Not All Grandma's Can Cook. Some Are Evil.

I like to go to estate sales.  I get an opportunity to root through other peoples' closets and drawers and it doesn't matter if I get caught.  The women in my family are very nosy.  Some of my earliest memories of my Grandma involve her telling me, as we were walking up the street to some ancient relative's home,  "Say you have to go to the bathroom and then go upstairs and look around.  Peek in her bedrooms.  I bet they're filthy.  And tell me how many bottles of perfume she has in the bathroom.  Who needs so much perfume?"  I would wait till we all had some pastry and tea and then announce I had to go potty, but that I could go "like a big girl by myself."  I would run upstairs and tiptoe around, trying to find something scandalous to tell my Grandma on the walk home.

Me:  She has 11 watches on her dresser!  And 17 bottles of perfume, but most of them are still in the wrapper.

My Grandma:  Disgusting.  She has no daughters! Who is she going leave it all to, anyway?  Were the beds made?

Me:  Yes, but there was laundry on the floor.

My Grandma:  I knew it.  Well, you know, she's from southern Ohio and that's practically West Virginia.

Me: So?

My Grandma:  They do things differently down there.  All I want to do is wax her chin.

Me: Why was the pastry wet?

My Grandma: She's not Polish or Slovak.  She married into the family.  And she puts the Saran wrap on the pastry before it's cool.  Don't you ever do that, do you hear me?

Me: I won't, Grandma.  I promise.  Will I get chin hairs?

My Grandma:  No, dear, your mother will teach you to pluck them.  Let's go home and Grandma will give you some real pastry.


My mom is no better.  We could be anywhere and if the hostess leaves the room, she will lean over and say:

"Hurry.  Run into the kitchen and look at the vent under the fridge.  It's caked with cat hair.  And don't eat the pastry.  Just push it around."

or at a recent wedding...

My Mom: "See that old man that looks like a vampire?  With that hotsy-totsy?  Rumor is she is a lady of the evening.

Me: No way.  Like a stripper?

My Mom: Don't be ridiculous.  She's an escort.  Very expensive.  Quick, she's cutting up his food and feeding him.  Get a picture.

Suddenly the fact that I made Winston take a picture of the Summer's Eve Man in Marc's makes sense, doesn't it?  It's in my blood. 

So I went to this estate sale recently and found what, for me, is the Holy Grail of estate sale finds.  Both a horrific piece of 70's family portraiture...

Holy Shit

and 2 handwritten recipe books. I get all flushed and sweaty when I see handwritten, abandoned recipe books.  It is very hard for me to negotiate with the person running the sale, because I want to throw money at them.  I managed to hold it together this time, however, and got them both for 25 cents.  I should have known something was up.  The daughter of the woman who died was running the register and a bell should have gone off when she let her mother's recipes go that cheap.

When my Grandma died there was a full scale war, over not only the boxes of handwritten recipes, but also over her bowls and Tupperware.  We are all convinced to this day that there was a Holy Polish Blessing placed upon her Corningware that caused yeast to bubble joyously and create the lightest, sweetest pastry dough.  I inherited one bowl, one enameled baking sheet and several boxes of recipes. And those were actually her mothers' things, my Babo Suzie.  We take pastry and family bake wear very seriously  in my family.  One of the in-laws, an aunt of mine, actually suggested that my mom and her sister donate the Tupperware to Catholic charities or have a garage sale.  I fully expected my mom to roundhouse kick her and then rip her throat out, like Patrick Swayze in Roadhouse.  It got very quiet.  So quiet in fact, that I do not think they have spoken since.

Winston refuses to handle the Babo Suzie Bowl, as it is known.  He says he doesn't want that karma if he accidentally broke it.  I told him not to worry about the karma, because I would stab the shit out of him if he broke it.

I just didn't look closely enough.  All I saw was yellowed paper and old-fashioned handwriting in old steno books, then I broke out into a sweaty flush and was out the door before the quarter hit the old lady's daughters hand.  She was probably laughing her ass off.

I saved them for a quiet moment, so I could really savor what I hoped were quaint recipes.  So it was a few weeks until I noticed that these were the most fucked up recipes that have ever been compiled.  I read, with horror, one after another of the most disgusting recipes I have ever seen.

Mushroom Applesauce

Sweet Mushroom Strudel, with honey

Pineapple Marshmallow Pie

Peach Pizza, with Red Sauce

Japanese Morning Delight (I could not bring myself to read it.  I hoped it was like my Grandma's Polish Chop Suey recipe, which was basically chicken baked in mushrooms with La Choy chow mein noodles on top.  Something innocent. No. This recipe called for cinnamon and sugar, bean sprouts, garlic powder, carrot and zucchini.  WTF?)

and

Chicken Chocolate Chip Bake

I felt rising panic, as I became convinced that the stains on the pages that I would normally find
charming were, in fact, rubbing off on to me and saturating me with evil.  I found myself wishing my dear grandmother was still alive so I could show her and tell her, "Grandma dear, there are far, far worse things than putting the Saran Wrap on too soon."

As I threw away 25 cents worth of handwritten evil, I found myself thinking of the kids in the creepy painting.  Did they kill their mother after a childhood of being fed bizarre poison?  Or did the old lady finally succumb to her own recipes?  Did she finally go too far and try to create a Shrimp Strawberry Rhubarb Pie which killed her?

I wish I had bought the painting.  Now, when I look at it, I see heroes.  I see survivors.

I should have bought it.

~dana

Laverne and Shirley

 If you see me out somewhere, please do not jump out at me and scream "Schoolteacher" or smack my ass.  This happened recently and it was awkward for everyone involved.   Also, it will interrupt my texting.  I never used to text a lot, because I was very much one of those people who thought it was rude and a symptom of a scattered, egotistical brain.  Also, my phone sucked.  I had a flip phone until about 18 months ago, and texting on it was like dialing a rotary phone.  However, a short while after Winston handed me my first IPhone, we had this conversation:

Me: Hi, honey! How's your day?

Winston: Dana, are you under the impression that you have unlimited texting?

Me: Uhhhh... I don't understand the question and I refuse to answer it.

Winston:  I'm serious.  Do you have any idea how many texts you sent last month?  And movies?  And pictures?

Me: I'm going with "several."  What the hell?  You told me I could text as much as I wanted to!  I believe you said, "Here. Knock yourself out."  Why are you getting on me?

Winston:  That's not the same as unlimited texting!  You sent over 2,000 texts last month!

Me: So what is the issue?

Winston: I only got you 1,000 texts a month!  You went over by 100%!

Me: That's your problem.  Don't tell me to knock myself out and think that means 1,000 texts.  And one of those videos was the kids arguing over why Anne whipped Henry with the jump rope and I had to send it to everyone.

Winston: I just can't believe that 1,000 texts isn't enough for you.  They don't even count the texts to me, cause we are in the ICloud together.  What... no wait, who are you texting?

Me: Don't even start! You're not the boss of me!  I say who!  I say when!

Winston: (silence)

Me:  Get it?  It's awesome! You know, from Pretty Woman after George Costanza beats her up?  

Winston: (sigh) Fine. Unlimited texting. I'll look into it.


So tell the truth:  when you're out somewhere and you see a mom, pushing 40 and texting, what do you think she's talking about?  Probably something like

1. Hon, can you pick Junior up from soccer?

2. Can't make the PTA meeting tonight, I have book club.

3.  Sounds great, lets meet at Curves at 9am tomorrow and have a great woman-centered workout.

4.  I would love to scrapbook with you! Then we'll have lunch at Panera!


With this in mind, let me introduce you to my friends and a recent texting stream we had on a Saturday morning.  We were all doing other mother-centered things while we were texting each other. I gave these ladies the opportunity to choose their own identity-saving blog names and they chose these really awesome stripper names that I promptly forgot.  It's because, like I explained in Engineering My Own Disappointment,  I tend to imprint people with identities of my own choosing that are not based in reality.  I think of them as Laverne and Shirley.

We're gonna make our dreams come true...

We don't hang out with each other and I have no idea how or why we started texting each other.  We don't even live close. On this particular day,  I was cleaning the house and doing the weekly shopping.

Laverne: We were friends in high school.  Had a rather violent falling-out after college.  Did not speak for years.  Tentatively reconnected because we seem destined to keep running into each other and because of the awesome power of Facebook.  Through an even stranger twist, we also hijacked the planning of our 20th high school reunion, which is this summer.  (Don't worry, I'm already working on Winston for a sweet Lytro stealth camera for that one.)  She has one child, one ex-husband named Carmine and a boyfriend named Squiggy.  On this day, she is trapped at a tai chi demonstration with Squiggy. They must still be in the first flush of love.  Give it 2 more years and she'll be like, " Go tai chi yourself, I'm sleeping in."  Later, Laverne and Squiggy are going on a road trip and staying in a no-tell motel.  Why is not important to the story. 

Shirley:  I was petrified of her in high school.  She was one of the cool, tough girls who wore leather and eyeliner and was known for a particularly awe-inspiring fist fight with another girl.  I tried to never make eye contact, because I was a goody-two shoes and I was afraid someone would try to kick my ass and I would be too polite to fight back.  She married her high school sweetheart, became a nurse,  had 4 boys and several turtles.  She is actually a sweetheart, although I still have not made eye contact because you can't be too careful.  She is a co-hijacker of the reunion.  On this day, she is attending a neighbor's birthday party with her boys. 



                                                     10.34 am  April 28

Lorie finds the best cakes. And wakes me up with them.

Me: Honest opinion: best cake ever?  Or cake of nightmares?  Shirley, I think your boys would love it.

Laverne: Terrifying.

Me: You can hear the teeth clicking, can't you?

Laverne: I'd rather bring the blacklight with me tonight than see that cake again.

Me: Fine. I will never again share awesomeness with you.

Laverne: Somehow, I think I'll be OK with that.

Shirley: That is unbelievably cool.  My son once wanted a Predator head cake.

 I am not a miracle worker.  Creating an AllSpark cake was awful enough. And no one even knew WTF it was!

Laverne: I don't bake.  My kid gets a Larabar and a hug.

Shirley: Those teeth look expensive.  I'll take the teeth themselves!

Me: AllSpark cake! That's so cool!  Mom of the century!

Laverne: *puke*

Me: Whatever. But how can you hate on an AllSpark cake?  It has no teeth.

Laverne: I find people like Shirley create false expectations in less fortunate children, such as my son.

Me: Don't hate the playa.  And what the hell is a Larabar?

Laverne: Sidenote: I am suffering through a "World Wide Tai Chi Day" just so I can have an excuse for bad behavior later tonight.  Squiggy was asked to demonstrate.  Meh.

Actual tai chi mystical lighting

Shirley: FML

Me: I have no words.

(awkward pause)

Me: I did find this card when we were out last night.  It sounds dirty.  And you know the "private instruction" is nude.

Laverne:  A Larabar is an organic, raw piece of food, wrapped to look like a granola bar. Healthy. Expensive. I show love by letting him eat the cherry pie flavor.  I'm a giver.

It's healthy. Not poo. Really.

Me: I just keep imagining the nursing home he will select for you.

Laverne: That would make this experience this morning much more interesting.  I'm dying here.

Shirley: I am at a limitless boy's birthday party.  I don't know what anyone is saying.  They're all Latino.

Laverne: Anyway, I'm sure I'll be on the Medicaid wait list.

Me: Kinda early for a ESL party.

Laverne: Request a "Bachata" and see what happens...

Shirley: The conversation we had this morning about how all Mexican babies are born with mustaches has me nervous. Please don't embarrass me, boys.

(I'd like to stop all of you who just opened an email to me to send me a bitchy letter about racially profiling babies and their body hair.  I have no issue pointing out body hair on babies because I am of Polish descent and we are born hairy, too.  I was 8 when my mother sat on me, plucked my unibrow, waxed my lip and told me, "Suffer. It hurts to be beautiful."  We, like the Central Americans, are a proud people. We are also stocky and hairy.

Laverne: Go up to the cutest guy and say "Quiero chichar."  It'll be fun. I promise.

Shirley : I don't know what that is, but NO.  It's gotta be a dildo or something?

Me: We tease Henry that he has a Puerto Rican mustache, lol, puberty...

Shirley: They are our neighbors! And we actually get along, lol.

Laverne: Ask for a Malta. They love that shit. It's Latino beer.

Shirley: I don't believe you.  It's probably translated to "rectal exam."

Drink deep, my gringo friend.  I'll get a glove.

Me: Don't drink the Malta. You'll grow a mustache.

Shirley: Curse these people.  The food doesn't stop! And it's so good!

Me: I would take my kids aside and order them to eat up, cause it's dinner too.

Shirley:  It is dinner! There's these yummy pierogie things, omg.

Me: Put them in your purse.

Laverne: I have just had to excuse myself from the Tai Chi demo due to a fit of giggles.  I'm such a shitty girlfriend.

Shirley: It's their own fault.  We saw that pic.

It's like Comic Con. In slow motion.

Laverne: Seriously, stifling snorts now...belly... hurts...

Shirley: Poor Squiggy

Laverne: I am awful. Truly.  I lost it when I started imagining mustachioed Latino babies.

A google image search yielded 4,130,000 hits.

Me: Brace yourself.  Henry has a friend who got a mustache at age 9.  Picture a 9 year old boy in footie pajamas eating waffles. With a mustache.

Shirley:  They hired a juggler!  He's wearing Dr. Seuss pajama pants.

Laverne: That's it.  I'm done. Shit. Squiggy will never speak to me again.  Hiccuping and crying now. I should just change my Facebook status now to "single."

Me: Juggle, mo fo, juggle!

The Unibomber plots his next move, juggler.

Me: That's fucked up. Love the unibomber hoodie dude.

Shirley: All I was hoping for was a pinata.  That's my son, LMAO!

Me: He looks like he's gonna bust a cap in the juggler.

Shirley: And you're probably right, sigh.

Me: (playing with the awesome zoom on my phone...)

                                     "Hey Laverne! Wanna watch me juggle my balls?"

Shirley: Hey. Their model is the same as ours. I want to investigate. Our formal dining room is their sitting area. Who needs a dining room?  They're smarter!  He's putting a ball in a tube now.

Me: That's what she said.

Shirley: That's a beaver in his hand!!! Now I'm dying.

Me: OMG

Shirley: Omg, Joey shut up! My son just asked him what his real job is...

Me: (more zooming)

               "Hey Laverne! Watch what I can do with a beaver and a tube!  And my balls!
                I love your son.  Give him a dollar for me.

Laverne: Fuck you guys. That's it.  My relationship is over.  I am snorting uncontrollably now. Tai chi people are staring.  And Carmine just walked in.  My ex. Seriously, I could write this shit.

Me: Carmine's into naked Tai Chi too?  Lucky girl!

Shirley: The rope get's stiff and limp.  Fucking magic dude!

Me: "The rope gets stiff and limp"  Kama Sutra pg.179

Shirley: I think I want to screw the juggler.

Me: He seems talented.

Laverne: I swear I'm in a parallel universe. Ex hubby, boyfriend, stiff ropes, Latino babies with facial hair, and Shirley screwing the talent. Can't breathe.

Me: Balls! Beavers!

Laverne: I swear I'm in a David Lynch movie.

Me: Shirley and I are bringers of joy.

Shirley: Makes you wonder about pubic hair... This party is lasting forever.

Laverne: For the love of GOD STOP!! If Squiggy and I aren't speaking tonight, I blame both of you.

Me: Do you really want to be in a relationship with someone who doesn't care about Latino baby mustaches?

Laverne: Processing.  I'll get back to you.

Shirley:  The mom next to me is texting in Asian!  I don't know what they are but her kids look just like Kate plus 8 kids! Her texting looks awesome!   OMG, my kids are trying to speak Spanish.

Me: "Laverne's Diary Today: Dear Diary, Today I broke up with Squiggy for a juggler with a really stiff rope. Squiggy never cared about cakes with teeth or hairy babies.  I feel free! "
Shirley, I give your kids points for insulting ethnic people in their own home.

Shirley: He didn't deserve you anyway, Laverne.

Me: I've seen it! Now I can't unsee it! Octopus in a cardboard box!

I'm at Marc's. Again.

Laverne: Squiggy and I just left the bank so we can high-roll at the two-star Varsity Inn.

Me: Two-stars worth of high rolling.

Laverne: I need cash money for Clorox wipes. Don't hate.

Me: Cart of shame.

We eat all organic. We're really healthy.

Shirley:  My son just proclaimed that "man's butt crack is showing."   It occurs to me: If Laverne gets pregnant tonight, whose child would it be?  With the leftovers on the sheets and all.

Me: Omg, lmfao

Laverne: Fuck you. Both of you.


And that just took place over the course of one weekend morning.  While I was doing other things.  Yes, I need unlimited texting, Winston.  How else would I have helped two Facebook friends through a Latino birthday party and world tai chi day?  It helps me give to others. And the next time you see a 30-something woman texting? Don't let her take your picture.

~dana

Juxtaposition

I don't really expect any of this to make sense to any of you.  The who and the why are not important, what is important is that Frieda Kahlo and Chaka from Land of the Lost met today on Facebook.  And it was good.  I think the world is ready for a Chaka and Frieda reality show.  It could be called "All Brows on Us."

It's blurry because my IPhone sucks, Winston. A-hem. It's a piece of crap.

~dana


UPDATE:  And then Chaka Khan joined us and awesome filled the world.  Because that's what Amy does.  She is the anchorman of awesome.  I think it is interesting that with the exception of maybe 4 combined hours of random, quick visits  I HAVE NOT SEEN EITHER OF THESE WOMEN IN 16 YEARS.  And yet, we all intuitively see the genius of a band consisting of Chaka Khan, Frieda Kahlo and Chaka from Land of the Lost.  Those tickets would sell themselves, at like $3-7 dollars a throw.

Scenes From The Park

Scene One
Setting: Lakewood Park
Time: Dusk

I am walking through the park.  Normally, I would have one of the dogs with me, but I had to get out of the house because I was freaking out and scooping dog shit is not super relaxing.  I sat and had a zen moment, sitting on the rocks looking at picturesque and fragrant Lake Erie.  Then I began walking the loop out of the park.  Seven youths on low rider bikes roll up behind me and slow way down, so they maintain a distance of 4 feet.   I do a quick glance and see that they are all hoodied-up and appear to be older, thuggier versions of the kids in ET.  Repeat quiet mantra re: hoodies and violence not equating each other.  Step off the path so ET kids can go around.  Realize ET hoodie kids have left path as well and are following me around on the fucking grass.  Wish for dog.  See no one around to help.  Promise self will never crave alone time again.

Consider options:

Option 1.  Pull giant knife out of pocket that my dad gave me, whip around and scream, "Who wants to die, motherfuckers?  Let's go!"

Possible results:

1a. Will accidentally pull knife on freakishly huge 12 year olds, just as Lakewood PD rolls up.
1b. Realize that I have the awesome presence of Shirley Temple, and no one is afraid of her.  Also my voice is squeaky.

Option 2.  Run to the adjacent skateboarding park and lose myself in the fog of pot that drifts lazily around it at all times.

Possible results:

2a. Stoner skateboarders will think they are having a funny hallucination due to high quality weed when ET youths beat my ass.
2b. Will find safety in the form of the cops who are always rolling up on the park hoping to witness suspicious hand rolled cigarettes.

Break into sad, middle aged run, looking less like a gazelle and more like a chubby groundhog.  Develop stabbing spinal pain 500ft from skate park pot fog.  Accept inevitable death by ET hoodie gang, who are still maintaining 4 ft. trailing distance, and now laughing.  See perfect strangers at a picnic table.  Wave arms over head and scream, "Oh my God, there you guys are!  I'm so happy to see you!"

Hear bikes suddenly careen off the other way and fade into the distance.  Stumble past confused looking couple to the skate park and hide in the pot fog until it feels safe again.   Consider learning to skate board.  Looks fun.

End Scene


Scene 2
Setting: Lakewood Park
Time: 30 minutes till sunset, the following day

This time I have Zyk, the giant poodle with me.  He looks like a giant happy moose and I feel much safer with him.  We walk the loop of the park and get stopped every few feet by people wanting to pet him.  Zyk looks like a 80lb. stuffed animal and most children and adults who walk past can't help themselves from wanting to pet him.  Suddenly a woman, closely followed by a amused/confused looking man holding a Monster energy drink runs up to us and begins happily screaming in my face.

Batshit Woman: SCHOOLTEACHER! SCHOOLTEACHER!

Me: Uhhh... what?

Batshit Woman: SCHOOLTEACHER! YOU ARE SUCH A SCHOOLTEACHER! LOOK AT YOUR FACE! KINDERGARTEN!

Me: No.  I'm not. I mean, no thank you.  What?

Man: (shrugs shoulders)

Batshit Woman: SCHOOLTEACHER!

Me: Uhhh.. excuse me. 

Batshit Woman: OH MY GOD I TOTALLY LOVE YOUR DOG! WHAT IS IT?

Me: It's a poodle. 

Woman: NO WAY!

Me: Uhhh... yeah.  Well, he is kinda big for a poodle.

Batshit Woman: CAN I PET HIM? HUH? HUH? CAN I?

At this point I realize that something is really, really wrong.  I look from the hyper face of the woman...to the bemused/ embarrassed look on man's face.  He kinda shrugs his shoulders at me.  I realize the woman is completely fucking off her ass drunk.  Or high.  I'm not a wealth of knowledge when it comes to drugs.

Me: Well, sure. But you have to be gentle. OK?

Batshit Woman: IS HE GONNA GOOSE ME?

Me:  What? What do you mean? Is who gonna goose you?

Batshit Woman: YOUR DOG. IS HE? HUH? HUH? YOU KNOW.  GONNA GOOSE ME?

At this point, she began slapping her own ass every time she said, "Goose me."  Which she chanted 3 more times.

Batshit Woman: GOOSE ME! GOOSE ME! GOOSE ME! (SMACK SMACK SMACK)

The man and I exchanged glances.  His look said, "Dude, I'm sorry, but this is awesome!"
Mine said, "Dude, you are either getting laid in your car in this parking lot, or she's gonna barf in it. Good luck with that."

I told her my Zyk was a gentleman and wouldn't dream of slapping her ass.  Zyk let her pet him, which she did rather inappropriately and aggressively.  It was like she was trying to demonstrate her sexuality with my dog.  She kept murmuring, "You like that?  You want that?"  The whole while, her boyfriend was rocking on his heels, obviously enjoying the whole thing and Zyk was looking at me with one eye, saying, "When can we walk away from Batshit here?"

When she finished molesting my poor poodle, I wished them a good evening.  She screamed, "Good-bye, Schoolteacher!" one more time.  I walked away quicky, realizing that dog or no dog, there is no safety for me at Lakewood Park at dusk.

End Scene

~dana

The Children Are Spooky

Conversation at a picnic bench.  The family snacks on Auntie Anne's Pretzels and root beer after seeing the Avengers.

Henry:  I want to learn archery.  Like Hawkeye.  Awesome.

Anne:  Me, too.

Me:  Why am I not surprised?  I suppose, Anne, you want a black bodysuit like the Black Widow, too?

Anne:  No, that's just stupid. But I still want marksmanship lessons. With guns.

Henry:  Me, too. With guns.

Me:  Really.  Archery and marksmanship.  Henry, do you know how to play baseball?

Henry:  Sure. There's... what? Like bases and a bat. I bet it's easy.

Anne:  Why would I play baseball?  What is the point?

Me:  OK, forget that.  What about football?  Could either of you play football if it was required of you?

Henry:  Sure... I think.

Anne:  Henry, didn't you play baby flag football?

Henry:  Did I?

Anne:  I think so.

Me:  What the hell are you two preparing for?  You've already got me paying for fencing lessons!  Sword fighting?  And now you want archery and sniper lessons?  What are you not telling me???

Henry and Anne: (stony silence)

Winston:  I think they are preparing for the end of all technology.

Me:  Is this true???

Henry and Anne: (stare at me silently, with eyes narrowed.)

Me:  Eat your pretzels and stop being creepy!!

~dana

I Really Hate It When Winston Is Right

Several weeks ago, I suggested that Lakewood was overrun with militant hipsters who wouldn't sell me cookies.  What I did not anticipate was that they were ORGANIZED and VINDICTIVE.   Those giant spectacled hipsters have totally blindsided me and set me off into a sea of sadness and longing.  And they hit me where it hurts, too.  In my fashion!  We're not talking about cookies or being at the end of the line.  They set an elegant trap and I WALKED RIGHT INTO IT.  Oh, Winston tried to warn me. But I wouldn't listen. I have no one to blame but myself.

A few months ago, I was driving around town and I saw a dress in a storefront.   It was dazzling.  I thought I might be seeing things, so I did a U-turn and doubled back.  Sure enough, in what looked like an abandoned store front window was the most gorgeous dress in the history of dresses.  And it made no sense.  Because the dress appeared to be on a dress form in an abandoned building.

We have all sorts of storefronts here in Lakewood.  You probably have a mental image of small town America's Main Street... now picture a city filled with those streets and you have Lakewood.  Some of them are all renovated and lovely.  Like this:

And some have seen better days.

And some are creepy as shit.

Yeah. I'm taking my finances there. Next to Dirty Town.

This window was in a fairly run down part of Lakewood, right next door to low rent wino housing.  I was on my way somewhere else, so I just kept going.  But as the weeks went by, I found myself going out of my way to drive past the dress.  I started dreaming of wearing it and petting it.  I considered putting a brick in the car so I could throw it through the window and steal it.   I'm pretty quick and I can't imagine the winos would make credible witnesses.  Winston assured me that if I broke into an abandoned store front with a brick to steal a dress, he would not bail me out.

Oh, the dress.  You can't imagine how lovely it is.  Pale blue faded satin.  Tiny cap sleeves, knee length cocktail dress.  Very 50's, very classic styling.  I slowed way down one day to admire it really closely, and realized that it has to be my exact size.  I could tell.  I could also tell that now,  there were 3 sewing machines in the back of the shop!  And suddenly, a sign on the door that read, "Closed!"  There were THINGS in the abandoned store!!!  My hopes soared! 

So I started driving by more.  I figured, at some point, the "Closed" sign would be gone and I could fly in and start throwing money at whoever the mysterious dressmaker was and run home and wear it every day for the rest of my life.  But that damn "Closed" sign was up every time!

It invaded our dinner conversation:

Winston:  So what did you do today?

Me: Who pays rent on a store front and never opens their goddamn shop?  I mean, like how much does it even cost to rent one of those crappy store fronts, anyway?  I go by at all sorts of random times and no one is ever there! It's madness!  And I don't honestly think anyone would notice if I broke in and stole it. It's just sitting there unloved and unworn!  It doesn't want to be with the winos anymore!

Winston:  Are you still on about that dress?  You are not stealing it. I will let your ass sit in the pokey.

Me: Waaaaaaaant it!!!!

Winston: I bet it's a hipster store.  They're weeding you out.

Me: What the hell are you talking about?  I swear I hate you.

Winston:  It's a hipster store.  Hipster dressmakers.  They put an awesome dress in the window, and then put a closed sign on the door.  Then people like YOU wander around outside beating your head against the glass and moaning, while they sit in the back laughing at you.

Me:  No. No. That's not fair!  All I want to do is give them your money!

Winston:  Then you have to play it smart.  Instead of standing out front, plastering yourself against the window, just sorta stand there looking across the street or something.  Look bored and angry.  I guarantee some hipster will open the door.

Me: And then I get the dress???

Winston: No.  Then they ask you if you want to come in and you say, "No, looks lame."

Me: And then I get the dress???

Winston:  No.  Then they'll ask you if you like the dress.  You want to say, "Oh my God I love it so bad!" but you can't!   You say, "Pffft... that's pathetic. I saw a dress like that LAST year.  I liked it then."  Then they will hand you the dress for free.

Me: I can't! I can't reign it in!

Winston:  I know. You're too happy and excited all the time.  So you'll never get the dress.

Me:  I really hate you. A lot.

Last weekend, I talked him into driving past AGAIN so I could make another pathetic attempt.  I ran out of the car and flew to the window and began licking it and affixing myself to the glass.  Metaphorically speaking.  And also literally.  There my lovely dress floated, just waiting for little blue birds to fly it to me and drape it over my head. And it looked like a proper store this time.

Screw you. It's mine. Find your own dream dress.

The "Closed" sign was still there.

But the more pictures I took, I noticed 2 things:

1.  The winos had gotten off of their bench and were approaching, no doubt wondering if there was crack in the storefront and that was why I was moaning and rubbing it.

2.  There were more THINGS inside.  Someone was coming and going AT LEAST, but never actually opening the store.

Pressing my face against the door frame and looking on an angle I saw something that said "Etsy shop."  A clue!  I sprinted past the winos, who were now eagerly looking inside too, and jumped back in the car.

Winston:  That was embarrassing.  You are never getting that dress.  You were taking pictures and petting the door!  And not ironically!  I bet the hipsters were taking closed circuit pictures of you and they're already on the internet.

Me: Drive!  I can smell the winos! They're like a zombie hoard!  And screw you anyway... I have a clue.  I think it's an Etsy shop.  Which of course makes no sense, because why the hell would you sell on Etsy and also pay rent on a shop?  It's insane.  But I have a stalking direction now.

Winston:  Never. Getting. The. Dress.

Me: I am totally clearing my schedule. I am coming here every day and I am going to carpet bomb their Etsy shop with emails until they give me the damn dress just to make me go away.  I can be super annoying.

Winston: True...

Me: Shut up.  I hate you.  We wouldn't be having this conversation if you had brought the brick.

I found the Esty shop online, which consisted, I SWEAR TO GOD, of nothing but pictures of lovely dresses and a notice that read: WE ARE NO LONGER TAKING ORDERS.  PLEASE FEEL FREE TO CONVO US IF YOU HAVE PLACED AN ORDER IN THE PAST.

WTF????

Me: Winston!  I sent them an email!  The dress is mine!!! I can feel it!!

Winston: Big mistake.  What did you say?

Me (reading): Dear Amazing Dressmaker,
I have fallen deeply in love with the charming blue satin dress in your storefront in Lakewood, OH.  It is the most gorgeous thing I have ever seen, and I am including my children on that list.  When I think about petting it, I start crying.  I would do or pay anything to wear one of your dresses and I would even wear the one in the window even though it's a little sun faded because it just adds to the appeal.  I noticed the sun fading when I was standing out front taking pictures of it.  I was not one of the winos.  I was the lady crying softly.  Please hear my plea and take pity on me because I have a wedding to go to in August and I want to look amazing.  I also plan to wear the dress at least every other day. 
Kindest Regards
Dana

Winston: If I were a hipster dressmaker and I got a letter like that, I would take the dress out back, toss it in a dumpster and light it on fire.  Do you smell smoke?

Me:  You're just jealous because I am on the cusp of nirvana, dress-wise.  I can feel them email-ing me now.

Winston: You are so never getting that dress.

So that was Saturday.  Sunday, Monday and Tuesday we were all sick (aliens) but Tuesday afternoon I drove by again on the way home from the pharmacy to see if by some miracle they were open.  I figured they would overlook my pinkeye and joyfully hand the dress to its one true owner.  At first I thought I had accidentally driven past it.  So I turned around.  And that's when it all started to dawn on me...

The dress was gone.  And not just the dress, but the WHOLE DAMN STORE WAS GONE! EMPTY!  WIPED CLEAN BY THE WRATH OF ANGRY HIP DRESSMAKERS!  I frantically pulled the car over and stood speechless in front of a completely empty store.  No dress.  No sewing machines.  No little "Closed" sign.  And, as if to taunt me, one folding table and chair.  On the table was a sports bottle and a bag of chips.  A backpack on the floor.  Those motherfuckers were watching me and eating chips!

GONE!!!

EMPTY!

SNACKING THROUGH MY PAIN!

I stepped back and the winos and I considered the two neighboring storefronts.  One was a holistic healer, but the algae growing on the glass front discouraged me from entering.  The opposite store was some sort of leather goods store.  Their window display consisted of an inspirational poster, a dog collar and a knife.  It seemed the lesser of two evils.

Inside I found a large woman surrounded by bolts of leather.  It was crazy hot,  like a steam bath in there, but she was festively attired in a green turtleneck sweater, green sweatpants and a giant red bow on her head.  She looked like a giant olive. With pimento.

I gave her a rambling explanation of how the blue dress next door had enchanted me totally and asked her if she knew what happened to the dress or the store or if she could get me in touch with the owners.  I wonder if she noticed my pinkeye?  This is what she said:

"You know, it's weird.  That store opened maybe a year ago and I never saw a soul.  It was never open or anything.  And we share a back entrance so you'd think I would have seen something. But I never saw anybody.  My husband and I were here all day Saturday and the dress and the sewing machines were there too.  But when I came in Monday, poof!  It was all gone!  And this morning some girl stopped in and said she was taking occupancy this week.  I don't know what she's selling.  But I have no idea who was running that dress store or where they went."

It was like the end of the movie "The Usual Suspects," when Chaz Palminteri finally realizes who Kaiser Soze is and it dawns on him that he has been played for a fool.   Winston was right.  The dress was merely part of a hipster trap.  And I was drawn into it like a mosquito to a bug zapper.  There was no dress shop, no hope of wearing the dress.  It was all an illusion.  And the timing was too perfect.  They closed up and moved out within a day of receiving my email! 

I sent them one last email:

Dear Clever Dressmakers:
I understand the game now.  But I still want the dress.  Please, if you are considering turning it into a flag or a daishiki or whatever, consider the ultimate irony of actually giving it to me.  You might see me somewhere wearing your angry hipster trap and get to mock me.  I think that would square us.  I am planning on wearing my triple strand of pearls with it and maybe two-toned black and white pumps?  Or do you think satin ballet slippers?  I promise if you give me the dress I will never again entertain thoughts of creating an uprising in the Organic Hate Machine nor will I buy their cookies.  I will leave the cookies for the pure-at-heart hipsters who truly deserve them.

Kind Regards,
Dana


To date, I have received no response to either email.  Game on.

~dana

One Man's Trash Is Another Man's Hair Nest

I'm one of those moms who encourages their children to play with trash.  If they get bored, I might wander out to the garage, root around, hand them a rope, a broken skateboard and a stick and suggest they make up a game.  Or give them a pile of boxes and packaging material from the kitchen remodel, and suggest they make a version of Tokyo and destroy it Godzilla-style.  I tell myself that I am expanding their creative side, but really I'm just lazy.  And a bit of a slob.

And it usually goes pretty well.  Except for that time I got off my couch to check on them and discovered that one of them was using the rope as a whip, while the other used the skateboard and stick Gladiator-style and they were fighting to the death.  Gleefully.

Sometimes this all attracts attention from the neighbors.  When they were smaller and bored on a hot summer day, I would cover the back fence with 20+ feet of brown paper and assemble every can of paint we had squirreled away in the garage and basement.  I would strip them down to their underwear and tell them to go for it, while Mommy sat in the shade with her feet in a bucket of cold water.  They would run around screaming and painting.  Then it would degenerate into painting their tummies.  Then painting each other.  Then painting the grass.  The neighbors would walk by and ask if everything was OK.  I don't think they saw the beauty in it all.  And by beauty, I mean how the kids were leaving me alone.

Savage Baby

My favorite part was getting the hose out and powerwashing the paint off of their tiny bodies.  I would have to corner them, and make them spin around and put their arms up and there was a great deal of Auschwitz going on there.  But, like, fun Auschwitz.  They got popsicles after their trip to the shower.

My kids are older now, and they don't really need me to round up trash for them to play with.  They do just fine on their own, as I discovered last night.   I had been grooming the poodles in the back garden.  My system works like this:  I shear each poodle like a sheep and collect all the hair in a brown paper grocery bag.  Then I throw it out.  I don't make sweaters or pot holders, if that's what you're thinking.  I can't knit.

So I finished shearing Mr. Pickles, the grey poodle and set his bag of fur in the garage.  Then I grabbed another poodle and headed out back again.  My daughter and her friend Cora were playing a game with the hillbilly neighbor kids called: We Are Pretending To Be Twins and You Guys Are Totally Buying It.   Anne told the neighbor kids, who aren't all that bright, that Cora was her twin sister we had sold at birth.  The girls kept running behind bushes and switching shirts and headbands to pull off the effect.  It looked like a lot of fun. 

As I walked by, one hillbilly neighbor kid asked me, "Miss Dana, how come you sold your baby?"  I replied, "Kids are expensive!  I got a good price for her."  The other hillbilly child then asked, "But how come you got her back?"  I thought for a minute and said, " We saw her selling corn fritters at the carnival and felt bad, so we brought her home. We might even keep her." 

 I finished shearing Seymour Butts and headed back to the garage to throw his bag of hair away.  And there I find the girls.  With a card table set up in front of them.  With a blanket on it.  With a wrench and a screwdriver. (Still not sure what that was for.)  Covered in grey poodle fur.  With this HAIRY THING on the blanket.  And Anne holding a bottle of waterproofing spray.  $20 Ugg waterproofing spray, not that I am being crabby or anything.

Me: Girls... what are you doing?"

Cora:  We made a nest.  Out of the dog fur.

Anne:  And I am waterproofing it.  For the birds.

I was absolutely convinced that Cora's mom would hear about this and never allow her child to hang out at the McSwain's again.  We don't know each other all that well.  And it wouldn't be the first time a child was forbidden from returning to my home...

Henry's Birthday Party,  2007.

Child A:  Mom! Dad! We had so much fun!  Henry's mom gave us all these eggs and we got to throw them at a target!  Then we dug up worms and Henry's dad made a worm race track on a sheet of plywood and we raced our worms!  Then we squirted the worms with a hose!  And we helped Henry with the hole he's digging to China!  We're really close now!

Parent A: (Icy Judgmental Stare)  Goodbye.  And when I say goodbye, I mean I am telling every mother in the PTA that you are freaks.  I hope your son enjoys solitude.   


But when we walked Cora home last night...

Cora's Mom (laughing):  Did you have fun, girls?  You two are filthy!  I know two little girls who are getting showers tonight! 

Cora:  Mom, it was so fun, we tricked the kids next door that we're twins and Anne's mommy said she sold me to the carnival!  Then we made a huge nest out of dog hair!

Anne:  And I waterproofed it.

Cora's Mom:  Well, you'd have to, wouldn't you?  Poodle hair isn't waterproof.

I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.


~dana