Gardening

I loathe vegetation.  I have no desire to grow anything green or flowery or prickly.  I do not enjoy the sight of living green plants in my home or in my yard.  I have no primordial urge to cultivate plants.

I have a theory about you gardening type people.  I believe in former lives, you were all peasants, mucking about in the soil, growing potatoes for the lucky folks in the big house.  Your urge today to get out in your yard and turn up soil and grow things is a primitive urge to return to your roots.  I believe in my former life, I lived in the big house, waiting to be served everything you people grew.  No offense; that’s just the way it is.

I don’t like digging in the dirt.  It’s nasty.  Worms live in the dirt.  The couple of times I have tried to garden, I end up getting eaten by ants.  I always see some unpleasant winged thing, crawling madly away when I unearth it.  Dirt is gross.  I won’t even go into hookworms and other parasites lurking just beneath the surface of the earthy loam, waiting to burrow their way into your skin so they can feed off of your blood.  Make sure you wear your gardening gloves!!

I don’t like flowers or plants.  They have to be fed and watered.  There are already too many things in my life I have to feed and water.  I have three children, four dogs and a husband.  I don’t need some stupid pansies to add to my burden.

I kill plants.  Long time readers will remember the chia pet I murdered.  It’s not a good idea to give me a plant because under my care, it will come to a bitter and painful end.  On that note, let me offer up as evidence the petunias on my porch.

I didn’t even know they were petunias.  I had to ask Nancy what they were.  The only flowers I can recognize without help are pansies.  Everything else blends together. 

So I have these petunias, and my son was watering them faithfully and they were beautiful.  Then he stopped watering them.  I would look at them occasionally and think I ought to do something about them, but something else would come up, like Pogo.  So the petunias got a little droopy.

In fact, they turned brown and withered down to nothing.  I was ok with this, since Halloween is just around the corner and dead plants lend a certain ambience to the house.  But their poor withered souls bothered Nancy. 

One day we were sitting on the porch, waiting for the school bus to bring the little monsters home, and she said “I think if you pull off the dead stuff, those will come back.”

“Really?” I asked languidly.  In this scene, it is obvious who is the peasant and who is the lady of the manor.  My older daughter happened to be home that afternoon, and hearing Nancy’s suggestion, she eagerly attacked the flowers, hoping to aid in their resurrection.  She definitely has some peasant blood, but from her father’s side, of course.  She pulled out all the dead, brown strands and there wasn’t much left in the pot.  But Nancy assured me they would come back.

Within the week, Nancy’s prediction came true, and the petunias were once again blooming gloriously.  I was overcome and I even watered them once.  They were so pretty.

Unfortunately, they had a little setback.  My brother in law was over and the ice machine was stuck.  A large clump of ice had frozen over the top of it, so he chipped it off and presented me with the clump of ice. 

“What do you want me to do with this?” he asked.

“Oh, go throw it in the flowers in the front,” I said.  “They need to be watered.”  What scares me about this exchange is I truly thought it was a great idea.  After all, we’re in a drought, so the flowers should be given the ice, right?  I am so conservation minded!  He looked at me dubiously, but complied.  Which is even scarier, when you think about it.

The next day, I noticed the petunias were turning brown again.

“Nancy, they don’t look so good,” I said to her during our afternoon bus waiting ritual.

“You probably need to water them,” she said.

“No, I threw a bunch of ice in there yesterday, so they should be good,” I replied.

She looked at me in disbelief.  “YOU WHAT????”

Her tone conveyed to me that ice might not have been such a good idea.

“Well, um, I had this ice and well I just thought…..” I dwindled off into silence.

She looked at me kindly.  “You know how the first frost KILLS everything???  Well you frosted these flowers.”

“oh,” I said.  “So will they come back if we pull of the dead stuff again??” I knew I was reaching.

“No, Jennifer,” she said, “you’ve killed them.”

So there it is.  I am a two-time murderer.  The plant world cringes when it hears my name; I am a mass murderer.  My picture is probably up in garden departments all over town:  WANTED FOR MURDER!!  If I walk through the doors of the Lowe’s garden department, they probably have orders to blast me with a hose full of Weed Be Gone!!

I asked Nancy what I could put in the pots after I pulled out the dead petunias.  She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, and then suggested some nice plastic flowers.  Peasant! 

Hormonal and Hostile!!!!!

Some days are easier than others.  Some days, I go with the flow, carried along by the sweeping current of my life, content to live and let live.  Other days, I am filled with hostility, feeling rage toward the other inhabitants of my personal sphere.  Some days I am simply (cue the dramatic music…) HORMONAL!!

My descent into rage started out simply enough, with me driving down the road, going to pick up my mother in law to take her to the doctor.  A car with a handicap tag pulled in front of me and proceeded to drive 38 miles under the speed limit.  We came to a light and stopped.  The driver began applying make-up.  The light turned green, but she was busy adding another coat of shellac.  I honked the horn, feeling my corneas start to heat up, and she began rolling forward at the speed of a comatose snail.  I felt rage.

But I simply swerved around her and continued on my way.  I could have rammed her car repeatedly, causing the mascara wand to jam itself in her eye and lodge in her questionable gray matter.  But then she would have become a drain on society and I am too thoughtful to inflict that on my fellow Americans.  So I went around her.

I picked up my mother in law with no further incidents and drove her to the doctor.  I let her out at the door and then began a ten minute odyssey around the parking lot, looking for a space.  I felt like the pilot of a jumbo jet, circling the runway, waiting for clearance from the tower.  I eyed the senior citizens on walkers with no mercy.  In the parking lot, Darwin rules and only the strongest will park.  I finally jammed my fat Suburban ass into a parking space designed for a Toyota Camry.  With plenty of room to spare on both sides.  I know how to park my gas guzzling, environmentally damaging SUV thank you very much.

We spent two hours at the doctor’s office.  Two hours of my life drifted away, like sands in the hourglass, while I read a two month old copy of Entertainment Weekly and played video games on my cell phone.  Two hours which could have been spent productively playing Pogo were wasted.  Although I am glad I was able to take her to the doctor, since she really was very sick.

I drove my mother in law home and got her settled.  Then I went to get my 12 yo daughter, who had spent the night out with a friend who conveniently lives on the other side of town.  I drove down the ramp onto the interstate and started to merge into traffic.  The semi that had been moving over to make room for me decided to suddenly swerve back into my lane, nearly clipping my back bumper.  I had visions of my Suburban flipping end over end across the interstate with me cursing the truck driver in the foulest language available with my last breaths.  I see it as a cartoon, with my wispy soul departing my mangled body and heading skyward, my lips still forming the words “F*** YOU!!!!” Fortunately, he missed me, but it only amped up my rage.

I drove over to get my daughter who was unhappy to see me and not afraid to let me know it.  We drove in stony silence, me contemplating my empty belly.  I had eaten a very small bowl of Fruity Pebbles much earlier in the day and I had not eaten since then.  So we made a detour through Arby’s. 

I like Arby’s.  I can think outside the bun or whatever they say on that stupid commercial.  And what is better, more pure, than an Arby’s roast beef sandwich?  So I pulled up to the drive thru speaker and a cheerful female voice immediately chirped “Welcome to Arby’s May I Take Your Order?”   She had no sooner gotten out the last syllable when a very impatient male voice said “please wait a moment”. 

I was confused, as anyone would be.  Should I order or not?  Which voice should I listen to?  Was I becoming schizophrenic?  I waited a few minutes and then I timidly said “Hello??”

“Ma’am, I asked you to Wait Just a Minute,” the impatient male voice barked.

Whoa!!  The Arby’s man was copping an attitude with me!!  All the frustrations of the day began to boil and churn inside of me and I stared at the ordering machine thingy with growing hostility.  I guess I should have driven away, but I was damned if Arby’s man would get the best of me.

A few minutes passed and he came back and said “May I take your order?” 

Yes, all the way to HELL, I thought to myself, but I was calm and ordered two roast beef sandwiches and two drinks. 

“That will be $11, please drive to the window,” he said.

To say I was shocked is an understatement.  I could have gotten a steak for that price.  I decided I had misheard him, so I drove up to the window.

The little doors opened and he said “that will be eleven dollars and forty cents.”

So I did mishear him!!!  It was even more than I thought!!!

I looked at him skeptically and said “for two sandwiches and two drinks?”

He ripped the receipt off sharply and handed it to me.  “Two Arbys roast beef at $3.89 each and two drinks at $1.49.”  He gave me a smug look that I positively wanted to slap off of his face.  Jackass.

He handed me my drinks, which were NOT in official Arby’s cups.  They were so SMALL!!  “These are mediums???” I asked, but he did not answer.  He handed my the bag with our million dollar sandwiches and intoned “thank you for coming to Arby’s hope you enjoy your food come back and see us again.”  Like HELL I will!!!

On the drive thru window was a small sticker with an 800 number and an invitation to call with compliments or concerns.  On a normal day, I would have ignored the sticker.  On a normal day, I would have turned up the radio and driven away.  But this was not a normal day.  I had already dealt with the handicapped mascara applier.  I had already circled a parking lot like a great white barracuda, menacing senior citizens for a parking spot.  I had very nearly been launched into orbit by an 18 wheeler.  To let Arby’s Man win was more than I could bear. 

My hand moved of its own accord, dialing the number before I could even think it through.  Trembling with rage, sipping my lemonade from my tiny cup, I waited for the beep so I could leave my comment.  As soon as the recorded spiel ended, I began my comment:  “Um, I just ordered from the drive through at store number 2790 and well, the service was the worst I’ve ever had and, well, um, that man was so mean and the sandwiches were really expensive too.  Just thought you might want to know.”

As I hung up, I really did feel better.  After all, the alternative to the call would have been to go on a homicidal rampage in the Arby’s and I was not really dressed for it.  Trust me, my friends would have ripped me to shreds when they saw me on CNN.  “I can’t BEE-lieve she wore that outfit on a homicidal rampage,” they would say among themselves.  “And poor thing, look how bloated she is.  Arby’s man should have known better.  Bless her heart!!”

I have to go now and pick up my mother in law’s prescription.  I hope the people at Wal-Greens’s are prepared!

Fun With a Decapitated Stranger!

You might think once a stranger has been decapitated his usefulness is done.  After all, what joy can be found in a stranger with no head?  The Goddess and Dubya, however, continued to amuse themselves with him this morning.

As we walked to the bus stop, the stranger’s head lay in the front yard and his natty tuxedo was several feet away.  The goddess deposited her book bag at the bus stop, swallowed the rest of her nutritious powdered sugar donut, and ran for his remains.

Here are some suggestions for decapitated stranger games:

1.     Pick up his head and menace the other kids at the bus stop with his creepiness.

2.     Pick up his tuxedo and practice your dance moves with him.  The goddess worked on the tango and the waltz, in the middle of the street of course.  I considered getting her IQ tested after I watched her tango up and down the street with an empty black tuxedo.  Or maybe some intensive therapy.  For me. 

3.     Play kick the head.  One of the older boys found great pleasure in drop kicking the head to see how far it would go.  I think this one just might sweep across the playgrounds of America!  

4.     Twirl the head around like a helicopter.  The string at the top of his head is excellent for that purpose.  JH wielded the head fearlessly, twirling it in the air like a gothic numchuk.  The other kids backed away and stared in awe.  Eat your heart out Jackie Chan! 

5.     Lead a macabre death parade.  The goddess brought me the two pieces of the stranger and I discovered he was easily mended by fastening the velcro around his neck.  Her delight was such you would have thought I had given her a year’s supply of candy.  She hugged him and then marched off, the other kids falling into line behind her.  It was one of those really proud moments, me watching the goddess assert herself as the Queen of the macabre death parade….

It all ended abruptly when JH darted out of line and snatched the stranger away from the goddess.  She keened and wailed and ran to me in despair.  The stranger had suddenly become her best friend, her raison d’etre, the light of her world and his loss was affecting her greatly.  She threw her arms around me and I tried to peel her off, muttering at her to shut up, it was just a stupid vampire.  I never once saw Carol Brady comfort Cindy over the loss of her best vampire friend.

JH came over and returned the stranger to the goddess and her tears magically dried.  She clasped the gruesome thing to her bosom and hugged him.  And I knew then it was time to seek intensive electroshock therapy for both of us.  Immediately.  If she tells me she wants to sleep with it tonight, I am outta here! 

Stranger Danger

I have spent many hours warning my children about strangers.  We have the Berenstain Bears book about stranger danger.  I have warned them repeatedly that adults who say they are looking for a puppy are really looking for a child to cut up and cook in a pot.  Ok, so I have an overactive imagination, but the point is, we talk about strangers.

Today, the goddess was playing with a couple of buddies in the front yard, Nancy’s son W. and Gina’s daughter, the czarina.  Gina and I were sitting in the kitchen, methodically eating the contents of my pantry and commisserating about PMS weight gain, when the front door crashed open. 

“Jennifer,” W. called out, “a stranger in a car just drove by.”  I immediately got up, prepared to confront the vile child predator stalking them, when he added “and he WAVED at me.”

I have to admit, that decreased my sense of urgency, but I went ahead outside to check the situation.  The girls were lying in the grass, evidently trying to blend into the lawn.  Since they were, respectively, wearing purple and black, it wasn’t working. 

“Mommy,” the goddess called, “we saw a STRANGER!!!”

“What did he do?” I asked.

“He waved at us,” W. answered cheerfully, “and then we called him a stupid poo poo head.”  They dissovled into giggles.

“Well, next time, don’t call him anything because he may decide to come and get you,” I warned them darkly.  I then gave them a refresher course on what to do if a car should stop, then I went back inside.

A few minutes later, the czarina came in to get some water and she told us “We’re having stranger practice.”  She finished her water and wandered back outside.

I looked at Gina.  “Ok, I have to know how you have stranger practice,” I said, getting up again.  She followed me and we went to the front door.  Unfortunately, the goddess caught sight of us and frowned heavily, so we moved to a window to watch.

Apparently, it was W’s turn to be the stranger.  This involved manipulating the scary vampire that had been hanging off the front porch rail, waiting to by hung in a tree.   He looked a little like this: 

The goddess and the czarina pretended to be playing innocently in the front yard.  I am not making this up.  The goddess pretended to be jumping rope and the czarina was doing a sort of weird skipping thing.  I looked at Gina in exasperation. 

“Normal children play hide and seek,” I said.  “Our children play stranger practice!!!”

The stranger glided menacingly up the hill toward his unsuspecting victims.  The victims continued to jump rope and skip and hop and generally act like a couple of doofuses (doofi??).  Suddenly the stranger swooped in and attacked the goddess.  She fell backwards to the ground, eyes wide with horror.  As the stranger swung in the air around her, she karate kicked him repeatedly until he finally admitted defeat.  The czarina watched placidly from her resting spot on the ground where she had thrown herself when the stranger approached.

With the stranger dispatched, the goddess wanted her turn as stranger.  A scuffle ensued between she and W, but she eventually wrested the stranger away from him and headed down the hill.   W and the czarina began the fake play weirdness, pretending to be innocent children. 

The stranger zeroed in on the czarina first and she fell to the ground.  The stranger swooped in the air around her and she gave a few feeble kicks and then expired.  By now Gina and I were laughing hysterically and my twelve year old daughter had also wandered in to watch the show.  It was way better than anything on Disney Channel.

With the czarina dead, the stranger turned to W and stalked toward him.  W fell to the ground and began kicking a lot more energetically and soon he and the goddess were engaged in a life and death struggle with the stranger, or for the stranger, as the case may be.  Then it happened, something so horrifying it pains me to blog it here:  THE STRANGER’S HEAD CAME RIGHT OFF HIS SHOULDERS!!!!

Gina and I immediately began howling with laughter.  The kids couldn’t see us, but I could see, even from a distance, the look of panic on the goddess’s face.  She and W began trying to stuff the stranger’s head back on, but it was no use.  He was well and truly decapitated.  About that time, she looked up and made eye contact with me and realized that I knew her secret.  It’s no surprise she saw us, since we were laughing loudly enough to set off seismographs.

The stranger game broke up after that.  It’s hard to take the stranger seriously when he is nothing but a black cape on a string, his head lying in the yard a few feet away.  The czarina went home and the goddess and W started playing something else.  But for today, we can rest safely in our beds, knowing the stranger has been vanquished.  I need to make sure I get his head out of the front yard before the lawn guys come next week!

Oh That Modern Art!

Someone help me please!!!!  Please help me understand “art” because I don’t get it at all!  I thought I had seen it all when I stumbled across the million dollar shark in the tank.  But those crazy Brits always seem to have one more eccentric tucked away for my reading pleasure!

Today I was sitting in the thinking room, thumbing through the latest issue of People.  It’s my one guilty pleasure; I know it’s trampy, but I love reading about the goings on of Tom and Katie and Posh and Becks.  It makes my own life seem a little less ridiculous.

Anyway, a small article in the back of the magazine caught my eye.  It was entitled “Itsy Bitsy Art” and it is about an artist who carves micro sculptures.  Seriously, he carves things small enough to fit on the head of a pin.  They are meticulously crafted and take him several months to create. 

I have to admit, they are very cute, but can you really compare him to Rodin if you need a microscope to admire his work?  Evidently the British think so because some dude just insured his collection for $22 million. 

Now here is my problem with it.  The article I read a couple of months ago in the Wall Street Journal said insurers were reluctant to insure art of a transient nature.  In the People article, the micro-artist recounts a story in which, while attempting to place a teensy Alice in Wonderland inside the eye of the needle, the artist accidentally inhaled her. 

Yep, that’s what I said, he snorted poor Alice!  Lends some credence to that 70’s drug song about Alice and all those bottles!  The article did not mention whether he had to seek medical attention or not, but I would dearly love to read the doctor’s transcription if he did.  “Patient states inhaled Alice in Wonderland while placing her in the eye of needle.  Follow up pending full tox screen.  Psychiatric consult has been advised.”

Well, if your art can accidentally be inhaled by anyone, should it be insured?  How do you submit a claim for that?  “I was dusting my miniature Statue of Liberty and I accidentally inhaled it and dude, it was like, so wicked awesome!!  great shit man!!!”

I want to know how to get in on this art gig.  It sounds  a lot easier than anything else out there.  And if it rots or you inhale it, the insurance will pay up with no questions asked! 

What’s On Your Book Shelf??

I really am superior to everyone else when it comes to performing heroic acts of idiocy.  I keep thinking one day I will wake up and overnight I will have been transformed into a competent adult.  So far, though, this has not happened and I remain hopelessly inept at everyday living.

Last week, I got a Shelfari invitation from Anne Glamore over at Tales From My Tiny Kingdom.  I am an avid reader.  I am in three different book groups and I read all the time.  So the Shelfari thing appealed to me because I can keep track of what I’ve read.  I can also wow others with the breadth of my literary accomplishments.  I just have to make sure I leave off the bodice rippers! 

I immediately joined and started exploring the site.  I clicked on the Friends tab and the site invited me to enter my email address so I could see which of my friends were already using Shelfari.  Right about here, the cautious and wise person would have said “no thank you” and hit the back button on the browser.

But me, I was as giddy as a child.  More reading friends??  More people to pester via internet??  My password was entered in the blink of an eye and there was my address book. 

Now being the brain surgeon I am, I saw the first two names and coincidentally, it was the people I was going to invite anyway.  So I hit SEND.  And logged off the internet and forgot about it.

Twenty minutes later, my phone rang.  It was an acquaintance who almost never calls me.  “Hey,” she said, “If I click on this link, will my computer blow up?”

“Whaaaaat?” I asked in confusion.

“This Shelfari thing,” she said.

Now I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but I’m not stupid either.  I realized immediately what had happened.

“OH SHIT,” I said and ran to the computer and booted it up.  Sure enough, there were twenty emails already, regarding the Shelfari invite.  It turns out that all email addresses are pre selected by Shelfari, and you have to scroll all the way down to the bottom to DE-select them.  I sort of missed that step!

I don’t know how your email works, but mine keeps every email address to which I have ever sent a message.  Well over 200 invites went out, many to people I don’t even know.  The Juliette Low Birthplace, for example, received an invitation from me to join Shelfari.  I am sure they are rushing, even now, to post all of their favorites on Shelfari.  The help desk at AOL got a personal invite, as did the troubleshooting people at Gateway.  I’m only sorry I didn’t have Habib’s personal email address, because I would have sent him one too!

It doesn’t end there.  Oh no, the humiliation has to be dragged out even further.  Shelfari sent a helpful NUDGE to all those innocent people today, reminding them to sign up and be my friend.  How pathetic does this make me, that a random computer site is begging people to befriend me??  I got a few confused responses today, from people wondering just who in the hell I am, one very crabby response and several favorable ones from people I DON’T KNOW!!!

To all of them, I sent a heartfelt apology, explaining that the medication I am taking to treat my recently diagnosed brain tumor makes me confused and prone to error.  I promised them all that I will never forward anything again without first running it by my hospice nurse, my therapist, and my parole officer.

So join Shelfari!!!  Why the Hell not???  Just make sure you don’t invite half the free world to join with you!

It Came From the Fridge!!!!

I cleaned out the refrigerator today and violated rule number 32 of the Happy  Housewives code:  Never Open a Container That Has Been In There For Longer Than a Month.

There was a container in my refrigerator that said Great Value Fat Free Sour Cream.  I knew I hadn’t bought it.  I don’t shop at Wal-Mart.  I never buy fat free sour cream.  Why anyone on the planet would buy it is beyond me.  I buy full fat everything and I will die happy, with my arteries clogged full of goo.  But that’s not the point.

The point is this container has been in my refrigerator for quite awhile.  Since I didn’t recognize it, I did what any self respecting homeower would do and I simply shifted it from spot to spot and cleaned around it.  I guess in the back of my mind, I was hoping one of you might come over and reclaim it. 

All this time, I have assumed it contained fat free sour cream.  What else would it be?  Jimmy Hoffa?  The Rosetta Stone?  Or something a bit more menacing?

Today I picked up the container and looked at it for the first time.  The sell by date was Jan 2007.  I don’t know if you realize it, but that was some time ago.  So I decided no matter what the contents were, it needed to go.  I set it on the counter and it stared at me.

I tried to continue cleaning the fridge, but I could feel it taunting me, daring me to open it and see what lived inside.  I kept cleaning, doggedly determined not to give in to its evil siren song.  I knew that to open it would be to open the gates of Hell, from whence an unholy stench of decay would issue forth.  So I ignored it.

But it persisted in taunting me, whispering “open me up, I am good….so good…you will love me….you want to see me….you know you do…..” and I felt myself weakening. 

“How bad can it be?” I thought to myself.  “It can’t be worse than the pancake mix of death.”  With those thoughts in mind, I slowly turned to face my tormentor.

There it sat, innocuous in its white and green container.  “Great Value” it proclaimed boldly to me, egging me on in my folly.   I moved toward it as if in a dream, a nightmare really, as helpless to stop myself as a slumbering child.  I picked up the container and tried one last time to resist.  With all my will, I tried to force it to the garbage can, but it was too much for me and I was defeated.  With trembling hands, I slowly pried the lid off and gazed in speechless horror. 

What was in the container?  Mere words cannot describe the horror within the white plastic walls.  Some sort of beige, lumpy, watery substance stared back at me balefully, pulsing with an evil life force.  “Stewed artichokes?” I thought wildly as I tried to process it.  No, I don’t buy artichokes, let alone stew them.  The smell was overwhelming and I fought back waves of nausea as I tried to force the lid back on while the contents snickered in unholy glee.

“you love me….don’t you?” it whispered evilly.  I was whimpering, trying to keep the contents from emerging, when I tipped it a bit and some of the putrid liquid splashed on my arm.  “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO,” I screamed wildly, and I snapped the lid and staggered back, holding my arm. 

I was panting like a dog, still trying to fathom just what in the hell was in that container.  Hamburger Helper gone renegade?  Sour cream that had curdled into some unspeakable alien life force?  The world may never know.

I regained my composure and headed to the sink to rinse the goo of death off of my arm.  The container was safely in the garbage with the lid snapped tightly.  But even as I write this, a tiny voice calls to me, begging for freedom.  Thank God tomorrow is garbage day!!!

Some Things Should Just Be Left Alone

There are so many childhood rituals that have been tampered with or have just disappeared altogether.  Kids can’t play outside anymore thanks to CNN,  because we’re afraid they’ll be abducted by gypsies.  Thanks to Disney and Nickelodeon, the Saturday morning cartoon is a thing of the past.  Why would you plan your whole weekend around cartoon viewing when cartoons are available 24/7 on a number of different channels?  So for the love of all that is holy, can we leave Halloween alone??

I don’t know about you, but I started planning for Halloween months in advance.  The costume was always homemade.  There was never any question of buying a costume; who wanted to dress up in a cheap rayon outfit when your mother’s closet and makeup bag held such an endless array of costume ideas?  Black eyeliner, white pancake make-up and a little imagination were all it took to transform one into a spectacle frightening beyond belief. 

I have to admit, I’ve conceded that one.  Fine, I’ll go to Party City or Wal-Mart and fork over the cash for the shiny rayon outfit.  I did homemade costumes for a number of years, but now I am old and tired.  It’s a good day if I make Hamburger Helper for dinner, so don’t expect me to whip up Cinderella’s ball gown with some empty toilet paper tubes and glitter.  It just isn’t in me anymore.

But I absolutely refuse to succumb to the recent, politically correct, right wing, conservative, granola munching, liberal mania of handing out anything other than candy for Halloween.  Because it’s like this:  you go trick or treating to get free candy.  That’s the entire point of Halloween and it’s what makes it vastly superior to every other holiday.  One day a year you get to dress up and go outside and knock on doors and beg people for candy.  And they give it to you!  There are no massive credit card bills to face on November 1st and no long lines to return unwanted candy.  Just sick tummies and the possibility of extensive dental work, which is all covered by insurance!  

Today found Nancy and I wandering around the Wal-Green’s after our pilgrimage to Hacienda.  I was ostensibly looking for shampoo, but I love Wal-Greens and can spend large sums of money there without even half trying.  You can keep your bargains at Wal-Mart;  I like to go to Wal-Greens because they have an entire aisle devoted to As Seen On TV items.  But this is another blog.

Anyway, we hit the candy aisle and I witnessed a number of Halloween abominations.  In my humble opinion, nothing short of candy is appropriate for Halloween.  I, for one,  never understood Trick or Treat for Unicef.  I know there are poor people in the world and I know they need lots of things.  But on October 31st, I am not interested in the poor.  Jesus Christ Himself said ”we will always have the poor, but trick or treating only comes once a year.”  I am paraphrasing a bit there.  There is no Unicef for me; I want Snickers and lots of them.

When my kids trick or treat, they do not want pencils.  Keep your pencils and use them for kindling this winter.  And do not hand out Bible verses.  Obviously we are devil worshippers and are beyond redemption, because we are out on Satan’s night begging for candy.  So the Bible verses will just get thrown in the trash, as will the apples.  Not because we think there are razor blades in the apples, but because apples are a stupid thing to get on October 31st.  We want peanut butter cups, not stupid apples.

At Wal-Green’s, it is possible to purchase tiny bags of Doritos in Halloween packaging.  Well guess what?  Doritos are another stupid thing to get on Halloween.  Who rummages through little Johnny’s haul after the kid has passed out in a sugar coma and looks for Doritos?  No one in his right mind!!  You’re looking for the Milky Ways and the Three Musketeers.  And you can keep the bags of pretzels and the packages of microwave popcorn too.  Besides, if you give my kid popcorn, he might get popcorn lung and then I’ll have to sue you.  We thought razor blades in the apples were bad; who knew the popcorn would get you too??

And as far as the tiny, wrapped granola bars, you can imagine how I feel about those!  A granola bar on Halloween?  Why not throw in some cans of green beans and some asparagus?!  Even oreos are inappropriate in my humble opinion.  Only the sugary, trans fat laden candy bars and chewy, teeth rotting taffy like things and Pixie Stix, lots of Pixie Stix will do!!!

The only candy exception to my candy rule is the black and orange wrapped peanut butter kisses.  First of all, they are disgusting and suitable only for stopping up the cracks in the roof.  Second, nothing says “I am too cheap to buy real candy!!!!” like those nasty things.  I plan on collecting them this year and using them to pelt the squirrels who attack my bird feeder like senior citizens at the Golden Corral.

When you are shopping for Halloween this year, please bear in mind my advice and go for the miniature candy bars.  Anything else will just get thrown in your garbage and I will post your name in my Blog of Shame so you can be taunted by all humanity!  Buy the good candy!!

I Am a Human Dictionary/Thesaurus/Phone Directory

My phone rings several times a day with people seeking information that apparently only I can provide.  I am trying to figure out how to bill for my time, which is extremely valuable.  For example, I just whiled away the afternoon in Nancy’s basement watching an old movie.  Don’t waste my time.  I’m a very busy woman.

My phone just rang and it was our printing company.  The owner said “We’re printing some stuff for your husband and I need to know how to spell catechism.  We can’t find it in the computer.”

I found this extremely odd, as my husband is a veterinarian, not a priest or a religious teacher.  But, being the show-off speller I am, I complied.  I love to spell and I am very good at it.  I would have had a chance at the Scripps/Howard if it had been a big deal in my day.  I like to watch ”Akeelah and the Bee” because I can totally outspell Akeelah.  I kick her butt, but she always gets the big trophy in the end.  It’s not fair.

Anyway, I spelled catechism for Kathy several times and she thanked me profusely, then added “we are doing a letterhead for him with that medical emblem, you know the thingy with the snake.”

“Wait a minute,” I said.  “Are you talking about a caduceus?” 

“Yeah, that’s it,” she said nochalantly.  “The snake thing. Caduceus, catechism, whatever!”

Um, hello……..whatever my ass!!!  Two very different things you know.  Catechism is a collection of religious teachings and beliefs and caduceus is the staff with the snake wrapped around it!  A priest uses one and a doctor the other!

I corrected her spelling and then, on a whim, I asked her if my husband had told her to call me.

“Yeah,” she said.  “He didn’t know how to spell it, so he said just call Jen, she’ll know.”

I thanked her nicely and hung up, seething with fury.  This is how my husband regards me.  To him, I am nothing but a repository of hard to spell words and phone numbers.  Remember my trip to Huntsville, when he called me repeatedly to find out Nancy’s phone number?  Why dial 411 when he can dial me for free???  And he freely advertises my services without consulting me.

It’s not just him, though.  I must get ten calls a week from people asking for someone else’s cell phone number or home telephone number.  Ok, fine, so I do remember all those numbers.  I know all my children’s social security numbers too.  I can’t balance my checkbook, but I can remember how much money is in it.  (Besides, if I still have checks, I have money, right?)  But why can’t everyone call 411 instead?  Why  me?

If people have a grammar question, they call me.  I am the grammar police.  In fact, I would like to start an internet petition to have Fergie banned from using the English language, since she misuses it so blatantly in her music.  When Fergie’s latest hit, “Big Girls Don’t Cry” comes on the radio, I patiently instruct my daughter as to its grammatical failings.  There is one line in particular which causes me great distress:  “I miss you like a child misses their blanket….”  WRONG!!!  Child means one child, and it is SINGULAR!!  The correct possessive would then be his, her or its.  Their connotes a group of children missing THEIR blankets!  Or a group of teenagers missing their chance to get into college because of their atrocious grammar.

Ok, fine, I admit it, I am a useful person to know, and you can call me with a question, but I am afraid I am going to have to start charging for my services.  Here is my price list:

Spell a word……$1.00 per syllable

Phone number……..$3.00 and for an additional $2.00, I’ll connect your call

Grammar question…….$5.00 per minute and remember, some of those grammatical rules can be quite lengthy so make sure you have a real need before you call me.

Synonyms……..$1.00 per synonym

I hope this price list will deter some of you from seeking me out in the future.  Bellsouth (the new AT&T!) does not charge you anything to use the yellow pages.  Webster’s dictionary is easily accessible, as is the thesaurus.  Now I ‘m going back to playing Pogo, so leave me alone!! 

A Daughter is a Blessing and a Curse

My twelve year old daughter is an amazing person.  She is a gifted athlete and a straight A student.  Everyone thinks she’s wonderful.  They don’t live with her.

We were driving down the road the other day and I lifted my arm to scratch my back.  She looked at me and said quietly “MO’ ther”.  I wish I could capture the tone in print; it’s a combination of pity, disdain and horror.  My other two children call me mommy, but to her I am “MO’ther”, a sad, embarrassing, pathetic specimen of humanity, someone who should never be allowed out into public. 

“What?” I asked defensively.

“You need to shave,” she said coldly.

Ever since those first three hairs appeared in her precious little armpit, she has been obssessed with shaving.  She shaves daily, sometimes twice if the moon is full.  I guess maybe I was like that once, but I certainly am not like that now. 

I wanted to look at her and say “listen up sister, I’m MARRIED!!  I don’t have to do anything to impress your daddy.  I have him.  If he wants someone clean shaven, that’s fine, but it’s gonna cost him half of everything to do it!  And frankly, I could have ten inches of hair growing out of my nose, but he would STILL be trying to jump me three times a day.  So why should I shave???”

I said none of these things.  I just smiled at her and kept driving.  She continued to moan and complain and suddenly she said “Just Shut Up and Drive.”

A haze of red descended over my vision and I imagined bludgeoning her with my cell phone charger and then driving to the landfill.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY?” I growled.

She looked at me innocently, a tiny smile playing about her mouth and said “Shut Up and Drive.”

“How Dare You Say That to Me????” I said thunderously and I was about to really lay into her when she said “Mom, it’s the name of the song.”

Yeah right, I’m so stupid.  Hairy and stupid, that’s me.  I punched the button on the radio and sure enough, it was Rihanna’s latest hit.  I hate smart ass twelve year olds.

I had to laugh though.  She knew exactly what would happen when she said it.  I hate to admit it, but she’s sharp.

Fortunately for both of us, I am incredibly thick-skinned.  When she turns her head and looks the other way if I acknowledge her in public, I’m ok with it.  When she forbids me to walk outside when the bus comes because she doesn’t want any of her friends to know she has a stinky, hairy mother, I’m good.  Because at the end of the day, she won’t go to sleep until I come upstairs and kiss her goodnight.  I might be hairy, but I still have my uses!