Snickerfodder

Archive for October 2009

 

 

 

 

Were I of the wild animal kingdom,

my mother would have eaten me at birth.

  

 

 

 

I have the immunity of a crack-addled preemie with AIDS.

 

 

 

 

Whether due to the fact that for 12 years I thought antibiotics were a major food group or the fact that I am a magnet for every bug that schleps through town, I’m not sure.  I think it’s a little bit of both.  That, and pure dumb luck.

 

 

If it’s out there, I’m sure to catch it.  And I’m not going to ‘catch’ just a little;

 

 

I’m in for the motherlode.

 

 

I am NOT a hypochondriac, either; I LOATHE being sick, and I’m petrified of illness. 

 

I’m THE FREAKING QUEEN OF GERM-X, for chrissake! 

I have stock in LYSOL! 

(I freakin’ LYSOL THE LYSOL CAN!!!!!

My goddam doorknobs look like brushed gold I’ve scrubbed them so much!  I BOIL toothbrushes!  (once to the point that they melted into a rainbow puddle with convenient handles.) 

 

 I  have bizarre cleaning/disinfecting/germ-avoidance RITUALS

 

(can you say ‘OCD’?)

 

If ever the M & Ms or I end up handless, we can handle even the filthiest Sheetz ‘comfort station’, any one-holer-rest-stop-shit-pit or puzzling porcelain trough China has to offer; my motto is:

 

 

NO CONTACT, WHATSOEVER, WITH PUTRESCENCE!

 

  

HOW IS IT THAT I ALWAYS END UP SICK?!

 

 

My mother has always said I’m the worst-case-scenario kid.

 

 

I started out anemic.

 

When I was three, Dr. Bono yanked my tonsils.  While he was in there, he nearly severed some nerve that caused searing pain to shoot through my face and neck every 5 seconds for months.  My mother claims I turned into a pretzel as I twisted and wrapped my arms around my head and squeezed my cheeks to prepare for and to endure the next wave.  

Dr. Bonehead’s cure?  Making me open my mouth to accomodate 10 jumbo pretzel rods at once — and to eat every bit — several times a day. 

Sadistic prick. 

I can’t eat pretzel rods to this day.

 

 

In 3rd grade, I got chicken pox.  Not just a few.  I had the worst case the small town docs had ever seen.  It was fun.  I was out of school for weeks.  There were the pox under my eyelids and up inside my nozzles. 

My personal favorite was the one on my right forearm that swelled to the size and hardness of a golf ball and immobilized my entire arm.  

My mother  — the OR nurse —  boiled a 7-UP bottle and sanitized her home-surgery kit. 

While my dad held me down on the kitchen table,  my mother used her TRY THIS AT HOME! scalpel to slice an ‘X’ on the bulging pox. 

Then she used tongs to remove the 7-UP bottle from the boiling water.  

The bitch donned mitts to grab the bottle and place its opening directly over the ‘X’, essentially fuckin’ branding me.  The sizzle and smell of my seared, fragile flesh paled in comparison to the horror of watching the fetid pox-pus ooze out of the ‘X’  as the bottle cooled, creating a vacuum, like so much Play Dough being squeezed through the Fun Pumper.  

I’m the brainchild behind the ‘7-UP YOURS’ ad campaign.

 

 

In 6th grade, while on vacation in Myrtle Beach, some wire-haired wiener dog sunk his teeth through my nose and upper lip.  He shook me like a freakin’ rag doll and ripped a bit my face away from my skull.  

 

After a little bit of plastic surgery, I was good as new.  

I was back on the beach in a couple of days

(albeit with one nozzle at a freakish new angle). 

Good times.

 

 

As a senior, I had my four impacted wisdom teeth extracted;  I was bedridden for weeks.  My family had ZERO sympathy for me, calling me ‘lazy’ and chiding me for ‘milking it’ and then ‘faking it’.  My mother (did I mention she was a NURSE?) finally took pity on me and begrudgingly took me to Dr. Buck. 

Boy, did he chew her ass out (it was AWESOME!  Doc Buck to Mom:  “And YOU’RE A GODDAM NURSE!” ).   

 I had an abscess AND the flu on top of the surgery! 

 

How do you spell relief? 

V-I-N-D-I-C-A-T-I-O-N!

 

HA-HA!  My freakin’ parents are STILL wracked with guilt over THAT one!

 

 

In college, I had a raging UTI that worked itself into a healthy kidney infection.  In retrospect, I’m less inclined to chalk that one up to a weak immune system or pure, dumb luck.  I’m willing to concede that wiping with that blackened soggy sponge that sat on the tank of the toilet at the Sigma Chi House MAY have been  

 a) the culprit, and  

 b) not such a great idea when alcohol is no longer a presence in the body.  

 

 

Clearly my germaphobia is masked by barley and hops

— of the Nasty Boh, ‘elixir-of-youth’, variety.

 

 

 

Shortly after I began living in sin with El Guapo (he didn’t become ‘The Dingus’ until AFTER I married him), I did some substitute-teaching — which exposed my hale’n’hearty system to myriad microorganisms in about 30 different schools.  I  cultured a handsome sinus infection.  An ENT had to VACUUM my flippin’ sinuses with a fiber-optic hose up my nose. 

It didn’t hurt, exactly, but to this day, it remains the strangest sensation I’ve ever felt.  It was like a pipe cleaner was poking and prodding BEHIND my forehead.  I CAN say it was worth it; the relief was instant! 

Though, I think, in my excitement in being reintroduced to breathing, I may have informed the ENT that he ‘could suck me anytime’.

 

 

When The Dingus and I moved back east from Hawaii, we were stuck living in an isolated,  long-term hotel in Germantown, MD.    Since our cars, clothes and other crap were still packed in a freight container, I never left the miniscule ‘suite’.  Its windows didn’t open, so I breathed nothing but poorly-filtered air for weeks. 

  Surprise!  I ended up with aseptic meningitis —  high delirium-inducing fever and a rigid neck — 

the ‘good’ kind of meningitis where one only WISHES for death.  

I’m pretty sure I picked out my first home there during an oxycodone high.

 

 

The coup de grace of health-horrors, though, has to be the birth of M2.

 

After nearly 30 hours of labor, I had to have an emergency C-section.

My kid’s rather large HEAD (a paternal trait) was lodged in my pelvis.

My epidural had worn off and only partially worked on the LEFT SIDE of my body.

 

 

I FELT EVERY CUT AND TEAR.

 

 

I pictured myself as one of those Revolutionary War soldiers whose appendages were amputated without anesthesia.

 

WHILE his arms were jammed to the elbow in my gaping gut, I envisioned dismembering my 95-lb.-Doogie-Houser-OBGYN  as he grunted and struggled  and wrestled  and cursed — in an attempt to drag my kid’s head from the vice-grip of the birth canal to save both of us.   

It’s always comforting to see your surgeon panic.

 

 

My mother-in-law later remarked that, in time, I would forget all about the pain. 

(This coming from the woman who was knocked out cold for the entire births of her 5 kids.) 

 

 

After surviving THAT, a little ‘ole flu bug shouldn’t have been but a blip on my radar —

 

WRONG !

 

 

This nasty flu has kicked my fatback!

 

 

 

First it knocked the crap outa’ my poor kids, and then it took hold of me and

LAID ME FLAT!

 

 

 Naturally, that man who sometimes stays at my house   

WAS OUT OF TOWN ALL WEEK. 

 

(The Dingus’ll NEVER get sick; that sumbitch isn’t ever here long enough to catch a drift.)

 

 

 I still feel like I’ve been ‘rode hard and put away wet’, but I’m on the mend.

 

On Tuesday morning, my fever finally broke, and my face was no longer on fire.

I awoke Thursday morning around 3am — unable to breathe.

 

I wheezed and heaved and finally hocked-up what, at first, I thought to be a

Goddam  LUNG.

 

 

Turns out, it was just a massive, gelatinous gob of GOO.

 

 

Remember ‘SLIME’ from the 70’s?

It was just like that.

 

 

I sat up in bed, holding this drippy wad of gak, and looked around for that miniature plastic trash can that SLIME used to come in.

 

 

 Green is GOOD; except when it’s SNOT.  

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

This is the first week of school that M2 has been ‘on green’ ALL WEEK.

 

  

Well, technically, she was ‘on green’ on Monday. 

 

She spent the rest of the week at home trying to squelch her swine flu squeals. 

 

 But hey, the word ‘yellow’ didn’t appear once on her daily behavior report – that counts for somethin’, doesn’t it?

 

I gotta tell ya, this color system that schools use today to chart a student’s behavior is a great thing.  

 

 

In M2’s class:

 

 

 green is good

 

yellow is ‘a warning’

 

orange means ‘ya better back off, kid’

 

red says ‘Final Warning:  one more time, and you’re gonna get it but good’

 

 

 

 

and BLACK bellows:

 

 

THAT’S IT, YOU LITTLE FUCKER!

YOU’RE TOAST!

 

 

 

 

Thank God this system wasn’t in place when I was in school. 

 

 I never shut the hell up. 

 

I was always getting my chair or my desk moved either as far away from the others or front ‘n center beside the teacher’s desk.

 

I can’t help it; I’m a talker. 

 

But in my defense, I must say, that when I would get in trouble, I’d really only talked or giggled ONCE

 

After that, it only LOOKED as if I kept chattin’ up my buds.

 

In reality, I was just lookin’ around at everybody else — trying to figure out what the hell I was supposed to have been doin’

(‘cause I was too damn dumb to do two things at once and keep up with the rest of the class).

 

 Hell, I never heard another kid’s oral report once I hit the 9th grade.

 

 ‘Presentation Day’ would come, and I’d automatically assume my position outside the closed classroom door.

 

I’d never have survived this color system; for The Viv – they’d have needed a color darker than black.

 

 

 

My M2 didn’t stand a chance.  

 

 

 

Along with the chromosome for sass, I passed along the chat gene. 

 

Her kindergarten teacher once told me that she really didn’t know what M2 looked like – cause she’d only ever seen the back of her head.

 

 

The difference between M2 and me:  SHE can hypertask.

 

 

That kid can appear to be totally off-task, doing something like, oh, I dunno, stuffing her mouth with sopping paper towels or carving ‘I love you’ into the dining room table with an unfolded paper clip (how do you beat her for THAT?!), keep track of how many times her sister has shot her ‘stink eye’ and then cough up an answer like

 

 

Ta duo da?

 

 

when translating ‘how old is she?’ in Chinese.

 

 

I feel sorry for her 1st grade teacher;

 

 

 our Chinese tutor is dizzy after only an hour.

 

 

 

Damn!  My girl is good!

 

 

 

If only I could hypertask AND keep my wits about me; my goddam lungs wouldn’t be charred. 

 

 

 

I have a really hard time punishing a ‘talent’ I envy.

 

 

 

Bless her heart, M2 is having a really hard time with this color system. 

 

 

In the world outside of school, ‘green’ means ‘go’ (or, ‘go ahead and talk’); ‘yellow’ is Daddy’s favorite color and the color of the brick road that skippin’ Dorothy follows home (hence, a ‘GOOD’ color to M2).

 

 

 

I would totally fuck her up if I reminded her…

 

 

the Wicked Witch is GREEN.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Declaring my puppycrush on Dr. D. has made me think…

 

  (back away slowly and take cover)

 

 

Though, for better or for worse, The Dingus is my man.  For whatever reason, he worships the very ground I tread. 

 

  

And let’s be honest; AIN’T NO OTHER MAN could put up with my SHIT.

 

 

 

So, I guess I’ll keep him.

 

  

(for now)

 

 

 

But, as long as I’m baring my soul,  I might as well tell the whole frippin’ world just who-the-hell-else makes my heart go pitter-pat. 

 

 

I must warn you, though;

  

 

The Viv sees ‘sexy’ in more than the physical.  

 

 

 

Age matters not (unless it enhances one’s appeal).

 

 

 

Let’s start with The Usual Suspects:

 

Brad Pitt (The Yummiest)

Oh, hell, ANGELINA, too. 

Johnny Depp

Jon Bon J(oops, fainted there for a sec)ovi

Robert Pattinson  (whew!  BITE ME!  BITE ME!)

Zac Efron (Cougar bait — he has ‘happy eyes’ like The Dingus)

Andy Garcia (especially in When A Man Loves a Woman)

Kurt Russell  (3000 Miles to Graceland and Death Proof —

                           Damn! Where are my cigarettes?!)

Toby Keith (a good, THICK man)

Matthew McConaidoncarehowtospellit  (it’s the dimples)

Mel Gibson  (especially as simple Tim)

 

 

 

And the rather UNUSUAL sexy beasts:

 

Troy Polamalu  (I’ll take any number, really…43…69…it’ll end with 911…)

Goldberg!!!!!  (I DID tell him I’d leave The Dingus in a heartbeat for him;

                                      neither he nor The Dingus flinched.)

Albert Finney  (ever seen Wolfen?  my, oh my…)

Robert Redford  (esp. in The Horse Whisperer)

Robert Downey, Jr.  (dope and all)

Kevin Spacey  (Verbal sealed it — particularly the gimp)

Jeff Bridges (The DUDE!)

Tommy Lee Jones (when he’s orderin’ everyone to search

                                 every outhouse, henhouse and penthouse)

Ben Kingsley (THE Sexy Beast himself)

Gary Oldman  (as the young Dracula; HEART BE STILL!)

John Malkovich (as himself)

Sam Elliott (it’s the voice, it’s the ‘stache, it’s the

                    salt’n’pepper hair, the jeans, that slow, easy-goin’ manner….)

That kid from the freecreditreport.com commercials

Chevy Chase (the giggle! AND the dimple!)

Jesse James (vroom-vroom!)

Richard Gere (especially tappin’  in Chicago

                        and when my mom, an extra,  

                        walks behind him  in Mothman)

Jeff Goldblum  (just not when he was a fly)

 Michael Sheen  (as Lucien, not that pansy Frost)

Mr. Ed  (his Fab-O mane and deep voice;

               Geez! — what were YOU thinkin’?)

Danny DeVito  (in Cuckoo’s Nest — a babydoll!)

Robert DeNiro  (the ‘tude! and that stare)

Timothy Hutton  (happy eyes)

Harry Connick, Jr. (just plain HOT)

Stephen King (the sick, twisted,  brilliant mind)

Quentin Tarantino (ditto)

Nicholas Cage (since Valley Girl)

Michael Madsen (Mr. Blonde from Reservoir Dogs)

Hoyt Axton (the voice)

Wilford Brimley (the ‘stache AND the voice!

                              …makes me pine for sugar…)

James Earl Jones (the whole big package)

Anthony Hopkins (it’s the accent, the style, that debonair air)

Jon Stewart (the wit and the goofy expressions)

Adam Sandler (what a cutie!)

Tim Robbins (folks say The Dingus looks like him;

                         oh!  maybe THAT’S WHY I love him!)

 

 

 

Unfortunately, these boys are out of reach.

 

 

 

 

 

I’ll just stick with The Dingus and

keep my hands ’round his neck. 

 

 

 

(at least until he reaches

maximum earning potential…)

 

 

My kid’s oinking.

 

She’s got a case of the swine flu.

 

  

 

 

Had to, had to, HAD TO get her in to see Dr. D.

 

 

  

Haven’t been there in a while; the M & Ms have been pretty healthy.

 

If  I hadn’t noticed the nub of a curly pink tail protruding from her coccyx, I’d have had to devise some generic-run-of-the-mill-kiddie-ailment to use as an excuse to drag my otherwise-healthy-kid to the doc.

  

 

 

Scratchy throat? 

Let’s go see Dr. D….

 

Temp hovering at a dangerous 99˚? 

Oooh.  We’d better see Dr. D. to head-off disaster….

 

Innocuous little rash? 

I think Dr. D. needs to have a looksee….

  

 

 

It took me several years to realize – to my great relief — that

I DO NOT have a whopping case of Münchausen by Proxy.

  

 

Turns out, I just have a little crush on my kids’ pediatrician.

  

 

I don’t even know why this is; he’s the complete opposite of The Dingus.

 

  

The Dingus is tall;

Dr. D. is short.

 

The Dingus has a deep, manly voice;

Dr. D. has one of those airy-little-fat-kid voices.

 

The Dingus is athletic;

Dr. D.’s a nerd.

 

The Dingus wears sweats when not working;

Dr. D. dons Tommy, Eddie and Lands End.

 

The Dingus is hairy;

Dr. D. is…

(oh, wait.  They’re both pretty hairy.)

 

 

 

Actually, Dr. D.’s hairy arms are teddy-bear-adorable.

 

 

And then there are his round, bookwormish glasses.

 

 

  

Now, understand:  I like my hubby just fine.  

 

 

  

Have known I’d make him mine since our junior year of high school. 

(yeah, yeah, high-school sweethearts…gag-yak, retch-puke)

 

  

 

And though there are days I while away the hours plotting various, CSI-foresics-undetectable-yet-surefire ways in which to do the fucker in, I’m kinda used to him now. 

 

 

 He’s handy to have around when there’s something on the top shelf that I can’t reach.

 

 

  

Swapping The Dingus for Dr. D. is simply not an option.

 

 

 

Nor is it a fantasy; I lust not after the good doctor

 

 

I just think he’s cute.

 

 

 

WHY, for the love of God, I turn into some goofy, giggly, middle-school girly-girl when I’m around him simply baffles me.

 

 

 

I HATE IT.

 

 

 

Like I just picked up my tongue that morning, I stumble and stammer through my words and find even his friendly ‘hello’ worthy of the coyest giggle.

 

 

 

I DESPISE THE STUPID DITZY BIMBO I MORPH INTO IN THE PRESENCE OF DR. D.!

 

 

 

That’s NOT The Viv’s style!

 

 

 

Hell, back in computer class in ’86, I railroaded The Dingus into a relationship:

 

 

 

“Hey.  Tall Boy.

 

YOU – ME

 

Let’s go….”

 

 

 

I’ve led that poor schlep around by the nose ever since.

 

 

 

WHO THE HELL IS THE COQUETTE

IN EXAM ROOM #9?!

 

 

Doesn’t stop me from draggin’ m’damn kids to see him, though.

 

 

 

The Dingus gets a huge kick out of my little ‘thingy’ for the physician. 

 

 

 

He takes a great sick delight in telling me he chatted with Dr. Cutie at the hospital, or say, God forbid, when HE is the one to call and schedule an appointment for the M & Ms.

 

 

Oddly, when The Dingus schedules the girls’ appointments, somehow I always end up with ANOTHER physician in that practice:  

Dr. Bowtie or worse —  Dr. Greek Mythology.

 

 

 

Only a prick-husband could be so cruel.

 

 

 

The other day, after declaring that my kid had SOME form of flu, Dr. D. told me to expect the whole famdamily to join in the flu-time-fun, too.

 

 

Hurray!

 

 

 

I started thinking of ways I could help my other kid contract the virus, and you know, speed things along.  

 

 

 

Switching  the M & Ms’ pillow cases and toothbrush heads seems to be the best I got.

 

 

 

Dr. D. ended our visit with an INVITATION to bring back my sick little cookie ASAP at the first sign of her having trouble breathing.

 

 

 

I’m considering pinching her nose as she naps….

 

 

  

WHAT?

 

 

Is that wrong?

 

 

Thank God it’s flu season; it was a long, hot, excruciatingly healthy summer….

 

I am in pain.

 

I feel as if I’ve been put through a grueling crunch session.

 

As ‘exercise’ is not a word found in The Viv’s lexicon, the pain in my gut could come only from laughter.

 

I love to laugh, but even I have to say ‘uncle’ when laughter reduces me to a shivering, quaking ball on the floor as, only by the grace of God,  am I able to control my bladder.

 

Such was the scene at Friday night Bunco.

 

Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar with Bunco, it’s a silly little dice game that the gals in my ‘hood use as a flimsy excuse to take a once-a-month-mini-vacation from their families and drink and eat…and drink…and drink…and talk…and drink a bit more…and…

 

 

LAUGH LIKE HELL!

 

 

Honestly, we could just eliminate the damn dice and call it

 

‘DRUNKO’

 

This year, I decided to relinquish my ‘regular’ status and take a post as a ‘substitute’. 

 

For one thing, I am NOT an entertainer; holding a DRUNKO party game at my humble abode throws me into a terrifying stress that all the ‘happy pills’ in the WORLD could not squelch.

 

As a sub, I enjoy ALL of the fun of DRUNKO — and none of the commitment (and accompanying panic attacks and ensuing soupy poopies).

 

Incredibly, I think I’ve been to more DRUNKOs this year as a sub than ever before as a ‘regular’!

 

(Plus, it’s a well-known fact that the subs clean house!  I’ve extracted a jaw-dropping $25 from the regular Bunco Babes in the last month!)

 

But, I gotta tell ya;

 

These are no ‘regular’ babes.

 

 

These are 12 of the funniest people on Earth!

 

 

These are 12 incredible, intelligent, warm and beautiful women.

 

These are 12 amazing, accomplished women with the super-power to ‘hyper-task’.

 

Each of these 12 has the ability to simultaneously bitch-slap ya in the face with a stinging verbal assault, throw three dice and keep track of how many 5’s she’s rolled (as well as her win-loss-booby-ratio), insult the host’s menu, toss back the remainder of her fourth goblet of mango punch and hit’cha with a lip-ripplin’ man-belch and a follow-up-

 

 

‘FUCK YOU!’

 

 

I worship these women.

  

 

To be fair, not every Bunco Babe imbibes; there are a couple of teetotalers.  These are also the ones who, like hawks, watch me keep score, fearing I may cheat or screw up our team score — due to wine or ditsy, they’re not sure. 

 

(Geez!  Ya make a couple of calculation errors — to your own detriment, I might add — and you’re labeled for life!  ‘Don’t let The Viv keep score!’  There is NO MERCY at DRUNKO!)

 

No topic is taboo at DRUNKO:  kids, sex,  music,  your kids having sex to music, sex, gossip, PTO, sex, bus bullies, dead-beat-hubbies, sex — you name it, it’ll come up.

 

Now, this game is always fun, especially if you have the right combination of people.  There is one gal in particular, who happens to be THE FUNNIEST PERSON I’VE EVER MET.  (We’ll call her ‘Deb’.)  

 

Deb is just one of those folks who is naturally funny — in everything she says and does.  Her delivery, her mannerisms and her facial expressions:  priceless! 

 

If Deb’s at DRUNKO, you’re GUARANTEED to narrowly miss a piss in your pants at some point that evening.

 

Deb filled us in on her kids.  She told us about her son (now in high school) when she gave him the ‘sex talk’.

 

“The summer between 5th and 6th grade, he learned about the birds and the bees and Santa Claus in the same conversation.   Then he spent the rest of the summer calculating how many times each of his neighbors had had sex — by the number of kids they had.”   He was shocked to learn his grandparents were such horn-hounds — with 5 kids! 

 

Deb’s impression of her kid counting his grandparents’ sexcapades on his fingers did me in.   I was crying, crossing my legs, holding my aching abs and pleading for mercy.

 

Things got worse when we started talking about the joggers in our area. 

 

Evidently, there is some ADONNIS runnin’ around, bare-chested and wearing teeny-tiny running shorts that accentuate the fact that he has ONE HUGE MUSCLE along his leg.  We’re all now finding lame excuses ‘to run to the store’ to scout the surrounding area for the newly monnikered  

 

 ‘Mr. Muscle’.

 

Our moral compasses, Christian kindness and all hope of ever seeing Heaven tanked when the talk turned to a female jogger with the strangest gait known to man.

 

Now, rumor has it that she is the kindest, sweetest lady who happens to be one helluva nurse.  

 

I give her credit and admire her effort (at least she’s exercising!),  but just watching her run makes me hurt! 

 

Remember the way Seinfeld’s Elaine dances?

 

Now picture her palsied…

 

And running…

 

That’s it.

 

After several strong impressions of this poor woman’s stride, a  brainstorming session erupted:

 

 

‘Why the HELL does she run like that?’

 

* cerebral palsy?

* hip displaysia?  

* stroke victim taking back her life?

* prosthetics?

* hoping folks will take pity and throw money?

 

 

Each subsequent suggestion was a subsequent nail in our own coffin (however, in my case, that equates to just one more millenium of matching socks in Sheol).  

 

 

It’s a done-deal:  the DRUNKO BABES are gonna BURN!

 

 

 

But we’re gonna have a ball before we go.

 

 

 

   

 

 

I asked a little neighbor girl what she plans ‘to be’  for Halloween.

  

She wants to be ‘The Grim Creaker’.

  

It reminded me of another wee one who once wished to be DEATH.

 

Long ago, when I taught preschool in Hawaii, I had so many adorable wee ones.

My favorite was a squirrely little guy named Vinny.   

He was a sour, pickled little fella; an old soul trapped in a tiny three-year-old body. 

No matter what the task or the treat, Vinny would wrinkle up his little face in utter anguish and growl-whine,

  

“OOWWWNNNNLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!” 

 

(as if we dipped him in boiling water on a regular basis)   

 

He had to be prodded and cajoled and finally forced into participating in every exercise — even lunch.

  

 

Vinny hated everything.

 

  

I    ADORED    HIM.

  

 

One October morning I had ‘lanai’ duty (porch watch). 

Coming up the ramp to school  was a walking hooded sweatshirt. 

(It could only be my buddy Vinny.)

 No part of his body could be seen under his teenaged brother’s chocolate brown hoodie. 

Ever Vinny, his hooded head was hanging to his chest as he moped along the walkway, dragging several inches of sleeve along the cement.

No clue how he was able to navigate; somehow he ended up in front of me, still hood-down, just waiting for me to engage him.

 

“Good morning, Vincent,”  said I.

No movement.

“Hel-lo, Vinny…”

Nothing.

“Vi-nnnn-yyyy…” 

Still nothing.

(At this point, I realized that today Vinny was refusing to be himself — which is common in preschool.)

 

Finally, he tilted back his head, and I could see part of his scrunched-up face under the hood.

  

I waited for it….

 

“OOWWWNNNNLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!”   

 

 

 I’m The Grim Creeep-er!

 

 

“It’s ‘Reaper’, Vinny.  The Grim Reaper. 

You’re the Grim RRREEEAAAPPP-ER.”

  

Wait…for…it…

 

“OOWWWNNNNLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!”

 

Then he dropped his hood to his chest and lope-dragged his wicked little butt into the classroom and promptly prostrated himself in the middle of the circle-time rug, a mangled ‘kiddie-version’ of The Vitruvian Man.

 

DEATH  came to life only when I offered to let him make a bumfodder-roll-and-tinfoil scythe.

 

Why not? 

 

After all, it was a Catholic Montessori  Preschool; I was simply allowing The Grim Creeep-er to investigate, to create and to explore his chosen path for the day.  

 

(hhmmm….let me think:  medieval weaponry…or lacing Dressie Bessie’s shoes?…hhhmmmm….)

 

Vinny spent the rest of the day scaring the shit out of the other wee folk. 

 

 

I think The Grim Creeep-er actually smiled that day.

 

 

God, how I loved that child….

 

 

Though I am a married, single mother, last night at the mall —

 

 I fell head-over-heels IN LOVE !

 

Mi amor had soft, sandy brown hair and the biggest, black, lovey-dovey eyes I’ve ever seen.  He was absolutely adorable, and I’d leave The Dingus in a heartbeat for him!

I spied him near the food court, and boldly, I went over to introduce myself.

I’d never before done anything of the sort!  

When our eyes met, I fell deeply, madly, in love with my sweet, sweet ‘Sugar Bear!

I couldn’t contain myself, so enamored was I; impulsively, I reached out and stroked his sandy hair. 

My heart was pounding inside my chest!  I feared he may be scared off by my excitement, but his big, pleading eyes told me that he wanted me as much as I wanted him.   I just couldn’t keep my hands off him!  I wanted only to hold him next to my lovestruck heart forever.

It mattered not that I would have to pay for the love that this fine creature would give me; gigolo schmigolo!  

 I NEEDED to give him a big, ol’ dose of mamalove!  That handsome fella was coming home with me! 

Needless to say, The Dingus was none too pleased with my behavior. 

I introduced him to the object of my love, and as I’d feared, he rejected my new desire. 

No surprise there; a ‘meat’n’potatoes-kinda-guy’, The Dingus has never been open to ‘spicing things up’ or even trying-out the extreme or the exotic.

The Dingus not only balked at the quoted fee for the guy, he choked!   It was a DEAL for such wild animal-lust!

 

 

What price love?!

 

 

Despite my ‘pathetic sad face’ and working up the requisite tears, my emphatic pleas fell on deaf ears. 

Where was The Dingus’s sense of adventure? 

Did he not want to please me?  To satisfy all of my hungers? 

Did he not love me enough to acquiesce to my desires?

Though I offered to turn the occasional trick to finance my love, The Dingus denied me the opportunity to enjoy the companionship of this male. 

Though I tried to reason that today’s families are no longer made up of just two parents, a couple of kids and a dog, he refused to listen. 

Even the argument that ‘it would be GOOD for the girls’ could not sway him!

A jealous man, The Dingus is not willing to share his home with another male. 

 

No amount of begging would win over my staid, stoic hubby.

 

 

I crave!

 

I LUST!

 

 

I cannot help who I am; I cannot quench my desire to give of myself to other hot-blooded, love-starved beings!  

I have NEEDS – visceral, deep-seated YEARNINGS!

I am a woman who has far too much love to share.

 

To hell with The Dingus! 

 

 

SOMEDAY, SOMEHOW, I WILL HAVE MY ‘SUGAR BEAR’ IN MY LIFE!

 

 

If it comes down to The Dingus or my ‘Sugar Bear’, The Dingus goes! 

 

 

I must find a Sugar Daddy to help me bring home my ‘Sugar Bear’!

 

Last night, broken and empty, I said a tear-filled, gut-wrenching goodbye to the love of my life.

I held his hand and laid a final, bittersweet kiss upon his soft cheek.

 

I was, and still am, utterly heart-broken.

 

I have only a few photos to remember him, mi corazón, el amor de mi vida:

 

 

 

 

 

Irwin - Sugar Glider Picture