Sunday, January 25, 2009


It all started with a shoe.

My peaceful day ended up tattered and torn and flung to the four winds.

Her Majesty is what some may call a shoe-a-holic. Not terribly uncommon for a 17 year old girl. Although she and I wear the same size, our tastes in shoes differ somewhat so typically she and I don't have issues with borrowing shoes from one another. Her youngest sister, on the other hand, shares the same taste in shoes with Her Majesty and since the youngster does on occasion borrow (and I use that term loosely...borrowing would indicate that some semblance of permission was sought and granted) Her Majesty's shoes, issues arise.

The extent of the "borrowing" is not limited to shoes. It also extends to clothes, jewelry, hair accessories, perfume and outerwear. But shoes are what brings me to the end of my rapidly fraying rope today.

It was a pair of brand new, stark white Vans. I don't know if you are familiar with these, but they are basically a pair of canvas slip on tennis shoes with a label that makes them a little more special and a lot more expensive than the exact same shoe you could buy for less than $15 at Payless. Now why anyone would think that a pair of stark white canvas shoes would remain stark white for more than 28 seconds is beyond me but Her Majesty insisted that it could be done. This particular pair of shoes was her second pair. She had to replace the last ones because, to no one's surprise, they got dirty. Since the youngster doesn't have a job or an indulgent boyfriend with a job as Her Majesty does, she doesn't have over 30 pairs of "everyday" shoes like Her Majesty does. Her Majesty was kind enough to let the youngster have the "dirty" shoes. This weekend, the youngster, her "nice" sister and several friends went to a controlled rave. While she was getting ready, I assume she couldn't find the dirty white shoes so she took it upon herself go into Her Majesty's room to acquire a suitable replacement. At this point she absconded with the New Still Stark White Shoes. I was blissfully unaware that she had set the wheels in motions to bring Armageddon down on my peaceful Sunday afternoon.


Her Majesty, in keeping with her typical Sunday evening behavior, went to the basement, threw whoever's clothes that were in the washer and dryer into a basket so she could do her own laundry. This is when the FIT HIT THE SHAN. She noticed that the New shoes were in the load coming out of the dryer. Then she noticed the neon yellow stain that has desecrated the holy shoe and she realized at this point that they had been washed and dried essentially heat sealing the stain into the New Not Nearly Stark White Shoe.

Screaming, cussing and overall fit throwing ensued. The only positive thing about the whole experience is that the youngster was at the mall with friends, completely unaware that her secret, but still feeble, attempt to cover up the evidence had failed miserably. I'm not sure that I would have been able to protect my child from my other child in that instance of overwhelming and immediate rage that seem to completely overtake and envelop Her Majesty at the discovery of her ruined shoe.

To be truthful I was quite impressed at the depth of profanity she has reached in such a short time. I didn't know she knew so many ways to use the word Fuck. Now I know as a mother I should have been horrified at the language my child was using but since I have raised the use of profanity to an art form myself, I couldn't help but feel a little pride that some of my skill had unbeknownst been handed down to the next generation. Until she turned her venom on me.

In Her Majesty's opinion, I should replace the defiled Tuesday. Because apparently they are the only shoes she owns that will pull the outfit she plans on wearing Tuesday together. She started to scream at me about how I needed to control my child. She was speaking of the youngster of course, clearly she didn't think at this point that she had lost control. After the room stopped spinning and I regained control over my own temper, the shouting match ensued. She screamed at me. Clearly I was the youngsters proxy in this battle. And truth be told, I was okay with that. I can hold my own with a smart mouth teenager, I promise you that. She slung insults, directed at the youngster for not only "stealing" her shoes but at me for allowing it. I had to admit at one point that she was indeed correct that the youngster should have asked permission. Other than that, I plead ignorance of the crime and did not accept any blame. This was not an excuse that Her Majesty was willing to accept at this point. More screaming ensued with more insults slung at me and my child rearing skills. Obviously I have failed, but never mind that now.

I have a detached garage at my house. Its a good 20 yards from the house.This is Big Sexy's man cave. He heard the commotion from the cave. Like any good man, he waited for at least 5 minutes to see if the fight was going to peter out on its own before he felt compelled to come in and break up the melee. He was concerned that the neighbors may call the law. I didn't realize that Her Majesty or myself were at the volume we were at but clearly she and I are cut from the same cloth. We both come from the school of arguing that says that she who yells the loudest and the longest wins. We're both warriors so when Big Sexy emerged from the kitchen, the decibel level was off the charts. I like to think that both me and my spawn, genetically bound to a long line of loud people, can yell louder than any two people in the world. She's a cheerleader for heavens sake so she has actually parlayed her talent into a use for good instead of evil. Well I thought we were loud. Turns out Big Sexy is louder than both of us....combined. I guess I knew this already. He's been a football coach for 17 years and I've heard him yell at full volume plenty of times. Until today, that volume has not reached it's full potential when directed toward me. Picture it if you will. All three of us are now yelling at full voice. She's still yelling about the youngster, I'm yelling at her to quit yelling and he's yelling at both of us the Shut the hell up. Doors were slammed, names were called, tears were slung. It was chaos. Finally after a few half-hearted attempts to draw me back into the "shoes must be replaced by Tuesday" argument, everyone went off to their corners to rest and reboot.

Problem is, the youngster is still not home and I'm afraid that the still tense but reletively quiet atmosphere in the house that is balanced on a razor edge will tilt and become a free for all again when she finally does arrive home. I know she is aware of the wrath of Her Majesty awaiting her. In the midst of the battle earlier, some phone calls were made, texts sent and voice mails were left. I'm sure she is trying to find something to fill the minutes until she absolutely must return to meet her untimely demise. I feel kind of bad for her really, but not that bad. She spilled red Kool-Aid on my brand new Beige sofa not too long ago so I kind of feel like she has it coming.

So much for a restful Sunday. Maybe next weekend will be better. Her Majesty has made solid plans to put a padlock on her bedroom door. Who would think a mere shoe could cause so much conflict.

Friday, January 16, 2009

How to avoid a Deliverance moment

Well it finally happened. I was inspired to write something. No, not so much inspired but incensed really.

My friend, coworker and nemesis Tess informed all of us that she can't change a tire. Apparently our other coworker, Chiquita Banana, told Tess that her tire is flat in the parking lot and they either needed to go get air or change it. Not a big deal, except it is 17 degrees outside. I casually asked Tess if she had a spare. She indicated that she did but it was all the way in the back of her Jeep. Knowing her the way I do, I assumed that she would stay here at work indefinitely rather than actually attempt to change the tire herself....or freeze to death in the car waiting for someone to rescue her.

I can certainly understand calling AAA or a burly man. This would be my first choice on the list of what to do's but if I was stuck out in the middle of nowhere with a tire of the pancake persuasion and did not have option 1 or 2, I could change the damn tire myself. My Daddy made sure I knew how. Along with using jumper cables in the correct way as to not blow up a battery.

Maybe my parents erred on the "Worst Case Scenario" side of caution at times, but I at least know that if I'm ever in Alabama at 2 in the morning on the shoulder of a dark I-65 with a nail that I inadvertently picked up somewhere north Montgomery sticking directly into one of my tires....again.....that I will not have to just sit there and wait for a boozed up hillbilly with gleam in his eye and a perverse sense of right and wrong to wander by and offer his services. This makes me feel a little bit better about myself and it worries me for my friends.

At this point I have decided that, as soon as the arctic blast that has paralyzed us in here in the typically balmy south leaves us and returns north to the land of no biscuits, I will teach my daughters how to change a tire.

Her Majesty, my oldest daughter who is the only one driving at this point already knows how to jump a battery off. She has a very bad habit of leaving her lights on. She has required a boost no less than 8 times in the last 6 months. You'd think by now, she'd realize what the dinging meant.

Friday, January 9, 2009

Need some help here....

I don't have anything to write about. Nothing. That's why no one has heard a peep from me since before Christmas. I can't even conjure up a witty comment.

I was at a book signing with a friend the other night and I realized that lately I've been doing so much reading that all of my ideas are someone elses.

Here's my quandry.

I don't have an original thought in my head, no one wants to hear about my holidays or resolutions, nothing worth writing about or reading about has been going on lately and I am struggling to come up with something to hold my attention for more than 30 seconds.

My friend that I was at the book signing with challenged me when she said if you give her a topic and an audience, she could write all day about anything. So that is when I decided to see if I was on par with other people who seem to never run out of stuff to say.

So I'm asking for your help.

Give me topics!

I don't care what it is. Anything...seriously. I got nothing on my own. I know...I'm a loser. Help a sister out.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

You Ruined Christmas Charlie Brown

Everyone is blogging about Christmas and joy and love and magic and Santa and yadda yadda yadda. My Christmas is going to suck. I just know it. I got word today that since my Brother-In-Law is fresh out of rehab where he's been drying out for the last 5 weeks, there will be no booze on Christmas.

Well Hell.

I don't know about you, but getting liquored up on Christmas is the only way I can get through the day. I love my family, I really do. But the thought of being there all day with all of them cooped up in the house with the thermostat cranked up to Jesus because there is a baby who can't get cold (I'm not sure why its okay to let the rest of us freeze) without a glass of wine or even a damn cup of egg nog to get me through the day just horrifies me.

Christmas is typically unpleasant anyway. After being awakened while it is still dark by my kids, who by the way are too damn old to be waking me up at 5:00am, we go see what Santa brought and open gifts. By the time the gift opening is over, I'm fairly alert. Unlike my Big Sexy. He usually just hangs out on the edge of the fray trying not to succumb to his overwhelming desire to curse out the children for waking him up at 5am. Meanwhile he is expected to watch them make a mess in the living room and he knows that he's going to have to bitch about it being a pig sty for 2 days until I force everyone to put their new clothes away so I can fold up the shirt boxes to use again next year.

We usually try to get a little more shut eye before it is time to go to my mom's for breakfast. We are also usually late for breakfast along with my sister and her family. This in turn causes my mother to go off on to the first of many tirades we are obligated by familial bonds to endure throughout the day. After those of us who don't care enough about her or the trouble she went to making that damn hashbrown casserole we all insist on her making every damn year finally get to the table, we get to the business of eating the best damn hashbrown casserole in the world... and bitching about the fact that Mom refuses to make scrambled eggs for us anymore because Dad's cholesterol is off the charts high. I personally think she uses Dad's health issues as a way of getting out of cooking stuff but that's between her and God.

Then come the gifts. My parents are hard to buy for. They have everything they need. If there is something they want, they can afford it a heck of a lot sooner than I can. So I usually get them booze and a gift card to a semi-nice restaurant. I was told not to get the booze this year. So not only are we not drinking, I'm having to revert back to the days before I realized that my Dad was so much happier with a half-gallon of Crown Royal than he was with another velour robe. So here I am again having to try to figure out which drill bit set my Dad needs and which Chia pet my Mom would like best.

Now the gift exchanging is over and we're all starting to get tired of one another. We can't just go home...dinner is to come and the ham is the best part of my day. But by this time my sister is usually bitching about her mother-in-law/job/neighbors/price of gas (take your pick), it's nap time for my niece but she's too wound up to sleep so she's just walking around with a snot bubble crying for no reason, Mom is bitching about her back hurting because she's been standing at the stove cooking for 3 days, the teenage kids are all fighting over the computer because they have to send all of their MySpace friends a Merry Christmas comment, and all the men have settled in front of the tv to watch some kind of sporting event at full volume. At this point I'm really going to need a cocktail. So is everyone else but are we going to get to have one??

NO! Why? Because my brother-in-law is not a functional alcoholic like the rest if us and now, because he's on the wagon, we all have to be on the wagon.

I just hope my mom doesn't try to stab anyone with a carving knife and my Dad doesn't spend the entire day hiding out in the garage with my Uncle Billy. Of course, if he does seem to be disappearing fairly often, I may have to follow him and spend a little time in the garage myself because anywhere my Dad and Uncle Billy go, so goes the booze.

Bah Humbug everybody.

Friday, December 12, 2008

Why I need a new job

When I arrived at work this morning, I was greeted with a box sitting in my chair. Upon closer inspection of this box, I found that it was wrapped in exam table paper. On the paper was a magic marker drawing of a tropical beach scene with a rainbow. I assume this was there to remind me of more pleasant times. I opened the box to find a pillow, an ice pack, Xylocaine Jelly, Astroglide, a band-aid and a Huggies Diaper.

A kind of care package from a bunch of smart asses really.

See, I had to have a Colonoscopy yesterday.

I don't know if you've ever had a Colonoscopy or not. If you have, then you know from where I speak. If you haven't, let me try to give you a run-down of the process.

Day Before Procedure:

Clear Liquid "Diet"-That means you don't eat the day before. Chicken Broth is not real food and apparently taking Jello Shots at lunch time is frowned upon by not only by my Doctor but also my employer.

Co-Workers torment you- Everytime you leave your desk, you return to find Turd Cartoons or Jars of Vaseline in your area.

4pm take Laxative- I'm having this God Forsaken thing done because I have the trots all the damn time....Like I really need a laxative.

6pm Start drinking the 2 liters of Liquid Death. 8 oz. every 10 minutes. There is nothing I can say about this stuff called Halflytely Bowel Prep except it is straight from the Devil. This stuff is the consistency of milk, it's salty and if you're lucky, you get to add a yummy flavor to it. I got to choose between cherry, lemonade, orange or pineapple. I chose orange. I'll never eat citrus again. I can not even begin to tell you how gross this stuff is. After about 24 oz. of this crap, it started coming back up. I never did finish it all.

Sit on the toilet with a good book and soft toilet paper the rest of the night.

Day of Procedure:

Don't eat anything, Don't drink anything.

Go to where you are having the procedure done. Tell numerous strangers you're there for a Colonoscopy, ask them how bad it's going to be, be told by all of them that they themselves refuse to have one regardless of what may be going on up their own ass.

Have a minor anxiety attack.

Get an IV started

Get wheeled down the hall with your ass hanging out of your dress.

Get parked in the middle of a cold sterile room with several people buzzing around talking to each other like your not in the middle of the room...with your ass hanging out of your dress.

Have a surly nurse pump you full of Versed.

Pledge your undying love to surly nurse because you are higher than you've ever been.

Wake up in the recovery room feeling a little violated and hung over.

Go eat everything on the right side of the menu at Logan's Roadhouse.

Nod off in the car on the way home from Logan's

Sleep the remainder of the day and night.

Day After Procedure:

Come to work to be the "Butt" of the joke by Co-Workers who are evil and must be destroyed.

Monday, December 8, 2008

Jag är en vampyr

Well, there is a first time for everything. My newest gay and I have plans to go read a movie tonight. That's right, I said read. He and I are both going through aVampire phase right now. Don't ask me why. Apparently there is a Swedish Vampire movie playing at the local theater that plays all the indie films. Since neither my friend or I speak Swedish, we'll have to utilize the sub-titles. I've never actually paid to see a movie I can't understand. I usually stay away from foreign language movies altogether if I can help it. Except for the Kung Fu movies that are dubbed in English. Those are great. I'm a little anxious about this outing. We're meeting at the bar for a drink(s) beforehand. Hope I don't get drunk and end up reading out loud or asking everyone in the theater "What the hell did that say?"

Wish me luck.

Friday, December 5, 2008

What ever happened to Chachi anyway?

Sweet Braja asked me where I went...
I'll tell you where I went.
I went completely around the bend.
I have a TV crush.

That's right I'm 38 years old and I have a crush on an actor. Not only that, he's a relatively unknown, fairly obscure British actor that until the last few months, I'm sure no one on my side
of the pond even knew existed. Now I can't seem to get enough of him.

I'm completely addicted to True Blood on HBO. If you haven't seen it, watch it. If you don't have HBO, get it. It's that good. It's all about Vampires and sexy men and killers and fun. I just love it.

Meanwhile, Stephen Moyer plays a Vampire named Bill on this show and he is more yummy than any one person should be. I haven't had a crush on an actor this bad since I vowed to marry Scott Baio in 1979. So I've been searching the Internet for any little scrap on this guy that I can get. It's sad, I know. And to make it worse, apparently this guy is extremely private cause there ain't nothin online about him except for boring stuff like press releases and the occasional interview. I want dirt! I want naked pictures! So frustrating.

Since I'm not married to Scott Baio, I figure my TV crush won't work out this time any better than it did the last time but that doesn't seem to deter my efforts to find the perfect picture of the GOD that is Stephen Moyer to use as my wallpaper.

So that's where I've been and that is where I shall return.

By the way, I like to imagine myself standing directly in front of him in the picture above.

Love, Peace and Chicken Grease