Stomping My Foot Didn't Work Either

 I have discovered a new way to both waste time, procrastinate and stave off another grad school panic attack.  My friend Katie sent me a video of a baby raccoon, which obviously launched a full scale war between me and Winston at the dinner table.  He is now not only "anti illegal chicken in the basement coal chute" but is also "anti raccoon in a Baby Bjorn."  (Can this marriage be saved?)

The Man of Wrath* insists that raccoons are illegal in Lakewood, but that is not true.  Last summer I saw someone walking a baby raccoon down Lake Avenue, so of course I sprinted after them to pet it and drill them with questions. The raccoon was super friendly and climbed right up my leg and settled about my head, like I was a Dana-tree.  Then he whispered sweetly in my ear and I fell madly in love. The couple said they found it on the side of the road, far too young to care for itself so they took it into their LAKE AVE 4TH STORY APARTMENT AND GAVE IT IT'S OWN ROOM, LITTER BOX AND PUT SEVERAL LIVE TREES IN THE RACCOON ROOM AS WELL TO CREATE A SIMULATED ECOSYSTEM. I hope this answers some of the questions you may have had over the years when you wondered what the fucking hell that smell was in your new apartment.  I asked them how they planned to keep the po-po off their backs, especially considering that they were walking it in Lakewood Park.  They said that the cops in Lakewood had chased them down just like I did to pet it and told them:

"Listen. Don't let strangers pet it because a lot of people are dicks and if he accidentally scratches someone, we would have to shoot the raccoon. But otherwise, it's fine to keep the little guy.  There's no ordinance against it."  Then they proceeded to make kissy noises at it.  And if you have had any encounters with the fine officers of Lakewood, you will understand that is somewhat of a Christmas miracle.

So I asked about the rental company for their apartment, which is at Cook and Lake, and they said they were allowed to have a pet under 35 pounds so the rental company couldn't do shit. Which is a hysterical loophole in the rental contract.  "No large animals but go right ahead and create a lush, woodland environment in the spare bedroom for a raccoon."

My "landlord" is inflexible on his anti raccoon policy.  The husband states that if he finds a raccoon in either my shirt or in a baby front pack on my person, he will seek a swift divorce.  I tried crying, but he just accused me of sounding like Veruca Salt in Willy Wonka.  (DADDY, I WANT A BABY RACCOON NOW! OR I'M GOING TO SCREAM!")

So, I said, "Fine. Screw you. I will seek sympathy for my raccoon-less plight within the Tubes of the Internet! Meany Pants! Sergeant Suck!"

Which led me, with astonishingly little effort on my part, to this... Enjoy. Try to get about 15 posts down the rabbit hole.  It is so worth it.


Support Group For People Who Love Raccoons Too Much


~dana

*apologies to Elizabeth

Relax

I've been out of town... look for a post later today.  In the meanwhile, enjoy this crappy iphone video I took in Vermont of a street performer.

People in Burlington were all throwing him money and cheering.  But everyone in Vermont is super nice and dreamy and really into organic, sustainable food and small-batch home brews. The whole time I was there, I didn't see one fat guy in a tank top or beer t-shirt or even one tanorexic bimbo in tiny shorts that said "PINK" across the butt.  Let's meditate on how fast deer man would have gotten his ass kicked in Cleveland. Someone would have stolen that hand carved deer mask for sure.

~dana

Mmmm....Cheese Lax

Winston and I love to be behind people in line who are buying an inappropriate selection of items.  I am sure there is a very good reason for someone to be buying moisturizer, Popsicle sticks, a hamster wheel and a bra, but I don't care what that reason is.  Because you will live in infamy in our minds as a freak.

All time favorite?  That's easy.  Late night at Wal-Mart.  We are on a diaper run.  There is a man in front of us in line.  He removes the following items from his cart and places them on the belt.

-4-pack of 60 watt light bulbs

-Latex gloves- 1 box, size large

-1 black bar stool

We were speechless with horror. Obviously.

Also, we find that any normal item becomes horrifying when coupled with Vasoline.  Plastic spoon? Normal.  Plastic spoons and Vasoline?  Freak.  Kitty litter and cat treats?  Normal.  Kitty litter, cat treats and Vasoline?  Sick motherfucker.  Actually, there is nothing that chases people away faster than a poorly placed tub of half-used Vasoline.  Winston used to complain that he couldn't get his work done because people were coming in and out of his office all damn day and interrupting him.  I suggested putting a half-used tub of Vasoline in plain sight on his desk, and maybe even going so far as to idly play catch with it when people came by.  His response was not the gleeful "thank you" that I imagined.   It was more along the lines of "what the hell is wrong with you are you trying to get me fired."  Every party has a pooper.

But today I found a new favorite.  Marc's express (ha ha ha) line, 12 items or less, cash only.  I am buying razors and oatmeal.  (Which could be a contender, I suddenly realize... hmmmm.)  2 women are in front of me.  The first woman is paying for her one fucking loaf of bread with a check, while the other woman stands sighing dramatically.  (Which is what you must do if the sign clearly states cash only. )  When it is finally her turn, she sets these items on the counter.  I nearly dropped my phone in my hurry to get a picture.  I did drop the oatmeal.

Seems counter intuitive.

Yes, folks that's Borden's plastic cheese and generic laxatives.  That's all she bought.  Which brings us to some talking points:

1.  Does she not understand the nature of constipation?

2. Does she plan to be constipated, after eating all of the cheese in one go?  Is this intestinal forethought?

3. Is she worried the generic laxative will be like a raging locomotive, so she plans to counter the effect with little bites of cheese?

4. Is this the first time she has bought these items together?  Her casual "sighing" says otherwise.  There is a history, I think, to the cheese lax.

~dana

Note:  I will be on the road for the next week, visiting my bro and alien spotting in upstate New York with the kids.  Posts might be sporadic, but you can follow my twitter feed if you want to find out who gets pink eye.

Numb Crotch Syndrome~ It's a THING!

Something really awful happened to me last week.  I NEARLY DIED.  (well, I thought I was going to die, so that's sorta the same thing. Let's not split hairs.)

There's all this human body stuff out there that frankly, no one ever told me about.  My "puberty speech" consisted of being handed a pamphlet on my changing body and told, "Here. Read this. Come to me if you have any questions."   Yeah. Right.  I looked at that 2 page pamphlet that spoke mysteriously about "womanhood" and "hygiene" and figured out pretty quick that asking any questions about any of that would be the most awkward fucking conversation ever.   So I pretty much avoided the whole topic until it became... a-hem... unavoidable.  If you catch my meaning. And didn't receive too much help then either...

Me:  What do you mean this happens every month! For how long?

My Mom: For the rest of your life.  Until you get very old.  Then you won't care anymore. Didn't you read the pamphlet?

Me: No! Just no! That's not fair! I refuse! I cannot handle this! This is awful!

My Mom: Too bad.

Not exactly a cozy fireside chat about being a woman.

Also, having three brothers, I was unaware that being a hairy Pollock could be an issue during swimsuit season.  (I'm Polish. We're allowed to use that term. We're taking it back.)  I would have been perfectly happy, scampering around South Central Pool like a happy, hairy hobbit.  Luckily, there were some super helpful girls at the pool who were more than happy to point it out to me loudly and with lots of giggling and pointing. (Burn in hell, preppy bitches.  I hope you go bald. )  So, after doing some research on my own, because all my friends were immaculately hairless, I taught myself to do a bikini wax.  There was a certain amount of trial and error.  I can tell you with no ego at all that I AM THE BRAVEST WOMAN ALIVE.

There have been a lot of things along the way that I had to sort out for myself, because I was one daughter in a house of boys, because back then mothers didn't really share with their daughters about the intricacies of hair removal and sexy stuff, because I had no sisters and my girlfriends all seemed to just know this stuff, so I couldn't ask without looking stupid.

Without getting too specific... Laverne taught me to use a tampon our senior year of high school.  I had never had access to one before. This was because my grandfather worked for a big hotel, and once a year he would drop off an industrial sized case of giant vending machine maxi pads.  I just kept the box in my closet.  I honestly didn't know there were any other options.

(in the bathroom)

Me: Oh, shit. Laverne, do you have any giant maxi pads capable of soaking up an oil spill?

Laverne:  Uh, no. Gross. But here's a tampon.

(from under the door, comes a tiny pink package.)

Me: I can't do that!  My mom told me I wasn't allowed!  It's of the devil! She said I can't put anything in there.

Laverne: (sigh) Are you kidding me?  It's just a tampon. Shove it in and let's go. We're late.

Me: Don't tell my mom! OK, how exactly do I do this?  It seems complicated.  Am I making this more complicated than it is? I take the wrapper off, right?

Laverne: Unbelievable.  You're 17 years old! Figure it out!

So, back up to last week.  I took Zyk on his daily walk to the park, and we headed to our bench just like we always do.  Zyk sat there, breathing in the heady perfume that is Lake Erie and I sat, leaning forward on the edge of the bench, stretching my legs and and scratching his head.  After maybe, 5 minutes, Zyk laid down for his 10 minute nap, so I decided to lean back and mess around on my phone while he slept.

As soon as I leaned back, I noticed this horrible sensation.  Or rather, lack of sensation. MY ENTIRE CROTCH HAD FALLEN ASLEEP.  BY THE WAY, NO ONE EVER TOLD ME THIS SHIT HAPPENS.  I went straight from "relaxing morning with my puppy" to "holy fuck I am going to die."  That's how it felt.  Impending doom.  I thought, "Oh my God!  I can't feel my crotch at all!"  Is it a stroke?  An aneurism?  Some instantaneous form of flesh eating bacteria?  Is my crotch even still there? "

I started squirming around because the whole business was freaking me out.  But I was afraid to stand up because the more I squirmed, a pins and needles sensation started spreading and it was HORRIBLY UNPLEASANT.  Yes.  I admit it.  I thought I might be dying and I seriously  considered calling 911.  I am not kidding.  I was terrified that whatever was happening was never going to stop.

Except I am a brunette. But otherwise, it looked exactly like this.

I had a brief imaginary conversation with my mom.

Me:  Mom! I can't feel my crotch at all! I think I'm dying!

My Mom:  Did you stick something up there?  I warned you! Too bad!

Me: Why was there not a pamphlet about crotch numbness?  I would have read that one!

Which segued, as I sat there squirming and moaning,  into how a conversation with 911 would go...

Me: Please send EMS to Lakewood Park.  I have no feeling in my crotch. Well, now it's sorta pins and needles.  But that's even worse.  AND I SWEAR TO GOD I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING TO BRING THIS ON! I'm a good girl! I don't want to die!

911 Operator: Your crotch...Is numb... Did I get that right?  Maybe it was aliens. You know, the ones that gave your husband pink eye?

After a few painful moments of squirming and praying that Numb Crotch Syndrome doesn't kill, I was able to walk home.  I was terrified the whole way that it would happen again and someone would find me squirming on the sidewalk, crying, "Why is my crotch numb? Why?"  (And here in Lakewood, that wouldn't get you all that much attention.)

The first thing I did when I got home was Google "my crotch fell asleep."  I was doubtful that I would find anything.  I honestly figured that I was the first person in the history of the internet to type those search terms.  This is what pops up when you ask Google that question.

"my crotch fell asleep"

Apparently, it's a THING!  This happens to everyone!  I am fucking 38 years old and my crotch fell asleep for the first time last week and the rest of the world has been walking around keeping that information from me!  How do you people deal with this?  And you'd think it would have come up in conversation at some point and I would have picked up on the fact that this shit happens.

Me: Hi! I'm so glad to see you! How have you been?

Friend: Well, I had to take yesterday off of work because my damn crotch kept falling asleep, but I'm better today. I'm not dying or anything, but it was close.

Me: I am so glad you're OK.  You call me if you need anything. (note to self: interesting; your crotch can fall asleep, but it is apparently not fatal. Look into this. This could be important. )

That would have been helpful information. Come on, people.

So, last weekend I realized the conspiracy went right to the heart of my world: my marriage. Winston and I took the kids and their friends to the zoo, and we were sitting on a bench waiting for them to finish playing on the giant snake slide in the Outback section.

Winston:  This is nice.  Just sitting here in the shade.  Just you and me.  Are you having a nice day, sweetie?

Me:  My crotch fell asleep last week.  It was awful.  Did you know that could happen?  I Googled it and everything.  It's not an aneurism or anything flesh eating. It's just from sitting funny. I'm gonna be OK.

Winston: (slowly, with confusion and WTF?  mingling on his face in the dappled sunlight)  Yeah... any part of your body can fall asleep.  It happens.  You know, blood flow?  It happens to bikers all the time.  How did you not know this?  It's not a big deal.

Me: I thought I was dying!  You knew about this and didn't think to tell me?  You just let me figure this one out for myself? 

Winston:  Yes, Dana. I purposely kept it from you.  It's a great crotch conspiracy. 

Me: Whatever.  Apparently I need to be very careful around benches from now on.  I thought the worst thing that could happen to my crotch was a bad wax. Huh. I was wrong. So very wrong.

So, I am compiling a list of things to tell my daughter.

1.  I will be plucking your unibrow soon. And possibly waxing your lip.  And as much as it hurts, you know what hurts worse?  Preppy bitches at the pool.  By the way, you'll be waxing other things when you're older. And don't look to your immaculately hairless friends for help.

2. Tampons will not make you the Devil's Bride. And maxi pads are comfortable like diapers are on a hot sunny day. I will be throwing a pink package under the door to you one day and giving you some tough love like Laverne gave me.  It will make you a stronger person.

3. Your crotch can fall asleep.  Avoid perching on it.  It is super uncomfortable, but almost never fatal. I Googled it.  Don't call 911, but you can call me and I will talk you down without laughing.

4. Denying the existence of extra terrestrial life almost always results in pink eye.  (Please refer to A Public Apology.  Aliens are sneaky bastards.  Pink eye=deluded puppet of the state. Be sad for them. And if you marry one, don't let him look out the window at night.

~dana

Challenge Accepted

We went to count money at work today and found this.

 This will not help with adding things. The actual calculators have yet to be found. Challenge accepted.
My last job never had fun pranksters and mysteries. I love this place!

Brother and Sister Mysteries

Sarah, ,my daughter, and I were cleaning out some storage cupboards when we found our Disneyland folder. Seven years ago we all packed up in our car and drove there. Gas was $2.17 a gallon and we used a TripTik. Yes, a AAA TripTik, a flip book of maps leading us to our destination. In 2005 not every one had a GPS. I find this terribly quaint and nostalgic.

Kids, this is a MAP it doesn't talk. 

Also,a travel agent, one I found on the internet but an agent. Does anyone do that anymore? Included in the folder, the dogs vet certification so she could stay at the doggie hotel, and the oil change receipt . Why? Clearly I was out of my mind.

The treasure is included on a piece of paper that I was using for mileage calculations. Who was I?

"Stop biting your sister's toes!"

"Get that rat out of my hair!"
"She's throwing a rat at me!"
"Sarah, don't throw the rat."

"David is torturing me with his eyes!"

"David is hiding from me!"

It is at this point that I would like to say that my son, David, was 13 and Sarah was 10. Why were her toes near his face? His first impulse was to bite them? The rat was a puppet? And does she want him to interact with her or not? Brother and sister mysteries that may never be solved. 

We're Boat People Now

(after driving 1 hour down rt. 2 to a boatyard in Fairport Harbor, Ohio)

Me: That's it! See? Right there?  That's what I want for Mother's Day! Yay!

Winston: What are you talking about?   A weed encrusted dock? I think this place is abandoned.

Me: No, it's not. Look there's a bathroom.

Anne:  You can't make me go in there.

Me:  It's like it was waiting for me.  Go buy it.  Don't be difficult.

Winston: BUY WHAT?

Me:  My boat.

Winston:  What boat?  All these boats are sitting in the grass!  It looks like a junkyard. I think it is a junkyard.

Me: That boat.  It's the boat of my dreams.  I have always wanted that boat.

Me: It's perfect. I love it.  I will be so cute on it.  Happy Mother's Day to me!

Anne: I love it!  Let's name it "The Victoria."

Me: Ohh! Yes! Or:  "The Polish Princess!"

Anne: Yes! 

Henry:  Why are we not at Scooter Dawgs?  I thought you wanted 2 Scooter Dawgs for Mother's   Day.  When are we going to eat? Why are we staring at trash?  Again.

Winston:  A derelict 60's houseboat is your dream?  That thing isn't even seaworthy.

Me: It doesn't have to be seaworthy, Winston.  We live on a lake. Lake's are freshwater. Duh.

Winston:  There are giant holes all over the keel!  It'll sink right to the bottom!  I bet that thing hasn't seen water since 1967.

Me: So it needs some work.  I bet you can get it cheap and fix it up.

Winston: We are not buying a old, broken boat.  You don't even like being on the water.

Me:  We are buying the boat or I am pulling the "look at the stretch marks from your progeny" card!   And? I don't really want to sail it. I just want to sit on it and play.  We can just dock it somewhere.  Problem solved.

Winston:  With those holes, the only place you could dock it is in the backyard.  The neighbors will love that.  A big rusty wreck perched on a shitty dry dock in our garden.  Classy.

Me: No! That's genius!  We'll just park it in the backyard! I love you! You're so smart!

Winston: Hmmm... we could.  Then we could say to everybody, "We're boat people now!"

Me: Ohhh... we could say, "We spend every weekend on our boat."  That would shut up all those snobs who can't believe we won't join the Clifton Beach Club. Yeah, like I want to join a beach club on fucking Lake Erie. 

Winston:  We could say, "No, we have it docked right by the house.  It's walking distance, actually."  You know what else?  We could get a kiddie pool and put it next to it.  So when we get too hot on the boat, we can cool off. This is starting to sound like a great idea.  I could put a grill on the back!

Me:  I generate good ideas. It's my special purpose.   Oooh! Oooh!  We could put Christmas lights on it!  And instead of keeping it on a shitty rusted dry dock, we could dig out the ground, like 8 feet deep and nestle my new boat into the ground, so it looks better!  I'll call you "Commodore."  Like, "I'm not sure what time the barbeque is.  I have to check with the Commodore."

Winston:  It would be cool.  All fixed up.  Well, let's go.  This place gives me the creeps.  It's like a Scooby-Doo ghost town.

Henry: Are we going to Scooter Dawgs any time soon?  Like, today? 

Anne: Can I have a sleepover on our boat? I love our boat.

Me: Write down the number so you can call and buy it.  Just have them deliver it.  But lowball them.  I think $500 is fair.

Winston: Yeah. I'll get right on that.  And there is no phone number!  There's no one here! It's a field next to a creek!

Me: I really hate you.  I feel like all you do is sit around and not buy me a boat. It was going to be so wonderful.

~dana