Snickerfodder

Posts Tagged ‘DEATH

  

  

VACATION

 

 

 is one of The Viv’s faVorite words.   

  

  

I would venture to say that it’s one of everyone’s faVorites. 

Not just because it’s fun to say and that it starts with the letter ‘V’.   

The attraction of the very word lies within the concept of  VACATING her day-to-day-mind-numbing-hellish LIFE.   

For The Viv,  the mere idea of VACATING and ESCAPING that oft-wretched suckfest of a life for one, measly frickin’ week a year

happens to be the lifeblood, that magic elixir, that gets her through the other miserable 51 weeks. 

  

  

The Viv

LIVES

for that single, precious, sustaining

semana

wherein she enjoys being

 

 

 

 

The Bon Vivant.

  

  

 

 

  

   Oh! 

 

 

     To FLEE!  

 

 

  

  

Toto

  

 

  

   Most days —

to

 

  

ANYWHERE

 

(including a well-padded maximum-security facility) 

(with really good food)

  

  

 

  

But, for that single-precious-sustaining semana,

  

The Bon Viv chooses,

  

 hands-down,

  

to be in

 

 

  

OCMD.

  

 

 

 

   There simply is

 NO OTHER

place

 I’d rather be. 

 

 

EVER.

 

 

 

   In fact,

  I want to

LIVE

 and

DIE

  there. 

 

 

 

It is my DREAM to live in one o’ those quaint little cottages on the boardwalk (preferably somewhere between 6th and 16th streets),

to wake every day to the brown ocean slapping the man-made jetty, and to spend my lazy days on my cute little porch gawking the

vacationers in their Sunsations-seasonal-skankwear parading and/or making dunderhead decisions in driving various non-motorized

vehicles up and down the boards. 

 

 

 

AAAHHHHHHHH….

  

 

 

 

As for dying in OCMD,

I, Sassy Viv,

 do hereby decree

my desire

to be

 

  cremated

 

 

 

 

I wish for my leathery cadaver  

to be 

charred

on the Bull on the Beach fryers. 

 

 

 

Then,

I want The Dingus

to put me into a lashed harness

(with 320 lb. twisted poly line, of course),

ram a sturdy spar and spreader

 up my crispy ass,

and then launch

my charred carcass

in front of

 

The Kite Loft

 

to allow my CinderViv self

to scatter 

across the boards and the beach. 

 

 

 

 

Ideally,

my cremation will take place

on a day with a wind 

that will carry my ashes

five blocks south

so that

Randy Hofman

can

incorporate

a little of

The Viv

into his Jesus sand sculptures.  

 

 

 

 

That’s the closest to

Heaven

The Viv will get.

 

 

EVER.

 

 

 

                      Yep, even The Viv!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.  

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

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….