Saturday, October 29, 2005

Disgusting Memories of My Life in Retail, Part III

There were a number of poor people who shopped at that K-Mart store. There were also a number of pigs as well. It wasn’t always just a question of someone not being able to afford to dress better or not knowing that they were dressed inappropriately. I’m convinced that it was a mission for some.

It was common to see heavily made-up girls, their stubbily-chewed nails with chipped dark blue polish, wearing skimpy tube tops barely covering their 48DD’s, and Daisy Dukes so short you could see their tampon strings dangling. None of the clothing EVER covered up the humungous hickeys on their boobs, beer bellies or thighs. And nothing ever came close to hiding the filth and calluses on their pudgy feet. Flip-flops were called “thongs” back then and were as disgusting on their feet as current-day thongs would be on their asses.

I won’t even get into those little brown, stubby, hole-filled Chiclets that the men and women tried to pass off as teeth. All sorts of things swirled through my head such as, “With teef that NASTY and decaying cigarette breath that STANK, how could you have sex with it??” And let them give you hickeys? That leaves a slimy trail of stinky spittle in its wake. EWWWWWW.

It was always a hilarious eye-rolling experience to see guys strutting in their “muscleman/wife-beater” t-shirts ripped wide open at the armpits so that you could see a hairy nipple and most of a beer belly. Of course, the shirt couldn’t have hidden that gut even if it wasn’t torn. Usually they had receding hairlines, 3 days facial growth, dirty hands and an unfiltered Camel hanging from the corner of their mouths. They looked at you with one squinty eye, trying to keep the cigarette smoke out of the other. Even after 30 years, I can still picture the collective group.

These “males” (they surely weren’t men by any stretch) were convinced that they were charismatic and desirable and were sure to work overtime at increasing their girlfriends’/wives’ insecurities by hitting on us. Typically they’d berate the girls/women, who were usually fat, in the checkout line. While the women would look like beaten dogs, the males would then turn on the charm to the cashiers. This was to show the woman what a piece of shit she was and that he had a “bond” with the cashier who’d surely fuck him in the parking lot if he’d only ask. “Sure, handsome! I’ll take you on right here, especially since I didn’t hear ANY of the vile things you just spewed at your girlfriend/wife, as spittle sprayed her & ran down your chin. And even if I DID, I’m sure she deserved it!”

One of my more enjoyable moments was when one pig mentioned that he forgot to grab a 12 pack of condoms. First of all, everyone knew we didn’t have them at the checkouts. Then he tried to be suave , mentioning he’d need them for a “busy night.” Big mistake. I looked at him with a sad, straight face and said, “Quick shooter? Sorry that you waste so many. " I should've told him that we didn’t carry anything that small except for the finger cots in the stationery department. That smirk left his face and he looked like I’d ripped his balls off. In retrospect, I sure hope I didn’t cause his girlfriend/wife to get her ass beat after that.

A vision that will be forever burned into my retinas came to me in the form of a HUGE unkempt woman. She surely weighed at least 300 pounds. Her face was so fat that it looked like someone had punched it in. Combine that with shoulder length greasy, stringy blonde? brown? hair whose dirt I could smell across that counter, black rimmed men’s eyeglasses on her pimply face and horrendous underarm odor. I didn’t know whether to feel sorry or disgusted. I settled on both.

The coup de gras? As I bent down to write information on the personal check she’d given me, I made the mistake of looking up. My head was about 10” from the counter, and belly high to her. Her belly was resting on my counter. Her navy blue polyester pants had split up the front seam, and were held together vertically by those huge safety pins. In addition to being overcome by horrible rottencrotch stench, I was treated to the sight of her pendulous doughy abdomen pressing through those straining safety pins that would’ve punctured my brain had they blown open. The hair from her “trail of misery” poked through as well.

Jesus fucking Christ, my eyes started to water. My jaw started trembling, mouth watering, ass cheeks sweating. I needed to get the fuck outta there NOW. I processed her check, practically tossed the bag of merchandise (including Rid Shampoo, wonder why?) at her, shut down my line and as politely as I could, tore outta there toward the employee bathrooms at the back of the store.

I was happy to graduate to the Service Desk, where I got to deal with REAL thieves!

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Harriet Miers--the ringer?

Am I the only one who thinks that she was never a serious contender, but rather a ringer to throw us off? I'd bet some serious money (if I HAD any) that the REAL candidate has been waiting in the wings the whole time. This "real" candidate would obviously have to be a huge douchebag, someone who'd not likely get the position if presented as GWB's first choice.

By presenting someone so woefully inappropriate as a nominee to the Supreme Court, whomever GWB really picked would have to be a shoo-in. I mean, we'd all be so thrilled that it wasn't Harriet, right?

Just my way o' thinkin'. Anybody?

Disgusting Memories of My Life in Retail, Part II

I tried to have patience, people. I really did. Men used to piss me off when it was time for them to pay. Toothpicks dangling from their mouths, they’d grunt at me, mumble unintelligibly and literally TOSS the money onto the counter, ignoring my outstretched hand. We didn’t have conveyors then, and it was a bitch to try picking up change from that counter. I’d get so pissed off, if they had change coming, guess who slammed that shit down on the counter for THEM to pick up? Fuckers. Don’t mess with a bitch, yo.

It used to make me abso-fucking-lutely crazy when women would pile a shitload of merchandise on the counter for me to ring up, knowing they didn’t have enough fucking money to pay for all of it. I’d have to call a supervisor to void it all out and it was time consuming as hell. The women didn’t give a shit. And it always seemed to be the Sistahs that did this. I don’t know why.

Or they’d tell me, “Stop when it gets to $30.” Back in the 70’s, $30 bought a lot of shit. It pissed me off when, after I told them they’d reached that $30 mark, they’d start pulling shit out of the pile that they wanted me to VOID so they could add something ELSE instead.

I finally got smart. When they’d pull that “stop at $30” shit, I’d tell them. “How ‘bout if you pick out what you want MOST?” It worked every time. Until I added that fucked up package of chewing gum to their total.


I also LOVED their fake looks of surprise, when I’d find hidden merchandise inside other stuff they were buying—boxes of all kinds, purses, coolers, jewelry boxes (“No, it doesn’t fucking come with jewelry IN it, dumbass.”). Seriously, did they think we weren’t going to check? We weren’t TODAY’S cashiers who’d let you walk out with 100 CDs inside that opened box containing the boom box you were buying!

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Disgusting Memories of My Life in Retail, Part I

During high school, I worked 30 hours a week at a local K-Mart. My co-workers, for the most part, were pretty cool kids from other local high schools. There were also the older women who, for the most part, were bitter hags without much edumacation.

I started as a cashier when I was 16. This particular store was located at the juncture of lower and middle class towns. It just happened to be inside the city limits of what was referred to as “Taylor-tucky” (I didn’t create the name, so no offense meant to any Kentuckians, OK?)

I have always been open-minded and pretty tolerant of anything but “stupid.” I have always had a reeeeeeealy hard time with “stupid.” Unfortunately, Taylor-tuckians were a whole lotta “stupid” with special sauce.

In the late 70’s, there seemed to be a HUGE population of young, white unwed mothers with green-snot nosed kids in tow; many times more than 3 of them per shopping cart and the obligatory one on the hip. The kids were usually without shoes or socks, dressed in dirty t-shirts that didn’t quite cover their little bellies and wearing saggy disposable diapers. Their huge eyes and matted hair haunted me. They’d be smeared with various substances, most notably boogers, dirt and tears. I’d bet that they were all less than 1 year apart, based upon their size and the haggard look of despair worn on their mothers’ faces.

It was a pitiful thing to watch these girls trying to handle all of their kids. “Parenting” wasn’t exactly something that was taught in Junior High before they dropped out to start popping out these babies. On any given day, you’d typically hear a woman yelling at her kids several times, then a loud “SLAP” quickly followed by wailing of one or more child. This was followed by more yelling and the cycle was repeated on down the line until everyone in the shopping cart was crying, as she furiously jerked the cart around the aisles on 2 wheels. Child abuse? Never heard of it in 1976.

Sometimes the mothers would actually NOT hit their kids. Unfortunately for K-Mart, this usually meant financial losses were incurred leading to their subsequent bankruptcy some 30 years later. Mommy would merely reach for something in the candy or cookie section of the store & start feeding her spawn, never intending to pay for any of it. The store would then discover the torn packaging in the Ladies underwear department and write the items off as a loss. Don’t EVEN get me started on the used Pampers that would be found in the Infant’s department or stuffed into boots in Footwear.

I was a great employee. As a cashier, I was fast, efficient and careful with handling whatever people were buying. I mean, how many times has any employee at K-Mart actually FOLDED underwear rather than stuff it in the bag? But I digress.

It was common practice for mommy to hand her screaming spawn packs of gum on which to chew as she unloaded her cart in the checkout aisle. She never actually opened them so that when you caught her piranha slobbering and gumming through the packaging, she’d quickly yank it out of Chewie’s mouth and stick the soggy, mashed gum back in the bin. “Oh, we don’t want that!”

Now, I can sympathize when a little one grabs something and mommy didn’t see it happen or wasn’t quick enough to stop it. But when the same stupid bitch pulls the same stupid shit with the same fucking cashier who SEES her do it week after week…that takes a whole lotta “special” stupid. Hence, my extreme sarcasm and loss of patience.

When I’d see these fucktards hand their kids the gum or food items, I’d just silently ring up the damage, without going through the Cashier Waltz of “Do you want those items?” I didn’t give a flying fuck if they went through the motion of taking it out of Chewie’s mouth, or out of Booger’s slimy hands. If the item had ANY bodily fluids on it, she just bought it. Even if she placed the items on the shelf near the counter.

See, lady? Since I went beyond 8th grade and wasn’t distracted by a drunk asshole at home, tons of dick and 4 little kids under the age of 3, I was able to memorize prices of items even if you never waved the price tag anywhere near my face. Those 25 cent packs of gum and 88 cent packs of cookies were now YOURS. Enjoy.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Chocolate Memories...

My mom's entire family is in Germany. For summer vacations, we'd go visit the family for anywhere from 6 weeks to 3 months, usually the latter. We could only afford to go every 3 years or so back in the 60's and 70's.

I was almost 5 when I first met my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. I can still vividly remember MANY things about this trip. My cousin, Diana (who was 6 months older than me), and I were inseparable. We had the BEST times together!

I enjoyed staying with her in their home, which was actually in a building that resembled an apartment. They lived on the 2nd of 3 floors. There were 2 families on each floor, a shared basement where each family had a fenced-in storage area, and a large stone "cooking pot" with a wringer for laundry. The shared attic was huge, well-lit by windows that cranked open in the roof, and was empty except for the rows and rows of clothes lines everywhere. Each family was assigned a laundry day and a week that they were responsible for sweeping all 3 levels (including stairs). The apartment buildings were all attached in a row, comprising housing for approximately 30 families.

The people in the apartments pretty much kept to themselves. Directly below Diana's apartment lived a really mean middle-aged woman with her husband. She looked absolutely HUGE to me. Like a linebacker. Or like Miss Trunchbull in "Matilda." Her name was Schmidt, but my family referred to her as "Dicke, fette, Schmitty" (translated: "big fat Schmitty"). She glared. She spied through curtains and that little peephole in her door. She bitched about everything. It was just best to avoid her at all costs, and creep silently past her door on your way out of the building. She scared us kids shitless.

My most favorite times were spent on the balcony, since I had never ever seen one. There wasn't a SINGLE balcony that didn't havebeautiful cascading petunias of many colors. It was simply breathtaking for this little 5 year old. I was also enthralled by the huge colorful sun umbrellas everyone had on their balconies. I had never seen anything like it!

Diana and I would sit on the sprawling back lawn, which had a gently sloping hill facing the apartments. It was perfect for little girls to go rolling down toward the playground. There was a huge sandbox (probably 30'x30'), a few swings and slides, but best of all were the monkey bars. It seems that every little German kid was required to take gymnastics in school. They all had these cute little undergarments that looked like bathing suit bottoms. They would routinely show as the girls in skirts spun over & over the bars. I had underpants envy--BIG time. Turns out, they also coveted MY flowered American undies!

One day as Diana and I sat on the balcony, we decided to have a spitting contest. I don't know why we came up with this, except that it is just what kids DO. We alternately spit off the balcony & were quite impressed with our distance! We'd jump up and grab onto the balcony railing (with hang time) for that extra oomph. We'd laugh ourselves silly.

Then came my near-fatal mistake. Not giving it a second thought, as we were chewing the best chocolate in the entire world, I used the railing to give extra height to my spitwad. Not quite yet a physicist, I didn't realize that chocolate spit was significantly heavier than plain spit. Thus, although it had perfect arc, it flopped straight down. Onto Schmitty's bright yellow sun umbrella.

I swear that time stood still, Matrix-style. If I could have caught that chocolate blob in mid-flight, I would have. I would have leaped over the railing and fallen 2 stories down into the hedge roses to save that beautiful big sunny umbrella. But alas, I was 5 years old. So I did the next best thing. I swore my cousin to secrecy and we got the hell off that balcony.

Later as we were leaving the building with our mothers, who should meet us but Dicke Fette Schmitty? Blocking our path to the front door, with arms and legs akimbo, she proceeded to shriek at our mothers. New to the language, I didn't fully understand all of her words, but there was no mistaking what she meant. I wailed in the foyer as she berated my mother for her shitty parenting skills in raising a chocolate-spitting beast like me.

Once we were down the street, my mother dried my tears and treated me to ice cream as she got both of us to agree to never desecrate that umbrella again.

When I spoke with my cousin many, MANY years later, she told me that Schmitty never DID get that chocolate stain out of that umbrella. Not even an additional 12 years of exposure to the sun got helped. I smiled a little smile, knowing that I was still able to torture Schmitty in perpetuity from across the Atlantic. That old cow!

Friday, October 21, 2005

Getting the hang of this blogging thing...

I don't typically post a comment to the comments that people leave here. Then I realized just how much I like to read others' responses to comments that I have left on their blogs.

So, I will endeavor to get better at doing so. After this weekend, since I am on 12 hour shifts the next 2 days.

I also haven't quite grasped the "blogrolling" thing & putting links to others here. Maybe it's simpler that way. I wouldn't want to piss people off by not listing them. Well, given my nature, maybe I WOULD hehehe

Slacking with White Castle

Perhaps I should apologize for being such a slacker. Then again, maybe not. Hehehe

Being the attention whore that I am , I would like everyone who reads this to please go to and sign in. I would love to see where my blog readers come from!

Working my ass off lately, and sleeping otherwise. Not much of a life right now, but HEY! We're having White Castle tonight!! WooHOOOOOOO

The kids will ONLY eat them on a weekend when they don't have to leave the house LOLOL. If you've never had one, well... They are small enough to be gone in 1 to 4 bites (depending upon how big a PIG you are lol), they are LOADED with onions, they smell heavenly, are an acquired taste and are NOT like any other burger you have ever had. They don't nickname them "sliders" for nothin'! And you will "pffffft" for 2 days after eating them hehehe

You don't take someone there for a "hamburger" if they've never HAD sliders. These only resemble a hamburger in that they have a top & bottom bun, a meat substance in the middle and strangely mixed condiments. They mix ketchup & mustard so that it resembles neither, becoming thick & orange. Add dill pickle chips and rehydrated minced onion. They are actually steam-cooked on a grill, lying on the onions. The smell, to us Initiates, is heavenly. Good thing they smell pretty much the same coming OUT as they do going IN :)

I LOVE me some White Castle. Like all the Taco Bell/Pizza Hut, KFC/A&W's, there should be a franchise of White Castle/Krispy Kreme. Oh yeah.

Friday, October 14, 2005 occurred to me, he'd grown up just like me. My boy was just like meeeeee

Out of the mouths of babes... okay, he's 12. But this was STILL the funniest Goddamn thing I heard today.

We were driving home from his orthodontist appointment this afternoon. He told me that he didn't like the assistant who worked on him today.

Says he: "She kept missing my brackets and poking my gums."

Ever the nice mom, I tried empathizing with him then he KILLS me with this:

"And she smelled like old cheese and loneliness!"

I almost swerved into oncoming traffic.

I just don't know where he gets it.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

This isn't a sad post

A couple of years ago, I lost a wonderful friend, Peggy, to breast cancer. We belonged to the same online support group and had actually vacationed together a few times. I had arranged to meet a few of our other BC buddies so that we could go to her funeral together.

You had to know Peggy’s relationship with her control-freak German mother, the Hun, to really appreciate this situation. They had always had a “strained” relationship and her mother was quite the prize. I wasn’t even sure she was human. Their fights, complete screaming matches, were legendary. Hun repeatedly told Peggy how much she hated her and how worthless she was. Peggy would simply say, “Oh mother, I love you too” and laugh it off.

When Peggy knew she was going to die, she spent a lot of money mail-ordering a 50 pound chunk of rose quartz that she absolutely adored. It rested on her dresser in the sunlight where she could gaze at it whenever her eyes were open. It made her mother SICK. She was furious that P spent “ow-uh money” on such a frivolous thing. She ranted. P smiled through her oxycontin haze.

She also made her final arrangements. She didn’t want the Hun to have any say in how she was making her exit. She put everything in writing; that she wanted her service held at the funeral home since she wasn’t religious, then selected cremation and paid for her urn and a beautiful plot overlooking a lake. She selected beautiful music. Rock was to be played by a guitarist and classical by a pianist friend from the local symphony. She was at peace.

During her final 3 weeks of life, the Hun stopped holding the phone up to Peggy’s ear when we’d call. “She’s sleepink,” she would tell us in her staccato German accent. One of our friends who lived near them would visit Peggy. It was during those times that we could talk softly into Peggy’s ear, tell her we loved her and continue to make sick jokes about cancer. We “victims” tend to do that with one another, even as death looms near.

It was during this time that we discovered the Hun had been inviting her “church people” (as Peggy would have called them) in to see Peggy. The Hun wouldn’t let Peggy’s own friends talk to her, yet she invited total strangers in to “counsel” her dying daughter. Peggy was too weak to protest, and her mother guided her hand in signing checks to buy bibles, dozens of them, which were now covering every surface in Peggy’s room. If Peggy had been aware of this, she would have had seizures.

When the BC friends gathered from all over the country for the funeral, we realized that cremation was her only wish honored. Everything else was pure Hun.

The service was held at “Peggy’s new church.” We were the first to arrive; we even beat the funeral director & watched as he carried her in, using both hands. We went up front to read all the cards on the flower arrangements and I almost fell over. On Peggy. The director had set her urn on the floor right next to a pew. I didn’t see it, but I heard it clang as my foot connected with it.

Thankfully it was sealed tightly. Slack jawed, we all stared at each other, I looked down and said “Sorry, Peggy” and we burst into laughter. It was SUCH a Peggy moment; she would have appreciated my kicking her urn. Especially since that wasn’t the urn she had picked out and paid for. Again, the fucking Hun had to have the last word.

People that Peggy didn’t even know gave her eulogy. They were “church friends” who spoke mostly of her mother’s special love. The music? OMFG—as a German-American, I recognized the German national anthem as the first tune. I even sang along to show my BC buddies I knew what I was talking about. I felt like I was at the Olympics. Holy shit. There was no rock. There was no classical. There was no guitarist or pianist. There was an old church man playing the old church organ.

We were sure we could see that urn jiggling as Peggy turned over & over in it. If she hadn’t been cremated, I’m sure we would have seen hives on her face from being in a church.

In defiance for Peggy, none of us stood or sang religious tunes when called upon by the minister who was a stranger to our friend. We were furious that her wishes weren’t respected. We felt like the Black Panthers and almost raised our closed fists in silent solidarity, but we realized that since these people only knew the Hun (and not Peggy) we’d look like assholes. Not that it mattered, we just wanted to show more respect for our friend than her mother did.

Do you wanna know the worst part? Instead of being laid to rest in her beautiful lakefront plot, she is currently sitting on her mother’s mantel. I’m sure the Hun takes time out of her busy life to yell at her every single day. Fucking bitch.

I Caved...

I caved and did "that" thing. I entered "Michele needs" into Google & here's what I got:

Michele needs our prayers.
Michele needs our prayers. (again)
Michele needs your prayers.
(I am sensing a theme here...)
Michele needs to be more careful with her voodoo.
Michele needs to be healed desperately!

Now I have to wonder: how did I fuck up my voodoo so badly that I now need to be healed so desperately? I tend to be very thorough in whatever I do, so it surprises me that I fucked up voodoo.

And that whole prayer thing? Well, um...I'd really prefer that you send me fine, high quality European chocolate instead, thanks!

Saturday, October 08, 2005

It's My Month and I'll Share if I Want To

Here's MY contribution for breast cancer awareness month (I am refusing to capitalize this "holiday." Just because!).

Do monthly breast exams. You'll be your least lumpy and least tender on day 10 of your cycle (10 days AFTER your period STARTS). For menopausal women, pick 1 day a month (maybe the day they test tornado sirens) and do it that same day every month.

If you don't know what you're feeling, have your partner do it since they usually spend more time there than WE do.

Make a Boob Diary--get a notebook, draw a pair of boobs in it and plot out exactly where you feel stuff. Every month, bring it out for reference. Add anything new. Erase things that have gone away. GET TO KNOW YOUR BOOBS!

When you do an exam, you need to check all the way up to your collarbone and all the way over to your breastbone. Not just the fatty part of your boobs and your underarms.

Do this faithfully every month. Get good at it. If I had done them right, I may have caught my cancer a bit earlier.

Get your mammograms done! This is how my cancer was found. My mammogram was clear one year and showed cancer the next. It only showed a spot about the size of a thumb, but in reality, my total tumor growth was almost 10 cm --the size a woman needs to dilate to deliver a baby!

So take care of yourself & get them boobies looked after! Your family and friends want you around for a lonnnnnnnng time--no matter HOW big a pain in the ass you are!

Thursday, October 06, 2005

The Making of an Infomercial

Scene: resembles the 1950’s, targeting an audience packed with perfectly coiffed women wearing pearls.

Mr. Announcer: Ladies, are you tired of being the ones who always have to check the seat before sitting down to ‘do your business’? Tired of replacing floor tiles and wallpaper border? Sick and tired of throwing out full rolls of toilet paper, all because somebody can’t aim well?

Audience: nodding vigorously, smiling much too broadly

Mr. Announcer: We all know it’s a man’s world. Whether you live with just the King or a whole palace full of Princes, too, we have come up with a product to make your life easier!

Audience: bouncing up and down in their seats, applauding wildly, looking animatedly at each other

Mr. Announcer: Are you ready to hear about the most revolutionary product to ever grace your powder room?

Audience: bouncing up and down in their seats, applauding wildly, emitting tiny shrieks

Mr. Announcer: Well, here it is, ladies! I give you the TOILET FUNNEL™!!!!!

Audience: clapping wildly, shrieking loudly, and straining to see what it is.

Mr. Announcer: Here’s the way it works, ladies (a video begins playing as he extols the virtues of the Toilet Funnel):

When someone enters your powder room, a tiny sensor detects a male presence by measuring an Air Testosterone Level (ATL). For females, the system remains inactive, unless it detects a low level of AssAir (AA), an indication that someone is squatting over the seat instead of sitting. Depending upon just how much ATL or AA is present, the Toilet Funnel automatically activates and adjusts its height appropriately.

The Toilet Funnel mechanism then automatically closes the door behind the male and immediately surrounds him mid-thigh level with its patented FlexFunnel™ system. It has a special SplashBack Guard™ that curves back up around to his upper torso. This system is designed to catch urine no matter where he aims his little pee-pee.

Got someone who aims for the toilet tank? No problem, The Funnel’s got you covered! That wallpaper border with the sailboats? He can’t touch this! That basket of toilet tissue next to the commode? Not a problem with Toilet Funnel! The mirror and light fixtures? Impossible to reach! And best of all, he can’t even soil his clothing!

The patented FlexFunnel system is invaluable with drunks! Not only will they urinate into the right porcelain fixture, the Toilet Funnel is dual-purpose! The locking mechanism holds drunks upright at just the right angle to vomit! No more chunks on your throw rugs!

So order now! Operators are standing by!

Tom & Katie sittin’ in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-N-G (obviously)

I used to like Tom and I even enjoyed his movies. And then he lost his fucking mind. Now I refuse to give him any of my hard-earned money. Or even the easy shit I get selling drugs to schoolkids. KIDDING!!! Back off, FBI!

OK, Tom—help me understand your twisted-fuck way of thinking. Which is the bigger sin in the eyes of the Church of Scientology? Taking antidepressants, or creating a child out of wedlock? Why?

This whole relationship has such a high “ICK” factor for me. With Katie constantly having a Scientology “chaperone” when she isn’t with Tom, it reminds me of the movie “Rosemary’s Baby.” Oh NOOOOOO!!!! Katie has been impregnated to spawn one of “them!”

And Katie.

Katie, Katie, Katie. Step a little closer, dear, so I can slap some sense into your God-damned thick, dumbass head! What are you thinking? Trust me, he can't possibly do as much for your career as he says he can. Neither can "they," except to help steer it into the toilet by association. And was it really worth it to sell your soul for the money?

Man, I feel sorry for you. Especially when you get postpartum depression because ol' dumbass with the gash-for-a-smile doesn't help you with that newborn, and then refuses to let you take the meds you'll so desperately need. Let me give you some advice: when you have to make the choice of killing your baby, or killing Tom? Choose Tom. The bitches in prison HATE baby killers.

I won't even get into how fucked up your "religion" is, because, frankly, I am not a fan of real religions either. But I have to chuckle that yours was created by a science fiction writer and that you people are actually stupid enough to buy into the "level" that you want. BWAHAHAHA

Earth to LRon, Earth to LRon, come in LRon! You Scientologists need to back the fuck off and not bother trying to enlighten me, and I'll agree to not take my medications in front of you, mmmkay?

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Schmancer, The Schmeckel Dancer

My son has always sparkled. That was simply the best word to describe him as a little guy. He has the most beautiful dark brown eyes; my mother used to say they were like black cherries. He had the cutest, most shit-eating grin you ever saw. I’ll post pictures someday & you’ll see what I meant. He also loved to zoom around the house naked.

Oh yes. These are the stories he will dread when he starts dating, I assure you. I just wish I had the pictures to go along with them. Sparkle THIS! Imagine the pelvic thrust of a 3 year old.

He would streak around the house before a bath. He would streak around the house after a bath. I feel a Dr. Suess-type rhyme coming on:

He’d zoom around without his pants
If he had just half a chance!
His schmeckel he would show to you
Whether or not you’d want him to!

One of the funniest things I remember was when he jumped, naked, into view from the doorway to the family room. In a “ta-da” manner he hollered, “LOOK! It’s BIGGGGGG!!!” Missing a tooth he'd knocked out one year prior, he was smiling from ear to ear.

That little 3 year-old’s erection was a hilarious sight. Of course, being the enlightened mom I didn’t want to wound his little psyche. So instead of shrieking, “Go get your fucking pants on!” I smiled and calmly said, “Yeah, and it will be big again tomorrow, too. Now go and get dressed.”

Blink. Blink. Blink. WTF just happened? "Hope he outgrows that shit," I thought to myself.

In the months to come, he decided that it would be fun to add a little “oomph” to his performance. Instead of just streaking, he now did a little gyrating dance so that his schmeckel would flop up and down, as he laughed maniacally, hands on his hips or behind his head like a Playgirl centerfold’s pose. We were all so used to it that it no longer fazed us.

Unfortunately, my 9 year old daughter’s friend wasn’t. As the naked Schmancer (short for “Schmeckel Dancer”) approached with a running start, my daughter’s eyes got as big as saucers. She tried to stop Schmancer but he burst into her room full-force and shook a mean schmeckel right in her poor friend’s face. That poor girl is now in a residential psych facility, sitting in a corner rocking back and forth, I’m sure of it. Oh wait, she is a freshman in college & lives in a dorm. Same diff.

While the Schmancer has outgrown that version of the schmeckel dance, he hasn’t outgrown his flair for the outrageous. I will pass along other tales of amusement as I remember them. Yes, he is definitely his mother’s son.

Sunday, October 02, 2005

Ohhhhhhhh, That Feeling!

I used to come up with funny phrases to describe different everyday things. My all-time favorite creation quite accurately described just what happens when you’re away from home and realize that you have to poop.

You know the drill. You are miles from home and get the message from your asshole telling you, “You are gonna need to shit sometime in the next few hours.” This is TRUE if you are driving AWAY from your house. This is FALSE if you are driving TOWARD your house. Allow me to explain. This is the phenomenon known as “Involuntary Sphincter Wink.”

Somehow, your asshole just KNOWS when you aren’t near your house, and won’t be there anytime soon. After it gives you that initial gentle reminder, it seems to go on a break & leaves you alone. You are free to complete whatever business you set out to do.

However, your asshole ALSO knows when you are approaching your own toilet. I think it actually gets excited or something. That’s the only word to describe what it does the closer you get to home.

For instance, within 2 miles of home, your asshole winks ever so slightly and you get a rumble deep in your lower colon. You start hoping that traffic isn’t too bad.

Within 1 mile of your own toilet, the rumble is a bit stronger, a bit lower, and actually hurts a bit. Your asshole actually makes a kissy sensation, outward and then inward. This is a mixture of pleasure and pain. You still dare to squeak out a tiny fart.

Within 1 block of home, you start to wonder if the Phantom Shitter remembered to replace that empty toilet paper holder in the bathroom when he was done. Your asshole mocks you by winking over and over again. Your forehead breaks into a cold sweat. So do your ass and the backs of your thighs. You are afraid to fart. You press your ass onto the driver’s seat in an attempt to cork that winking asshole of yours. At this time, it is appropriate to yell to anyone in the car, “I call dibs on the bathroom!!!”

Once you are in your driveway, the cramping has become other-worldly. Your sadistic asshole is winking furiously at you! There is so much sweat on your ass and thighs that you are convinced that you will never be able to peel your pants down in time. You slam the car in gear and leap out of your car, leaving your driver’s door wide open. With the car still running, the baby still strapped into his car seat, you holler at your 5 year old. You’ve just put her in charge of turning the car off and getting the baby into the house.

You run into the house, leaping over toys and small animals, thinking you are surely about to break your neck and die with shit in your pants. You get into the bathroom, not even taking the time to turn on the light or fan, and leaving the door wide open. You barely make it and proceed to take the biggest, fastest dump of your life. Sweet, JESUS! Your relief is palpable. You’ve overcome Involuntary Sphincter Wink without incident!

Now you just have to deal with the 5 year old, who is now standing in the bathroom doorway holding the baby and scrunching her little face in the “Oooooo, this stinks like shit” face.

Hey, at least it’s not in your pants.

Sauna Edge!

I am almost done with the human waste posts. Almost. This one isn’t really all that offensive (sorry, readers!).

I remember trying to potty train my daughter. She was about 2 years old and couldn’t quite get the hang of telling me she had to go to the bathroom before it became a Toilet Emergency.

We were in a grocery store, she in her training underwear and plastic pants, and I in my big-girl panties. She always carried a cloth diaper (“DiDee”) as her security blanket; she couldn’t go anyplace without it. She started moving rather slowly as we walked through the frozen food section, taking exaggerated steps, bogging us down.

“C’mon honey, let’s go pay for our stuff,” I said

The only response I got from her was the dragging of feet and a really faint sloshing sound. Oh, Christ. She peed and didn’t tell me.

“Did you pee in your pants?” I asked her.

Silence. But there was a wide-eyed guilty look about her. I lifted her little dress, and saw that her plastic pants resembled a plastic baggy full of piss. Without hesitation, I yanked her beloved DiDee out of her hand and shoved it down into her plastic pants so she wouldn’t leave a trail to the checkout. She was mortified at DiDee’s fate and began to wail.

I tried to comfort her, and reminded her that she needed to tell me she needed to go potty.

She looked up at me with this sweet face, and in her 2 year old-speak said, “But it wasn’t sauna edge yet!”

Looks like we’re gonna have to work on our toileting cues.