Snickerfodder

Archive for the ‘Viv's Shenanigans’ Category

 

Four years ago, following a particularly stressful few weeks, I had a meltdown.  In a fit of rage, in the ultimate-‘I’ll-show-YOU!’ bout of masochism The Viv could muster, 

 

 

I took a lover.

  

 

Though completely out of character for me, I found myself trolling the usual pick-up haunts.  After three or four passes, I screwed my courage to the sticking point and approached the vendors of pleasure.  It was easy pickins; there was quite the selection — all seemingly teasing and enticing me.    

  

For a brief moment, a little voice screamed in my head,

 

 

Harlot!” 

 

 

Jezebel!”   

  

 

 

Another little voice whispered,

 

 

 “Hippocrite!” 

 

 

 

 Long have I disdained those who engage in all manner of deviant behavior.  Long ago, I made a solemn vow

 

Yet, here was I, eager — nay! — determined to partake in utter debauchery, in breaking the bonds of that sacred vow.

  

It didn’t take me long to size up the many vying for my affections; I knew I would take home the tallest, the longest, the sexiest — the one who could fire my pleasure all night long…and every ecstasy-filled day thereafter.   

 

 

 

Vows be damned!   

 

 

 

Though I found the pimp’s wardrobe to be contrary to stereotype (pimps now wear nametags?), I paid for my lover without guilt; without conscience; with nary a thought for my husband and children. 

 

My lover and I engaged in a hot, torrid têteà-tête, we two — a night of pure unadulterated passion I’ve never before known was possible.  

 

Our first coupling left me breathless, and as I gave my body to him over and over again, I knew there was no turning back. 

 

From then on, my every breath would be for my lover; my every waking moment would be spent pining, yearning, for him to fill me up in such a way that no other man could sate. 

 

I couldn’t help myself.  At long last, I’d found the ecstasy to my agony — the yin to my yang — and I fell truly, madly, deeply, in love with the seductively smoldering Irishman Nick…O’Tine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I come from a line of women who ‘save’ things. 

 

 

 

 

 

God forbid an empty milk carton get thrown in the trash! 

 

 

 

 

SACRILEGE

 

 

 

 

 

It must be WASHED OUT, not just rinsed, and all four pinched corners must be opened up to make the carton’s ‘mouth’ large enough to accomodate any manner of vegetable waste: apple, potato and cucumber peelings, especially.

For a reason I can no longer recall, my mother would save and wash these plastic bottles that held Daily’s OJ.  I think she saved them for my grandma who would then fill them with iced tea. 

 

 

 

 

I remember thinking those bottles were pretty cool because the 1/2 gallon jug curved into two finger ‘rings’ on either side of the neck, making carrying a breeze.

 

 

 

 

Unfortunately for me,

 those convenient little rings

 made for an excellent grip

 on the world’s most bizarre

 weapon in the history of child abuse!

 

 

 

 

We were going to my grandmother’s house one weekend, so we loaded up the family truckster, a VW Rabbit (70’s gas crunch), with all the crap my mother ‘saved’ for her mother.   Now, that Rabbit was small, so with my folks, my brother and me, there was very little room for much else.  Somewhow, my mother managed to stuff in along with us three trash bags of various empty cartons and Daily’s bottles.  Thank God Grandma lived just across town!

We needed to stop and get milk and bread and ‘good creamery butter’ for Grandma.  Dad, as he was the only one not buried beneath mounds of cardboard and plastic, was the one who went inside the supermarket.  Mom, my brother and I sat in the parking lot, holding our worthless loot.

Don’t recall what set me off, but I started gettin’ lippy with my mother (another trait of our lineage).   I may have been only 10 or 11, but I could sling the sass with the best o’ them!

Because my mom was in the passenger seat directly in front of me, because she was a ‘lefty’ and because we were swimming in refuse, my mom could not comfortably and easily wind up for a good sock to my mouth.  She only could make a pathetic, little 1/4 turn in her seat to shoot me her

 ‘DEATH GLARE’

 

 

A glutton for punishment, the knowledge that she was pretty much immobilized fed the fire that flew from my tongue. 

When my mother’s face got so red I thought I’d actually set her afire, she frantically FELT about her (never breaking the DEATH GLARE) for something with which to beat my sassy ass.

 

 

 

Finally, her fingers found paydirt;

 

 her eyes widened in enlightenment.

 

 

 

Still twisted in that cock-eyed 1/4 turn, my mother hoisted her right arm.  Wielding that empty Daily’s jug held fast in her clenched fist (Damn!  Those little rings are handy!), with every sinew and tendon visible in her forearm, my mother morphed into some warped version of Lady Liberty.

 

 

 

The stream of smartass cracks spewing

 

from my mouth suddenly ceased.

 

 

 

 

I could only stare at those goddam

 

convenient finger rings.

 

 

 

 

Was THIS how I was to meet my end? 

 

 

 

 

 

Bludgeoned by a fuckin’

 

EMPTY

 

Daily’s Orange Juice jug?!

 

 

 

 

 

 

I SWEAR TO GOD I HEARD

 

 THE PSYCHO-SHOWER-SCENE MUSIC.

 

 

 

 

A sickly squeak from high in my throat escaped; my mother’s CUE to commence the pummeling.

I ducked and buried my face in the plastic bag o’ jugs as my mother landed blow after blow on the back of my noggin.  She was actually GRUNTING.

She landed about six blows when I realized, ‘this noggin-knockin’s not hurtin’ — AT ALL!’  

 

 

 

 

The HILARITY,

the utter ABSURDITY,

of it all hit me harder

than my jug-packin’-mama,

and I burst out laughing.

 

 

 

 

 

Naturally, my guffaws made

 my mother bring down some more HEAT.

 

 

 

 

 

I couldn’t help it;

 the whole scene was GONZO

 

 

 

 

I sat up, tears streaming down my face, laughing so I could hardly breathe.  My mom managed a couple more half-hearted hits, and then, she too burst out laughing!

For the record, my brother (three years my junior), may have been a blind, deaf mute; he just sat there with saucer-eyes (probably takin’ notes, the little fucker).

Mom and I were still laughing and crying when my dad got back in the tin-can car.   He had to get back out to pick up some of the Daily’s jugs that had spilled out. 

 

 

 

 

“What the HELL happened in HERE?”  he asked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mom and I burst out laughin’ again.

 

 

 

 

 

To this day, I duck when I see jugs of OJ.

 

 

 

 
 
 
   

The Viv’s Sassy Addictions:

  
  
 
 
 

 

Chocolate?           Check.

Nicotine?              Check.

Thrifting?              Check.

Vampire Porn?    Check.

Blogging?             Check.

Sarcasm?              Check.

Blasphemy?         Check.

FACEBOOK?       CHECK!

 

 

 

Yes, it’s true;

The Viv has sunk to an all-time LOW.

 

 

Though she used to LEAD workshops on AVOIDING and OVERCOMING peer pressure, she herself has become a victim of it.

 

 

Our sassygirl is now hopelessly

ADDICTED to FACEBOOK.

 

 

 

 

It’s a damn shame.

 

 

 

She fought the hard fight for a couple of years, but the attraction to reaching out to old pals was a force even she could not resist.

 

 

The Viv is one of those persons who is addicted to addictions.

 

 

It is a bona fide MIRACLE she didn’t do street drugs.

 

 

The SassMaster teeters on the brink of insanity; she is on rehab standby.

 

She has not been away from Facebook longer than a few minutes for DAYS.   

 

    

She now counts

 ketchup

 (straight from the packet)

and

 Tic Tacs

as nutritious meals

 for the M & Ms.

 

 

 

 

In the name of all that is holy,

 

 

DO NOT

FRIEND

THIS MERE SHELL OF A WOMAN!

 

 

 

 

And if you happen to work in

ANY

remotely-medically-related field

(data entry included):

 

 

 

REFUSE

 THIS WOMAN’S PLEA

FOR YOU TO

INSERT HER

CATHETER!

 

 

 

Is there a FACEBOOK ANONYMOUS group out there?

 
 
 
    

omg! thk g im no drg adct

 i wd b 2 stnd 2 rit!

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

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….

 

So, this morning, I pull in to my second favorite haunt, CVS, (my first favorite being ANY yard sale or thrift/second-hand/consignment/antique boutique) and what should my wandering eyes behold?

Only THE most incredible old HEARSE on earth – right there in the handi-spot! 

I LOVE this old hearse!

(I realize we’re nearing Halloween, but this is the second time this week I’ve seen it out’n’about….)

I LOVE this old hearse!

(have I mentioned this?)

It’s decorated with morbid-cute stickers and fake foliage and a warm, fuzzy death-wreath adorns its grill; what’s not to love?

 

BEST OF ALL,  its tag reads:

 

BNEBX

 

Though I do drive my dream car, my sassy red convertible bug (and you thought I was gonna say ‘Suzie,’ my ’97 Isuzu-Trooper-Beater, didn’t ya?);

 

THE VIV COVETS THE BONEBOX !

 

*As you may have already deduced, Viv has a story on the BONEBOX.  She has stalked that corpse-coche for a couple of years; it is the muse for an already-in-progress YA novel (on which she’d better git her draggin’ dupey a’crackin)’.  She has tried many a time, in vain, to discover its mystery driver.

 

Who could be behind the wheel of the tricked-out tomb-taxi?!

 

So, I’m trolling the aisles of the store, in search of its elusive chauffeur.  There aren’t many customers, and I see no one who may be a possibility.

Now, I’m not exactly sure for whom I look, but I’m fairly certain there must be some emaciated 7-ft.- scraggly-haired-hooded-robe-wearin’-Crypt-Keepin’-zombie lurking somewhere in the well-stocked rows of pharma-heaven.  I’m thinkin’ anyone wielding a scythe (NOT one of those plastic-kiddie-jobbies) will be a dead giveaway.  I will positively burst into tears if the driver turns out to be the sweet old grandma perusing the $4.99 Good News Bibles (although, it appears she may soon be a BONEBOX passenger).    

I spy a burly fella over in Vitamins (in his Gold’s Gym tee and spandex shorts — no doubt I’ll see him on peopleofwalmart.com someday – directly under a photo of myself); but, nope, no way; he’s not my guy.  (I’m guessin’ he’s the school-bus-yellow Mustang.) 

I will cry if Grandma owns the BONEBOX, but I will shit myself right there in CVS if Grandma’s ride is the Mustang;  I swing through the Depends, just in case.

In Frozen, I run into my all-time-favorite clerk, Miss M.  She is the sweetest little gal, and I just love her (and not just because she KNOWS my fag-of-fancy and is the one who slides my pleasure across the counter).   I sidle up to her, scope for eavesdroppers, and in hushed-tone, let her in on my little recon mission. 

As Miss M. returns to the register, I make a final, disappointing sweep.

That’s it.  There is no one else in the store.

 

Did that creepy coffin-chariot drive here by itself?! 

 

I high-step it to the checkout.  Hearse still here?  Check.  Did Miss M. see anyone leave?  Nope.

Now, while Miss M. checks-out some other lady, I’m keepin’ an eye on the register and the door, squatting behind the As Seen on TV!  and New! Maybelline metallics displays, keeping an ultra-low profile in my red polo, hot-pink John Deere ball cap and reflective yellow raincoat.  (I SO should’a been a spy…is there a ‘peopleofcvs’ website?) 

The woman checking out is short and stocky and in her mid-late forties.  She has Sally Field’s Steel Magnolias-helmet-hair, and though she’s sportin’ a stylin’ black ensemble (low, black patent-leather heels, slacks and a black tunic with, I think, tiny white flowers), she’s some meek’n’mild school secretary or a volunteer at the library. 

Naw, she’s no BONEBOX driver, either.

 

Who the holy-heck is mannin’ that hearse?! 

 

I must know!   

 

Now it’s a frickin’ QUEST, Gawd-damnit!

 

There are only three cars left in the parking lot, and one’a’them’s mine!  C’mon!

 

Panic-stricken, fearing I’ve somehow missed someone else, I leap up and bolt to the back of the store via its gray main path (my head flooded with the fuckin’ Munchkins advising me to ‘Follow the yellow-brick road’).

Nobody else is in the joint!

I tear back up front (shut-up, Munchkins!) just in time to see the automatic doors close behind the unassuming black-clad secretary/librarian.

I ask Miss M. if she saw anyone else.  Nope.  

 

And it hits me; NO FREAKIN’ WAY!…no…freakin’…way….

 

I tiptoe-creep backward from the check-out to the edge of the door frame and lean back to a 60˚ angle to peek out at the BONEBOX.

I sprint back over to Miss M. (who is, by the way, only mildly entertained by my antics, so familiar is she with my lunacy). 

“THAT’S HER!  SHE’S THE ONE!  OHMIGOD!  WERE THOSE LITTLE SKULLS ON HER SHIRT?!   I THOUGHT THEY WERE FLOWERS!  THEY WERE TINY SKULLS, WEREN’T THEY?!  OHMIGAWD!”

 

HOT DAMN!

MYSTERY  SOLVED !

 

The Devil may wear Prada, but

The Grim Reaper wears sensible slingbacks.