Tragedy at the UDF

If you spend any time around here, you know I have a fascination/revulsion for hipsters. (For a refresher please see...  Hipster Passive Aggressive Fashion War  and All I Want is a Damn Ginger Cookie )   I have discovered a new form of hipster!  As I discovered them and it's my blog, I feel I have earned the right to name them and so let me introduce you to...

Patheticus Hipstericus Major

or "the faltering urban hipster."  They exist.  They are all around us.  I found them at the UDF.

We made an embarrassing pit stop last week at United Dairy Farmers.  The whole fam decided we needed to stock up on personal pints of ice cream, because we don't do sharing.  We end up at the register with 3x4 plus 1 or 2 gallons of ice cream.  When we pulled into the lot, part of the storefront and one entire parking space was occupied by a bunch of 30-somethings sitting cross legged or, in one case, totally stretched out across the asphalt.

Me: What the hell?  Run them over.

Winston: How many points is that?  If I run them over, I mean.

Me: Were they all suddenly incapacitated?  Is there an Occupy UDF movement I missed? That's like, 75 points. 80 if they try to run.

Henry:  Can we just go in and stop talking about it?

Anne:  What are they doing?  What's their problem?

Me:  I have no clue.  Don't look at them; just walk by.

As we got out of the car and walked around the throng of bodies on the pavement, I got a better perspective of what was going on. .  A group of grown men and women, OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW BETTER, were lying around the parking lot, posturing and trying to act cool and distracted by their awesome, while carrying on a conversation.  It looked painful.  And complicated.  We walked slowly past, trying to grab snippets of conversation...

Dude in Sailor Moon T and Khakis, with Rosie the Riveter tat 
and IceMan from Top Gun Sunglasses:   No, for real he bought his own house. He's not renting anymore.

Woman, in Polyester Tracksuit and Head scarf:  You're joking. For real? (snicker) What's that all about?

Greek Chorus of Aging Hip Murmuring: Whatever... Fucking Banks... I'm not paying interest... Fuck Wall Street bankers, man.  I'm never selling out and buying a "house" (with actual use of quotation fingers)

Hipster IceMan: No... but... it was really nice.  He had me over for a barbeque...

Greek Chorus of Aging Hip:  (snicker) Barbeque?  Seriously?  (condescending laughter) You went to a barbeque?

Hipster IceMan: Well, yeah, but he's got this really nice back yard with trees and stuff and he had a pond, like with koi fish and everything.  Actually... it was pretty great.  We had bruschetta.

Woman, Daisy Dukes and Men's Work Shirt reading "Bob":  Koi? I love koi!  I have one tattoed on my thigh!

Hip Dude,  in Ill Fitting Dress Shirt and Gym Teacher Shorts:  We have these neighbors we can see from our apartment that have a koi pond, and it's amazing.  Very peaceful. I would totally buy if I could get a koi pond.

Greek Chorus of Aging Hip:  Koi pond! Koi pond! Koi are awesome!

At this point my husband was literally dragging me through the doors of UDF, because I was now openly standing stock still and staring at them.  As we loaded up in the ice cream aisle, coconut almond, chocolate cherry, chocolate chocolate, vanilla and caramel, salted caramel, more coconut, cookies and cream, chocolate chip (really, it's embarrassing) I was totally distracted by the hipsters out front.  It was so sad.  They were trying to cling to their hipness by lying about the parking lot, showing disgust for the traditional, predictable parking of cars.  It was tragic and pathetic.  I mean, they had to be 35 years old.

They were clearly losing the battle to cling desperately to the edge of edginess.   I noticed one was drinking Vitamin Water.  Although the guys were clearly clinging to the cult of the ironic shirt,  I swear two of them were wearing Gap khakis.  I imagine back in the day, they only ever wore vintage Dickies.  But now, as their once lean, starved bodies succumbed to the ravages of eating ironic dinners in parking lots, I imagine they now craved the soft embrace of the relaxed washed Gap chino. 

And they were glancing about, furtively, almost as if they were concerned someone would suggest they not sprawl about the middle of the damn pavement.  A true hipster wouldn't care about "conventional" seating, they would be dying for someone to tell them they shouldn't sit in the middle of the damn parking lot. It would give them an opportunity to rail against the machine they exist outside of because of their advanced awesome and fringe eyewear.

They way they halfheartedly protested home ownership was the dead give away that their hip days were numbered.  When they spoke the words "bruschetta" and "koi" and ""pond" I could hear the longing in their voices to escape the non-traditonal housing they no doubt lived in. ( I imagined turn of the century, third story, walk-up studios with "great light" and original plumbing.  Eeeeewww) It made me feel a deep sense of sorrow for them.  Because there, on the ground in the UDF parking lot, could have been one of the first people in Lakewood ever to order oversized horn rimmed glasses.

As we left the UDF, arms laden with bags of individual ice creams, the hipsters had fallen silent.  They were probably imagining decks and koi ponds and barbeques and sitting on proper chairs, and refrigerators bigger than dorm size that could hold 17 pints of ice cream.

I heard them start talking again as I was shutting my car door, but I didn't catch what they were saying.  My daughter stood outside the car, ignoring her father's shouts to get in the damn car already.  When she got in, I said:

Me: Anne! What did you hear?  What were they talking about?

Henry: Mom, you are so annoying! Don't you dare take their picture. Can we just go home?

Anne: Mom, I heard the one girl say, "I love your shirt! Where did you get it?"

Me:  No.  Just no.  That's impossible!  It goes against their genetic code to love things!

Anne: And then the other girl said, "You won't believe it, but I got this whole outfit at TJ Max."

Me: Nooooooooooo!! It can't be! That's impossible!

Henry: Oh my God, Mom.  Shut up.


~dana

I've included some a graph and a chart in the interest of science.

( these are not my comics, I found them on the interwebs. I'm not that clever. )

The Best Memories Live in Shoeboxes

Zyk the giant poodle and I walked to the park last Saturday morning.  It was cool and breezy; low, fast blowing clouds racing past the shoreline of Lake Erie.  As we approached the cliff at the park, a sudden cloudburst forced us to run for shelter under a tree.  I don't really mind getting rained on and it looked to be a quick shower anyway.  I am still kicking myself for not taking my camera with me that morning. 

As we stood under the tree, I saw the strangest sight: a flower girl, all dressed in lace, barefoot running across the field squealing joyfully.  Trailing after her were two more flower girls, squealing equally loud and dancing after her in the rain.  The ends of their dresses were already muddy.  Running after them was a posh woman with an armful of shoes, yelling that "the car was the other way!"  But the girls ran on, with barely a backwards glance, twirling their muddy skirts in the rain. 

Behind the woman I saw, like wet petals blowing in the wind, five bridesmaids dressed in shocking violet arrive breathlessly under the cover of one of the park's famous bleached white birch trees.  They huddled together laughing and clinging to the trunk and each other.

And finally, behind them came the bride and groom.  The groom had clutched the huge meringue of netting that made up her skirt and was holding it, as they ran laughing, for another tree.  The bride carried her tiny beaded slippers in one hand and held onto her soaked veil in the other. When they reached the shelter of a large maple tree, the bride looked at her muddy feet and I could hear her pealing laughter from where I stood under my tree.

It was delightfully surreal.

That's when I saw their photographer.  Standing under a tree, probably with the father of the bride, checking his cell phone. Maybe he was looking at the radar, trying to see when the rain was going to let up.  My guess was that they were taking pictures before the wedding against the Cleveland and lake skyline, like many people do at the park.  And I wanted to scream at that man, "What the hell are you doing???  This is it!  This is the moment they will want to remember!  They won't care about your staged beach shots twenty years from now!  They will remember running and laughing in the rain and hiding under trees in beautiful random clusters, the flower girls vanishing across a muddy field! Get your camera out!  This is it!!"

I have a wedding album somewhere.  I remember it was expensive.  I'm sure I could find it if I had an afternoon to search.  But this is the picture for me; the one that I always think of when I think of my wedding day.  Someone snapped it in the receiving line after the service.  I look tired, and a little manic.  Winston looks relieved the show is over and a little bored of shaking hands. But it looks like us.  Together, tired and overwhelmed. Married. I love it.

Here's another family picture. It commemorates a terrible dinner.  We were on vacation in northern Michigan.  Because we never see the sun, we were sunburnt after spending the day kayaking and bobbing about in Lake Michigan. On our way through Traverse City, we passed this restaurant called Apache Trout.  With a name like that, you would assume it was amazing.  (Almost as amazing as Benton Harbor.... Don't Stop in Benton Harbor) We were tired, burnt, crabby and about to consume a historically awful overpriced meal of microscopic proportions.  And we had to wait for a table.  I took a picture of our misery.  Apache Trout has now entered our family lexicon for awfulness and misery.   I love this picture.  It's awful.  But it looks like us. No, I don't know what my son is doing.

BEWARE THE APACHE TROUT

Another favorite.  Every time I look at it, I hope my great great grandchildren find it and wonder, "What the hell?" Our furnace broke during a blizzard.  Outside, the temperatures hovered around 5 degrees.  Inside, the temperature fell to 47.  One week till the part would come in.  I wanted to go to a hotel, but the husband said, "Light bulbs and boiling water.  It's not efficient, but it'll work for a week."  Yes, of course he is crazed.  Setka, my aunt,  heard we had no heat and called wanting to know what we were doing about it, would we stay with her... yada yada.   When we explained we had popped the shades off all the lamps and kept 2 stock pots of water boiling at all times  (it actually got the temperature up to 62 degrees!) she accused us of mocking her.  We sent her this picture of us huddled around the warmth of a 75 watt bulb.

The husband is a clever man.

When my grandma died, we found all these pictures my grandpa took of dead relatives in their caskets. I hope future generations wonder what sociopath took a picture of his wife in a neck brace in the ER.  (Diagnosis?  Compound concussion and neck sprain. I couldn't reach him to strangle him because I was drugged.)  But I promise you, this is probably the picture they will set on my casket when I die.  It says, "Dana." There isn't one other staged photo that describes me better.  (Except for the one he took of me another time, in a neck brace tied to a backboard, but that's another story. He also shot video, damn it. )

I love you, too, sweetie. But you're gonna die. When I can move.

As for my parents and brothers, we don't do family pictures.  I doubt one exists.  I have this video instead.  My family and I are pretty separated, but I love this because I can hear everyone's voice in the background and me and my dad are having a blast being idiots.  And we were all getting along at the time.  It all started with this shirt I own.  It's just a gingham pattern, but my dad thinks it makes me look exactly like the foster mom in Terminator 2, after she is copied by the T-1000.  I'm sure all of you want to hear that from your dads too.

My dad talked me into recreating the scene (badly) where she stabs her husband in the head through a milk carton.  (That's a classic DeLaney family get together for you. ) We used a butcher knife and some Lactaid.  The rest of the family took pictures, video and critiqued it heavily.  You can hear all of their voices arguing in the background.  I guess you could say this is my family portrait.

What about your family picture?  You know, the one you just saw in your mind when I said "family picture."  I bet it's not one you would put on your mantle.
~dana

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