frozen memories

Okay Folks, once again I must tell you how much I LOVE Judge Judy.  I had a rough day today and when I sat down with my yogurt and my water (yes I am on another diet) to watch Judy I was not disappointed.  A woman with bleached blond hair (with purple tips) was suing an old redneck (who I swear was Jerry Reed from Smokey and the Bandit) for failing to stuff her dead pomeranian to her satisfaction.  I am not making this up.  It seems that Blondie had visions of her beloved deceased dog stuffed by this taxidermist and he failed to stuff "Fluffy," so Blondie wanted her $250.00 back, dammit!  Jerry Reed hemmed and hawed and tried to explain to Judy that this was a complicated procedure because the "client" wanted the dog to have....wait for it....MOVEABLE LIMBS!!!! I almost dropped my water bottle.  WTF?  She explained that she wanted her beloved pomeranian to have moveable limbs (like Woody from Toy Story?) so that she could dress the dog in her own little custom made leather biker outfit...complete with mini helmet....so she could (I swear I can't even type right now) strap her on the back of her Harley and ride her across the country.  Picture that my friends...I do not know how Judy kept a straight face but she did and she also told Blondie that maybe stuffing the beloved pet was not the brightest idea. Judy asked where the dog (aka carcass) was and the woman wiped away a tear and said; "In my freezer."  Holy Mother of GOD!

 Speaking of "Mother" I need to call mine and tell her this story because she once froze my dead pet parakeet (in a zip lock bag) who had died suddenly and not because I insisted on giving "Parry" a bubble bath in the sink and he got pneumonia, that was merely speculation and cannot be proven!  My mom had intended to take that bird back to the pet department at Rose's department store (because it died for no reason) but she forgot all about the yellow bird in our garage freezer until our neighbor, Judy (no relation to the Judge) bought a bunch of frozen chicken on sale and wanted to put some in our freezer.  I assume you can guess what happened.  Mom and Dad were in the family room when they heard a blood curdling scream and a crash from the garage and Judy yelled, "Marilyn what is this thing in your freezer?" My dad still tells that story at parties and Judy is still freaked out by the whole thing.  Did i mention that I have an unusual family?

Helpful Advice For Tourists...

I live in a “resort community”, which means that people who aren’t from here invade my neighborhood all summer long to march their lily white Ohiojerseypennsyltuckybaltimoricquebeccian asses down to MY beach with their massive tents, umbrellas, and coolers, yelling loudly to everyone in earshot that the kids need to wear their SWIMMIES!  You folks from the northern cities just don’t get our quiet way of life down here, so I have appointed myself to be your personal beach etiquette guide. No, no, don’t thank me… it’s my pleasure.  

 When the entire beach is not crowded don’t drop your stuff three feet away from the only other folks on the beach.  It just isn’t done.  Move the hell down until I can no longer see your husband’s back hair.  There ya go….keeep moving…there!  Another important rule:  Sunscreen is essential for you white folks.  I don’t care how easily you think you tan.  No one wants to look at your lobster red face at dinner tonight.  If you are from Pennsylvania I recommend an SPFof 70 or higher and reapply every hour, even at night.  Wear a hat….and maybe a lovely caftan.  Next rule:  If you must wear a lovely caftan stay at your rental house or hotel pool ‘cause I just don’t wanna see it on the beach. Next year go to the mountains where there’s some shade. Remember, your husband will burn because he never listens to you, so when he starts to whine throw some white vinegar on him, spray him down with antiseptic and aloe and thank god that sex will be way too painful for Mr. Little Blue Pill for several days, so buy yourself a mohito on me and enjoy your three nights off. I’m sure you’ve earned them.

If you must bring food and beverages to my beach pick up every bit of trash…and that includes your drunk-ass brother in law, Vinny.  Don’t let me step outside the next morning for my daily walk on the beach and find him laid out in the sand just because you didn’t think your wife would notice he was missing. Vinny wore his skeevy net tank top all day yesterday and now he has tan lines to prove it.  That’s always a good look.  Especially when the hair pokes through the holes in the netting.  Hey sexy, I need to drag in my catch of the day… May I borrow your shirt?  Permanent tank top on a beer gut….nice.  Carry your hung over beer bellied butt home now, Vinnie!  Always remember to clean up your drunks.

Teachers Are No Fun

There are teachers who refuse to call anything at school “fun.”

We all know at least one of these miserable souls.  They don’t have the intellect to incorporate a sense of humor into an educational setting because that would require using both sides of their brains and they haven’t shaken the cobwebs outta the creative side since they co-chaired the spirit committee in their all white school freshman year…1958.  You know them.  They greet their class on day one with a sour smirk and begin the class with a boring lecture on how they are “in charge” and that chewing gum is a mortal sin.  I just don’t understand the gum thing.  I love gum.  Is it the “sticking it to the desk” fear? Do we really love our faux wood laminated desks with the corners chipped off to the point of restricting a food group?  Yes, gum is a food group…in my world…gum, jelly bellies, and fruit chews are a food group.  It’s in the middle of the food pyramid between bread and pork rinds. Who the hell invented pork rinds?  In this age of health awareness we ban ganga but we allow pork rinds and grape soda?  Really?  I guess, now that I think about it that if we “legalized it” we would have a greater need for pork rinds and grape soda….but I digress….Where was I?  Oh yeah, gum… Trust me, gum is the least of your worries.  Those nose pickin’, hair twistin’, crotch itchin’ kids need gum to keep their nervous habits in check, otherwise those desks are petrie dishes! Let ‘em chew gum!  Here, take my gum! Chew away kiddies!  Maybe it will keep you fingers out of every other orifice.  Hand sanitizer anyone? At our school one of my lil’ darlings decided it was called “hanitizer” and that is what we all call it now.  “Ms. S, can I get me some hanitizer?”  Yes sweetie you can get you some.  I teach in the south, can ya tell?  AWE! Oh shut up, you know you were thinkin’ it.

English

Teachers

  I loved Language Arts when I was in school. Back in the seventies we called it “English” class, because here in America we still need to take a class on how to speak and write our native language every year until we die.  I think our “educators” got a clue that calling the class we all had to take every freakin’ year of our lives, “English” was a little embarrassing to the US of A, so they decided to change the title to “Language Arts” implying that we were taking a much more intellectually challenging class about the "art" of the english language instead of just trying to teach Americans where to put a comma and not to use none of them double negatives, y'all. Despite the horrible “English” curriculum offered to us here in VB in the seventies I still absolutely loved literature and creative writing.  Thanks Ms. Haring for being the coolest teacher in 1975.    You still wore your mini skirts from 1968 with Frye boots and a peace sign necklace made of hammered silver back when it really stood for peace.   You also smoked and left the Virginia Slims pack sticking out of your suede fringed bag that sat on your desk, because the beach students wouldn’t DARE touch anything on your desk even if it was sitting right out in the open.  It just wasn't "done" back then.

 I loved how you shared your life with us. You used to tell us how you and your husband had broken up and gotten back together more than Liz and Richard. We had no idea who Liz and Richard were, but they must have been cool if you referenced them, right?  You told us how you rode bikes and smoked even while you were exercising and you laughed at how counter-productive that was. You asked us what we did that previous beautiful Saturday and you really wanted an answer!  I thought you were the absolute coolest adult around.  It wasn’t the smoking, or the styles you wore.  It was the fact that you talked to us like adults, talked about what you did on your weekends and actually cared about what we did on ours. You actually read our silly sentimental attempts at creative writing and gave us suggestions and honest opinions without making us feel intimidated. We felt respected and, in turn, we respected you.  Thanks Ms. Haring.  I hope you still wear your peace sign. I still wear mine.

Speaking of A Day Without Students...

When teachers get to leave the prison….I mean “building” for lunch it is a very special day.   On teacher “work days” when the students are off and we have to be at school we are down right giddy about going out for lunch!  I mean you folks with regular jobs “on the outside” just don’t get it.  We plan for days where we will go for lunch.  No cafeteria food today!  No wilted salads from home, no roaches in the ice tea, no sireee, not today…we are going OUT TO LUNCH!  We are almost “doing lunch” but we are missing the rich husband, the pink and green wardrobe and the tennis racket in the Beeeeemer. Nope, we are going OUT to lunch!!!  Weeeeee!  The discussion and final decision of where we will go and with whom we will go is very detailed and often very stealth.  I mean, it can get ugly. No one wants Mrs. “V” to go with them because she never shuts up and there is no way I’m going with Nancy because she is a vegetarian and I don’t want to watch her cringe as I order meat with a side of meat and cheese fries.  “No, I am not going to a Chinese place! I hate Chinese food!  I can order that from home and it is the only place that will deliver down in Sandbridge besides the pizza joints.  Mexican?  Naw, I will need a margarita and I can’t get fired now I have to pay for my lunch!”  I mean, seriously!  I usually want she-crab soup, because no matter how I try I can’t make it at home as good as I can buy out so I am not budging from that decision EVER!  “Let’s go to Atlantic Avenue and get a seat with a view of the ocean and make fun of the tourists!”  That sounds good to all of us locals, but several Navy wives “from away” don’t get why we find tourists so amusing.  These wives are wearing  skorts and Tevas and they don’t get what’s so funny about that either.  I mean, they actually bought their poor unsuspecting husbands mandals!  You know what mandals are, right?  They are sandals….for men.  Men wear flip-flops, not mandals….at least in my world, and no respectable beach local would be caught dead in a pair of mandals.

  “I just got shot and I have minutes to live…honey, are you there?”  The wife looks lovingly into her dying husband’s eyes:“Yes sweetheart, what can I do?”  The husband turns to his wife and whispers….”Get these f*%^ing  mandles off my feet before I get caught dead in them.”

What was I saying?  Oh, lunch! Okay, well, we debate the location of our lunch for hours! E-mails, texts and walks down the hall take up the entire morning! We finally agree on a place where the vegans can get sprouts and the rest of us can get seafood!  Crabmeat here I come!   When we arrive at the restaurant and sit down we get rowdy and ponder the daily specials like it is part of the menu for the Last Supper and Jesus invited us personally. “Yes my children, I want Jane to sit on my right, move over Doubting Thomas, you can never maketh up your mind and Sue wants to sit by the window.  Enjoy-eth the crab though it is a bottom dweller.” Thanks Jesus, we will.  Remove your ID tags ladies. We don’t want to be identified just in case it gets ugly.

Bad Hair

Don’t you hate it when you get a cut or color you aren’t very happy with and you just mention it to someone and everyone in earshot wants you to try “their person?”  This is a very challenging situation for me because I have a hard time not expressing my opinion...shut up Miriam...

 I was making a rare visit to the teacher’s lounge (AKA Shark Tank) a few weeks ago and was discussing with two friends of mine the slight color issue I was having with my hair.  I love my hair.  I was not blessed with long legs or a fast metabolism, but I have good hair.  It’s thick, full of body, and I put blond streaks where nature put them many years ago. I hate it when it isn’t perfect.  Okay, I admit it.  I was whining about my hair.  As I was whining to my friends, in walked a very….how can I phrase this to spare feelings…ugly as hell substitute teacher.  Hey, she’ll never know who I am talking about and she is also one of the most arrogant and annoying people I have ever met which directly influences how I interpret her “look.”  Anyway, this person was looking at me with my blond(ish) hair telling me how amazing her hair person was and how she loved her color, blah, blah, blah.  Okay, neon blue eyeshadow aside....sharpie marker eyebrows aside... okay, ya just can’t put those two style killers aside...and her hair was hideous. This put me in an awkward position.  I have yet to have anyone with good hair recommend a stylist.  It’s always the hideous ones whose hairstyle is stuck in a decade best left behind.

  This chick had long, dull jet black, frizzy, out of style, no haircut hair.  I could not believe it.  Where did she see a connection? The woman was a goth version of …well, her former self.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with loving the goth look. I’m trying to sound charitable ‘cause no one over the age of 16 should try to rock that look.  It’s over, you are not a vampire, you will never be a vampire.  Edward is not looking for you. Why in hell would I want to use your goth hair person?  I am a bit on the preppie slightly hippie side (I know that makes no sense just go with it okay?) when it comes to fashion.  I have never worn skull earrings.  I do not, nor does any Western European woman, look good with jet black…I’m talking bad shoe polish black, hair.  The lucky few who can pull off that look are blessed with the olive skin to go with it, but their natural black hair color has some shine to it!  They probably don’t dye it with shoe polish or kool-aid!

  Which brings me to my next issue, Kool-Aid hair. If you buy your beauty products on the soft drink aisle a buzzer should go off in your head.  I don’t buy my groceries at the hair salon. That’s all I’m saying about that.

It’s the same thing when I mention I’m looking for a good dentist. The other day I mentioned that I was looking for a good dentist and a bystander with jacked up yellow teeth proceeded to tell me how she loves her dentist!  Christ!  What do they expect a person to say at that point? What the hell was Dr Helen Keller using as anesthesia, LSD?   I mean seriously how do I keep a poker face when I feel my eyes bugging out like a bad cartoon trying not to stare at those nasty choppers?    Maybe I need to recommend a good Optometrist?  Why would I go to that dentist and how does that quack stay in business?  Here are your fillings and I’m just going to ignore the fact that your teeth look like an ear of Indian corn and your incisors stick out sideways like an English bulldog! Yuck! 

I am definitely far from perfect but I know when my hair is bad and when my teeth are jacked up.  I also notice when my pants are too tight, when my feet stick out over the edge of my shoes and when my underwear is up my ass.  How can those people not feel a wedgie?  Thongs aside I simply cannot tolerate anything up my ass...interpret that as you see fit...

 Some folks just don’t see simple daily maintenance such as hair and dental care as top priority but I do...yes mom I am the Princess and The Pea and it’s all your fault for keeping me clean, washed, wiped, brushed and impeccably dressed my entire life...and I thank you!  

Road Trips

I grew up in the late 1960s early 1970s in Virginia Beach, Virginia.  My entire family is originally from the coast of Maine.  Every summer the seven of us would pile into the station wagon and take a meticulously planned trip to Maine.  Let me clarify that for ya….my two younger brothers, my parents, and our two dogs, armed with maps, coolers, and luggage pulling a pop-up camper. We would drive 16 hours in a station wagon to my grandmother’s house in Boothbay Harbor Maine.  Fun, fun, car sickness, fun.  I, being the only girl, had to sit in the middle, my feet on the hump, to separate my brothers so no one was killed.  I lived for the Ho-Jo ice cream stops so I could get out and walk around for a few minutes until we had to hurry back in the car because we needed to make good time!  Good time?  What the heck difference would another five minutes of freedom make?  I only asked that question one time.   The question was followed by a half hour explanation of rush hour time in Connecticut and how we would be stuck in traffic, blah, blah…why did I open my big mouth, blah.

My mom planned that trip all year long.  We had special matching red, white, and blue outfits for the family reunion. We had a snack schedule.  My mom planned snacks the way she cooked….badly.  Dry crackers, canned ginger ale, pretzels, bananas, and wintergreen mints.   I hate wintergreen mints to this day because she gave them to me when I got car sick.  Absolutely no chocolate because it would upset our stomachs!  I don’t know about you but I can’t travel without chocolate, coffee, and Duncan donuts!  Not my mom!  No way were we going to get anything good to eat except for a vanilla Ho-Jo cone.  Yes, I said vanilla!  Chocolate is way too exotic!  It tastes too good and in my mom’s mind that means it must be bad!  It was the trip from hell, but the destination made it worth the agony of the car ride....sorta.

My brothers were like Oscar and Felix.  Jon was tall, quiet (AKA, sneaky) athletically gifted, very neat and organized, and annoyed that he even had a family to cause his constant embarrassment.  My youngest brother Jeff was (and still is) short, stocky, loud, hyperactive, quick witted, opinionated…and he also thinks everything he does is funny.  I love my brothers, just not on a car trip.  

Jon was a very shy child who wore his shirts buttoned up to his neck and did not have much to say….until he reached puberty.  He is now one of the funniest people on the planet, but back then he was very quiet compared to Jeff and I.  He was what one might call “an observer.”  Jon kinda faded into the walls and quietly watched the rest of my crazy family throughout most of his childhood.  My mom always said to watch out for the quiet ones.  She was right. 

Jeff was “that kid.”  If we heard anything crash in the house or even in a store my mom would snap her head around and ask, “Where’s Jeff?”  We all knew he probably had something to do with whatever had broken, turned on, or fallen off of something.  Jeff denies it all now but he was one hyperactive little pain in the ass.  The fact that he was totally adorable and fun was the only thing that save him from strangulation.  He was also amazingly fast and could out run my dad until dad just gave up and said the hell with it.  Jeff’s chunky little legs could fly! By the end of the chase we were all laughing at him….all of us except my dad. 

On these road trips I had to sit in the middle back seat of our station wagon with my feet on the hump with them for sixteen hours. Jon would quietly press on the back of my dad’s seatbelt and dad would blame it on Jeff.  Instead of simply denying it Jeff would start to yell at Jon and I would laugh and then we would all be in trouble.  This happened so frequently that you’d think my dad would have caught on, but he was too busy trying not to miss an exit.  These were the sixties and seventies.  The days when your parents smoked in the car with the windows rolled up.  These were the days before cell phones, hand held video games, DVD players and i-pods.  Hell, we didn’t even have FM radio!  I remember getting all excited when we could hear music as the static faded away as we passed through radio zones.  We could tell how close we were getting to certain cities by the radio stations.  There was no GPS.  There was only a huge messy map with a magic marker tracing the route and my parents fumbling for toll and turnpike money.  My dad knew who had overpriced gas and which turnpike rest stops to avoid.    We played, “Who can spot a red car…etc.”  My mom called it travel bingo. What were my parents thinking?  How in the world could they relax?  This was the way families vacationed back then.  Families didn’t fly anywhere, you took a road trip and you took everyone in the family including the pets.  Board the dogs?  Are you kidding?  We let them ride in the back of the station wagon on beach towels and walked them at rest stops.  It was all or nothing.  

We had one of those station wagons with the “way back” seat that faced backwards.  That was the barf zone.  If you know anyone who could ride in a car facing backwards for more than five minutes without puking I want to meet him.  That fact alone should let that freak of nature into the space program.  “He’s dumb as a post sir, but he rode 16 hours in the “way back” seat and never puked”  “Holy Jesus, why didn’t you say so?  Sign that man up for the next trip to Jupiter!” To this day I refuse to ride in anyone’s back seat even if it faces forward.  Did I mention that I get car sick?  

My Mom Can't Cook....but....

My mom cannot cook, but she is a wonderful mother. Whenever anyone in the family gets sick my mom is there with ginger ale and pretzels.  Food you can buy at the store.  She stayed with me for days after my daughter was born and like a lot of babies, she had her days and nights mixed up.  I remember waking up after a much needed few hours of sleep to find my mom, who hadn’t slept in days, walking Tyler around the room softly singing, mostly humming (off key of course) “The Turkey In The Straw.”  A mom like that does not need to be a gourmet cook.  Her gifts are evident in the huge number of people who love and trust her judgement in all matters that do not involve food preparation.  According to my daughter, Gramma can do no wrong. I tend to agree, as long as she stays away from the stove! 

My mom is a retired nurse.  She agrees that she can't cook but if you need your blood pressure taken, a shot given, or your appendix taken out she is your best bet.   Whenever my daughter was sick she wanted Gramma. If she had a cut or a scrape no one could put on a bandaid like Gramma!  Even though Ty is now 27 years old she wants to talk to Gramma when she is sick.  I am so glad that I am lucky enough to have my mom here to talk to and visit as long as she doesn't try to cook us anything things are good.  Thank God she has a sense of humor about her lack of culinary skills!  The ironic thing is that her favorite channel is FoodNetwork!  I guess that's kinda like me watching gymnastics.

Ever since I moved into my own house I have gradually begun to host all of the holiday meals.   I just tell mom what time dinner will be served.  She always asks if there is anything she can bring and then laughs.  She knows the answer.  Bring yourself and dad.  Bring flowers for the table, bring some rolls FROM THE BAKERY. Please don’t bring anything made with Spam. Yes, mom is very happy and relaxed during the holidays now, and so is everyone else.

My Mom Can't Cook

When I think of childhood dinners I still want to vomit. Everyone else I know has fond memories of warm yummy home cooked meals with their mom wearing an apron and a cheerful welcoming smile.  Not at my house.  My mom worked and that was the reason she did not know how to cook. It was also the reason we ate on plastic plates and drank from plastic cups.  I was red, Jon was blue and Jeff was green.  Even our toothbrushes were color-coded. The “no cooking skills, I work” excuse never made sense to me either, but that’s her story and she’s still sticking to it. Just ask her.

My poor dad never complained.  He was no fool.  He just kept his mouth shut and tried to gag down whatever concoction my mom had decided to “fix.”  My dad arrived home every day at 5:45 like clockwork.  My mom was a nurse and she arrived home a few hours earlier.  I can still picture my dad driving up, getting out of the car with his sleeves rolled up and his red plaid thermos tucked under his arm.  I always remember his arrivals home in warm weather because we were usually out front playing kickball in our court.  Our driveway was first base. My dad was always tired, but happy to be home.  He gave us all hugs and kisses and went inside to relax and read the paper while he waited for the nightly food horror show to begin.  He never seemed to notice that the meal was disgusting. Maybe he had his taste buds removed to make his life easier.  Now that’s  true love.

My mom was always tired and pissed off to be home because her day wasn’t over yet.  She had to make “dinner” and believe me, she wasn’t happy about it.  I remember that one day, long ago, that she was happy about cooking dinner. She had made pot roast with carrots and potatoes.  It was wonderful! She had even set the dining room table and was smiling at everyone.   I started to cry because I thought for sure she was going to tell us that she was dying and this was her way of breaking it to us.  She thought I had lost my mind.  I am still wondering if I dreamed the whole thing.

My brother Jon liked my mom’s cooking so naturally he was her favorite child between the hours of 5 and 7pm.  Jeff and I were gagging and whining and begging for a PBJ during those hours. I always tried to hang out at my friends houses as long as possible in hopes of a dinner invitation, but some days going home for dinner was unavoidable. Many of our meals were beige.  One night we had macaroni, cauliflower, and boiled chicken.  No, we didn’t live in a hospital cafeteria. They served much better food than my mom did.

 Spam casserole…with green pepper, cream of something soup and egg noodles served in that white Corning wear dish with the metal rack and the glass lid.  If I saw that dish I knew it was going to be a bad night.  I can still smell it in my head and it still make me sick.  I remember walking into the kitchen and smelling the dreaded Spam casserole and hearing Jeff begin to cry. “Not Spam casserole!  I hate it!  Run Jane run!”  If it wasn’t Spam it was fish sticks and frozen French fries on a cookie sheet served with peas….mushy canned peas.  We have a picture of Jon sitting on the kitchen floor eating peas out of a huge mixing bowl.  What a suck-up. For years I thought I hated French fries….until I tasted French fries.  OHHH!  That’s what people have been talking about!  Yummy! I love you McDonald’s!

I also thought I hated baked potatoes until I ate one that had actually been cooked through all the way.  I also discovered sour cream and real butter.  I also thought I hated baked potatoes because she only baked them when she baked her dried up gray meat loaf.  She didn’t want to waste a hot oven by just baking potatoes so we had to bake something else at the same time.  Remember, this was before the microwave oven was invented.  

Her macaroni and cheese was the worst.  I think I’m the only person living in the south who hates mac and cheese.  My mom crushed cornflakes on top of her very dry mac and cheese and one day she ran out of them.  She crushed…brace yourself….CHEERIOS on top, ‘cause, hey, cereal is cereal, right?  No, I am not making this up.  She also made salmon casserole and left the bones in …because they are soft YOU CAN CHEW THEM RIGHT UP!!!!! I still get chills. She also left plenty of shell in her egg salad.  “Jane you are so picky.  What’s a little shell?  Just pick it out and eat the sandwich! You are the Princess and the Pea!” Crunch where there shouldn’t be crunch…gagagagagagaaaaaaaa.

She insisted that a certain brand of margarine with a crown on the box tasted just like real butter!  I don’t know what crusty cow she had been getting her butter from, but that bitch was ripping you off, mom.  No brand of margarine tastes just like creamy, yummy, fresh dairy butter.  I had never consciously tasted real butter before, but when I did all hell broke loose.

Nanny lived on the coast of Maine, was the best cook on the planet.  She used to bake bread every day and she served it with real butter straight from the dairy.  How could my dad like my mom’s cooking when he grew up in a house where nanny cooked all of his childhood meals?  I thought Nanny had magical powers until I was around nine years old.  I found out that fateful summer why Nanny’s bread was sooo extraordinary...it was the butter. I gained 10 pounds in two weeks when I visited that summer in Maine.  I went up there as an adult when I was six months pregnant and gained so much weight that my doctor had me tested for everything when I got back.  I tried to explain to him about the magical food fairies I visit up there but he insisted on the tests.  I was totally normal, just fully stuffed with Maine goodness. 

 Nanny made my dad’s favorite homemade chocolate cake daily.  She baked cookies and steamed lobsters and clams fresh from the ocean. My grandfather had a huge garden and we feasted from it and my Uncle Bob picked fresh blueberries and my Aunt Wilma made blueberry pies.  Yes, Maine is beautiful, but you need to taste it to appreciate its true magic.  I loved going to Maine every summer.  I thought the entire state ate all day long.  I followed my Maine relatives everywhere and begged them to teach me their magic.  They did and now I cook every family meal and every holiday.  I think this was my mom’s plan all along. 

Hank Jr

Speaking of dogs…

My daughter and her husband bought a dog.  They named him Hank Jr.  Do I even need to go on?  The dog is half hound and half “what the hell?” He even looks like a hard drinkin’ redneck dog.  He has dug up my gardens, eaten the arms off of my pool chairs, gnawed on the deck rails and he even yanked off a piece of the siding on our house.   I had to keep my husband, Big D from killing him when he found the siding.  I love my daughter and I love my son-in-law and that is the only reason I haven’t thrown that mongrel in the big blue Atlantic wearing a concrete dog collar....aawwwwwwe, yeah, whatever.

I am not a fan of country music and I had serious doubts about my future son-in-law when he proudly showed me the dancing, cowboy hat wearing, singing, mini Hank Williams jr. “doll” that he loves. Press a button and he will perform for you.  It’s a lot like the singing fish of the eighties….only tackier.  Yes, I have grown to love my son-in-law despite his strange taste in music.  When my daughter and her husband  “surprised” everyone with a new puppy and told me the dog’s name I could not stop laughing, and what’s even funnier is that I cannot for the life of me remember his name when I need to.  The kids have to call him for me and now they think I’m senile.  I think it’s a mental block.  You would think that a dog named Hank Jr would be hard to forget.  I love to hear them call the dog….Here, Hank Jr!  It just cracks me up.  For some reason I keep calling him Frank…maybe I just like Sinatra better than Hank Williams. I have even called him Max….there’s no joke here, I just pulled that name outta my….well, you get the picture. Anyway, on his doggie ID tag they actually put Hank Jr.  Is that the absolute perfect redneck name or what?  “Mam?  I found Hank Jr  wandering through the trailer park…lucky you had your phone number on the ID tag because he smells like he’s been drinkin’ Jim Beam and smokin’ Marlboro Reds.  He’s dug holes everywhere and I think he got the poodle across the street pregnant…again.”  Oh Hank , Why do you drink,… Hank, why do you roll smoke?  Why must you live out the songs that you wrote? Oh Hank Jr...

Too Much Self Esteem

As an art teacher in an elementary school I am expected to teach a complex curriculum while trying to keep my composure as a little smiling self satisfied Picasso hands me a piece of….art….that has absolutely nothing to do with the lesson at hand.  He is just bursting with self esteem from years of being told (by his mommy) that he is gifted and that everything he touches is the best and the cutest and gosh darn it….people just love you! 

As teachers we all know “that mother.”  The one who thinks that Lil’ Pookie poops roses?  That Mom needs to face facts and steer the child’s boat into Reality Cove before the dear child turns into a little monster!  I know it’s hard.  If mom “misses the boat” Lil’ Pookie assumes that minimal effort is required for everything and that everyone should think that he is the Little Prince and should wait on his every need accordingly.  Everything he touches is amazing.  If you don’t believe it just ask mummy-kins!  Back at Reality Cove, however, the work is messy, half finished and required five minutes of minimal effort and had absolutely nothing to do with the lesson I had just finished explaining in painstaking detail.  All positive and no negative feedback takes the fire out of their souls!  As a teacher I face these kids every day!  No, sweetie, that pile of mess is not “wonderful” and you did not follow the criteria stated just five minutes ago and here is your paper back….try this time!  Oh, and tigers don’t smile, trees aren’t lollypops, and there is no corner in the sky, so get the sun the hell out of there!  The sky is not always a strip of blue, the grass is not a zig-zag of green and your mama is not taller that that crappy triangle roofed, crooked chimney with the spiral of smoke coming out of it sorry excuse for a house you just drew…why are you cryin’ sissy boy, huh?   Too harsh?  Okay, I got carried away…

 I’m talking about your average American child raised in this century. Is it me or do kids today  (I swore I’d never say “kids today”) have way too much self esteem?  I’m one of those mean folks who think that, although positive reinforcement is a good thing when used properly, giving out trophies for just being on the team diminishes, hell, erases the true meaning of a trophy!  You should have to work hard, think hard, and use your reasoning skills, and even then some people just aren’t going to do well at everything they try. Not everybody gets a trophy. That’s why those annoying athletes get paid so much.  They have very special skills that bring in the big bucks and you and I don’t…waa-waa. That’s life in the bigs, baby and it’s never too soon to face reality. I do not have the legs of a supermodel, but like the little voice in my head said:  “Them’s the brakes, Princess, so get used to disappointment. You will never walk the runway and that time in NYC when the cops pulled you and your drunk ass friend out of the Macy’s window display does not count as modeling!”   

Success rarely just falls in your lap, and no matter what your mommy says you may simply suck at certain things.  We all do. We need to help our children understand that life is full of things at which they may not be very skilled, but hopefully we will instill in our children the coping skills to face facts and keep on plugging away until they find something they are good at and kick ass.  The secret is to let them decide instead of insisting on choosing for them.  Give them a ton of choices, lessons, team sports, and tutors until they decide on the one thing that they like and can actually do and BINGO!  They have found their inner Hershey Kiss!  Yum! Ain’t life sweet?  That’s how you become a successful, well-adjusted human being.  Yes, I said that out loud.

I Love Judge Judy

I love sitting on the sofa watching Judge Judy while eating chocolate…for an hour.  I watch the hour long back to back Judge Judy-a-thon from 6-7pm so don’t call me during that hour. It never fails though, I get calls galore during that hour and some people just don’t get the hint when they ask, “So, what are you doing?”  I say: “I’m watching Judge Judy” and then….they keep talking as if Judge Judy is no big deal!  Seriously!  When I tell you I’m watching Judge Judy that is your cue to say, “Oops!  I’ll talk to you later!”  Do I have to spell it out for ya Grandma?  I’m watching Judge Judy!  Call 911 if you can’t breathe, I’m busy.  I’ll meet you in the ER at 7:01, geeez! With some people it’s just me, me, me.

That could be what’s putting a damper on my fitness program, but Judy is worth it. She tells it like it is!  She actually gets to tell stupid people that they are idiots!  I mean, she actually uses the word “idiot” as well as “moron” and “stupid!” The weirdest part is that these idiots just stand there and take it!  Some of these morons actually smile and giggle when she tells them that they are idiots, which, I guess, confirms her diagnosis, huh?

  I would love to be able to get paid to tell idiots that they are idiots!  I do it for free now, which is fun, but I would love to get paid to do it.  Picture it: I am waiting to get out of a faculty meeting when one of the “how the hell did she graduate from college again?” teachers asks the speaker to repeat and reiterate until my ears start to bleed. Did ya listen?  They already covered that! I stand up, call the offending listening impaired person an idiot, tell them that NO we can't repeat what the speaker just covered ten minutes ago and BAM! the meeting is adjourned at my discretion!  I dream about a world like that.  “Yes, Judge Jane, you are right. Your word is THE word. Here is your check.” Escort them out of the courtroom Byrd,,,, Who’s with me? 

She Must Be On Her Period

Why is it that when a woman asserts herself some insecure man assumes that woman is on her period?  Seriously?  It is the twenty first century and some men still make that assumption!  These are the same Neanderthals who also assume that if a woman turns down their irresistible offer of sex that she must be a lesbian…and he wants to watch.

This argument has been going on ever since the first woman refused to pound her husband’s deerskin on a rock down by the river.  “Wash your own filthy drawers, chief.  Oh, and while I’m at it, your mother needs to move into her own god damned tee-pee.” 

She must be on her period because what woman would ever refuse the honor of washing her significant other’s filthy underwear unless her monthly flow has created a chemical imbalance re- adjusting her brain waves?  The nerve!

Well gentlemen I am here to debunk this myth here and now.  If I assert myself and state my case in a less than cordial tone it does not necessarily indicate a flow of menstrual blood.  It could mean that I am an intelligent, cognitively aware individual who doesn’t give a flying crap whether you think I’m cute or not.  If I assert myself and state my case in a less than cordial tone while wielding an axe, well then I just may be an intelligent, cognitively aware individual with ass kicking cramps and a flow that could float a diesel truck and you may have a valid point.  By the way, I  advise that you throw me a bag of chocolate and get the hell out of my way ‘cause I sharpened this axe this time last month when you forgot to bring the trash cans up in a timely manner

Don’t EVER ask a woman if she is on her period unless you are on your way to Walgreens to pick up a large box of super absorbent tampons, a bottle of extra strength Midol, and a one pound Cadbury milk chocolate bar.  A copy of People magazine would be nice too. 

Temporary Couch Potato

Every Spring I notice that I have gained weight.  I hibernate like a grizzly all winter and then I emerge as one. I know it all winter long, but I choose to ignore it and start wearing huge elastic waist pajamas as soon as I hit the front door after work.  I graze all day on salty, then sweet, then salty to cut the sweet, then sweet to freshen up the salty. I rationalize not walking my daily five-mile trek.  It’s too cold, it is going to get dark before I get back…I’m tired….I worked so hard today…is there any cake left?…blah, blah.  I fool myself with lies.  My jeans are tight….oh, these have always been tight….I must be retaining fluid…milkshakes, beer, eggnog, you know….fluid.

Why do I do this to myself every year?  During the pleasant weather months I faithfully walk five miles a day. I try to eat right, but I can never lose that last 50 pounds….yeah, I said 50!  What are you looking at?  I look good in this bikini and you know it….jealous?  Yes I have a cover-up?  Why do you ask? 

Ask any of my close friends who have listened to me gripe about this for years.  I exercise EVERY DAY (from March until November) and I don’t eat badly (from March until November…not counting Easter.)  I have come to grips with the fact that I will never be a skinny bitch.  I will be a bitch, just not a skinny one.  I am a curvy woman. I have boobs, big ones, and I have a very muscular frame.  I have been told all my life that I am a mesomorph, defined in the dictionary as: well-defined muscles, large bones.. Oh great!  I am “big boned.”  No one wants to hear that!  “She’s a big boned girl, real healthy….”  I sound like a freakin’ farm animal!  Where’s that damned feed bag?  It had better be filled with chocolate, and get that milking machine away from me!

It is very frustrating especially knowing that there are others out there who eat crap and never get off the sofa, even during the pleasant months, and they weigh less than I do.  I have to freakin’ starve to lose weight.  I gained weight on weight watchers!  I like food!  I like 3 squares a day!  It also doesn’t help that I’m married to a gorgeous big hunk o’ man who gets scared every time I try to go on a diet.  Not only am I dangerous to be around, but also I stop cooking him his favorite fat ass meals.  He starts to undermine me in subtle ways.  “Hey Bays, I got ya a strawberry cream cheese croissant at the market!”  Thanks a lot Du!  No one can resist a Sandbridge Market pastry!  They are baked fresh daily for our eating pleasure and are a little slice of heaven. You are an evil man.  No, he’s really not evil, he’s just afraid. I can’t hate him or blame him.  I love to eat and he knows it. I also admit that I am not an easy dieter to live with.  It’s kinda like throwing raw meat into a lion’s cage.  He throws me the pastry and then slowly walks into the kitchen….gauging my reaction and making sure he has a clean escape route. He’s no fool.

The truth is that I am lucky enough to be married to a man who loves how I look no matter what the scale says. He tells me how beautiful he thinks I am on a regular basis.  I would hate being married to an insecure guy who criticized everything I put in my mouth and I have friends whose husbands actually tell them when they need to lose a few pounds!

  Can you believe that?  I would tell that jerk that I know a way to lose 200 pounds in five minutes, pack his shit and leave it at the door!  Why do some women allow that behavior to continue?  If I were married to an idiot like that I would most likely be skinny, and extremely unhappy.  But who am I kidding?  As soon as I reached optimal fighting weight I would beat him to a pulp and leave his evil ass for a real man who loved me for me….and then I would get fat again.  Ya can’t have it all, ladies.  I’ll keep the misguided one I have. He knows that I cannot eat a handful of lettuce and call it lunch! Muscle weighs more than fat… Waaa-waaa for me.  Things could be worse.  I am in relatively good health and I am grateful for that, but can a sista get a bit of sympathy for that last 50 pounds? 

Happy Hour?

Staff Parties

Are you going to the “halfway thru the year party?”  We have one of those instead of the “oh so passé”  Christmas party.  Hell to the no I’m not going. 

Our staff has a committee that we call the Staff Welfare Committee.  The main job of that group of teachers is to collect money from the staff, buy flowers and condolence cards when necessary and plan all faculty/staff social events.  This committee works harder than any other committee we have. It is a thankless job.  It doesn’t help that our committee is run by a few folks who haven’t found anything even remotely fun or amusing in years.  It’s hard to get excited about a party when the message is delivered by Debbie Downer in a school sweatshirt. “Next Friday night is the…sigh…halfway thru the year ….sigh….party.  I hope everyone…yawn (oops, that was me yawning, sorry) can attend.

 They try so hard to “bring everyone together” by planning Happy Hours at local bars and restaurants AKA "Happy Drunk driving anyone?"  I mean, seriously!  We are invited to attend these happy hours at local bars that offer half price drinks and then we all have to drive home!  I guess I just don’t have enough self-control to drink responsibly and I sure as hell don’t want to be my friends’ designated driver.  Now that would be a thankless night from hell. “Y’all have fun and drink up so I can drive your drunk asses home…no, no, no you are not puking in my car, are you?  OPEN THE WINDOW!”

As a designated driver you get to watch everyone’s light switch go out and then the fun begins.  I know my friends and I’ve seen it before. They start laughing hysterically over stuff that just isn’t funny unless you too have downed at least five shots of tequila.  Then they all run out to the dance floor and dance together with their arms in the air balancing drinks. Soon they start to cry and tell everyone how much they love them.  “OH my god, I love you soooo much.  Where did you get that skirt?  It’s sooo cuuuute!” The final fifteen minutes of the evening involves someone telling someone else what they really think of them and then the fight begins. No, I won’t be attending the staff party, but a select few of you non-pukers are welcome to come to my house next weekend and have a real party….one that doesn’t involve embarrassing Monday morning photos posted on Facebook by sneaky bitches with camera phones. The taxi service numbers will be on the bar. 

My TV Friends...special snow day edition.....

Ya ever stay home so much that you start thinking the characters on the TV shows you watch are your friends? Maybe it’s just me but I find this especially true with reality TV “families.”  I can’t wait to turn on the TV to find out what Kim Khloe, and Kourtney are up to.  I hate them and I am fascinated by them at the same time.  I am entertained by their rich spoiled lifestyles and the stupid micro-problems that they whine about every week.  How can anyone not be fascinated?  They do what they want when they want and they think posing for pictures and owning a store that daddy bought them is work?  I love when they moan about how “hard they work.  It’s both hilarious and sad. If I saw them on the street I would say “Hi” to them and be shocked that they do not know who I am.  I guess I can almost understand the crazy stalkers who are insulted when their obsession has no idea who they are. “Whatdayamean I don’t live in Mr Letterman’s house?  I watch him every night.  He knows me…I’m the one who….oh, never mind….” 

  During the warmer months I am never indoors.  I rarely even watch TV during the summer.  I am reading by the pool or on the beach and sometimes I am actually exercising. Not when the temperature drops below 50.  I tend to hibernate. I find myself watching way too much TV especially the winter my husband was working out of town during the week.  I had nothing to do at night so I channel surfed.  This winter he was home but I was already addicted to TV.  I have such a short attention span that I sometimes watch several shows at once.  Every time a commercial comes on I flip to one of my other shows.  I once watched a movie, two entertainment news shows and the weather channel (to see if it was snowing yet) for hours.  I knew most of what was happening on all of the shows. I just kept finding new shows to surf and it continued until my brain completely melted into my popcorn bowl. I am either very sad, and pathetic or I am an awesome pop culture guru.  I was actually quoting the people on these shows to my family and was surprised when they had no idea who I was talking about.  Some people just don’t “keep up” with what’s important.  What do you mean they turned off my cable because I haven’t paid the bill since October? I have been very busy planning Khloe’s wedding, because even though it happened over a year ago they keep showing the pre-wedding shows and I can re-live it over and over again.  

The  “Real” Housewives need me to attend their wine-filled catered affairs.….priorities, people….geeez!!!  Those "housewives" are really fun to watch.  They are so out of touch with reality and the lives of REAL housewives that the show is both annoying and hilarious and I can't look away.  Would it be fun to have that much time to party and stress about every comment my "friends" make or would it just be an expensive version of Jerry Springer? If I had the privilege to be a "housewife" who did not have to go to work ( yeah, yeah, I know...all of you "stay at home" moms work so hard...but so do those of us who had to work when we had little ones.  We had to juggle the mommy duties and the work duties so not matter how many nasty comments I get there is no way that staying home is as hard as being a working mom...yeah, I said it...) I don't think that I would dress up in full make-up, jewelry, and shoes every day if I didn't work.  Real stay at home housewives wear yoga pants and flip flops,and eat Doritos outta the bag and then hide the bag in the bottom of the trash can so no one will know there had even been Doritos in the house...or maybe that's just me.

BUT I digress...I know that somehow my television families know I'm watching and they talk to me through the voices in my head so I am definitely not wasting my time delving into their exciting lives....holy crap what time is it?  I think General Hospital is coming on and I promised Laura I would break up Luke and Tracy so when she comes out of her coma for good he will be waiting for her...now where did I hide the Doritos....

I am the guru…………

Feed Me

There they stand, toes pointed in, one heel tipped up looking ever so gangly and awkward, their legs so long and thin that a good strong breeze could take them out.  They stare at us with hollow smoky eyes filled with tentative naivete with pouty lips that are still moist….not from lip gloss, but from the bulimic episode that just took place in the ladies room five minutes prior to the shot.  Romaine lettuce is loaded with calories, gak!  Their thin sweater sleeves are pulled down their skeletal arms and down over their tiny hands because, due to lack of body fat, they are always freezing.  “Oooo, I am so cold and tiny.  Help me….” The cardigans they wear are held together at their flat chest with a single button and they look away as the wind machine blows to show a tiny lace camisole….you know the store….it sounds like the rowing team founded it…. These girls need to be taken care of by big strong (preferably older, much older with offshore accounts) men.    “I am so shy and unsure of myself, and my clothes are oh so large on me, waaaaaa, can I call you daddy?” What is up with models?  This is the 21^st century! We are supposedly trying to move our young American women toward a self-confident healthy body image and yet the fashion mags and catalogues keep using prepubescent models who look so sad and incapable of doing anything besides posing for fashion mags.  C’mon American women!  Am I the only one who is totally disgusted by this image?  It’s not even the anorexic body types they that make me crazy.  It’s the “pitiful me” poses and the tentative, pidgeon-toed stance.  Put both feet firmly on the ground and act like you can take charge and make an intelligent decision!  Thin is one thing, but helpless is another.  Be thin, but be fit and self-confident! And stand up straight so you don’t fall over from lack of nutrition!

 I, however, find myself in a bad situation. Despite the pathetic models this store prefers to feature in their print ads, I love the clothes at this store.  I want to order them from this horrible catalogue, but my conscience won’t let me.  Okay, maybe the huge overblown price tags and the fact that everything in the store is way too tight on my arms may have something to do with my hesitance, but still…I love the clothes!  Michelle Obama outfitted her daughters with their children’s line!  The clothes are casual, chic, and exactly my personal style, but the models turn me off. So, it’s the ad campaign that hits me wrong and must represent who they prefer actually wears their clothing, right?  I mean is the fact that I have boobs and a butt preventing ladies like myself from looking acceptable in our society?  I drift between sizes 8 and 12, usually 12, okay maybe 14, (shut up) but it depends on what cycle of diet or rebellion I am in but seriously, my boobs never shrink no matter how much weight I lose so will I even fit into those little boy-chested tops? I can’t be the only woman out there with a woman’s body and great taste in clothing, right?  Am I forced to wear clothes from that frumpy department store because they actually fit my arms and chest?  You know the one…you can buy ugly clothes, a refrigerator, and a lawn mower at the same register... and their tools have a lifetime guarantee!!!  

Young impressionable girls who don’t have strong female role models are influenced by these waifish images and makes them think that they could also be this thin and vulnerable if only they too could exist on cigarettes and purified water….and heroin.  Yeah, I said it. Why is it that these advertising gurus feel that a woman has to appear to be weak and vulnerable to be sexy?  And who the hell over the age of 15 has a concave stomach?  That always amazes me.  The khakis balance on their jutting hip bones and there is a space hollowed out in the middle where most people have a stomach.  They seem to have a tunnel.   Is it on the mag model checklist?  Gaunt cheekbones, check, enormous eyes spaced really far apart, check, long really skinny legs with no calf muscle, check, tiny narrow feet, check, bony elbows, check.…tunnel tummy? Maybe they don’t actually call it tunnel tummy….how about  concave, hollow echo chamber where a stomach (or soul) used to be?

 Women as weak and vulnerable creatures who are not allowed to eat….I thought that crap had gone the way of corsets and petticoats, but if today’s women want to eat three squares a day and fit into these outfits they do need the modern day corset….spanks you very much. I know I spelled it wrong.  I don’t wanna get sued by my favorite company!

 Weakness in a woman is only sexy to weak insecure men, and who the hell wants to get stuck with one of those losers? I prefer a man who can handle a woman who is strong, sexy, and likes her steak medium rare…with a big hunk of chocolate cake for dessert.  I love you Du and thank you for telling me that you could never be attracted to a woman that you could snap in half. When he tells me that he holds up his pinky finger to suggest their size.  My daughter married a wonderful man with the same self confident philosophy that her father has about real women.  It gives me hope for the next generation. Strong, confident, and intelligent is where it’s at, baby.  If you don’t believe me ask my husband. He’s a keeper.

Scrapbooking ain't my gig

I’m an Artist…not the Crazy Craft Lady

Let’s not confuse fine art with cross-stitch.  Don’t ask me to make paper mache volcanos and dioramas of dinosaur habitats for your science lesson.  No, I can’t use your old nasty egg cartons and your boxes of broken crayons you can’t bear to throw away.  I do not want your faded scrap paper or your old milk cartons.  Times have changed since art class in 1957.  We use actual art supplies and we create interesting and challenging works of art with paper, paint, and other materials suited for art class in the 21^st century.   I’m not saying that I don’t use recycled materials once in a while, and let’s face it….I luv me some glitta…I’m just saying that I don’t expect you to use moldy textbooks and broken pencils so don’t be offended when I do not want to store your old cardboard shoeboxes and yarn scraps, k? 

  No, I do not scrapbook.  I actually had one of these scrapbookers say; “You could scrapbook if you try…it’s easy!”  Really?  Ya think?  Ya think all of my years in school and as a practicing artist I too would figure out how to put stickers on a page and perhaps learn to use pinking shears?  I know, I’m sooo mean, what an arrogant bitch I am, but seriously…. When will these crafters leave me alone?  Rubber stamping is not art.  Stringing beads someone else made is not art.  Scrapbooking using stickers and die cut shapes is not art and definitely not my idea of a fun afternoon.  I am happy that these folks have found something that helps them feel creative, but don’t drag me into it. Do not confuse those hobbies with a career as an artist.  Sorry if I hurt your feelings.  Why don’t you buy a huge white sweatshirt and iron a pattern of perhaps…a bunch of kittens over the words, World’s Greatest Me-Maw, and puff paint the hell out of it?  It will make you feel better and you will have something to wear when they throw you into the psychiatric ward.  I just hope they don’t put you in the bed next to mine.  I insist on watching Judge Judy everyday at 6 and I hate pudding. Put that in your basket and knit it.

I feel much better now.

Sue

Sue

My friend Sue would bail me out of jail at midnight on Christmas Eve if I called her and I would do the same for her.  No one would ever find out about the incident unless I told them because that is the type of friendship Sue and I have. We keep our secrets secret and no one could drag them out of us even with a vat of Ben and Jerry's.

 Sue and I used to have a blast working together because we have the same twisted sense of humor and the same balanced hormones that young teachers lack.  We also have the gift of extreme self-confidence…in other words, we don’t give a flying crap what anyone thinks because we are absolutely secure in our intelligence and sense of self worth. We are lucky to have wonderful families and husbands we adore.  We also both have daughters who are also our best friends, so school drama is a minor glitch in an otherwise pretty cool life.  Women who work together and have too much estrogen get mad about the dumbest things on earth.  I used to go home and tell my husband, who works in the construction industry, the silly petty conflicts between co-workers at my school and he would laugh until I told him they were true. “So and so wouldn’t talk to me today because she was mad that I accused her of being late bringing her kids to my classroom and she has decided that I no longer exist, etc….really?”  It took me, no lie, a month to realize that a certain mentally warped person wasn’t speaking to me.  It was hilarious.  Someone asked me if  "Cindy" was still mad at me and I was clueless!  It’s not that I am oblivious, I just don’t care about that crap! I enjoyed the silence.  Can you picture a guy on a construction site complaining because a co-worker hurt his feelings?  “Uhhh, Boss, Billy Bob said he didn’t like my new work boots because I don’t have steel toes, and frankly I don’t think he considered my feelings…”  Hell no it would never happened.  Guys just don’t work or think like that.  Correction, guys with testosterone don’t act like that.  #1. They do not comment on each other’s wardrobe choices. #2. If they happened to lose their minds and do it guy number two would tell guy number one to go screw himself and they would be friends going out for a beer a few hours later. Case closed.  Women hold grudges, men forget.  My husband frequently calls me a gravedigger when I bring up past indiscressions. The problem is he thinks that if he did it yesterday it is waaay in the past and it’s over.  Silly, silly man. 

However, something happens to a man who works around a lot of women for an extended period of time.  First, they start to gossip.  Then they start to “get their feelings” (AKA Egos) bruised and then they grow a vagina and all hell breaks loose.  They start PMS-ing, they start to whine.  I’m sorry male teachers, you are the worst.  Yeah, I said it.

Sue and I refused to play the “I’m mad at you” game at work and it drove the gossipy biddies nuts.  We played pranks on everyone, but I can only mention the ones on which the statute of limitations have run out….

We had fun…our kind of fun….

We would regularly rearrange the items on our anal retentive principal’s desk when he was out playing golf,,,,oops, I meant at a meeting.  We also gave him the items on his desk back to him in a gift bag on Boss’s day even though the other teachers gave him major “suck-up” gifts.  He didn’t think that was funny, but we did. We threw some candy in there too,…candy from the office stash.  He was out for back surgery and we threw trash in his room and took photos of it and of Sue eating a messy sub sandwich at his desk while three friends of ours were sitting on the desk with their shoes off.  We also took photos of one of us entering his private bathroom with a newspaper.  Why weren’t we fired?  I have no idea!  He also had a real problem with folks wearing flip-flops.  We live in a casual beach town. He is from Pennsylvania.  Flip-flops are a wardrobe staple around here.  He hated them.  I loved them…need I continue?  I decorated my door with them. I used them as my stationary logo. I covered a pair of tiny yellow rubber ones with glitter and beads and gave them to him for his birthday.  He insisted on calling them “shower shoes” Whah? Is that some Pennsyl-tuckie term?  We call them flip-flops down here at the beach and they are the best shoes ever invented and I wear them ‘till the snow falls.  Stilettos are for sittin’, boots are for walkin’ and flip-flops are for livin’. They will never go out of style in my ‘hood and they never should. Screw you Jimmy Choo.  You don’t have to fit your foot into those torture devices that you design and have conned millions into buying with an extrememly overpriced tag! I luv me some flip-flops! I especially love cheap flip flops. Ain’t beach life grand?

I’m an anti establishment trouble maker, which is why Sue and I are friends.  We unplugged the vacuum cleaner on Jackie our custodian for months before she found out it was us.  She would walk around the corner and yell, “What is wrong with this thing?” We loved Jackie.  A kinder person you will never meet.  Thank god she loved us too because when our hallway was crowded with discarded computer desks we blocked the door shut on her office and then had our principal call her down to the main office on the intercom and on her walkie and to say it was an emergency.  Flip-flops aside he was a pretty good sport. She had been in her bathroom (we didn’t know…okay, we did) and she was banging and yelling to get out.  She immediately knew it was us and screamed our names.  We finally let her out and she didn’t talk to us all day. She was furious!  I guess we went a touch too far.  Jackie finally forgave us because we showered her with “I’m sorry” notes and candy that we stole….oops, borrowed from the office stash. We were going to give her all the stuff from the principal’s desk, but that joke was getting old.

We were planning a social event and one of us expressed our love for the small cakes called petifores, but in our sugar filled haze one of us accidentally called them pedophiles. From then on when we have to attend an event we always volunteer to bring a dozen pedophiles, because “we love us some pedophiles.” No one seems to think it is as funny as Sue and I do, which makes it even funnier to us.  Some folks are soooo uptight! Pedophiles are yummy.

My other good friend was the guidance counselor, Lynne.  Lynnie often used puppets to reinforce her lessons.  She arrived at work many times to find her puppets in compromising positions, smoking paper cigarettes and having “relations” with other puppets as well as her computer mouse.  That mouse was a whore. Somebody at that school had a sick mind.  I have no idea who broke into her room at night and did that.  It was disgusting…hahahaaa

 We also kept raising the adjustable stool height little by little on a certain employee who was a retired naval officer with a Napoleon complex who “transitioned” into being a school counselor. Think about it….retired officer who likes to be in charge…has a little man complex….inappropriate feelings that he expresses openly for a married colleague. He happened to be married to a woman who had his little jewels in her iron fist.  What a great guy to provide guidance to our youth! We sure can pick ‘em!  We hoped he thought he was shrinking.  We stopped short of raising the pictures on his wall because that would have required spackle and that was just too much work. It was awesome!  He lusted after a certain married albino bunny who taught kindergarten.  Yes, I said bunny.  She weighed in at 89lbs and was always shivering and rubbing her paws…I mean hands together to warm up.  She complained that Little Napolean was stalking her but she secretly loved it.  We took full advantage of the situation, but the statutes haven’t run out on those “incidents” so that is all I will say.  Use your imagination….there ya go, uh-huh.   We heard she left her hubbie and got married.  No, not to Napolean, but guess who knew every detail of the courting, marriage, and move?  Yep, you guessed it!

The final year we worked together we found a pair of beaver tails in the old box of play costumes, pinned them on and wore them to the office and told the staff we were going home because we just didn’t give a “dam”…get it?  I guess you had to be there.  The point is that everyone needs a friend like Sue.  Someone you can call and share, vent, empathize, and just plain bitch with! Someone you can trust no matter what.  As my daughter says, everyone needs a “trash talkin’” friend . Someone to pluck out your chin hairs if you end up on life support. Oprah has Gail. I have Sue.  I hope you have someone.

Nice Rack Fido

  My dear friend Miriam just wrote on her FB page that her dog is recovering from a mastectomy.  Really? Your DOG had a mastectomy….and it cost one thousand dollars….people dollars, not dog dollars?  Who the hell does that?  Okay dog lovers I do not want any mail from you. AWE!  Yes, awe is right.  I’m sorry! I love my dog Marley.  We named her Marley ten years before the movie came out and yes she is just as wacko as the lab in the movie. We named her Marley because on the way home from our three hour trip to Mechanicsville to “adopt” her from a breeder she calmed down and fell asleep in a beach towel in my daughter’s lap when we played Bob for her. . Her favorite song is “Three Little Birds.” She licks people non-stop and yes she jumps and knocks people down and yes she actually ate a sofa….a leather sofa from the eighties…and a chair. Okay she also ate a coffee table and two end tables.  Through all of the chewing, jumping, and licking we still loved and kept Marley because she was and still is our dog….but A THOUSAND DOLLAR MASTECTOMY?   I love my Marley….but a THOUSAND DOLLARS for a doggie mastectomy?  I had to say that twice because I am implying to you without actually saying it that a twelve year old dog has lived a long life and….Dr Kevorkian anyone?  AWE! I have questions about this “procedure” that must be answered. Did they take fat from her abdomen to reconstruct her little doggie booby?  How many ta-tas does a dog have anyway?  Would they miss one if it were gone?  Would the other dogs make fun of her missing booby, teat…nipple….what do you call a dog tittie?  I would have to think long and hard about that one.  My first question to Miriam is; how did you know your dog had breast cancer?  Don’t tell me you take her for a yearly mammogram.  How does she hold still long enough for the tech to smash her tiny booby into the machine?  Does the dog now wear a pink collar?  Yes, I am making cancer jokes, and yes my friends and family members who could take exception to that are laughing their breast cancer-surviving warrior in pink asses off at this.  A doggie mastectomy….hey wait a minute Miriam, isn’t your dog a male?

Nicey- Nice

 I’m sure it happens all over the country, but here in the south women feel the need to make nicey-nice.  Nicey-nice is when we, as women, feel the need to nurture everyone in sight.  We buy little gifts, cards, and bring in baked goods.  We also initiate “Secret Santa” gift  exchanges and plan baby showers for teachers we freakin’ hate! We give cards and bring in cake to celebrate birthdays and buy presents for people with whom we aren’t even remotely friends.  Guys do not do this!

We had a part time female guidance counselor who insisted on trying to have us all share our “feelings” in a positive way.  One of my best friends happened to be the full time guidance counselor and she knew that we were going to eat this chick alive.  Secretly I think she enjoyed watching it happen.  The part time person was and still is a self-promoting prima donna.  Nobody could even come close to her magic ability to counsel and “help” both students and faculty and I’m sure she wondered how we had gotten through the day before she came along to save us from despair.  She, in her efforts to make us better people, created a  (I am not making this up “Sunshine Board” using a dry erase board that she decorated with a huge artificial sunflower in the upper right hand corner…placed “just so.”  She put a flower embellished marker on a string and attached it to the board and hung it in the women’s (not the men’s, ‘cause we make nicey-nice) restroom.   Placing it in a concealed location was her fatal mistake. We were encouraged to write “positive messages” and she herself wrote a daily affirmation on the board to greet us every morning.  I took it upon myself to answer her daily affirmations with my sense of fun and…oh who am I kidding?  You know what I did.  Every time some Polly-Anna wrote some saccharin sweet “happy” message my friends and I would compete to see who could run in there and answer it first.  I think some people thought I had a bladder problem.  I spent every free minute in the restroom just writin’.  Pretty soon the morning affirmations began to turn into daily chastisements to “whoever the rude person is who is ruining everyone’s fun.”  It was awesome!  Pretty soon she began to hide the marker, but hey, I’m an art teacher!  I have a ton of markers!  She was such an amateur! She actually stomped her foot at the faculty meeting and kept glaring at me as she yelled at “us” for ruining what she thought would be a “nice way to start the day.”  She swore she would catch the person who was responsible! Woo-Hoo! That only fueled my fire!  She didn’t know me at all.  Oh yeah?  Catch me?  Ha! After a while folks started leaving me gifts and ideas for new comments.  I became a rock star! The glaring dirty looks I received from Miss Part Time Guidance weren’t intimidating, they just gave me ammunition!  The teachers, however just didn’t get it!  In my effort to stop the mindless spreading of “nicey-nice” manure, I became the recipient of it and worse yet, my comments started to make everyone else have a good day.  Holy crap!  I was making nicey-nice! What had I done? But seriously, my efforts to squelch the artifice of the Sunshine Board seemed to help almost everyone realize that fun and camaraderie need to come naturally and without artifice.  Friendships can’t be forced.  Everyone should be courteous to his or her coworkers, but we don’t need someone to tell us how to do it. Always remember, you’re good enough, and smart enough….you know the rest. Have a sunshiny day!