Snickerfodder

Posts Tagged ‘friends

 
 
 
   

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!

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 


  



  



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 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.