Dear Visitor:
In a fit of enthusiasm, I have moved this blog to a new home with a real website. Please visit me here...
Dangerously Bored
New look, same crap. Can't wait to see you there!
~dana
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Bagels
(While walking Zyk the giant poodle and Mr. Pickles. Anne is riding her scooter, having decorated her arms with the 7 blue plastic grocery bags required to scoop all the crap. The poodles are prolific crappers.)
Anne: Mom, these bags totally make me go way faster. Weeeee!
Me: You look mental. You look like a trailer park version of a solar sail.
Anne: Don't care! I! Am! Awesome!
Me: As much air as those bags are catching, I am pretty sure they are slowing you down.
Anne: Mom, are those basset hounds, beagles, or bagels? I can never tell any of those apart.
Me: Basset hounds. What do you mean you can never tell them apart. Dogs and bread! It's dogs and bread!
Anne: No, I mean, I sometimes say, "I'd like my beagle toasted," or once I said, "I like to eat blueberry basset hounds, but I hate the cinnamon ones." Stuff like that.
Me: What about, "That bagel won't stop barking and I think it crapped on the couch?"
Anne: Seriously, Mom? What is your problem?
Me: I have a Tale of Suffering about a basset hound...
Anne: (scootering away) Nooooooo! I am not listening to another of your tales of misery! How can anyone's childhood be that bad? Go awaaaaaaayyyyyy!!!
Me: Get back here! Get back here or you're carrying the poop bags!
(Anne coasts to a stop, and gives me a look of resigned disgust.)
Me: So, I was 5. For the first few days of kindergarten, your grandmother walked me to school. Then, your uncle was supposed to walk me, but he mostly ditched me by the time we reached the first telephone pole.
Anne: Is this the one about the other kids throwing stones at you? I have heard this one. Many times.
Me: No, no, no! That was in 5th grade. I hope those little shits all ended up like Honey Boo Boo's mom. No, no stone throwing in this one. So, I was walking to kindergarten, and I saw this basset hound. I had never seen one before...
Anne: OMG, Mom. Does the dog die? I am not listening if the dog dies.
Me: Shut up and listen. I am setting a mood. So little me and my bookbag are walking down the street to my school, which was at the top of the street. And there's this basset hound in a front yard across the street, just staring at me. Except he's wearing a little yellow rain slicker and little yellow boots! It was the late 70's! No one put clothes on dogs!
Anne: Who's dog was it?
Me: Some old lady who wore pantsuits. And neckerchiefs. Anyway, I had never seen the dog before LET ALONE A DOG IN A RAINCOAT! It was amazing!
Anne: Cute! So, now does the dog die?
Me: Shut up. So, I stood there for a while and tried to will the basset hound to cross the street and play with me, but he just stared at me. And I wasn't allowed to cross the street. So I decided to sing him a song because he looked sad.
Anne: Hate to break it to you, Mom, but all basset hounds look sad.
Me: I WAS 5!!! So, I sat down on the curb and sang all the songs I knew to him: Happy Birthday, Away in a Manger, Jesus Loves Me, and this one I made up about 4 blue jays. I can't remember how that one goes...
Anne: Thank you, Jesus!
Me: Anyway, next thing I knew, your grandmother comes charging up the street screaming at me. I guess the school called her and told her I hadn't shown up and she came looking for me.
Anne: Oh my God, Mom! How long were you singing at that dog?
Me: Well, I sang each song multiple times. And made up verses. And I tried to tempt him with a stick. He never moved. He just stood there in his little booties, staring at me.
Anne: Do you think the old lady in the pantsuit was watching you from her window and laughing at you? I bet she was.
Me: IT HAD NEVER OCCURRED TO ME, ANNE! THANK YOU FOR MAKING THIS MEMORY MORE PAINFUL!
Anne: Also, maybe that's why the other kids threw stones at you. I'm just saying.
Me: I never did pet that basset hound. (sigh)
Anne: How can anyone's childhood be so miserable! Don't you have one happy memory? Just one?
Me: No. Wait.... ummmm.... no.
Anne: What about a teddy bear? Didn't you have a nice teddy that you loved?
Me: DO NOT GO THERE! I DID NOT HAVE A TEDDY! I HAD A GIANT STUFFED THUMB THAT MY DAD GOT ME WHEN I WAS BORN AND EVERY YEAR ON TEDDY BEAR DAY I WAS THE ONLY KID WITH A GIANT THUMB AND EVERYONE LAUGHED AT ME!
Anne: Oh my God, that's awesome! I mean... I love you, Mom.
Me: Nice try.
Anne: What about a favorite book? You love books! What was your favorite book when you were my age?
Me: Oh, that's easy! The Girl With The Silver Eyes! I loved that book!
Anne: See! A happy memory! What was it about?
Me: Ooooh! It was about this girl with silver eyes and she was telekinetic and she had no friends and she ate thick peanut butter sandwiches and orange juice for lunch just like I did! Peanut butter and orange juice was my number one favorite. Number 2 was a mayonnaise sandwich, which probably explains my ass. Her eyes were silver because her mom took this medicine when she was pregnant. Like the flipper children. Never mind. Forget I said that.
Anne: Those are the most disgusting lunches I can imagine. We'll come back to the flippers. You're gross. Is that why the kids threw stones at you?
Me: SO ANYWAY... I figured I must be telekinetic too. I mean, I don't have silver eyes, but my one eye is half brown and half blue so I figured I could move smallish things or maybe start fires. So you know what I did?
Anne: What?
Me: I took a picture of my friend Jenny and set it on my dresser and spent several nights willing it to move.
Anne: No. You. Did. Not.
Me: And then one day I noticed it was gone! I found it in a drawer! So, I figured I had moved it with my mind while I was asleep! I told everyone I had telekinesis! But your grandmother was going through her "doily on the head evangelical" phase and I am pretty sure everyone thought I was a satanist.
Anne: I do that. I try to move things with my mind every night. It's not working yet. I think I'm close. And when I was 6, I spent, like, months trying to fly off the couch or my bed. And the stairs.
Me: How did that work out for you?
Anne: Nothing. Once I thought for sure I went up a little bit, but that was it. I was really surprised that I couldn't fly. I really thought I could. I still do.
Me: Untie one of those bags from your arms. The craptastic wonder twins strike again!
Anne: They are ruining my look. Ooooh! The bags! They're like sails! I can fly!
Me: Yes, you can, baby girl. Here. Hold the poop bag.
~dana
Anne: Mom, these bags totally make me go way faster. Weeeee!
Me: You look mental. You look like a trailer park version of a solar sail.
Anne: Don't care! I! Am! Awesome!
Me: As much air as those bags are catching, I am pretty sure they are slowing you down.
Anne: Mom, are those basset hounds, beagles, or bagels? I can never tell any of those apart.
Me: Basset hounds. What do you mean you can never tell them apart. Dogs and bread! It's dogs and bread!
Anne: No, I mean, I sometimes say, "I'd like my beagle toasted," or once I said, "I like to eat blueberry basset hounds, but I hate the cinnamon ones." Stuff like that.
Me: What about, "That bagel won't stop barking and I think it crapped on the couch?"
Anne: Seriously, Mom? What is your problem?
Me: I have a Tale of Suffering about a basset hound...
Anne: (scootering away) Nooooooo! I am not listening to another of your tales of misery! How can anyone's childhood be that bad? Go awaaaaaaayyyyyy!!!
Me: Get back here! Get back here or you're carrying the poop bags!
(Anne coasts to a stop, and gives me a look of resigned disgust.)
Me: So, I was 5. For the first few days of kindergarten, your grandmother walked me to school. Then, your uncle was supposed to walk me, but he mostly ditched me by the time we reached the first telephone pole.
Anne: Is this the one about the other kids throwing stones at you? I have heard this one. Many times.
Me: No, no, no! That was in 5th grade. I hope those little shits all ended up like Honey Boo Boo's mom. No, no stone throwing in this one. So, I was walking to kindergarten, and I saw this basset hound. I had never seen one before...
Anne: OMG, Mom. Does the dog die? I am not listening if the dog dies.
Me: Shut up and listen. I am setting a mood. So little me and my bookbag are walking down the street to my school, which was at the top of the street. And there's this basset hound in a front yard across the street, just staring at me. Except he's wearing a little yellow rain slicker and little yellow boots! It was the late 70's! No one put clothes on dogs!
Anne: Who's dog was it?
Me: Some old lady who wore pantsuits. And neckerchiefs. Anyway, I had never seen the dog before LET ALONE A DOG IN A RAINCOAT! It was amazing!
Anne: Cute! So, now does the dog die?
Me: Shut up. So, I stood there for a while and tried to will the basset hound to cross the street and play with me, but he just stared at me. And I wasn't allowed to cross the street. So I decided to sing him a song because he looked sad.
Anne: Hate to break it to you, Mom, but all basset hounds look sad.
Me: I WAS 5!!! So, I sat down on the curb and sang all the songs I knew to him: Happy Birthday, Away in a Manger, Jesus Loves Me, and this one I made up about 4 blue jays. I can't remember how that one goes...
Anne: Thank you, Jesus!
Me: Anyway, next thing I knew, your grandmother comes charging up the street screaming at me. I guess the school called her and told her I hadn't shown up and she came looking for me.
Anne: Oh my God, Mom! How long were you singing at that dog?
Me: Well, I sang each song multiple times. And made up verses. And I tried to tempt him with a stick. He never moved. He just stood there in his little booties, staring at me.
Anne: Do you think the old lady in the pantsuit was watching you from her window and laughing at you? I bet she was.
Me: IT HAD NEVER OCCURRED TO ME, ANNE! THANK YOU FOR MAKING THIS MEMORY MORE PAINFUL!
Anne: Also, maybe that's why the other kids threw stones at you. I'm just saying.
Me: I never did pet that basset hound. (sigh)
Anne: How can anyone's childhood be so miserable! Don't you have one happy memory? Just one?
Me: No. Wait.... ummmm.... no.
Anne: What about a teddy bear? Didn't you have a nice teddy that you loved?
Me: DO NOT GO THERE! I DID NOT HAVE A TEDDY! I HAD A GIANT STUFFED THUMB THAT MY DAD GOT ME WHEN I WAS BORN AND EVERY YEAR ON TEDDY BEAR DAY I WAS THE ONLY KID WITH A GIANT THUMB AND EVERYONE LAUGHED AT ME!
Anne: Oh my God, that's awesome! I mean... I love you, Mom.
Me: Nice try.
Anne: What about a favorite book? You love books! What was your favorite book when you were my age?
Me: Oh, that's easy! The Girl With The Silver Eyes! I loved that book!
Anne: See! A happy memory! What was it about?
Me: Ooooh! It was about this girl with silver eyes and she was telekinetic and she had no friends and she ate thick peanut butter sandwiches and orange juice for lunch just like I did! Peanut butter and orange juice was my number one favorite. Number 2 was a mayonnaise sandwich, which probably explains my ass. Her eyes were silver because her mom took this medicine when she was pregnant. Like the flipper children. Never mind. Forget I said that.
Anne: Those are the most disgusting lunches I can imagine. We'll come back to the flippers. You're gross. Is that why the kids threw stones at you?
Me: SO ANYWAY... I figured I must be telekinetic too. I mean, I don't have silver eyes, but my one eye is half brown and half blue so I figured I could move smallish things or maybe start fires. So you know what I did?
Anne: What?
Me: I took a picture of my friend Jenny and set it on my dresser and spent several nights willing it to move.
Anne: No. You. Did. Not.
Me: And then one day I noticed it was gone! I found it in a drawer! So, I figured I had moved it with my mind while I was asleep! I told everyone I had telekinesis! But your grandmother was going through her "doily on the head evangelical" phase and I am pretty sure everyone thought I was a satanist.
Anne: I do that. I try to move things with my mind every night. It's not working yet. I think I'm close. And when I was 6, I spent, like, months trying to fly off the couch or my bed. And the stairs.
Me: How did that work out for you?
Anne: Nothing. Once I thought for sure I went up a little bit, but that was it. I was really surprised that I couldn't fly. I really thought I could. I still do.
Me: Untie one of those bags from your arms. The craptastic wonder twins strike again!
Anne: They are ruining my look. Ooooh! The bags! They're like sails! I can fly!
Me: Yes, you can, baby girl. Here. Hold the poop bag.
~dana
Friday, August 24, 2012
Part Two
So, where were we? Ah, yes. My faith. If you need a primer, please have another look at the first installment of I Am Probably Damned To Hell.
Before I can tell you what happened next at church that further alienated me from my faith, we'll have to agree upon some language. My family is fairly immigrant. We did not learn traditional or especially politically correct terms for special groups of people. I have several cousins that have cerebral palsy and as an adult I know that is the appropriate medical term. But as a child, my grandmother referred to them a The Spastics. For example, " Your Great Aunt is coming in for the party but I think she's only bringing one of The Spastics," or "Your cousin Teddy The Spastic says he's going to Poland to see the relatives but I can't imagine how the hell he'll get there." Actually, I was in high school before I realized that they weren't even my cousins. They were my second or third cousins. We never differentiated. My Aunt Mitzi? Found out she was my grandma's twin sister. Everyone was a cousin, aunt or uncle.
My grandma was a sweet woman. Kind, generous, warm and funny. My best friend ever. A tiny little woman with an accent and a twinkle in her eye. I loved her more than anything in the world. But she learned racial terms in the 30's and hung onto them until she died. When my grandfather had emergency surgery at the Cleveland Clinic...
Me: How's grandpa? I miss him. Give him a hug for me.
Grandma: Dr. Chink says he's doing good and he'll be home soon! And for a Chink, he's a good doctor! Except I think he's a little sneaky. But he's so small. Who can say?
Me: Oh my God, Grandma, don't call him that! He saved Grandpa's life! He's Asian! Say "Asian!"
Grandma: Listen, I can't tell those people apart. And I can't say his name, either. Anyway, he doesn't seem to mind.
or...
as Winston and I drove her to a rehearsal dinner...
Grandma: Are we there yet? Why is it taking so long? Why are you driving so fast?
Me: Look, Grandma, we're here! This is the restaurant!
Grandma: Oh, it's a dego place. I hate dego food.
Me: Grandma! Shame on you! You have a daughter-in-law who's Italian! Don't say "dego!" That's terrible! You can't say things like that!
Grandma: Eye-talian, Dego, whatever. I hate their food.
Black people. African Americans. People of color. Nope. She called them "The Negra" until the day she died. It didn't matter if it was one person or 50. The Negra.
Native Americans?
Me: Winston and I are getting married! I want you to be my matron of honor. I love you so much, Grandma.
Grandma: What nationality is he? (hopefully) Polish?
Me: Actually, he's Cherokee Indian. Like, he's almost 3/4 Cherokee. His grandpa grew up on a reservation in Missouri. That's why he's so tan.
Grandma: Listen. Don't tell anyone he's a dirty Injun. Tell them he's Polish. No one needs to know.
Me: Grandma! Shame on you! That's my future husband you're talking about!
Grandma: I'll tell the family he's Polish. He looks Polish.
So back to the Spastics. The kids and I slunk in the side door at mass. This was our new technique: it got us up front so the kids would pay attention, and it put me in an excellent position to slink back out after NOT receiving Communion because I am saturated with sin. The kids could go up, receive Communion and then I would casually slink to the side, grab them and scoot out the door early. (Protestants: this is a perk of Catholicism: as long as you arrive in time for the Gospel reading, you are not strictly late and you can bolt after Communion. )
Now, remember, even though we had already made asses of ourselves on a regular basis, we were still new to the parish. We tended to blindly grab seats and try to act oblivious when people showed up and looked pissed that we were sitting in the pews they had probably sat in for 10 years. So, on this morning, we slid in the side door, and grabbed a pew on the left that, in retrospect, I should have realized was empty for a reason. But I was running late and the kids were fighting and Winston was out of town and it did not register that this pew was slightly offset and a wee bit larger than the other turn of the century pews. Actually, I remember thinking, "Finally! Some leg room!"
We slid into the over sized pew; first Anne, then Henry, then me. I was closest to side aisle and Anne was closest to the center aisle. The children began shoving, kicking and jabbing each other. I moved my lips in silent prayer that today would not be the day I went to jail for beating a child with a hymnal. I was also trying to focus on the after mass donuts. Mmmm, donuts. Church donuts are awesome.
Mass started and we began doing the whole up and down business that is at the heart of the Mass. When we finally parked it for the second reading (2 readings and a Gospel, for the unbelievers out there) I heard a sudden commotion in the rear of the church. Doors opening. Squeaking. Banging. I remember thinking smugly to myself, " Humph. At least my kids are quiet for once. Maybe it doesn't always have to be me! Things are looking up!" But the noise continued. It made me think of a elementary school janitor moving his giant cart through the hallway. I turned to look a what the ruckus was and saw...
Two men. With giant walkers. Picking them up and punching them down again. Tennis balls on the wheels. Various dangling accessory bags. Lots of random arm movements and twitching. Coming straight up the side aisle. Straight towards our strange little askew pew. Looking at me. I felt a cold wave pass over me. I whipped my head around and began scanning our seats frantically.
After running my hands over all available surfaces of pew, I found an indentation on the top back of the pew. Recessed inside, the size of a postage stamp, was a tiny symbol.
"Holy Fuck! We're sitting in the Spastics pew!"
Yes, in an attempt to be subtle and in keeping with a "holy aesthetic," my church had labeled a pew so vaguely that I had sat in it. And was now being born down upon by two slowly advancing Spastics. And all of my education and adult onset sensitivities about the handicapped flew out the window as I clung to my childhood and I head my grandmothers voice say,
"What do you want me to call your cousins? Their own mother calls them the Spastics! That's what doctors used to call it! I'm not calling it something new every time people change their minds!"
I had a sudden memory of dancing with my cousin Teddy at my wedding. He was clutching me rather inappropriately and as we danced I was trying to decide if he was a pervert or if the clutching was simply part of his spasms. If I had to describe it, I would say our dance looked like a bride trying to whirl around and escape a giant squid. After being unable to detach him from my person after 2 songs, my mother marched up, grabbed him and hissed, "For Gods sake, Teddy, leave her alone! Get off of her!" I stood there wondering if I had, in fact, just been molested by my Spastic cousin.
That question was answered several years later, during one of the last conversations I had with my grandma before she died. We were eating cinnamon rolls and drinking tea at her kitchen table...
Grandma: I guess now your cousin Teddy the Spastic is telling everyone he's A Gay.
Me: Come on, Grandma. Who cares? You can't be upset about it; how many other gay family members do we have now? It's old news.
Grandma: I don't care that he says he's A Gay. What's bothering me is how he knows. He's been living with his mother for the last 40 some years. He can't drive! Who is he planning on being A Gay with? And who'd have him?
Back to the church. I found myself wondering: our church is the very definition of "not handicapped accessible." It was built in the 20's. How the hell did they even get in the building? There are literally dozens of steps at every door! The Spastics slowly charged at me with their walkers. All eyes in the church followed their slow progression. I frantically considered my options: I had none. All the surrounding pews were full. Getting up and moving was equally unthinkable because I knew my kids would not just move silently because I nudged them: they would LOUDLY demand a full explanation. I began to sweat.
Have you ever used the handicapped stall in the bathroom because it tends to be 80% cleaner than the other ones and always has a place to put your purse? And then opened the door and came out to a shockingly handicapped woman leaning angrily on the wall, waiting for the handicapped stall? Yeah. I felt like that. There is no high ground.
I did a quick calculation. If we all scoonched over, there would be room for both Spastics and their walkers. The Spastics were now 4 pews away and beginning to make groaning noises about hauling their asses all the way down the aisle to find THEIR seats were taken by a tattooed harlot and her children. I could feel the hot weight of every eye in the church on me. So...
I elbowed Henry.
Me: Henry! Scoot over! Please just scoot and ask your sister to scoot! Quietly!
Henry: WHAT, MOM?
Me: Shhhhh!!! Just scoot!
Henry: ANNE WON"T MOVE! WHY DO WE HAVE TO SIT WITH HER? SHE SHOULD GO IN THE BABY CRYING ROOM.
Anne: I'M GONNA KILL YOU, HENRY!
Me: For the love of God, please shut up and move down! We are in their seat!
Henry: WHOSE SEATS?
Me: The Spastics!
Henry: FINE! I'LL MAKE ANNE MOVE.
My son leaned forward and dramatically shoved his sister to the right. She shoved back. He responded with a combination shove and kick. She squealed. Then I heard a loud metallic scraping noise.
I had placed my purse on the floor. And set my car keys next to it. On the cold stone church floor. His foot had connected with my huge ring of keys and sent it skittering 15 feet across the floor, under several pews and finally coming to a rest in front of the altar. Slightly off center.
Father glared at me and my keys from the lofty height of the altar. The Spastics, arriving at the pew, began groaning at me. My children, now aware of their imminent death at the hands of their mother, had scooted clean out of the pew into another zip code and were sitting angelically.
Me: OH MY GOD I AM SO SORRY!
The Spastics groaned some more and slowly moved off to the side door, clanging all the way, the door slamming behind them. They left. I wanted to stand up and scream, "How handicapped can they be??? There are 9 stairs and two doors out that way and you all know it! I am not an animal!!! Stop looking at me!!!"
Instead, I sat in silent shame. Mass, which had halted so everyone could enjoy my discomfort, restarted. I waited until the priest turned his back to mess with the tiny golden castle the Host lives in and then I crab walked up to the altar, grabbed my car keys and then turned and crawled on my hands and knees back to the pew of shame. I thought if I stayed low to the ground no one would notice, but as I climbed back into the pew, I looked up to find the eyes of the Father upon me and wondered how long he had been watching a grown woman crawl across the church.
And I remembered the shortest verse of the Bible and, for me, the most eloquent:
"Jesus wept."
~dana
Before I can tell you what happened next at church that further alienated me from my faith, we'll have to agree upon some language. My family is fairly immigrant. We did not learn traditional or especially politically correct terms for special groups of people. I have several cousins that have cerebral palsy and as an adult I know that is the appropriate medical term. But as a child, my grandmother referred to them a The Spastics. For example, " Your Great Aunt is coming in for the party but I think she's only bringing one of The Spastics," or "Your cousin Teddy The Spastic says he's going to Poland to see the relatives but I can't imagine how the hell he'll get there." Actually, I was in high school before I realized that they weren't even my cousins. They were my second or third cousins. We never differentiated. My Aunt Mitzi? Found out she was my grandma's twin sister. Everyone was a cousin, aunt or uncle.
My grandma was a sweet woman. Kind, generous, warm and funny. My best friend ever. A tiny little woman with an accent and a twinkle in her eye. I loved her more than anything in the world. But she learned racial terms in the 30's and hung onto them until she died. When my grandfather had emergency surgery at the Cleveland Clinic...
Me: How's grandpa? I miss him. Give him a hug for me.
Grandma: Dr. Chink says he's doing good and he'll be home soon! And for a Chink, he's a good doctor! Except I think he's a little sneaky. But he's so small. Who can say?
Me: Oh my God, Grandma, don't call him that! He saved Grandpa's life! He's Asian! Say "Asian!"
Grandma: Listen, I can't tell those people apart. And I can't say his name, either. Anyway, he doesn't seem to mind.
or...
as Winston and I drove her to a rehearsal dinner...
Grandma: Are we there yet? Why is it taking so long? Why are you driving so fast?
Me: Look, Grandma, we're here! This is the restaurant!
Grandma: Oh, it's a dego place. I hate dego food.
Me: Grandma! Shame on you! You have a daughter-in-law who's Italian! Don't say "dego!" That's terrible! You can't say things like that!
Grandma: Eye-talian, Dego, whatever. I hate their food.
Black people. African Americans. People of color. Nope. She called them "The Negra" until the day she died. It didn't matter if it was one person or 50. The Negra.
Native Americans?
Me: Winston and I are getting married! I want you to be my matron of honor. I love you so much, Grandma.
Grandma: What nationality is he? (hopefully) Polish?
Me: Actually, he's Cherokee Indian. Like, he's almost 3/4 Cherokee. His grandpa grew up on a reservation in Missouri. That's why he's so tan.
Grandma: Listen. Don't tell anyone he's a dirty Injun. Tell them he's Polish. No one needs to know.
Me: Grandma! Shame on you! That's my future husband you're talking about!
Grandma: I'll tell the family he's Polish. He looks Polish.
So back to the Spastics. The kids and I slunk in the side door at mass. This was our new technique: it got us up front so the kids would pay attention, and it put me in an excellent position to slink back out after NOT receiving Communion because I am saturated with sin. The kids could go up, receive Communion and then I would casually slink to the side, grab them and scoot out the door early. (Protestants: this is a perk of Catholicism: as long as you arrive in time for the Gospel reading, you are not strictly late and you can bolt after Communion. )
Now, remember, even though we had already made asses of ourselves on a regular basis, we were still new to the parish. We tended to blindly grab seats and try to act oblivious when people showed up and looked pissed that we were sitting in the pews they had probably sat in for 10 years. So, on this morning, we slid in the side door, and grabbed a pew on the left that, in retrospect, I should have realized was empty for a reason. But I was running late and the kids were fighting and Winston was out of town and it did not register that this pew was slightly offset and a wee bit larger than the other turn of the century pews. Actually, I remember thinking, "Finally! Some leg room!"
We slid into the over sized pew; first Anne, then Henry, then me. I was closest to side aisle and Anne was closest to the center aisle. The children began shoving, kicking and jabbing each other. I moved my lips in silent prayer that today would not be the day I went to jail for beating a child with a hymnal. I was also trying to focus on the after mass donuts. Mmmm, donuts. Church donuts are awesome.
Mass started and we began doing the whole up and down business that is at the heart of the Mass. When we finally parked it for the second reading (2 readings and a Gospel, for the unbelievers out there) I heard a sudden commotion in the rear of the church. Doors opening. Squeaking. Banging. I remember thinking smugly to myself, " Humph. At least my kids are quiet for once. Maybe it doesn't always have to be me! Things are looking up!" But the noise continued. It made me think of a elementary school janitor moving his giant cart through the hallway. I turned to look a what the ruckus was and saw...
Two men. With giant walkers. Picking them up and punching them down again. Tennis balls on the wheels. Various dangling accessory bags. Lots of random arm movements and twitching. Coming straight up the side aisle. Straight towards our strange little askew pew. Looking at me. I felt a cold wave pass over me. I whipped my head around and began scanning our seats frantically.
After running my hands over all available surfaces of pew, I found an indentation on the top back of the pew. Recessed inside, the size of a postage stamp, was a tiny symbol.
"Holy Fuck! We're sitting in the Spastics pew!"
Yes, in an attempt to be subtle and in keeping with a "holy aesthetic," my church had labeled a pew so vaguely that I had sat in it. And was now being born down upon by two slowly advancing Spastics. And all of my education and adult onset sensitivities about the handicapped flew out the window as I clung to my childhood and I head my grandmothers voice say,
"What do you want me to call your cousins? Their own mother calls them the Spastics! That's what doctors used to call it! I'm not calling it something new every time people change their minds!"
I had a sudden memory of dancing with my cousin Teddy at my wedding. He was clutching me rather inappropriately and as we danced I was trying to decide if he was a pervert or if the clutching was simply part of his spasms. If I had to describe it, I would say our dance looked like a bride trying to whirl around and escape a giant squid. After being unable to detach him from my person after 2 songs, my mother marched up, grabbed him and hissed, "For Gods sake, Teddy, leave her alone! Get off of her!" I stood there wondering if I had, in fact, just been molested by my Spastic cousin.
That question was answered several years later, during one of the last conversations I had with my grandma before she died. We were eating cinnamon rolls and drinking tea at her kitchen table...
Grandma: I guess now your cousin Teddy the Spastic is telling everyone he's A Gay.
Me: Come on, Grandma. Who cares? You can't be upset about it; how many other gay family members do we have now? It's old news.
Grandma: I don't care that he says he's A Gay. What's bothering me is how he knows. He's been living with his mother for the last 40 some years. He can't drive! Who is he planning on being A Gay with? And who'd have him?
Back to the church. I found myself wondering: our church is the very definition of "not handicapped accessible." It was built in the 20's. How the hell did they even get in the building? There are literally dozens of steps at every door! The Spastics slowly charged at me with their walkers. All eyes in the church followed their slow progression. I frantically considered my options: I had none. All the surrounding pews were full. Getting up and moving was equally unthinkable because I knew my kids would not just move silently because I nudged them: they would LOUDLY demand a full explanation. I began to sweat.
Have you ever used the handicapped stall in the bathroom because it tends to be 80% cleaner than the other ones and always has a place to put your purse? And then opened the door and came out to a shockingly handicapped woman leaning angrily on the wall, waiting for the handicapped stall? Yeah. I felt like that. There is no high ground.
I did a quick calculation. If we all scoonched over, there would be room for both Spastics and their walkers. The Spastics were now 4 pews away and beginning to make groaning noises about hauling their asses all the way down the aisle to find THEIR seats were taken by a tattooed harlot and her children. I could feel the hot weight of every eye in the church on me. So...
I elbowed Henry.
Me: Henry! Scoot over! Please just scoot and ask your sister to scoot! Quietly!
Henry: WHAT, MOM?
Me: Shhhhh!!! Just scoot!
Henry: ANNE WON"T MOVE! WHY DO WE HAVE TO SIT WITH HER? SHE SHOULD GO IN THE BABY CRYING ROOM.
Anne: I'M GONNA KILL YOU, HENRY!
Me: For the love of God, please shut up and move down! We are in their seat!
Henry: WHOSE SEATS?
Me: The Spastics!
Henry: FINE! I'LL MAKE ANNE MOVE.
My son leaned forward and dramatically shoved his sister to the right. She shoved back. He responded with a combination shove and kick. She squealed. Then I heard a loud metallic scraping noise.
I had placed my purse on the floor. And set my car keys next to it. On the cold stone church floor. His foot had connected with my huge ring of keys and sent it skittering 15 feet across the floor, under several pews and finally coming to a rest in front of the altar. Slightly off center.
Father glared at me and my keys from the lofty height of the altar. The Spastics, arriving at the pew, began groaning at me. My children, now aware of their imminent death at the hands of their mother, had scooted clean out of the pew into another zip code and were sitting angelically.
Me: OH MY GOD I AM SO SORRY!
The Spastics groaned some more and slowly moved off to the side door, clanging all the way, the door slamming behind them. They left. I wanted to stand up and scream, "How handicapped can they be??? There are 9 stairs and two doors out that way and you all know it! I am not an animal!!! Stop looking at me!!!"
Instead, I sat in silent shame. Mass, which had halted so everyone could enjoy my discomfort, restarted. I waited until the priest turned his back to mess with the tiny golden castle the Host lives in and then I crab walked up to the altar, grabbed my car keys and then turned and crawled on my hands and knees back to the pew of shame. I thought if I stayed low to the ground no one would notice, but as I climbed back into the pew, I looked up to find the eyes of the Father upon me and wondered how long he had been watching a grown woman crawl across the church.
And I remembered the shortest verse of the Bible and, for me, the most eloquent:
"Jesus wept."
~dana
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Summer of 2012
It's bad enough that I'm all weepy pathetic about my kids going back to school tomorrow, but then I woke up this morning with a crappy Kenny Rogers song running through my head. I have spent the day on the verge of tears with a slow motion montage of my summer running through my head. And I can't get this goddamn song out of my head. Come on a journey with me, if you will, of sadness. The party's over. Sing it, Kenny... If you can, play the song as you read; it really adds something.
My daughter... bored at my brothers furniture-less apartment... amusing herself with plastic bags...
Sleeping peacefully on the floor at the same apartment... under the tender gaze of my children...
Receiving strange notes from my daughter; her approximations of tickets that police give out...
My neighbors discovering that Jesus is their homeboy...
My butt white son selecting sunscreen and missing the point entirely...
The whole family encountering a passed out custom ring maker/pirate in Geneva-on-the-Lake...
A rainbow shining bravely over our money pit, immediately following the electrical fire in the basement...
The peaceful joy of poking things with sticks at the beach with my children...
Getting to see Agatha again, after far too long...
Shopping for friend's birthday parties and finding the best presents...
Going to my 20 year reunion and getting so hammered I remember very little and got one picture. That Shirley's husband took. When he got so wasted he became obsessed with random details, like fingernails. This is all I have to remember my reunion.
My husband teaching me things I didn't want to know...
The weeks of random antennae...
Traveling up north; seeing things we thought were extinct...
Leisurely day trips to exotic, educational places...
Wearing plastic gloves with Agatha so we wouldn't fingerprint mirrors...
Being super excited for Agatha to come home so we could greet her...
Realizing my son intended to spend the entire summer on Xbox Live killing people with guns...
Watching with joy as he reconnected with nature in the great outdoors...
Learning that no matter how far you travel, you can't escape your past...
It's so sad. I hate to see another year go by. And then today... I took the kids to the beach for a picnic to end the summer. We sat on a grassy hill near the sand and started unwrapping our sub sandwiches and eating them; enjoying the sun, pervasive fragrance of Lake Erie and a warm breeze...
Anne: Oh no.
Me: What? What's wrong?
Anne: Here comes my food, back up again...
Me: What are you talking about? Are you sick?
Anne: I'm gonna be. Look at that dude!
Henry: Mom, don't look. You'll die. Trust me. I am not looking again. That's messed up.
Me: I must look. I have no choice.
Henry: I warned you.
I turned and saw...
He did. He warned me.
~dana
My daughter... bored at my brothers furniture-less apartment... amusing herself with plastic bags...
Sleeping peacefully on the floor at the same apartment... under the tender gaze of my children...
Receiving strange notes from my daughter; her approximations of tickets that police give out...
My neighbors discovering that Jesus is their homeboy...
My butt white son selecting sunscreen and missing the point entirely...
The whole family encountering a passed out custom ring maker/pirate in Geneva-on-the-Lake...
A rainbow shining bravely over our money pit, immediately following the electrical fire in the basement...
The peaceful joy of poking things with sticks at the beach with my children...
Getting to see Agatha again, after far too long...
 |
| She managed to convince me that I have fleas. She is so clever. |
Shopping for friend's birthday parties and finding the best presents...
Going to my 20 year reunion and getting so hammered I remember very little and got one picture. That Shirley's husband took. When he got so wasted he became obsessed with random details, like fingernails. This is all I have to remember my reunion.
 |
| I think the black fingernails are mine. |
My husband teaching me things I didn't want to know...
The weeks of random antennae...
Traveling up north; seeing things we thought were extinct...
Leisurely day trips to exotic, educational places...
Wearing plastic gloves with Agatha so we wouldn't fingerprint mirrors...
Being super excited for Agatha to come home so we could greet her...
Realizing my son intended to spend the entire summer on Xbox Live killing people with guns...
Watching with joy as he reconnected with nature in the great outdoors...
Learning that no matter how far you travel, you can't escape your past...
It's so sad. I hate to see another year go by. And then today... I took the kids to the beach for a picnic to end the summer. We sat on a grassy hill near the sand and started unwrapping our sub sandwiches and eating them; enjoying the sun, pervasive fragrance of Lake Erie and a warm breeze...
Anne: Oh no.
Me: What? What's wrong?
Anne: Here comes my food, back up again...
Me: What are you talking about? Are you sick?
Anne: I'm gonna be. Look at that dude!
Henry: Mom, don't look. You'll die. Trust me. I am not looking again. That's messed up.
Me: I must look. I have no choice.
Henry: I warned you.
I turned and saw...
He did. He warned me.
~dana
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Sweet Jesus
Things have gone horribly wrong between me and the Catholic Church. I know exactly when it happened. It involved the porch of the rectory, a hobo, a pirate ship, my bra and the Knights of Columbus. Oh, and 2 people with cerebral palsy with walkers. And my God, some things you just can't get past.
It all started when I applied to join our new parish 2.5 years ago. I met with the priest, who seemed like a nice young man (which is kinda weird because everyone knows there are no young priests. It's super hard to sell celibacy these days.) Me and the kids were talking companionably with the priest on the porch of the rectory, when the priest used his Jedi mind tricks to pull the rug out from under me...
Priest: So, you were baptized and raised Catholic?
Me: Yep.
Priest: And your husband was baptized Lutheran.
Me: Yep. Whatareyagonnado... am I right? Love is blind.
Priest: But, let me see if I have this straight: You were married in a Lutheran Church?
Me: Yeah. The one across the street. I think its foot-washing Baptist now...
Priest: And your husband converted to Catholicism 7 years ago?
Me: Yep.
Priest: Then I am sorry to say, "Mrs." McSwain, but the Catholic Church does not recognize your marriage. You and your husband live in a state of sin. You'll have to go through marriage counseling and get married in a Catholic Church to absolve your sin. That means you cannot receive Holy Communion or be godparents.
Me: Holy sh... Are you serious? I've been married, like 13 years! I don't want to get married again! Counseling? For what? We have two kids! If that doesn't work out all the kinks, nothing does!
Priest: (stony silence)
So, I left in a bit of huff. I decided to pout about it and refuse to receive Communion because that would teach him. (I've always been a "cut off my nose" kinda girl) Me and the kids continued to attend Mass.
Week 1
I was certain (paranoia) that the priest was eyeballing me during Communion to make sure I didn't try to sneak up. But that wasn't the worst part:
Me: (whispering) Henry, go up without me and take your sister. Remember to bow and say "amen," for the love of God.
Henry: (out door voice) WHY AREN'T YOU GOING UP FOR COMMUNION, MOM?
Me: (hissing) Shut up right now. I will kill you in the parking lot. Just get up there right now.
Henry: FINE, MOM, WE'LL GO UP FOR COMMUNION WITHOUT YOU.
Which left me with the sweet pleasure of the stares and whispers of EVERY DAMN PARENT OF MY KIDS CLASSMATES AROUND ME.
Snooty Mom: OMG! Henry and Anne's tattooed mom can't receive Communion!
Snooty Dad: Our kids don't go to their house, do they? I don't want them hanging around the kids of the Bride of Satan! Don't arm tattoos mean lesbian?
Week 2
We arrive early and get seats in the third row. Because I decided not to cower in shame and also, so my kids focus on the Mass. The seat ahead of us was empty until a hobo with a knapsack, wearing a t-shirt with a giant cinnamon roll on it wandered in (urban parish; it happens) and of course, sat right the fuck in front of us. Me and the kids started poking each other and giggling about the t-shirt. A stern glance from the priest silenced us.
But not the Cinnamon Roll Hobo. He was super excited to get his Jesus on. Everytime the priest spoke..
Priest: InthenameoftheFatherandoftheSonandoftheHolySpiritAmen...
Cinnamon Roll Hobo: JESUS! JESUS! SAVE ME JESUS!
Priest: (dirty look)
Priest: ThegraceofourLordJesusChristandtheloveofGodandthefellowshipoftheHolySpiritbewithyouall.
Cinnamon Roll Hobo: JESUS! JESUS! SWEET JESUS!
I mean, it went on and on. Every single time the priest spoke, the hobo started wailing. (I think he meant to be across the street with the foot-washing Baptists...) Me and the kids were turning red from the exertion of not laughing out loud. I kept trying to jab the kids in their ribs so they would understand they could in no way bust out, because we were 11 feet from the altar.
Priest: MayalmightyGodcleanseusofoursinsandthroughtheEucharistwecelebratemakeusworthytositat histableinhisheavenlykingdom.
Hobo: SWEET LAMB OF GOD! JESUS CHRIST!
At this point, Father had had enough. He came storming down of the altar and stopped right in front of the hobo. I think they teach them in the Seminary how to talk with out moving their lips, because boy did he let that hobo have it, but we, only 2 feet away, couldn't make out a word. I imagine it went something like this:
Priest: If I hear one more "JESUS" out of you and your cinnamon roll shirt, things are gonna get real, buddy. I have been working on this sweet sermon all week and you are making me break character. I'm opening with a joke and you and your "SWEET JESUS" is going to ruin it. I will take you down, do you hear me?
Hobo: OH FATHER! FORGIVE ME! FORGIVE ME!
Father had the strength (and naive hope) to return to the altar and try to finish Mass, amidst the mumbled "forgive me's" of the hobo. Me and the kids were barely holding it together. I was sweating from the effort of not laughing and jabbing my kids.
That's when the hobo decided to amp up his game. He reached in his knapsack and pulled out a 8 x 10 picture frame. Holding it high above his head, like an icon, he slowly rotated 360' the whole while wailing, "JEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSUUUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSS!" The kids and I were wheezing and clutching our stomachs, hunched over and missed seeing the actual picture on the first two rotations. I couldn't say what Father was doing, up there on the altar. My guess would be stretching out to deliver an ass kicking.
On the third rotation, we finally saw what picture the hobo was flashing to the whole congregation. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Father had parked himself center stage at the altar and looked ready to unleash the wrath of God. The hobo and his cinnamon roll shirt slowly pivoted to face us and we saw...
Yes. He was slowly rotating in a circle, in the second row of a Catholic church, with a giant picture of a pirate ship. In a cinnamon roll t-shirt.
And that's when the giant, wracking squeals and snorts exploded out of me and the kids. I tend to snort spastically when I am overcome with mirth. We were totally helpless. The rest of the congregation must have been made of sterner stuff than we, because they all stood there, staring in horror at the blasphemy of the hobo, and probably the blasphemy of the mom and kids adjacent who were squealing joyously at the whole business.
Father began his rage filled descent from the altar. The hobo quickly stuffed the pirate ship and a hymnal in his backpack, saluted the congregation and sprinted for the back door. I finally willed myself upright and wiped the tears of laughter from my eyes. The kids were joyously hooting; transported to another place from the ecstasy of being front row center to something awesome finally happening at Mass. Somewhere, I heard the sound of the doors slamming behind the sprinting hobo. And I found myself staring into the eyes of Father, who had come to a full stop in front of us: the "unwed" tattooed hussy and her hooting offspring. He did not look pleased.
It's been pretty much downhill ever since. I don't think I can share anymore humiliation today. I need to go lay down with a wet towel on my eyes. Next time, I will tell you how my bra betrayed me during Mass. And how 2 people with some sort of palsy told me off loudly during another Mass and I ended up crab walking to the altar.
~dana
It all started when I applied to join our new parish 2.5 years ago. I met with the priest, who seemed like a nice young man (which is kinda weird because everyone knows there are no young priests. It's super hard to sell celibacy these days.) Me and the kids were talking companionably with the priest on the porch of the rectory, when the priest used his Jedi mind tricks to pull the rug out from under me...
Priest: So, you were baptized and raised Catholic?
Me: Yep.
Priest: And your husband was baptized Lutheran.
Me: Yep. Whatareyagonnado... am I right? Love is blind.
Priest: But, let me see if I have this straight: You were married in a Lutheran Church?
Me: Yeah. The one across the street. I think its foot-washing Baptist now...
Priest: And your husband converted to Catholicism 7 years ago?
Me: Yep.
Priest: Then I am sorry to say, "Mrs." McSwain, but the Catholic Church does not recognize your marriage. You and your husband live in a state of sin. You'll have to go through marriage counseling and get married in a Catholic Church to absolve your sin. That means you cannot receive Holy Communion or be godparents.
Me: Holy sh... Are you serious? I've been married, like 13 years! I don't want to get married again! Counseling? For what? We have two kids! If that doesn't work out all the kinks, nothing does!
Priest: (stony silence)
So, I left in a bit of huff. I decided to pout about it and refuse to receive Communion because that would teach him. (I've always been a "cut off my nose" kinda girl) Me and the kids continued to attend Mass.
Week 1
I was certain (paranoia) that the priest was eyeballing me during Communion to make sure I didn't try to sneak up. But that wasn't the worst part:
Me: (whispering) Henry, go up without me and take your sister. Remember to bow and say "amen," for the love of God.
Henry: (out door voice) WHY AREN'T YOU GOING UP FOR COMMUNION, MOM?
Me: (hissing) Shut up right now. I will kill you in the parking lot. Just get up there right now.
Henry: FINE, MOM, WE'LL GO UP FOR COMMUNION WITHOUT YOU.
Which left me with the sweet pleasure of the stares and whispers of EVERY DAMN PARENT OF MY KIDS CLASSMATES AROUND ME.
Snooty Mom: OMG! Henry and Anne's tattooed mom can't receive Communion!
Snooty Dad: Our kids don't go to their house, do they? I don't want them hanging around the kids of the Bride of Satan! Don't arm tattoos mean lesbian?
Week 2
We arrive early and get seats in the third row. Because I decided not to cower in shame and also, so my kids focus on the Mass. The seat ahead of us was empty until a hobo with a knapsack, wearing a t-shirt with a giant cinnamon roll on it wandered in (urban parish; it happens) and of course, sat right the fuck in front of us. Me and the kids started poking each other and giggling about the t-shirt. A stern glance from the priest silenced us.
But not the Cinnamon Roll Hobo. He was super excited to get his Jesus on. Everytime the priest spoke..
Priest: InthenameoftheFatherandoftheSonandoftheHolySpiritAmen...
Cinnamon Roll Hobo: JESUS! JESUS! SAVE ME JESUS!
Priest: (dirty look)
Priest: ThegraceofourLordJesusChristandtheloveofGodandthefellowshipoftheHolySpiritbewithyouall.
Cinnamon Roll Hobo: JESUS! JESUS! SWEET JESUS!
I mean, it went on and on. Every single time the priest spoke, the hobo started wailing. (I think he meant to be across the street with the foot-washing Baptists...) Me and the kids were turning red from the exertion of not laughing out loud. I kept trying to jab the kids in their ribs so they would understand they could in no way bust out, because we were 11 feet from the altar.
Priest: MayalmightyGodcleanseusofoursinsandthroughtheEucharistwecelebratemakeusworthytositat histableinhisheavenlykingdom.
Hobo: SWEET LAMB OF GOD! JESUS CHRIST!
At this point, Father had had enough. He came storming down of the altar and stopped right in front of the hobo. I think they teach them in the Seminary how to talk with out moving their lips, because boy did he let that hobo have it, but we, only 2 feet away, couldn't make out a word. I imagine it went something like this:
Priest: If I hear one more "JESUS" out of you and your cinnamon roll shirt, things are gonna get real, buddy. I have been working on this sweet sermon all week and you are making me break character. I'm opening with a joke and you and your "SWEET JESUS" is going to ruin it. I will take you down, do you hear me?
Hobo: OH FATHER! FORGIVE ME! FORGIVE ME!
Father had the strength (and naive hope) to return to the altar and try to finish Mass, amidst the mumbled "forgive me's" of the hobo. Me and the kids were barely holding it together. I was sweating from the effort of not laughing and jabbing my kids.
That's when the hobo decided to amp up his game. He reached in his knapsack and pulled out a 8 x 10 picture frame. Holding it high above his head, like an icon, he slowly rotated 360' the whole while wailing, "JEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSUUUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSS!" The kids and I were wheezing and clutching our stomachs, hunched over and missed seeing the actual picture on the first two rotations. I couldn't say what Father was doing, up there on the altar. My guess would be stretching out to deliver an ass kicking.
On the third rotation, we finally saw what picture the hobo was flashing to the whole congregation. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Father had parked himself center stage at the altar and looked ready to unleash the wrath of God. The hobo and his cinnamon roll shirt slowly pivoted to face us and we saw...
 |
|
"JJJJJJJEEEEEEESSSSSUUUUUUUSSSSSS!!!!!"
|
Yes. He was slowly rotating in a circle, in the second row of a Catholic church, with a giant picture of a pirate ship. In a cinnamon roll t-shirt.
And that's when the giant, wracking squeals and snorts exploded out of me and the kids. I tend to snort spastically when I am overcome with mirth. We were totally helpless. The rest of the congregation must have been made of sterner stuff than we, because they all stood there, staring in horror at the blasphemy of the hobo, and probably the blasphemy of the mom and kids adjacent who were squealing joyously at the whole business.
Father began his rage filled descent from the altar. The hobo quickly stuffed the pirate ship and a hymnal in his backpack, saluted the congregation and sprinted for the back door. I finally willed myself upright and wiped the tears of laughter from my eyes. The kids were joyously hooting; transported to another place from the ecstasy of being front row center to something awesome finally happening at Mass. Somewhere, I heard the sound of the doors slamming behind the sprinting hobo. And I found myself staring into the eyes of Father, who had come to a full stop in front of us: the "unwed" tattooed hussy and her hooting offspring. He did not look pleased.
It's been pretty much downhill ever since. I don't think I can share anymore humiliation today. I need to go lay down with a wet towel on my eyes. Next time, I will tell you how my bra betrayed me during Mass. And how 2 people with some sort of palsy told me off loudly during another Mass and I ended up crab walking to the altar.
~dana
Friday, August 10, 2012
The Siberian Express
Pets are not toys. They live a long time and you should give careful consideration to getting a new pet. You shouldn't just drive up to the Lakewood Animal Shelter and grab a fat 3 year old grey cat because he made eyes at you and was missing a toe. So, after a great deal of thought ... I'm bored; let's get a cat.
We got another rescue kitty. He is a giant lump of dollbaby. There is very little difference between him and a lump of pastry dough.
He is also a Russian Blue, which currently makes him the most expensive thing in our house. Based on his prestigous lineage, we decided he needed an important name... a Russian name... a name we could all agree on, unlike our previous efforts... AgnesBellaRipleyDumpsDrillerWhiteKittyPoopFace
We settled on
Ivan Drago, because the similarity is uncanny.
He is the best cat. All he wants to do is eat and be loved. The poodles adore him. The kids are obsessed with his sweet fatness. The husband was delighted I picked out a pleasant, traditional cat as opposed to the shrieking bitch of a cat that I prefer. Speaking of the shrieking bitch... his sister, Ripley, spends all her time stalking him and plotting an ass kicking...
Ivan Drago shows his affection in small ways. He chirps at us and gives little kissies. Also, he gifted us with this token of his love and fearsome power this morning. Apollo Creed the Cricket had been singing in our basement for weeks. I wonder how many rounds he went with Ivan Drago?
~dana
We got another rescue kitty. He is a giant lump of dollbaby. There is very little difference between him and a lump of pastry dough.
He is also a Russian Blue, which currently makes him the most expensive thing in our house. Based on his prestigous lineage, we decided he needed an important name... a Russian name... a name we could all agree on, unlike our previous efforts... AgnesBellaRipleyDumpsDrillerWhiteKittyPoopFace
We settled on
Ivan Drago, because the similarity is uncanny.
He is the best cat. All he wants to do is eat and be loved. The poodles adore him. The kids are obsessed with his sweet fatness. The husband was delighted I picked out a pleasant, traditional cat as opposed to the shrieking bitch of a cat that I prefer. Speaking of the shrieking bitch... his sister, Ripley, spends all her time stalking him and plotting an ass kicking...
Ivan Drago shows his affection in small ways. He chirps at us and gives little kissies. Also, he gifted us with this token of his love and fearsome power this morning. Apollo Creed the Cricket had been singing in our basement for weeks. I wonder how many rounds he went with Ivan Drago?
 |
| It's exactly what happened to Apollo Creed in Rocky IV |
~dana
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Massage Parlor Reunion
I had what will most certainly be the first in a deluge of nightmares about my high school reunion. Oh, yes. My 20 year reunion is this weekend. Fuck me.
I had this horrifying dream. I dreamed the reunion was not in a bowling alley, as planned. Somehow, it migrated to an Asian massage parlor and bath house.
Everyone else was laughing and vanishing up the stairs into some sort of Asian fog of mysterious sexiness. I was running around like I was mental trying to tell everyone that this wasn't the bowling alley and we needed to run away! But no one would listen!
Then I saw Winston, standing in a stairwell, deep in conversation with a taller, thinner version of myself. (This bitch is constantly in my dreams.)
I kept trying to get him to look at me but he kept laughing at me. Probably because I was jumping up and down and chirping at him like a tiny hairy hobbit. This is a frequent element of my dreams. Women who are better looking than me and lots of humiliation.
Did you see that date? Frequent. And as you can see by his response, frequent enough not to merit a conversation.
The dream ended with me hiding and sobbing under Dr. Who's (David Tennant, of course) ankle length duster on the floor in the dimly lit foyer of the massage parlor, fumbling with a lighter and trying to smoke a crushed cigarette. Sadly, David Tennant was not under the coat with me....
Damn it. I can't even dream properly. A proper dream would have me making out with Dr. Who under the coat.
When I peeked out from under the duster after sobbing and trying in vain to smoke for a while, I realized I was no longer in the massage parlor, but was now in a tiny birdhouse up a tree in a shanty town by the railroad tracks.
I am sure there's some symbolism in there somewhere. If I show up at the reunion and I see even one Asian whore, I am leaving.
~dana
I had this horrifying dream. I dreamed the reunion was not in a bowling alley, as planned. Somehow, it migrated to an Asian massage parlor and bath house.
Everyone else was laughing and vanishing up the stairs into some sort of Asian fog of mysterious sexiness. I was running around like I was mental trying to tell everyone that this wasn't the bowling alley and we needed to run away! But no one would listen!
Then I saw Winston, standing in a stairwell, deep in conversation with a taller, thinner version of myself. (This bitch is constantly in my dreams.)
 |
| And her hair is never frizzy. Damn it. |
I kept trying to get him to look at me but he kept laughing at me. Probably because I was jumping up and down and chirping at him like a tiny hairy hobbit. This is a frequent element of my dreams. Women who are better looking than me and lots of humiliation.
Did you see that date? Frequent. And as you can see by his response, frequent enough not to merit a conversation.
The dream ended with me hiding and sobbing under Dr. Who's (David Tennant, of course) ankle length duster on the floor in the dimly lit foyer of the massage parlor, fumbling with a lighter and trying to smoke a crushed cigarette. Sadly, David Tennant was not under the coat with me....
Damn it. I can't even dream properly. A proper dream would have me making out with Dr. Who under the coat.
When I peeked out from under the duster after sobbing and trying in vain to smoke for a while, I realized I was no longer in the massage parlor, but was now in a tiny birdhouse up a tree in a shanty town by the railroad tracks.
I am sure there's some symbolism in there somewhere. If I show up at the reunion and I see even one Asian whore, I am leaving.
~dana
Monday, August 6, 2012
Tragedy at the UDF
If you spend any time around here, you know I have a fascination/revulsion for hipsters. (For a refresher please see... Hipster Passive Aggressive Fashion War and All I Want is a Damn Ginger Cookie ) I have discovered a new form of hipster! As I discovered them and it's my blog, I feel I have earned the right to name them and so let me introduce you to...
Patheticus Hipstericus Major
or "the faltering urban hipster." They exist. They are all around us. I found them at the UDF.
We made an embarrassing pit stop last week at United Dairy Farmers. The whole fam decided we needed to stock up on personal pints of ice cream, because we don't do sharing. We end up at the register with 3x4 plus 1 or 2 gallons of ice cream. When we pulled into the lot, part of the storefront and one entire parking space was occupied by a bunch of 30-somethings sitting cross legged or, in one case, totally stretched out across the asphalt.
Me: What the hell? Run them over.
Winston: How many points is that? If I run them over, I mean.
Me: Were they all suddenly incapacitated? Is there an Occupy UDF movement I missed? That's like, 75 points. 80 if they try to run.
Henry: Can we just go in and stop talking about it?
Anne: What are they doing? What's their problem?
Me: I have no clue. Don't look at them; just walk by.
As we got out of the car and walked around the throng of bodies on the pavement, I got a better perspective of what was going on. . A group of grown men and women, OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW BETTER, were lying around the parking lot, posturing and trying to act cool and distracted by their awesome, while carrying on a conversation. It looked painful. And complicated. We walked slowly past, trying to grab snippets of conversation...
Dude in Sailor Moon T and Khakis, with Rosie the Riveter tat
and IceMan from Top Gun Sunglasses: No, for real he bought his own house. He's not renting anymore.
Woman, in Polyester Tracksuit and Head scarf: You're joking. For real? (snicker) What's that all about?
Greek Chorus of Aging Hip Murmuring: Whatever... Fucking Banks... I'm not paying interest... Fuck Wall Street bankers, man. I'm never selling out and buying a "house" (with actual use of quotation fingers)
Hipster IceMan: No... but... it was really nice. He had me over for a barbeque...
Greek Chorus of Aging Hip: (snicker) Barbeque? Seriously? (condescending laughter) You went to a barbeque?
Hipster IceMan: Well, yeah, but he's got this really nice back yard with trees and stuff and he had a pond, like with koi fish and everything. Actually... it was pretty great. We had bruschetta.
Woman, Daisy Dukes and Men's Work Shirt reading "Bob": Koi? I love koi! I have one tattoed on my thigh!
Hip Dude, in Ill Fitting Dress Shirt and Gym Teacher Shorts: We have these neighbors we can see from our apartment that have a koi pond, and it's amazing. Very peaceful. I would totally buy if I could get a koi pond.
Greek Chorus of Aging Hip: Koi pond! Koi pond! Koi are awesome!
At this point my husband was literally dragging me through the doors of UDF, because I was now openly standing stock still and staring at them. As we loaded up in the ice cream aisle, coconut almond, chocolate cherry, chocolate chocolate, vanilla and caramel, salted caramel, more coconut, cookies and cream, chocolate chip (really, it's embarrassing) I was totally distracted by the hipsters out front. It was so sad. They were trying to cling to their hipness by lying about the parking lot, showing disgust for the traditional, predictable parking of cars. It was tragic and pathetic. I mean, they had to be 35 years old.
They were clearly losing the battle to cling desperately to the edge of edginess. I noticed one was drinking Vitamin Water. Although the guys were clearly clinging to the cult of the ironic shirt, I swear two of them were wearing Gap khakis. I imagine back in the day, they only ever wore vintage Dickies. But now, as their once lean, starved bodies succumbed to the ravages of eating ironic dinners in parking lots, I imagine they now craved the soft embrace of the relaxed washed Gap chino.
And they were glancing about, furtively, almost as if they were concerned someone would suggest they not sprawl about the middle of the damn pavement. A true hipster wouldn't care about "conventional" seating, they would be dying for someone to tell them they shouldn't sit in the middle of the damn parking lot. It would give them an opportunity to rail against the machine they exist outside of because of their advanced awesome and fringe eyewear.
They way they halfheartedly protested home ownership was the dead give away that their hip days were numbered. When they spoke the words "bruschetta" and "koi" and ""pond" I could hear the longing in their voices to escape the non-traditonal housing they no doubt lived in. ( I imagined turn of the century, third story, walk-up studios with "great light" and original plumbing. Eeeeewww) It made me feel a deep sense of sorrow for them. Because there, on the ground in the UDF parking lot, could have been one of the first people in Lakewood ever to order oversized horn rimmed glasses.
As we left the UDF, arms laden with bags of individual ice creams, the hipsters had fallen silent. They were probably imagining decks and koi ponds and barbeques and sitting on proper chairs, and refrigerators bigger than dorm size that could hold 17 pints of ice cream.
I heard them start talking again as I was shutting my car door, but I didn't catch what they were saying. My daughter stood outside the car, ignoring her father's shouts to get in the damn car already. When she got in, I said:
Me: Anne! What did you hear? What were they talking about?
Henry: Mom, you are so annoying! Don't you dare take their picture. Can we just go home?
Anne: Mom, I heard the one girl say, "I love your shirt! Where did you get it?"
Me: No. Just no. That's impossible! It goes against their genetic code to love things!
Anne: And then the other girl said, "You won't believe it, but I got this whole outfit at TJ Max."
Me: Nooooooooooo!! It can't be! That's impossible!
Henry: Oh my God, Mom. Shut up.
~dana
I've included some a graph and a chart in the interest of science.
( these are not my comics, I found them on the interwebs. I'm not that clever. )
Patheticus Hipstericus Major
or "the faltering urban hipster." They exist. They are all around us. I found them at the UDF.
We made an embarrassing pit stop last week at United Dairy Farmers. The whole fam decided we needed to stock up on personal pints of ice cream, because we don't do sharing. We end up at the register with 3x4 plus 1 or 2 gallons of ice cream. When we pulled into the lot, part of the storefront and one entire parking space was occupied by a bunch of 30-somethings sitting cross legged or, in one case, totally stretched out across the asphalt.
Me: What the hell? Run them over.
Winston: How many points is that? If I run them over, I mean.
Me: Were they all suddenly incapacitated? Is there an Occupy UDF movement I missed? That's like, 75 points. 80 if they try to run.
Henry: Can we just go in and stop talking about it?
Anne: What are they doing? What's their problem?
Me: I have no clue. Don't look at them; just walk by.
As we got out of the car and walked around the throng of bodies on the pavement, I got a better perspective of what was going on. . A group of grown men and women, OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW BETTER, were lying around the parking lot, posturing and trying to act cool and distracted by their awesome, while carrying on a conversation. It looked painful. And complicated. We walked slowly past, trying to grab snippets of conversation...
Dude in Sailor Moon T and Khakis, with Rosie the Riveter tat
and IceMan from Top Gun Sunglasses: No, for real he bought his own house. He's not renting anymore.
Woman, in Polyester Tracksuit and Head scarf: You're joking. For real? (snicker) What's that all about?
Greek Chorus of Aging Hip Murmuring: Whatever... Fucking Banks... I'm not paying interest... Fuck Wall Street bankers, man. I'm never selling out and buying a "house" (with actual use of quotation fingers)
Hipster IceMan: No... but... it was really nice. He had me over for a barbeque...
Greek Chorus of Aging Hip: (snicker) Barbeque? Seriously? (condescending laughter) You went to a barbeque?
Hipster IceMan: Well, yeah, but he's got this really nice back yard with trees and stuff and he had a pond, like with koi fish and everything. Actually... it was pretty great. We had bruschetta.
Woman, Daisy Dukes and Men's Work Shirt reading "Bob": Koi? I love koi! I have one tattoed on my thigh!
Hip Dude, in Ill Fitting Dress Shirt and Gym Teacher Shorts: We have these neighbors we can see from our apartment that have a koi pond, and it's amazing. Very peaceful. I would totally buy if I could get a koi pond.
Greek Chorus of Aging Hip: Koi pond! Koi pond! Koi are awesome!
At this point my husband was literally dragging me through the doors of UDF, because I was now openly standing stock still and staring at them. As we loaded up in the ice cream aisle, coconut almond, chocolate cherry, chocolate chocolate, vanilla and caramel, salted caramel, more coconut, cookies and cream, chocolate chip (really, it's embarrassing) I was totally distracted by the hipsters out front. It was so sad. They were trying to cling to their hipness by lying about the parking lot, showing disgust for the traditional, predictable parking of cars. It was tragic and pathetic. I mean, they had to be 35 years old.
They were clearly losing the battle to cling desperately to the edge of edginess. I noticed one was drinking Vitamin Water. Although the guys were clearly clinging to the cult of the ironic shirt, I swear two of them were wearing Gap khakis. I imagine back in the day, they only ever wore vintage Dickies. But now, as their once lean, starved bodies succumbed to the ravages of eating ironic dinners in parking lots, I imagine they now craved the soft embrace of the relaxed washed Gap chino.
And they were glancing about, furtively, almost as if they were concerned someone would suggest they not sprawl about the middle of the damn pavement. A true hipster wouldn't care about "conventional" seating, they would be dying for someone to tell them they shouldn't sit in the middle of the damn parking lot. It would give them an opportunity to rail against the machine they exist outside of because of their advanced awesome and fringe eyewear.
They way they halfheartedly protested home ownership was the dead give away that their hip days were numbered. When they spoke the words "bruschetta" and "koi" and ""pond" I could hear the longing in their voices to escape the non-traditonal housing they no doubt lived in. ( I imagined turn of the century, third story, walk-up studios with "great light" and original plumbing. Eeeeewww) It made me feel a deep sense of sorrow for them. Because there, on the ground in the UDF parking lot, could have been one of the first people in Lakewood ever to order oversized horn rimmed glasses.
As we left the UDF, arms laden with bags of individual ice creams, the hipsters had fallen silent. They were probably imagining decks and koi ponds and barbeques and sitting on proper chairs, and refrigerators bigger than dorm size that could hold 17 pints of ice cream.
I heard them start talking again as I was shutting my car door, but I didn't catch what they were saying. My daughter stood outside the car, ignoring her father's shouts to get in the damn car already. When she got in, I said:
Me: Anne! What did you hear? What were they talking about?
Henry: Mom, you are so annoying! Don't you dare take their picture. Can we just go home?
Anne: Mom, I heard the one girl say, "I love your shirt! Where did you get it?"
Me: No. Just no. That's impossible! It goes against their genetic code to love things!
Anne: And then the other girl said, "You won't believe it, but I got this whole outfit at TJ Max."
Me: Nooooooooooo!! It can't be! That's impossible!
Henry: Oh my God, Mom. Shut up.
~dana
I've included some a graph and a chart in the interest of science.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
The Best Memories Live in Shoeboxes
Zyk the giant poodle and I walked to the park last Saturday morning. It was cool and breezy; low, fast blowing clouds racing past the shoreline of Lake Erie. As we approached the cliff at the park, a sudden cloudburst forced us to run for shelter under a tree. I don't really mind getting rained on and it looked to be a quick shower anyway. I am still kicking myself for not taking my camera with me that morning.
As we stood under the tree, I saw the strangest sight: a flower girl, all dressed in lace, barefoot running across the field squealing joyfully. Trailing after her were two more flower girls, squealing equally loud and dancing after her in the rain. The ends of their dresses were already muddy. Running after them was a posh woman with an armful of shoes, yelling that "the car was the other way!" But the girls ran on, with barely a backwards glance, twirling their muddy skirts in the rain.
Behind the woman I saw, like wet petals blowing in the wind, five bridesmaids dressed in shocking violet arrive breathlessly under the cover of one of the park's famous bleached white birch trees. They huddled together laughing and clinging to the trunk and each other.
And finally, behind them came the bride and groom. The groom had clutched the huge meringue of netting that made up her skirt and was holding it, as they ran laughing, for another tree. The bride carried her tiny beaded slippers in one hand and held onto her soaked veil in the other. When they reached the shelter of a large maple tree, the bride looked at her muddy feet and I could hear her pealing laughter from where I stood under my tree.
It was delightfully surreal.
That's when I saw their photographer. Standing under a tree, probably with the father of the bride, checking his cell phone. Maybe he was looking at the radar, trying to see when the rain was going to let up. My guess was that they were taking pictures before the wedding against the Cleveland and lake skyline, like many people do at the park. And I wanted to scream at that man, "What the hell are you doing??? This is it! This is the moment they will want to remember! They won't care about your staged beach shots twenty years from now! They will remember running and laughing in the rain and hiding under trees in beautiful random clusters, the flower girls vanishing across a muddy field! Get your camera out! This is it!!"
I have a wedding album somewhere. I remember it was expensive. I'm sure I could find it if I had an afternoon to search. But this is the picture for me; the one that I always think of when I think of my wedding day. Someone snapped it in the receiving line after the service. I look tired, and a little manic. Winston looks relieved the show is over and a little bored of shaking hands. But it looks like us. Together, tired and overwhelmed. Married. I love it.
Here's another family picture. It commemorates a terrible dinner. We were on vacation in northern Michigan. Because we never see the sun, we were sunburnt after spending the day kayaking and bobbing about in Lake Michigan. On our way through Traverse City, we passed this restaurant called Apache Trout. With a name like that, you would assume it was amazing. (Almost as amazing as Benton Harbor.... Don't Stop in Benton Harbor) We were tired, burnt, crabby and about to consume a historically awful overpriced meal of microscopic proportions. And we had to wait for a table. I took a picture of our misery. Apache Trout has now entered our family lexicon for awfulness and misery. I love this picture. It's awful. But it looks like us. No, I don't know what my son is doing.
Another favorite. Every time I look at it, I hope my great great grandchildren find it and wonder, "What the hell?" Our furnace broke during a blizzard. Outside, the temperatures hovered around 5 degrees. Inside, the temperature fell to 47. One week till the part would come in. I wanted to go to a hotel, but the husband said, "Light bulbs and boiling water. It's not efficient, but it'll work for a week." Yes, of course he is crazed. Setka, my aunt, heard we had no heat and called wanting to know what we were doing about it, would we stay with her... yada yada. When we explained we had popped the shades off all the lamps and kept 2 stock pots of water boiling at all times (it actually got the temperature up to 62 degrees!) she accused us of mocking her. We sent her this picture of us huddled around the warmth of a 75 watt bulb.
When my grandma died, we found all these pictures my grandpa took of dead relatives in their caskets. I hope future generations wonder what sociopath took a picture of his wife in a neck brace in the ER. (Diagnosis? Compound concussion and neck sprain. I couldn't reach him to strangle him because I was drugged.) But I promise you, this is probably the picture they will set on my casket when I die. It says, "Dana." There isn't one other staged photo that describes me better. (Except for the one he took of me another time, in a neck brace tied to a backboard, but that's another story. He also shot video, damn it. )
As for my parents and brothers, we don't do family pictures. I doubt one exists. I have this video instead. My family and I are pretty separated, but I love this because I can hear everyone's voice in the background and me and my dad are having a blast being idiots. And we were all getting along at the time. It all started with this shirt I own. It's just a gingham pattern, but my dad thinks it makes me look exactly like the foster mom in Terminator 2, after she is copied by the T-1000. I'm sure all of you want to hear that from your dads too.
My dad talked me into recreating the scene (badly) where she stabs her husband in the head through a milk carton. (That's a classic DeLaney family get together for you. ) We used a butcher knife and some Lactaid. The rest of the family took pictures, video and critiqued it heavily. You can hear all of their voices arguing in the background. I guess you could say this is my family portrait.
What about your family picture? You know, the one you just saw in your mind when I said "family picture." I bet it's not one you would put on your mantle.
~dana
As we stood under the tree, I saw the strangest sight: a flower girl, all dressed in lace, barefoot running across the field squealing joyfully. Trailing after her were two more flower girls, squealing equally loud and dancing after her in the rain. The ends of their dresses were already muddy. Running after them was a posh woman with an armful of shoes, yelling that "the car was the other way!" But the girls ran on, with barely a backwards glance, twirling their muddy skirts in the rain.
Behind the woman I saw, like wet petals blowing in the wind, five bridesmaids dressed in shocking violet arrive breathlessly under the cover of one of the park's famous bleached white birch trees. They huddled together laughing and clinging to the trunk and each other.
And finally, behind them came the bride and groom. The groom had clutched the huge meringue of netting that made up her skirt and was holding it, as they ran laughing, for another tree. The bride carried her tiny beaded slippers in one hand and held onto her soaked veil in the other. When they reached the shelter of a large maple tree, the bride looked at her muddy feet and I could hear her pealing laughter from where I stood under my tree.
It was delightfully surreal.
That's when I saw their photographer. Standing under a tree, probably with the father of the bride, checking his cell phone. Maybe he was looking at the radar, trying to see when the rain was going to let up. My guess was that they were taking pictures before the wedding against the Cleveland and lake skyline, like many people do at the park. And I wanted to scream at that man, "What the hell are you doing??? This is it! This is the moment they will want to remember! They won't care about your staged beach shots twenty years from now! They will remember running and laughing in the rain and hiding under trees in beautiful random clusters, the flower girls vanishing across a muddy field! Get your camera out! This is it!!"
I have a wedding album somewhere. I remember it was expensive. I'm sure I could find it if I had an afternoon to search. But this is the picture for me; the one that I always think of when I think of my wedding day. Someone snapped it in the receiving line after the service. I look tired, and a little manic. Winston looks relieved the show is over and a little bored of shaking hands. But it looks like us. Together, tired and overwhelmed. Married. I love it.
Here's another family picture. It commemorates a terrible dinner. We were on vacation in northern Michigan. Because we never see the sun, we were sunburnt after spending the day kayaking and bobbing about in Lake Michigan. On our way through Traverse City, we passed this restaurant called Apache Trout. With a name like that, you would assume it was amazing. (Almost as amazing as Benton Harbor.... Don't Stop in Benton Harbor) We were tired, burnt, crabby and about to consume a historically awful overpriced meal of microscopic proportions. And we had to wait for a table. I took a picture of our misery. Apache Trout has now entered our family lexicon for awfulness and misery. I love this picture. It's awful. But it looks like us. No, I don't know what my son is doing.
 |
| BEWARE THE APACHE TROUT |
Another favorite. Every time I look at it, I hope my great great grandchildren find it and wonder, "What the hell?" Our furnace broke during a blizzard. Outside, the temperatures hovered around 5 degrees. Inside, the temperature fell to 47. One week till the part would come in. I wanted to go to a hotel, but the husband said, "Light bulbs and boiling water. It's not efficient, but it'll work for a week." Yes, of course he is crazed. Setka, my aunt, heard we had no heat and called wanting to know what we were doing about it, would we stay with her... yada yada. When we explained we had popped the shades off all the lamps and kept 2 stock pots of water boiling at all times (it actually got the temperature up to 62 degrees!) she accused us of mocking her. We sent her this picture of us huddled around the warmth of a 75 watt bulb.
 |
| The husband is a clever man. |
 |
| I love you, too, sweetie. But you're gonna die. When I can move. |
As for my parents and brothers, we don't do family pictures. I doubt one exists. I have this video instead. My family and I are pretty separated, but I love this because I can hear everyone's voice in the background and me and my dad are having a blast being idiots. And we were all getting along at the time. It all started with this shirt I own. It's just a gingham pattern, but my dad thinks it makes me look exactly like the foster mom in Terminator 2, after she is copied by the T-1000. I'm sure all of you want to hear that from your dads too.
My dad talked me into recreating the scene (badly) where she stabs her husband in the head through a milk carton. (That's a classic DeLaney family get together for you. ) We used a butcher knife and some Lactaid. The rest of the family took pictures, video and critiqued it heavily. You can hear all of their voices arguing in the background. I guess you could say this is my family portrait.
What about your family picture? You know, the one you just saw in your mind when I said "family picture." I bet it's not one you would put on your mantle.
~dana
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Lifetime for Kids
My brother, Uncle Darryl, aka
shot this short film when he was in town this month. My baby brother is an actor, comedian, musician, producer, camera man, photographer, special effects tech and bartender in LA. He's living the dream! You know those people who walk around drinking coffee and fake chatting in the background on sitcoms? My little bro rocks the shit out of that. We envisioned it as part of a series of mock-u-dramas Lifetime style. The plan was to film 2 more shorts with the kids, on such hard hitting topics as gout and alcoholism, but he went back before we could. I wanted to do one on heroin, but the husband put his foot down when I said we'd shoot it at the park with a baggie of white powder. (Someone has to be the adult.) The video is:
1. wildly offensive
2. a great example of how insensitive we are
3. spotlights how little we know about serious illnesses. You've been warned. Don't send me bitchy emails.
~dana
Uncle Darryl has a comedy sketch group called JetPackRaptor, you can check them out here...
JetPackRaptor YouTube Channel
 |
| Hollywood Darryl |
shot this short film when he was in town this month. My baby brother is an actor, comedian, musician, producer, camera man, photographer, special effects tech and bartender in LA. He's living the dream! You know those people who walk around drinking coffee and fake chatting in the background on sitcoms? My little bro rocks the shit out of that. We envisioned it as part of a series of mock-u-dramas Lifetime style. The plan was to film 2 more shorts with the kids, on such hard hitting topics as gout and alcoholism, but he went back before we could. I wanted to do one on heroin, but the husband put his foot down when I said we'd shoot it at the park with a baggie of white powder. (Someone has to be the adult.) The video is:
1. wildly offensive
2. a great example of how insensitive we are
3. spotlights how little we know about serious illnesses. You've been warned. Don't send me bitchy emails.
~dana
Uncle Darryl has a comedy sketch group called JetPackRaptor, you can check them out here...
JetPackRaptor YouTube Channel
Friday, July 27, 2012
Donuts and Poodles
(at breakfast... I am typing frantically and my daughter is drinking her morning cup of tea)
Me: (distracted) So, what's going on, baby girl?
Anne: Oh, nothing. I was just thinking.
Me: About what?
Anne: I want a doughnut. And I was thinking that I wish doughnuts grew on vines like grapes and you could plant a vine outside my window and when I get up in the morning I could just lean out and pick a doughnut for breakfast.
(typing ceases)
Me: That would be awesome. I want a doughnut vine too.
Anne: We could share.
Me: You know what I want? I wish you could plant poodle seeds in the garden. And at first all that would come up would be a plant, but then when the flower opens a little poodle face pops out. And instead of watering it, you have to pet it and the more you pet it the faster it grows. And then one day the poodles all pop out of their flowers. And you have poodles running all over your garden.
Anne: Then you'd have to gather them up in a wagon and take them to the farmers market to sell.
Me: Poodles! Fresh Poodles Here!
Anne: We could sell them by the bunch in baskets.
Me: We could sell doughnuts, too.
Anne: We'd be the Doughnut and Poodle Ladies at the market!
Me: What are you doing today, my dear?
Anne: I'm going to wear this antennae I made out of pipe cleaners and play with the cat. I might organize my UglyDolls.
Me: That sounds fantastic.
Anne: What are you doing today, mothermydear?
Me: I am stuck sitting here typing a stupid nerd technology paper for library school.
Anne: That sucks.
Me: Yeah.
Anne: (sigh)
Me: (sigh)
Anne: Do you want to wear my antennae? And when you're done we could go buy another cat and name him Henry Higgins or Sallah or Squish! That would be awesome!
If you haven't gotten in touch with your inner 9 year old recently, I suggest you do. Even if it's only for 10 minutes. Because being an adult really sucks. But being 9 is an endless world of doughnuts and poodles. And kittens.
~dana
Me: (distracted) So, what's going on, baby girl?
Anne: Oh, nothing. I was just thinking.
Me: About what?
Anne: I want a doughnut. And I was thinking that I wish doughnuts grew on vines like grapes and you could plant a vine outside my window and when I get up in the morning I could just lean out and pick a doughnut for breakfast.
(typing ceases)
Me: That would be awesome. I want a doughnut vine too.
Anne: We could share.
Me: You know what I want? I wish you could plant poodle seeds in the garden. And at first all that would come up would be a plant, but then when the flower opens a little poodle face pops out. And instead of watering it, you have to pet it and the more you pet it the faster it grows. And then one day the poodles all pop out of their flowers. And you have poodles running all over your garden.
Anne: Then you'd have to gather them up in a wagon and take them to the farmers market to sell.
Me: Poodles! Fresh Poodles Here!
Anne: We could sell them by the bunch in baskets.
Me: We could sell doughnuts, too.
Anne: We'd be the Doughnut and Poodle Ladies at the market!
Me: What are you doing today, my dear?
Anne: I'm going to wear this antennae I made out of pipe cleaners and play with the cat. I might organize my UglyDolls.
Me: That sounds fantastic.
Anne: What are you doing today, mothermydear?
Me: I am stuck sitting here typing a stupid nerd technology paper for library school.
Anne: That sucks.
Me: Yeah.
Anne: (sigh)
Me: (sigh)
Anne: Do you want to wear my antennae? And when you're done we could go buy another cat and name him Henry Higgins or Sallah or Squish! That would be awesome!
If you haven't gotten in touch with your inner 9 year old recently, I suggest you do. Even if it's only for 10 minutes. Because being an adult really sucks. But being 9 is an endless world of doughnuts and poodles. And kittens.
~dana
Thursday, July 26, 2012
No Good Way To Tell Off The Handicapped
I learned a valuable lesson this past weekend. No matter how much time you have to think up a really good burn for a chick in a wheelchair who is begging for it, you just can't find one. It's days later and I keep going, "Ooh! Ooh! I totally should have said.... nope. Nope. Damn it. I'd still look like a dick. God damn handicap burn block. "
This all started with Winston scoring free tickets to Cedar Point. Which is pretty much the only way we are going. It costs a family of four nearly $350 to ride coasters and eat carnival food for a day. So we were pretty pumped to get to go essentially for free and only be forced to pay $5 for every bottle of water we guzzled. And you have to admit, the fries are worth $10 a pop. And I really need an infusion of blue cotton candy every summer.
But then we got to the park and found out that Cedar Point has found a new way to squeeze money out of people: The EZ Pass. Basically, for an additional $70 per ticket, you get a magical armband that means you don't have to wait in line. At all. Ever. Which I guess looks great on paper. And if I was a wealthy dickhole or a 20-something single guy, I'd be all, "Giddyup!" It's like buying Willy Wonka's golden ticket. BUT IF YOU'RE STANDING IN LINE WITH YOUR DAUGHTER FOR 1.5 HOURS SO SHE CAN RIDE FRONT SEAT ON THE FUCKING DISASTER TRANSPORT AND SOME DOUCHE BAG ROLLS UP WITH HIS FUCKING MAGIC ARMBAND AND TAKES HER SEAT.... AND THEN A FEW MINUTES LATER ANOTHER DOUCHE BAG TAKES HER SEAT, pretty much all you will do all day is visualize the classes rising up and eating the rich. Thank you, Cedar Point, for creating a steerage class of ticket. Now I know my place.
But that's not really my problem. No, apparently in the interest of making Cedar Point accessible to the handicapped, they added elevators to the loading platforms for all the major rides.
... Let's take a moment here ...
Have you seen the signs, people? At the entrance to every ride in the park?
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I am sure there is .003% of the handicapped population that can be in a wheel chair and still meet all the health criteria for riding a roller coaster. That's not my point. (Although, I would love to know how the hell they climb into the seat. I can barely navigate my ass and legs into the car. You almost have to be a yogi to get in and out. )
My point is that I WAS NOT LOOKING FOR A CRAZY WOMAN IN A WHEELCHAIR TO COME CAREENING BACKWARDS THROUGH THE LINE, like a trout shooting up stream, as I stood there applying zinc to my son's nose while we waited in line for the Iron Dragon. If you had asked me in the parking lot, I would have said my chances of getting run over by a bitch in a wheelchair WHILE IN LINE FOR A ROLLER COASTER was about the same as getting bit by a shark. While in line for a roller coaster.
All I heard was a small commotion, which I figured was some sort of good natured shoving fest ahead of us in line. I was trying to pin my son and apply zinc to his lily white skin, while jamming his hat back on his head, when I felt something sharp ram my knee and a sudden enormous weight roll onto my foot. And stop.
I started gasping like a fish (not that fish... Heavenly Creatures Go Fishing) and whipped around and saw.... nothing. I heard a sound of disgust somewhere below my line of sight. I looked down and saw a very angry woman. In a large wheel chair. Not like one of those "I get out of breath at the airport and I need some wheels" wheelchair. One of those giant "something awful happened and I am stuck in this bitch forever so I covered it with stickers and bags" wheelchair.
Wheelchair Bitch: Um?! Excuse me? (her tone said, "get the fuck out of my way")
Me: (no words, just a wheezy inhale as I process the pain coming from my foot. which now has fucking 300+ pounds of bitch and wheelchair parked on it.) Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.........
Wheelchair Bitch: Hey! Excuse me!? Hello?! Could you move?!?
Me: Owwwwwwwwwwww
Wheelchair Bitch: (trying to move her giant wheelchair... ram, ram, ram into my knee)
It was like she was trying to iron my foot. The left front wheel of her chair was sawing away at the tiny side bones of my foot, the front of the frame was scraping the shit out of my knee. She wanted me to move but there were 3 problems with that.
1. She was parked on my foot. WITH HER BIG ASS WHEELCHAIR.
2. My hind brain was scrambling, trying to process where the fuck this wheelchair came from. My eyes scrambled behind her, and saw an elevator. I looked back down at her. Back up at the roller coaster. Back at my foot. Up at her angry face. Scanned the crowd. No shark. What the hell?
3. I was trying to work up a really good way to tell her off. Usually this is not a problem for me.
It took me less then 10 minutes ( a personal best) to reduce my son's 2nd grade art teacher to tears when she had the nerve to give him a F on his ashtray project. Of course, she wouldn't even call it an ashtray, she kept calling it a "dish." Which was part of what was pissing me off. The other reason I totally lost it was that she gave a second grader an F because, and here are the key words people:
~Her "rubrick"
~specifically required
~ uniform sides
~so the air dry clay
~ wouldn't explode
~ in the kiln
~ she didn't have.
~She also felt
~ his designs
~weren't "creative" enough.
~and she put this in writing.
My son made a lovely ashtray. It is one of my prize possessions. This art teacher tried to grade his tiny ashtray like it was a final piece for an international pottery exhibition.
All together now: AAAAWWWWW!!!!!
So, 10 minutes alone with me and my righteous rage, and Miss I Just Graduated From Art School and I Have Never Been Around Kids was sobbing openly. I never raised my voice, I just skewered her to the wall. (forgive me, teacher friends, but she left me no choice. She used the word "rubrick" with a 7 year old)) Both my children received straight A's in art from that day forward. And a wide berth from the art teacher. :) The art teacher went home sick that day.
Best part? The big mouth school secretary was listening outside the door and told all the other teachers that Henry and Anne's mom was vicious, so I received a degree of respect that I hadn't prior to that day. (Your average tattooed mother is treated like she might be slow.) Worst part? So was the school psychologist. She heard the evil spewing from my mouth and stalked my kids with sympathetic eyes for the next 3 years.
Anne: Mom, the duck-faced psychologist won't stop asking me if I want to talk to her.
Henry: Yeah, she keeps saying, "You know, Henry, I am a very good listener. Is everything OK at home?"
Me: Don't look her in the eye! Treat her the same as carnival workers and gypsies! Never look them in the eye! She wants your soul!
Back to Cedar Point. I stood there, gaping, as my mind galloped ahead gleefully, trying to select the perfect burn for this psycho bitch who was trying to break my leg. I galloped in every direction of the compass, but my mental horse kept coming back to the center and letting out whinnies of dismay as I realized:
I literally can't say anything. She has the ultimate upper hand. What ever awesome burn I select, she wins by default due to the awesome presence of her wheelchair and I would be left in line, not only in front of the disapproving looks of my children, but would probably be smothered by the disgusted looks of the crowd. It was the one and only time in my life when my ability to rip out a magnificent scorching comeback totally crippled (oh yeah, I said it) me.
Days later, as we floated in the pool AGAIN making snide comments about the sheer number of belly piercings amongst the young ladies at Lakewood Pool, I said to Winston:
Me: Oh! Oh! I know what I could have said to the bitch who smashed my foot! I could have nailed her with...
Winston: Nope. Nope. Doesn't matter. You could not win that fight. I don't care what you said, all she would have had to come back with would be, "That's easy for you to say, standing there on your two healthy legs! That's right! Yell at the woman stuck in the wheelchair for the rest of her life! At least you can limp on your Goddamn healthy leg! " You would have died of the shame of it.
Me: It's not fair! She didn't even apologize! She just just kept ramming into me! Just because she has a handicapped permit, it does not give her license to be a raging bitch! Oh! Oh! That's what I should have said! Let's go find her!
Winston: Good luck with that. If you had said that, me and the kids would have pretended not to know you. Just accept it. You can't tell off the handicapped. Ever. It won't work.
My foot is fine. Luckily, she parked her ass on the foot bones I have already broken before. (The first time being when I was clearing the table after dinner. And broke 3 bones on the side of my foot. No, I did not go to the doctor. I know what broke looks like. I went to Hasting's Medical Supply, bought a giant foot boot and crammed my swollen foot into it. It was fine-ish in 6 weeks.) That foot is particularly riddled with scar tissue from multiple breaks so it's like cement. It's all bruised though. But the more I dwell on this event, I keep coming back to several points:
1. Where was she coming from?
2. Why was she so pissed?
3. Why was she in such a hurry?
Because if you think I am a cruel bitch to want to tell off the handicapped, what about Cedar Point? They have, by my rough count, nearly 100 handicapped parking spots. Elevators for accessibility at every ride in the park. And giant signs saying, essentially, if you have to use the elevators you aren't legally allowed to ride. I think she rolled up to the loading platform and was told by some teenager that she couldn't ride this handicapped accessible coaster. How else do you explain her hauling ass in a rage out of line? That's fucked up. And cruel. Their accessibility policy should read:
"We at Cedar Point have made every effort to make our amusement park accessible to the handicapped. We have ample parking, ramps and elevators to make your visit as comfortable as possible. We will gladly take your money, but bitch, if you use any of these features you can't ride shit. Thank you and enjoy your day here at Cedar Point, America's Roller Coast!... Ride on! "
~dana
This all started with Winston scoring free tickets to Cedar Point. Which is pretty much the only way we are going. It costs a family of four nearly $350 to ride coasters and eat carnival food for a day. So we were pretty pumped to get to go essentially for free and only be forced to pay $5 for every bottle of water we guzzled. And you have to admit, the fries are worth $10 a pop. And I really need an infusion of blue cotton candy every summer.
But then we got to the park and found out that Cedar Point has found a new way to squeeze money out of people: The EZ Pass. Basically, for an additional $70 per ticket, you get a magical armband that means you don't have to wait in line. At all. Ever. Which I guess looks great on paper. And if I was a wealthy dickhole or a 20-something single guy, I'd be all, "Giddyup!" It's like buying Willy Wonka's golden ticket. BUT IF YOU'RE STANDING IN LINE WITH YOUR DAUGHTER FOR 1.5 HOURS SO SHE CAN RIDE FRONT SEAT ON THE FUCKING DISASTER TRANSPORT AND SOME DOUCHE BAG ROLLS UP WITH HIS FUCKING MAGIC ARMBAND AND TAKES HER SEAT.... AND THEN A FEW MINUTES LATER ANOTHER DOUCHE BAG TAKES HER SEAT, pretty much all you will do all day is visualize the classes rising up and eating the rich. Thank you, Cedar Point, for creating a steerage class of ticket. Now I know my place.
But that's not really my problem. No, apparently in the interest of making Cedar Point accessible to the handicapped, they added elevators to the loading platforms for all the major rides.
... Let's take a moment here ...
Have you seen the signs, people? At the entrance to every ride in the park?
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I am sure there is .003% of the handicapped population that can be in a wheel chair and still meet all the health criteria for riding a roller coaster. That's not my point. (Although, I would love to know how the hell they climb into the seat. I can barely navigate my ass and legs into the car. You almost have to be a yogi to get in and out. )
My point is that I WAS NOT LOOKING FOR A CRAZY WOMAN IN A WHEELCHAIR TO COME CAREENING BACKWARDS THROUGH THE LINE, like a trout shooting up stream, as I stood there applying zinc to my son's nose while we waited in line for the Iron Dragon. If you had asked me in the parking lot, I would have said my chances of getting run over by a bitch in a wheelchair WHILE IN LINE FOR A ROLLER COASTER was about the same as getting bit by a shark. While in line for a roller coaster.
All I heard was a small commotion, which I figured was some sort of good natured shoving fest ahead of us in line. I was trying to pin my son and apply zinc to his lily white skin, while jamming his hat back on his head, when I felt something sharp ram my knee and a sudden enormous weight roll onto my foot. And stop.
I started gasping like a fish (not that fish... Heavenly Creatures Go Fishing) and whipped around and saw.... nothing. I heard a sound of disgust somewhere below my line of sight. I looked down and saw a very angry woman. In a large wheel chair. Not like one of those "I get out of breath at the airport and I need some wheels" wheelchair. One of those giant "something awful happened and I am stuck in this bitch forever so I covered it with stickers and bags" wheelchair.
Wheelchair Bitch: Um?! Excuse me? (her tone said, "get the fuck out of my way")
Me: (no words, just a wheezy inhale as I process the pain coming from my foot. which now has fucking 300+ pounds of bitch and wheelchair parked on it.) Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.........
Wheelchair Bitch: Hey! Excuse me!? Hello?! Could you move?!?
Me: Owwwwwwwwwwww
Wheelchair Bitch: (trying to move her giant wheelchair... ram, ram, ram into my knee)
It was like she was trying to iron my foot. The left front wheel of her chair was sawing away at the tiny side bones of my foot, the front of the frame was scraping the shit out of my knee. She wanted me to move but there were 3 problems with that.
1. She was parked on my foot. WITH HER BIG ASS WHEELCHAIR.
2. My hind brain was scrambling, trying to process where the fuck this wheelchair came from. My eyes scrambled behind her, and saw an elevator. I looked back down at her. Back up at the roller coaster. Back at my foot. Up at her angry face. Scanned the crowd. No shark. What the hell?
3. I was trying to work up a really good way to tell her off. Usually this is not a problem for me.
It took me less then 10 minutes ( a personal best) to reduce my son's 2nd grade art teacher to tears when she had the nerve to give him a F on his ashtray project. Of course, she wouldn't even call it an ashtray, she kept calling it a "dish." Which was part of what was pissing me off. The other reason I totally lost it was that she gave a second grader an F because, and here are the key words people:
~Her "rubrick"
~specifically required
~ uniform sides
~so the air dry clay
~ wouldn't explode
~ in the kiln
~ she didn't have.
~She also felt
~ his designs
~weren't "creative" enough.
~and she put this in writing.
My son made a lovely ashtray. It is one of my prize possessions. This art teacher tried to grade his tiny ashtray like it was a final piece for an international pottery exhibition.
 |
| I want to be buried with it. |
All together now: AAAAWWWWW!!!!!
So, 10 minutes alone with me and my righteous rage, and Miss I Just Graduated From Art School and I Have Never Been Around Kids was sobbing openly. I never raised my voice, I just skewered her to the wall. (forgive me, teacher friends, but she left me no choice. She used the word "rubrick" with a 7 year old)) Both my children received straight A's in art from that day forward. And a wide berth from the art teacher. :) The art teacher went home sick that day.
Best part? The big mouth school secretary was listening outside the door and told all the other teachers that Henry and Anne's mom was vicious, so I received a degree of respect that I hadn't prior to that day. (Your average tattooed mother is treated like she might be slow.) Worst part? So was the school psychologist. She heard the evil spewing from my mouth and stalked my kids with sympathetic eyes for the next 3 years.
Anne: Mom, the duck-faced psychologist won't stop asking me if I want to talk to her.
Henry: Yeah, she keeps saying, "You know, Henry, I am a very good listener. Is everything OK at home?"
Me: Don't look her in the eye! Treat her the same as carnival workers and gypsies! Never look them in the eye! She wants your soul!
Back to Cedar Point. I stood there, gaping, as my mind galloped ahead gleefully, trying to select the perfect burn for this psycho bitch who was trying to break my leg. I galloped in every direction of the compass, but my mental horse kept coming back to the center and letting out whinnies of dismay as I realized:
I literally can't say anything. She has the ultimate upper hand. What ever awesome burn I select, she wins by default due to the awesome presence of her wheelchair and I would be left in line, not only in front of the disapproving looks of my children, but would probably be smothered by the disgusted looks of the crowd. It was the one and only time in my life when my ability to rip out a magnificent scorching comeback totally crippled (oh yeah, I said it) me.
Days later, as we floated in the pool AGAIN making snide comments about the sheer number of belly piercings amongst the young ladies at Lakewood Pool, I said to Winston:
Me: Oh! Oh! I know what I could have said to the bitch who smashed my foot! I could have nailed her with...
Winston: Nope. Nope. Doesn't matter. You could not win that fight. I don't care what you said, all she would have had to come back with would be, "That's easy for you to say, standing there on your two healthy legs! That's right! Yell at the woman stuck in the wheelchair for the rest of her life! At least you can limp on your Goddamn healthy leg! " You would have died of the shame of it.
Me: It's not fair! She didn't even apologize! She just just kept ramming into me! Just because she has a handicapped permit, it does not give her license to be a raging bitch! Oh! Oh! That's what I should have said! Let's go find her!
Winston: Good luck with that. If you had said that, me and the kids would have pretended not to know you. Just accept it. You can't tell off the handicapped. Ever. It won't work.
My foot is fine. Luckily, she parked her ass on the foot bones I have already broken before. (The first time being when I was clearing the table after dinner. And broke 3 bones on the side of my foot. No, I did not go to the doctor. I know what broke looks like. I went to Hasting's Medical Supply, bought a giant foot boot and crammed my swollen foot into it. It was fine-ish in 6 weeks.) That foot is particularly riddled with scar tissue from multiple breaks so it's like cement. It's all bruised though. But the more I dwell on this event, I keep coming back to several points:
1. Where was she coming from?
2. Why was she so pissed?
3. Why was she in such a hurry?
Because if you think I am a cruel bitch to want to tell off the handicapped, what about Cedar Point? They have, by my rough count, nearly 100 handicapped parking spots. Elevators for accessibility at every ride in the park. And giant signs saying, essentially, if you have to use the elevators you aren't legally allowed to ride. I think she rolled up to the loading platform and was told by some teenager that she couldn't ride this handicapped accessible coaster. How else do you explain her hauling ass in a rage out of line? That's fucked up. And cruel. Their accessibility policy should read:
"We at Cedar Point have made every effort to make our amusement park accessible to the handicapped. We have ample parking, ramps and elevators to make your visit as comfortable as possible. We will gladly take your money, but bitch, if you use any of these features you can't ride shit. Thank you and enjoy your day here at Cedar Point, America's Roller Coast!... Ride on! "
~dana
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