lane? I just finished.” He smiled wide and I saw that he was missing his front lower teeth. He looked like an old rockfish. He was wearing a rubber swim cap pulled down low onto his face. His folds and wrinkles acquiesced in multiple folds to enhance his smile.

He moved over to sit next to me on the side of the pool. He asked “How was your swim?” I replied with embarrassment “Not so good, it’s been a while.” He began talking but I couldn’t make out much of what he was saying because his accent was so strong, sort of like a Chinese character from an old movie. The indoor pool devoured all his words and spit them out like wads of wet toilet paper. At least that’s what my bad ears heard. I did a lot of smiling and nodding.

I had to lean far to my right and twist my head around to hear him better. “Do you work? Swimming will relieve your stress.” He stated. “No, I have kids at home but they’re a lot of work.” His wide football shaped head nodded knowingly with the silly grin stretched on his face. “Your children are like arrow. You aim and hold bow, but you don’t know where it will land. They have their own destiny that you cannot control. This is not your destiny, but theirs only. It will never be yours. You have your own destiny and it is not theirs.”

We sat quietly on the side of the pool for a moment, our feet dangling in the water. I knew that I was hearing a Wise One. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful to me. Really. Thank you.” Then I put my hand on his bare back warmly as I stood to go. “Did I lighten your heart?” He asked. “Yes, you did.” And I was so grateful for his words of wisdom and this warmth that he exuded. I asked the Wise One “Just who are you?” He quietly answered, and most humbly said “I am nobody.”

I don’t know why I needed his information; but I trust that I will. I’m not sure what the universe has in store for my children or me. It is wise and comforting to remember that, no matter how hard I try (or don’t try), my children have their own path. I find myself worrying more about their own destruction than I do fantasizing about their successes. I try so hard to spare them from pain, sickness, poverty, violence, hatred, lust, disappointment, entitlement, expectation, self-pity, hunger, everything. Everything that life gave me to put me here. Here in my very good life. I’m a consequence of all my actions and none of my intentions. I love my arrows.

"To Do" or "To Don't"

2010-12-01T06:30:00.000-08:00

List making is a medley of procrastinating and high-efficiency. I have ongoing categorical lists on my iPhone. I use the kids' binder paper for the temporary lists. Then I have the lists in my head. They are shorter and have things like "eat" and "keegal" on them.

As important as the Holiday "To Do" list is, perhaps a "To Don't" list is even better because it is a preventative against all that ruins your holiday season.

To Don't

Talk to people about their conspiracy theories
Cancel any personal appointments for the sake of the family (i.e., hair, exercise, girls night)
Start a candied yam fire in the oven. Again
Expect to receive great presents that reflect the inner you
Take a break from your anxiety or depression medications to "see how it goes"
Try on a swimsuit
Break the Santa News to your kids
Tell your husband that you don't even want a present this year because you already have everything. Family. And that's what really matters most
Quit Weight Watchers because they changed their point system and it's too hard now
Invite tons of people over for a Holiday Extravaganza while you have PMS
Plan a sober caroling party
Make brownies for other people
Buy interior paint with naive optimism

I think I've covered it all. I guess I can check that off my list.

Catering and Party Throwing for Poor People

2010-11-29T10:59:00.000-08:00

For my surprise birthday party, I bought myself Amy Sedaris' Simple Times, Crafting for Poor People. It was an incredibly thoughtful present from me.

Her newest book is crammed with good ideas for us all. Here are some of my favorites:

Dropout Crab Claw Roach Clip, in the Nature's Way chapter
Rusty Nail Wind Chime, in the Bipolar Disorder section of the Handicraftable chapter
Glitter Halo, in the Crafting for Jesus chapter

I've been inspired to create a new sideline for myself: Introducing ...

Catering and Party Throwing for Poor People

Here's a sample menu from the Trailer Park Memorial Service that I'm planning for Ain't Diane this December:

Ketchup Packet Tomato Soup

Backyard Greens Salad

Vegan Swiss Meatballs

(Wonderbread balls in vegetarian gravy)

Top Ramen Explosion

(Special blend of Pork, Chicken, and Shrimp flavor packets)

Dessert is up in the air. That's not a creation name, I'm telling you that I haven't been inspired yet. I'll have something to you soon.

Until then, please note that I have joined Amazon Associates. This is a special tool that is now included on Bloggerqueen so that I can become rich (and famous). If you decide to buy any products from Amazon. Enter from here and I make a LITTLE cash. Don't worry, I'll keep reminding you, as I have many suggestions to make you a little more wicked and a lot more sarcastic!

How to Throw A Party For Yourself

2010-11-19T12:09:00.000-08:00

Giving someone a giftcard is like saying "Here. Buy your own fucking present." This year, I'm going a step further and I'm throwing my own fucking party too.

Every Friday night I get together with the Country Club Girls. We bring appetizers, desserts, drinks, laughter, concern, consoling, and all other things womanly. My husband calls it "Melanie's Birthday" each week. But his Friday we will be celebrating someone else's birthday, mine!

I'm turning 46 next week and I need a little party and some presents but I hate to be a burden to my friends during such dire times. That's the kind of thoughtfulness we're talking about here folks.

In order to appease my need for presents and be humble and unselfish, I have purchased the presents for myself, and a little chocolate cake filled with coconut, and the card. This is an anti-obligatory party. The best kind.

Last year they passed around a sad little birthday card and signed with the usual "Happy Birthday!!!" People: Extra exclamation marks are lazy and pointless!!! Perhaps they were shouting their standard birthday wish. The signatures were messy and unreadable. I rejected this pathetic attempt and passed around the card again and this time I told them what to say:

Lynn - Tell me that I'm a good person
Catherine - Tell me that you respect my mind
Robin - Tell me I'm your best friend ever
Cathy - Tell me how funny I am

and so on. Needless to say, it was the best birthday card I have ever received.

This year I've purchased a fitting birthday card and filled it out for them. All they have to do is sign their names on the wish they'd like to give me. Here are their choices:

Congratulations on finishing the Triathlon - You Go T.W.A.T.
I wish I was more like you
Are you getting skinnier and smarter?
Clear your calendar - I'm taking you out to lunch!
During my quiet moments, I sometimes think of your smile
It's too bad we're not lesbians, because I would totally be into you

I have also purchased three presents for them to give me. One is very thoughtful, one is predictable, and one is cheap and insulting. I am having them wrapped professionally by my nine-year old.

Happy Birthday To Me!

[In a non-passive/aggressive kind of way. To which no guilt should be sustained by the readers' forgetfulness of this event this year, or hence-forward.]

Hot Weather Dinner - Salad Bar Tonight?

2010-09-27T11:35:00.000-07:00

Too hot to cook. Almost too hot to eat. But since I'm the cook/nutritionist for my family, I'm not going to just throw in the towel. I'm planning on a salad bar tonight. I'll prep the ingredients and they can throw it all together. However, we always include The Big Three (Carbohydrate, Protein, Earth)

Tonight I'll be making BLT SALAD

Romaine Lettuce
Sliced Heirloom Tomatoes
Thick Cut Bacon, all torn-up
Sourdough Croutons
Dressing: Newmans Light Balsamic Vinaigrette

Here are some items you have laying around the kitchen. Pull some out and have a Salad Bar Night!

Carbohydrate
Leftover Cold Pasta
Crunchy Chow Mien Noodles
Cooked Quinoa
Crumbled Tortilla Chips
Croutons
Corn (the grain most likely to be mistaken for a vegetable)

Protein
Canned Kidney Beans
Bacon
Hard Boiled Egg (see my video!)
Garbanzo Beans
Black Beans
Cheese (grated, so we don't go crazy)
Sunflower Seeds
Nuts
Tofu (Extra Firm, diced)
Edamame (cooked and shelled)
Frozen Peas
White Chunk Tuna (canned, drained)

Earth
Lettuce (Exception: Iceberg has no nutritional value)
Baby Spinach Leaves
Sliced red peppers
cilantro
jalapenos
beets
celery
carrots
broccoli
mandarin orange slices
strawberries
Tomatoes
Onions

After dinner, head out to frozen yogurt, then they can really build a delicious creation!

Get Ready for the Next Potato Famine

2010-06-17T09:05:00.000-07:00

"Saints be gloried, we haven't had such as a wee crumb in a month, Sharon. Tis a blessed ting that the good Lord provided us with your fat wings to sustain us through this wretched Potato Famine".

I'm a perfect amalgamation of German and Irish that equates into an amazing ability to store fat. I'm a little French too but I didn't get any of that lovely olive skin, delicate features, nor the tousled hair. Just some b.o.

It doesn't matter how much I exercise and diet I will always have some tummy fat and, of course, my lovable fat wings. The Italians have the ass fat and, as much as they'd like to complain about it, it's way better than tummy fat. Nobody's writing rap about lovin' the big bellies.

Getting in shape for the next triathlon requires me to exert myself. I must run, ride, and swim. And I do. I have been changing my eating patterns thanks to Weight Watchers - I love it - but I started to gain weight. I had lost over 17 pounds since October and then it started to come back again, like an ex-boyfriend that just won't go away, no matter how many times you don't return his calls because he has the sex appeal of your Uncle George who doesn't clip his toenails and when he walks on the wood floor it sounds like castanets.

I complained to Thomas, he's my pit crew for the upcoming triathlon, and he asked me if I've been tired lately. "Oh my God, how did you know?" I had been sleeping 9-11 hours a night and practically falling asleep in the afternoon. Then he said something that made me happy and afraid all at once: "You are [suffering*] from overtraining. You need to increase your calories and decrease your exercise."

This assignment is not as easy as it sounds. After all the hard work I've done, it's a big risk to start eating more and decrease exercise. It's downright counter-intuitive. But I had tried everything else and I just kept gaining weight, feeling sleepy, and wanting to give up the whole Weight Watchers thing. Fuck it.

I read this article and decided to give it a try. Since then, I lost 1.2 pounds the first week and 1.6 the second week. The weight is still coming off, I feel great, look pretty good, and have a ton of energy for exercising. Now, if I could just do something about my cheap Irish skin.

* I think he should have said "suffering" so I added it here.

Marathon 5k ... is that an oxymoron?

2010-05-26T13:05:00.000-07:00

I ran in the Windsor Green Half Marathon last weekend but I didn't qualify for the hat or shirt because I didn't register for the race until the day before. It's important to have a hat or shirt because when you wear it you feel better than other people. Which you are, because you were in a marathon. So what if you only ran the 5K (3.1 miles for all the Americans unable to grasp metrics). It sounds like a really big deal anyway, doesn't it? Try it out:

"Ya, I ran the 5K this weekend. What did you do? What's that? Oh, you went to the Outlet Mall? Well good for you."
See, doesn't that sound superior?

On the up-side of registering late, I got a reduced entrance fee of only $35 plus a pancake breakfast served by the Windsor Fire Department. Naturally it was important for the Fire Department to pose in a picture with me. They are trying to improve their public image. After much begging, I acquiesced. "Just one picture, fella."

I was running with my friend Kelly who pushed her infant in a stroller while her kindergartner held on to a strap attached to the handle. "Walkers on the right!" I'd yell at the crowd of wanderers spread out like lost cats on the course. The ones that heard me moved over and looked at me with a sort of terror and some said "Oh, thank you. I'm sorry." I have quite an air of authority, but that all comes from being tall and bossy.

About halfway through the 5k, Kelly's son was running serpentine and I had my head turned for just a second when whafamm! I tripped up the little guy and he went down like a flying squirrel on a low branch, all spread out and trying to grasp at nothing. Schlice! went his little kindergarten knees on the concrete. So I quickly picked him up by the armpits and screamed "You almost made me fall!" No, just kidding. We scooped him up and, to his credit, he didn't even cry. I almost did though. We kept cheering him on and telling him how awesome he was. "Next year I'm running the 10k!" he proclaimed.

Meanwhile, we passed an angry mom and her son. She was whining in her best awful mom voice "Come on! I Want to Finish This Race!" and I thought she was the worst motivational speaker ever.

When you run to the finish line, no matter what, you feel like a winner because, if for no other reason, you finished something today. I can't say the same for the breakfast. I couldn't finish it because Kelly's husband Roy held up the sausage and said "You could run the whole course and burn off this one sausage." True. I ate the eggs.

Thanks in part to Thomas and his Body Mechanical know-how I finished 10th in my age group! Outstanding result considering I spent a good amount of time tripping little children, handling traffic control issues, and contemplating the vast superiority of Kelly's mothering skills compared to the rest of these chicks.

I took some pictures for Blogger Queen that I thought you'd enjoy. This one is my favorite. Here's an innocent woman trying to get off the grass and I'm such a big asshole that I thought it would be a pretty funny picture. I'm the shadow standing there unapologetically.

The Best Part of the Race: Kelly picked a hat up off the ground and said "looks like someone lost their hat." I grabbed it and happily put it on my head. "This one fits just right" said Goldilocks. I only felt a tiny drip of guilt. It wasn't until I wrote this post and looked at this poor lady's picture that I realized exactly where that hat came from. See it? It's laying there on the ground, right next to the shadow of my head. It seems that the destiny of this hat was to be on my head. If she ever sees this post, I'm in trouble.

Run in the Rain

2010-05-19T13:37:00.000-07:00

I'm getting ready for a little ol' 5k this weekend. I got my Body Mechanic tune-up and I'm looking forward to possible rain because I envision lots of people running through the streets with their hands over their hair like little pink carports. But not me, sister, I'm tough! I just have to make sure I'm wearing my waterproof mascara.

I assume there will be some cream puffs with umbrellas too. I hate umbrellas for a couple of reasons:

First, and I know this is horrid of me, but I would never have agreed to marry Kent if he even owned an umbrella, much less carried an umbrella. Might as well have shapely curved eyebrows and carry a man purse with a dangly keyring attached.

I'm now thinking about my metro-man friends who do carry an umbrella, have shaped eyebrows, and might have something in their closet they call their attache' or travel bag (but really it is a purse). I feel bad now for making disparaging remarks in the previous paragraph.

The second reason I hate umbrellas is that I'm tall. It's always short people that have the umbrellas. In a crowd of people on the street, they twirl those pokey spikes around like buzz saws cutting through hair, shopping bags, and eyeballs. They have no concept of life above the umbrella. It's like they have their own little rain forest world of 5'4" and under. Everything above the forest canopy is theoretical and invisible. Someday I'm going carry around a cigar and burn drip holes in the tops of umbrellas.

Still, I don't know what to wear to the 5k. I wish had a Bead-Dazzler.

Roasted Scrotum

2010-04-28T09:51:00.000-07:00

"Roasted Scrotum? I have a roasted scrotum" I asked as I lifted my head up from the soft, warm table to read what was written about me on the grease board. "No, it says Rotated Sacrum" corrected Thomas, my Body Mechanic.

Competing in the Super Jane Triathlon with the T.W.A.T.s in 2008 was the first publicly competitive activity I ever participated in, except for walking through nightclubs in my 20s. I was really good at that and let me tell you, it wasn't easy in those shoes.

After the triathlon, all us T.W.A.T.s were on fire and ready to sign-up for the next one. But right after the triathlon my back seized up on me. I couldn't run or sit without severe pain. I hate being broken. I feel like I have all this strength and energy in my brain, but my body just slows me down like a shopping cart with a rusted wheel.

After my last triathlon, I had to sit on the floor to put on my pants for over a year because I couldn't lift my right leg. My back was in distress and it simply would not fire to lift my leg. I had to hoist it around with my hands like a dead dog strapped to my waist. Thankfully, I could at least tell people it was a triathlon injury instead of something lame like a pedicure mishap or a Wii accident.

I gave up real workouts for a while, telling myself "Well, that's it for me. No more triathlons, or running, or weight lifting. I'll just find exercises that are more conducive to my advanced age of mid-forties."

I started researching dance classes, dog walking, swimming. Meanwhile I gained 15 pounds and started smuggling my food babies in maternity pants.

I tried to fix my back problem:

1. Ibuprofen .... until my stomach hurt

2. Chiropractic .... felt great for the time being, but had to keep coming back week after week, month after month, check after check.

3. Physical Therapy .... made my back worse because stretching is the last thing I should have been doing!

4. Denial .... I just pretended that it wasn't happening and kept working out anyway. Same results as (3).

Finally I took my back to the shop: My Body Mechanic. I suppose if I had to describe Thomas' services to a stranger, I'd say something like "It's like a sports massage with all your clothes on, but instead of feeling good on the table and leaving with your original injuries, you'll leave without the problem you came in with. He's amazing." But that's the dumbest explanation ever. He has all sorts of credentials and you can read them for yourself.

So amazing is Thomas, that I've decided to compete in another Triathlon in October. I have confidence that:

A) I will prevent a debilitating injury, months and months of treatments, and medical bills.

B) I will beat my prior times, even though I'm now 45.

C) I will get more women involved in Triathlons.

My friend Kelly and I decided to do the Tri-Girl-Tri in October. I'm just excited about having new blog material. There's the locker room etiquette, outdoor drills, and of course we still need to come up with a new team name. Kelly and I have some ideas: The Moaning V's, Beadazzled Bitches, and more. We can't be the T.I.T.s because Team In Training already swiped that one. Any ideas?

Oh, and my rotated sacrum (aka roasted scrotum)? He fixed it. In one visit. Back pain is gone. I'm afraid my knees are jacked too. So he gave me some things to do about that with a giant roller. And I run like a dorky girl, but that's another post.

Speaking of Paris Hilton and Zombies

2010-04-12T12:06:00.001-07:00

We walked into the lobby of the Hilton Garden Hotel in Roseville, California. There was a pleasant color scheme of vanilla and sage. I said to my daughter, Giselle, "Do you know who owns this hotel?" She looked up at me with her round blue eyes and her loopy reddish curls and waited for another boring grown-up answer that might include historical legend or a lesson in gumption and know-how. "Paris Hilton's parents." I told her. She looked shocked, but I don't know why because she doesn't even know anything about Paris Hilton except that her parents own a hotel. It must be amazing for her to think of parents owning a hotel, since all we own is one house and some cars.

When I was about her age (nine) I found out how much my mom made. In 1973, she made $1,400 per month as a social worker. I was thrilled to find out we were rich. My heart was skipping around with me as I dreamt of the endless possibilities that $1,400 would bring to us each month. But wait, if we were rich, shouldn't we be living a little better? Like more toys and trips to Disneyland every weekend? My excitement quickly turned to great disappointment in my mother. She was a squanderer. Here she was making all that money and we didn't even own a candy store. Surely that's what we should have done with the money. Buy a candy store. Instead she was wasting all my money on a private school for me, trips to Europe, and bills. What an idiot.

We do a lot of traveling with our kids but it's usually sports related. This weekend it was a swim meet for Giselle. We arrived Saturday night and went to dinner with the other families, returning to our rooms about 9:00. Giselle laid down in her fluffy comfy bed with her stuffed rabbit, Sally, and fell asleep pretty quickly. I read my book for about an hour and then the noise started. It's okay, I accept it and deserve it. It is my karma. I prepare as much as possible by bringing the sound machine, Benedryl, and a special pillow. I don't drink any caffeine that day, and I sleep alone. I always ask the desk clerk to give us a quiet room on the top floor. But here's what happens ... every time:

There is a group of zombies who travel around the country. They always check into their rooms late because zombies are mostly active in the evenings. I can hear them getting out of the elevators and dragging themselves down the hallway, step - drag, step - drag, step drag and banging their luggage full of extremities and sweetbreads against the walls as they search for their room. Their rooms are always next to mine.

I'll hear a loud moan as their room door slams shut and they start unpacking all of their luggage right away. I can here the drawers open and then SLAM shut. Then they go into the bathroom to unpack their beauty products and Sonicare but most of it drops onto the tile floor. This takes them about an hour because zombies don't have the dexterity of the living. Sometimes they're missing digits so that makes it even harder to get a grasp onto the hardware.

Zombies love television shows. In fact, television is attributed with the creation of many zombies. But since they're essentially dead, their hearing is shit, so they have to have the volume up abnormally high. It's not really their fault, they need to stay somewhere while they're traveling across the country, right? What I really hate about zombies is that they're such fakers. That moaning goes on for hours and hours and I can't help but mumble to myself "Just fake your climax and get it over with, already!"

I have it coming. It's my karma.

Back in my 20's, we would rent hotel rooms in swanky hotels and drink and party all night long. Screaming, throwing things, flooding toilets, loud music, naught movies, and maniacal laughing. I had no concept of anyone existing outside of myself. I don't remember the front desk ever calling us up. Nobody ever knocked on the walls and told us to shut up. It all just added up in a giant karma account, just waiting for me to grow up and have children.

On Sunday, after a solid three hours of sleep, I stood in the freezing cold rain for 8 hours and cheered on my daughter's team while I drank coffee from the concession stand and wiped my nose on my scarf. Today I have a fever and a stuffy nose. My extremities are still cold and stiff. I may be turning into a zombie. I wonder what's on tv?

Photo credit Zombieme, DestinationCreation.com and check out Zombie Squad

Cute Dog, Bad Dog

2010-02-18T09:32:00.000-08:00

"My dog is just like my child." Ridiculous. No it is not. How's the doggy college fund coming along? Do you worry about your *prepubescent dog being molested, suffering a lifetime of therapist bills and bad relationsips? Is Paris Hilton's Chihuahua's eating disorder casting unrealist body images for your doggy? When your dog dies, are you going to get another dog or will you roam the streets in a medicine stained house dress, surgery slippers and a shopping cart? To wit, I have never tied a bandana around my kids' necks and took them on a hike with a clear sandwich bag full of their own poop. Well, hardly ever.

Although I had two previous practice dogs and swore I'd never get another one, I am now the owner and master of a Toy Poodle which I named Honey Child. I had a shocking revelation when I returned from my mall massage to retreive my puppy from the groomer and she was wearing this little sweater with a cupcake on the back.  "Is this me?" I looked in the rearview mirror. Faced with my own reflection, I assumed it was.

This puppy is seriously messing with my self-image. Aren't I the bad ass girl from the worst town in California?  Aren't I the brave tough firefighter? I have pulled myself up by my bootstraps so hard that my fingers bled. Now I have a poodle and this might change me forever. What if I start wearing pastel sweatshirts with paw prints drawn out with puffy paint? What if I start sending out Christmas cards with her picture on them? Or even just start sending out Christmas cards?

The very worst part about my Honey Child is that she makes me look approachable. It's like I'm carrying one of the Jonas Brothers in my jacket when I hear the highest pitched screaming of little girls with their eyes wild, hands and fingers spread out like eagle claws as they race to us "Can I hold the puppy! Puppy! Puppy!" I could handle it if there were just kids, but it's grown-ups too and I don't really like grown-ups so much.

I've been thinking about some proactive steps I can take to free myself of obligatory conversations:

1. Prepare laminated cards with the following pertinent information:
Name: Honey Child
Born: 9/26/09
Sex: Girl
No, I'm not walking her too fast.
From a breeder
Yes, I love her.
No, I do not care about your dog stories.

2. Get a little tiny t-shirt for her with this printed on the back:
"Do not touch me, I have contageous puppy warts"

3. Wear Men in Black sunglasses, earphones, and walk with my head down muttering deterent statements:
    a) Oh my, look at those pixies with the machine guns! Why do they keep following me?!
    b) Can I talk to you about Jesus?
    c) Excuse me, do you have change for the meter?

As I type this blog, she's curled up in my lap.  She is so warm and lovable that I've let my right foot fall asleep so that I won't disturb her perfect puppy nap, complete with occasional hind leg twitches.  Around my feet are every single one of her toys which she has brought to me.  That's all she has to give is just a bunch of cheap toys from the pet store. They are made in China with a high probability of lead contamination.  But she shares them with me. There is one more difference between babies and puppies: Babies are easier to nurse.

*Blogspot has taken away the spell check icon. If there are any spelling errors, please send them to whothefuckcares@yourmama.com ... or offer your assistance in locating said missing icon via the comments section. Thanks

The Longest Movie

2010-01-06T09:54:00.000-08:00

It was about 11pm and I was driving home from the movies with my 12-year old daughter. I passed by an average woman in an average coat holding a sign on the street corner. It was white poster board with big black letters that read "Ojo Neven" or something like that. The area was dark and empty of people, she was completely out of place.

Had I been able to understand her sign, I probably would have known about the sobriety checkpoint up ahead, I would have made a quick turn down another street and avoided the confrontation altogether. But her sign was not aimed at English speaking drivers (or sober ones either).

I was abruptly channeled by orange cones into an electric parade of lights, police officers, and Paddy wagons. I should have rolled down my windows ahead of time to let the smell of urine out. It wasn't mine or my daughter's. It belonged to someone else. A person I will never know.

Katia and I had gone to see Avatar that night because her little sister was at a sleepover, my husband was at work, and we were girls on the town! By the time we got into the theatre, the seats were completely full except for two handicap seats which sat by themselves on the bottom level of the stadium seating. As I took my seat, I felt two things: 1) Fear that someone in a wheelchair would come along and reprimand me for being insensitive, consequently remove me from the movie; and 2) I felt wetness on the seat.

I rubbed my hand on the fabric of the seat and it didn't feel damp nor did the back of my jeans. I knew I wasn't imagining moisture, but I made a conscious decision to ignore it because my only other choice would be to take my daughter, leave the theatre, and drive all the way back home. So I sat there. In my little puddle of denial. "Maybe it's Coke?"

About 30 minutes into Avatar, I pulled my leg up to cross it over the other, that's when I felt that breezy cool feeling on the bottom of my thigh. The feeling of dampness I couldn't ignore anymore. The curiosity was too persistent, I had to know for sure. "I'll be right back. I think I sat in something" I said in a hushed movie whisper. As I walked down the hallway with the Vegas style carpeting toward the bathroom, my pants hung from the back of my butt like an old stiff towel. Once I arrived in the stall, I dropped my jeans and sniffed my pants.

Piss confirmation. It was strong and icky and stuck in my nose hairs even after I'd pulled away. I was horrified at the thought of whose it could be. Was it a little child that was forced by his selfish parents to watch an R-rated movie and it scared the piss out of him? Or maybe it was a guy who couldn't hoist himself back into his wheelchair in time to make it to the toilet. Maybe it was a disgruntled employee ... with Hepatitis Type Q!

I grabbed a hard black plastic booster chair on the way back in to solve my problem. I put the booster upon the icky seat and told Katia to sit there. Then I took her seat. She looked confused, so I told her there was pee on the seat. It was like saying "Here, taste this. It tastes like shit!" She wrangled her legs up on the booster so the backs of her knees wouldn't touch any part of the edge of the seat. She looked so pathetic and I knew I was being selfish, but if I sat in the booster, I would have been six feet tall. I tried to watch the movie, but I noticed that Katia looked beyond just uncomfortable, she looked sick. Her head was resting in her hand, her legs were curled up tight next to her chest, and she had a slack expression on her face.

I reached for my iPhone to make sure my other daughter hadn't called while it was on silent, but it wasn't in my sweater pocket or anywhere. Frantically I looked in my purse and in all my pockets. I stuck my head down between my legs to look under the seat, but it was blindingly black. I got down on my knees and tried to feel around under the seat without actually feeling the floor. God help me, I probably exposed myself to Uber Germs down there. I couldn't find it. "I think I left my phone in the bathroom!" I yelled/whispered. Katia looked semi-conscious.

I speed walked down the hallway again with my nasty pee pee pants and burst into the ladies room. With a fucking crazy look on my face and the smell of hot urine wafting around me, I pushed in each and every stall door and tried to find my iPhone. I felt like someone had found it, stolen it, and was currently flipping through the pictures of MY family, and deleting my entire calendar for fun. I felt a little dead inside.

I speed walked up to the lobby and found a worker. She was an employee of about 20 years of age. Her white button up blouse looked like it had been washed in hot water and shrunk to squeeze around her bosom. Never being introduced to an iron or been tucked in. Her hair hung flat and brown around her roundish face and when I asked her if anyone had turned in an iPhone, she looked amused at the suggestion.

I told her it might have been left in one of the stalls, but I had already looked. "Could you help me look under the movie seats?" I pleaded. She kindly started looking for a flashlight. Now wouldn't you think they'd have a flashlight handy? Remember the olden days when all the ushers had flashlights? Not anymore, apparently. I watched her rummage around the back room, the counter area, and finally in one of the offices, she found a super flashlight. It was the kind that your husband would buy at Costco. I gasped at the thought of her (or me) turning on that floodlight inside the movie theatre during Avatar. Luckily, when she tried to turn it on, it was out of batteries. Thank you God! Then she found a little mag light and we started down the hallway.

"This has been a horrible night; first I pee all over my pants because the seat we're in has pee in it. I think my daughter's getting sick. Then I loose my iPhone ..." I started to tear up "Do you know how many pictures I have in that? And the calendar? My husband's going to kill me!" I said. "You're having a really bad night aren't you?" Said the sweet girl. "Yes. I am."

Boy was Katia surprised when I showed up with a lady and a flashlight and we dropped to our knees and started peering under her seat. Quickly the girl pulled her arm out and, in her hand, was my iPhone. I couldn't help it, I hugged her around her neck with my eyes closed. It wasn't one of those acquaintance hugs, either. It was a long-lost sister kind of hug. "Oh thank you, thank you" I whispered in her ear. She looked proud of herself for saving my life, and offered to bring us a plastic bag to sit on.

A few minutes later, she returned with a big white plastic trash bag. She shook it out flat and then laid it on the seat. I moved over to sit on the plastic but Katia refused to sit back down. Instead, she stood in the entrance way, right next to the security guard who had decided he wanted to watch Avatar, too.

At this point, I imagine the scenario from the other patrons' perspective: She gets up and runs out a couple of times for long periods of time. When she returns, she makes her grown daughter sit in a booster chair. She sticks her head between her legs and then leaves again and returns with an employee and a flashlight and start looking under the seats for something. She attacks the usher around her neck. She sits on white plastic. Then her daughter is being detained with a security guard in the hallway.

After two and a half hours, Avatar finally ended and I grabbed Katia by the hand and ran like hell before anyone could look at us. I had to lay down a car blanket on my seat for the ride home. It was cold and rainy, Katia was obviously very ill, and I had the heater on. It smelled like hot old piss. Someone elses piss. The car filled up with the foul sweet aroma as I drove a little fast toward home.

"Had anything to drink tonight?" the officer asks, as the stench bursts out of the window I roll down.

Three E-Z Steps for Better Grocery Shopping

2009-11-19T12:35:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking of a new "invention" if you will. It serves to alleviate every one's headaches with grocery shopping but mostly it will just make me happy. Behold my draft letter to all grocery stores.

Dear Sir,

I am assuming that you are a man. I've never seen a picture of a woman grocery store manager. Forgive me if I'm wrong; however, if you are a female grocery store manager that looks like a man, you're probably used to the confusion.

If grocery shopping was a recognized skill, I would be considered an expert by now. However, I'm just another consumer. But what I represent is all consumers. I know you are gathering my statistical information from my debit card transactions. You're wanting me to take brief surveys. The clerks are always inquiring "Did you find everything you needed today?" and "How are you today?" Your information gathering leads me to believe that you're interested in my opinion. How beneficial for both of us, because I'm ready to talk.

THREE E-Z GROCERY STORE IMPROVEMENTS

1. Re-think your carts.
Does it make sense to have the coffee holder at the END of the cart? No, that's stupid. It needs to be on the handle. You'll also need a horn to make people move out of my way. I know you're concerned with the horn sound, so you should make the horn say different useful phrases like: "Tickle Tickle Tickle!!" "I'm more important than you!" and "This isn't a parking lot Fucker!" I would like a GPS ("Grocery Pointing System") that will point me in the right direction of the millet and other things that a 17-year old store clerk has never heard of. I would also like pointy things to shoot out of the end at other people, but I'll assume you will not entertain that suggestion due to liability and injury.

2. Segregation.
It's impossible for us all to shop together. I've taken the liberty of outlining some groups that would be compatible and the times they should be allotted.

a) Hootchie Mamas and Mid-Life Crisis Men. Men are the hunters, women are the gathers. This presents a traffic problem for both sides. Here, the Hootchie struts around with her "Juicy" sweats, CFM Pumps, Wonderbras, and Bump-its just demanding sexual attention. The Mid-Life Crisis Man is thereby side-tracked and stays in the store longer, throwing silly things in his cart to impress her like extra large condoms and Mens Health Magazine. The optimum shopping period is between 9:00 and 11:00 every night. The MLC Man will sneak out of the house to "pick up some shaving cream" and the Hootchie is getting her Cooks Sparkling Wine for later that night. Once there, they'll spend extra time and extra money. That's good for you, right?

b) Old people and Women without Children. Our senior citizens need someone to help with getting things off the shelf, counting their change, clipping their coupons, starting the scooter, reading the labels, etc. Obviously a woman without a child is the only person equipped to help, a man can't even touch a coupon or their masculinity will be tainted. A woman dragging their kids to the grocery store already has too many other jobs to do. It's only fair.

c) The Moms and Firefighters. This is a perfect pairing. We mothers have many unwritten rules that we follow that include, pulling your cart the right side and parking it. Having payment ready before you're at the register. Chatting with friends. Going down every isle just in case we're forgetting something (i.e., gathering), touching every single fruit and vegetable. We also forgive other moms when they have to say horrible things to their children like "No! Just hold in your poop, I'm not stopping in the bathroom AGAIN!" and "I will buy you anything in this store if you'll just shut up!" and other secret sayings we have. We are perfectly paired with firefighters because we make them feel great about themselves, and I just like having them around. So do my kids. We should have absolute control and power in the grocery store from 2:00pm to 8:30pm. During which time no old people, Mid-Life Crisis Men, Hootchie Mamas, or Women without Kids, are even allowed.

3. Buttons to wear that express your wishes.
a) Don't talk to me.
b) Extra Free Samples, Please.
c) I'm in a hurry.
d) P.M.S.
e) I'm usually better looking

I don't expect you to initiate all of these suggestions at once, but you should really consider the underlying message here: Get your act together and figure out what we really want!!!

What's In Your Purse Today?

2009-10-22T14:10:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-24T14:08:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-14T15:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-28T09:25:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-24T09:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-18T12:09:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-12T11:21:00.000-07:00

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.

Ain't Diane

2009-08-02T11:27:00.000-07:00

Please forgive me Aunt Diane. I'm about to lay it all out for everyone to share the experience of cleaning up after a lifetime of your gathering. I hope you are in an enlightened place where monetary items are laughable and watching your loved ones handle it is amusing.

When I calendar Aunt Diane on my iTouch, it comes out "Ain't Diane." Now that's true, isn't it? Because she ain't Diane no more. What's left in this house is some mementos of an exciting and energetic life. Too bad its mixed in with crazy stuff. Perhaps you can't have one without the other?

I arrive in her little mobile home village in a quaint little town and I park next to her car that we'll be lucky to sell for $500. I'm more inclined to donate it to the fire department for extrication exercises. It's a Ford Escort with a manual transmission. That's right, you have to shift it with your Starbucks hand. Maybe I could sell it to a Mormon.

I walk up to her large front porch with gigantic sprawling dead plants the size of a Janet Jackson. They're trying to stay alive, stretching out their tentacles to gather some moisture in the fake green indoor-outdoor grass/carpet that's tucked under the aluminum edges. But I stomp over the top of the leaves on the way to the front door because I don't have any extra time or energy to keep something alive. And I don't care. Because I'm mad that I'm here doing this.

My mom gave me my own key which slides in with all the ease of a porn star screwing Joan Rivers without lubrication. I just have to shove it and wiggle it until I get it far enough in that I can start cranking the little lock open until my fingers burn. The door opens and the smell wafts out and makes me recall my last trip to the zoo. I'm always disappointed when I open the door because every thing's still there. No robbery or fire yet.

Every room in the double-wide was filled from wall to wall and ceiling to floor with old boxes and stacks of papery things. There was a dark walkway that wound from the back door to the kitchen and then to the bedroom which was like walking in a cavern of garbage. The first time I entered was after she had died. I had never seen the inside of this home before, but the Sheriff's department warned me that it was bad. I could see it on their faces; pity for me because I was tagged by Fate "You're It!" and the smugness that they felt because they could just get in their vans and drive home but I was going to stay.

The first time I walked in I wasn't afraid of the mess, or germs, or the horrible things that come out of a body when it lays there for seven days in July. I was afraid of her ghost. [I watched too many scary movies as a young child and now I'm scarred for life]. I said out loud "I'm just here to help mom, she can't do this by herself" and since there was no answer i.e., bleeding walls, crashing dishes, or ectoplasm fountains coming from the sinks and toilets, I thought she approved of my presence.

I must say that after being there for two weeks, I was sort of disappointed that Ain't Diane didn't at least try and make contact. But then again, maybe she was moving things around the whole time and we couldn't tell.

I'm Not Dead, But Aunt Diane Is

2009-07-23T13:02:00.000-07:00

After laying alone in her little messy mobile home for what the coroner estimates as six days. Six hot July days. The police department found my dead aunt. There she was all six feet of her laid out naked on her bed.

She slept naked, I'm sure. My mother's family had a propensity to want to be naked a lot, probably as a result of growing up in boiling hot Texas temperatures with girdles, stiff bras, and up-dos. As a matter of fact, their mother was kicked out of a nursing home because she refused to put clothes on.

My sisters have fond memories of Grandmother sitting on park benches without panties, airing out her Lily. She was a fine Texas lady, don't get me wrong. She grew roses, married the mayor, and went to finishing school. She complied and acquiesced and used all her charm and grace. It seems that going without panties might have been her only holdout. The last chance she had to rebel.

My mom and her sister were very close and shared their interests in all the arts. They are tall, like me. And red-headed. Its hard not to be opinionated and bossy when you look like us. This presented Aunt Diane and Mom with a bit of a competitive edge. As a matter of fact, when my mom found out that Aunt Diane had died, she said "Damn it!" I asked her what's the matter. She replied "She learned everything she needed know before I did so she gets to move on. Now I'm stuck here with all her shit!" I know, it's totally true. We are stuck with all her shit, and there's a lot of it mixed in with the treasures.

Mom and I believe that we are sent here to learn lessons and once you've learned them, you get to move on. Since Mom is older, I'm sure she's feeling a bit left behind. But I told her not to learn too much too fast, because I want her to stay longer.

I Am Not Dead

2009-07-07T10:16:00.000-07:00

Me and my posse are packing up the house and moving into a new house. The new house is not finished. There are inspectors, and fire requirements, and checks to write. It is exciting and frantic and tedious. I'm overwhelmed with my "blessings" and have been unable to post anything for a while.

The Good News:

We might finish up this week and then I can write more Blogger Queen Adventures and restaurant reviews for Uptake, if I don't get fired first.

I finally figured out how to track the visitors to Bloggerqueen and I'm so excited! I have visitors from Australia, Ireland (my personal favorite), India, UK, Canada, and of course right here in the good ole' US of A.

My mind has been spinning with tales, but my fingers have not found the time for typing. Seriously, I haven't even straightened my bangs for three weeks. So please forgive me. I'll be back soon.

Your Queen,
Sharon

5 Things People Don't Tell You

2009-06-17T09:03:00.000-07:00

If you've ever had a sneaking suspicion that there are things people aren't telling you, you're right. The paranoia you feel around a group of strangers is justified. Here are 5 things that I think you should know:

1. You know the Thank You cards that you hate to write? You put them off as long as you can. It's worse than ironing or doing the bills. The guilt you feel for not being a caring thoughtful person seeps into your psyche until finally you get those little suckers out in the mail. The secret is that's how everyone else feels too! It's not just you. Every Thank You card you've ever received preceded along the above path. Most people would sacrifice the present rather than write another obligatory Thank You card. That's why whenever I give a present, I say "... and as part of your present, I'm letting you off the hook for the Thank You card. I insist that you do not send me one." They are forever grateful. For real.

2. If you have to ask someone if the pants make you look fat, they do. Follow your instincts on this one. By the way, it may not be the pants, it might just be your butt. I'm not trying to be mean, I'm only trying to help. Sometimes the truth hurts, but so do tight pants.

3. Everyone is tired. So don't expect any pity from us.

4. When someone says "Well good for you" and their head tilts just a little to the side and their voice sounds sweet like a nurse about to give a shot ... they're really trying to say something else like: "Are you fucking kidding me?" or "You bitch! You get everything I want!" or "You are a complete moron." Just wait until the next person says "Well good for you" and you'll understand what a patronizing passive aggressive slap in the face this really is. So you should just flip them off and walk away and scream "Well good for you too!!!"

5. If you believe you know what your teenager is doing, just you wait until they turn 23 and tell you all the things they got away with. You are not as cool as you think you are.

The aforementioned 5 Things People Don't Tell You is based solely on own my self-centered perspective and wretched experiences. You may see things differently. In any event, I'm still right.

Inside the Restaurant Review

2009-06-04T17:36:00.000-07:00

I'm happily married. What a drag, because I'd just love to do that Match.com thing? I don't want to date anyone or meet anyone or certainly not cheat on my husband. I only want to know who or what they'd fix me up with. Would Match.com know me better than I know myself? Would it be an engineer who loves to polka? A UFC fight trainer with a Hummer? An anti-war activist in tan corduroys and patchouli oil?

It think Internet dating would be comparable to when I'm clothes shopping with a friend and she picks something out for me. Proudly holding it up above the racks and shouting from across the store "Sharon! This is perfect for you!" and one of two things happen: 1) I'm flattered that she thinks I'd look great in something from Juniors; or 2) I realize my friend knows absolutely nothing about me and should be fired or given away to an old lady because that's who she's good at shopping for.

When I did my restaurant review this morning for Uptake.com I was completely uninspired and didn't feel like doing anything. My first thought was to just post a picture and write "You figure it out!" It's harder than I thought to pull creativity out of my ass on a blank day. But that, my dear, is precisely why I do it. Training.

I like this review. I hope you do too. It made me chuckle.

A Bitter Curse

2009-06-03T11:21:00.000-07:00

We all fill out little cards for contests, buy lotto scratchers, and bid on an auction item you don't even want just for the sake of charity. You never think you'll actually win, but sometimes you might fantasize about marching into your bosses office and nailing him with a squirt gun full of pee pee "I'm rich and I quit!" Or driving to the gym in your Porche Boxter and parking next to the skinny young bitch who always hogs all the equipment and commenting "What a pretty color. Did all the 1987 Ford Fiestas come in that color or did you have it painted special?"

Uptake is the travel website I write restaurant reviews for and they were having a pretty great contest thanks to the Silverado Resort. I never win contests, but I thought I'd win this one because 1) I was entering into it for my friends and that's uncommonly altruistic of me. So I thought the Universe would say "Hey! Sharon's being generous, let's give her a prize"; and 2) We deserved it more than the other entrants. I'm not making this claim based on anything but logic. I offer the evidence for your review. Read the winning post and then read Blogger Queen's entry post.

The winning post was from "My Misanthropic Musings" and while I'm sure that prior to winning this contest Lisa Crovo Dion was a perfectly nice woman, she is now a horrible person for winning this contest. Don't try and talk me out of hating her. I've already tried praying about it and meditating on her and her little friends deserving it more and needing it more. But it didn't work. Then I contemplated that perhaps their Girls Spa Weekend would be riddled with scorching sunburns, cat fights, and volcanic hangovers and that did make me feel a tiny bit better.

In spite of all this self-analysis and reflection I'm still bitter and thus I've decided there is something that must be done about it. An amends. I think her and her little friends owe me and my little friends an amends. I think it should come in the form of a postcard from their vacation. I want to know that they feel extremely guilty and they all wish the Blogger Queen and Friends could be there to join them. Please head over to her blog and tell her she needs to take care of this for the sake of her own kharma.

If they don't, I'll put upon them the following curse:

"May your children contract lice when you put your house on the market and your husband's away on business. And for those without children or husbands, may you get crabs"

See? We should have won.

Where's the Queen?

2009-05-28T23:44:00.000-07:00

I've hacked into some other blogger's blog and I've taken over! Come and see what I'm writing about on Petunia Face. I'm also on Uptake.

Miss me? Come and see me.

Godzilla v. Mothra

2009-05-27T10:20:00.000-07:00

I am the best mom ever. I've introduced my 8-year old daughter to the world of giant monsters. This is a little girl that cannot even watch commercials for movies where people die, but monsters, well that's an entirely different thing.

She first watched Godzilla v. Mothra with me on Mothers' Day. I also rented Abbott and Costello meet Frankenstein. If you've ever seen a Godzilla film in your life, you'll remember this one because of the identical tiny twin Japanese ladies that are carried around in a box. When the box is opened the little tiny twins sing to summon Mothra who will protect Tokyo from Godzilla. Epic.

The day after we watched these movies, she transfixed herself with King King. It was the '70s version with Jeff Bridges and Jessica Lange. The giant mechanical gorilla head was later used in the Universal Tour in Hollywood. Did you see that one?

When I was little I watched Creature Features every Saturday night. It was a locally produced show with host Bob Wilkens. He was my favorite kind of funny, the dry kind. He sat in a yellow rocking chair in a funky cheap horror set while smoking a thick cigar. Here's a quote ...

"Weird Women. This is a story about witchcraft, the occult, mysticism, price fixing and tire rotation. I think you'll like it."

It was Mr. Wilkens that introduced me to the great Vincent Price in The Tingler. As you'll see, the movie starts with a serious warning that you'll be given special protective equipment in order to safely watch the movie so that you don't become ... infected. To my dispair, I was stuck in my little bedroom watching my black and white television and therefore had no equipment to shield me from The Tingler except the blanket resting on my nose and under my eyes for quick hiding.

Another Vincent Price classic was The House of Wax. It was about a disfigured crazy man who used dead bodies inside his wax sculptures. This movie made it almost impossible to walk through the San Francisco Wax Museum because I'd look at those deep glass eyes and wonder if at least one of them wasn't made out of a real person, especially Marie Antoinette. Creepy.

I've already wrecked my son who, at the age of 23, is still afraid of zombies thanks to The Night of the Living Dead, my all time most frightening movie. That's the movie that made it impossible for me and my son to walk up the driveway in the dark because we knew there was something following us. Close on our heels. Any moment ... Aaahhghg "We're coming to get you, Sharon"!

We're not afraid of silly things like robberies, rapists, and earthquakes. It's the Blair Witch and the Zombies that will finally be the end of us. Of course the dark powers will make it look like an accident, but don't believe it.

Like I said, I'm the world's greatest mom.

New Equipment for Moms

2009-05-22T10:21:00.000-07:00

Summer had mentioned in her recent post that she can feed two babies and help another with homework simultaneously. This is the epitome of mothering and woman-ness. Multitasking. It's a skill that nature gave us in order to handle all the things that come to our attention. We gather information, facts and mix it with our experience and formulate solutions. While our brothers on this planet see one thing at a time and cannot handle more than one task in a day. But nature should have included some of the following equipment to make us even more efficient.

Shelves. I want to have several shelves installed on my body to put plates and cups on so I won't have to make ten trips to the table.

Drawers. If I had drawers installed in my body I would never loose my keys or glasses again. Plus I could keep my cellphone and pepper spray in there.

Spikes. Although I'm very emotionally spiky at times and people stay clear when I have my angry face on, I would still appreciate spikes that I could launch on command.

Volume. A volume dial on my ears would be so helpful for ignoring crying, whining, screaming, and idiotic tween goofy-ness.

Four Eyes. I'd like to actually have the eyes in the back of my head that I've been advertising all these years.

Tight Tummy. Now this has no practical use or reason. I just don't understand why something this important has to fall apart? Why did nature have to take this away from me. I know, I know, exercise, diet, lipo, blah blah blah. NO! I just can't hassle with all that nonsense. I just wanted it naturally granted to me.

I'm going to visit with a plastic surgeon and ask for an estimate. I would argue that these suggestions would make life easier and make much more sense than big boobs, tight eyes, golden skin, and long nails. Seriously.

Praying from the bottom of a Toilet

2009-05-20T15:48:00.000-07:00

Today I'm wearing my maternity pants. I'm not pregnant, I just wanted some support. I like the gentle soft hug it gives my tummy. I also have on my Birkenstock sandals that make me look like Jesus' fat sister. Plus, as if the first two items weren't bad enough, a tie-dyed t-shirt.

I am also wearing a frown. My life has taken the fast train to Shitville and I'm looking for a good old fashioned fist fight with a stranger in the grocery store.

I'm trying to walk around all peaceful and in total knowledge that there is a Higher Power, a Great River, a Giant Ball of String or Something that is in charge here.

Dear Bigger Thing than Me,

I pray that all the sick and lost souls are cured and saved. I am grateful that I have my health and my family. I hope that tomorrow I'll be a better person than I was today. But most of all, please let me win that contest!

Thank you,
Your Loyal Servant and Blogger Queen

Please God, Let me Win?

2009-05-15T08:50:00.000-07:00

Not only do I write posts for my very own blog (this one), but I'm also a restaurant reviewer for Uptake. Since I'm story teller and not a food connoisseur, I write my reviews in the form of fictional fables. As far as I know I'm the first and only food reviewer to do this. I did Fictional Fables with Food because writing food reviews is BORING for me, so I have to conjure up ridiculous stories about CIA agents, blind dates with British men, marriage proposals, and nudity in order to keep me entertained and, hopefully, you.

Uptake is having a contest for the bloggers. The prize is a Girls Getaway for Four at the Silverado Resort in Napa, California, but first I have to "deserve" it and it must be a family friendly story.

I do deserve it and its because I've had to deal with the worst family problem in the whole entire world. It's yucky and messy and humiliating. It's an issue that many of you have encountered but none of you want to talk about: Lice.

Early this week I discovered "them" and instantly started the phone calls to her three best friends, her gym, and the schools. I tried to stay calm and take an enlightened approach, saying to myself and others "hey man, it's not a reflection of bad parenting. It's just something that happens to kids with hair." But inside I felt like a peasant from the 16th century.

I kept both daughters out of school that day so that we wouldn't infect all the other "nice" children. Here are the things you have to do when your child comes home with lice:

1. Freak out.
2. Analyze your own head. Is it itchy because you're psychosomatic or do you have critters too?
2. Pick through your children's hair to identify "them"
3. Make mortifying phone calls to anyone who's come into contact with your family for the past week.
4. Go to the pharmacy and buy $100 worth of Nix or Rid or whatever.
5. Shampoo and apply stinky horrible medicine on EVERYONE's head for 10 hours. Do not just do a 10-minute treatment like the box says because now they are resistant to it.
6. Walk around in your house with shower caps on and pray to God that nobody comes to the door.
7. Wash every sheet, comforter, pillow, rug that you can. If you can't wash it, it has to go in a plastic airtight bag for four weeks. Bye bye down comforters!
8. Vacuum every single thing in your house: Mattresses, sofas, rugs, floors.
9. You know the box of hair do-dads? Well, they all have to be boiled for 10 minutes.
10. Nitpick. That means use a grid system to analyze every single hair on your kid's head and pick off the left-over eggs. This takes hours.
11. Continue nitpicking, vacuuming, washing for at least a week to catch any rogue critters.

As if this wasn't bad enough, we had just sold our house and the agent called and wanted to do a "walk-through". Oh perfect timing. This is about the time I had a complete mental breakdown.

Two days later was the youngest daughter's Open House. All of our friends and acquaintances knew about our new "pets." That's why when people kept commenting on how great my hair looked, I'd reply "I'm using a new shampoo. Perhaps you've heard?" and they'd laugh.

Katia's three best friends' moms and me have been in complete hell for four days and although we are completely lice-free and our houses are cleaner than they've ever been, ever, we are spent. In my opinion, having a child with head lice is worse than leprosy because at least with leprosy things fall off and you can just walk away.

Although the other three mommies have been my friends for years, nothing has brought us closer together. We are the survivors of the same shipwreck. We are going to make bracelets that say "Not a Lousy Mother" on them. We are going to start a support group for other moms because I'm sure we all have Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.

We are going to loose our minds if we cannot get away for a weekend of spa treatments, sleeping-in, pampering, no children. We can get away sometime this summer for a hard-earned Girls Getaway! And yes, Silverado, we will be sparkling clean guests. Promise.

Happy Bad Mothers Day

2009-05-11T09:03:00.000-07:00

Sunday was Mothers Day. It was for all the good mothers in the U.S. who deserved a Hallmark card, flowers from the grocery store, and a weird breakfast made of dry cereal in a bowl with black olives on top. Then they got to pretend to eat it while their child stood watching with a look of great excitement and pride.

But today, Monday, I would like to officially claim as Bad Mothers Day because let's face it, yesterday was a disappointment. All we really wanted was to be left alone for one day. To wake up late and have coffee brought to us. We wanted everyone to plan their own food. We didn't want to go to any games, picnics, swim parties, luncheons, or pancake breakfasts. Us Bad Mommies would like one day without a million responsibilities.

If you can check off at least two items below, you'll qualify as a Bad Mother and you can have today to do whatever the hell you want to do or not do.

1. Forget that it's Early Pick-up Day at school and get the dreaded phone call from the somewhat condescending school secretary telling you your child has been waiting for you for 30 minutes in front of the school. You race right over and make-up a string of lies and excuses on the way.

2. Offer your six-year old child a tub of ice cream and a spoon if they'll just let you sleep in for another hour.

3. Assign an entire section of the family photo album to be titled "Sean's Bathroom Pictures" and hold it over his head throughout high school.

5. Hide the last cookie behind your back as your child comes into the kitchen and asks for it. "Sorry, you must have eaten them all. Way to go."

6. Give them cold medicine when they're not really sick because the directions clearly state "Use only when needed" and you really needed them to go to sleep.

7. Give them Tylenol and send them to school.

8. Fake a phone call to their friend's house and relay the bad news "Looks like they're not home. Guess we'll have to schedule a play date for another day."

9. You let your 2nd grader wear make-up.

10.Your child has lice

Here's to you Bad Mothers of America. Go get a mall massage, a cup of coffee, and watch daytime tv. Plan a nice fresh hot pizza for dinner and fake a headache at 6:30 so you don't have to tuck the kids in and read stories. Go ahead, you deserve at least one day a year.

Time for "The Talk"

2009-05-04T12:23:00.000-07:00

My daughter had "Life Class" last week. If I was in charge I'd rename it "It's Not Fair: What's Going to Happen to you Next!"

I've already explained to Katia everything she needs to know anyway, but it was nice for the teacher to tell her again. I've lost a lot of credit with Katia because I don't know how to do square routes or decimal dividing and stuff like such as that. Der. I was forced to tell her the horrible forebodings of her future when, one day, I was exiting the shower. Katia was jabbering about something incredibly important, so important that it couldn't' wait until I was all the way out of the shower and dried off. I was watching her face as she was talking when her eyes fell downward and then she stopped. She just stopped in mid-sentence and her eyes popped open like a Chinese fish on a platter.

"Mom! You have trash coming out of you!" she gasped.

I looked down at the little Tiffany blue string hanging down and quickly wrapped my towel around my waist. Busted. Time for "The Talk".

I told her how Mommy's have a blessing each month. I told her all about Eve and how she should never have eaten that damned apple. If she hadn't, we would never have to buy tampons, pads, and tons and tons of panties. I told her that this is why we shouldn't be able to vote or run for public office. Then we sat down at watched Carrie together. It was a special mother/daughter moment.

Did Martha Stewart Decorate her Cell?

2009-04-28T08:52:00.001-07:00

I've been a little sidetracked. We're putting our house on the market this week and it's a hellavalota work. I'll catch up on everyone's blogs, comments, and postings after Friday when we (and that's the royal We) can breathe a sigh of relief. For about 20 minutes, then we'll have to keep our house clean until it sells.

I'll be like Joan Crawford meets Martha Stewart. Following my children around the house with a long wooden spoon "Clean Up That Sock!! Flush that Toilet!! Don't touch That!!" My eyes will be red and glazed. My bangs will be fuzzy and weird. My toenail polish will be chipped. I'll be a mess.

I'm trying to have all the spiritual good thoughts and prayers for a nice family to move in and make my old neighbors happy. I meditate that everything will be fair and just and honest. But then I get yanked by the ankle down into the well of Selfish Thoughts and I don't care who moves in, just as long as I get my money. I said "my" but it's not. It's ours. I'm selfish in the purist sense. For instance, when I take people to the new house, I show them "my" kitchen and "my" bedroom. The curse of a spoiled child all grown-up and trying to be a wife and mother.

Just a couple more days ...

Crying Indians and Smoking Babies

2009-04-27T08:30:00.000-07:00

I remember when the giant stores started closing. The Good Guys, an electronics chain, closed first. Like ants at a picnic, we rushed in and bought a giant TV at a pretty decent price. As the days and weeks dragged on, their inventory was reduced to 80's movies, cords to obsolete equipment, and display racks. The security guard checked receipts at the front door with the enthusiasm of a toll booth operator on qualudes. It was depressing.

The Good Guys had paid for a mega sign to hang over their moribund [thank you Merriam-Webster Thesaurus] doors that read "We're Closing" but after time the left side of the sign lost it's will to hang on and flapped down over the "C" thereby leaving an ominous warning of the months to come "We're losing."

Deadly food allergies are on the rise, global warming, crime, oh it's just ghastly. A real downer. So I want to remind you of the advances we've made and how, in some areas, life is a little better than it was.

* When I was a little girl, people used to throw their napkins, wrappers, cups, etc., right out the car window on the freeway. Then some TV commercial with a crying Indian changed the world ... with only THREE CHANNELS! We the People felt guilty and realized we couldn't just keep treating the roads like a dump. In many countries it's still completely acceptable to litter. Here in California, if someone throws a wrapper out the window they'll surely be chased down by a 1963 Volvo with an angry tree hugger inside and scolded for their shit-headism.

* When I gave birth to my son in 1986, they gave me a "smoking room" in the hospital. I'm not kidding you. I shared the room with another young mommy who smoked and, like me, had a cesarean so we were stuck in there for a week. I remember the nurse calling out from the hallway "Put out your cigarettes ladies! I'm bringing in the babies!"

* Here's what I ate for dinner every night when I was little: Fried hamburger patty, white rice with butter, canned spinach. I was allergic to milk so my mom gave me Hi-C.

You have to admit that in some areas life and the planet are better off than they were. Don't buy into the idea that everything is awful all the time. Eat a hot dog and get over it.

Never Answering the Door Again

2009-04-22T12:55:00.001-07:00

Ding Dong! I answer the door.

"Is this your lawn?" says the big sweaty man with a beer belly and a wiener dog. He's wiping buckets of sweat from his forehead with a dirty rag while he scans my shabby lawn with disgust.

"Yes." I say flatly so to express my disinterest in anything he has to offer.

"Are you going to keep watering it like this?" He says like a father who has found out his teenager is running the car without oil.

"We're moving." I hope this will make him give up and walk away. I've been dispensing prickly fevered anxiety needles throughout my pores all day and so far it has not worked at all. People keep talking to me.

A long pause. He does not turn and leave nor even step back. He wipes his wet face again and thinks about his next line, which is this. "Why are you moving!?" Not a quizzical small talk question, more like demand.

"Why not?" I said, since it's none of his business.

"Are you moving local?" he blurts whilst still avoiding eye contact and checking out my lawn.

"Yes. In a couple of weeks. So we don't have any money right now."

The man seems irritated at this news. As if I've really let him down. "Where's all your money?!"

"Its at the new house!" I started to feel a little defensive.

"So you've spent all your money on a house in the same place as your old house. [not a question, a recall statement of dismay and scorn]

"Yep." and I stood their waiting with my hand on my hip for his next tactical salesmanship question or perhaps a PowerPoint presentation. But he just turned and walked away. Not a good-bye or a screw you. His little wiener dog followed him.

He hopped into his repainted U-haul truck and left my neighborhood.

The lesson here is: Never open the door for a sweaty man with a little weiner.

Come, Look into my Cave

2009-04-21T08:27:00.000-07:00

Having our house on the market is like going to the gynecologist. I have everything all cleaned-up and smelling purty, but there is no getting away from the feeling that my legs are up in stirrups and there are no secrets. It's humbling. No, its mortifying.

I have to invite strangers into my house to evaluate and poke around my cave but I'm not allowed to give any reasons (excuses) for why things are they way they are. For example, if I was the tour guide I would explain that I really meant to buy new pillow cases and no, we did not spill root beer on them. I would explain that the giant TV was my husband's idea and I had to oblige in order to get the sofa that sits in front of it.

It's like filling out a health history at the ob/gyn and there are just boxes to check and dates to fill in. There is no extra page where you can explain that it was the '80's and you are a much better person now. Nor is there a page to stick old photographs of "him" so to prove that you were completely powerless and, if given the chance, most of the women here would have done it too.

Either way, I just don't want people to not say "yuk." Dry rot - crotch rot, it's all the same thing. [Note: I have never had crotch rot] Then, after the nightmare has ended, I'll get an offer on the house or a note from the doctor and it will tell me how I measured up in the world. If I've had any Deferred Maintenance issues. Yuk.

It doesn't matter how many posters you put on the ceiling, I know where I am and I know what's happening.

Shoes + Hair = Everything

2009-04-15T12:06:00.000-07:00

Your hair and shoes are the most important part of your outfit. You can be walking around in a purple velour jumpsuit and pull it off as long as you're wearing a pair of Jimmy Chu's and a bad-ass hair style.

The opposite is not true; if you're wearing stupid shoes and have on a normal outfit it doesn't work. Even if you are normally attractive. There will be no chance of getting a job, making friends, or starring in your own t.v. sitcom. Please see example picture.

This is a picture of me with my new bad-ass hairstyle. My photographer is eight years old but she works for sliced apples and potato chips. In other words, it looks better in person. At least I think so, but that might be because I'm posing in front of the mirror so I'm able to make the best face possible while avoiding any neck wrinkles that are similar to a turtle vagina.

Doing my hair and make-up this morning was like a covert operation in an eastern block country. I was sitting in bed, talking on the phone when I noticed the shadow of a man right outside my window. His silhouette was hunched over and he was making his way around all my bedroom windows. The remarkable thing is that my bedroom is on the second floor. That's when I remembered that the painters were coming this morning. I wrapped up in my brown bear robe, black mascara smeared around my eyes like a heroin addict model and ducked into my bathroom. Alas, there was another window in there too. So I gathered my tackle and marine crawled into the closet where I'd be safe.

Considering all that, I think I look pretty good. I might just make the closet my new make-up bunker.

I Am Not A Chicken!

2009-04-09T23:26:00.000-07:00

This month has bad luck running through it like termites in an old house. Seriously, I cannot catch a break. My daughter's coach is mad at me because, although I do appear to have super powers, I have not mastered reading minds ... yet. Therefore I messed up some forms and now I'm avoiding her. I'm getting my daughter carpooled there and back so the coach can't find me. It's not that I'm chicken or anything, it's just that she's old and if I stay gone long enough she'll forget all about me. So, I'm really just saving her life, that's all. I don't want her last words to be "Sharon, you're killing me with aggravations!"

[I would like to make a side note here: Kathy has commented on my comma love and now I'm totally paranoid to use them. Thanks a lot, BFF!]

Then my sister gets breast cancer. The ironic thing is my nickname for her has always been "BT" that stands for Big Titty. I am "LT" - figure it out. So that's pretty shitty, but I don't know what to say so I haven't even called yet. It's not that I'm chicken, it's just that I don't want to remind her that she has cancer or anything. I mean, why bring it up? I just want her to have a nice day.

Additionally, we're getting ready to put our house on the market. Yet the only thing I can think about is possibly offending my neighbors because I'm not using their landscaping company. I'm hiding from them too. I'm not scared of them. I'm not. I just don't want to hurt their feelings, at least I don't want to see it.

I went to a meeting last night and sat right next to a guy who I've been avoiding for months. He's basically a weakling who gets all red-faced and shaky whenever I disagree with him. Which is most of the time because he's so wrong. But I hide from him because I'm afraid of saying something that will be constructive in the development of his spine which has thus far been weak. Every time I'm around him, all I can think of is all the ways I can publicly humiliate him. There's about nine so far.

Oh, oh oh oh. I almost forgot to tell you the Good News! I got my haircut and I don't look like a flight attendant this time! I got a bang job, and a lovely one it was. When I picked up my 11 year old at school she said "Well look at you!" It's one of those kind of haircuts. A little bit edgy/rocker. Too bad I can't show anyone because I'm either hiding in my home office or driving around with a baseball cap and sunglasses.

So listen up. Here's today's Life Coach Lesson:

Don't be afraid of people [or commas] otherwise you'll be wasting a perfectly good haircut.

Feel Better About Yourself in Five Easy Steps!

2009-04-07T12:47:00.001-07:00

Feeling bad about yourself? Lost your job? No relationship, or worse, a shitty one? Stop what you're doing and take these five simple self-help steps to improve your self-esteem.

1. Find a spiritual self-affirmation book. Perhaps something with rays of sunlight or footprints on the cover. Say a daily affirmation each day for seven days. On the eighth day stop. Reflect on the past seven days and thank God you're not the kind of person who has to do that shit every single day.

2. Play a board game with a child. It's really easy to win and you'll feel smart.

3. Hang out with people fatter than you. If you cannot find any, hang out with skinny people and visualize them sticking their fingers down their throat and eating snickers in the closet. There, now aren't you glad you're not like them?

4. Stick a dime in someone else's parking meter and save them from a ticket. Leave a note on their car telling them what you've done. Make sure they know that you did it out of the kindness of your heart because you are a selfless and generous person. Then just sit back and wait for your karma reward.

5. Wear a turtle neck and listen to public radio in your car loud enough for people to hear it and think "Wow, she is so evolved."

Have a better day!

My Better Half

2009-04-06T09:17:00.000-07:00

That's what I'd name this product and what a great product it is! I'd like to expand it's usages to reflect the needs of the average American. Pay attention China.

1. Qualify for the carpool lane by hanging the arm out the passenger window. Enjoy the looks of horror as the passing car takes a gander at your decapitated friend. "Beep Beep! Outta my way or I'll cut your head off too!"

2. Virtual Mommy. a) Use as a prop to keep your infant in a seated position. b) Great for soft spanking. c) "I'll just lay with you until you fall asleep"

3. Hand-job Vibrator. You would need to install some kind of shaking device in the middle two fingers. [Side note: Spray with Scotch Guard first]

4. Win the Vote: "All in favor? Raise your hand."

5. Depression Therapy: A shoulder to cry on plus you can use the pocket to hold your chocolate covered Prozak candy.

6. Beach Toy: Bury in the sand and yell "Shark! Shark!"

7. Chasing: No special trick, just make a frantic schizo face while you run after people, shaking it above your head.

How much extra for the girl? I have work for her too.

Cesar Chavez Public Library, Arizona

2009-04-02T10:15:00.000-07:00

On March 31st I went to the library. I got a front row parking place! I hoisted my laptop mobile blogging office onto my shoulder and forged ahead. "I'm going to finish up my restaurant review" I tell my daughter.

Surprise! It's Cesar Chavez Day!! What does that mean for you and me? Well, it means that you can shake the doors to the library again and again, bang on them, and make faces into the dark building all you want and they will not open. Why? Because they're closed.

Now I don't know Cesar, mostly because he's dead, but also because I'm not a migrant farm worker being exploited by profit hungry landowners. But, and I'm just using my imagination here, I don't think he would want our public libraries closed. I would think he would be a literacy advocate, right? But the banks were open and the post office still delivered my bills.

Dear Arnold,

Please re-open the libraries so I can blog, I mean read library books about Latino heroes and California history. In return for the gigantic expense of operating a library for a whole day, please feel free to close the post office who only delivers bills, irrelevant catalogs for clothing I don't need, and nasty notes on my car that say "we won't deliver mail unless you move your car away from the mailbox." As a side note, can't we have mail carriers who can get out of a vehicle?

Cesar Chavez day should also be a holiday for the banks so we can have an extra day to make our bad checks into good checks. Seriously, isn't that what Cesar would have wanted?

Thank you,
Sharon the Queen Blogger

Polaroid Model

2009-03-26T16:29:00.000-07:00

When I was 19, I just knew I’d be “discovered.” For what exactly I don’t know. Just “discovered” and somehow whisked away from a life that was beneath me: The working class. An oxymoron. There’s just something about being 19 years old, skinny, blond, and from California that makes girls think their entitled to free stuff. For instance, when I was busted for parking in a handicap space in front of the supermarket, I just had to go on a couple of dates with the cop and voila! No ticket. When my car broke down, I’d just pull into the service station and go on a cruise to the Bahamas with the owner and my car would be fixed.

In my daily commute to my law office job, I had to sit in traffic on the freeway for an hour each way. This provided an excellent opportunity for me to find my Prince or Sugar Daddy or Handler. I was already dressed-up with my hair all 1980’s large with my bright pink lipstick and earrings the size of garbage can lids. I’d have in my Pretenders tape on real loud so he’d notice me. I’d just roll along with my windows down and wait patiently for the magic day.

I thought I should be granted a free apartment in New York or Los Angeles where I’d get all the free clothes, booze, and drugs I wanted. It didn’t matter that my skills consisted of typing 75wpm and disco dancing. I visualized a black New Yorker limo pulling up beside me on the freeway with an important man inside. He’d say something like “It’s her! I’ve found her! I can’t let her get away after waiting my entire life to find her!” But naturally I couldn’t just leave my Toyota Corolla on the side of the freeway like that, so I took a picture of myself with my mom’s Polaroid instant camera and wrote my name and telephone number on the bottom. That way I could just pass my contact information out the window. Besides, that seemed classier.

It was at least ten years later that I came across the picture in my memory drawer. The telephone number was worn off the bottom and my picture had faded. I was impressed with my stupidity, but not my marketing skills.

How am I supposed to be a good wife?

2009-03-24T16:21:00.000-07:00

I'm working on 10 things to make you a better wife. In researching this topic, all I've found are articles written by a bunch of touchy feely women with "issues" and "boundaries" and all that psycho babble crap. But I think sensivity is over rated. To prove my point, I'd like to compile information from my readers.

Please ask your husband ...

"If there was one thing that a woman could do to be a better wife, what would it be?"

and then email their response to me sharon[at]bloggerqueen[dot]com.

I'm dying to know!

The First Hit's Always Free

2009-03-20T14:22:00.000-07:00

Trader Joe's sample lady must have learned all she knows from a crack dealer ... the first hit is always free. She placed a tiny piece of fish stick into Dill and Jalepeno Tarter sauce and put them in a little paper medicine cup. "here's your medicine"

I'm having Trader Joe's fish sticks with Dill and Jalepeno Tarter sauce for lunch because my restaurant review theme is $10 and under. And while a nice, pleasant shit-together woman might do just fine with that, I require a hellavalota food. I have the appetite of a 17-year old boy (very different from an appetite for a 17-year old boy) so sometimes after I do a restaurant review, I have to come home and eat. In private.

I avoid trying anything I cannot have a lot of. I'm not interested in having a "taste" of anything. It's all or nothing with me. Window shopping: Can't do it. Why would I spend my day looking at things I cannot have? It's like going to model homes and then winding up at your own crappy house at the end of the day. It's never like: "Whew, I'm glad I'm finally out of that well organized, clean, matching decor, house and back into my rabbit cage I call home!"

I think my theory of "the first hit's always free" is a good reason why handsome firefighters should wear horrible Rodney Dangerfield masks and coat themselves with the most repelling fragrance for a woman: Baby throw-up. You know why? Because, you can't just have a firefighter whenever you want to. They show up at the grocery store or your house all nice and helpful in their cute "outfits" with all their "appliances" and then, just when you get used to having them around, bam, they're off on another life saving mission.

I'm just telling you all this for one reason: Stop visually cannibalizing my husband! He's MY firefighter. Go get your own. Do you know what I had to go through to land him? I had to act nice for like a year and a half. Ya ya, I know he deserves better and you're probably better than me, but too bad. I've put a lot of meals into this guy ... and other things ... so he's mine.

Go eat a fish stick instead.

Behind the Scenes of "Warm Puppy" Review

2009-03-16T08:51:00.001-07:00

The first restaurant review for Uptake was launched last week. I was as excited as a New Jersey cougar getting her first Bon Jovi tattoo. So far, I've eaten in more restaurants than I've reviewed, but don't worry IRS, I'm saving the receipts for you!

I'm going to give my Blogger Queen fans the "behind the scenes" so you'll know every little secret.

So, here's the first secret:

First Secret

I fucked up already. I didn't research any of my facts, I just wrote what I remembered. Total surprise, I got a bunch of things wrong. I hate facts, they remind me of math. I cannot be expected to fall inside or outside black and white, I just like to hover around grey. Here is an email I received shortly after the launch:

"Read your review of the Warm Puppy with great interest. Loved it. but wanted to correct a couple of inaccuracies...no "t" in SCHULZ. Also, Sparky's office wasn't upstairs, he worked in his studio across the street. The management offices were upstairs, and technically he had an office, but if he was at the rink he was either eating, playing hockey, or watching his daughters figure skate.
He usually started the morning with a light breakfast, and then would come back for lunch (usually driving/sometimes walking). After lunch he would frequently drive over to Coddingtown,buy a single scoop vanilla ice cream cone and then browse books at "books etc" and buy a book or two to add to his huge library.
(Avid reader). If there's any more you want to know, I'll be happy to share. Sparky was a dear friend, and I grew very close to him and his family.
LOVED your review...I still get a very warm feeling when I'm drinking hot chocolate with whipped cream from the warm puppy."

Second Secret

I looked like an idiot sitting there in the Warm Puppy cafe, by myself, taking pictures of a half eaten breakfast wrap. I realized after I ate a few bites that it would have been more appetizing had I not shoved it down my gullet before I snapped the pictures. I almost bought another one, but I didn't want people to think I have an eating disorder.

Third Secret

The person named "barbara" who commented on the restaurant blog ... yah, that's my mom. It doesn't matter how old I get, my mom still embarrasses me.

My new job is pretty fun, but telling you guys about it is even better.

photo credit: MTVnews

Did you know I'm a pretty Big Deal now?

2009-03-12T15:05:00.000-07:00

I do not have an articulated pallet, but I can still do the splits (its not related, I just love to brag about my flexibility). I do not have an advanced education in foodology either, but that didn't stop me from landing a restaurant critic job for Uptake.com. Its a travel website that searches over 5000 travel websites and 20 million opinions to bring you travel reviews like no other. It covers attractions, hotels, restaurants and everything else. There are maps and all kinds of tools for traveling. My first review - click here!

I have to admit, they made an excellent choice. Living in the California wine country for the last 15 years has provided me with a firsthand knowledge of local restaurants in every single category, from five star to four wheels on a taco truck. I'm adventurous with food and I love research and writing.

Why do I get to tell people where and what to eat? Because, and I quote, I'm "edgy". This means that I'm close to the edge and I may just snap at any moment. If you read my restaurant reviews and my blog everyday, you may be lucky enough to actually witness the epic event. I don't have it scheduled, I'll just know when it's the right time to blow.

I've positioned myself as the $10 Diner. I'm going to travel around Napa and Sonoma Counties, and some outlying wine areas too, to see what $10 will get you. That's not to say that I'll only go to cheap restaurants, that would be too easy. I'm going everywhere, to all the restaurants you want to know about. I'll throw down my ten bucks and see what they bring me.

FAQ

Q - Does $10 include tip?
A - Yes, if they deserve a tip I will allocate 20%, because anyone who tips less than that is a douche bag.

Q - What if there is nothing on the menu for $10?
A - I will review the glass of water, the front door, or I may have to steel food from other people's tables while they're in the restroom.

Q - Are you going to tell them you're a restaurant critic?
A - No, but I may tell them that I'm a famous actress and I'll make them guess what movies I've been in. Or I'll pretend I'm deaf and make them pantomime all the dishes to me. I would also like to portray a news reporter who's covering a local bloody murder and claim to have "stuff" all over my shoes.

Q - "Will you take me with you and pay for my meal?"
A - No! Get your own damn free meal job.

Q - Will this go to your head or will you still be the adorable Blogger Queen we've come to love and know.
A - Straight to my head. I can barely even remember being one of you little people anymore. The Bloggerqueen.com will have lots of juicy background secrets behind my reviews. You'll get all the dirt, figuratively speaking.

Twitter me: bloggerqueen
Photo credit: http://hungryhedonist.blogspot.com/

Self-Portrait of a Blogger Queen

2009-03-10T19:36:00.000-07:00

Its just so hard, you don't even know, to find a picture of myself that matches my writing. My friend Alison says "you need an edgy picture." Oh sure, let me just dust off my dusty box of edgy pictures and find one that says just the right thing.

I want my picture to say:

I'm youthful, but proud of my age, so I'm not trying to look younger or anything. Just hip ... do they say "hip" anymore?

I'm really edgy and dangerous, but don't be afraid to pass this blog along to your sister-in-law.

I'm sexy, but don't get all freaky and make any nasty comments or I'll have to block your ass.

I'm so far ahead of the trend, but at the same time you can completely relate to me.

I have none of those pictures of me, nor can I imagine how I can get one. So I searched the internet and found some pictures that I feel describe the many factors involved with being the Blogger Queen.

Smiling at Strangers: Yes or No?

2009-03-06T14:15:00.000-08:00

I'm going to stop smiling at strangers. I just think its better that way, lest my intentions be misinterpreted. I never used to smile at strangers because I grew up in a hostile city environment. We made a point of never making eye contact or speaking to each other. Eyes on the Ground was the rule. Then in my early 20s I moved to Seattle and all of a sudden I noticed women smiling at me and I thought "Jesus Christ there are a lot of lesbians here in Seattle!" I had never had anyone smile at me except for relatives or men who wanted to sleep with me. So, naturally I assumed that these women wanted to take me to a softball game and listen to Melissa Etheridge while we wore matching purple fleece pullovers.

Later I found out that people were trying to be "friendly". I was amused by their naivete; however, in an effort to always fit in, I made a concerted effort to start smiling at strangers and using the good manners mom taught me. It worked out for the good and the bad. But I'm now considering reverting back to my old No Smile Code because its just easier.

There's this guy who comes to the gym a lot. He's young, in good shape, and in a wheelchair. I passed by him today and smiled. Then my Shitty Committee started in on me

Shitty Committee: Did you give that man a sympathetic smile?!

Me: No, no, I just smiled, I swear!

Shitty Committee: You better not have, you know you're not so perfect either.

Me: I never said I was, Jesus, I just smiled at the guy.

Shitty Committee: Well, stop treating him different.

Me: I tried to look as normal as I could. I just smiled. Nothing out of the ordinary

Shitty Committee: Oh really? Then why aren't you smiling at every single other guy who you walked past? Hmmm?

Me: All right you caught me. I was trying to be nice. I'm not perfect either, its just that out of all the shortcomings I've been dealt in life, none of them have wheels. What do you want me to do? Wear a sign that says "I'm fucked up too!"

Shitty Committee: Yes. Meeting adjourned.

Fix the Economy with Coconut Pudding

2009-03-04T09:10:00.001-08:00

When I told some friends about the authentic Hawaiian food at Hukilau, they had this sort of distinguished look on their face, nodding in approval, and saying “oh, poi and roasted pig?” and I said “Nope. REAL Hawaiian Food: Like a egg on top of a hamburger patty, on top of a bowl of sticky white rice covered with gravy! You know REAL Hawaiian food?” I’m a Spam lover too, but since I wanted to enjoy the coconut pudding, I ordered the chicken salad with the Maui Onion dressing on the side. It was super tasty.

I didn’t have time to eat my coconut pudding there; so I ordered it to go. I threw in a paper napkin and a pair of chopsticks. Fast forward one hour; I’m sitting in front of my gym (yes, the gym) with the container full of firm fresh coconut pudding and chopped pineapple and a pair of chop sticks. I gobbled it up while listening to the horrible state of the economy. But you know what? When I have coconut pudding, I don’t really care about the economy … for a moment.

I was there on official secret business with Uptake and the Hawaii Visitors and Convention Bureau (promoting their campaign, “Hawaii: A Thousand Reasons to Smile”,trying to score on a free trip to Hawaii. Apparently I have just as much chance as everybody else. I entered their contest and I'm keeping my fingers crossed. You should enter it too!

"You're Fat"

2009-03-02T13:31:00.000-08:00

I had a stirring deep in my belly like goldfish swimming in Jello. It was a funny tickly feeling that was pulling at memories from years ago. I placed my hand gently on my soft belly and noticed that, yes, it was larger and more smushy than before. I casually wondered if I had stomach cancer, because I always think I have cancer. For instance, when I'm tired, I think I might have a touch of sleep cancer. When I have a headache that feels serious, I consider brain cancer as a diagnosis. Then there's the lovely note I got after my very first mammogram "We have detected an area in your x-ray that is irregular" and then it goes on to say "Check back with us in six months for another x-ray" What?! I could be dead by then.

So a sea monkey in my abdomen sounds like either stomach cancer or a spiky green parasite that I must have picked from grocery store sushi. Either way, I'm screwed. So I went to the doctor. He was not my regular O.B. who looks like Professor Honeydew from the Muppets. This guy looks more like Herman Munster without the heavy pancake make-up and platform Doc Martens. He fully examines me on the table. We know what that means, right girls? He's quiet for a minute then says "Get dressed and we'll talk."

Like I said, I'm screwed. I don't know what kind of bomb he's going to drop so I'm completely unprepared for my dramatic reaction. Throughout my life I've rehearsed all my reactions to terrible news, just in case: The crying like a Baptist Minister's Wife; the stoic Angelo Saxon widow; off the deep end with drugs, booze, and men like Marilyn Monroe. But what roll shall I play today?

I'm dressed and waiting. A quiet pause from the doctor is accompanied by averted eyes and shifty body movements, like a 14-year old boy at a school dance. He finally says "Sharon, I have good news and I have bad news: The good news is that you're not pregnant. The bad news is that you're fat." And then I wake up.

I had that dream when I was turning 40. I had reached my largest weight ever and I had tried buying new shoes and more make-up, but nothing worked. So I got a personal trainer and he kicked my ass into a beautiful piece of art.

That was four years, one ass, and a spine ago. You see, after I competed in the triathlon last year, my back and neck have not been the same. My exercise has been very limited. Like, swimming only. I can pretty much just swim. That's okay for a while, but I've gained back almost all of my yucky weight. On Saturday I decided I needed to organize my nutrition so that the monster that I turn into at night, the one who makes me eat Napoleon Dynamite style nachos and frozen taquitos, will be beheaded. My personal trainer put me on a great program a few years ago. The only problem is that I HATE math. I also have no memory. I just want someone or something to keep track of it for me. Is that asking too much? I mean, I keep track of the girls' sport schedules, my husband's work schedule, both school's schedules, my daughters food allergies, and all the other things we all do. So for once, can't someone else just help a girl out?

I'm trying a free 7 day trial from Calorie King and so far, I'm pretty happy. What I already learned is that my night time feeding shark crazy sessions are probably due to the fact that I haven't had enough protein during the day. So last night I had some tuna and voila, I stopped eating. I have already lost one pound.

This morning I went to see my chiropractor and he asked me if I was pregnant. I was laying down on the Spine-o-lator, or something, and I turned my head like Regan from The Exorcist and said "What did you call me?" In a tone reminiscent of my teenage years as a bad-ass. He assured me he was just joking. You see, two of his other patients in the room were pregnant and we were all there at the same time. I had no choice but to go over his head and tell his chiropractor wife "Will you please explain this to him?" She gave me a nod of assurance. Boy, do I feel sorry for him. Well, not that sorry.

Bye bye fat wings!

I Never Have the Right Equipment

2009-02-23T10:16:00.001-08:00

I watched as the newswoman on skis stood next to the young guy on a snowboard. I couldn’t help but admire her courage and skill in standing on a slippery slope with a cordless microphone instead of poles. I was eagerly watching, hoping that she’d loose all control and composure and let gravity take the reins, pulling her helplessly down the mountain as the news camera followed her and her mic would be capture every audible grunt and profanity. Her shiny future on YouTube would be locked in for eternity. Alas, she just stood there as she impressively interviewed the hunky guy on a board, his feet stuck in a permanent straddle stand. This is the preferred stance of all tough studs, as if to say “I need to stand with my legs far apart like this in order to accommodate my gigantic balls of steel and my larger-than-yours penis. Grrrr”

The news clip reminded me of the last time I went skiing. And when I say “the last time I went skiing” I should include the word “ever” and then you’ll understand where I am on this issue.

As a 24-year old single mother, I was cautiously and artificially enthusiastic about a day trip to the snow with some friends. There was to be a large group of us going which made it worse, as I’d surely be accumulating more witnesses to my snow retardation. Therefore, in order to prepare them for the encounter I forewarned them about my ski disability. I was assured, just as I always was, that I’d be fine and they would ski with me, help me on some slopes and we’d all have a good ole’ time. As my admissions were made, I was quickly demoting my carpool status from the “cool” group to the group with the old guy and the Jesus freak in a truck. It was too late to back out, so I traveled with the D-list to the snow.

It was a lengthy trip made longer by uncomfortable boredom. I was still a committed smoker; I couldn’t even make it through a movie without taking a cigarette break. Therefore, a four hour car ride listening to Christian rock was a suffering far greater than gum flap surgery without Novocain. The Jesus freak was sitting in the back seat of the little truck, her shiny manic face kept poking through the middle of the two front seats where I sat next to the old guy. He was probably 55 and that’s not old now, but it was ancient when I was 23. The Jesus freak had a whole box of music that she needed us to listen to. Her kinky permed hair with frosted tips shimmered from greasy hair products kept creeping into my peripheral vision. I’d see the perky ball of kink bouncing to the soft beat of songs like “You’re so Awesome, Jesus” and “Rock my Soul for Sinners” or something.

With each song, she’d say “Listen to this one! Doesn’t it put the joy of Jesus in your heart?” But all I wanted was the burn of nicotine in my lungs. I didn't want to hear the "message." I could have told the old guy that I needed to throw-up and he would have pulled over, then I could have yelled “Ha ha ha! Fooled you! I’m going to smoke a whole cigarette!” But I just sat there and let the needles of discomfort jab into my brain and lungs. Anxieties building until my shoulders were up to my ears with tension and I was hosting a permanent kegel party in my pants.

Once we arrived at the ski run, I was only comforted by my cigarette for a minute and then I remembered my next daunting task: Skiing. The old guy and the Jesus freak pulled out their equipment and put on their ski gear. I headed off to the rental desk where they provided me with a pair of navy blue boots that someone had sewn rocks into the ankle support. They were too small, but I was too humiliated to complain. Then they gave me a long thin pair of boards and some sticks to hold onto. I couldn’t afford to rent pants, so I wore my tight Bongo jeans and a short jacket so you could see my cute ass.

Once I dragged it all outside and managed to get my boots locked in my skis, I realized I had already been dumped. All my friends were off on the Black Diamond runs, completely forgetting the promises made to me. I eyed the T-bar run. A special lift for beginners and children. You see, there’s this cable that runs up the small slope with a giant aluminum upside-down “T”. Once the lift operator summons you, you have to quickly scurry yourself over to where he is, then the giant upside-down “T” gently pushes your bottom up the hill as you hold on to the center pole with one hand and your sticks with the other.

As with everything in life where I feel insecure, I overcompensate with body language. You know, like looking bored or sporty. Trying to avoid eye contact. Humming. All in a pathetic attempt to fool you into believing that I’m really an expert at this kind of thing. A T-bar expert. Once summoned by the operator I tried to skate over to the operator, but my feet just slid back and forth. I wasn’t going anywhere so I tried to use my sticks to propel me but that just made my legs stop moving. Finally, after what seemed like five minutes I found some kind of friction and started to move.

The “T” bar operator was gorgeous, of course. I could tell that working at this kiddie lift meant he was being punished for something. So I wasn’t exactly appealing to him which made me even more uncomfortable. I put my sticks in one hand, bent my knees, and turned around to grab the bar as it came up behind me. Unfortunately, my skis were pointed off to the side so once the bar pushed my butt, I jetted off to the right and crashed to the ground while the T-bar swung past my head.

The operator pressed a button that was probably labeled “Stop-O-Lame” that halted the entire lift so that everyone on the slope had to look back to see what the problem was and find me being lifted up by the arm pits and hoisted into a standing position. I laughed out loud, probably too loud, because it’s better to laugh at yourself and hear anyone else doing it.

I finally got the hang of the T-Bar after 4 or 5 times and felt pretty confident on the bunny slope. Yes, I was really getting it now. But not enough to graduate to anything bigger. The day wore on slowly and my ankle blisters grew to golfballs inside my rent-a-boots. I had fallen on every trip down the slope and my jeans were thoroughly drenched and frozen. I decided to thaw out in the café with some hot chocolate and hopefully meet up with my friends.

Taking off the skis made me feel so light and free, like anti-gravity shoes, until I tried to walk on the deck. Then I felt like Herman Munster with rickets. I was the anti-ski bunny and I hated them and their thousand dollar outfits and ski goggle tan lines. I just wanted to push the “disappear” button so a hole would open up in the floor and I could fall out of sight.

I found one of my friends and asked her when we’d be leaving. She said we would all meet for a late lunch over at the other café and then head home. Thank God, I heard the word “home” and that’s where I wanted to be. I would just do a few more runs, maybe try something a little bigger, and then go to the other café where I’d be delivered to the homeland.

It was almost time to meet everyone and I had gained a little more confidence on the skis, so I decided to take a “real” lift up to a slightly larger run which should let out right by the café where we’re meeting.

I was standing in a long line waiting for the lift. Since I didn’t have a partner, the operator paired me with another single and he was out of a ski magazine I tell you. So handsome and friendly, and luckily I managed to get onto the lift without falling this time, so my cover was not blown. On the way up the mountain, I found out he worked there as a ski instructor. That figures, he was too perfect to work the T-bar lift. I was so enchanted that I didn’t even notice how long I’d been riding up, until I saw the sun setting at the exact spot where our lift stopped … the top of the mountain!

I dropped the snow bunny act immediately and looked at him with sheer panic. “What lift am I on?” I found that I had inadvertently gotten on a intermediate run that started at the top of the mountain. “Oh my God! I can’t go down this run! I have rental equipment on!” He gave me a patronizing ski instructor smile and said “You’ll be just fine, just take it slow.” Christ, what a pathetic instructor. Was that really the best advice he had? The mountain was huge, steep, and there were moguls. Hundreds of skiers zipped back and forth with dynamic power. I was sure to be sliced in half by at least one of them.

So I panicked. “Listen, I’m a single mom. I can’t break anything … at all!” I’ve never skied down anything this big. I don’t know how to go over a mogul, and I’m going to die!” His token patience expired and he didn’t have time for my pedestrian anxieties. I started problem solving and negotiating. “What about the snowmobiles for the medical staff? Can’t they come and get me?” I pleaded, starting to cry. “No, they don’t go up this high.” He snubbed. Oh great, I’m so far up the mountain that the ski patrol can’t even help me. “Please, can’t I just ride the lift back down? I really cannot make this run!” I cried. “Whatever.” He mumbled, then he fished his walkie-talkie out of his parka and radioed a code or something inaudible to a man on the other end. “All right, when you get to the top you’ll have to get off and remove your skis, then you can ride back down.” Oh thank God. “Will you ride with me?”

I was ushered off the halted lift and asked to remove my [rental] skis. By now, Joe Ski Instructor was as far away from me as possible. I was put back on the lift headed in the opposite direction. My great feeling of relief almost made me cry, that is until I started passing by all the real skiers, then all the gratitude was squeezed out of my feelings tube and I was left with mind-numbing embarrassment. It’s like when someone is pulled over by a police officer and everybody passing by has no qualms about blatantly staring. They ask themselves “what kind of a criminal is that?” or “I’m glad I’m not riding with her.” But they don’t pretend to not stare because, fuck it, you’ll never see them again.

I couldn’t make eye contact with any of them because my shame was too bloody and raw. I just stared straight ahead, sitting in my wet Bongo jeans, my navy blue rental boots, and my skis across my lap. Kids have no mouth filter. Whatever they’re thinking or feeling, it just pops right out like a Pez dispenser. “Hey lady! You’re going the wrong way!” and then there was the laughing. The downward trip took eight times longer than the upward trip, let me tell you. Half way down, I had flipped off a couple of kids.

When I finally started to approach the landing zone, I was horrified to see the swarm of skiers in the lift line. They looked like ants on a plate of syrup. The closer I got, little pink faces began to turn up in my direction. Soon, everyone was watching me come down on the lift. I was a sight to behold. I was compelled to develop a plan to protect what smidget of self-esteem I had left. My master plan included a profound limp and a look of pain on my face. I would limp off the bench, past all the real skiers, and disappear into oblivion. Once the lift stopped at the foot of the mountain, I offloaded and began my injured skier act past the crowd of people. I was almost believable as I’d look at some of them and give a shrug as if to say “Well, that’s what happens when you land a jump wrong.”

It was time to meet my friends at the lodge, but that was at the other end of the resort. I was supposed to ski there, but now I had to continue my performance of the injured skier with a limp just in case someone from the ant pile recognized me. I didn’t want anyone pointing and yelling at me “Hey, you’re not an injured skier! You’re just a big fake chicken!”

I got trudged down to the road with my skis, and my sticks, and my 25 pound rental boots and limped down the icy road and through the rootbeer slushy parking lots until I finally came to the lodge. I bought a cup of coffee and sat by myself outside and smoked my wet cigarettes. Nobody was there for 30 minutes. I finally had to go inside to warm up. It was then that one of the D-listers showed up. “Sharon! Where have you been? Everybody’s already left. We’ve been waiting down in the parking lot for you for hours!”

I limped to the truck, both physically and emotionally. I volunteered to sit in the back so I could seethe in private. Licking my broken pride wound and feeling sorry for myself for entire four hours. I listened to the Jesus freak and the old guy rejoice in the splendors of skiing while I rubbed my ankles and soaked his seat with my wet Bongos.

Well, at least I didn't have a shitty perm.

My Best Friend's Vagina

2009-02-20T10:11:00.001-08:00

As you may or may not know, my best friend is Kathy and she has a vagina. This was just one of the criteria she met when she landed a part in a local production of the smash hit Vagina Monologues.

My best friend Kathy with a Vagina is almost my sister since we've been friends for over 25 years; However, we have very few outside things in common: She likes country, I like grunge and techno; she wears high heals and accessorizes, I wear Birkenstocks and a plain wedding ring; she's a brunette, I'm a blond. We're on opposite sides of the political parties most of the time, and while I'm extroverted and demonstrative, she's very private and doesn't like to hug.

We do have everything in common on the inside, though. We swim in the same river of spirituality; we have parallel lives; everything that happens to one of us will happen to the other in a matter of days. Its spooky. Lastly, we both have vaginas.

Kathy called me this morning and announced that her picture and name were in the local paper under the caption "Provocative Production returns to Local Theatre." I laughed really hard, the kind that makes my head fall back and my mouth open up like a trout on a hook, because I can just imagine how squirmy this must make my shy Kathy feel. Once I settled down, she said "I think this is the second time I've had my picture in the newspaper. The first time is when I was a *pregnant teenager and they were doing a story about the pregnant high school." I would love to get a copy of that article.

Then she said "Damn! My vagina keeps getting me in the newspaper." Congratulations Kathy, it looks like it got you on a blog too. What a talented vagina you have!

*Yes, that's right. Kathy was a teenage unwed mother. Absolutely the BEST teenage unwed mother that you've ever even heard of. Her daughter is the smartest, sweetest, kindest grown-up in the United States. We should all be so wonderful.

What to do About Tailgaters

2009-02-17T14:35:00.000-08:00

My husband, the sane grown-up around here, has warned me about losing my temper with tailgaters. "Just let them go past you, babe" he says real calm-like. Oooh, its just infuriating to be married to the Voice of Reason sometimes!

Therefore, I've developed other methods:

1. Call Them In. One day I was driving along, minding my own business and doing the speed limit when along came this chick in a BMW zooming right up on my ass. I mean seriously five inches off my bumper. We were on a street where the cops just love to snack on little speeders, so I'm not about to speed up for her. I tried to ignore her but it was way too serious. Then I remembered that I had my husband's police/fire radio on the seat next to me. So I picked it up and held it to my face like I was calling her in. I did this a couple of times so that she would definitely see me having a conversation. It worked! She backed off and took the next turn. I could just picture her hiding in a cul de sac and waiting for the coast to clear.

You may be saying to yourself "Oh ya Blogger Queen, that's fine for you and your husband, but what am I supposed to do? I don't have a police/fire portable scanner radio?" Don't be discouraged. Get an empty butter box and wrap it in black paper. Then tape a black pipe cleaner to the side Voila! You can call in all the speeders and tailgaters and drunk drivers you want! You can even make two and have a conversation with your son in the back seat. "Roger that. 10-4"

2. Drive Like You're Drunk. Slow down a little, then speed up for no reason. Then gently let your car move to the right and then jerk back to the center. Let your head nod a bit, like you're falling asleep. Put on your blinker and leave it going. I guarantee that the one-time asshole will immediately turn into a very alert and concerned citizen. He'll pass by you real fast and have a terrified look on his face. He'll probably call you in with a wrapped up butter box with a pipe cleaner taped to the side. Its important to NOT BREAK ANY LAWS OR DRIVE UNSAFELY. DON'T GO OVER THE LINE. Just be a little weird.

3. Be a Grown-Up. You could follow my husband's advice to me: "Just let them pass you, Sharon." Hmmph that's too predictable.

Attention All Idiots

2009-02-11T18:42:00.000-08:00

Stop walking in front of me in the grocery store. I will not tolerate your inconsiderate aisle blocking any longer. Don't act pissed off just because you have to move your cart full of Hamburger Helper, Doritos, and box wine. If you want an intimate shopping experience, either shop at 2:00am like all the other weirdos or talk to the manager about renting out the entire store so that you don't have to share.

Stop parking in spaces you have to back out of. Listen up, if you cannot rotate your head far enough to look behind you, or check your rear view mirrors, then you should take a little bus like all your other special friends, instead of running over people like me or my kids.

Stop tailgating me. I can't move faster than the car in front of me. Do you think I have helicopter blades hidden in my sunroof or something? You know when I see you at the next red light you're just going to feel like a fucker ... and you are, Fucker!

This is my final warning, Idiots. I'm carrying a squirt gun full of Kim Chee juice, the worst smell in the world. Its like rotten foot juice mixed with old man farts. I am going to track you down and squirt it inside your car, or your purse, or the back of your pants and you won't even know what hit you until it's too late.

The Honeymoon is Over

2009-02-05T12:55:00.000-08:00

The only meaningful thing I've heard Mr. Doctor Phil say is [insert southern drawl] "Marriage is not a long date."

Dating is easy. Anyone can hold their shit together for four hours at a restaurant. If they cannot, then they're cast aside. "Next!" You'll say, and in comes the next applicant. Well, when you're married, you have to hold your shit together every day and every night. You can yell "Next!" all you want but the same person keeps coming back to the table.

My husband and I have been married for twelve years. That's a record for me and a first for him. During our honeymoon in Hawaii, we signed up for a kayak tour with a side of snorkel. Our guide was a young, presumably single, slacker who was probably wearing everything he owned. There was another couple with us who were celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary.

The guide, let's call him The Big Cooter, told me to sit in the front and Kent to sit in the back. I decided The Big Cooter was a egocentric male chauvinist pig because he unceremoniously puts the "husband" in the steering seat on the sheer presumption that since he has a penis, he'll steer the boat better. But sure, I totally understand that. I mean, what if I'm menstruating or PMSing and I just flip out and stand-up in the boat shouting "Fuck you all!" and I jump in. This, of course, will cause all the man eating sharks to circle our party and then men will have to come to our rescues by slinging their giant dicks over the side of the kayak so I can grab on and pull myself to safety. I had, in fact, been boating throughout my life, and Kent had not. I was also a firefighter and did not lack upper body strength. So, I was pissed.

As we tried to follow the guide in his kayak, we fell farther and farther behind. The old couple was keeping up just fine, but we could not coordinate our stroking and steering. We were talking "pissy" to each other and not being very supportive, to say the least.

By the time we got to the diving spot, I never wanted to get in another boat with THAT MAN again. I chatted with the other woman for a while before I had the courage to ask her "How long does it take before you can kayak together" and she smiled very knowingly and said "Years."

She was right. It did take years and I'm still not perfect and neither is he, I guess. We have not gotten back into a kayak together, but we've done other things that require cooperation: Family vacations, dinner, raising children, dishes, sharing a bathroom, deciding on cars, choosing a movie. All these moments of partnership and I've learned something about myself: I'm imperfect. I sometimes have to spend days of arguing in my head with a voice that nobody else can hear, I have to call other women I respect and beg for wisdom, before I can say something that's helpful instead of hurtful. I've learned that sometimes it's better to give in and go with the flow. I've learned that nobody wins an argument, but everyone grows.

If I were to go on that vacation again, I'd take one look at the kayak and say "The Honeymoon is over, Pal. Let's just go lay on the beach."

What's Your Name?

2009-02-03T13:41:00.000-08:00

I think every women has a little Roller Derby Queen in her. I know I do. There are plenty of times at the grocery store that I fantasize about body slamming into someone whose parked their cart in the middle of the isle and just stands there contemplating which Rice-A-Roni would go best with frozen chicken nuggets.

Also, I would love to follow the assholes who zoom in front of my daughter's elementary school with all the kids trying to cross the street. I wouldn't let them see that I was following them. I'd just hang back far enough to see where they're going. Then, as their car door openend, I'd pull them out of the car by their hair and give 'em a knee to the nose.

I have anger issues. Who doesn't? So wouldn't it be great to have a job where you could unleash the inner bitch? YOU KNOW YOU WANT IT! But first, we need to have Roller Derby Queen names. These are some of the Bay City Bombers ...

Roller Biotch
Ruby Rox
Corporal Punishment
Becky Bash

What's your Roller Derby Queen name? Take part in this scientific poll, or just post your own ideas in the comments section.

Queen for a Day

2009-02-02T10:33:00.000-08:00

This morning when my 8-year old woke up she said "There's something I'm excited about today but I can't remember what it is?" and then she remembered her ears.

Yesterday, at approximately 16:55 PST, at the mall, Giselle became a girl with her ears pierced. It's like a Bat Mitzvah or something for shiksas, a true threshold into Big Girl World. Now she has little pink daisies on her soft little lobes where yesterday there were just felt tip pen marks. Oh, and the psychological marks will probably last a few years.

I don't remember when I walked through the threshold into Big Girl World. It might have been my first pair of platform shoes when I was eleven, which I wore with my rainbow toe socks and bell bottom jeans. This, after just one year previous, I was wearing homemade jeans. That's right, homemade. They had an elastic waist, no zipper, and patches of cartoon monsters on the knees. That was a humiliating time in my elementary school career, and also not coincidentally, my last year at that public elementary school.

One afternoon in third grade, Mrs. Gonzales asked all the kids "What are you going to be when you grow up?" A question I'm frequently asking people (young and old) because it reveals so much about their inner secret self and that's the thing I'm always trying to reveal. At age nine, I was so shy that I had no friends, didn't play at recess, and if you were to ask anyone in the classroom what my name was they wouldn't know. There were the popular kids, and the despised kids, but I fell into my own category ... invisible.

Mrs. Gonzales went around the room and extracted an answer from each student. They gave the same predictable answers over and over again: Fireman, nurse, teacher, mommy, veterinarian, blah, blah, blah. But I had a secret life that I led in television land. That little 24" box with antenna on top held all my dreams in it. I wanted to be a Brady. I wanted to live in the Addams Family house. And I loved watching roller derby, the Bay City Bombers to be exact.

I was in the last row (that's where the quiet kids are positioned because the teachers don't have to tell them to shut-up all the time) so I was one of the last kids to be called on. My hair was long, straight, and dirty. It it hung in my face as a shield against the harsh earthlings who were able to destroy me with a single word "hi." I had never raised my hand in my life, even if I was about to pee my pants. When Mrs. Gonzales called on me I was not as terrified as usual because I had already given this question great consideration and knew my answer was right and perfect.

I quietly said "I want to be a roller derby queen." A hush fell over the classroom and then hands started shooting up like a Courtney Love. "Me too!!" "Me too!!" "I want to change mine, I want to be a roller derby queen too!!" And for the first time and the only time at Fairmede Elementary School, I was cool.

Sadly, I did not pursue this dream and, in fact, now I'm scared to death of skating because I'll surely break both my wrists like a lady I used to work with, and that's all I need. But look, I did finally become a queen... the Blogger Queen.

Crazy Ass

2009-01-27T13:54:00.000-08:00

When I was about 12, my mom dropped me off at the movie theatre so that I could see the Disney flick Gus. It was about a mule that played football and I was not interested in either topic. My agenda was escape from my mother and my house where there was never anything to do. However, when I arrived at the multiplex in the mall, I was consumed with all the self consciousness that a 12-year old girl can muster. I was beset with internal questions: “Was I the only one buying tickets to this baby movie? Am I too old to see a Disney movie? I’m practically a teenager! What if everyone in the mall found out and laughed at my childishness behind my back, or worse, to my face?” (A totally improvised illusion based on self-loathing)

After I'd purchased the ticket from the intimidating cool teenager at the ticket booth, I thought I'd implode with shame. I purchased the usual snack bar accoutrement, Junior Mints and a Coke. This was 1976 when those foods were still good for us kids. After all, our breakfast cereals were called "Sugar Smacks" and "Sugar Frosted Flakes." I think they must have taken all the sugar out now because they're just "Smacks" and "Frosted Flakes."

I slipped into the theatre and found it totally empty. I was just standing there with my soda, my candy, and my anxiety-ridden preteen hormones. It quickly came upon me that I had made a gargantuan social mistake, like a booger dangling off the end of my nose. It was inevitable that some cooler, more mature kids would peek into this theatre and I'd be sitting by myself watching a talking mule movie ... and I didn't even like football! I had to get the hell out of there. I turned right around and walked out.

In sheer panic, I ducked into the next theatre without looking at the title and sat down toward the front of the theatre so that nobody would pass by me and find out that I'd snuck in. There were about 20 people in the theatre and they were all adults. So I stayed because I was earnestly hoping I could fit in.

The movie was about an insane asylum in the 1800's. The inmates had taken over and had been torturing the doctors and nurses, but they deserved it. At one point, some of the inmates left the facility and attacked a passing stagecoach with a woman inside. They stripped off her clothes, tied her to a tree and attacked her. I was riveted.

It was during the nudity scene that I really started to be aware of my danger. I was imagining the much cooler teenage theatre employee dragging me out of my seat yelling "Hey! Who let this kid out of the Gus movie!" So I sat on my foot to be taller and practiced different facial expressions in the dark in case they came in and recognized me from the ticket booth. I could not pay attention to the movie because of my concern that I'd be arrested and thrown into mall jail. I could not leave because I couldn't let anyone see me. So there I sat, in my first R movie.

In hindsight, I can see that this movie had quite an impact on my life. I have always tried to avoid insane asylums and mules.

"Hello?"

2009-01-21T15:43:00.000-08:00

Have you ever walked up to a person to say ‘hi’ and then realized that they were probably trying to avoid making eye contact with you? I think that just happened. I was standing in line for a cup of coffee, then I made my way over the milk and sugar island, at last I found a table in the corner, next to the window. On my way to the coveted table, I passed a mom that I just met. We had a few things in common like motherhood and sports. But that’s where it ended. She is definitely not like me. Cool and stuff like that. I stopped on my way to the table and stood behind her for a minute. Nothing. Then I tapped her shoulder and said, with a big stupid grin “Hi, remember me?” She was slumped over with her head in a group of people, having a conversation with people who wore glasses. In other words, they look much smarter than me.

As she turned around, she did not have a look of surprise, it was more like a look of embarrassment, like I just caught her smelling her armpits. She said “Oh, I thought I …. Yah, that that was you”.

Alright, I’m not a striking beauty or an ogre. I’m pretty much vanilla pudding in a white cup. Boring, but probably pretty easy to recognize if you just met me YESTERDAY and had a 30 minute conversation with me. That’s when I realized that she had been hiding from me, I think. It really looked that way anyway. I’ve done it lots of times before. Where I’ve spotted someone I just didn’t want to spend one minute conversing with for whatever reason. Be it hatred or just have an in-my-cave day.

In addition to that look of discomfort on her face, I also noticed that her friends were not introduced to me. Her part of the greeting was quick and dismissive and I felt an overwhelming need to retreat, like I had just come up on the cool kids and realized that I had toilet paper on my shoe.

So I bid farewell and planted myself at the little window table with me and my friend, the laptop. I’m blogging, writing, brainstorming, and basically looking like every other wannabe writer in the place. It’s humiliating, really.

However, if I was to call my best friend Kathy and tell her all about it, she would say “The only thing you’re guilty of is being friendly”. Guilty, as charged.

Where's Johnny?

2009-01-17T09:29:00.000-08:00

This is Johnny ... perhaps. Okay, not really.

Hot Closet

2009-01-14T13:13:00.000-08:00

When I was young and working in a small law firm, I was sort of adopted by one of the lawyers. Her name was Ricki and she absolutely fell in love with my son, Sean, who was only two-years old at the time. Since we were very poor and struggled with things like gas money and food, she would try and help us out whenever we had an emergency and that was weekly.

I recall that I admired here soft cotton nightgown once and the next time I came to visit, she had bought me one too. So not only did she help me with emergencies, she also recognized the importance of having something nice. She was another one of my Fairy God Mothers that I received from the Universe.

Her husband was a veterinarian and she was a lawyer. They had a big house, nice, cars, and two out-of-control children that I would babysit sometimes. I've never been naturally great with children. Mine, yes. Yours? It depends. But she helped me so much that I simply had to.

One afternoon, the little girl Chrissie was bawling and screaming and completely hysterical over the disappearance of her Barbie. I ran all over the McMansion hunting for Barbie. Out of frustration and necessity I employed the assistance of an expert, her big brother, Johnny. "Do you know where Barbie is?" I pleaded. Without making eye contact, he shrugged his shoulders with all the enthusiasm of a DMV employee. "If you help me find her, I'll pay you a QUARTER!" Kids are so easy to exploit.

He got off of the sofa and casually looked under the cushion he had been sitting on, then he walked over to the table and calmly looked at it. Suddenly he broke into a nervous fast paced walk down the hallway but I was hot on his tail because I sensed guilt and fear from him. With his head hung low, he opened the linen closet door and backed away.

I drew my breath as I witnessed a petite sex scene in progress. Upon the middle shelf, splayed out on a pile of fluffy ivory towels, Barbie lay naked on her back with her legs straight out and her little toes forever in the semi-point position. Her triangular tits at full attention were just a little less confident than usual. Despite her painted pink smile, I sensed that she was there against her will.

She was mounted by an action hero on steroids. His clothes were painted on so that he didn't have to suffer the same unimaginable shame that poor Barbie had to endure. He was obviously overcompensating with muscular overgrowth and that douche bag grin on his face. He likely suffered from impotence and tiny testicles from all the steroids he obviously shot up. No, he was not her American hero.

A small flashlight was turned on and balanced high on top of a washcloth stack, thus making the perfect spotlight for the hot action. I couldn't tell what I had stumbled upon: a plastic porno, a rape, or an excruciatingly well-lit and uncomfortable sleepover. I grabbed Barbie before Chrissie could see the damage and gave little Johnny a look of great disappointment and a quarter.

Barbie Hates to Ski

2009-01-12T10:26:00.000-08:00

My very first trip to the snow was a wonderland of winter beauty. My mother and I rode a Greyhound bus. I suppose it was easier than putting chains on our AMC Hornet station wagon, although I’m sure my mother could have done it, she could do anything including fix a broken toilet. Gloria Steinem was proud.

A greyhound bus ride when you’re seven-years old in the 1970’s was a journey of euphoria. I would imagine it to be pretty creepy in this millennium but that’s just my cynical suspicions. I was positively freaking out on the inside of my skin and could hardly hold still in the big stiff seat with no seatbelts. The bathroom in the back of the bus was like a visit to a world where everything was my size. There was a tiny toilet with dolphin blue water and a sink that I didn’t even need to get on my tippy-toes to use. I loved the sound that the door lock made when it slid into the “occupied” position. The magical light automatically illuminated and the smell of sweet urinal cakes wafted through the air.

Back in our row, I was allowed to sit by the giant window even though I could hardly see anything down below the aluminum window frame. As we ascended the mountain I could start to see the dirty sludge on the side of the road. It wasn’t at all what I had expected the snow to look like. It was nothing like the Christmas shows on television but I was still bouncing up and down in the seat saying “There it is! There it is!” If they would have let me out of the bus, I would have splayed right out in the brown/black sludge and made a defiled snow angel. But as the miles dropped behind us and our mighty Greyhound downshifted up the mountain, there grew a white wall of snow beside us. It looked like a giant knife had sliced off the messy edges of a towering meringue pie and left the bus with a clean black road to drive on. I sat on top of my feet so that I could see more out the window which had become very cold to touch. I secretly licked the window when my mother was busy reading a book with no pictures and it tasted like dirt, salt, and tin foil. It was marvelous!

A sign on the side of the road read “Soda Springs, next exit” and my mother told me we were almost there. This was the question I had been repeatedly asking for the past four hours and the answer was, to my continuous frustration, vague until now. I had been tuned into Barbieland for the past hour. She had been changed in and out of 35 different outfits reflecting her perfect versatility from beach to evening to flight attendant. None of ensembles matched what was left of her shoe collection though: One yellow pump and a black boot. Like me, Barbie pulled off her own unique style.

It was dusk by the time we arrived at our lodge. Through the window of the bus and in my memory now, there was an unusual electric blue cast on everything leaving only two colors; blue and black. It was stark and supernatural. The driver pulled the mighty Greyhound into the parking lot covered with snow and slush. I was not allowed to leap from the bus the moment it stopped, as I had planned. We had to gather our travel activities, make sure Barbie had her boot on, and give the other passengers a chance to exit. I had been practicing standing in lines and taking turns in elementary school, so I understood the theory, however, I always felt like I was the only one not cutting. I still feel that way.

My first step on real snow crunched and gave me a false sense of stability. The second step was a little less confident. Each step toward the front door of the lodge brought more doubt and fear. I could see that this trip to the snow was not going to live up to my naïve Hollywood expectations. I was not a graceful faller due to my skinny giraffe-like legs and boney butt. In life I avoided anything where I might fall or get hit by a ball. That’s why Barbie was such a good companion for me. She hated all that stuff too.

The next morning we headed for the slopes so that I could play in the snow. My mother had found magical overalls that kept all the snow and water out, even if I sunk all the way up to my armpits. This sinking game lasted for a while and was hilarious until I started to feel funny. My head felt as if it was beating with my heart drums and they were getting faster and faster. Sweat was quickly forming on my face and under my beanie with the big fluffy ball on top. I couldn’t catch my breath and felt like I might throw-up. I looked over at my mom for help and the next thing I knew I was waking up on my back in the snow with my mother fanning my face. I fainted. I’m a fainter.

As I got older, there would be at least one opportunity each year to go to the snow. And each year I’d pretend to like it. Simply put, I’d will myself to be excited because it was too embarrassing to admit that I was the Strange One visiting here from another planet where snow was punishing and scary. Everybody else loves the snow, they love to ski, and they’re good at it. Even geeks and little old ladies are good at skiing but not me. I’d rather play with Barbie.

What an Innocent Angel

2009-01-09T14:21:00.000-08:00

Look at him. Isn't he pretty? That's my 22-year old, Sean. Children are always lovely when they're sleeping, even when their adults. Awe, an angelic sight.

Last night he called. It seems that his girlfriend who works in a very high end spa had invited some friends from work over to their apartment. I'm sure she was really excited about getting to know some new people. Alaska in the winter is brutal unless you're addicted to frozen dinners and QVC. Her new girlfriends brought their significant others. I'm so happy that she's making friends in their new town.

Someone suggested watching a movie so Marlee (Sean's girlfriend) flipped on the tele and guess what popped up on the screen? One hardcore porno right it mid action (they usually are stopped in a very critical point). He reported to me, without any detail, that it was a super raunchy film and at just the worst part. Everyone sat their with their mouths hanging open while his girlfriend frantically tried to eject the humiliation.

Atta boy, son. You make your mother proud.

The Mystery on the Beach

2009-01-03T22:41:00.000-08:00

In a very nice Northern California coastal town called Capitola, my boyfriend Alex and I went to a club called Margaritaville. I was only 22 in 1987 so the thought of going to a club at the coast seemed like something Molly Ringwald might do, so I was in.

I had this sweet little halter dress made of army green cotton with a big wide belt to accentuate my tiny waste. I wore my favorite pale pink pumps that I bought on one of my last credit cards before they all got cancelled after my separation from my husband. My earrings were two and a half pounds each, a la’ Paula Abdul. I put on extra hair gel and cheap hair spray so that I would make a grand entrance at a nose bleeding 6’2” height, which is 5’9” tall + 3” heels + 2” of vertical hair. I had a few drinks before we even started off for the hour drive. I had lots of self-confidence when I left my apartment, but I was definitely thirsty for some more by the time we got to Margaritaville.

We drove up in my 1979 Datsun 210. Its paint job in its last life had probably been a vibrant red, but now, after years humiliation, it was trying to slowly become invisible one shade at a time, finally fading into the color of a toilet plunger. My mom bought me the car for $750 after I totaled my last car. It was really generous of her, but I couldn’t get past the roof lining that had separated from the roof and continuously rested on my head. I would keep sticking the fabric onto the old gummy roof and in 15 minutes it would start touching my head again, slowly getting lower and lower until it looked like I was wearing a giant grey water bottle on my head.

By the time we got there, some of the shine had worn off my “woo hoo” attitude and I began to feel the real sense of me. The poor single mother with no prospects and a rubber hammock resting on the top of my spikey, fluffy hair. Nonetheless, Alex was always trying to impress me with what little he had. He would always get the car door for me, which is just silly when you’re getting out of a car with all the class of a cigarette butt floating in a stale beer.

I sauntered, yes positively glided up the front door of Margaritaville and could hear the Huey Lewis and the News blasting from inside. Just then the dread started to set in so hard I couldn’t ignore what was to come. I could sense without even opening the door that this would not be my crowd. My crowd was at the Green Lantern – a shithole bar with a shuffle board, juke box, and an old upright piano which I’d play after I got totally drunk. I don’t know how to play anything except a Boogie Woogie kind of song that my mom taught me so that I’d learn how to use both hands. Whenever someone would try and stop me, I'd say "Now I have to start all over again!"

No, Margaritaville would offer no comfort to me. At the Green Lantern you’d find El Caminos, Ford Fiestas, and a Country Squire with bald tires. But parked along the beautiful winding scenic streets of Capitola there were BMWs and Porches. Alex opened the heavy swinging wood door for me and I tried to maintain my confidence but I immediately felt my shoulders sag and my feet fell into a self-conscious shuffle.

Everyone there knew each other, or at least that’s what it felt like. There were beautiful blonde girls with toasted almond tans and Heather Locklear teeth chatting exuberantly with Calvin Klein underwear models. They could smell my funk and I could taste their success. I hated them so much that I wanted to be just like them. But that would never happen because rich people look different. They’re born that way and it doesn’t matter how much money you spend on trying to look just like them, they’ll sniff you out and recoil at your averageness.

There was only one place for me in this club, the bar. This is where I could reconnect with my self-esteem, or at least pass out trying.

Later on that night, after sitting at the bar with Alex for a couple of hours with our eyes darting around to watch the Lovely People, trying to chit-chat and laugh as if we were in on some kind of interesting conversation, I finally gave up. “Fuck it, let’s get out of here!” I slurred loudly at Alex and dragged him outside. Being the welcome mat boyfriend that he was, he just went along with whatever I wanted.

We headed down to the beach only footsteps away, but I was too drunk to walk in my heels anymore so Alex would carry them for me. He would just follow behind my staggering steps picking up my dropping personal items. First my shoes, then my wide belt, then my earrings, then my dress.

By the time we got to the beach, I was drunk and naked because those two things go hand-in-hand. If you’re going to be naked on the beach in Northern California, you really should be drunk because unlike Southern California beaches ours drop down to a bone chilling 12 degrees with windchill at night. The beach was empty and dark but the moon was full. I rolled around in the sand and ran up and down the shoreline while Alex watched. I was crazed with freedom. But then I decided to take a little swim and again unlike the Southern beaches, our water is freezing and dangerous so I opted for a swim in a watery hole that had been filled from many a high tide night. We could see the restaurant patio diners eating dinner, which I suppose meant that they could see me.

I tried to be very sexy and mysterious but even Alex, who would do anything I asked, would not skinny-dip on the beach. But I was full of courage and vodka and simply insisted on it. I slowly walked into the little pool of water. The water was warm enough to swim in so I dove in and splashed around, making a ruckus and singing to the music from the club above me. But as I romped around I started to notice some dark splotches on my arms. I could wipe them away with water but then they’d come back after another dip. I was starting to smell something that was like a cross between ammonia and seaweed. I walked up to the shallow part to look at my whole body which, by then, was covered in these dark spots and they were quite slimy.

Then I recalled when we first arrived at the romantic swimming hole that there had been some large aquatic birds swimming around in it. Like geese or pelicans or something? I couldn’t quite remember, but that would explain the warm smelly slimy things all over my naked wet body … Shit! I was covered in shit. I screamed and ran from the water but had nothing to clean myself off with so I threw back on my cute little halter dress which then clung to me like green wet toilet paper. My hair was matted and smelly and horrible. My eyeliner was running down my face, I was sure, and I had unfortunately sobered up.

We walked back up to the street and passed all the pretty people in the clubs, dining in the restaurants, and sitting in their German cars. They’d gawk at the horrible barefoot peasant in the shit covered dress with her man-servant carrying her knock-off purse and pale pink pumps. I threw up outside the car and then got in the passenger seat for the long ride home.

You see, this is difference between rich people and poor people; a rich person would have had a towel.

Why Women Hate Men

2008-12-31T22:47:00.000-08:00

You'll never guess what I picked up for you on New Years Eve .... a MAN.

He's hilarious and he makes me cry/laugh. You must visit him at his blog, but also read his car advertisement on his companion blog. But then, when you're done, come back to me! Where's your solidarity?

The Hard Way - Conclusion

2008-12-30T22:09:00.000-08:00

After one night of perfect safety and peace I felt stronger and optimistic that I could salvage this well-deserved tropical vacation. The ship was to sail to another island that day and I planned to go ashore. Of course I was freaked out about the possibility of a Dave Encounter but I figured there’d be lots of witnesses so I should be safe. Besides, I could not spend another day in my poo poo dungeon.

I wanted to play in the blue waves and get a tan on the white sandy beach. There were loads of local Caribbean women there shouting at me to buy this or buy that. One woman wanted to braid my hair for $10. I said all I had was $3 and she said sternly “I’ll do half. Sit here!” Obedient and stupid, I handed her my $3 allowance for the day and sat on the burning hot sand. Her thick black hands worked fast and strong, pulling little tiny strands of my blond hair into intricate rows. It looked like I had a little farm growing on my scalp. She finished the right side of my head and walked away. I felt stupid but I tried to play it off anyway. I spent the day on the beach and felt self-conscious the whole time. I met some nice people on the ship and small talked for a while. Then I told them the whole story and all about Dave. The asked if I’d like to join them for dinner that night. I was so happy to have someone to talk to, especially since they were going to pay for dinner. I was planning on leaving with Carlos, this ship waiter, later that night for some clubbing, but I’d have dinner with my new friends first.

I returned to my shit room for a shower and to dress for dinner and dancing. I noticed how warm I’d become. Really hot, actually. I stood in front of the little steamy mirror in the bathroom and beheld the scorching site of me. I was hot pink from head to toe, save the bikini lines. But worst of all was my scalp. Between each row was a raw strip of skin that resembled half cooked bacon. It felt like thumbtacks dipped in salt had been hammered into my head. But only on the one side. I slid on my black leather dress and four inch heals and left for the evening anyway.

After dinner I caught up with Carlos. He asked if I’d like to go have some fun with him on shore. Maybe go to a club and dance. I was ecstatic and I eagerly agreed. He was suave and polite. He looked pretty nice in a pair of white slacks and silk shirt. I’d be fine with him, I thought.

As we walked to a local club, I could sense a complete change in his demeanor. He dropped the suave routine as soon as we were away from the ship. Instead of small talk and polite questions, he was silent and fast moving. I was unsettled. We entered a small club with live reggae. He told me where to go and sit while he talked to his friends. Pretty soon he came over to the table to see what I wanted to drink. “A coke, please” I replied quite kindly. He looked shocked. “You can have some rum too, okay?” he said. “No, I don’t drink alcohol” I replied. He went to the bar and returned with a coke. He sat next to me and told me that I was being boring. I needed to learn to have fun. He seemed more and more impatient as the night wore on. We did not dance or talk. He just drank and pouted.

Carlos on the ship was different than Carlos off the ship. I had been such a sucker! Why had I thought Carlos would be any different than Dave? He just kept getting angrier and drunker. I kept getting hotter and more frightened. I got up the nerve to ask him if we could go back to the ship. He shot me a daring look and said “Go ahead, I’m staying!”

Oh shit, now I had to walk through the streets of a Caribbean town in my black leather dress, four inch heals, and half braided head. I’m sure anyone who saw me knew I was looking for a cruise ship. I was frightened and lost. I started to get a sick feeling and then I saw my ship. Thank God.

I returned to my shit hole and started to sob from relief and self-pity. I liked to watch myself cry really hard because there’s just something about the out of control contortions my face makes that normally I don’t get to see. So I sat in front of the mirror and watched myself cry while I tried to take out my tiny braids. It took over an hour and when I was done I checked for bleeding. My hair frizzed out like Rosanna Rosanna Danna on one side. I was too tired and depressed to take a shower, so I just laid down and cried myself to sleep.

I had managed to completely avoid Dave until we offloaded the ship. We were all standing around with our luggage waiting for our bus to the airport. That’s when the Purser Bitch asked us for our bus tickets. Oh my God! I don’t have any tickets!!! I told her that I didn’t have them. She stopped short, put on her very nicest grin, and said “That’s not my problem, ma’am.” Wow, what a twat. I pleaded with her “He took the tickets. I don’t have any money or credit cards, please just let me on the bus so that I can get to the airport!” She was pleased with my dilemma, you could tell by just looking at her. “Please, you can’t just leave me here!” and she gave me her favorite line “There’s nothing we can do.”

Dave had everything. I spotted him up ahead in the swarm of sunburned cruisers. He was standing there with his stupid square camera case strapped across his chest like a … well a tourist, I guess. By now I was no longer afraid of him, I was pissed. I stomped over to him and demanded my bus ticket and plane ticket. I stood there with my hand outstretched, palm up, waiting. He rummaged through his suitcase and made this puppy dog face and said “I thought you had them.” “What the Hell would I be doing with the tickets? Look in your stupid camera case, I saw you putting them in there a few days ago.” I said disgustingly. Sheepishly he pulled them out and handed them to me. Relief. “Here they are! I have a limo waiting for us at the airport if you need a ride back home?” he said in a most pathetic tone. “Fuck You! I never, ever want to see your face again!” I shouted and damn it felt so good. Then he asked for his jewelry back. Looking back I wish I would have kept it and then sold it for some new tires. But I took the high road and threw it at him instead.

As it was the very last day in the United States of America to fly on an airplane and smoke, I was quite happy to find myself in the smoking section. Not only that, but I had the last smoking seat, on the last day, with an empty seat next to me. I took the last $3.00 out of my purse and ordered a headset so that I could watch the movie and relax. I was grateful to be alive and going home to my little boy. I was happy not to have to spend another night in my shit hole eating turkey and mayo sandwiches and reading the same book over and over again. I was pleased with myself for telling off Dave, too.

Halfway through the flight, a big drunk guy stands over my seat and asks if he can sit down and have a smoke, as he was mistaken for a non-smoker when seat assignments were made. I said “sure”, being very careful to not give the impression that I was interested in chit-chat. I pointed to the headset stuck in my ears and ignored him. But it didn’t work. As soon as I’d begin to the movie he’d say something again. I tried to just ignore him but he was too drunk to get the message. He’d finish his cigarette and go back to his seat only to return a few minutes later for another one. Argh!!

“Hey, can I buy you a drink?” he slurred. “No, I don’t drink” I said in a monotone, irritated response. He replied “Neither do I!” He had a surprised look on his face, like we just found out we were distant cousins or something. “Oh really? Then why are you holding a vodka and slurring your words?” I snipped. He replied sadly “Well, I hadn’t had drink for a couple of years, but I’m afraid of flying and I slipped today.” I was stunned. His atonement slapped me in the face. He suddenly looked frail and helpless. I told him that I hadn’t had a drink for a couple of years either. I told him he could sit next to me if he wanted to. He slumped next to me and all his former bullshit just slipped away. He was so humble and grateful that I let him sit next to me. When the stewardess passed by he handed her the vodka and asked for coffee. He kept drinking the coffee and we talked about drinking and talked about being sober for hours.

After at least a pot of coffee (and zero movies) we heard the captain make his announcement “We will be landing soon ….” The man next to me tensed up and fell silent. He asked me if I would hold his hand while we landed. Now I know you think I’m a sucker, but I had to hold his hand. I was so brave and he was so scared. I was so sober and he was just sober. I remember the feeling of the wheels touching down and his big hand squeezing my skinny little hand. I thought that maybe this was why I had to go on the trip, just to sit next to this guy and help him get on his feet on the ground.

When we got off the plane, he gave me a big bear hug and thanked me for helping him get sober. In the corner of my eye, I spotted my mom and my little son. I said goodbye to the man and headed over to my family. Little Sean had been staying with his father and caught pneumonia. This sweet little pale face looked gaunt and tired. He had dark circles under his beautiful blue eyes. My heart aches today just as much as it did then, when I think about him being sick without me. I was so grateful to be home, with Sean.

When I returned to the law office the next day, I told my boss, Steve, about the horrible ordeal. He was much older and had a reputation for being a hot-head. After hearing my story, he shook his head in a disapproving way and said “Sharon, there are only two kinds of guys in this world, guys who want to get you in bed, and gay ones. And if they say they’re neither, they’re lying.” I hoped he was one of the gay ones. Yuk.

I hung onto the key from my shit hole and the postcard from Dave for many years. I wanted to always remember that in this world, you just can’t get something for nothing. But I had to learn the hard way, didn’t I.

The End

10 Questions for Real Friends

2008-12-30T14:00:00.000-08:00

You know those "get to know you" emails? There's a list of questions to answer about yourself and then you send it back to the sender and all your friends. I need to know who writes these questions and what are they trying to get at? For example, whether a person prefers spicy, cheesy or plain hamburgers is of no interest to me at all.

Here are questions from the BloggerQueen for you to answer and pass around. They are so much more interesting. Please feel free to cut and paste this into an email and pass it around. You should also write your answers in my comments for the blog. Come on, I dare you ...

10 Questions for Real Friends

1. Would you ever get plastic surgery? If so, what?
2. Who would you kill if you got a Get out of Trouble Free, card?
3. Did you ever make yourself throw-up just so that you can fit more in?
4. One Night Stands ... good or bad?
5. What's in your underwear drawer besides underwear?
6. Did you ever damage a car without leaving a note?
7. If you had to give someone a blow-job, who would it be:
Michael Jackson or Dick Cheney?
8. What's your favorite color (no, just kidding. Who gives shit?)
9. What have you lied about to impress people?
10. Ever went streaking? Tell me all about it.

Me, but older

2008-12-18T09:19:00.000-08:00

You think you’re cool? Even though you’re a grown-up, you still have some style left, right? You’re not quite as thin and tight as you were when you were younger but guys still check you out sometimes. They’re usually old but hey, what the hell. Maybe sometimes you can squeeze your ass into something from the juniors section. After all, aren’t those other departments for people a bit low on the cool scale?

Yesterday morning I thought I was somewhat, a little bit, hopefully cool and hip. By afternoon the veil of denial was lifted and there stood a middle-age woman. Me, but older. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of the Older Me in the mirror at the gym. I’ll be running on the treadmill and feeling really awesome about myself. I’ll have my iPod blasting techno punk and I’m visualizing my goddess self running through a dark damp forest and kicking butt along the way. Then, out of the corner of my eye, is the Older Me in the mirror. She does not look like a techno punk goddess running through a forest; she looks like a floppy housewife with a bright pink face. My legs are not gazelle-like, in fact with each step my feet kind of wind outward and I look like a sissy dork trying to catch up with the cool kids.

What brought this all on was a trip to the consignment shop yesterday. I’m ashamed to say that I was trying to pawn some clothes and shoes for Starbucks money. I had some feeling of dread as I approached the hip, cool, 20-something shop across the street from the J.C. But, sadly, I had faith in myself again.

I plopped my three paper grocery bags on the counter and filled out some paperwork. The sweet young shopkeeper (I’ll call her Carnela, I just made it up) said to be patient, that there were two people ahead of me. I decided to get a healthy fruit smoothie a few doors down. Too bad, on the way was a pizza shop that sold by-the-slice. They made me come in and eat a piece. But it was only $2.50.

Then I returned to the consignment shop and tried on some jeans that barely covered my c-section scar. They looked fine as long as I was standing in front of the mirror and holding in my stomach; but my food babies were going to pour over the top like a root beer float on a hot day if I bent over. I decided to get some t-shirts for my YOUTHFUL nephews while I waited. Only $18.00 for four shirts.

Carnela called me over to the counter to tell me how much money she’d give me for my fabulously cool shoes and skirts. Apologetically, she said “I’m sorry; your items are too mature. We won’t be able to take them.” I laughed and dropped my head. The reality set in while I replayed the assault out loud “… too MATURE? Oh my God!” Then out of sheer pity she said “but we’ll take this pair of sandals. Is $6.00 okay?”

All in all, the hour of humiliation cost me $14.50 and probably 25 grams of fat. But as cracked as my delicate ego was, I did finally arrive in the Reality Department, third floor. I looked at the girls shopping in the store and tried to picture them in my black patent leather sling back Franco Sartos and came to the conclusion that they would only wear my stuff to a job interview … at funeral home. And I would only wear their clothes to a costume party. So, we’re even.

Merry Christmas Blogger Queen!

2008-12-16T09:19:00.000-08:00

Want to know what you can get Blogger Queen for Christmas? It won't cost you a cent or even much time:

1. Send your favorite Blogger Queen story to some friends with a link to www.bloggerqueen.com

2. Check out my advertisers. They are important to me, personally.

3. Leave comments. You don't have to be witty or even spell anything correctly. But unless you leave a comment, I don't know if anyone's out there. It's really easy to leave a comment. You can either be yourself or anonymous, I don't care. But I read all the comments, I can promise that.

Thank you so much for reading my posts and supporting me. (You see, I can be serious sometimes!).

Love and Cheer,
Sharon the Blogger Queen

P.S. The Hard Way - Part IV is coming ...

The Hard Way - Part III

2008-12-15T15:07:00.001-08:00

I only had a few minutes before I knew he’d return to the ship’s cabin to either find me packing or discover me gone. I spotted a postcard and a small box on the desk. Dave the Platonic Friend had spent a short afternoon on the tiny tourist trap island in the Caribbean and apparently brought back a gift for me. The card was rich with oblivious remarks about his love for me. He wanted me to spend the evening with him at the casino on the island. I opened the small box and there was a diamond and topaz pendant necklace. The gemstone was the size of two mini marshmallows and hung from a delicate gold chain. I was horrified.

I threw all my clothes and cosmetics in my cheap little suitcase that I borrowed from my mom. I took the necklace and the postcard. The whole episode took less than five minutes and I was out the cabin door and running down the hallways. My heart was pounding, terrified that he’d see me and flip-out. He was obviously unbalanced and potentially dangerous. He had tricked me into coming on this stupid cruise and taken advantage of me in my sleep. I hated him even more because of the necklace and the postcard.

I had to keep going lower and lower in the ship before I finally reached my little cabin. The Purser Bitch who obviously thought I was a harlot gave me a cabin that nobody else wanted. She said there was a prior plumbing problem but it was “all they had.” I opened the little oval door with my key on a little red oval key ring. Instantly I was kicked back with the strong smell of the Bowels of Hell. The stench made me gag. The ship’s doors are all the same, you have to step over the bottom to get in or out. This apparently served as a kind of reservoir for shit water that spilled from the bathroom and into the cabin during the prior plumbing problem. It had soaked into the freshly shampooed carpet, but the reek was still there.

As fast as I could, I lugged my suitcase over the door ledge, turned on the little light, and locked the door behind me. I was a safe prisoner. I had four nights left on this free vacation, but my measly $100 had already been depleted by half. This was an all-inclusive cruise; all the booze, food, and gas station owners you wanted, but I only wanted the food. By now Dave probably realized that the cabin was vacated and he must be falling apart, surely crying into a pillow and planning his hunt for me. There was no way to leave the the cabin. I pictured him in my frightened imagination creeping through the hallways and waiting to pounce. I found there was an in-room menu but the only items that were complimentary were cold sandwiches. “Good enough” I said and dialed the number.

The room was much like my previous one, but only had one small bed. There was no window because it was so far down in the ship. My sentence was all too quiet with no television or radio, this allowed my mind to conjure up the very worst scenarios and feel completely hateful for him and me. When my pathetic dinner was delivered the knock on the door made me jump. I wouldn’t answer until they said “room service!”

That night the ship was on the move and the weather was rough. I was awakened with the violent rocking of the ship and overwhelming nausea. I stumbled toward the bathroom and threw up my turkey and mayo on white sandwich in the little silver airplane toilet. Alas, the rejection of my stomach’s contents did not relieve my sickness and the smell of the room was fierce. I had no choice, I had to open the door and let some air in. It seems that every other poor fool on the cheap deck had the same idea. For as far as I could see down the hall, doors were opened and the sound and smell of retching was thunderous.

The need for fresh air was absolutely necessary, Dave could go to hell. Besides he was probably still wallowing with his broken heart and planning our murder/suicide. I threw on a summer dress, grabbed my key and my smokes, and headed for the deck.

The ship was rocking back and forth but the night clubs and dining rooms were still lively. There were about 50 of us on the deck in front of the wheel house. The night was wicked and beautiful. The waves crashed against the ship and sent curtains of water splinters over me, then the warm wind would take its turn and blow them off. The bright moonlight lit the wave caps and outlined the clouds drifting quickly past. It made me feel powerful to leave the cabin, like I had just given Dave the finger and said “Go ahead, what are you going to do about it Skinny?” and I fantasized about throwing him overboard.

One of the ship’s waiters came up to me to ask if I needed anything and inquired about my trip. I spilled my guts in a very dramatic way. He was very tall, dark, and sort of handsome. He apologized for my bad luck and invited me to go to shore with him the following night – his night off. I instantly agreed and was happy that some nice man had taken pity on me and offered to take me out on the town. Because, after all, didn’t I deserve something nice? If I had scrutinized the situation, I would have appreciated the similarities, but again, I was too involved with the prize to consider the price.

To be continued …

The Hard Way - Part II

2008-12-12T10:26:00.001-08:00

I was going on a seven day cruise to the Caribbean with Dave, my platonic friend. We’d fly from California to Florida where our ship would launch the following day. All expenses were paid; I just needed souvenir and cigarette money. It was really hard, but I scratched up $100. This meant that an essential bill would not be paid, but it simply had to be. Fall out be damned!

We arrived at our hotel in Florida. It was a tall tacky looking white building with turquoise chairs and faded pink flowers made out of crinkly fabric stuck in white pots. At the heavily lacquered front desk they handed us our keys … to the same room. I felt very uncomfortable about sharing a room with Dave my platonic friend but he seemed super happy. When we opened the room door and walked past the fluorescently lit bathroom I saw the bed. One king bed. I had a horrible feeling that he requested it this way but I didn’t have the nerve to ask or argue. He assured me that he was sorry we had to share a bed but he would be a perfect gentleman.

That night, who knows what time, I was lost in deep sleep. I was half conscious but aware of some cuddling. Not wanting to wake up and not knowing who it was, I just enjoyed the body heat. But it went further and then too far. Before I had a chance to fully wake-up and resist, it was over. I felt sick and scared. I questioned myself and my motives. Did I bring this on? Did I try and stop him? Finally, I resolved to believe the easiest thing for me to handle and still go on my cruise. I talked myself into believing that I liked him more than I thought I did. I sucked it up and said to myself “Well, I guess we aren’t just friends anymore” and I went on with the voyage as planned.

Deep down, but not very deep, I was humiliated and really angry at him and myself. But if I allowed myself to feel those feelings I would have to do something about them and I just couldn’t bare it.

Boarding the cruise ship was more dramatic than I’d dreamed. The massive entryway with inside/outside carpeting being inundated with tourists of every kind was overwhelming. I’ve never liked being in a giant crowd of people because I believe they are all looking at me. This is an indicator of an ego large enough to necessitate a massive entryway. Dave knew many of our fellow shipmates because Union 76, the gas station that he owned, had given away hundreds of these incentive vacations. He would introduce me as his “friend, Sharon” but I could not mistake a certain twinkle in his eye. I wished he would just spell it out for them “This is Sharon; she’s willing to do ANYTHING for a vacation!”

We each had a key to the room, but he used his to enter the cabin. It was a teeny tiny room with one little round window like the ones you see in the old ship movies. There was a bathroom that looked exactly like the one on the plane and there were two thin beds against opposite walls about three feet apart from each other. This meant I was safe while I was sleeping in my catatonic state.

He was so impressed with everything – like a 13-year old on her first limo ride. I just wanted to slap him to knock some of the enthusiasm out of him. It was only a cruise ship, for God’s sake, not exactly the Plaza Hotel! We dressed for dinner as if we were going to a fine restaurant. I wore one of my work dresses from my law firm job as a legal secretary, and he wore grey slacks that his mother must have picked out for him in junior high. His short sleeve blue shirt was tucked in sloppy and his tie was wide enough for Ed McMahon. Astonishingly, he blended in nicely with the rest of the winners from Union 76.

I could tell this mess hall really wanted to be a fine restaurant what with the massive chandeliers hanging down and all, but it felt more like the Titanic (there, I just couldn’t write another word without making that connection). The poly-blend table linens, that’s an oxymoron by the way, were the same pale pink as the fake flowers from the hotel. I loath this color, especially when it’s mixed with turquoise and fake crystals. We were sitting with a large table of gas station owners with bad table manners.

When we returned to our, what would you call it, State Room, he opened the lid on top of his head and let all of his crazy thought bubbles out to float around the room. “Pop – I love being with you, you’re so beautiful – Pop – This is an amazing time in my life with you – Pop - I would like to have children – Pop – with you – Pop Pop – We could adopt if you don’t want to have any more – POP!” Oh shit.

I heard my heart beating in my stomach where all the rice pilaf and chicken Cordon bleu was sitting. I wanted to go home to my money problems, my mundane job, and my sweet little son, but I was stuck on a ship with this crazy guy. I couldn’t sleep that night for fear that he’d make his away across the 36 inches that separated us. It's not that he was large, muscular, or tough in any way, but crazy carries a lot of weight on the danger scale.

The next day we stopped at some island designed just for cruise ship tourists but I couldn’t get off the ship with him. I told him to go without me, that I wanted to rest. After some soul searching and a nap, I went to the Ship’s Purser to explain my situation and ask for help. “I went on this cruise with a man claiming to be a ‘friend’ but he’s taken advantage of me in my sleep and now he’s talking crazy talk. I’m really afraid to find out what he’s going to do next! I need to get out of that room this afternoon while he’s on the island, please.”

Her expression was flat. Her chin dropped and she peered at me over her glasses so that she resembled a stereotypical school teacher and replied “I’m sorry miss, there’s nothing we can do.” We? Who the hell was she referring to and why couldn’t “they” understand that I had an unstable roommate. She had no empathy no matter how much I pleaded, so I resorted to frantic threats. “Listen, if he rapes me in the middle of the night, I will sue you. Personally. You are ignoring an imminent threat on board. Isn’t it your responsibility to keep your passengers safe? I’m writing all of this down for the Complaint which I shall file as soon as I return to my law firm. She sighed as if to say “I give up” and said they did have one room available. She gave me a key.

During my bitch exchange, I had hoped Dave had not returned to the room. It seemed that admitting my predicament out loud served to snap me into quite a state of terror, the kind where I was running down hallways as if someone was chasing me. But I didn’t make it in time. He had returned to the room and left again. I knew because he left a box and a card addressed to me.

To be continued

The Hard Way - Part I

2008-12-11T11:36:00.000-08:00

Ridiculous, really, that I thought I could get something for nothing. But it is one of the lessons in life that must be learned the hard way. This is the story of

THE HARD WAY

I was dating another car mechanic, his name was Dave. It was a symbiotic relationship: I was saddled with a 1978 Cutlass with four bald tires, a dead alternator, and dirty oil; and Dave was naive and needy, two personality traits that I would usually avoid when dating but I had certain automotive needs and he owned the station.

When I agreed to a date with him, I tried to mean it. I energized myself with the potential of finally finding a “nice” guy. I only lasted a couple of dates before I exhausted my supply of denial. Nice guys were not my gig. I simply advised him that although he did nothing wrong we were meant to just be friends, but that’s all. He took it well on the outside. His insides had other ideas.

I would still go to his gas station once in awhile to say ‘hi’ and keep this friendship balloon full of helium a little longer. One afternoon, as I was pumping the last three dollars I had into my gigantic V8 engine, he quick-stepped out of the garage, wiping his oily thin hands on a dirty red rag. His hair was so thin that it looked painted on his head and his features were almost boyish. But he was “nice.”

“Guess what? I have some good news!” he shouted before he even reached me. “My station won a free cruise for two to the Caribbean!” His shit brown eyes were round, surrounded by his feminine lashes, looking downright innocent.

“That’s great.” I said with fake enthusiasm. Why did he have all the luck? I was put out and full of self-pity. Here I was a single-mother with no financial support or real education trying to support my 4-year old son. Things had gotten very bad for us. Here’s a glimpse: I stole toilet paper from work because I’d run out at home and had no money to buy more. My son would have water on his cereal, if we had cereal. I was rolling coins to buy gas. So vacations were not on the horizon, not even in the peripheral.

He was quiet for a minute and then said “I want you to go.” I was confused. Did he want to give me the trip or take me with him? I didn’t know whether I should automatically accept or get more information. But, God, a cruise? That would be so lovely I couldn’t even imagine it. But no matter, I could not accept such a huge gift from a “friend”, could I? He said he knew how hard it was for me and I deserved a vacation. A break from all of this and that and he was right. I really deserved it, in fact, the world owed me this. I was Cinderella part one long enough and I wanted to be Cinderella part two! But I could tell by the puppy dog look that he was going too.

“Dave, there’s no way I can go on a cruise, especially with you. We’re just friends remember? I’ve explained that to you.” He looked amused and patronizing. “Of course, Sharon. I’m not insinuating anything else. I understand we’re just friends but I think you need this more than anyone else I know. We’ll just go as friends.” I couldn’t resist.

to be continued ....

The House with STDs

2008-12-09T09:13:00.000-08:00

What's the first thing you do when you know someone is coming to the house? Stash that crap!

I have an appointment with the cable guy this morning. His name is John and he's going to bundle my services and save me $30 per month. According to my husband, that works out to $360 a year. This is almost the exact price of a iPod Touch that my daughter wants for Christmas. So, keep your fingers crossed honey.

The appointment was for 8:00am. This left me hardly any time to prepare: I sprayed smelly stuff in the downstairs bathroom that always smells like pee. I blame this on the previous owners' eight-year old son. Boys are notorious for peeing on floors and I'm not convinced that some other people in this house have grown out of it. We've tried everything to evacuate the smell except ripping the subfloor out and replacing all the plumbing.

Then I cleaned the bedrooms (i.e., I systematically shut each door). I hauled the pile of little shoes, backpacks, and discarded lunch bags from the entry hall. Lastly, I brushed my hair but forgot my teeth.

When the cable guy came to his appointment this morning, he thought he'd be dealing with a responsible adult so he's talking in big words like router and co-ax like I know what he's getting at. I just nod and say "Hmmm" and "uh-huh" and he keeps on going, bless his little heart. "Where's the access to the crawl space?" he says. Shit! Its in the worst bedroom in the most horrible closet. I hope he doesn't have dust allergies or a weak stomach. I was also forced to give him access to the girls room and I could almost hear his voice in my head "Is this the best you can do all day?" I'm hoping he thinks I have a full-time important job that keeps me from organizing and cleaning all day.

John is going to disconnect me all day long. No television, no internet, no phone, no music. Obviously this is a conspiracy to make me clean all those embarrassing areas out of sheer boredom and shame. I feel like I'm at the gynecologists office and I just accidentally farted during the exam. This is humiliating.

Looking for a Fight?

2008-12-05T08:41:00.000-08:00

I was shopping in a grocery store that wasn't familiar to me. This takes extra focus and patience because they put everything in the wrong place. I usually start from the right of the store in produce and make my way through each and every aisle except for pet food and cleaning products, both of which I let other people deal with. I always finish up in the bread/bakery section on the far left. I do not stray from my pattern.

In this alien store, I was perplexed because the produce was on the left. What a stupid, stupid place to keep the produce. Everyone knows its supposed to be on the other side of the store, God! So I gather a cantaloupe and a head of lettuce. I only had a few items to get so I skipped some aisles. I didn't want to financially support a grocery store that ignored logic and had it all wrong. At last I entered the final section on the other side of the store and that's when I noticed my purse was missing.

My heart stopped and I turned red all over. My adrenaline kicked on hyper speed mode and I ran .... RAN .... to the front of the store so that I could watch the exit doors. I grabbed a large guy that worked there and said "My purse is missing from my cart. I think someone stole it! Watch the exits for a big red purse!" I paced like a shark. I played out the scenario in my head of how I was going to get my purse back. I do this all the time; imagine different scenarios where I need to get my kids out of a burning building, stave off a rapist, roll out of a moving vehicle, rescue a choking victim, chase a kidnapper in my car, ad infinitum. I think I'm ready for anything.

As I'm stalking for my opponent, I realize how I can trap him. I tell the grocery guy "Call my cell phone! Its in my purse" Ha ha ha!!! Perfect. It will ring, they won't be able to turn it off and I'll get 'em. It was late and the store was rather empty so it was quiet enough to hear the custom ring tone. We waited and hushed and listened. Ready to pounce.

RING, RING, RING .... The grocery guy and I locked eyes and I said in a quiet evil voice "I'm going to drop kick the mother fucker" I full throttle sprinted to the left of the store to take back what's mine. There it was, my big red purse in a shopping cart. Also in the the shopping cart was a cantaloupe and some lettuce. I looked around and no one was there. Confused and a little disappointed, I returned to the front of the store. I looked in the other cart and realized it wasn't mine. I had stolen someone's cart way back in the vegetable aisle. Apparently the person who had their cart stolen just gave up and got a new cart. My purse and cart were sitting there all alone for about 30 minutes, nothing was missing.

I had to admit to the grocery guy and the manager what a huge mistake I had made. I was apologetic and humiliated. The manager assured me that people lose their carts all the time (yah, probably old people)and there was nothing to be embarrassed about. The grocery guy said quietly "I've never heard anyone say 'I'm going to drop kick the mother-fucker' before." His eyes were all wide and innocent.

This is why my husband worries about me.

Poopy Pets

2008-12-04T14:37:00.000-08:00

Did I mention that I'm an inventor? Well, I am. I made up the Poopie Pets! This one is named Party Pooper and he hates to have any fun at all. He just lays there and has a really stinky personality.

Jesus was Not Even a Capricorn!

2008-12-01T08:57:00.000-08:00

I wrote this poem just for you. Merry Christmas!

Jesus Was Not Even a Capricorn!

Clawing out of Thanksgiving Fog
Stumbling into the Christmas Blizzard
Writing the cards that nobody reads
Forgetting to mail them, again.

‘Tis the obligatory merry-ish season
Deck the halls with remorse and debt
Hark the angel's fall from treetop
Tra la la la la, I wish I were a Jew

Oh Holy Shit
I forgot to invite my mother-in-law
Oh Holy Night
I'm out of her Will, again.

Written by Sharon the BloggerQueen
copyright 2008

Mall Massage

2008-11-25T19:32:00.000-08:00

Today’s my birthday and nobody forgot. I’m feeling kind of special, not in the retarded way this time, just plain special. For a treat, I made my way to the mall for a Mall Massage. This freaks my friends out and they ALL say “You mean the chair massage in the middle of the mall?!” and they’re horrified at my audaciousness, but that only encourages me. It makes me feel like I’m so much braver (and I probably am). The truth is that I’m a total massage slut.

Years ago I had an uptight friend whom I have since broke it off with. She told me that she could “never have a stranger rub her feet” and I replied “Really? I would let the homeless guy downtown rub my feet.” I just couldn’t figure her out. Was she worried about a foot rub being just too intimate? I considered that her sex-life must be extremely b.o.r.i.n.g.

The first time I had a chair massage at the mall I struggled while watching all the pairs of legs passing me by while my face was planted inside the giant donut. Sometimes the legs would slow down in front of my chair and I didn’t know if they were watching me or just loitering. I was horrified to imagine that maybe my underwear was peeping out above my waistband. Or maybe the masseuse was talking about me in Thai language saying “look at this giant American with her fat arms. She smells like fried onions.” I don’t know what they’re doing or saying up there. I was concentrating on how much it tickled or hurt or it was too soft. I was hoping I wouldn’t relax too much and accidentally fart. How much should I tip? Should I tip? Oh my God, look at all my mascara I left on the paper!

By the way, the above picture I just found on the internet. It is not me, or my Thai masseuse, or even my mall cop, but don't you just love his big mounty hat? What are they, Canadian?

But I somehow made my way through it and felt so invigorated. Really it was the best massage I’ve ever had and it was only $15 … with tip! So I decided to just “suck it up, Mary” and develop my own mental trip. Now when I go for my mall massage, I just relax and enjoy the moment. I think that anyone who thinks I’m a fool, is a bigger fool, because look who’s getting a massage for $15! Come on by and take a long look at me! Happy Birthday to me.

The Gypsy Curse

2008-11-20T12:20:00.000-08:00

For the last three weeks, my children have had half-day at school. Totally sucks for me and has made it quite difficult to spend time with you, my readers.

Today I was working on a quick story about a maniac lady throwing a tantrum at Mervyns. My kids were coming home in one hour, barely enough time to complete a first draft. But I was going to give it a try.

I sat down with my laptop on the sofa, next to my husband who was working on a program on his laptop. I started my story and heard him say "chika chika chika chika chika" real fast. That's his impersonation of me typing. He's really just jealous because he uses the old "hunt and peck" method and his fingers are all the size of thumbs. "Am I bothering you? Do you want me to go upstairs?" I ask, nicely. "No, I was just kidding" he replies.

Quiet.

"So, its 12:12. What do you think of that?" He asks
"Well, I think its 12:12" I reply in an irritated voice.

Quiet.

"chika chika chika chika chika chika chika" he whispers.

I stop typing and loose the sentence from my brain. Take a deep breath and start reading from the beginning of my paragraph to grasp a hold of where I was going. Feeling the chill, he walks into the kitchen to look for a snack.

"Are we having this soup for dinner?"
"I don't care, just eat what you want!"

I unplugged the computer, walked into my office and closed the door. Now all I hear are his sniffs, the door opening with a creak, shoes in the house (against the rules) and the dark voices in my head that say "Damn, I am such a bitch! Why can't I be one of those people who are never distracted. I think I was cursed by a gypsy."

Improve your Life with Props and Costumes

2008-11-18T11:04:00.000-08:00

I spoke with Kathy the Best Friend yesterday to see how she scored on the 20 Things a Best Friend Should Know. She said she scored 50%, but was not surprised by the other 50%. For instance, she did not know that I once wore a fake wedding ring to go to the movies alone, but she did not need any explanations either. Which means, although she did not know of the actual incident, she was aware of its probability.

When I was 28, I was so insecure that I needed a fake husband to make me feel fake companionship. I was terrified that someone might look in my direction with revulsion and warn “Honey, maybe we should sit on the other side of the theatre. Whatever she has that keeps her from finding a husband might just be airborne!” I’m not that bad anymore, but it doesn’t hurt that I have a real live living husband now. Allegedly.

Because of my husband’s silly work schedule, he’s rarely able to attend parties, so sometimes I bring a balloon with his face drawn on it. I have a supply of large pink balloons that are hidden in a drawer in the garage. When I arrive with my balloon husband, they all understand that Kent’s working again, and I’m having a Balloon Date Night. The little kids love to play with my balloon husband and knock his head around the living room in a spontaneous game of soccer or volleyball. At dinner time, I’ll tie him up to the back of my chair so that he doesn’t bounce around and cause any trouble.

We should all have a drawer in the garage full of props to help us along the way. We could have confidence wigs and fake wedding bands. How about eyeglasses to raise our perceived IQ? I could always use a pair of fake boobs for fun. Don’t forget the clipboard to make you feel important. We all have props anyway; fancy cars, purses, bumper stickers. All in a desperate journey of acceptance of total strangers that we’ll never see again.

I think men wear more props than women, probably because they don’t get to carry purses and wear make-up. Those two props are very valuable to me. Right now I’m carrying one of the coolest purses I’ve ever owned. It’s much cooler than I am, so I hope strangers will judge me by it. “Well even though she wears Jesus shoes and her jeans flood, she does still carry one of the hottest purses I’ve ever seen. I can barely even notice her fat wings!”

There has been a biker trend amongst the suburban dads for about the last fifteen years. They get their platinum cards and hop in their minivans to go to the nearest Harley shop. They buy all their props there: Shiny black leather boots, t-shirts, do rags, and lots and lots of fringe. Props.

Another one is the Great Outdoorsmen costume. My son works in Alaska on a charter fishing boat and sees them all the time. I think they feel very timid around my son and the other fisherman, so they pull on all the props they can find. First, they stop shaving a few days before they get to Alaska so that they look “rugged.” Then they throw on as much camouflage gear as possible, which is hilarious since they’re out on a boat in the middle of the ocean. I mean, really? Camo on a fishing boat? Props.

Now I’m not disrespecting here, I’m only making a point. We all have props to make us feel like we belong to a tribe. Mine was a fake wedding band, but I traded that in for a real balloon husband and if he complains about the movie, I’ll just pop him one.

20 Things a Best Friend Should Know

2008-11-17T08:53:00.000-08:00

I was inspired by a recent post written by Beth Spotswood to make a list of 20 things my best friend should know about me. If you'd like a back-story for full clarification, just ask and I'll tell you the tale.

1. I once wore a fake wedding ring to go to the movies alone (Schindler’s List)
2. I used to take fake airline reservations for World Airlines
3. I’m afraid of ghosts and zombies more than rapists and burglars
4. I love to fill out forms
5. I used to steal toilet paper
6. I have gone to museums to appreciate art, only to be sidetracked by creating a believable persona of myself that says “I know exactly what this piece is trying to say”
7. I cannot keep a good secret, but I can keep a bad secret forever
8. I would let anyone rub my feet. Anyone.
9. I don’t drink alcohol or smoke or huff glue
10. I love Marie Antoinette and King Henry the VII way too much
11. I love to sleep in my clothes and eat in bed
12. I have a peculiar habit of biting the inside of my mouth, thereby causing permanent weird wrinkles above my lip.
13. I want to work in a hospital because I love the potential for drama and the smell of disinfectant
14. I stick my hand down the garbage disposal while its running to push the food through and to feel brave.
15. I’m afraid of falling, but not afraid of heights.
16. I’ve been in fights and lost all of them due to unfair advantages
17. I hate being “pampered” it just feels so ridiculous
18. I don’t have any marketable skills or education and I might be homeless if anything ever happens to my husband
19. I have multiple awesome inventions
20. I was intensely disliked by half a cruise ship, but the other half admired me

The Malady of More

2008-11-14T09:34:00.000-08:00

I suffer from the Malady of More.

When I get a backache and I reach for the Ibuprofen, I always take an extra little brown pill. Why? Because I think two will not be sufficient for someone as special as me. My back pain is unique and I need something just a little stronger than the average commoner.

I try to be reasonable with caffeine too, but again I need more than most because I think that I’m extra tired and today I certainly need and deserve an extra shot in my Americano. Unlike overdoing an Ibuprofen dose which does not have any immediate painful reaction, too much caffeine makes me feel like a crack head. My eyes get intensely narrowed and start shooting laser beams. My feet get cold and my armpits sweat. I dash around the house like a rubber pinball, and I am just a little crabby. The good news is that I suppress my appetite.

Food is the biggest trigger to my Malady of More. I cannot bake homemade chocolate chip cookies in my house without a plan. The plan must consist of an immediate evacuation and distribution plan for the cookies. So its okay if I’m making them for a party, but the party must be immediately following the removal of the cookies from the oven. I have already tried everything else, and immediate evacuation is the only method that works for me.

My friend said that when she was growing-up, her parents taught her that nobody ate more than three cookies. I tried it. I would put three little warm love cookies on a napkin and walk into the next room. I’d say to myself “Three is enough for anyone.” Then when I had devoured two and a half, I could already see that three is not enough; four is much more appropriate for a tall woman like me. So I’d walk back into the kitchen where the gooey chocolate chips would be hardening to the perfect texture and I’d grab just one more. “This will be all I need - just this one more cookie. Then I’ll be wrapped up. I’ll put the cookies in a container out of sight and that’s that.” I’d make it half way back to the living room and the cookie would already be gone. “Well, since I’m already up, I’ll just grab one more.” By now the surge of chocolate and sugar has started affecting my pulse and I feel anxious thereby intensifying my feelings of guilt. So I’d walk quickly just in case someone on the street was looking in through my window and disapprovingly counting.

I’d feel ashamed and mad at myself, declaring “fuck it!” which is exactly what I say before I do something that I’ll later regret and have to apologize and/or pay for. I’d grab the whole container and sit angrily in front of the television by myself and polish off about a dozen justifying that it’s easier to just eat them all at once and really work out hard tomorrow, than it is to just eat three a day and have to work out every day.

I make myself feel sick, but not enough to throw-up. The Malady of More.

The Escape

2008-11-12T09:54:00.000-08:00

The first time I ever went wine tasting I was only 18 yet I was making my way through all the wineries and tasting anything they would pour my way. I would pretend to appreciate the oak or chocolate or paint … whatever, it was all about getting an underage buzz courtesy of them. I was with Eugene, my first real boyfriend out of high school and he was seven years older than me. He was just so alluring with his cutting edge Levi 501’s, top-sider shoes, and pink IZOD shirt. Only three months previous I was attending Old Milwaukee keg parties and lying to my mom to stay out late. Now I was cruising with my older boyfriend in wine country and drinking fine wines. It was intoxicating, really.

Eugene had a flair for socializing, or he was unconscious of ridicule and immune to shame. So when the wineries closed and we weren’t ready to stop the fun, he parked his canary yellow station wagon outside the liquor store and sauntered inside in search of a party. He emerged with a bottle of rum, six-pack of beer, and a smile. He found a party for us to crash.

We drove up a dark curvy mountain road out of town, the kind of location two tourists could get strangled with their souvenir t-shirts and left for road kill. I was dressed in my coolest 80’s fashion, tight purple striped jeans with zippers on the ankles, matching vest, and four inch pink stilettos. Eugene was dressed in his latest effeminate regalia. His hair slicked back on both sides with lots of gel, the top in full puffiness, a hint of ringlet curls cascading down his forehead. He had a diamond stud earring in his left ear that screamed “Its fun to go to the YMCA”.

Toward the top of the mountain, on the side of the road, there were beefy muscle cars, hot rods, and 4-wheel drive pick-ups with those big hunting lights on top that look like eyeballs. I began to sense peril, not physically but socially and that is more painful when you’re a teenager. Eugene’s little station wagon was missing its muffler so our approach was loud and embarrassing. It was just like walking up to a group of rock stars and laying down an atomic fart.

Ten guys who looked like they had just finished a shift at the John Deere Factory Outlet were standing there with Budweisers in their hands and disbelief on their faces. Eugene pulled the car over with a quick jerk, like we were in a race car doing a pit stop. I knew he was trying to make his wagon look like a sporty little ricer burner, but it would never work and I did not want to get out of the car.

We were not blending but that didn’t stop Eugene from trying to mingle. He and I had met at the mall the previous summer, he sold jewelry and I sold cheese and sausages whilst wearing a Swiss girl costume. So he threw on his very best jewelry salesman smile and thrust himself upon the crowd of locals like a manicurist at a rodeo. I held back behind him and secretly tried to give the Good Ole’ Boys a glance that said “Geez, what’s this guy’s problem? What a weirdo!” and I cursed myself for my Flock of Seagull’s hair-do.

Eugene was completely unaware of our non-conformity. He had this childish enthusiasm of hope that made me want to slap him, but he was obviously slightly daft so I restrained my hands under my elbows. Shortly after our landing on mars, a beer a fight ensued between two farm boys. Everyone backed up and gave them lots of room to shove each other around. One of them was thrown onto the hood of Eugene’s little wagon and with a loud thud Eugene’s fog of denial finally lifted enough to see that this was not our crowd and he would have a permanent dent on his hood. He was terrified of fighting, a dance off would have been more his style, so he gave me the look that said “Get in!” and I we escaped.

A few months later, I decided to break up with him. I was driving on a busy freeway and he burst into tears after I dropped the bomb. He claimed he could not go on and crumbled to the floorboard, resting his head on the seat and sobbing. I knew right then that I had made the correct decision. Four years later, after my first marriage and consecutive divorce, I called him up. I was curious and plus I owed him an apology for being such a bitch. I could hardly recognize him at the door. He was 25 pounds heavier (in the belly and face), his lovely curly locks were slicked back and thin. He presented a 4-pack of Bartles and James for the sake of good old times. He was selling used cars in the worst part of town.

There was a look of anger and hope on his face, a strange mix that I did not know what to do with, I knew instinctively that he was not my crowd anymore. I got him to leave while he still had two bottles left in the cardboard holder.

In writing this essay, I researched him on the internet and there were two people with his unusual full name; one was a doctor and the other was a convicted felon with multiple convictions. I have my vote locked in. Although this is a sad story for him, it’s a great lesson for you … follow your gut, its never wrong. Case closed.

The Most Important Video of the Year

2008-11-05T22:41:00.000-08:00

I was at a party recently and announced that I would perform an egg trick. Its amazing. Its perfect. Its going to change the way you think about hard boiled eggs. What is also amazing is how horrible I look in this video. I swear to God, I don't know who put the ugly lens on my video camera, but I should sue somebody. At least I'm wearing my Obama shirt.

Its alarming because I walk around feeling okay about myself most of the time. I sometimes even feel sort of pretty. Then the veil of denial is lifted when I see a picture of myself and I think "What the hell? Is that what I look like when I'm not posing in front of the mirror?" Because let's face it, who looks into the mirror without just a little pose? I've caught everyone doing it, especially at the gym. We suck in our guts, throw out our chests, and perhaps give our hair a little lusty toss. But you and I don't really look that good. We look like this video. Plain and ordinary. Like I said, at least I'm wearing my Obama shirt.

Let Love Win - Vote No on 8

2008-10-29T14:21:00.000-07:00

Let’s say, for the sake of consideration, that your child is gay and will thereby grow-up to be a gay grown-up who wants and deserves equality and human rights. My nephew is one of those people. When he was five, he would wrap himself up in sheets fashioned to look like evening gowns and sashay around as if there was a runway competition in the living room. He’d love to pretend he was me. Aunt Sharon. I was so honored and I was 17.

One day the little kids from the neighborhood discovered a new word: “Faggot.” I know this because my nephew came inside sobbing “They said I’m a faggot! What’s a faggot?” I was so angry I felt like throwing rocks at the little bastards, but instead, we just stayed inside and played.

Voting Yes on 8 is like that day all over again, but in grown-up world. I don’t understand any objections to gay marriage. I’ve tried to see the other side and to empathize but I still just don’t get it. I mean, are people afraid that someone’s going to make them be gay? Are they afraid their kids might “turn” gay? If so, that probably can be handled in a therapists’ office, not the ballot box.

Someday American’s will look back on these days of gay prejudice with shame and disgrace as we do when we recall outlawing interracial marriages once upon a time.

PMS Hospital Plans

2008-10-27T22:52:00.001-07:00

I’m writing myself mysterious notes. For instance, the other day I wrote on my calendar “Pick-up piano.” Its impossible for me to go pick-up a piano! I could not recall writing that cryptic message, why I wrote it, or any recollection at all. I really thought I was going nuts and that I perhaps purchased a piano in some kind of weird sober black-out. As it turned out, it was my turn to pick-up the carpool girl at her piano lesson that day.

Just now, I pulled up the document with my stories and the first line at the top of the page read “Feeling a little depressed, are we?” It was like God was in my computer, or something! I swear I don’t remember writing that, but I must have this morning and guess what? I really am depressed. Its mostly hormonal, but has an extra sprinkle of gloomy weather on it. Therefore, I’m just eating voraciously. In bed, of course. I just finished off a giant bowl of BBQ chips and Cheddar Chex Mix. When I just typed that I felt a little sick, but when I was throwing it into my face hole, I really thought it was helping me.

I’m on strike. I’m not doing anything I’m supposed to be doing. Everything on my mental “to do” list is not as important as me going insane. I’m mentally folding my arms and sticking my tongue out at my commitments, declaring “I won’t do it!” Its not that I want to be mean, it’s just that I cannot bear to be helpful to anyone right now. I think its best for me to stay inside and away from vulnerable human beings.

When I was at the *hospital the other day, I was casually noticing patients being wheeled around in their hospital gowns. Some had little blankets on their laps. Some had flowers and balloons that they were taking home. Each had a handler with them, a nurse or someone who was looking after them. Just making sure they didn’t fall out of their chair, or need another shot of Demerol. I wanted to be them so badly that I felt a little sorry for myself for being so healthy. They looked so cared for and I’m just expected to prop myself up and make it through life everyday. Then I found out that my husband’s co-worker’s wife is dying. They’re taking her off life support and saying good-bye. Now I feel even worse, because I realize what a selfish, ungrateful person I am.

That’s when I decided there should be a specialized PMS hospital for people like me, healthy as a horse, but needing to be a patient just for a couple of days. I don’t want to be sick or anything like that. I just want people to come and visit me, bring me flowers, and sneak treats in for me. I’m never too old for the electric bed either; knees up – knees down; head up – head down. Sigh.

I would shuffle down the hallway in my little hospital booties and a peek-a-boo nightgown and the nurse would come up to me and gently say “Its been a long day, better go lay down some more. I’ll bring you some decaf in a minute, honey.” I could catch-up on my reading because no one would expect anything of me because Jesus Christ, I’m in the HOSPITAL aren’t I?!

I would even appreciate the hospital food, because it comes on that shiny tray with the different size squares and rectangles. Neatly placed in each and every hole is something individually wrapped and never touched by human hands: Broth, Jello, cracker, juice. I really need someone to bring me a tray of food in bed today, I don’t care how horrible it is, because it’s really the thought that counts, although a Big Mac would be super thoughtful.

My special PMS hospital will have a ward just for men like my husband who, no matter what he says in the next three days, will be on the shit end of a shit stick with me. There will be big giant screen tvs and each and every husband will have their own remote control that they can carry around and even sleep with if they want to. There will be beef, chicken, pork, and brontosaurus ribs. Each fart will be welcomed with a boisterous cheer from the ward; and at night each one will get a hand-job from the nurse and then they can roll over and go to sleep.

Wow, maybe I’m not so totally selfish after all.

Kick'n Up My Heels!

2008-10-24T10:42:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had to take another trip to the doctor’s office . Don’t presume that I’m a hypochondriac. I’m not. I’m a woman. We HAVE to go at least once a year. That’s why its called an “annual” boys and girls.

I dreaded it more than usual and cancelled three appointments before I finally ran out of excuses. When I walked in they shuffled me off to the weigh-in scale conveniently located in a major thoroughfare so that everyone can hear how much I weigh (with all of my clothes on!). That’s when I spotted Lydia, an old friend from the last town I lived in. By the look of her clipboard, she must work there, although I’ve had an ongoing fantasy about walking around “off-limits” places with just a clipboard and a serious look on my face and getting away with it. But Lydia has never been that type of a person, so I believe she actually does work there. We made quick small talk and I was moved into the exam room.

I wonder if Lydia thought I was there for a disgusting STD or something. What if she thinks I have vaginitus, whatever that is, it sounds horrible. The nurse walks in and I compliment her on her frock. I tell her “If I was a nurse, I would wear that” but of course, I’m not a nurse, I’m a patient and they’ve already picked out my paper outfit for me. When she opened the paper gown armoire, I noticed different shades of blue and different size square piles. She seemed to know exactly what to pull out for me. “Here’s the top and here’s the bottom, please strip down to your socks.”

I’m not too sure about the size she selected for me because the top is a big giant square and the bottom is simply a long tablecloth. Who does she think she is? I know for sure she’s just given me a tablecloth. Who were the other shades of blue for? Are they secret signals to the doctor? Does the doctor walk in and know exactly what kind of a woman she’s dealing with based on the shade of blue?

Example:
Light Blue: Hypochondriacs and Whiners
Bright Blue: Sluts and Skanks
Dark Blue: Unstable Crack Addicts

The next time I am provided with a tablecloth for clothing, I’ll turn it into a Project Runway assignment. I’ve found a great instructional website so that I can learn how to wrap my own sari so the next time I visit the doctor, he’ll know exactly what kind of woman he’s dealing with. Not just some run-of-the-mill light blue tablecloth patient.

As I wait there for the next thirty minutes, I’m noticing all their free literature. This is the kind of stuff they never have out in the waiting room because who’s going to run over to a stack of Urinary Confidence Group – The Key to Successful Bladder Control pamphlets and shout “Hey! Look over here Mary, I’m totally going to this!” There is a flyer for laser treatments with a discount coupon. I’m skeptical about a cosmetic surgeon that accepts coupons.

I see there is a metal tray on wheels that has been prepared for the doctor and me. On it is a giant swizzle stick, a tube of Surgilube, and a bottle labeled “Cytology Fixative Poison.” What the hell is going to happen here? I lie back on the crackly paper table and stretch out my legs straight, sort of practice my position. I feel my back crack down low and I’m relieved for a moment and then I remember that the peace will end soon when Dr. M enters the room.

I look to the ceiling for distraction but there’s nothing in this exam room but an acoustic ceiling. I think they should put some kind of puzzle or word-find up there to keep my mind off the work at hand. This would have been a great place to bring my iPod.

Dr. M comes in and gives me a warm handshake. For which I’m relieved because a cold handed gynecologist is nightmare, right ladies? He pokes around, takes things on and off the tray while I’m trying to avert my eyes, I practice my breathing, and after some small talk and a couple of laughs, its over. He declares me “normal” and exits the exam room.

As I got dressed I felt like a little piece of me was missing or maybe slightly exploited. So I looked around to see if anything would make me feel better. That’s when I found this big giant Q-tip and just had to have it. I didn’t consider this theft because I plan on bringing in my old magazines next time I visit. I dropped it in my purse and felt like we were even.

My Bubble

2008-10-21T09:14:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure, but I might be a little neurotic about space issues. In my daughter's pre-school they taught her about having a bubble around each person and if you get too close, you might pop their bubble. Kids have weird space perception. Have you ever seen them stand in a line? Its like they’re in the noodle line in Hong Kong or something.

The other day I was in an x-ray waiting room. There were plenty of seats from which to choose. Why oh why would someone have to plant themselves in the chair directly next to me? Isn’t there some kind of rule about leaving one empty seat between you and a stranger? I have wide shoulders and unless I want to play some kind of junior high version of petting, I’ll have to be the one to slouch my shoulders, because it's always me that has to. Who designed those stadium-style chairs anyway? They all connect side-by-side and they leave about 2” between each chair. Unless we all turn sideways at the same time, we’re never going to fit!

I was there having my back x-rayed. It’s probably due to years and years of trying to squeeze into ill fitting chairs that were probably designed in 1950 when Americans were the size of human beings and not small horses like we are today. I’m speaking for myself of course. Slouching and curving, crossing and tucking every part of my body so that I don’t touch any weird strangers. Speaking of weird strangers, of course that’s who sits next to me because I am the Weirdo Magnet .

He was probably about 45 years old and looked a little disheveled, but also a little wealthy (you can always tell by the shoes). He flops his ass down and gives a really audible sigh. He waits a few more minutes and then he sighs again and looks in my direction. I know exactly what he’s doing; he wants me to engage in a conversation with him, about him. He wants me to say to him “Wow, you look really awful, are you okay? Is there anything I can get you? Perhaps a daiquiri or a crutch or a band-aid?” He needs someone to understand how he’s feeling and what’s going on in his life. He needs sympathy. Well, sir, you’ve chosen the wrong seat for that. I once heard an old guy say “Go and look up sympathy in the dictionary; it’s in between ‘shit’ and ‘syphilis’! My sentiments, exactly.

He keeps up this pathetic attempt for attention for 20 minutes, but I’m an asshole and I’m still pissed off that he even sat in the chair next to me. Another patient checked in and the nurse asked her if she had been fasting for 24 hours like they told her to. Weakly she muttered “yes.” I wanted to nudge the big baby next to me and say “Now there’s someone who’s really suffering. So suck it up, Mary, you’ll have your vagina x-rayed soon enough.”

I had to go to the pharmacy that day too. There’s always a long line. The back and forth kind like in Disneyland. We can only go as fast as they call “next” so I don’t understand why the woman behind me has to get all up in my ass. There’s plenty of room to leave for good manners and considering that this is a hospital pharmacy, I would consider this an especially important place to reserve real estate between people. But nope. I can feel her breathing so I move up. She moves up. I move up. She moves up. So I start rocking back and forth like I have a baby and she doesn’t budge. Then I start fake coughing to mimic a patient with a rare disease that’s becoming airborne. But she just stayed there. I consider this harassment and decided to confront it. So I just turned around really abruptly and looked her dead on in the face. Making it super obvious that there’s only 2” between her nose and mine. Bringing forth the imposition this has presented in my life. I just stared. It was unnerving for both of us, but I held on. She quickly lost her battle and I won the war.

For days like these, I want to buy a jacket with porcupine quills on it and shove garlic cloves in my pockets. I want to flail my arms around and swat at pretend flying insects. I want to have a big bean lunch with extra broccoli. Maybe I should just stay home.

Size is Relative

2008-10-16T10:13:00.000-07:00

Until I hit my 30s, I was officially “skinny”. I was called “Skinny Little Bitch” on more than just a few occasions from some of my larger acquaintances, a weird way of complimenting me I suppose. Assuming that this style of compliment is acceptable, I shouted “You big fat whore!” to a woman in a parking lot who almost ran over my son one day. Strangely, she did not find this flattering and took another lap around the parking lot in order to flip me the finger, which I graciously replied in kind. That’s when I noticed this nice daddy right next to me. He had an alarmed look on his face and was quickly shuffling his children into their SUV to be safely away from the “Crazy Lady.” I felt a little embarrassed and shouted “Sorry!” but mostly I felt good just to let it out. Sorry kids. This event took place in my neighborhood grocery store parking lot and I’ll just bet that every time that daddy sees me, he ducks down and whispers to the other parents in the elementary school parking lot the story of the woman with Tourette Syndrome.

Tell me why Skinny Little Bitch is more acceptable than Big Fat Whore? There are a lot of skinny haters out there. I have a dear friend who just had a baby and she was in great shape for the entire pregnancy, so she naturally snapped back into shape about four weeks after she had her little baby. Well, this just drove 90% of the female population around here crazy with jealousy. Not me, though. Perhaps it’s because of the gift she gave me.

She called me one day to see if I’d like some of her old pants she can’t wear anymore. Well, I just love her style and I’ve had some luck with her hand-me-downs before. So I said “sure.” Then she muttered her confession that these were actually her maternity pants. “What? You cannot expect me to wear your maternity pants!” She assured me that they did not look like maternity pants and she insisted that I at least try them on. When she brought them over that afternoon, I was skeptical. There was one pair that had an honest-to-God stretchy panel in front. “Jesus Christ! There is no way I’ll wear these.” Then she pleaded and pressed my vanity button. “Please, just try them on, they’ll look great on you.” I begrudgingly agreed just to prove her wrong. To my horror and astonishment, she was right. I didn’t want to keep them but they just made my butt look so great and I cannot pass up that opportunity no matter what. Plus, if I roll down the stretchy panel in front, it just feels so soft and supportive. They are now my official PMS/Eating pants. I think they’d also make great hiking pants, because I could just carry all kinds of stuff in there like a water bottle, iPod, keys, sandwich, spare socks, ad infinitum. I can also tuck my shirt inside and pull the panel way up to my bra and I look like this schizophrenic woman who used to walk around downtown on Thorazine.

A couple of years ago, when I visited Hungary and France, that’s when I became fully aware of being a freaky giant. I’m not kidding either, I’m 5’10” and I was soaring over all the men by at least half a baguette. I brought with me only two pairs of shoes: high-heeled boots that made me 6' tall and a pair of running shoes. Both of these shoes only heightened my insecurities about being a big oaf. When I walked through the streets, I felt like there should be a kettle drum behind me … Boom, boom, Boom, boom! In Europe, gym shoes are for the gym. Otherwise, you look like a big dorky American tourist with no class or style with your jeans and sneakers. It’s sort of the equivalent of wearing acid wash jeans and a Members Only jacket to an opera.

I was planning on buying a pair of European shoes upon my arrival. That would be my “treat” for my feet. In these two countries the customer service is not what we’re used to here. In America, we are practically offered hand-jobs just for walking through the front door. “Hi, I’m Mandy and if you have any questions or need any help with sizes, or colors, or fabrics, or washing, or cooking, or anything – anything at all, I’ll help you. Just please God, ask for me by name because I’m the one who greeted you and DON’T forget my name. M.A.N.D.Y. Here’s my card, my cell phone number, and my picture in case you forget what I look like by the time you get to the counter. Don’t forget, that’s Mandy rhymes with ‘Candy’ hee hee hee!”

I walked into a Paris shoe store with my hidious jeans and sneakers. I probably had spinach in my teeth and a piece of toilet paper coming out of the top of my pants too. I weighed more than I’d ever weighed, except during pregnancy. The saleswoman was a beautiful petite French woman with tussled black hair and a couture pantsuit. She looked at me as if I’d tracked dog shit into her store. A total possibility since there are no laws or manners about picking up your dog’s shit in France.

In America, women will look me up and down in order to determine who's the alpha. In Paris, they looked me up and down in order to keep their distance so that they wouldn't catch my ickyness. I used my fingers to tell her what size I wear. I held up four fingers on my left hand, and two fingers on my right. Size 42, that’s 10 in America. She sniffed the air and pointed toward the men’s department. I felt so ashamed of myself, like I’d just asked for creme for a scorching case of ass herpes or something. Store after store I searched for shoes that would help me feel less like the star of a monster movie but guess what? They don’t make shoes for gargantuan women in France, or Hungary for that matter.

When I returned back to America and complained about feeling like Big Bird in France, my husband suggested that next time I travel to Germany where people are large. So, you see its not what size you wear, its simply that you might be in the wrong country. I'll be packing my maternity hiking pants.

Women are Suckers for Little Things

2008-10-13T12:16:00.000-07:00

I love little things. All women do. We’re wired for it. It doesn’t matter what kind of little thing it is, just as long as it’s the smaller version of something larger (the exception being penises). Case in point, I was in a run-of-the-mill souvenir shop where I spotted a whole basket of tiny little Tabasco bottles about a half inch tall. I raced over to them and held it up between my thumb and middle finger and smiled. My head tilted to the side, my voice went up an octave and I said “look how cute it is!” I just knew I had to have it. I must take it home with me and make a little home for it. I wished I still had a doll house, and then I could put this little bottle of hot sauce in the pretend pantry. Then I tried to justify the purchase by pretending that I needed a miniscule bottle of Tabasco. The committee inside my head had an informal summit on the matter. It was decided by the Committee on Impulse Buying (CIB) that said bottle was not a timely purchase, as I was not formally planning any miniature Mexican fiestas.

The reason women find such pleasure in miniaturized things is because nature gave most of us this brain germ to trick us into taking care of babies and other needy little things. Baby people, baby animals, baby Tabasco, baby whatever. We’re drawn to babies. We’re such suckers. But what happens when the things get bigger?

I had my first baby 22 years ago, but before you think I’m all old and decrepit, just go take a look in the mirror. You’re no spring chicken either, you know. The first time I held him in the hospital I knew what love really was. There were no more questions in my life like: What am I here for? What’s life all about? How do I know what love is? All of the answers were snuggled in a blanket. Little feet, yellow skin, and big blue eyes. A little miniaturized person and he needed me more than anything.

Twenty-two years later, he’s all grown-up. His eyes are still bright blue, but his feet are size 13. He only needs me sometimes for problems that baffle most adults like, what do I do about insurance, where are my tax forms, and “will you tell me when birthdays are coming up?” But last week I got a call in the middle of the night from his girlfriend. They were in the E.R. and he had fluid on his brain. I knew the moment she said “emergency room” that I was going to get on an airplane and be with him. I had to. He was my little bottle of Tabasco and I simply had to have him with me.

By the time I got there, he had been released and diagnosed with Viral Meningitis and a hernia. Thank God it wasn’t bacterial meningitis, which is deadly. I stayed with them both and reminded him to take his pills. I also had other important jobs like making sure they remembered to take their rental movies back because $3.00 is $3.00 buddy! I bought them both a pair of winter boots, because you can’t go traipsing around Alaska in sneakers in October! But mostly, I was just there. I needed to be there just in case. I needed to be there for him and her. I needed to be there because, no matter how big he grows, he still needs me sometimes.

THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT TELEPHONE CALL

2008-10-07T13:31:00.000-07:00

When you get a call at 1:17am from out of state and its your son’s girlfriend saying “Sean’s in the hospital and they’re doing a spinal tap” I might make some “Do” and “Don’t” suggestions:

Should Do:

Get the name of the hospital, just in case the cell phone batteries die and you have no idea where the hell they are.

Make coffee, you’ll be up anyway.

Find a quiet place to receive your multitude of telephone calls and bring your favorite blanket and new robe that your husband got you because he’s nice.

Be calm (at least while you’re on the phone) you can freak out when you hang up.

Plan to fly there immediately, even if you cannot.

Pray. Hard.

Eat chicken taquitos and diet coke for breakfast. You'll feel better.

Call your bitches (aka supportive friends who know just the right thing to say).

Act like you’re making rational decisions when speaking with your husband about flying out that very minute.

Start some laundry, because heaven knows you’ve waited until the last minute AGAIN and the luggage sniffing dogs would surely find your period panties and bark like crazy to alert everyone in line that there is a homicidal slasher boarding the plane.

Should Not Do:

Don’t try and catch up on your sleep with a nap, as your mind will go places you never want to wander.

Don’t look up “fluid on brain” on the computer.

Don’t book a flight, just yet.

Don’t say scary things to the girlfriend because she’ll freak out too.

Don’t try and do math (this always applies to me).

Don’t forget to pray. Hard.

Here’s a quote from DrewBacca.com that spells it all out for me:

“ … dealing with some very sad family news. Its been very difficult to want to write anything funny.

Sometimes I wish I were back in second grade. Making people laugh was so effortless back then. All I had to do was stand on a chair in my classroom and say “Penis farts!” and I’d have people doubled-over screaming “Bravo!”, “Brilliant!” and “Get this man another chocolate milk!” But sadly, I’m somewhat of a grown-up now, and that material doesn’t fly so well. […] thanks or being patient with me.

Penis farts.”

The First Triathlon - Part II

2008-10-02T10:45:00.000-07:00

The continuation and finale of my two part series (read Part I first)
THE RUN

I had what I perceived to be at the time a moment of clarity. I had a stern talk with cheerleaders in my head “You’re wrong about me and you’ve been lying this whole time! You almost killed me in the swim portion, Jesus H. Christ, what’s your trip? Then, as if hanging off a lifeguard’s surfboard isn’t humiliation enough, then I get passed by old people, large people, and anything else on two wheels. The only thing I passed was the dead raccoon in the middle of the road. I’m a failure and I hate this triathlon. I’ll be happy when it’s all over because this was the biggest mistake, in public, that I’ve ever made.” So all the voices in my head that once said “You can do it - it's gonna be easy” and “It’s not about winning, it’s about finishing” walked off the job and probably went into someone else’s head where they’d be appreciated for once.

My legs felt like poorly fitting prosthetics and denied me anything but a slow draggy swagger. I looked like a drunken cowboy walking uphill in sand. Since all the cheerleaders in my head were on strike and pissed off that I was so hard on them – after all, they were just trying to help, I had nothing left to make me go. I just moved forward because I was too tired to figure out what else to do. I was in the pack mentality and I forged ahead. But inside my head there was a dimly lit “vacancy” sign.

After a quarter mile of playing the part of Zombie #8 in Night of the Living Dead, I realized that if a jogged I could end this horrible day faster. I passed a couple of tables with lovely people handing out water and power drinks to the zombies/participants. I passed signs that See Jane Run had hung upon the trees, very inspirational quotes from people like Eleanor Roosevelt, I just love her. There were the official motivators that were clapping and cheering and helping us not get lost. All these people held me up when I was empty. They told me I could do it and then, to my astonishment, my interior cheerleaders put down the strike signs, picked-up their pom-poms and walked back on the job and said “You know what, Sharon? This is getting easy and you’re running pretty fast. See all those people your passing? I think you’re going to make it!”

I ran for a while and then slowed down for a fast paced walk. A woman I don’t know went gliding past me and as she did she looked over at my worn spirit and said “You’re almost home.” I did feel close to home, not the home that I live in, but the home at the finish line and I sprung into a run that lasted the rest of the race. I ran uphill and downhill, which is what I hate the most because it always makes me pee a little. At first I was worried that all the other runners would know, but then I thought “Screw it, man. Am I going to worry about what people think of me – a bunch of total strangers? Or am I going to make this the best leg of the race?” So I went for it while the little sprinkler in my pants gently sprayed the ground behind me.

THE FINISH LINE

I could see the Finish Line and hear the cheers of the crowd. This made me run a little faster until I approached the last four official motivators and they were yelling “Only 200 more yards to go!” As I passed them and looked toward the Finish Line, I noted two women between me and the ultimate goal. I said out loud “Watch me beat those two women up there”. I put my 34” legs into full speed ahead, tucked my head down and approached them for the pass, but just as I was about to pull ahead, one of them spotted me and the race was on. We were neck and neck and just as we were about to cross the Finish Line I pulled in front and won.

I have yet to receive my Finish Line photo, but I’m afraid it will tell the whole ugly story. We’ll see what the expression on our faces will portray. I’m pretty sure I’m horrible – I can’t wait!

I completed the race in 1:35:25:3! Why so proud? Because I met my two goals: 1) finish the race and 2) beat Gina (1:38:09:7). That’s right race fans; I beat the toughest woman I know. She has kicked my ass in a lot of other departments:
1) Style and Grooming
2) Income
3) Education
4) Bad-Ass-ness
5) Math skills
6) a lot of other crap …

But on this day, I won.

BECOME A T.W.A.T. ("Tough Women Are Triathletes")

You must first understand what we are. We are women who are not afraid to try. We hold each other up and cheer each other on. We don’t allow anyone to embarrass us, we insist on embarrassing ourselves. We want other women to laugh with us along the way. We want fun.

You must also know what we are not. We are not serious athletes; we’re just plain people with hang-ups and foibles, and special gifts. We are not bad people just because we shout “Go TWAT!” and we’re not forcing you to join us. But if you want to be a T.W.A.T. you just have to do a few things:
1. Try to do a race. Any race.
2. Don’t be afraid to wear a T.W.A.T. t-shirt
3. Support other women in their goals and dreams
4. No whining or making excuses

FINALLY

I would like to send my love and gratitude to all the T.W.A.T.s for making me try harder and commit to something that I almost bailed out on, but I just couldn’t let down my team by quitting. Now I’m hooked and so are they. We are all looking forward to our next Triathlon.

Thank you to See Jane Run for making this a celebration of phenomenal women. The participants were 8 to 70 years old, and they ranged from high-ranking athletes to women kind of like us. There were the Super Jane girls in the hero costumes and they were so awesome. All of the employees and volunteers were completely into it. I wish I could be that charitable, but I’m more of a “taker” than a “giver.”

Thank you to our loyal and loving T.W.A.T. supporters which consist of our husbands who were proud of us and encouraged us to do it. Our children, who set an example for us every day just by their very existence. My best friend in the world, Kathy, who showed up and cheered me on just like she has for the last 25 years. And all our friends and enemies because we just had to prove to you all that we could do it.

And we did.

The First Triathlon - Part I

2008-09-30T14:28:00.000-07:00

I'm not the cute #273, she's "Hot Lips". I'm the one 5" taller than everyone else who looks like a dude.

My car pulls up and stops on my driveway and waits for the garage door to open. I flop out like a flaccid penis from a pair of briefs. I’m dirty, hungry, and so tired that I cannot imagine anything but laying on the couch and watching Abbott and Costello for the next 24 hours. My family gleefully bounds from the house to greet me and hear all about Mom’s first real triathlon.

I hold up my Super Jane medal strung on the red ribbon around my neck and smile. My 7-year old looks impressed and asks if I was first, second, or third. I was 642nd, no lie. There were 785 participants, so that puts me pretty low. Even though this is exactly what I would have expected, there was a secret little voice in my head the whole time I trained. It said “Hey, what if you got first place?” I know that’s completely impossible considering there are real, live athletes competing, but I just couldn’t help it.

I always believe I can do anything. This mentality is described as Optimistic or Stupid, depending on what kind of person is doing the evaluation. That’s why I almost died in the first leg.

THE SWIM
We were to swim 400 yards in open water which is pretty scary. You might be surprised at how many people asked if I’d be able to touch the bottom. So I trained more on my swimming than my bike or run. By the triathlon, I was swimming well beyond 400 yards without resting (or touching) and this led me to believe that not only could I do it, but that it would be easy for me.

Prior to the triathlon, experienced triathletes warned me to swim behind the pack and to the outside and I heard them. I believed them. Until I got in the water and said to myself “shit, this is no sweat.” The horn blew and we all started running through the gushy mucky lake bed until we were deep enough to start swimming. I was with all the T.W.A.Ts “Tough Women Are Triathletes” except for some of the youngsters (under 40) who decided to go in the previous wave.

By the time we were one-fourth through the water course, I was in what has been referred to as “the washing machine.” This is when you’re getting kicked in the face, squished on both sides, and run over from behind. There was nowhere to go and I lost my stroke and thereby lost my breath. I could not tread water, float on my back, or side stroke to rest, as I had previously planned on doing. I was being pulled down into the abyss. That’s when I spotted the lifeguard on the surfboard floating on the sidelines. She had four swimmers hanging from her board. I needed desperately to reach her, but it was like trying to swim though an elevator full of people; they just wouldn’t move. That’s when I started shouting “I’VE GOT TO GET TO THE OUTSIDE! I’VE GOT TO GET TO THE OUTSIDE” and I just plowed through the bunch of them like a lawnmower. What could I do?

I felt like giving up. I didn’t think I could finish and I was going to ask one of the lifeguards to disqualify me. That’s when I remembered how much money I sank into this. How much work I put into this. And, most importantly, how many people I talked into doing this. I couldn’t let down the T.W.A.T.s. So, after resting, then swimming, then resting again, then swimming some more, I approached the beach. I kept lowering my legs to, please God, touch the bottom. Finally I felt the familiar soft gush wrapping around my toes and I started to walk to the beach. Then I remembered that my next leg was the bike ride, but I needed to pee first. I continued to walk toward the shore and pee as fast as I could. But before I new it I looked like a Russian dancer all squatted down and stepping forward. So, to use a manly reference, I pinched it off.

I found my “Transition Area.” This is where my bike, helmet, towel, and rubber poop is. I brought my rubber poop in order to mark my territory. I guess it worked because nobody took anything. I had two transition neighbors; one of them thought it was pointless and stupid. The other one laughed and said “good one”. I think these two women accurately represent most people’s opinion of me. As I slopped up like the creature from the black lagoon on heroine, I see Nellie standing there waiting and smiling. I wasn’t sure if she was waiting for me, but we got on our gear and our bikes and headed out.

THE RIDE

I start off on the road, Nellie in front as usual, but then we heard a weird clicking from her bike and she had to pull over. I rode right past her and shouted “good luck!” It did not take me but about four pedals to realize some things. This is the order in which I realized them:
1. I should stop and help her
2. I am no help, because I’m bike-stupid
3. She was waiting for me in the transition area so we could ride together
4. This is a race, not a day at the park
5. I am a selfish bitch and very competitive, too

By the time I’ve processed these five facts, I’ve rode too far past her and its impossible to turn around. Luckily before too long she comes clicking up behind me and happily passes me. So does everyone else in my wave. Then comes the next wave and they pass me too. Because they’ve written our ages on the backs of our calves I’m fully aware that 60 year-old women are passing me now. This was probably karma for leaving Nellie on the side of the road like a bad date. Between the swim/drown and my biking skills, I’m officially getting my ass kicked.

We started up a really steep hill and I had to stand up on my pedals and grunt out the last few yards. A woman approximately 250 pounds passes me and declares “I’m sure glad I trained for this!” and I wanted to reply “Oh, well I’m really fucking glad too then!” but I didn’t have the breath.

Along the course, there were volunteers to motivate us. Now, while this kind of cheery backslapping happiness would normally make me want to roll my eyes and walk right past, I was so needy of the nourishing support, that I totally bought it. They were mostly college age kids, clapping and yelling “keep going, you’re doing great!” I loved each and every one of them and while most people just passed them by, I said "thank you" to every single one of them. They were like the people I keep in my head that tell me “I can totally do this!” except they weren’t imaginary.

After 11 miles on the bike, I had a full-on bicycle seat episiotomy. It was so sore down there that I’d lost all feeling. I rode the streets wondering if all the other women felt the same way or if, perhaps, I was special. Maybe my vagina was more fragile and bony. I would like to think of myself as very delicate down there, so I imagined that I was in more pain than anyone else.

When I got off the bike, my legs stopped working and I shouted to the cheering crowd around the gate “Where’s my legs? My legs are gone!?” I hobbled like a 10-month old baby toward the Transition Area for the last leg of the race.

…. Tomorrow I’ll continue with THE RUN and THE FINISH and supply pictures of the T.W.A.T.s with some of our favorite T.W.A.T. supporters. You’ll also learn about this marvelous event that, in the end, changed my life and the lives of all the T.W.A.T.s and how you can become a T.W.A.T. too!

The Dutchess of Dork

2008-09-28T12:17:00.000-07:00

I arrived at a bay area blogger mixer hosted by CBS5 Eye on Blogs and got great parking. When you’re in San Francisco and you get a free parking place around the corner from your destination, you just know it is a great omen that fantastic things are to come. For the most part, it was fantastic. Except that I’m a total dork.

First let me say that I hate big crowds and big parties. Most people who meet me think I’d be a lot of fun at a party. I’m not. I don’t even drink. I prefer what I call “Intimate Gatherings with a few Friends.” I don’t even go to concerts because I think everyone’s looking at me when I’m dancing and judging me by how well I lip sync the words to Roxanne. In other words, if you want to have a cup of coffee with someone for two hours and have an in-depth discussion followed by laughing so hard you have to run to the bathroom: I’m your girl. If you’re looking for someone to go to a mixer: I’m not it!

I needed to take a grown-up with me. Luckily I had Alison St. Sure of surefoodsliving.com to accompany me. She’s one of those people who’s not afraid of parties and is probably well-connected. Her website is all about living gluten-free and also focuses on food allergies. Since my daughter has multiple food allergies, we always have a lot to share. I’ve sent so many people to her with stomach problems that she probably is starting to think I’m making people sick. I might be, but most likely its something related to what they’re eating. So she’s my “Go To” for food information.

This is why the Blogger event was so amazing to me. I really enjoyed myself. The host Brittney Gilbert went out of her way to go around the room and talk to us Bloggers. She seemed really interested in everything and everyone. That’s her job, to learn about Bay Area Bloggers and aggregate that information on her blog. This is an excellent source for people who want to read blogs, but don’t want a bunch of boring shit. Apparently CBS5 had some blackmail material on the newscasters because they were mingling around making small talk with people like me instead of going home to their families. Or maybe it was the free food and alcohol. In any event, I was like a little kid. I’m such a dork that all it takes is being on television and I’m all “Oh my God, I’ve seen you on T.V.!” If I had an autograph book, I totally would have had them sign it. Thinking back, I could have had them sign my arm. Shit!

The first people I recognized from television were the Muni Ladies who were recently unmasked on another local news program. Until then, they were blogging anonymously but they’ve become such a huge world-wide hit, that they decided to come out. So when I spotted them across the room; it was sort of like when my daughter spots Winnie the Pooh at Disneyland. I just couldn’t wait to meet them. I probably wanted them to hug me and have a picture taken. Then, Oh My God, Joe Vasquez, one of CBS’s anchor newsmen came up to Alison, the Muni Ladies and me and asked if we’d like to see the newsroom. I know I was too rambunctious and chatty but I just couldn’t contain myself. I played in the newsroom and stood in front of the green screen where they shoot weather reports and pretended that I was doing a forecast for a hurricane. I love playing pretend.

After I returned from my make-believe world of newsroom reporting, I made myself meet people. I told me that I had to be a grown-up and start making friends. I remembered something I read in a book called “How to Make Friends and Influence Others.” Dale Carnegie suggests you ask people questions about themselves. This is pretty easy to do at a blogger mixer since we all had our blog names on our name tags. It was easy for me to chit-chat with Biggie from lunchinabox.net because I have to pack creative lunches for my daughter with food allergies every single day. No hot lunches for her, ever. The thing about Biggie is that she is completely and totally devoted to her site. One might even say …. Obsessed. But, that’s not a bad thing. I wish I could be that focused on just one thing for more than a week.

My favorite person was Desiree with lookiloos.com. She would be someone I’d hang out with. She laughed at my jokes and that made points with me. We hit the room and decided to meet people together. That’s when it happened. I just knew there’d be a camera there and I’d fuck everything up and it must have been a self-fulfilled prophecy. The man with the camera said “Say your name, your blog name, and why people should visit it.” Oh but I just couldn’t keep it that nice and clean, could I? So it happened, I became the Dutchess of Dork. This is the video that represents what happens to me when I panic. I don’t cry, or shrink, I … well I kind of spaz out.

If you watch the video, you’ll see about 20 bloggers calmly giving simple messages. I’m in the last chunk of interviews. You’ll recognize me because I’m pretending to cry and announce myself as an alcoholic. You have to realize that I had about one minute to prepare and I was “trying” to be funny. My husband cracked up when he saw it. My friend Leslie seems a little concerned about my reputation. But I have to say this: Its the real me. Take me or leave me.

The Dark Secrets of a Blogging Event

2008-09-25T15:14:00.000-07:00

I’m going to my very first Blogger event tonight. I would equate this feeling with going on a blind date except worse. I’m putting way too much pressure on myself to look professional, yet elegantly casual. So I selected some jeans that are entirely too tight for a woman my age. I wanted to wear a shirt that really reflects who I am, so I’m wearing a t-shirt with my elementary school name and mascot (pterodactyl) on it. A little red jacket tops it all off and matches my red high heel sandals that make me 6 foot tall, exactly. Being that these are open toe, I’m painting my toenails and, because I’m ethically against having pedicures, I’m forced to do it myself and make it look like I’ve had a pedicure which is even more unethical.

Not able to leave well enough alone, I could not resist popping what would have been an absolutely invisible zit on my chin. Now it is an oozing pink crater that I have to keep dabbing with toilet paper. I’ve used a shitload of cover-up both on my chin and under my eyes to cover the dark circles and age spots – I want to look alert and youthful. Then I’ve applied a coating of powder all over my face to absorb anything shiny. After that, I’ve topped it all off with mineral powder so that I look … well shiny, I guess.

I’ve shaved my legs, armpits, and mustache. I’ve double coated my deodorant. It's not until something like this arises that I’m aware of how blissfully unaware I am of the details of my body. I’ve trimmed the jagged fingernails and filed them neatly into rounded edges. I’ve left the remnants on the bathroom floor.

I couldn’t get any business cards printed in time so I bought a deck of playing cards and put stickers on them with my blog name and address on them. “Please, take a card. Any card” I’ll say and I’m sure everyone will think I’m hysterically witty. Or, they’ll think I’m a total hobby blogger who broke into their important party. They’ll ask me to leave and thank me for my interest. I’ll end up waiting in the car for my friend. She’s a “real” blogger so they’ll let her stay.

I’m going to go into this with an attitude. I’ll be all “Hey, take me or leave me baby. I am who I am” and then I’ll rush into the bathroom to ask God to help me act like a grown-up and also to please make my zit stop oozing. There will probably be television crews there trying to see into the dark world of a blogger and they’ll ask me for an interview. I’ll be pleased to oblige and my heart will race with the anticipation of being offered such a chance for self promotion. In the middle of the interview my nose will start running and I’ll forget the name of my blog.

Just like a blind date, I want to be wanted. But I don’t want to be wanted too much. I am trying to be noticed, without sticking out. My stomach hurts and I’ve no appetite. I’m going out the door now in plenty of time to stop for a Starbucks to give me a little pick-me-up then I’ll go pick-up my prescription for anti-anxiety medication.

Now I must stop blogging so that I can rush over there and wait until I can arrive fashionably late.

The Perfect Marriage

2008-09-22T12:55:00.000-07:00

If all goes as planned and I don’t ruin everything, Kent and I will be celebrating our 12th year of marriage next month. We picked October to get married because it’s National Disaster Month and we love, love, love disasters, especially the natural kind. I know that sounds disgusting and selfish so perhaps I should say that we’re extremely fascinated and excited by all the facets of everything hitting the fan all at once. Is that nicer?

There is a benefit to knowing people like us and when there’s any disaster or fire around here we get lots of phone calls from friends and family. We have generators, flashlights, emergency medical equipment, giant rubber waders, beef jerky, handy wipes, and all kinds of scanners and radios. We know much of what’s going on and how to handle it. We thrive on it.

One of my favorite dates with Kent was on New Year’s Eve a few years ago. There had been heavy rain and flood warnings for a few days. The excitement was building in the community thanks to the news and their fancy graphics and sound effects zapping the Average Joe At Home with message after message of: “FLOODWATCH 2005” and “STORMWATCH ‘05”. The newspeople had their predictable cautionary warnings and candid interviews with dirty wet cold people who were preparing for the worst by schlepping around sandbags and tarps trying to save their pretty river homes. Sometimes I looked closely at the weatherman to see if he’s got a hard-on from all the weather drama. He lives for this kind of shit. Especially here in California where, in terms of weather, we’re kind of ho-hum.

That night, we saw the new King Kong movie which was a real movie. It’s the kind of movie that I come out of and say “Now that was a movie!” It was about 11:00 and raining so heavy we could barely see through the windows. I had my little SUV in 4-wheel drive and it was getting hard to maneuver. So, we did the only sane thing to do: We went home at got the truck … and the handheld police/fire scanner. We grabbed our rain gear too and asked my son if he wouldn’t mind watching the girls for just a bit longer so we could go out and drive around in the storm. He rolled his eyes, gave a smirk, and said “Sure, go live it up.”

As we drove down the highway, we’d make waves so big they’d hit the side windows of our Ford F-150. I had the wipers on high and Kent was listening to the scanner. Our night came to a climax when we heard about a mudslide into a house nearby. We headed over to view the activity. Sure enough, in the middle of the night, a wall of mud had slid right through this lady’s house. The ambulance was taking her away when we got there. Luckily she had not been hurt, just shaken-up. Really I must say that as much as Kent and I do love action, we never want anyone to get hurt. I may be revealing this fact about us a little too late, for your opinions of us may have already formed. But it’s true, we always want to help people so it’s really just the opposite of horrible.

There were firefighters, cops, newspeople, power and electric employees, neighbors in their nightgowns, and us. Kent and Sharon out on the perfect date. Barely talking except for the occasional question I’d have for him. It was heaven. You see, when we fell in love many years ago, we worked together as firefighters in a small town. I admired him from afar as being the smartest nicest grown-up I’ve ever met. I wanted to be his friend so that I could be more like him. I don’t think I ever became more like him, and he’s never become more like me. But we fit together perfectly. It’s been a wonderful disaster.

Moms = 1; Ungrateful Children = 0

2008-09-20T10:08:00.000-07:00

Here’s a story for every mom who drew the line.

My seven-year old daughter is involved in a show. Did I say show? I meant EXTRAVAGANZA because that is what it truly is. It’s a two hour show and we’re doing five of them over two weekends. The hours of preparation are unimaginable. Many of the moms are going to pursue their lifelong dreams of becoming petty thieves, as they’ve been relieved of the bondage of fingerprints, courtesy of hot glue gun projects.

Its an outdoor show and our dressing rooms are tents and easy-ups There are four dressing domains: 1) the Big Girls Tent and I’ve no idea what goes on in there but they’re in the coveted spot right behind the stage and they have a real floor. Nobody wants to piss off a teenage girl, so we just let them be. Then there are the In-Between Girls and they have the biggest tent. If you’ve ever tried to get a 12-year old ready in time for school, you’ll already know why they need a large space. We have some Boys and Men in the show and they’ve landed an indoor changing area. At first I thought this was a travesty. I wondered why they would get the best dressing room in the show, as if greater income potential wasn't enough. That is, until I attended the first event and noticed that their dressing room is also the walkway from the audience to the backstage. Therefore, they’re usually doing their costume changes with women and children running through their space. Don’t worry; they’re all wearing Speedos or something.

Then there are the Little Girls. That’s us. We have the best tent, even though it’s the smallest. Our battery operated lanterns dangle from the poles by ponytail holders. Our floors are a conglomeration of tarps, blankets, and old carpet pieces. The tent is 15 x 15 and there are nine girls and their mothers in the tent at once. Our group has seven costume changes that include clothing, headpieces, and props. Some of the costume changes are less than two minutes, making this tent a tornado of bobby pins and lipstick.

All the performers and backstage parents arrive approximately two and a half hours before the show. With all this time on our hands, we are obligated to throw ourselves a party. Last night we had wine and champagne, bottled bubbly water, sushi, homemade lumpia, kettle corn, crudités, baby heirloom tomatoes, and feta stuffed olives. This is also where we apply our daughters’ stage make-up. When you’re seven years old, you need a lot of glitter and blue stuff on your eyes in order to perform correctly.

Because we must be there for such an extraordinary amount of time before the show, we the mothers want to feed our girls to prevent pre-show breakdowns and scorn from other mothers who’ve noticed that we don’t feed our kids. But the girls are all excited and running around with their sparkly blue make-up and hair buns, they’re making up games to play and sneaking around and peeing in bushes. They don’t want to stop and take a bite of anything that remotely resembles something possibly a little bit healthy. But we try, bless our little mommy hearts, we try.

One mom walks past me with a plate. On this plate were two warm cheesy pieces of pizza. I admonished her for not bringing enough for everyone, because that’s just rude to stomp around with a plate of warm cheesy pizza in front of me. As I’ve mentioned before on numerous posts, I love, love, love pizza because I never, ever get it. Sweetly she offered this plate of love to her daughter who was darting past her with her gang of other little girls. Stopped in her tracks, her daughter looked at her like she had a hairball hanging out of her nose and said “I hate pizza” and tried to scoot out of there to catch up with the gang. Mom and daughter lovingly discussed the pros and cons of eating some nourishment before the show. It went something like “Look, if you don’t eat this pizza now, you’re going to be hungry later and don’t come crying to me!” The daughter scoffed at such a ridiculous prediction and rejected the love-on-a-plate.

This has been the threat handed down for generations. We all heard it as kids and we’ve all said it as parents. Yet, we mostly just give in later and buy them a bag a chips just so they’ll stop that incessant whining campaign. After we’ve slaved and saved and microwaved our brains out just to bring them something warm and yummy. They don’t care because children are completely ungrateful and don’t deserve us, most of the time. There’s always a piece of something that looks weird or its touching something else so they refuse it. They reject us, as parents and caretakers. We are thrown out of the car on the freeway of life. Tumbling to the side of the road and they don’t care.

Later that evening, I’m in the changing tent and I hear the little pizza hater say to her friend “Can I have a piece, I’m starving.” Her tone was both pleading and pathetic. The other little girl says flatly “no” and I look over to see what she is asking for and that’s when it happened. Karma! The Girl was asking for a piece of … Pizza!

So poetic was this moment that it had to be reported secretly to the mother. The threat paid off and she lived through it. If the mom had been standing there, I’m sure the little girl would have never admitted her hunger nor her desire for a piece of pizza. But I was the spy and the informant and I couldn’t wait to tell Mom that it was a complete success. We Won! The Moms Won. It wasn’t just a win for her; it was a win for all mothers everywhere. So, I’m dedicating this post to her, for her perseverance and mostly because she let me eat her daughter’s pizza.