Lifetime for Kids

My brother, Uncle Darryl, aka

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 

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

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.

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

 

Heavenly Creatures Go Fishing

Our last visit with  "I Killed A Wasp And It Escalated Far Out Of Proportion"
got me thinking about my first fishing trip with my friend Agatha.  That was the first time things got totally out of hand and bloody with me and Mother Nature.

My freshman year of college, just a week or so in to the semester, I became friends with a Michigan girl who was fleeing from the post traumatic stress she suffered when, being asleep in her dorm room, her slutty pageant queen roommate decided to come home drunk and bang some random guy 4 feet from Agatha's head.  All the while, reminding the guy banging her that she had a boyfriend back home on the farm named "Jimbo"  that she loved deeply.  Agatha showed up at my door and pleaded for asylum from the whore of Chapman Hall.  She probably recognized a kindred spirit in me.  I spent all my free time lounging around in my grandmother's old nightgowns and matching housecoats. And reading and crying a lot.  We have been friends ever since.

I'm the dumpy one on the right, with the sullen look on my face. Agatha's the pretty one. Damn it.

Agatha grew up on a majestic hill in a hundred year old house, with orchards and tennis courts and dogs, surrounded by books and a bracing north wind.  She had her very own pet cemetery.  I mean, yeah, she swears nothing ever reanimated, but still.  I grew up hiding in my bedroom closet in Ohio, where I avoided my 3 brothers and suggestions that I make some "real friends." I made a nest in the darkness with a stack of books, a bag of bread and my flashlight.

Over the years, Agatha and I have:

~attended concerts with black market Romanian mob tickets in downtown Detroit.

~taken pornographic photos of our teddy bears. Back when you had to drop them off to be developed.

~stolen every single U2 concert promotion sign we have laid eyes on.  (we should donate the collection to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. it's impressive)

~taught ourselves to smoke in a graveyard late at night.

~accidentally set our driving directions on fire while driving on a road trip in Michigan because we were trying to "antique" them so they looked prettier.

~stoned a blue gill to death as a mercy killing.

This is by no means a comprehensive list.  For the list to be complete, I would need to be hypnotized into remembering what happened every time we got drunk on cheap vodka and Crystal Lite.  For example: the morning we staggered hungover to a Tim Horton's in Adrian, MI and noticed, after pounding coffee and donuts, that we were covered in red blotches from the Crystal Lite, and that I had torn the knees completely out of my jeans.  (With the benefit of hindsight, there's some foreshadowing here, people.)

Agatha: What's all over your hands?  They're all red and blotchy.

Me: What's all over your face?  

Agatha: What's all over your face?  It looks burned! What happened to us?

Me: What happened to my pants!

All we know for sure is that a week later, Agatha learned we had rather graphically defaced a wall in a fraternity house, and that someone claimed to have seen me crawling across campus on my hands and knees.  The rest is lost in a haze.  Vodka and Crystal Lite is a shady mistress. 

It was summertime... and Agatha had come to Ohio for a visit.  I thought it would be fun to meet up with some friends and spend a day on a lake and go fishing.  My friend J.T.  said his Aunt Stinky (no, really) had a beautiful lake with swans and everything and we could have a picnic.  So, you can see how two dreamy innocents like Agatha and myself would immediately envision twirling about a scenic pond on a white row boat with our parasols while the men fished in elegant suits.  Obviously, I had never been fishing in Ohio.

Aunt Stinky's pond was fine, but like most waterholes it was also smelly and bubbling with algae.  There was no row boat and even if there was, no way were Agatha and I willing to risk getting capsized in that stagnant water. Also, it was hot and there were lots of bugs.  Neither of us really wanted to sit in the grass, because it was itchy.  And the swans?  If you so much as looked at them and cooed, "Pretty swan baby,  I love you.  Let me pet you!",  they would run at you and try to beak you to death.  So, within about 5 minutes we were ready to leave.  It did not even come close to our  expectations of a day in the country. 

But we were there with some other couples, and of course Winston.  (The husband and I have been together since the dawn of time.)  The other couples all had plans to get drunk and bang in the woods.  I tried to talk Winston into leaving...

Me: (hissing in his ear) Agatha and I would like to leave this place and have our picnic in the car.  At home.

Winston:  We just got here!  I haven't fished at all!

Me:  This is gross. And we're hot. Please????

Winston: You dragged me out here.  We are going to fish and have our picnic.  Toughen up.

Winston had been kind enough to bring an extra fishing pole for Agatha and I to share.  So he set about teaching us to do whatever it is you do with a fishing pole.  He talked a lot.  I am sure he said something about the hook and the line and how to cast and what to do with the fish once you caught it.  I have no clue.  Agatha and I were transfixed, cutting up worms.  He had set a bucket of bait worms out and a knife and told us to cut the worms in half for the hooks.  It's safe to say this was the first time anyone had every handed us a knife and suggested we do anything.  We got very carried away.  We had read that if you cut a worm in half, it doesn't kill it.  So we silently agreed to continue cutting each worm into bits until they stopped wiggling so we could get a rough estimate of how many worms you can get out of 1 worm.  It is very similar to "how many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie pop?" question.

Winston: What are you doing?!?! You can't get those little worm bits on a hook!  Just cut them in half! Once!

Anyway, he soon settled us with our pole and we patiently took turns holding it while nothing happened.  When he wasn't looking, we took turns playing with the knife.  Winston is a southern boy, and he seemed to calmly settle in like Huck Finn, relaxing in the sun.  Agatha and I grew impatient after 3 minutes.   When we complained that we weren't catching anything, his response was, "Well no, you can't catch anything if you check the damn hook every 10 seconds. Leave the damn line in the water."

It was so hot.  The air was perfectly still, and all we could hear was the sound of angry swans and drunk couples laughing and flies buzzing.  I remember fantasizing about a bath, a book and a frothy cappuccino when I got out of this nightmare.  We tried to get an estimate out of Winston as to how long this whole day of fishing would take (1 hour? 10 more minutes?)  and he seemed irritated with the question.  We laid our pole down on the dock and wandered off, which was when we discovered exactly how not charming swans are.

When we came sprinting back and he stopped laughing at us, Winston announced he was going into the woods to take a leak.

AND HE LEFT US ALONE ON THE DOCK WITH THE FISHING ROD.

At first, it was fine.  We had a quick, terse conversation, agreeing that we couldn't drink anything in case it made us have to pee.  (I am not peeing on anything but porcelain.)  Then we went back to taking turns holding the pole.  And then...

And then the line jerked! And we squealed with joy and yanked the hook out of the water and saw we had caught a fish!  It was flat and plump, about the size of my palm.  We danced around, swinging the fish like a maypole ribbon and celebrated our first fish.  After a few moments, we stopped and...

Agatha:  I don't really want the fish, do you?

Me:  Eeeeeww. No. It was fun but now it's gross.

Agatha:  What do we do with it?

Me: I don't know!  Where is Winston?  What do we do?  Oh my God!

Agatha:  It's freaking out!  The fish! Look!

Sure enough, in the hot sun, the fish was twitching and gasping as it dangled on the line.

Me: Maybe the hook hurts and we should lay it down on the dock so it can rest.

Agatha:  Yeah.  Let's put it on the dock in the shade.  Should we take the hook out?

Me:  I'm not touching it.

Agatha:  I don't know how to get the hook out.

(silence)

From this moment on, every single word that came out of our mouths was pitched in a banshee  scream of horror.

Agatha:   Oh my God!  He's dying!  Look at him!  The poor fish is gonna die!  We have to do something right now!!  OK, I'll wrap it in a towel and you try to get the hook out.  Hurry!

Me: Oh my God! I am hurrying! He's dying! Where is Winston??? 

(For those of you wondering, Winston was not peeing for the whole 10 minutes he was gone.  He bumped into one of the other guys on the way back and they were pounding beers and bitching about taking girls fishing.)

Agatha: Just yank it out!  Pull!  He's dying!

Me: I am! I can't get it out!  He's screaming! I think that's a fish scream!  Look at his poor face!

Agatha: He's suffering!  I can't stand it!  This is so wrong!  We were so wrong to come here!

Me:  We have to do something!  This is awful!

In the mists of time and the remembered horror at what happened next, I could not tell you in any certainty who decided:

"WE HAVE TO KILL THE FISH! WE HAVE TO STONE IT TO DEATH!

We scrambled off the dock and frantically clawed through the grasses until we both found large hand sized rocks.  Then we collapsed in tears of desperate horror beside the gasping fish.  Locking eyes, we both held our rocks high over our heads, determined to end its suffering;  righteous in our certainty that only we could give mercy to this poor doomed creature.

I can't tell you much about the next few moments.  I don't know who swung first.  In my memory, all I hear is pounding and crying and a horrible squishing noise, sounds of a damned fish being released from it's earthly bonds.

As our frantic stoning slowed, and our eyes began to clear of the tears we sobbed for the poor tragic fish,  I looked across the dock at my lovely friend and saw she was covered with blood.

Me: Agatha!  There's blood all over you!

Agatha: There's blood all over you!

Me: Fish bleed?!?!

And that's how Winston found us.  Screaming and covered in fish blood, holding bloody rocks over a mangled fish.

Winston: What. The. Fuck?

We both started sobbing and babbling at the same time, about how we had no choice, he had left us and it was dying and we had to stone it to put it out of it's misery!  He looked at us. Then looked at the fish, all pummeled and still stuck to the line and said:

"Why the hell didn't you just drop it back in the water?"


~dana


Note: You want, at this point, to believe that this is an elaborate retelling. The only fabrication in this event is that I am way taller than Agatha.

Naked Ninja Warrior Gets No Respect

(at dinner...)

Me: (pointing at my son) You owe me big time, buddy.  Big time.

Henry: Why?  I don't like tuna salad that much.

Me:  No.  I killed a wasp in your room today.  (turning) Winston, what do you call those big bastards that are as long as my hand and have that dangly butt business going on? 

Winston:  Mud daubers?

Me: Yeah, but more huge. And with fangs.

Henry: Is that what happened to my room?  You destroyed my room!  And what happened to my new issue of Gamer Magazine?  It's all shredded on the floor!  And what happened to the flag? And the lamp?

Me:  I went in your room to steal a pair of your shorts for your sister to wear to fencing.

Henry: Mom! Gross!

Anne:  I know.  It wasn't my idea.  But your shorts are way longer and I got stabbed last time I wore my short shorts at fencing and my leg is still a mess.  Also? FYI? Your shorts are dork shorts.

Henry:  Don't let her wear my shorts!

Me: Both of you shut up.  So your room is all dark like a cockroach nest because of the blackout shades you insist upon.  I walked over to the floor lamp by your dresser and went to switch it on.  AND THERE WAS A HUGE WASP WITH FANGS ON THE SWITCH JUST WAITING TO STAB ME WITH IT'S STINGER!  WINSTON, WHY DO THEY DO THAT???

Winston:  So you killed it?

Me:  Oh, I wish it was that easy.  No, the whole ordeal took like 6 minutes.  Be patient.  So I crept to the other side of the room, and turned on the other lamp.  But it's like 15 watts, so not a huge improvement.  Then I scanned the room for a weapon.  So first I grabbed your American flag, Henry.

Henry:  That's stupid.  You can't kill a wasp with a flag.  And it's disrespectful.

Me:  I could have died!  Or you could have found that thing in your bed!  Anyway, I crept up at it with the flag... but then I realized if I missed, it would sting my ass.  So I tossed the flag on the floor and grabbed one of your Gamer Magazines, cause they're huge and heavy.

Henry: Disrespectful. 

Winston:  So you killed it?  (sigh)

Me:  I'm telling this story.  It'll take as long as it takes.  No, so I crept back over and decided to wail the hell out of the lamp even if I shattered the glass shade, because it's him or me, right?  One of us is going to die.  So I rolled up the magazine and smacked the shit out of it.  But instead of falling down dead, it buzzed and sorta flew off.  I'm not sure.  It was still pretty dark in there.

Henry: Did you kill it?

Me:  No!  Then I had to run in the hall and take all my clothes off because I was wearing my handkerchief hem skirt, you know that cute stripy one?

Henry and Winston:  (Blink, blink)

Anne:  I love that skirt. Go on.

Me: And I was afraid it had landed on my skirt or the back of my top so I had to take all my clothes off and shake them out.  But then I was worried it got in my hair so I started crying and shaking my hair.

Winston:  I'm sorry I missed this.

Me: It looked a lot like Jennifer Carpenter at the end of Quarantine.  You know, where she is all sweaty and half naked and trying to hide in the dark from that rabid old lady in the attic?

Henry:  You're weird.  Stay out of my room.

Me: So, I had to go back in, because I didn't want that little bastard sitting in a corner nursing a grudge and then swooping out at my Henry when he got home and stinging his face or something.  You're welcome, Henry.  So I went back in, but I went in my underwear so that little shit couldn't hide in my clothes.

Henry:  Gross!!! You were running around my room naked?

Winston:  And crying?  In the dark?  Where was Anne?

Me:  THAT'S THE BEST PART! MY OWN DAUGHTER WAS RIGHT DOWNSTAIRS TEXTING HER FRIEND KATIE WHILE ALL THIS WAS HAPPENING! I WAS RUNNING AROUND THE UPSTAIRS, CRYING AND SCREAMING  NAKED IN THE DARK AND SHE SAT THERE QUIETLY ON THE COUCH IGNORING THE CRIES FOR HELP FROM UPSTAIRS!  WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?  ARE YOU DEAF?

Anne:  Oh, no.  I heard it all.  No way I was going up there. Seriously?

Me:  Were you and Katie making fun of me?

Anne:  Maybe.

Me: So I couldn't see cause it was dark, but I couldn't turn the lamp on either in case the little shit was hiding on it, so I grabbed Henry's combination black light/flashlight and started scanning the room.

Anne: What's that on your arm, Mom?

Me: (jumping up and slapping myself)  Oh my God!  You sicko!  Don't do that! Where is it?

Anne: heh heh heh...

Winston:  Good one, Anne.

Me:  ANYWAY...  I found him in the corner and he was army crawling at me with vengeance.   So I wailed on him again, I swear to God, like 30 times with the magazine but he kept coming!  Right at me!

Winston:  Like a little wasp Terminator?  (snicker)

Me:  It wouldn't die!  Why wouldn't it die?  I beat the hell out of it!

Winston:  Terminator.  Can't kill it.

Me:  So, I grabbed the flag again and started stabbing it with the flagpole bit, but that just made it angry and I started freaking out and screaming because I was terrified I would have to fight this thing until you got home, Winston!  That's when I grabbed the magazine again, rolled it up and used the end to stab it and try to crush it and shred it on the floor. AND IT WAS STILL TRYING TO GET ME!  I TRIED TO SQUISH IT IN HALF BUT IT WAS JUST BUZZING AND WAVING IT'S TENTACLES AT ME!

Henry:  I think you mean antennae.  Or mandibles.  So that's why my BRAND NEW MAGAZINE IS SHREDDED?

Me:  Yes.  I had no choice.  I had to use a whole roll of toilet paper to pick it up because it was still trying to sting the shit out of me.  I screamed the whole way from your room to the toilet because I could feel it moving!   And it was still buzzing when I flushed it.  I flushed it like 9 times, just to be sure.

Anne: Do you hear that buzzing?  It's coming from your hair, Mom.

Me:  You're grounded!  And do you know what your Precious Pearl said to me, Winston, when I came staggering down the steps in my underwear, crying with relief?!?!  She was sitting there, texting on the couch, and she looks at me and says, real sarcastically:

" Wow, Mom..."


Henry:  Listen.  Mom, next time you have to kill something in my room, don't use my magazines.  Use a knife. I have a whole drawer of them.  Just stab it.

(an awkward silence descends upon the entire table)

Me:  You really want me running around your room naked with a knife trying to stab something that can fly?

Henry:  I think it would make a lot less of a mess.


~dana




note: while doing "research" for this piece, I found this picture. From an actual movie.  That I must find immediately.

Fucking awesome

Not Only Am I Offended, I Am Delighted

Not only am I a bit of a pack rat, but I love to collect all sorts of things.   I collect old sentimental books, glassware, rocks, vintage furs (fuck you PETA) and Catholic statues and paintings. Pretty standard stuff.

This adds whimsy to my dining room, and makes people slightly more uncomfortable then the giant rice god does.

Every once in a while, I not only find an old book, but I find an offensive old book and the heavens rejoice.   Something horrifying and delightful!  I found this monument to stereotyping in an old fashioned log cabin bookstore in Michigan.  It is gloriously racist.

looks innocent enough

OMG

...cause all gypsies do is bear bait and steal.

Ok, this was actually helpful. I never understood Holland. I really needed a picture book.

Yellow Race?  10/10 on the racist scale

Why is this not their tourist logo: "Mexico... Land of Giant Hats"?

Yep. You read that right.

But that is nothing compared to what I had in my childhood collection of Nancy Drew books. Read this excerpt and then you tell me how far into the gutter our minds are today...

Yep, takes a perverted turn half way through... Mr. Drew you naughty old lawyer!

That's why I was so shocked when Winston found this gem for me last week at Ollies Deep Discount.  Picture Marc's but all the food is expired and the DVD's are all shitty burned knockoffs. Like this one:

It's funny how this never made it to the theaters.

Anyway, this is what he found and handed to me with great ceremony.  I honestly thought that offensive literature was a vintage thing, not a modern thing.  Someone in publishing gave this the green light, and yet I sit about unpublished....

Well, thank God someone finally wrote a self help book for all those tragic rich people out there struggling to make their Latino help understand that they have to clean the pool but never swim in it.  Because, of course, all help is Latino.  I didn't even crack the cover for a minute, because I could not imagine the inside could be more offensively glorious.

I am happy to report that I was wrong.  There are pages on child care:

"Little Rodney and Whitney may need a smack, but I will call INS if you do, Maria."

This sounds like instructions for kidnappers.

Instruction on cooking:

Translation: We want white people food.  Don't stink up our house with your adobo and jalapenos.

A section on caring for the elderly:

Translation: I am not touching that nasty old thing even if it is my mother.   That's what you're here for.

A section detailing how to describe the weather:

"Pablo.  Cover the pool and gather the croquet set. These gale winds and hail might mean a tornado. Or hurricane."

It's all so outrageously horrifying.  Of course, I bought it.  I plan to put it on my bookshelf to help weed out undesirables.  If another mother comes over, sees it and laughs her ass off: new BFF.  If, however, another mother comes over and asks to BORROW IT BECAUSE CONSUELA KEEPS CHANGING THE BLADES ON HER RAZORS, then I know to immediately claim we all have contracted "sudden onset pink eye" to get her out of the house.

Of course, it's got me thinking: if this crap gets published then no way I couldn't write a self-help book for men who marry women of Polish descent and make a fortune.  I already mentally composed the introduction:

"Congratulations!  You have made the greatest decision a man can make: to marry a woman of Polish descent.  Well done, sir!  You have the discerning eye to look beyond the pear shape, the 11 razor sharp chin hairs, the suspicion of all forms of authority except the Catholic church and the tendency to rages and harboring of grudges!  For beyond all this lies for you a future of wide, sensual hips, a home that always smells fragrantly of boiling cabbage, enough baked goods to drive you to early type 2 diabetes and enough butter and sausage to clog every artery in your body by the time you are 45.  But with all this wealth comes great responsibility.  Your Polish wife requires a careful approach, especially if you yourself have no Polish blood.   Her ways will be mysterious to you, and you may inadvertently enrage or offend her.  To the uninitiated, the Polish can seem suspicious, irrational, borderline stupid, and unable to release a grudge.  This book will guide you, step by step, through the pitfalls of living with the Polish and ensure that your marriage is a happy one. "


With the exception of the Jewish and African Americans, who, I ask you, has more offensive jokes made at their expense?  MY OWN HUSBAND TELLS POLISH JOKES.  All of this occurred to me last night at the pool.  We were floating in the deep end watching people go off the diving board and making inappropriate comments.  Winston swims like a polo player.  I can doggy paddle badly.  Read the following conversation and follow along with the italics for pointers that will appear in my book So You Love A Polish Princess.


Winston:  Go off the diving board. I dare you.

Me: No! (panting from treading) Shut up.

Winston:  Come on. I dare you.

Me: NO!  I can't.

Winston:  You can't tell me you've never gone off the diving board.

Me:  OK, once!  Once when I had to to pass swimming lessons when I was 10.  I crawled to the edge and sorta fell off in a panic. But I passed.  Anyway, (pant pant pant) I can't.  I'm terrified of heights. You know that!

Winston:  It's not the freaking high dive!  That board is 2.5 feet over the water.  Don't be a baby.  You can do it.

Me:  No, it is not.  It is a plank perched over a 14.5 foot drop!  The bottom of the pool is 12 feet down!  It's like asking me to jump out the bedroom window!

Winston:  That makes no sense.  It's only two feet down to the surface of the water!  The bottom of the pool is irrelevant.

Me: You are stupid.  It is 14.5 feet and I don't want to talk about it. (pant pant pant)

Winston:  By that logic, you are head is hovering 12 feet from the bottom of the pool right now.  You should be freaking out.

Me: I just don't look down.

A Polish woman does not have to explain or provide support from the known world of physics for her phobias or life rules.   A wise man would nod and say, "When you put it like that, diving boards are death traps.  Let's call city hall before someone dies." 

Winston:  That makes no sense. You make no sense!  What about the edge of the pool?  Can you jump off the edge?  Those babies over there are jumping off the edge.   Hey, did I ever tell you the one about the tragic war between the Polish and the Germans?  The Polish threw dynamite and the Germans lit it and threw it back.

Me:  Shut up.  I hate you so bad. I'm swimming over to shallow water.  My hand is killing me and I can't paddle anymore.  (pant pant paddle paddle)

It is never wise from a sexual standpoint to tell your wife of Polish descent a Polish joke.  She will hoard and preserve her rage and then use it to freeze you out.  You also don't want to tell the joke about how to sink a Polish submarine.  (Knock on the hatch)  She really hates that one.  And you tell it all the damn time.  And you're 1/4 Cherokee and she doesn't offer you firewater and shiny beads.

Winston:  (cutting through the water like a yacht)  What's wrong with your hand?

Me:  I think I broke my pinkie.  Or jammed it. (pant pant paddle paddle)  It'll work itself out.

Winston:  How did you break your finger?!

Me: Making cinnamon rolls.  Shut the fuck up and stop laughing at me!!! It hurts like a bitch!

Winston:  Let me guess: you broke it turning the oven on?  Turning that little dial?

Me:  (grabbing for a fistful of his chest hair)  NO!  I hate you!  There! How do you like your little bald patch, Mr. Meany Pants?

Winston: I am going to dunk you.  Take a deep breath.

Here, the husband has made a wise choice.  To suddenly dunk her would result in the Polish wife vomiting and blaming her husband for the evacuation of Lakewood Pool until his death. 

(So to get even with him, I went limp and floated up in the dead man's float, in the hopes that he would panic and apologize for dunking someone that can't swim. )

Winston:  Cut it out.  You're not drowning.

Me: I could have been!   It looked totally believable!  Admit it!  That was awesome!

Winston:  Sure, if drowning people pinched their noses.  "Ooooh I have to pinch my little nose so water doesn't get up there!"

Me:  Whatever.  Anyway, back to my finger.

Winston:  Which you broke turning on the oven...

Me: No, you son of a...  I broke it wiping down the counter top so I could roll out the dough.

Winston:  This is almost as good as you breaking your foot by standing up.  What is wrong with you?  Who breaks their hand wiping a counter?

Me:  I was fully extending my arm to reach the corner and I almost stepped on a poodle and I fell forward and stabbed my pinkie with my entire body weight behind it into the edge of the counter! 

Winston:  If it's broke, go to the doctor!

Me:  No.  It's fine; it'll work itself out.

Here, the husband makes several errors.  He is so caught up in mocking her finger injury that he neglects to show humble gratitude that his wife makes a delicious sweet bread that takes all day to rise.  He should be afraid that she has put herself on the cinnamon roll disabled list and won't be able to make more for weeks.  Further, and perhaps worst of all, he suggests she go to a doctor for her broken finger.  A wife of Polish descent will not go to a doctor voluntarily.  This particular husband need only to recall the following episodes to understand this:  

"I cracked a vertebra in my neck running into the garage door but I think it's cool. It'll be fine. I can't move my arms."  
 " I got rear ended at 35 mph but I drove myself home because no way I am going to the ER.  I can't focus my eyes, though. Yes, I hit my head twice. Once on the steering wheel and once on the drivers side window. "  
 "No, I can't actually walk right now because I cut that 14 ft tree down by myself today because it pissed me off.  Do we know anyone who's an orthopedic surgeon?"  
 "Yeah, I think my molar is dead, but no fucking way I am letting the dentist pull it because it'll fall out anyway right?  Like my dad's did."  
 "What's another broken toe?  I already broke the other 7 of them. Now almost all of them are crooked. They match."   

Never suggest a doctor out loud.  Just trick her into the car and drive her there.  And after the doctor patiently patches her up, agree with her on the drive home that all doctors are assholes and that there wasn't really anything wrong in the first place.


It's gonna be HUGE.  I figure I'll crank it out this week and it'll be on the shelves at Ollies Deep Discount by the holidays.  Pre-order your copy today!


Excerpts from So You Love A Polish Princess!  by Dana DeLaney 2012


Look for it in stores this Christmas! 


~dana

Fifty Shades of C-Span

Am I living through some kind of propaganda drop from WWII?  It's like millions of copies of Fifty Shades of Grey were dropped from the sky from some sick sons a bitches that want to distract us from reality and make all women crippled by sexiness.  I was at the pool this week, and as I sat there trying to bang my head against HTML code, every other woman sat there oiling themselves and writhing around reading Fifty Shades of Whatever.  I can't decide if it's Obama trying to make women think they are empowered by sex contracts, or Romney trying to convince women they should just stay at home and be sex toys.  One of those bastards is behind this shit.  I think it's just a big ploy to keep women from voting this year because they'll be trapped at home with their vibrators.  If you think I am paranoid, I would refer you to Magic Mike, yet another movie made solely so women are paralyzed by a chorus line of abs and pelvis.

Ahhh... "pelvis."  Does everyone agree that "pelvis" is a dirty word?  One of my girlfriends has two boys, very close in age.  She told me they renamed the neighbor cat, who likes to lay around their yard in the sun and chase chipmunks.  Now when they see him, they scream, "PELVIS! PELVIS!"  They also do this weird dance, involving heavy use of their midsection.  At first, she tried yelling to her startled neighbors that the boys were screaming, "ELVIS"" but it was obvious no one was buying it.   The boys were enunciating.  So she tried to explain to her sons that she would kill them if they continued to scream "PELVIS" but was unable to explain why.  I can imagine the neighbors whispering, and feeling great swells of pity for my friend, because her children obviously have a special condition that causes them to gyrate and scream "PELVIS."

OK, I'm back from my tangent.  Where were we?  Oh, Fifty Shades of Grey.  I first heard of the book when I saw an ad for it float across my browser.  I clicked on it because the title is awesome.  I thought it was a story about race identity or gay textile workers or about an aging gay textile worker committing suicide over race relations.  I got all excited, thinking it might even be my very favorite form of fiction: leprosy in Japan in WWII.  "Fifty Shades of Grey; a gripping story of leprosy in war torn Japan that leaves a trail of littered body parts that are fifty shades of gross."  (Sadly, no...)

  I read the synopsis,

 "...a relationship between recent college graduate Anastasia Steele and manipulative billionaire Christian Grey. Steele is required by Grey to sign a contract allowing him complete control over her life as well as a non-disclosure agreement,  something that he has required from all of his previous submissives. Upon learning that she is a virgin, Grey agrees to have sex with her in order to prepare her for later encounters, fully intending that the contract would be signed."

Yeah, I stopped reading at "non-disclosure agreement." Yawn.


But it wouldn't go away!  The very next day, my sister in law texted me and asked me if I had read it yet.

Sis in Law: OMG! Did you read Fifty Shades of Grey yet?  I can't put it down!

Me:  Uuuhhh. No. Not my thing. But have fun.

Sis in Law: NO! You have to get a sitter right now and read it! It's amazing!

Me:  isn't it just about sex and toys and shit?

Sis in Law:...yeah but it's so good!

Me:   I doubt it.  grossed out because you might be fantasizing about my brother.  never speak to me again.

Later that week, I met some friends at a wine bar, and one of my most level headed friends slid into the chair next to me and whispered,

"You read Fifty Shades of Grey yet?"

I spit out my Spanish red and said, "What the fuck?  No!  And don't whisper in my ear!  I'm not reading sex trash!  Did you read it?"

"No, it's Mommy Porn.  I figured you'd have read it. I'm not reading it."

"OMG! Eeeeeewww.  And I'm insulted.  I'm not reading that shit, it sounds exhausting.  I got as far as "sex contract" and I started snoring.  It sounds complicated."

"Everyone says its amazing.  You know, for Mommy Porn."

My friend Audrey texted me...

 Audrey:  OMG 50 Shades, blowing my mind, can't leave house, you read it yet?

Me: Eeew.  Am not interested in masturbatory lit. and eeeew.  Isn't it just Mommy Porn?

Audrey: Well, yeah. But it's gripping and sensual.

Me: So's my husband. Leave me alone. and eeeew.

Audrey:  need to go shopping. need more "accessories."

Me: Sounds exhausting. Have fun with that. and eeeew.

Audrey: dishwasher safe!

Me: You are dead to me.

I finally found someone else who is just as unimpressed by this book as I am, my texting/social media friend, Shirley, from such posts as Laverne and Shirley Make Me Go Over My Texting Plan.  Mother of 4 boys under the age of 11 and many free-range tortoises, she works as a full time nurse.  I think based upon the sheer number of children, one can assume she is in a loving relationship.

                        Shirley's Book Review of Fifty Shades of Grey

"So I decided to read 50 Shades of Grey after a friend showed me a skit from SNL showing how this book, dubbed as 'Mommy Porn", had quite an effect on mommies across the nation. The skit shows women getting caught pleasuring themselves while reading the book. Also, all my friends were talking about it. So when I saw it on the Wal-Mart shelf (to hell with all you WM haters) I had to buy. I made it thru half of the book before my intelligence prevented any further interest. I want to be one of those women, wives, mothers that felt 'reawakened' and rejuvenated sexually by this book."


"There was one awkward moment, as I was sunning myself on our trampoline. The trampoline prevents the wayward ant or spider from mistaking me as an acceptable object to climb over on its way to wherever they're always going. Also, from one of the tortoises that graze in our fenced backyard from mistaking my toes for a mushroom.  I was really getting into the build up of sexual tension going on in the book between Anastasia, a 21 perfect woman specimen and a virgin (can you believe it?) and Christian Grey, a gazillionaire Adonis who's been around the block.  I was lying on the trampoline when my kids decided it was a piece of entertaining equipment they could just jump all over. "GET OFF MY TRAMPOLINE AND GO WATCH TV!"  I yelled and it ruined my first, and little did I know, only, moment of the 'tingly feeling'."


Do you see what I mean?  Shirley doesn't have time to proof read sex contracts or shop for sex hamsters.  SHE DOESN'T EVEN HAVE TIME TO READ SEXY MOMMY PORN ON HER TORTOISE PROOF TRAMPOLINE!

 Laverne wanted to add...  while the sexual contract shit sounds boring to her too, she would be willing to get behind it if she could work out a contract with her son's dentist.  Somewhere in the realm of a "filling" for a filling... if you know what I mean. Genius.  Shirley and I were both immediately as attentive as a pair of prairie dogs, sniffing the air and dreaming of sexual favors in exchange for orthodontia and fluoride treatments.  That shit's expensive.  Sex contracts as a form of health care?  Sure. That's real "Mommy Porn."

                                                
Personally, I just can't imagine having the time or concentration for all that Fifty Shades fantasy crap.  The conversations, the shopping for ball gags, the sheer hours and weeks alone that these people DO NOTHING BUT HAVE SEX THAT REQUIRES TOOLS AND INSTRUCTION.  I'd get bored. That's why I can't read this stuff.  I can't follow the story.  If some hot guy said to me:

Hot Sex Man: Dana, I want you to sign a sex contract with me.  I'm all rich and emotionally damaged and the sex will be borderline humiliating and very complicated. Some scenarios will take hours to set up and you're really gonna have to focus.

Me: I'm calling the cops.

And the time involved!  A back rub alone would put me to sleep, let alone laying there getting all oiled and trussed like a Sunday roast chicken.  I would totally fall asleep.  Remember that story about Sting being able to have sex for 12 hours straight?  My first thought was, "Holy shit, I'd be bored to tears after 45 minutes.  And then I'd just have to act polite about it.  It would not be hot.  It would be awkward."

And, when you have kids, any sexy business is just as sneaky and furtive as it was before you got married.  There's lots of blocking doors, setting the kids up with ice cream and a movie, rounding up the pets so they don't watch, and my personal favorite: clearing all the laundry off of the bed.  My bed is really more my folding/sorting table for laundry, so before I can rock anyone's world, I have to put laundry away.  70% of the time, it turns into an argument over whose, a-hem, organization style is keeping his clothing in a hideous raccoon nest on the window seat.  And why should I even bother doing laundry if everyone just drops it in a pile on the floor? Does anyone care how hard I work?  It's three flights of stairs one way with each load of laundry and I run up and down those stairs all god damn day like a fucking pack mule at the Grand Canyon! And don't even get me started on the one fucking dangling light bulb in the utility room!

Nobody ruins a mood like I do.

We had a friend over the other day who made, what was probably for her, a casual comment.  Her children are of the kitty variety, and probably not all that concerned if their parents have sex.  She said, referring to her husband:

"Sometimes if we're in a hurry, we just take a shower together in the morning.  You know."

I'm not sure if she noticed, but the comment just hung there in space.  Winston locked confused eyes with me as we examined her statement, floating there between us.  We were scared, mystified and JEALOUS!  It was as if she had just announced she had arrived in her flying boat en route to her unicorn farm.  Shower together?  We're not allowed!  The kids would never permit it!  The risk is far too great!  If we were discovered... OMG it's just too horrific to even consider.  They would never buy the old "mommy and daddy are wrestling" cover story.  No, no, no.

Which brings me to another horrifying practice I have discovered: couples who go away on sexy tropical vacations with other couples. Come on, we all know people like this.  It's unnatural.  If my husband and I actually had the opportunity to go away somewhere together WITHOUT THE KIDS AND THE POODLES AND THE CAT, there is no fucking way we would go with another couple. No fucking way.  We would go ALONE.  We would spend our time eating, sleeping, banging and getting sunburnt and drunk on the beach.  We wouldn't be meeting for breakfast, snorkeling and para-sailing with some other tan, laughing couple.  We wouldn't meet up at night for cigars and margaritas.  We would eat bacon sandwiches and hot dogs EVERY DAY and lay in a haze on the beach with a cooler of beer between us.  Occasionally, we would float about the ocean to feel less bloated. 

 Maybe I can't read Fifty Shades because I am a bit of a prude and a bit of a 10 year old boy at heart.  I watched Wild Orchid years ago, and all it gave me was a mad case of the giggles. To this day, if I see Micky Rourke, or if Winston whispers, "Micky Rourke, sex therapist" to me sarcastically, I will degenerate into squealing donkey laughter.  I think the movie was trying to make a sexy point, but I missed it laughing at all the butts and boobies.

 I think sex should be low tech and free of conversation and paperwork.  You can keep your Fifty Shades of C-Span.  With grad school and kids and dogs and this damn money pit falling down around us, that's about all I have the ability to process.  There is a window of maybe 5 minutes a day when sex is possible, although extremely unlikely.  Also, at any point we might have to abort due to the kids knocking on the door, demanding to know when we are coming to fix the Xbox or clean up dog puke.

That's why I am grateful to be married to a man, who doesn't need a contract or a gag or a scenario involving WD-40.  A man who likes to proclaim, "Baby, all I require is your presence!"  I can manage that. Occasionally.

~dana

Don't Try To Make Us Uncomfortable. We Will Crush You.

So, we nearly died marching in the 4th of July Parade.  Nothing like standing in 99 degree heat for an hour and a half in front of a marching band, then marching a mile... slowly.  I believe the Vietnamese did that to POW's.  Someone ahead of us had the genius idea to buy 7 gross of Tootsie Rolls and instead of tossing them to the crowd, scatter them like chicken seed down the center of the route.  FYI? Tootsie Rolls transform into sticky dog crap in the heat. 

I live in an old, charming community of century homes.  Our neighbors are mostly old people who have lived in their houses for 30+ years, who garden a lot while they wait to die. We get a lot of stares because we're young and heavily tattooed and have little kids.   We try to speak softly to our neighbors because we scare them enough, and for the most part they have accepted us as Those Crazy Kids who come and go in their fancy cars and walk like a circus down the street with all those poodles.  We have given them, in turn, nicknames like:

Big Baby and Co.
The Mumbling Irish
That Old Man
The Mobster House People
The Broken Toilet House People
The Precise Gardener
Those Assholes Who Threw An Entire Damn Tree Over My Fence
Cecelia's Half Way House For the Crazy
The Beautiful Gay Men With Dogs
The Man With The Giant Riding Lawn Mower
The Nostril

Of all these people, the one we fear the most is The Man With The Giant Riding Lawn Mower.  Rumor has it that he has the city service department and the city inspector on speed dial and reports his neighbors for everything.  I am fairly certain he is behind the great "You Must Replace Your Lovely Sandstone Sidewalks For No Apparent Reason Other Than To Break You Financially" incident of 2011.  And the numerous calls to the city saying we put our trash out too early.  (That is a goddamn lie. We put our trash out in the middle of the night because we always forget.  Then, when we are already in bed, we argue over who is getting up to take the trash out. We have never ever had the  energy to put our trash out before 5pm.  We are still generating trash until bedtime. Fucker.)

After the parade, all I wanted to do was go to Lakewood Hospital and see if they could hook me up with a sensory deprivation tank and and I.V.  But my darling daughter wanted to run through the sprinkler waving flags and singing patriotic songs.  So I set her up in the front yard and lay, melting, in a folding chair under a tree.  I had just started enjoying her craziness and ability to make up verses to the Battle Hymn of the Republic while leaping patriotically, when The Man With The Giant Riding Lawn Mower walked across the street and stood in front of my chair and said....

I don't know what he said.  I was too busy freaking out. My concerns were the following:

1.  I wasn't wearing any underwear.  I was fucking hot and I took off all my underwear, then put on my WalMart special Mexican house coat.  I could not have looked less classy if I had been sitting on a couch on my tree lawn. But in my defense, I was trying to sweat freely and avoid wet underwear wedgies.  He comes rolling over looking like he was going to a fucking garden party.

2.  I was pretty sure he was coming over to bitch about the "Dana-sized" pile of sandstone that was still sitting smack dab in the middle of my front yard, classing up the place even more.  I kept my old sidewalks on principle  because I love them and decorated the 5 ft tall pile last Christmas like a giant wrapped present, complete with over-sized bow. I understand the community had mixed feelings about my ironic statement.

So, after tucking my snap front Mexican house coat around me, to avoid accidental crotch shots, I tried to calm down and focus on what he was saying.  And so the dance of subtle insults began...He made small talk about the holiday. Bla bla bla.  He asked about the crowd in our front yard prior to the parade, stating "it woke him up."  I countered with "it's a group of Catholic school children celebrating freedom."  Then he asked whether or not we needed help finding good contractors to work on our house.  Translation: fix up this shit hole because I am itching to report you.  Touche, gestapo. Touche.

I countered with, "You know, everyone else around here finds the howling of your dog offensive, but we LOVE it.  I know most people call and complain about the constant and unrelenting howling coming from your porch, but I think it's music to my ears.  What a charming ambiance you create on this end of the street."

Checkmate, dick hole.

And then.  Then my darling daughter wandered over, covered with grass and clutching a handful of muddy America flags.  She introduced herself and the gestapo asked how old she was.

Anne: I'm 9.  I'm in the 4th grade.

Gestapo:  That's great!  What do you want to be when you grow up, Anne?

Anne: (throwing both arms in the air)  I want to be... A CREEPY SALESMAN!

Gestapo:  (stuttering)  I'm sorry, what did she just say?

Me: ( high pitched squeal that precedes donkey laugh)

Anne: I WANT TO MAKE PEOPLE UNCOMFORTABLE!

Then she began laughing hysterically.  And I began braying like a donkey.  And you know what?  She did make him uncomfortable.  He awkwardly excused himself and scurried back across the street, disappearing inside his door as if we had Ebola. That's how a half naked lady in a Mexican housecoat and a muddy child drive evil from their presence on Independence Day.

I love that child.  And I wonder what nicknames the neighbors have for us. Hmmmmm....

~dana