Bye, Bye Boobies!
Yup, that’s right – I’m chopping my boobs off. I’m going in for a breast reduction this month. Men will think, “Why on earth would any woman ever want to do that?” but women know what I’m talkin’ about. When middle age hits and our “nickels” (as my daughter likes to call them) start getting closer to our belly buttons it’s time to re-think things. In my case, it’s because of back problems that I’m getting it done but the fact that I’ll be sportin’ some 17 yr. old tits doesn’t hurt either. Those white grandma sized-DD boulder holders will huge straps that could hold a rig together, will be gone forever. Hello to little B-sized lacy type bras that I envied in their cute little doll-size and spaghetti straps with wild colors such as, “Ravaging Crimson”. (sigh)
So as the days count down and I think of all the life these boobies have seen I can’t help but remember life back as a pre-teen eagerly wishing for them to finally start to grow. Just about everybody had that Judy Bloom book “Are you there God, it’s me Margaret” and did that stupid ass “We must increase our bust” exercise to encourage some growth.
I can’t seem to stop thinking about my 11th year and having a huge crush on Michael Hornon. It took a lot of courage and some sweaty palms to write him a note asking him if he wanted to “go out” with me. After class he walked up to me with all his buddies and flat out said in front of everyone, “I can’t go out with you because you’re so flat-chested.” Man – I felt like that medieval gnome jumped out of a bush and smacked me in the face with a boat oar. For the next year all the boys called me, “Flat-Jack” because I was apparently as “flat as a flap-jack”. Shit – I was a fifth-grader – nobody had boobs back then. I have to burst out laughing now thinking about the irony. So “Up yours, Hornon, wherever you are!” I’m going bra shopping. :-)
Friday, June 12, 2009
Column - "What the Hell?!"
“What the Hell?”
You ever have one of those “What the Hell” kinda’ moments? Somehow you’ve become the butt of some sinister Darth Vader type plot to bring you down. Like out of nowhere while waiting for the bus, you get smacked in the face with a boat oar by a medieval gnome hiding in the bushes. “Didn’t see that comin” you might say. I’ve had a lot of moments like that.
I think it all started in Elementary school when I came home off the school bus with nothing on but my duckie underoos and a trench coat. No – I wasn’t a little flasher in the making; I simply lost my dress. “How the hell did you lose the clothes off your back young lady?” my mother wanted to know. It was a long story involving a tu-tu, smacking my head on the floor, and my dress winding up as a flag that my brother waved up and down the aisle of the school bus. My first, “What the hell?” moment.
Prom! There’s a hot button. As a writer for our local paper I often get to cover some local proms. There’s always some idiot wearing a three-muskeeteers outfit or a chick that made her dress out of duct tape with a matching purse. And of course there’s always one kid having a full out, streaming tears, tomatoe-faced meltdown out the side door in their purple tux screaming into the cell phone, “You don’t give a shit about me!!” It reminds me of my own, “What the Hell ‘Prom’ moment”. Wearing a white gown I wanted to make sure I had at least some color so I wasn’t so pasty white. So the day of the prom I skipped school and decided to lie on the back porch to get a great tan. It was kind of overcast so I got out some tin-foil and wrapped it all over the lounge chair. Then I covered myself in vegetable oil and put myself out to bake for 90 minutes. Well, dip me in butter, I got color alright – a nice lobster red in a white dress. Then when my date showed up just as red - we were a perfect match. Then when we were seated at the wrong table with the BOCES kids no-one ever knew- it was just icing on the cake. (sigh) The pain still hasn’t healed….
Most recent, “What the Hell?!” moment happened when I went to deliver my second child and the nurse tells me they changed their policy and they don’t give as much of the epidural that they did 2yrs. earlier when I delivered my daughter high as a flippin’ kite on that stuff. Words cannot describe my complete Ape shit melt-down I did on this woman telling her what she could do with her F**in’ policy. She didn’t say a word but instead stuck me with something called “Stadol”. Well, let me tell you! I asked for another round of that Stadol-shit and wanted to know if my husband could have some and if it comes in 6-pks. So it started out a very frustrated “What the Hell” moment but turned into a stoned, giggly-high, “What the Hellll, Man…” moment.
Now there are all kind of sub-categories of the “What the Hell” moment. There’s the “Delicious-Gossipy” category when you tell your girlfriend about the blow-out argument the neighbors had in the driveway and with a raised eyebrow and shaking her head, “Mmmm Mmme, Girl, what the hell…”. Then there’s the “Road Rage” category whereby that crazed old lady side-swipes your car and when you both pull over she tells you she’s going blind and is on the way to the eye doctor. You clench your teeth and grumble “What the Hell” under your breath as you consider backing your car over her. At times you may want to graduate to the ever popular, “What the Fuck?!” which is when you walk out of the bathroom to find that your adorable children have painted everything with peanut butter. Peanut butter all over the dog, your expensive big screen TV, inside the Blu-Ray, each other, the walls, leather couch, the carpet….. everywhere. Boy, and if there’s truly evil in this world it’s getting Peanut Butter off of anything. Try cleaning a hunk of it off a knife that’s been in a sink full of water for awhile. It’s just nasty. Not to mention almost impossible to get off of anything. It just won’t dissolve! So this definitely qualifies for a mind-blowing, “What the FUCK?!”
You too can have your own “What the Hell?!” moment. Just look around; they’re everywhere. Just like a crouching medieval gnome waiting in a bush with a boat oar.
You ever have one of those “What the Hell” kinda’ moments? Somehow you’ve become the butt of some sinister Darth Vader type plot to bring you down. Like out of nowhere while waiting for the bus, you get smacked in the face with a boat oar by a medieval gnome hiding in the bushes. “Didn’t see that comin” you might say. I’ve had a lot of moments like that.
I think it all started in Elementary school when I came home off the school bus with nothing on but my duckie underoos and a trench coat. No – I wasn’t a little flasher in the making; I simply lost my dress. “How the hell did you lose the clothes off your back young lady?” my mother wanted to know. It was a long story involving a tu-tu, smacking my head on the floor, and my dress winding up as a flag that my brother waved up and down the aisle of the school bus. My first, “What the hell?” moment.
Prom! There’s a hot button. As a writer for our local paper I often get to cover some local proms. There’s always some idiot wearing a three-muskeeteers outfit or a chick that made her dress out of duct tape with a matching purse. And of course there’s always one kid having a full out, streaming tears, tomatoe-faced meltdown out the side door in their purple tux screaming into the cell phone, “You don’t give a shit about me!!” It reminds me of my own, “What the Hell ‘Prom’ moment”. Wearing a white gown I wanted to make sure I had at least some color so I wasn’t so pasty white. So the day of the prom I skipped school and decided to lie on the back porch to get a great tan. It was kind of overcast so I got out some tin-foil and wrapped it all over the lounge chair. Then I covered myself in vegetable oil and put myself out to bake for 90 minutes. Well, dip me in butter, I got color alright – a nice lobster red in a white dress. Then when my date showed up just as red - we were a perfect match. Then when we were seated at the wrong table with the BOCES kids no-one ever knew- it was just icing on the cake. (sigh) The pain still hasn’t healed….
Most recent, “What the Hell?!” moment happened when I went to deliver my second child and the nurse tells me they changed their policy and they don’t give as much of the epidural that they did 2yrs. earlier when I delivered my daughter high as a flippin’ kite on that stuff. Words cannot describe my complete Ape shit melt-down I did on this woman telling her what she could do with her F**in’ policy. She didn’t say a word but instead stuck me with something called “Stadol”. Well, let me tell you! I asked for another round of that Stadol-shit and wanted to know if my husband could have some and if it comes in 6-pks. So it started out a very frustrated “What the Hell” moment but turned into a stoned, giggly-high, “What the Hellll, Man…” moment.
Now there are all kind of sub-categories of the “What the Hell” moment. There’s the “Delicious-Gossipy” category when you tell your girlfriend about the blow-out argument the neighbors had in the driveway and with a raised eyebrow and shaking her head, “Mmmm Mmme, Girl, what the hell…”. Then there’s the “Road Rage” category whereby that crazed old lady side-swipes your car and when you both pull over she tells you she’s going blind and is on the way to the eye doctor. You clench your teeth and grumble “What the Hell” under your breath as you consider backing your car over her. At times you may want to graduate to the ever popular, “What the Fuck?!” which is when you walk out of the bathroom to find that your adorable children have painted everything with peanut butter. Peanut butter all over the dog, your expensive big screen TV, inside the Blu-Ray, each other, the walls, leather couch, the carpet….. everywhere. Boy, and if there’s truly evil in this world it’s getting Peanut Butter off of anything. Try cleaning a hunk of it off a knife that’s been in a sink full of water for awhile. It’s just nasty.
You too can have your own “What the Hell?!” moment. Just look around; they’re everywhere. Just like a crouching medieval gnome waiting in a bush with a boat oar.
Column - Differences between men and women
Difference between men and women.
I’m feezing. I’m always cold it seems. I have thin blood. Thin blood.. hmpf… it’s probably the only thing on me that’s thin. They say women have thinner blood than men. They’re walking around in their underwear in the middle of winter and we’re ready for the Eskimo fashion show. As of late I’m the one sitting on the room heater with the permanent grill marks on my ass. Ahh…. Just one of the many differences between men and women.
Women for example, you have to admit, are quite concerned with their appearance. In this pursuit we have endured endless hours of Size 2 Aerobics Instructors drilling us like soldiers screaming, “C’MON, LADIES!!! YOU GREW IT – YOU LIFT IT!!!!!” which then leads us to a thousand bucks blown in therapy for our depression and self-esteem issues. If there is something out there that can make us smarter, more attractive, thinner, or younger we have tried it regardless of the repercussions. Even the commercials are out of control and we actually believe them. “Zeniflat can help you lose up to 30 pounds in a month. It works with your system to help rid your body of unwanted fat and harmful cholesterol that clogs your arteries. Many people have benefited from Zeniflat to finally break the battle against weight gain. Zeniflat may not be for everyone. Pregnant women and women who wish to become pregnant should not take Zeniflat due to risk of horribly disfiguring birth defects resulting in babies with nine heads. Zeniflat may cause muscle stiffness, bleeding from the eyes, increased nose snot and joint pain. Because Zeniflat blocks one-third of the fat from foods you eat, you may experience increased flatuation with an oily discharge, increased bowel movements and the inability to control them, risk of seizures, liver damage, and heart disease. People on anti-depressants should not take this drug due to the high potential to commit suicide. Zeniflat may cause shortness of breath, dizziness, migraine headaches, and big crater-like warts in the middle of your face. Consult your physician if you are at risk of any of these symptoms. Zeniflat isn’t for everyone but it is for some people and they love it!! So get back into a new slimmer, sexier you and start really living the good life again!!” Yea, right, like that’s a product I want to just run right out and get a gallon of. Hey, I might not be able to control all my bodily functions but I’ll look totally hot and sexy!! Unfortunately it might end my social life entirely if I’m on a date with the hottest guy from the party and I accidentally shit my pants. “So, honey, do you want to go see that new action movie?” “I’d love to… uh-oh…” “What the HELL was that?? The date is pretty much over right there.
Ah, Men, on the other hand, also have their weaknesses too. Using my brothers and father as an example I must say they have collected some of the most ridiculous pieces of crap from garage sales and auctions that have filled the basement to bursting capacity. A really messed up graveyard of broken items that just need a little work, oxen yolk, an old trumpet, a telephone booth, a juke box, the first 7-up machine ever made, 2 rusted iron cook stoves, a zillion old rollerskates, banjo’s that were so desperately wanted – played once – and thrown on the heap and (of course) massive boxes of comic books that are “worth alotta money” but which they will never sell. I’m not even gonna try to explain the crane and the bull-dozer my father brought home. This is just a partial list the three of them have jointly collected. Yes men are indeed different. Don’t even get me started on the whole “Car” thing. No matter what the circumstances, when greeting a male member of the family, inevitably one of the first questions will be, “How’s the car running?” I am reminded of a situation this past fall whereby my father was rushed to the hospital after having a seizure. My brother picked me up in the middle of the night and we made the 2 hour trek to upstate NY. It’s 2am and dead silence in the car assuming BOTH of us were consumed with worry and prayer until he says, “How’s the car running?” I gave him the jaw-dropped stunned look. “What in God’s name is wrong with you???!!! Our father is hanging by a thread and all you can think to say to me is How’s the car running? What the hell is wrong with the way you men think I have no idea!” “That’s not all we think about.” Dead silence after that as I patiently wait to see what else you men think about which basically means it was quiet for 2 hours. We finally arrive at the hospital and I rush into the emergency room in tears to see my poor father and when I come to his bedside he is trying hard to tell me something and finally is able to get it out….”How’s the car running, Carol ?” I just looked at my brother and shook my head. Yep….. alotta differences between men and women……
I’m feezing. I’m always cold it seems. I have thin blood. Thin blood.. hmpf… it’s probably the only thing on me that’s thin. They say women have thinner blood than men. They’re walking around in their underwear in the middle of winter and we’re ready for the Eskimo fashion show. As of late I’m the one sitting on the room heater with the permanent grill marks on my ass. Ahh…. Just one of the many differences between men and women.
Women for example, you have to admit, are quite concerned with their appearance. In this pursuit we have endured endless hours of Size 2 Aerobics Instructors drilling us like soldiers screaming, “C’MON, LADIES!!! YOU GREW IT – YOU LIFT IT!!!!!” which then leads us to a thousand bucks blown in therapy for our depression and self-esteem issues. If there is something out there that can make us smarter, more attractive, thinner, or younger we have tried it regardless of the repercussions. Even the commercials are out of control and we actually believe them. “Zeniflat can help you lose up to 30 pounds in a month. It works with your system to help rid your body of unwanted fat and harmful cholesterol that clogs your arteries. Many people have benefited from Zeniflat to finally break the battle against weight gain. Zeniflat may not be for everyone. Pregnant women and women who wish to become pregnant should not take Zeniflat due to risk of horribly disfiguring birth defects resulting in babies with nine heads. Zeniflat may cause muscle stiffness, bleeding from the eyes, increased nose snot and joint pain. Because Zeniflat blocks one-third of the fat from foods you eat, you may experience increased flatuation with an oily discharge, increased bowel movements and the inability to control them, risk of seizures, liver damage, and heart disease. People on anti-depressants should not take this drug due to the high potential to commit suicide. Zeniflat may cause shortness of breath, dizziness, migraine headaches, and big crater-like warts in the middle of your face. Consult your physician if you are at risk of any of these symptoms. Zeniflat isn’t for everyone but it is for some people and they love it!! So get back into a new slimmer, sexier you and start really living the good life again!!” Yea, right, like that’s a product I want to just run right out and get a gallon of. Hey, I might not be able to control all my bodily functions but I’ll look totally hot and sexy!! Unfortunately it might end my social life entirely if I’m on a date with the hottest guy from the party and I accidentally shit my pants. “So, honey, do you want to go see that new action movie?” “I’d love to… uh-oh…” “What the HELL was that?? The date is pretty much over right there.
Ah, Men, on the other hand, also have their weaknesses too. Using my brothers and father as an example I must say they have collected some of the most ridiculous pieces of crap from garage sales and auctions that have filled the basement to bursting capacity. A really messed up graveyard of broken items that just need a little work, oxen yolk, an old trumpet, a telephone booth, a juke box, the first 7-up machine ever made, 2 rusted iron cook stoves, a zillion old rollerskates, banjo’s that were so desperately wanted – played once – and thrown on the heap and (of course) massive boxes of comic books that are “worth alotta money” but which they will never sell. I’m not even gonna try to explain the crane and the bull-dozer my father brought home. This is just a partial list the three of them have jointly collected. Yes men are indeed different. Don’t even get me started on the whole “Car” thing. No matter what the circumstances, when greeting a male member of the family, inevitably one of the first questions will be, “How’s the car running?” I am reminded of a situation this past fall whereby my father was rushed to the hospital after having a seizure. My brother picked me up in the middle of the night and we made the 2 hour trek to upstate NY. It’s 2am and dead silence in the car assuming BOTH of us were consumed with worry and prayer until he says, “How’s the car running?” I gave him the jaw-dropped stunned look. “What in God’s name is wrong with you???!!! Our father is hanging by a thread and all you can think to say to me is How’s the car running? What the hell is wrong with the way you men think I have no idea!” “That’s not all we think about.” Dead silence after that as I patiently wait to see what else you men think about which basically means it was quiet for 2 hours. We finally arrive at the hospital and I rush into the emergency room in tears to see my poor father and when I come to his bedside he is trying hard to tell me something and finally is able to get it out….”How’s the car running, Carol ?” I just looked at my brother and shook my head. Yep….. alotta differences between men and women……
Column - Supermarket Soap Opera
Supermarket Soap Opera
Oy…. Supermarkets. There’s nothin’ like standing in the express lane with a lot of other people in front of you and the bastard at the front of the line is writing a check and they don’t have a check card and yadda yadda yadda it takes forever. It’s like the equivalent to being behind a school bus in the morning. It’s the soap opera of daily life among your average joe shmoe. It’s a place (along with laundromats) where all the women’s magazines claim you can meet attractive men, but I’ve been going to both my whole adult life and know this to be a crappy lie. Because I’ve actually believed this I’ve gone to the store in a cocktail dress with my hair teased to the moon and wearing bright red lipstick only to find other women dressed the same way. If I could get away with it I’d prefer to go at 10pm in my filthy bathrobe and house slippers but don’t want to risk it just in case the stupid magazine is right. I basically prefer to live life in my bathrobe. Believe it or not, I’ve actually walked two blocks to the deli for the Sunday paper in by pajamas and bathrobe. Why should the senile lady down the street (who keeps forgetting where she lives) have all the fun? If she can get away with why not me? She’ll walk in a circle around my block for hours in her bathrobe and slippers before I finally yell out, “Ya missed it again, Edna!!” It's my only form of entertainment these days.
I think the biggest mistake most women make in trying to meet the man of their dreams at the Supermarket is that they hang around the gourmet food or the imported espresso aisle when they really should be in the beer and pork rinds aisle. There’s got to be one guy out there that buys that stuff. Hell, I don’t even buy that stuff. Somehow the Cinderella tale just doesn’t sound as good when referring to her Knight in greasy Pork Rinds, though.
One thing that bugs me to death is the laundry detergent situation. They all claim to magically lift stains off of clothes. I’m talking tomato sauce, mud, tar, and blood. First of all if my shirt was covered with blood stains I don’t think my first thought would be “Now which product will get out these nasty stains?” I think I’d be thinking about the stab wound that’s currently putting those stains there in the first place. The only time I’d be worrying about blood stain removing is if I just killed someone myself and needed to clean away the evidence. In that case burning the damn shirt would be best rather than shopping for detergent. I mean, Christ, you just killed someone – is the shirt really that important that you’d want to keep it? (I can’t tell you how many cop shows I’ve watched where the murderer was caught throwing his bloody clothes, sneakers and all, into the washer.) What the hell?!
The last time I went to the market I must have had a sign on my forehead that said, “If you’re really weird please come up to me and start a conversation.” As I was walking down one aisle I notice a man with about 20 of those gallon containers of water in his cart and he was still putting more in. He looks at me and very psychotically says, “I’m going to take a bath tonight.” So I “s-l-o-w-l-y” back out of the aisle nodding my head trying not to make any sudden movements lest he whip out a bazooka and blow me away right into the tampon section. I don’t think I’d like that written in my obituary in the local paper. “Carol ****, aged 36, dies amongst a pile of extra absorbent tampax after taking a bullet to the chest region from a man wanting a bath.” What a way to go. After this little fiasco I find myself in the fish section next to the lobster tank. It is so full with lobsters that they are crushing each other. So the woman next to me starts sounding off about how inhumane that is and someone should call the SPCA on these people for overcrowding these poor little things. She’s got me half convinced when I snap out of it and tell her their sole purpose for being in there to begin with is so someone can buy them to kill them and eat them. She gave me this horrid look like I was taking the last package of Oreos in the store.
Did you ever go on the “20 items or less express lane” with one item and start counting the items in the cart of the person in front of you and mentally start bitchin’ to yourself about the fact that they really have 24 items and who the hell do they think they are anyways? Oh, c’mon, admit it - we all do it. Just as sure as another day when we mentally convince ourselves we can go onto that lane ourselves because 25 cans of green beans should be counted as one item because it’s the same product never mind the fact that it’s in 25 separate cans. Oh, and of course, when we turn around to see the woman with one item behind us mentally counting all those cans of green beans we give her a dirty look that says, “Step off, lady”. (smirk)
Oy…. Supermarkets. There’s nothin’ like standing in the express lane with a lot of other people in front of you and the bastard at the front of the line is writing a check and they don’t have a check card and yadda yadda yadda it takes forever. It’s like the equivalent to being behind a school bus in the morning. It’s the soap opera of daily life among your average joe shmoe. It’s a place (along with laundromats) where all the women’s magazines claim you can meet attractive men, but I’ve been going to both my whole adult life and know this to be a crappy lie. Because I’ve actually believed this I’ve gone to the store in a cocktail dress with my hair teased to the moon and wearing bright red lipstick only to find other women dressed the same way. If I could get away with it I’d prefer to go at 10pm in my filthy bathrobe and house slippers but don’t want to risk it just in case the stupid magazine is right. I basically prefer to live life in my bathrobe. Believe it or not, I’ve actually walked two blocks to the deli for the Sunday paper in by pajamas and bathrobe. Why should the senile lady down the street (who keeps forgetting where she lives) have all the fun? If she can get away with why not me? She’ll walk in a circle around my block for hours in her bathrobe and slippers before I finally yell out, “Ya missed it again, Edna!!” It's my only form of entertainment these days.
I think the biggest mistake most women make in trying to meet the man of their dreams at the Supermarket is that they hang around the gourmet food or the imported espresso aisle when they really should be in the beer and pork rinds aisle. There’s got to be one guy out there that buys that stuff. Hell, I don’t even buy that stuff. Somehow the Cinderella tale just doesn’t sound as good when referring to her Knight in greasy Pork Rinds, though.
One thing that bugs me to death is the laundry detergent situation. They all claim to magically lift stains off of clothes. I’m talking tomato sauce, mud, tar, and blood. First of all if my shirt was covered with blood stains I don’t think my first thought would be “Now which product will get out these nasty stains?” I think I’d be thinking about the stab wound that’s currently putting those stains there in the first place. The only time I’d be worrying about blood stain removing is if I just killed someone myself and needed to clean away the evidence. In that case burning the damn shirt would be best rather than shopping for detergent. I mean, Christ, you just killed someone – is the shirt really that important that you’d want to keep it? (I can’t tell you how many cop shows I’ve watched where the murderer was caught throwing his bloody clothes, sneakers and all, into the washer.) What the hell?!
The last time I went to the market I must have had a sign on my forehead that said, “If you’re really weird please come up to me and start a conversation.” As I was walking down one aisle I notice a man with about 20 of those gallon containers of water in his cart and he was still putting more in. He looks at me and very psychotically says, “I’m going to take a bath tonight.” So I “s-l-o-w-l-y” back out of the aisle nodding my head trying not to make any sudden movements lest he whip out a bazooka and blow me away right into the tampon section. I don’t think I’d like that written in my obituary in the local paper. “Carol ****, aged 36, dies amongst a pile of extra absorbent tampax after taking a bullet to the chest region from a man wanting a bath.” What a way to go. After this little fiasco I find myself in the fish section next to the lobster tank. It is so full with lobsters that they are crushing each other. So the woman next to me starts sounding off about how inhumane that is and someone should call the SPCA on these people for overcrowding these poor little things. She’s got me half convinced when I snap out of it and tell her their sole purpose for being in there to begin with is so someone can buy them to kill them and eat them. She gave me this horrid look like I was taking the last package of Oreos in the store.
Did you ever go on the “20 items or less express lane” with one item and start counting the items in the cart of the person in front of you and mentally start bitchin’ to yourself about the fact that they really have 24 items and who the hell do they think they are anyways? Oh, c’mon, admit it - we all do it. Just as sure as another day when we mentally convince ourselves we can go onto that lane ourselves because 25 cans of green beans should be counted as one item because it’s the same product never mind the fact that it’s in 25 separate cans. Oh, and of course, when we turn around to see the woman with one item behind us mentally counting all those cans of green beans we give her a dirty look that says, “Step off, lady”. (smirk)
Column - Christmas gone awry - 2
Christmas gone awry - 2
How did everyone’s Holiday go this year? Mine was quite typical. On Christmas Eve I closed the store early because I had an abscess and had to have an emergency root canal. Since I am a big baby it hurt a lot of course followed by a 3 hour drive to upstate NY with the dog whining like it’s paw is shut in the door and absolutely NO PAIN KILLER because it would have made me drowsy. So by the time I got there my endorphins were either kicking in or I thought I saw a pink Care Bear smoking a cigar in the back of what appeared to be a deformed sleigh with the angel of death dressed as a ghastly Santa. My mother took one look at me and pushed aside the Tylenol with Codeine I had and went right for the Vicaden she had saved in the cabinet for a special occasion. Mom always knows best. So basically I couldn’t eat anything without being in extreme pain or being doped up and sleeping on drugs. Ahh.. but by the end of Christmas day we were all on the Vicaden and kickin’ it back with bourbon.
The day started out as a typical Christmas morn except this year Santa got lazy and slept in and forgot to put the presents out for the kids the night before whereby they obviously saw nothing that morning and totally crushing their illusions of Santa forevermore. So half dazed and needing coffee we all dragged out the loot for the kids in broad daylight and dragged their butts out of childhood with a horrid little jolt and stuffed the half-wrapped items under the x-mas “bush”. That’s right – a bush. This tree was meant for a cathedral ceiling which we have and it’s base was at least 15ft. wide with branches but 4ft up the tree it suddenly ended as if the rest of the tree was chopped off at the top. It was a sickly sight and my parent’s are developing an obviously sick sense of judgment. Soon after this, said presents were slightly maimed due to my parent’s dog getting territorial with my visiting puppy and quite a dog fight took place and said puppy preceded to yelp and whine for the next 24 hours incessantly driving us all to want to cook her for dinner that evening. My sister and I got into an argument as usual, the result of which ended in her accidentally driving my Mother’s month-old Brand New Avalon (nice car-leather seats that heat up – how yummy) into my car and completely smashing my Mom’s car to bits and making my front bumper fall off. It was then that the bourbon came out. Which was a good thing because when the Kitchen caught fire I hardly noticed at all. Good thing my father bought my mother a fire extinguisher for x-mas. (how romantic) It came in quite handy for that reason and later on in the day when Dad sorta lit the jeep on fire as well.
I can’t believe this is all true. I’m still in shock as I write this. Can you believe it? The topper on the cake is when a certain female, who shall remain nameless, after numerous years with her beau was expecting a ring and instead received a meat grinder!! What in God’s name was he thinking?? I have no idea. She doesn’t even cook toast let alone grind up an animal carcass to be stuffed in sausages. Lord! Men – here’s a hint – JEWELRY. When in doubt go for the gusto and get jewelry and lots of it and make it expensive. It’s the only way to fly. If it was me that had gotten the grinder the first thing I’d be a grindin’ would probably be the bearer of such a gift. I could always say it was the Vicaden that did it. So that was my lovely little holiday.
How did everyone’s Holiday go this year? Mine was quite typical. On Christmas Eve I closed the store early because I had an abscess and had to have an emergency root canal. Since I am a big baby it hurt a lot of course followed by a 3 hour drive to upstate NY with the dog whining like it’s paw is shut in the door and absolutely NO PAIN KILLER because it would have made me drowsy. So by the time I got there my endorphins were either kicking in or I thought I saw a pink Care Bear smoking a cigar in the back of what appeared to be a deformed sleigh with the angel of death dressed as a ghastly Santa. My mother took one look at me and pushed aside the Tylenol with Codeine I had and went right for the Vicaden she had saved in the cabinet for a special occasion. Mom always knows best. So basically I couldn’t eat anything without being in extreme pain or being doped up and sleeping on drugs. Ahh.. but by the end of Christmas day we were all on the Vicaden and kickin’ it back with bourbon.
The day started out as a typical Christmas morn except this year Santa got lazy and slept in and forgot to put the presents out for the kids the night before whereby they obviously saw nothing that morning and totally crushing their illusions of Santa forevermore. So half dazed and needing coffee we all dragged out the loot for the kids in broad daylight and dragged their butts out of childhood with a horrid little jolt and stuffed the half-wrapped items under the x-mas “bush”. That’s right – a bush. This tree was meant for a cathedral ceiling which we have and it’s base was at least 15ft. wide with branches but 4ft up the tree it suddenly ended as if the rest of the tree was chopped off at the top. It was a sickly sight and my parent’s are developing an obviously sick sense of judgment. Soon after this, said presents were slightly maimed due to my parent’s dog getting territorial with my visiting puppy and quite a dog fight took place and said puppy preceded to yelp and whine for the next 24 hours incessantly driving us all to want to cook her for dinner that evening. My sister and I got into an argument as usual, the result of which ended in her accidentally driving my Mother’s month-old Brand New Avalon (nice car-leather seats that heat up – how yummy) into my car and completely smashing my Mom’s car to bits and making my front bumper fall off. It was then that the bourbon came out. Which was a good thing because when the Kitchen caught fire I hardly noticed at all. Good thing my father bought my mother a fire extinguisher for x-mas. (how romantic) It came in quite handy for that reason and later on in the day when Dad sorta lit the jeep on fire as well.
I can’t believe this is all true. I’m still in shock as I write this. Can you believe it? The topper on the cake is when a certain female, who shall remain nameless, after numerous years with her beau was expecting a ring and instead received a meat grinder!! What in God’s name was he thinking?? I have no idea. She doesn’t even cook toast let alone grind up an animal carcass to be stuffed in sausages. Lord! Men – here’s a hint – JEWELRY. When in doubt go for the gusto and get jewelry and lots of it and make it expensive. It’s the only way to fly. If it was me that had gotten the grinder the first thing I’d be a grindin’ would probably be the bearer of such a gift. I could always say it was the Vicaden that did it. So that was my lovely little holiday.
Column - Christmas gone awry- 1
Christmas gone awry
Christmas. This single word can evoke many emotions ranging from joy to nausea. With me it’s a lot of both. My family still has those huge-bulbed 1970’s outside lights. These strands of lights are nothing but a box of 8-track tapes to me. Oh, and don’t even think of throwing them out. “They’re still good, don’t throw out that strand.” “Dad! There’s only two working lights on the whole damn thing and they don’t make the replacement bulbs anymore.”
“I can’t see getting rid of it. Maybe they’ll make them again.”
So then I roll my eyes. Now if I did that at eight years of age he’d remark that I was about to get a good smack. At which point I’d push my luck and say, “As opposed to a bad smack?” I was a rotten child. Ahh, but he can’t do anything now because I’m an adult so I’m told.
Ever notice how everyone is a professional on how to hang lights but nobody wants to actually get on the ladder with the staple gun to do it? So all of us direct my father who’s on the ladder.
“No, Ron, it’s got to go higher on the left side of Rudolph’s nose.” “Dad, if you put it that way all the red bulbs will be clumped together and it’s gonna look stupid.” “Honey, that last part just fell back down.” “Dad, when you’re done with that can you put this wreath up, ‘cause the sap is getting on my fingers and it won’t go right.” About this point my father wants to staple our foreheads and starts muttering that in about two damn minutes we can do it our damn selves. At which point we all mumble “What the hell is his problem?” and go back inside.
I hate those little twinkling lights because if one goes the whole thing goes, or worse - half of it goes. If half of it goes you think you can actually find the defiant little bulb screwing up the whole thing but after 20 minutes you curse it and throw it out. This makes the next family member come along and give it a shot until they get pissed and pass it to the next person and so on until we’re all snapping at each other and hitting the egg nog early.
The tree. Ahhh, the tree. What a tradition that is, huh? Whose idea was it to bring the forest into the house anyways? With my family we would always chop down our own tree. All six of us would trek out through the fields for our family tree. After three hours of arguing about which one to get we would begin the ordeal of chopping it down and almost taking a leg off in the process. After a few years of that my father came home with a tree that he got from the gas station. The gas fumes from the tree were so bad we had to have all the windows open to keep from passing out. The poor thing lost all it’s needles in two days and by Christmas looked like a hat rack. I took out the .22 and shot it to put it out of it’s misery. Another joke gone sour that I was grounded for. The decorating of said tree was always a blast. When we were small the tree consisted of hand-made pasty oatmeal ornaments that looked like the art class rejects along with those garland strands of chained construction paper. For years I thought it was a Nelson family tradition to decorate the tree on Christmas Eve. As an adult I realized the rest of the world would call this procrastination. When we were kids we all argued about who got more ornaments to put on and how unfair my parents were. As teenagers my mother would threaten us to put the ornaments on. “Damn it, if you kids don’t start decorating this tree I’m bringing everything back to the mall. Now I want each of you to get over here right now and put on 10 ornaments each. I mean it!”
Who thought of the idea of a fat man with a limited wardrobe, a binging “cookie and milk” eating disorder, and a fetish for having kids sit on his lap swearing they were “good”? Think about this - doesn’t anybody think that a strange person breaking into your house late at night via the friggin’ chimney, for God’s sake, isn’t the slightest bit scary and peculiar? And we actually tell our kids this load of crap?!! When I was a kid I was so confused - one minute you’re told not to talk to strangers yet some guy was sneaking into the house once a year in his long johns! What’s wrong with this picture? And people wonder why kids cry on santa’s lap at the mall. And unfortunately for my parents that line about getting coal if you’re bad didn’t work on me and my siblings. You see - we heated our house with wood in pot bellied stoves and had to constantly split wood and lug it in - coal would have been easier to carry and burned longer. “Santa will bring you coal, Carol Ann, if you don’t start behaving!” “Good, it sure would make things a helluva alot easier.” I got a good smack for that one. If my parents really wanted to scare me they only had to say I was getting nothing but socks and underwear.
“Parking.” There’s a horror in itself. “Mall.” That’s it’s twin. The parking at a mall at Christmas is cut-throat --- every car for themselves. The only way you get one is to follow someone to theirs and then they just put the packages in, lock it, and go back into the mall. Ohh noo, they couldn’t have told you that’s what they were doing as you were trailing them for 2 miles to the outskirts of the whole parking lot. What’s really stupid is that you finally park and in the process of walking TO the mall you have three cars stop and ask you if you’re going to your car. “Yes, that’s right, I’m walking to my car backwards.”
You know it’s not really Christmas until your Uncle Frank starts hittin’ the bourbon. Things start getting pretty lively after that, the language gets very colorful, and the women start swearing that they’re ruining Christmas. By this time, to change the subject, your mother makes you go put on some choking, ghastly sweater that Aunt Edna just bought you. Twenty years later Frank still hits the bourbon but instead of being forced to try on a choking sweater they just choke me to death in a more bludgeoning way. “You meet anybody yet?” “Wouldn’t hurt you to wear a little make-up once in awhile.” “Have you gained weight?” “So I guess you’re not going to have anybody to kiss on New Years Eve again, huh?” “Did I mention your cousin just had another baby?” “I sure would like to have more grandchildren myself – not that I’m pushing – you still have what- one, maybe two years, left to have children? Plenty of time…. really….” Happy flippin’ holidays to me. I start wishing for salmonella poisoning from the egg nog. Then just when you think it can’t get any worse: “Where’s everybody sleeping?” I’m always on the floor in a sleeping bag, no pillow, and next to someone that snores with a bladder problem. Ahh… but in the end…know what? I wouldn’t change any of it. I joke and kid and poke fun but honestly, I have the most loving and wonderful family and I am so incredibly blessed to have them. Have a safe and happy holiday this season and God bless.
Christmas. This single word can evoke many emotions ranging from joy to nausea. With me it’s a lot of both. My family still has those huge-bulbed 1970’s outside lights. These strands of lights are nothing but a box of 8-track tapes to me. Oh, and don’t even think of throwing them out. “They’re still good, don’t throw out that strand.” “Dad! There’s only two working lights on the whole damn thing and they don’t make the replacement bulbs anymore.”
“I can’t see getting rid of it. Maybe they’ll make them again.”
So then I roll my eyes. Now if I did that at eight years of age he’d remark that I was about to get a good smack. At which point I’d push my luck and say, “As opposed to a bad smack?” I was a rotten child. Ahh, but he can’t do anything now because I’m an adult so I’m told.
Ever notice how everyone is a professional on how to hang lights but nobody wants to actually get on the ladder with the staple gun to do it? So all of us direct my father who’s on the ladder.
“No, Ron, it’s got to go higher on the left side of Rudolph’s nose.” “Dad, if you put it that way all the red bulbs will be clumped together and it’s gonna look stupid.” “Honey, that last part just fell back down.” “Dad, when you’re done with that can you put this wreath up, ‘cause the sap is getting on my fingers and it won’t go right.” About this point my father wants to staple our foreheads and starts muttering that in about two damn minutes we can do it our damn selves. At which point we all mumble “What the hell is his problem?” and go back inside.
I hate those little twinkling lights because if one goes the whole thing goes, or worse - half of it goes. If half of it goes you think you can actually find the defiant little bulb screwing up the whole thing but after 20 minutes you curse it and throw it out. This makes the next family member come along and give it a shot until they get pissed and pass it to the next person and so on until we’re all snapping at each other and hitting the egg nog early.
The tree. Ahhh, the tree. What a tradition that is, huh? Whose idea was it to bring the forest into the house anyways? With my family we would always chop down our own tree. All six of us would trek out through the fields for our family tree. After three hours of arguing about which one to get we would begin the ordeal of chopping it down and almost taking a leg off in the process. After a few years of that my father came home with a tree that he got from the gas station. The gas fumes from the tree were so bad we had to have all the windows open to keep from passing out. The poor thing lost all it’s needles in two days and by Christmas looked like a hat rack. I took out the .22 and shot it to put it out of it’s misery. Another joke gone sour that I was grounded for. The decorating of said tree was always a blast. When we were small the tree consisted of hand-made pasty oatmeal ornaments that looked like the art class rejects along with those garland strands of chained construction paper. For years I thought it was a Nelson family tradition to decorate the tree on Christmas Eve. As an adult I realized the rest of the world would call this procrastination. When we were kids we all argued about who got more ornaments to put on and how unfair my parents were. As teenagers my mother would threaten us to put the ornaments on. “Damn it, if you kids don’t start decorating this tree I’m bringing everything back to the mall. Now I want each of you to get over here right now and put on 10 ornaments each. I mean it!”
Who thought of the idea of a fat man with a limited wardrobe, a binging “cookie and milk” eating disorder, and a fetish for having kids sit on his lap swearing they were “good”? Think about this - doesn’t anybody think that a strange person breaking into your house late at night via the friggin’ chimney, for God’s sake, isn’t the slightest bit scary and peculiar? And we actually tell our kids this load of crap?!! When I was a kid I was so confused - one minute you’re told not to talk to strangers yet some guy was sneaking into the house once a year in his long johns! What’s wrong with this picture? And people wonder why kids cry on santa’s lap at the mall. And unfortunately for my parents that line about getting coal if you’re bad didn’t work on me and my siblings. You see - we heated our house with wood in pot bellied stoves and had to constantly split wood and lug it in - coal would have been easier to carry and burned longer. “Santa will bring you coal, Carol Ann, if you don’t start behaving!” “Good, it sure would make things a helluva alot easier.” I got a good smack for that one. If my parents really wanted to scare me they only had to say I was getting nothing but socks and underwear.
“Parking.” There’s a horror in itself. “Mall.” That’s it’s twin. The parking at a mall at Christmas is cut-throat --- every car for themselves. The only way you get one is to follow someone to theirs and then they just put the packages in, lock it, and go back into the mall. Ohh noo, they couldn’t have told you that’s what they were doing as you were trailing them for 2 miles to the outskirts of the whole parking lot. What’s really stupid is that you finally park and in the process of walking TO the mall you have three cars stop and ask you if you’re going to your car. “Yes, that’s right, I’m walking to my car backwards.”
You know it’s not really Christmas until your Uncle Frank starts hittin’ the bourbon. Things start getting pretty lively after that, the language gets very colorful, and the women start swearing that they’re ruining Christmas. By this time, to change the subject, your mother makes you go put on some choking, ghastly sweater that Aunt Edna just bought you. Twenty years later Frank still hits the bourbon but instead of being forced to try on a choking sweater they just choke me to death in a more bludgeoning way. “You meet anybody yet?” “Wouldn’t hurt you to wear a little make-up once in awhile.” “Have you gained weight?” “So I guess you’re not going to have anybody to kiss on New Years Eve again, huh?” “Did I mention your cousin just had another baby?” “I sure would like to have more grandchildren myself – not that I’m pushing – you still have what- one, maybe two years, left to have children? Plenty of time…. really….” Happy flippin’ holidays to me. I start wishing for salmonella poisoning from the egg nog. Then just when you think it can’t get any worse: “Where’s everybody sleeping?” I’m always on the floor in a sleeping bag, no pillow, and next to someone that snores with a bladder problem. Ahh… but in the end…know what? I wouldn’t change any of it. I joke and kid and poke fun but honestly, I have the most loving and wonderful family and I am so incredibly blessed to have them. Have a safe and happy holiday this season and God bless.
Column - Pregnant Humor
Pregnant Humor
So I’m pregnant. Me. A parent. Could you imagine that? I’m into the fourth month. The first three were hell. Why they can come up with viagra to keep a man happy into his 100’s but it’s okay for a woman to vomit 24hrs. a day for 90 days without a solution I’ll never know. I’ve christened every street from for a 30mile radius. I’m expecting the Sanitation dept. to drag me oughta the grocery store in handcuffs any day now. My husband had the flu and vomited for 24 hours and all I could say was, “Tough Shit! Try having it for 3 months, you Wus!” Mood Swings – gotta luv ‘em.
Don’t get me started on the whole boob issue. I could give Dolly Parton a run for her money. I mean -- how much milk is this kid gonna need anyways?!! This is ridiculous! I could start my own dairy at this point!! “Carol’s Farms” – now in new lightweight containers! Everyone says I should definitely breast-feed because it’s so healthy for the baby. Little do they know I’m part Italian which basically means the kid’s gonna be hackin’ up hairballs like a cat.
We can’t seem to decide on a name either. My psychics say it’s gonna be a boy and I sorta feel that way too. My husband keeps calling it Rocco and has pretty much shot down any normal name I seem to come up with. We have two baby books of over 35,000 names and we can’t seem to find ONE we agree upon. The kid will be 5yrs. Old and we’ll still be callin’ it “Hey you”. I’ve been reading every baby book I can get my hands on so that I don’t accidentally kill it in the first week. I’ve killed almost every houseplant I’ve ever had and my last pet committed suicide. I must have dropped my niece on the floor about eight times in the first 6 months of her life. I’m surprised she doesn’t have brain damage. I’m gonna try to cut down on the swearing too. His first words will be “son-of-a-bitch” for sure. I was a nanny for a short period of time and I was terrible at it. On my second day I was writing a note to the nursery school teacher saying Jimmy and Sue couldn’t make it to playtime because they were hung-over. They got into their father’s beer as I was cleaning toothpaste off the TV from the other two hoodlums. Two yr. old Sue was crying into her sippy cup and all three yr. old Jimmy could do was hold his head and pathetically whine, “Make her stoooooopppp!!!!”
My girlfriend recently had a baby. One day when I was visiting her she was changing the baby’s diaper. The baby was a little over a week old and that black belly button nub thing was still there and hadn’t fallen off yet. Just as I was thinking “I hope that thing doesn’t cut loose with me being here and all” it does. She picks up the naked baby out of the old diaper and the thing pops off like a champagne cork and goes flying across the linoleum. Before I could express any emotion at all, quick as flash, the dog runs over and snaps it up like a doggy treat and one swallow later it was gone forever. All I could do was drop my jaw to the ground and look horrified with shock and disgust and scream loudly, “DID YOU JUST SEE THAT??!!!” “MY, GOD!!” “COULD HE DIE??!!” Now if this isn’t shocking enough to blow your mind my friend goes after the dog and grabs its muzzle and sticks her fingers down it’s throat, all the while yelling “Bad Dog! Spit it out!” Jesus, I think this goes a little bit beyond what I think of as “bad dog”. Then to be gutsy enough to try to go after it was enough to make me wet myself. I thought she was trying to save the life of the dog, but she wasn’t , she actually wanted the thing back to put in her scrapbook. God, I hope I don't turn into one of those scrapbooking moms. So…. It seems I have a lot of things to look forward to. Yah!
So I’m pregnant. Me. A parent. Could you imagine that? I’m into the fourth month. The first three were hell. Why they can come up with viagra to keep a man happy into his 100’s but it’s okay for a woman to vomit 24hrs. a day for 90 days without a solution I’ll never know. I’ve christened every street from for a 30mile radius. I’m expecting the Sanitation dept. to drag me oughta the grocery store in handcuffs any day now. My husband had the flu and vomited for 24 hours and all I could say was, “Tough Shit! Try having it for 3 months, you Wus!” Mood Swings – gotta luv ‘em.
Don’t get me started on the whole boob issue. I could give Dolly Parton a run for her money. I mean -- how much milk is this kid gonna need anyways?!! This is ridiculous! I could start my own dairy at this point!! “Carol’s Farms” – now in new lightweight containers! Everyone says I should definitely breast-feed because it’s so healthy for the baby. Little do they know I’m part Italian which basically means the kid’s gonna be hackin’ up hairballs like a cat.
We can’t seem to decide on a name either. My psychics say it’s gonna be a boy and I sorta feel that way too. My husband keeps calling it Rocco and has pretty much shot down any normal name I seem to come up with. We have two baby books of over 35,000 names and we can’t seem to find ONE we agree upon. The kid will be 5yrs. Old and we’ll still be callin’ it “Hey you”. I’ve been reading every baby book I can get my hands on so that I don’t accidentally kill it in the first week. I’ve killed almost every houseplant I’ve ever had and my last pet committed suicide. I must have dropped my niece on the floor about eight times in the first 6 months of her life. I’m surprised she doesn’t have brain damage. I’m gonna try to cut down on the swearing too. His first words will be “son-of-a-bitch” for sure. I was a nanny for a short period of time and I was terrible at it. On my second day I was writing a note to the nursery school teacher saying Jimmy and Sue couldn’t make it to playtime because they were hung-over. They got into their father’s beer as I was cleaning toothpaste off the TV from the other two hoodlums. Two yr. old Sue was crying into her sippy cup and all three yr. old Jimmy could do was hold his head and pathetically whine, “Make her stoooooopppp!!!!”
My girlfriend recently had a baby. One day when I was visiting her she was changing the baby’s diaper. The baby was a little over a week old and that black belly button nub thing was still there and hadn’t fallen off yet. Just as I was thinking “I hope that thing doesn’t cut loose with me being here and all” it does. She picks up the naked baby out of the old diaper and the thing pops off like a champagne cork and goes flying across the linoleum. Before I could express any emotion at all, quick as flash, the dog runs over and snaps it up like a doggy treat and one swallow later it was gone forever. All I could do was drop my jaw to the ground and look horrified with shock and disgust and scream loudly, “DID YOU JUST SEE THAT??!!!” “MY, GOD!!” “COULD HE DIE??!!” Now if this isn’t shocking enough to blow your mind my friend goes after the dog and grabs its muzzle and sticks her fingers down it’s throat, all the while yelling “Bad Dog! Spit it out!” Jesus, I think this goes a little bit beyond what I think of as “bad dog”. Then to be gutsy enough to try to go after it was enough to make me wet myself. I thought she was trying to save the life of the dog, but she wasn’t , she actually wanted the thing back to put in her scrapbook. God, I hope I don't turn into one of those scrapbooking moms. So…. It seems I have a lot of things to look forward to. Yah!
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