Snickerfodder

Posts Tagged ‘good times

 

 

 

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 week or so before a holiday is a hectic and dangerous time.

  

  

  

There are a lot of IDIOTS on the road.  

 

 

 

 

I don’t know what happens to folks as the holidays approach, but they all seem to kick into panic mode, as if there will be a frozen Butterball or themed tablecloth shortage or something.  This panic affects their driving skills. 

 

In just the last few weeks alone, I have had several ‘near-misses’ with other drivers pulling incredibly STUPID stunts. 

 

It really burns me when others take MY life into THEIR incompetent hands.  IDIOTS.

 

Fine; you wanna fishtail out’a the high-school parking lot in your piece o’ primer truck, you go right on ahead; just don’t slam into me on your way, pal.  

 

What, Grandma?  You don’t have time to wait for me to cross the slushy crosswalk, escorting my beautiful little girls, all gussied-up in their Christmas duds for a visit with Santa, — which just MAY be the LAST year they BELIEVE?  Where the hell ya gotta go?   Senior discounts are on TUESDAY!  Chillax, ya old bat!

 

Our entire family almost became so much roadkill the other night when some MORON pulled out right in front of us.  El Guapo swerved a hard left and we missed a collision by mere millimeters.  The idiot tore away without a care.  Thank God I’d emptied my bladder before we left the house.

 

My folks are always making fun of me, asking me about how many ‘IDIOTS‘ I’d encountered on the road that day.  But it’s TRUE!  (Just ask Fluffy/Bowzer!) 

 

 

 

One of my biggest pet peeves is people who run red lights. 

 

 

 

Po-Po should have the authority to shoot those sumbitches on sight.

 

 

 

 

Look, I know I don’t have ONE, SINGLE OUNCE of common sense, but at least I am extra careful when it comes to getting behind the wheel.   I save up every smidge of sense I possess for when I’m driving. 

 

And I AM a good, careful driver.  I obey all traffic laws and signals.  I refuse to go more than 5 m.p.h. over the speed limit (unless I am late for church).

 

I actually SLOW DOWN for the yellow.  I come to COMPLETE stops.  If the sign says I may not turn right from 2:30 – 4 pm, and it’s 2:31; I don’t freakin’ turn right.   You can honk and flip me off all ya want, honey, but I promise ya:  I ain’ goin’.

 

I ALWAYS give the road my full attention and care – even when I am suckin’ down a ciggie while belting out Paradise by the Dashboard Light or chair-dancin’ to I Wanna Be SedatedTHIS girl can multitask.

 

 

 

 

But you throw one

 35-lb. Cocker Spaniel

 into the mix, and

it’s all over, folks.

 

 

 

 

Toby is a sweetheart of a dog.  He’s smart and loving and playful.  At 1½ years old, he’s still a pup.  He is never without his ball or his ‘squeaky’.  He learned to fetch the morning paper!  He’s such a good boy!

  

 

 

But as a traveler,

he’s an absolute

 NIGHTMARE.

 

 

 

Toby gets car-sick.

 

 

 

 

It doesn’t matter how many Dramamine I disguise inside treats, he’ll puke’em up.   He starts retchin’ and chuffin’ an’ chukkin’ before we make it to the end of our street.

 

 

Last year, we decided to take him on a 3 ½ hr. drive for a visit with the grandfolk.

 

 

 

 

BIG MISTAKE.

 

 

 

 

 

We hadn’t even gone 50 miles and he’d already yakked 7 times and taken a healthy, steamin’ liquid crap all over the M & Ms in the backseat.  We had to pull over because we couldn’t breathe and our eyes were burning.  We couldn’t turn around and take the mutt back; who would care for him on such short notice?

 

Poor little M2; she slept through the dog shittin’ all over her.  She woke up as were were wiping her off, gagging and retching ourselves.  She got a good whiff of the stench, and then SHE puked.

 

I used every single precious paper towel I brought in the clean-up and had to buy more.  We also bought some Hefty bags, ripped’em open and layer-lined the entire car.   That way, we could just peel off a layer of plastic with each subsequent puke.   

 

  

 

 

Good Times.

  

 

 

  

 

That was the LAST time Toby was in the car for longer than 10 minutes.

 

My vet, Dr. Bruce, keeps encouraging me to take Toby out for short jaunts, and increase the length of the ride in small increments to strengthen his intestinal fortitude. 

 

 

 

I gotta say, it’s not a task that’s high on my to-do list.

 

  

   To Do:

  

  • Sleep
  • Smoke
  • Write
  • Smoke
  • Curse
  • Smoke
  • Eat Smoke
  • Take Toby for ride in ‘car-car’ (11 minutes)
  • Scrape contents of Toby’s stomach (partially digested IAMS Minichunks, rubber ball remnants, assorted hair ribbons, coffee grounds and cucumber peelings) from car’s interior and windshield (1 hour)
  • Smoke
  • Use commercial-grade carpet extractor to cleanse and sanitize  (Smoke) car interior  (2 hours)
  • Kick fuckin’ dog
  • Smoke

 

 

On the way to Toby’s last visit to see Dr. B., he did a great job of keepin’ the chuck down***.

 

 

*** El Guapo told me the secret was to keep Toby in the front passenger seat so that he can see out the window (apparently, this is key in avoiding car-sickness).   The only thing is:  ya gotta hold on to his collar to keep him from climbing all over you.

 

 

When we saw Dr. B., he asked how Toby had done on the ride to the clinic.

 

 

I told him it was super, and he reminded me to keep increasing car-car-time, little by little.

 

 

Just to be on the safe side, though, after Toby got his shots, Dr. B. gave me treats to hold onto — until we got back home.

 

 

When we left the vet’s office it was raining cats and dogs (sorry; couldn’t resist).   Truly, the floodgates had opened up on us.   I was glad we didn’t have far to go in the downpour.   I prayed that my pooch-puke-luck could hold out just a little longer.

 

 

I helped my soggy doggy into front seat of the Suzie.  Toby was was actually enjoying looking out the window, and he wasn’t even attempting to move from the seat.  I had a firm grip on his collar, though.

 

 

I kept reminding him of what a ‘good boy’ he was being, and how ‘priddy’ he was.   He was lookin’ so proud, lappin’ up all the praise.

 

 

I was feeling so positive about Toby’s puke-progress that I decided to give him just a wee-bit more ride time on the way home. 

 

 

 

 

He was being SUCH a good boy!  

 

 

 

 

 

Instead of turning into the main entrance of our subdivision, I decided to add a mere .2 of a mile to the ride and use the side entrance which leads through the adjoining subdivision.

 

I made a nice, slow, easy right; my right hand still gripping Toby’s collar.   I  made sure to stabilize the dog with my right elbow so he wouldn’t lose his balance. 

 

 

 

Good Boy!

 

 

  

 

Before I could straighten out the Trooper’s wheels, Toby stood to all fours, and started doing that full-body-lurching and retching.

 

 

Before I could blink, he leapt at me.

 

 

 

 

I saw nothing

but honey-colored fur –

 and a mass of warm, wet, brown

dog-chow upchuck –

 

 

 

which hit me about mid-chest and slid down to rest and fester on my thighs.

 

 

 

 

Toby morphed

 into a 35-lb. friggin’

Lipizzaner  stallion

prancin’ an’ dancin’

on the 2 goddam pounds

 of puke on my lap –

and spewin’ more by the millisecond.

 

 

 

  

  

I couldn’t SEE.

  

 

 

I didn’t THINK.

 

 

  

Instinct took over.

 

 

  

  

My right hand still wrapped around the mutt’s collar, I jerked/shoved him back over to ‘his’ seat.

  

  

Did you know that at a certain point in every infant’s development, there is a period of time when, while lying on his back, if you stretch his little right arm out to the right, his little LEFT arm will follow, crossing over his chest? 

It works the same in the opposite direction.  It’s funny, it’s cute, but it’s a stage that doesn’t last long.

  

 

Except for The Viv – a virtual Darwinian mystery – unfortunately, she still possesses this infantile reflex. 

 

 

 

UNFORTUNATELY, my LEFT hand, firmly gripping the Trooper’s steering wheel,  INSTINCTIVELY followed my right hand in throwing off my chow-chukkin’ chum.

 

 

(***the only thing her left hand is capable of doing of its own volition: 

 flippin’ off the aforementioned IDIOT DRIVERS)

 

 

 

 

As Toby heaved the chow,

I hopped the curb and  

PLOWED

right into some poor schlep’s

green, plastic MAILBOX.

 

Now, granted, being the careful driver I claim to be, I was doing 10 mph – at most.

 

So, truly, I was going about as fast as a PLOW; instead of some corn crop,

 

 

 

I mowed down a MAILBOX.

 

 

 

 

Though it happened in an instant, it played in SLOW-MO.

 

I felt the impact – a dull THUD – accompanied by the grating crunch of plastic being bulldozed down sidewalk cement.

 

I slammed on my brakes, launching the damn dog from the catbird seat down into the footwell. 

 

At least I had the sense to flick on my hazards and open the windows a crack  — God Forbid the dog suffocate – while I got out into the pouring rain to survey the damage.

 

 

 

 

What a mess.

 

 

(Have I mentioned I have a propensity for getting myself into messes?)

  

 

 

 

The Trooper’s right tires were up on the sidewalk, the poor homeowners’ letters were littered all over their front lawn, getting soaked in the torrential downpour.

 

At least 10 feet of sopping sod separated the mail box itself from its plastic-encased 4×4 wooden post.

 

 

 

 

Confession Session:

 

 

 

I squelched a nearly overwhelming urge to jump up and down

like I’d just won on Jeopardy, screaming,

 

 

 

 

Yea, BABY

I mowed that muthafucka DOWN

Boo-ya!”

 

 

 

 

 

With shaky hands, I dragged the splintered post back to its general original position, and I gathered up the soggy envelopes, stuffed’em back into the box, and trudged up to the house’s front door.

 

 

 

 

What the hell do ya say?

 

 

 

 

Hi, I’m totally sober,

but my DOG made me hit your mailbox. 

I’m really sorry.

 

 

  

 

  

Lucky me, nobody answered the door.

 

 

 

 

I wrote a brief apology (minus the doggy defense) and my contact information on the back of the paper that claimed my mutt had just received his rabies vaccination.  

 

I stuffed the sopping paper into their decapitated mailbox which I’d positioned next to the door as a nice greeting for its owners when they got home.

 

I called El Guapo and told him what I’d done, and for ONCE, he was in town when I really needed him. 

 

He drove over directly and helped me with damage control.

 

I was able to leave my info. with the next-door neighbor.  She looked at me like maybe I was gonna drive my truck into HER house, to boot. 

 

In the end, El Guapo went back to talk to the folks.  He humbly apologized for his dipshit wife takin’ out their mailbox and offered to buy and install a brand new one.  (God Bless El Guapo; he remained my hero for several more hours after that — a record.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Turns out, this is the 7th mailbox

those poor folks have lost to

 

 IDIOT DRIVERS.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Viv is now the

BIGGEST IDIOT DRIVER

on the road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She has been court-ordered

to flip herself off

before driving.

 

 

 

 

 

 

With Christmas fast approaching,

she’s not to be trusted behind the wheel of a car,

dog or no dog.

 

 

 

 

 

If you see her plowin’ down your street,

PLEASE move away from your mailbox.

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

  

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

In M2’s class:

 

 

 green is good

 

yellow is ‘a warning’

 

orange means ‘ya better back off, kid’

 

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

 

 

 

 

and BLACK bellows:

 

 

THAT’S IT, YOU LITTLE FUCKER!

YOU’RE TOAST!

 

 

 

 

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

 

 I never shut the hell up. 

 

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

 

I can’t help it; I’m a talker. 

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

My M2 didn’t stand a chance.  

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

The difference between M2 and me:  SHE can hypertask.

 

 

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

 

 

Ta duo da?

 

 

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

 

 

I feel sorry for her 1st grade teacher;

 

 

 our Chinese tutor is dizzy after only an hour.

 

 

 

Damn!  My girl is good!

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

 

I would totally fuck her up if I reminded her…

 

 

the Wicked Witch is GREEN.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.