Snickerfodder

Archive for November 2009

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

 

 

Enjoy family and friends

and

Eat to the pain!

 

 

 

Here’s my Very FaVorite

Thanksgiving Song —

by Adam Sandler

(lifted from the first site I found on Google)

 

 

“The Thanksgiving Song” 

“They wanna hear the thanksgiving song! All right..”
“This is uhh, This is the Thanksgiving Song”
“I hope you enjoy it.”[Starts playing]
Love to eat turkey

Love to eat turkey[Shout from Crowd:] “I love you Adam!”
[Adam Sandler:] “Ohhh, I love you!”
Love to eat turkey
‘Cause it’s good
Love to eat turkey
Like a good boy should
‘Cause it’s turkey to eat
So good

[Adam Sandler:] “That clappin’s messing my head up man. I appreciate it.
But I was trying to think of the next line and all I hear is clapping.
Here we go… Thanks anyways”

Turkey for me
Turkey for you
Let’s eat the turkey
In my big brown shoe
Love to eat the turkey
At the table
I once saw a movie
With Betty Grable
Eat that turkey
All night long
Fifty million Elvis fans
Can’t be wrong
Turkey lurkey doo and
Turkey lurkey dap
I eat that turkey
Then I take a nap

Thanksgiving is a special night
Jimmy Walker used to say Dynomite
That’s right
Turkey with gravy and cranberry
Can’t believe the Mets traded Darryl Strawberry
Turkey for you and
Turkey for me
Can’t believe Tyson
Gave that girl V.D.

White meat, dark meat
You just can’t lose
I fell off my moped
And I got a bruise
Turkey in the oven
And the buns in the toaster
I’ll never take down
My Cheryl Tiegs poster
Wrap the turkey up
In aluminum foil
My brother likes to masturbate
With baby oil
Turkey and sweet potato pie
Sammy Davis Jr.
Only had one eye

Turkey for the girls and
Turkey for the boys
My favorite kind of pants
Are corduroys
Gobble gobble goo and
Gobble gobble gickel
I wish turkey
Only cost a nickel
Oh I love turkey on Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving everybody!

[ www.azlyrics.com ]

// //


  



  



HOLY LIGHTNIN’ MIGHTY,  



 can I get myself into some MESSES. 



  



Truly, I don’t wake each morn and say to myself,



  



“Now, what kind of crazy-assed, unbelievable,



FUBAR quagmire are you gonna git



sucked and stuck into  TODAY?!”



  



Crazy shit just HAPPENS to me.    



  



I am a completely unwilling participant in 50% of the



cluster-fucked jams in which I find myself.



  



I’m just the poor dumb schmuck who happens to be
in the RIGHT place at the RIGHT time. 



As for the other 50%;   I ATTACK those



with a flyin’ leap and a big, ‘ole



  



“YEEE-HAAAWWW!”



  



  



This here is NOT a Yee-Haw yarn. 



  



  



I am a SUCKER for ANY poor, helpless, defenseless or injured life form.



 



As a little girl, I rescued and nursed back to health countless injured fauna:  baby bunnies, baby birdies, turtles and the occasional baby snake that wended its way up through the drain of the downstairs shower.  



I made these little critters as comfortable as possible by setting them up with hospice care in my Barbie Dream Home and RV. 



I force-fed them sugar water from a medicine dropper.



They all died within a couple of days.



Although, there was one plucky little black snake that hung on for over a week.   I loved him.  



I had to keep him in a shoebox, though, ’cause he could slither right through the Winnebago’s invisible windshield when I tried to make him drive it.    My mother made me keep all of my patients outside (especially the scaly ones).  



I must have forgotten to put the lid back on his box one day; when I came back, he was gone.  I was heartbroken.



My only hope for him was that he would grow fat and strong for many years before he met his end at the tip of my father’s shovel.



 This past September, I rescued a near-death field mouse from my sidewalk.  He was adorable.  He made the cutest squeaks. 



 



He made it less than a day.



 



I went to Petsmart only hours later and bought a replacement. 



 



(YEEEE-HHHAAAAWWWW!)



 



The Dingus was NOT happy.



 



A few weeks ago, M1 had big Economics project due at school. 



(A THIRD-GRADE Econ project — using terms such as economic specialization, scarcity and opportunity cost, for crissake!)



 



 



Hell, I didn’t learn those terms until junior year! 



 



 



They did come in handy though as El Guapo and I walked from class to class at good ‘ole KHS.



 



I’d point out all the other high-school-hottie-boys and say,



 



  



“See him?  Opportunity Cost.”



 



  



So, anyway, I have to schlep my kiddies to school the day the project is due ’cause ain’t no way M1’s big-assed poster board was bus-bound.  It wouldn’t even fit in my fun bug; we had to take Suzie (aka the Trooper/aka the Dump Truck).   



 



 



Does The Viv LOVE animals? 



  



She names her freakin’ vehicles. 



You decide.



  



  



 



 



When we pulled onto the busy road



 from our development,  



I spied the poor cat lying



 in the middle of the oncoming lane. 






 


 





 



My heart clenched up. 



 



 



I was about to look away, not able to stand the thought, let alone the sight, of a pet that had been run over – when the poor little fella



lifted his head from the road and looked right at me.



 



Our eyes locked for a millisecond.



 



I let out a pathetic yelp and then an



 



 



“Oh, my God! 



 



He’s STILL ALIVE!!!!”



 



 



 



I aimed Suzie for the berm, threw ‘er into park, told the M & Ms to



 



‘STAY PUT AND DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!’



 



I ran into the busy road without care for my own safety or that of my two children on the roadside WITHOUT the HAZARD lights flashing.  



(I’m up for ‘Mom of the Year’;



That decision clinches it.)



 



The kitty lifted his head again and issued a weak and liquidy meow at me when I reached him. 



I couldn’t see very well because I was crying too hard. 



 



(Yes, The Viv cries;



 even sassybitches



have a heart once or twice a year.)



 



 



Even though he was bleeding from his nose and rump, I could see he was a gorgeous tabby.



 



He was SOMEBODY’S beloved pet. 



 



 



BUT, if he’d started out the day with all nine lives,  



he’d just SHAT a good seven o’ them on the road.



 



 



 I HAD to help him! 



 



 



I bent over and tried to slide my hands under him as gently as possible so as to do no more damage.  He meowed in pain, but allowed me to cradle and cuddle him back to my car.  



I was utterly oblivious to having caused quite the traffic snarl in every direction. 



Luckily, most folks around me probably thought I was the one who’d hit him or that he was MY cat and I’d just had to scoop him off the asphalt.  They gave this cat-scrapin’ crazy lady  wide berth. 



(However, any of those drivers who know The Viv probably just shook their heads and wondered just what fresh hell I’d gotten myself into THIS time.)



I gently placed my new flat feline into the passenger footwell and covered him with a blanket I yanked from the cargo area of the Dump Truck.  Thankfully, the M & Ms could see only the kitty’s head from their backseat perches.  They were whimpering and worrying over the fate of this little fella.



 



I, on the other hand, was a basket case. 



 



A passionate person, I have no ‘medium’ setting.  Every emotion I own goes from zero to 150 in the blink of an eye.  I’m never just sad; I’m MOROSE.  I’m never  just a little happy; I’m ECSTATIC.   I’m never merely miffed; I’m FURIOUS.    I know only the extremes.



 



 



This stripey fellow BROKE MY HEART.



 



 



I got back onto the road and tried to calm my own nerves and those of the M & Ms.






 



(GEEZ, M1 had a big presentation to do!)    



 



She’s already PAINFULLY shy and reticent to speak before an audience of ONE as it is.



 



 



I’d just thrown her into a tizzy



with my SPCA special-op o’ the day. 



 



 






I may have just DOOMED my kid’s chance of success then and there. 



(Again; MOTY material)



 



We said some flimsy little kitty-prayers in the next few minutes’ drive to school.  



I THINK I wished M1 ‘GOOD LUCK‘ as she hopped out of the car.  The forces of the universe must have been smiling down upon The Viv;  M2 did NOT hop out of the car and tell the teacher’s aide on car-duty to look in the front seat ’cause Mama scraped a flat cat off the road on our way to school.  



 



 I whispered and murmured sweet-kitty-somethings to my friend as I raced to my vet, not a few miles away.  Again, the gods graced me as I hit 35 mph through the school zone (with the fuzz sitting RIGHT THERE).



 



With my kitty in arms, I burst through the vet’s doors.



 



 



“Please help me!”



 



 



The staff flew into action.  They whisked away my whiskered pal and asked me about his story. 



Whatever I’d held back until then came flooding out. 



 



I was a bawling, blithering idiot.



 



It wasn’t even MY damn cat! 



 



I must have looked quite the fright with my mascara smeared all over, babbling nonsense about  



 



How could someone just mow him down and drive away?!”



 



and



 



HE LOOKED RIGHT AT ME!!!”   



 



 



A receptionist led me over to a bench to sit and collect my sad self.   A few minutes later, a tech came out to let me know they’d put my fuzzy buddy on an i.v. and oxygen. 



 



Although, to me, all cats are male until I learn otherwise, I asked if they knew ‘his’ sex.  The tech said they couldn’t tell yet as there was too much blood down about his nether-regions to get a good looksee.



 



This prompted another bout of bawling.   



(from The Viv; the tech was fine.)



 



 I decided to ‘busy’ myself by perusing one of the many



volumes of patient-photos resting on a table. 



 



BAD IDEA



 



 



It was pretty much a freakin’ ‘MEMORIAL-TRIBUTE’ album, chock-full of snaps of hundreds of beloved pets that had bitten the dust.



 



(more boo-hooing ensued)



 



Another quarter-hour elapsed and my tech came back to chat.  



 She asked if I would be willing to assume the charges for treatment.



 



 



In such a state,



 I’d have signed over my damn house. 



 



 



Then she asked me what I wanted to call the cat since they needed a name to enter under my bill.



 



I blurted out,



 



“FLUFFY.” 



 



(And I call myself a WRITER?!)



 



 



I couldn’t have coughed up something sassy like  



 



 



“FLAT STANLEY”   



 



 



or  



 



 



“SLIM“?!



 



 



 



 



What the HELL?!



 


 


 


 The Viv NEVER misses



an opportunity to be a smart-ass.



 



A near-death experience should be no exception; 



 



 



NAY!



 



  



‘At dere’s a godsend of fodder



fo’ da snicker, in my book.  



 



 




I disgust myself.



 FAILURE!



 



Perhaps I could have been lucid enough  



to come up with something ‘aaawww’-inspiring as



HOPE  or  “FAITH  or   “LANCE”.






 



Hell no!



Freakin’ “FLUFFY” was my best shot.



 



(Sorry, my new flattened feline friend;



your hero is a MORON.)



(At least it speaks to my mental incapacity —



which, AT capacity, operates at barely-above-retard)



 



 



The tech then led me into an exam room.  The vet came in to share the x-rays with me. 



Miraculously, he (confirmed at this point) had no broken bones!  He did, though, have severely bruised lungs.  Plus, his lungs and heart had been jammed up under his ribs and were not resting where they should. 



 



Poor little fellow.



 






Twenty minutes later, the tech came back to give me an ‘estimate’ for the cost of Fluffy’s care should he have a necessary operation and two nights in the clinic:



 




 



$1,111.00  



 



 



 I wailed and moaned like a paid mourner



followin’ a flippin’  funeral parade, for God’s sake.



 



Honestly, I’m not sure which upset me more:  



Being the one responsible for deciding whether Fluffy lived or died



(I pay; he livesI don’t pay; sayonara, Fluffy.)



 



OR



 



The knowledge that The Dingus would



snuff out MY LIFE when he found out



about my little CAT FANCY (FIASCO).



 



 



 



Hell, The Dingus



would put ME down



 for anything over $200.



 



 



 



What to do?



 



(bawl and wail some more)



 



I told the tech (in between great, heaving moans) that there was NO WAY that I could pay that much for a cat that wasn’t even mine, and that my husband wouldn’t pay that to save ME, let alone a pet.



 



The sweet tech consoled me and put her arm around me as I sat and blathered on about only wanting to help this poor animal, and now it would DIE just because I have a pucker-tight spouse and the fact that I enjoy living at home. 



 



I’ll admit –  though I BRIEFLY entertained the flickering idea;



 



 



 



The Viv ain’t turnin’



no tricks for no damn cat.



 



 



 



(So long, Fluffy, my flat feline friend —



it was nice to scrape you



and your entrails off the pavement —



now I too know how it feels to be eviscerated….)



 



 



Even if I chose to euthanize the cat, my bill for what had already been done for him was a whopping



 



 



$481.00



 



 



In the back of my mind



I was frantically trying to recall



the location of every homeless



and abused-women’s shelter I knew.



 



 



I begged the tech to please let me try to find Fluffy’s owners; what if I decided to kill the cat when his family may not even know he’d been missing and then hurt?



 



The clinic agreed — if I paid my $481 first — to hold the cat until 4 o’clock.  It was only around 11 am, and I figured I at least owed Fluffy (and my maimed conscience) the chance of locating his owners. 



 



Surely, surely – with some prayer



And some luck —



and my bull-dog-determination



I could find his folks.



 



 



(and yes, The Viv fuckin’ prays;



happy now?)



 



 



 



So, the tech took a picture of  Fluffy and his outstretched, iv’ed and bandaged left paw on my new Crackberry (I didn’t even know how to take photos on it; she had to figure it out). 



 



 I coughed up my VISA and went out in search of Fluffy’s family.



 



I returned to the scene of the hit’n’run, and parked in the development across the road from my own.



 



I started knocking on doors.  It was a weekday, so many folks were working.



 



It  was evident that many were indeed home, though, as I could hear and/or see them about in their homes, but many didn’t answer the door. 



 



I can’t imagine why not;



 



Perhaps it was my old, ridiculously baggy, paint-splotched sweatpants, neon-green-and-black-striped Grinch socks, brown house-shoes and school-bus-yellow reflective raincoat



 



OR



 



my tear-stained, mascara-streaked, frantic and desperate face that caused them question the prudence of opening their door to this bedraggled STRANGEr.



 



I canvassed three streets, door-to-door.  I fully expected to be taken down by a SWAT team at any moment; in MY ‘hood, someone lookin’ like me would’a  had a free ride in a sheriff’s sedan by the fifth harassed house.



 



Only a very small few, brave women answered their doors, looked at the photo of Fluffy, and shook their heads in the negative. 



 



No one recognized him.



 



Somehow,  I lost my bearings deep in the development.  I’m sure I knocked on a few house’s doors at least twice.   It was nearing 2:30 pm, and I was mentally, physically, emotionally EXHAUSTED.  



 



 



It was time to toss in the towel.



 



(Sorry, Fluffy-boy;



I gave it my my best shot.)



 



 As I was meandering along, arguing with myself whether or not I’d already hit this house or that, or which street led back to my dagum car, I turned a corner and spotted my Suzie-truck. 



 



Whew!



 



Since I’d recovered my sense of direction, I got a little second-wind.   



 



I realized that I didn’t hit the few houses between there and my vehicle.



 



Not one happy to give up, I tried the six or so houses.



 



 



Not one answered door



until the house which was only



 two houses away from my damn car.



 



 



Even though there were two cars parked in the driveway, I was not really expecting anyone to answer the door.



 



But, as The Big Guy does work in oh-so-mysterious ways, a sweet, middle-aged couple answered my buzz.



 



“Hi, I’m really sorry to bother you, but this morning I found a cat that had been hit on the road.  Do you have a cat?”



 



The woman said, “Yes, I do, but he’s out now, and I don’t know where he is.”  Her face was beginning to register worry.



 



I held out  my Blackberry.



 



“I’m so sorry, but could you please tell me if this is your cat?”



 



The woman took my phone.  Her husband peeked over her shoulder.



 



Then she whimpered and winced and put a hand up to her mouth  —  and my phone to her chest.



 



 



“Oh, my God!  It’s Bowzer!”



 



 



She and I both got teary, and I crossed myself,



 thanking God that I had found Fluffy/Bowzer’s family.



 



 



I  think, in one breath, I said, “I’m so sorry to just knock on your door and break this news to you like this.  I didn’t hit him.  I don’t know who did.  I was taking my girls to school this morning —  I just live across the highway —  and as I pulled out of our development, I saw him lying on the road – in the oncoming-traffic lane.  He picked his little head up and LOOKED RIGHT AT ME!  I HAD to help the poor, little guy.  He’s down at the [local] vet now, and they’re taking good care of him.  He doesn’t have any broken bones, but he’s on an iv, and his lungs and heart aren’t sitting where they should be.  He’s going to need an operation, and it’s going to be AT LEAST another 500 bucks, just so you know.  But the thing is, you HAVE to call or go down there and tell them he’s yours because…I had to sign papers to euthanize him…in case I couldn’t find you.  You have only until 4 o’clock TODAY.   Please, please, call them.  He’s listed under ‘Fluffy’.”



 



The woman told me it was such a strange coincidence; Fluffy/Bowzer had a scheduled appointment at that particular vet clinic —  the VERY NEXT DAY.



 



Wow.  That was freaky.



 



 



It gets even freakier:



 



Bowser’ is my Nana’s maiden name.



 



(although, the woman shared that the cat was named for the big-mouthed guy from Sha Na Na, not for my Nana.)



 



We did quickie-introductions, and the couple thanked me profusely. 



 



We hugged and said goodbyes; they had a kitty to claim.



 



I  crossed myself a few more times on the short walk to Suzie.  I felt as if I were in the middle of some hazy dream; the whole morning had had a surreal feel.  I couldn’t help feeling that God was sending me a message of some sort, or that He meant for me to come to know Fluffy/Bowzer’s family – and he nearly killed the damn cat to accomplish His will.



 



I climbed into Suzie and just sat there; numb and dumb – for a couple of minutes – still considering whether or not I’d just been a part of some grand Creator scheme.



 



I had to call 411 for the vet’s number.  When I called, they told me that the woman had already called and was coming to see Fluffy/Bowzer in just a few minutes. 



 



Though I was kinda still dazed, I drove Suzie around town for the next half-hour or so.  I didn’t have anywhere to go (at that point, I’d already decided that I’d get the M & M’s off the bus, fix my family a nice dinner, then pack my kerchief and hitch a ride to the shelter).



 



When I got home, there was a message from the vet on my answering machine.  The couple told them I’d given them only my first name and that I didn’t tell them I’d already paid $481 for Fluffy/Bowzer’s care. 



 



They wanted my contact information – to reimburse me in full.



 



Though I hated like hell to do it, I agreed to accept the reimbursement. 



 



How I wish I could have said, “Don’t worry about it!  I was happy to do it; I absolutely refuse to take your money!”



 



On the other hand; I rather enjoy having a roof over my head, a daily shower and spending time with my kids without a Social Services escort.



 



I am most happy to say that, though The Dingus was none too happy about the mere POSSIBILITY of ‘pissing away’ 500 bucks on ‘some stupid cat’, he was happy that the M & Ms saw SassyMama show compassion and charity (almost) to another living being.  They did witness Mommy ‘doing the right thing’ – something we’re forever preaching.   Perhaps they will one day ‘do the right thing’ without thought to how much it might hurt their wallets.



 



Bowzer’s mommy calls me with updates; he is on the mend!  Although he’s got a long, slow recovery ahead, he’s got at least one life still in him.



 



When he’s ‘all-bedder’ as my little one says, we’ve been invited to visit Bowzer. 



 



The M & Ms simply cannot wait. 



 



In the end, whether it was part of Divine Intervention or not, two families have come to enjoy a new friendship because of  that CAT FANCY. 



 



And ya know what?



 



 



I’d  do it all over again



in a purring-kitty heartbeat.



 



 



 

Tags: ,

 

 

 

I love music.

 

 

Not a big fan of jazz and R & B, mind you, but gimme some o’ that old time rock ‘n’ roll, and I’m a happy gal.

 

 

I can be in the midst of the world’s worst day, and all it takes is one, good, groovin’ ditty to turn me right around.

 

Since I haven’t owned a proper stereo system since high school, the best place for me to jam is in my car.   

 

I wish I could say I have XM radio, but as I am married to the cheapest man in all of human history, that is completely OUT of the question.  (The man re-uses DENTAL FLOSS, for chrissake!)   Nor do I have HBO, Showtime or Cinemax.  Nor caller-id (and one would think, if the man had the slightest hint of a heart, that he could fork over THAT, given my phone phobia).    TiVo? 

 

 

HELL NO!

 

 

Basic cable; that’s what I get.  (to which The Dingus would retort, “Be thankful you have a tv at ALL.”)  Oh, yeah, I got a tv; merely WEEKS after we got it, one of the M & Ms cracked and smashed in the on/off switch.   Since then, to turn the damn thing on and off, we daily risk electrocution since we have to jam a pen down inside the gaping hole and root around ’til we get some action.   (We DO HAVE no fewer than THREE remotes for it, but they are typically MIA.) 

 

I hate tryin’ to turn that thing on; I usually make one o’ the Ms do it.  (Hey, I figure, THEY broke it; maybe a little juice’ll straighten out the little bastards.)

 

Who knew that it would end up being my DAD, ‘Big Den’, who would provide me with the very best access to great music  — via a kick-ass system in my bedroom — and my televeision with MTV —  all day, every day.  Thank you, Daddy.

 

The day I moved in with The Dingus (in SIN, oh, my!) is the day that, for me,

 

 

THE MUSIC DIED.

 

 

True, when we moved into our tiny, second-floor apartment, we didn’t have squat.  Everything we had was begged and/or borrowed or pulled from the side of the road with a “FREE” sign on it.   Our bookcase was one of those metal industrial jobbies — meant for a freakin’ garage.

 

Though hovering near the poverty level, I didn’t know it.  We had everything because

 

 

 

WE HAD LOVE.

 

 

(I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.) 

 

 

 

But we DIDN’T have MTV.

 

 

 

 

 

I remember when we were signing the rental agreement (and got the raised eyebrow-disapproving-scowl from the office folks when we checked the ‘unmarried’ box and had to file forms to receive mail in both of our names). 

 

The manager was going over the lease terms, listing off ALL of the ammenities the dump had to offer:  on-site communal laundry sauna and two parking spaces within a 5-mile radius of our apartment.  

 

 

It never occurred to me that cable was an ‘ammenity’. 

 

 

No, sir; in my book, that there’s 

 

 

NECESSITY.  

 

 

 

However, in Mr. Dingus’s book, not so.

 

 

After we got settled into the apartment, (it didn’t take too long; we had so little!) we turned on the tv.  I scanned the channels for my MTV.  It was not to be found.

 

What?   I adjusted the rabbit ears and tried again.  

 

Nuttin’.

 

Now, here’s a good example of just how stupid I am:  I didn’t know that if you have to use rabbit ears, you don’t have cable access.  It was news to me that cable nullifies the rabbit ears.  Here I was, thinking that the attactive attenae bursting from the box ENHANCED reception.

 

Panicked, I asked The Dingus if he could try to   I demanded that The Dingus find me my MTV.

 

Unruffled, he very simply stated that we couldn’t receive cable in our complex.  He told me it probably had something to do with our location.

 

What did he mean we couldn’t get cable?!

 

 

CABLE is a God-given BIRTHRIGHT!

 

 

WHAT had I just done?

 

 

Had I just traded my MTV for…for…

 

 

The DINGUS?

 

 

 

OHMIGOD!

 

 

 

 

How would I live without my MTV?  It had been a part of my life since its inception when I was in 7th grade! 

 

Had I known there would be no cable at my new pad, I’d have seriously reconsidered the decision to cohabitate.  Seriously.  I mean, I have standards of living.

 

We lived in our meager little love den for 3 1/2 years.

 

That’s 3 1/2 LONG years of not having my MTV (not to mention ALL of the other Fab-O shows that the rest of the civilized world enjoyed).

 

Not long before we moved out, a great gal named Karen moved into the apartment directly below us.   She was a nurse, and she was bubbly and vivacious and full of life.   She and I hit it off immediately.

 

One night, she’d invited me to attend some dumb candle party she was having.  I arrived early to help her with setting up.  When I entered her apartment, her tv was blaring a music video. 

 

Since the only time in a few years I’d been able to see a music video was when I visited my folks, I was immediately drawn and then transfixed to the tube.

 

At the end of the video, down in the lower left-hand corner of the screen came the credit blurb with which every MTV video starts and ends.

 

I thought to myself, ‘Wow!  Karen must be a huge MTV fan, too, if she’s somehow videotaped it!  Great idea!’

 

I asked Karen about it.

 

“Hey, how’d you get this?”

 

She didn’t understand; she gave me a quizzical look.

 

“How’d you tape MTV?”

 

Again, a puzzled countenance.  “It’s… not… a… tape….”

 

“Well, then, how are you  able to get MTV?”

 

Karen, mouth agape,  looked at me with one of those ‘I-am-bearing-witness-to-the-very-depth-of-human-stupidity’ expressions with which, over the years, I have become accustomed to receiving from those around me.  Then, with the patience and enunciation of one who is attempting to make a chimp (or a retard) understand, she said,

 

 

 

“It’s…called…

 

CABLE ….”

 

 

 

I stood there a quiet moment, utterly perplexed.

 

 

 

“But El Guapo told me we can’t GET cable up here. 

How are YOU able to get it?”

 

 

 

 

God bless her; she just let that thought hang in the air. 

 

 

 

She waited ever so patiently

for the truth to dawn on me.

 

 

 

When the anvil of knowledge finally fell upon my thick skull, Karen’s mortified expression morphed into one of those ‘I’m-sorry-to-say-you-have-only-2 weeks-to-live’ looks — complete with the frown-with-tilted-head-nod that one assumes the counselors of abused-women shelters have cultivated and perfected.

 

  

 Son of a gun; El Guapo snowed me.

 

 

 

For 3 1/2 years!!!

 

 

 

I’m pretty sure it was

at that exact moment that El Guapo

poofed! into The Dingus

 

 

 

 

That night I bought

so many goddam candles

I overdrew our

joint checking account.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hate computers.

 

 

 

I can’t will them to do my bidding.

 

 

 

I have a really long, really good post,Cat Fancy“,

 

 

 

COMING SOON, dammit

 

 

 

It’s STUCK in WordPress cyperspace for some reason. 

 

 

I haven’t been able to get it out for over a week. 

 

 

 

 (Today, it let me post THIS — YIPPEE!)

 

 

 

 

 

Wanna know what else I hate?

 

 

 

 

M1’s new “TY Girl“. 

 

 

 

 

Word to the wise: 

 

 

 

DO NOT BUY THIS SHIT FOR KIDS

UNLESS YOU FREAKIN’ DESPISE THEIR PARENTS.

 

 

 

 

ANY goddam TOY that requires the use of a computer

and the linking to a “special site”

 

 

 

IS GONNA SCREW UP YOUR COMPUTER!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Did I learn ANYTHING from

“THE WEBKINS DEBACLE”?

 

 

 

 

 

Evidently NOT.

 

 

 

 

 

I am ready to stuff that damn doll and this flippin’ computer

 in the blender and

 

 

 frappé the fuck

outa’ them.

 

 

 

I vex the braintrusts who came up with these demon toys;  I damn them to a hell wherein they are forced for all eternity to be surrounded by billions of little crying, wailing, pleading, pansy-assed girls, patting and tugging on them while they must make myriad FUTILE attempts to log on to some TY site using those sonofabitchin’ little froufrou heart tags whose goddam “secret passcodes”

 

 

 

DO NOT WORK !!! 

 

 

 

 

 

‘TY’ stands for

 

 

 

Thank You

 

 

 

for paying us

screw up your life!  

 

 

 

 

I tell you this, here and now:

 

 

 

 

That jolly old fat fucker had better pony-up for

TWO separate computers

for the M & Ms

this gay holiday hell.

 

 

 

 

 

And if that sumbitch tries to plop a

TY ANYTHING

under my tree —

 

 

 

 

 

right after he lays a finger aside of

his bulbous-AA-schnoz,

(who the hell’s he tryin’ to kid, anyway?)

 

 

 

 

 

I’m gonna kick his fat red ass

 up my non-existent-kid-foolin’-chimney so hard

 

 

 

 

 

Rudy can take the season off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

  

  

The M & Ms were ‘helping’ SassyMama clean up the kitchen the other night.

(the kind of ‘help’ that pushes mama one step closer to the nearest meth lab)

 

 

  

  

 

BLARING from my very favorite appliance in the world, my under-cabinet TV/CD/DVD player, 

 

came a COMMERCIAL

 

 

 

 

 

 

The ubiquitous and obnoxious SNUGGY plug? 

 

 

  

 

 

Naw; couldn’t be so lucky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It just so happened to be one of those erectile dysfunction ads. 

 

 

 

 

 

GREAT.

 

  

  

 

 

M2, her nose buried in her 3rd  (yes, 3rd ) Nintendo DS game system, was intent on her Mario Bros. game — or so I thought.

 

 

 

 

The ad spokesman cautioned the millions of  men within the viewing (and listening) audience who have the occasional and unfortunate flaccid penis to:

 

 

  

 

 “Ask your doctor if you are healthy enough for sex….” 

 

 

 

 

 

M2, my hyper-tasking-Ritalin-poster-child,  immediately perked up.

 

 

 

 

 

“Mama,  why did that man say, ‘sex‘?”

 

 

 

 

 

“Um…oh, boy…ummm….nnuummm….”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

M1, who just turned a worldly nine years old, replied,

 

 

 

“Sex is whether you are a boy or a girl, stupid dummy-head.”

 

 

 

  

  

 

 

 

 

M2, who is six-going-on-26, said,

 

 

 

“Nuh-uh! 

 

Sex is when you get NAKED!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Oh, God and Baby Jesus, help me)

 

 

 

   

  

  

Just then, The Dingus walked in to the kitchen. 

 

 

 

 

 I was able to face neither him nor my precocious children; I remained with my back to the whole flippin’ lot of them, frantically trying to recall where the hell I’d stashed my ‘Let’s Talk About Sex’ script

 

 

 

***NOTE to SassyMama-Self:  Find that dagum script  — STAT!    An all-nighter-cram-and-jam session may be needed so that I wouldn’t get caught tomorrow, bright ‘n’ early, with more prickly questions.   

 

***Erstwhile, keep workin’ the ‘Mama’s-just-been-frontal-lobotomized-con’.   Drool for added authenticity:

  

 

 

 

 

“Ummm…nnnuumm…aaahhh…uuummm….”

 

 

 

 

 

Seeing that —  for once —  SassyMama had no sass up her ass, M2 whipped around to confront her father.   

 

 

 

 

 

“Daddy, did you and Mommy SEX in high school?

 

 

 

 

  

  

 

 

HOLY SHIT!  WHERE’D THAT COME FROM? 

 

That one’s NOT in the flippin’ script!

 

  

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Oh, God and infant baby Jesus lying in the manger)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I threw The Dingus right under the bus.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I let that question (and my hubby)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HANG

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

I was able to muster only a few more weak monosyllabic utterances while pounding a cabinet with my open palm

(that one was genuine; no acting on the pounding).

 

 

 

 

The Dingus wheedled out of the question by saying something akin to:

 

 

 

“That’s something only those who are 10 and older are allowed to talk about.  

 

Until then, it’s not appropriate for little girls to discuss such things. 

 

 

 

When you’re 10, MOMMY will tell you all about sex.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Touché, mon ami, touché. 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

  

OCD is One Crazy Disorder.

  

  

True, I have a rather mild case of it when you put me up against Jack Nicholson in As Good As It Gets, but it’s still a major pain in the ass because I don’t get to pick and choose my manifestations.  It’s a bizarre affliction, and unfortunately, the older I get, the more wacked-out I become, and the more I resemble my grandmother.  (The wiry gray hairs are moving me in that general direction, too.)

My grandmother was a clean-freak.  She had a ‘dirty’ sink and a ‘clean’ sink, and God help you if you tried to wash a head of lettuce (NO FEWER than 3 times, mind you) in the ‘dirty’ side, she’d go into an apoplectic fit – and then wrap up the entire head of lettuce, double-bag it, and throw it in the trash.

I remember helping her dry dishes.  Because I could never sit still (and because each dish had to scrubbed and rinsed again and again), I had plenty of time in between plates to toss and twirl my tee towel all around the kitchen.  I swear the old broad had eyes in the back of her head, or maybe her extreme OCD had provided her with a sixth sense — if even THE FRINGE on the towel glanced the floor or any ‘unclean’ surface, Grandma (still washing – with her back to me) would tell me to get a new towel.  I swear — I have used as many as five different towels in one dish-washing session at 310 Cleveland Street.  

  

 After a while, testing her nifty little third-eye gift became a game;

she never lost.

  

How that woman was able to tolerate a little girl’s half-assed dry-job on plates from which she ate, I’ll never know; my best guess is that after I left, she went back and rewashed the whole lot.

Grandma never learned how to drive.  My parents had to schlep her all over town for groceries and hair and doctor appointments.  Never once did I hear them complain.  That’s a wonder considering that taking Grandma ANYWHERE was a time-consuming, patience-testing endeavor. 

  

 

There WAS no ‘quick trip’ with Grandma.

 

 

When we’d arrive at Grandma’s house, my dad, brother and I would sit in the parked car while my mother went in to fetch her mother.  We would settle in for a long wait.  We knew that inside, Mom was going through ‘the checklist’ with Grandma, checking and rechecking every light, electrical  and water source, every major and minor appliance (even those she didn’t even use that day — or that month, for that matter) and every point of entry into the house.

Fifteen to twenty minutes later, Mom and Grandma would emerge, lock up with skeleton keys, and waddle down to the car for the FIRST time.

Mom and Grandma would get in the car, Grandma would kiss and love on us and exchange pleasantries with Dad and start passin’ out the Certs and Sen Sen.   Dad would start the car. 

On cue, Grandma would say, “Oh, Dixie, I don’t think I checked my oven.  Did you check my oven?  I don’t know if my oven is still on or not.   Denny, I think my oven is still on.  I better go check.”

Dad would kill the engine, slump his shoulders, and say, “Well, Alice, maybe you should go check and make sure.”

Now, not that my father was a chauvinist pig for not checking for her; it would have done no good to even offer.  And despite Mom’s every reassurance that she did indeed turn off the oven, and that everything on her checklist was hunkey-dorey, Grandma had to be certain.  She had to see with her own eyes. 

So, up the steps they would go, reopen the house, go through the checklist again, and amble back down to the car 10-15 minutes later.

Mom and Grandma would get back in the car, we’d do the whole Certs routine again, the car would start, and at the start of the engine, as predictable as a Pavlovian dog, Grandma would worry over her back door.  Or the iron.  Or the washing machine.  Or the window in the back bedroom — it might rain.   

 

 

My mother and grandmother would reenter the house and car no fewer than 3 times. 

  

  

That 3rd time did seem to be the charm; after that, when Dad started the car, a palpable silence would fall upon us as we held our breath, hoping against all hope, that Grandma’s worry would let us leave — a half hour to an hour after we’d gotten there.

I thank my lucky stars I didn’t get that from Grandma (hell, I’m late enough FOR EVERYTHING as it is; the fuckin’ stove is on its own). 

I did, however, inherit her hand-washing, germaphobia and the propensity to spend hours in the mirror in search of pimples that MUST BE PURGED.

Nor did I get Grandma’s cleanliness gene; that poor woman is wringing her hands in Heaven over the layers of dust and piles of clutter in my home.  Unfortunately, you do not get to pick your passion with OCD — how I wish I could obsess over my fuzzy shutters; I let them go for so long that I don’t dust them — I chisel.

In my early married (and living-in-sin-oh-my!) days, cleanliness WAS my thing.  Not a speck of dust, not an errant hair on the bathroom floor, nor a smudgey window could be found.  True, I didn’t have a whole lot TO clean, but cleaning USED to be one of my manifestations.  I would gather all of my supplies — one or two of every household cleaning product on the market — and set them out on the bathroom counter — in the order I would use them.

I would don my rubber gloves and then turn on my VHS of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast and dash back to the bathroom.

 

 

I had my apartment-cleaning perfectly timed and choreographed with the cartoon musical. 

 

 

I knew at what stage of the process I had to be for every line to every blasted song and bit of dialogue in the film.  If, perhaps, I had slipped, fallen and broken my arm while scrubbing the shower, I would have scrubbed through the pain and worked harder to catch back up to the next song.  

Bleeding of any manner would have slowed me down considerably, given the fact that I would have had to scrub the surface and disinfect and rinse, but I’d have somehow made up for lost time.  NOTHING could slow me down.  I was just like Marge Simpson — where the world is blowing up around her, but first, she just needs to finish doing the dishes before she takes cover.

Once the M & Ms came into my life, that cleaning bullshit went out the window.  Somehow, my mind went into ultra-protection mode, knowing it could never bear the strain of adhering to its stringent cleaning rituals with two slobbery, messy kids around.  My OCD simply manifested in other areas, and now the dust in my home bothers me only a little.

 

 

I’m pretty sure it went straight to LAUNDRY, though. 

 

 

Back when The Dingus and I lived in the Beauty and the Beast apartment, we had to use the on-site communal laundromat.  It was great because, in one evening, I could knock out a week’s worth of dirty clothes in one fell swoop.  Laundry night was a pleasant, relaxing couple of hours during which I could get in a shitload of reading. 

 

 

Since the M & Ms have come along, my OCD demon terrorizes me when it comes to laundry.

 

 

I have ridiculous, bizarre, strict rituals that must be followed.

 

 

The Dingus is not allowed to touch any laundry except to fold HIS items (and he fucks those up, too, but I can tolerate that).

Stained and soiled items must be soaked in OxyClean for at least a day and then scrubbed with Lava and/or Fels Naptha and any one of the many scrub brushes at the ready at my sink.  I USE the old washboard hanging in my laundry room. 

 

 

I channel Lady Macbeth; 

ALL STAINS MUST COME OUT!

 

Because in my current home I have a very tiny closet-laundry room (and because I have my pal Paxil), I can tolerate having only 2 or 3 ‘soaking buckets’ going at one time.  In my last house, my laundry room took up a third of my basement.  I had a HUGE cement sink and tons of square footage to store my ‘soaking buckets’.

 

At one point, The Dingus came into the laundry room and said,

 

 

“Jesus!  You need help; this laundry thing is out of hand….”

 

 

I was standing in the middle of 13 ‘soaking buckets’, and I was crying because I had literally scrubbed layers of skin off my hands —

and I had SO MUCH MORE SCRUBBING TO DO.

 

Shortly after that, my doctor officially diagnosed me, and  introduced me to my happy pills— which take some of the evil out of my demon.

Nowadays, I cannot afford to miss a day of soaking or scrubbing or washing a few loads; when I get backed up, it can take MONTHS to get caught up.  This is why we all have scads of clothes.  My kids are lucky to get to wear a new favorite outfit once in a season; God forbid they stain it, ’cause they may not see said outfit until next season rolls around. 

 

I despise my laundry issues (and ALL of my OCD issues); I hate that I am a SLAVE to my fucked-up mind.  

 

But I can do NOTHING to stop myself from being this way. 

 

I can say that though Paxil is my best friend, but my buddies Nick O’Tine and Trench Mouth get me through the day, too.

 

I have just finished my summer loads — and I’m quite proud of myself.  It’s not even Christmas!

 

 

Other wacked-out issues The Viv owns (with much reluctance) follow: 

  

  

***  Please note that these are “THE BIGGIES“;  The Viv has myriad others, but these are those that if not observed and/or followed to the nth degree are GUARANTEED the throw The Viv into a panicked paroxysm.  Thereafter, death by anxiety may ensue.

 

 

Rinsing all glasses before drinking from them (even if just removed from the dishwasher) —  why, there may be dust and fuzzies on them!

 

*  The drinking of any liquid from a plastic cup is abhorrent and utterly unacceptable.  Paper, waxed or otherwise, is acceptable only on a case-by-case-no-other-choice-available basis.

 

*  I have a “No ‘FRINGIES’ rule”:  No papers of any kind may be in my presence with those ripped-from-a-spiral-bound-notebook-uneven-and-unnerving-flyaway-‘fringies’ — I have actually gagged and retched IN CLASS when I’ve seen them about to be turned-in by some smart-ass 7th grader trying to fuck with me.  Any student I’ve ever had who had any hope of passing my class knows that one must use scissors to evenly trim any errant fringies — as close to the 3 notebook holes as humanly possible — before submitting them.

 

Every last possible trace of any product must be coaxed, shaken, scraped and dredged from its container; NO WASTE!  If industrial-strength wire cutters and/or jackhammering is required in order to open up a container in order to get to said product is necessary; so be it, it will be done.

 

All food and household products must be stored with like products in a linear fashion; product labels must face forward.

 

ALL laundry must be completed, from start to finish, by The Viv ONLY.  No one else may ‘help’.

 

* All towels must be folded and properly stored by The VIV’.  Towels that are folded and stored by someone other than The Viv, say someone such as The Dingus, perhaps, must be refolded and restored by color, size and style by The Viv.  Word to the wise:  This is NOT ‘helping’ The Viv.

 

* ALL skin imperfections must be dealt with in a timely, time-consuming fashion.  The evil must come out.  Though scabbing and eventual scarring is imminent, all blemishes must be banished.  All home-extraction tools and devices must be properly sanitized before, during and after usage.  Proper storage of said implements must follow.

 

*  All writing utensils,scissors and sharp objects must be stored point-down.

 

*  Bed pillows must be placed upon made-beds with pillow cases’ open ends facing away from bed-center.  The Viv requires one pillow to be placed flat against the headboard during sleep sessions — preventing the occasional spider which may — you never know — climb up from the floor to creep and crawl about the hands and face.  It could happen.

 

*  No item of furniture may be angled in any way.  The sole exception:  the current entertainment center;  there is no other possible option — a fact which required more than a month of hand-wringing anxiety and doubling-up on the meds for The Viv to tolerate.

 

*    Rituals and routines (such as hand-washing and bathing, dressing and undressing — beginning with the left-side of the body) must be strictly adhered-to.  Any variance, interruption and/or unforeseen circumstance that may prevent strict adherence to routine will result in the reversal and restart of said routine and/or ritual.

 

Only ‘TRUE GARBAGE’ may be purged. Any item that may have a future use of any kind must be saved; however, at present, these items require no strict, specific storage regulations.

 

*  Footwear must be worn at all times — exceptions may be made for bathing and swimming in pools only.  The soles of The Viv’s feet may not come in contact with dust, grime, crumbs, or under-foot surface of any kind.  When exiting tub, shower or pool, footwear must be as close to the point-of-exit as possible.  If proximity is not possible; rugs and/or towels may be used as a walking surface.  In this case, the traveling path must be planned and executed to ensure the shortest distance to footwear and resultant relief.

 

and the 

 

MOTHER OF ALL:

 

 

 

PAPER-FUCKING-TOWELS

 

 

***  At no time may there be fewer than 2 rolls of paper towels in The Viv’s permanent domicile and/or temporary residence.  If traveling overnight, no fewer than 2 complete rolls must accompany The Viv. 

‘Picking some up’ on the way or at destination point is utterly unacceptable.

 

***  The Viv becomes anxious and edgy when in possession of only 3 rolls of paper towels.  

 

*** Should The Viv possess only 2 full-rolls of paper towels, the purchase of additional rolls must be made right-fuckin’-quick

 This is a dangerous time for The Viv and for anyone in her presence.   At this point, an audible ‘hum’ — akin to that warning hum of the electrical-fence-dog-collar should the animal enter the ‘warning zone’ and be zapped with the next forward step — can be heard and felt emanating from The Viv.

 

***  Should, GOD FORBID, The Viv possess fewer than 2 full rolls, clear, rational thought, speech and actions are not possible at this point.    There is a very real danger of The Viv bursting into flame.  No living being is safe in her presence at this precipice. 

 

Why, in the name of all that is holy, I have a paper towel problem,

I know not.

 

Running out of Kleenex (or Wal-Mart’s Great Value Sand Paper Facial Tissues — my brand of choice) or bum-fodder worries me not in the least. 

 

I could have nothing but the cardboard roll with which to wipe my sorry OCD ass, and I would remain thoroughly unconcerned.

 

 

Paper towels are my Achille’s Hell.

 

 

***  When considering a visit to The Viv’s humble abode, the surest way to guarantee your own safety (and that of your progeny) is to:

 

a)  proffer a Bounty bundle pack after ringing the doorbell, THEN hold your breath and hope for the best;

 

OR 

 

 

b)  proffer a Bounty bundle pack , ring the doorbell and THEN touch the doorknob; if it is HOT, drop the fuckin’ towels and run like hell.

                     

(it’s not worth it)

 

 

 

 

JUST HELP A SISTER OUT

AND

LEAVE THE GODDAM TOWELS.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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