My Mother Opposes Everything

I moved out on my own when I was 18, and my mom needed a hobby.  How about jigsaw puzzles or learning a foreign language?  Nope.  My mom had a different idea on how to spend her free time.   

On a sunny, unremarkable day in 1986, I received a phone call from a friend, “I just saw your mom on the news!” he exclaimed. 

*Actual picture of my mother's waiving her pimp-slapping hand *

I'm pretty smart, so I immediately recognized that this was not a good sign. Did she finally take revenge on the neighbors that let their dogs crap 478 pounds of excrement in their front yard for the last 15 years by slapping them with her 3 pound, tennis ball sized Avon cocktail ring?

“Why was she on the news?” I asked, fully expecting a story of carnage complete with the ranting of a crazed middle aged homemaker.

He replied, “Apparently she’s leading a rally opposing 2 Live Crew.”

That’s ridiculous.  She doesn’t even know who 2 Live Crew is. 

For my own entertainment and curiosity, I went to the casa-de-chaos to get to the bottom of this mystery. A direct approach was necessary...

ME:  Heard you were on the news.

MOM:  Yes, I’m opposing 2 Live Crew.

ME:  Do you even know who 2 Live Crew is?

MOM:  They are a bunch of horrible, horrible men that can’t even sing – they “rap” about killing their mothers and teachers and girlfriends.    And puppies.    And nuns.

ME:  Can you tell me the name of one of their songs?

MOM:  (long pause) No.  But they’re all horrible.

ME:  If the lead singer walked through the door right now, would you recognize him?

MOM:  Yes, because he would look like a horrible hoodlum criminal.

Ok, good.  That was a start. 

*As you can see, 2 Live Crew is clearly upset at my mother's opposition to them.*

I thought this new opposing-business may have been an anomaly – a momentary snapshot in time.  But alas, this was only the beginning.  My mom discovered her *love* of opposing.  She turned opposing into an art-form.  There was no stopping her… This marked the beginning of my mother opposing strange random things.  

On my following visit,  I couldn’t help but notice bright yellow garbage bags sitting out front by the road.  They had the word PORN written on them as pictured:

Wow, this was new.

ME: What’s up with the PORN garbage bags out front?

MOM:  I oppose pornography.

ME:  Wow, I’m sure the garbage-collectors will appreciate your enthusiasm.

MOM:  I’m letting everyone who drives down the street know that I oppose pornography.

ME:  I think I saw the neighbor going through your trash.  Maybe he thinks you’re throwing away all your porn.

This slip-up didn’t deter my mom from continuing her craft of opposition.  She would get better, she would be the best opposer ever….

A few months later, a new opposition appeared out of nowhere.  On the inside of the lid of rusty mailbox that is mounted by the front door, my mom placed a bumper sticker that said

“I oppose the liberal media.” 

 Maybe it says to not believe the liberal media.  Whatever.  Either way, she opposed it.  The only person who sees that bumper sticker is the mailman who lifts the lid to put in the mail.  They’ve had the same mailman for 30 years.

I’ve now compiled a list of various things my mother has opposed:

• Public Urination
• Returning Christmas presents
• Technology
• Yoga
• Figment (the purple dragon from EPCOT)
• Hemorrhoids
• Low Flush toilets (she blames Al Gore for inventing them)
• Fun
• The movie Grease
• Pedicures
• Satan
• Matt Lauer and Katie Couric

 (This really isn’t a comprehensive list.) 

Her most-recent opposition is the INTERNET.  She said that she wanted to take an axe and chop-up every computer in the whole world.  THE.  WHOLE.  WORLD. 

(She’s still working on her opposition skills…..)

Feeling Conflicted About The Grinch

Its that time of year again – where everyone is full of Christmas cheer and holiday spirit.. and every single Christmas movie ever made is on TV and I feel strangely compelled to watch them all.  This won’t be a long blog, but I’m going to tell you people right now that I am conflicted about the Grinch That Stole Christmas.  I know why the Grinch is pissed off and I don’t blame him for hating those crazy Who-holes.  Don’t worry, I’m not going to come to your house and steal your shit, so don’t go all crazy.

I’m keepin’ it real.  Little Cindy Lou Who is annoying.  And so are her parents.  And so are all the effing happy little Who-holes that live in Who- ville.   What is going on there??  It’s like they are all peeing rainbows and shooting gold nuggets out of their cornholios.  I find it unrealistic that those Who-lios are that who-happy.

And does Cindy Lou Who have NO common sense?  If some green dude came to my house in the middle of the night – who looked like he ate a SATANIC Keebler Elf…  I sure as hell wouldn’t be all lovey-dovey with him.  Cindy Lou Who should have picked up her happy-frickn-phone and dialed 911.  That’s what a reasonable Who-viller would have done.  (that kind of rhymes.  Read it again in your Dr. Seuss voice.)

*Hello evil-looking-satanic stranger. I would like to be your friend.*

The Grinch just wanted some peace and quiet.  He was sick of all their singing.  Do you want to hear people singing ALL THE TIME when you’re trying to make strange inventions in your dark cave?  NO.  No one does.

 *Note: The Grinch continously uses a toothpick which indicates good oral hygene*

And, I can tell you right now that if I woke up on Christmas morning and all my crap was gone, and I ran outside… and all my neighbors realized that all their crap was gone too… I BET you that we would not be holding hands in a BIG circle singing :

"Fah who for-aze! Fah who for-aze! Dah who dor-aze! Dah who dor-aze!"

What does that even mean?!?

When I was a kid and I was watching the Grinch movie, I remember thinking… WHAT THE CRAP?  Why doesn’t Santa Claus come down and open a can of  Santa-style-WHOOP-ASS on the Grinch.  Santa was all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-loving.  If Santa was too busy, he could have sent about 10 angry elves.  Ten angry elves could EASILY whoop the Grinch.  Especially if it was a surprise attack.

*a collage of Christmas helpers that could potentially kick some Grinch-ass. Especially top tow, 4th over from the left.  Not sure that's really even a Christmas character.  Maybe Santa brings him along when he's delivering to the hood.*

Finally, why did the Grinch steal JUST Christmas?  Why not Kwanzaa? Kwanzaa is supposedly near the same time.  Does NO ONE in Who-ville celebrate Kwanzaa?

Who-ville is very confusing.  This is where I feel compelled to interject that a few Christmases ago, my mother threw all my sister’s Christmas presents in the front yard and screamed:

“GO TO HELL!” 

It’s like our own little Who-ville. 

*Now, if the Grinch stole the cookies, we'd have ourselves a problem. ..

No one steals mamma's cookies*

This Blog Is Sponsored By The Letter “K”

A few years back my mom decided (for no apparent reason) she wanted to divide up all her worldly belongings while she was still alive.  She wasn’t going to give us anything right away, but at least we would all know who’s getting what.  My mom’s reasoning sounded logical to the untrained person– “I don’t want you to fight over my stuff after I’m dead.”

*Actual picture of me holding my sister... right before I squeezed the life out of her and beat her with the snorkel behind us  (not really) *

So, we were going to meet with a lawyer to draw up a will, right?  NOPE.  My mom had a MUCH better idea than any legal type of document.  WE DIDN’T NEED NO STINKIN’ LAWYERS..

*not actual lawyers*

She pulled out two black sharpie markers and handed one to me and to my sister and instructed us to put a “K” underneath the things that I wanted, and my sister would mark her things with a “T”.   Yes indeed, this was MUCH better than having a last will and testament.  Silly lawyers.

However, I immediately recognized flaws in my mother’s system.

Suddenly and without warning, it was like a crazy Japanese game show exploded in my mom’s living room. 

 My sister morphed into a crazed-flesh-eating-monster … scratching “T”s on all the good stuff.  Momentarily dazed and confused, I erratically pushed through the maze of mom’s stuff... shoving small children and old ladies out of my way…  I thought I saw something valuable in my peripheral vision… I lunged towards the china cabinet... grabbed the alleged valuable artifact.. turned it upside down and was just about to mark it with a BIG FAT K… and damn if there wasn’t a T already there.  There were T’s everywhere.  Panic set in.

*actual picture of my sister *

Flustered, I grabbed a worthless piece of crap to make my mark, and much to my amazement, there was already a K.  WHAT?  I didn’t mark this… That’s when I realized that my sister was marking the ALL THE CRAP STUFF with a K… just to make sure that she wouldn’t be stuck with it one day.

*examples of crap that I did not want*

*side note: don't email me to tell me that these things are valuable*

I needed a life-line to win.  Could I phone a friend or use my street shout-out?   There was no time. 

*not actual picture of me*

All the good stuff was COVERED with T’s.   There was confusion, mayhem, TOTAL ANARCHY… and that’s when I realized….  My mom’s ultimate plan was to see us fight over her stuff while she was ALIVE.   HA! We had been outsmarted by the lady that doesn’t even have an email address.  HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?

Good news is that we think that most of the stuff in my mom’s house came from SteinMart or Target.  So, neither of us really won the lottery that day.  Although, we did get some good excersize.  And everytime I go to my mom’s house, I like to randomly pick up one of the chachkies and look underneath just to see what’s there.

I have also figured out how to make a “T” look like a “K”.

My Mom Loves Pamphlets

My mom loves pamphlets.  Colorful-shiny-FUN-SUCKING pamphlets.  She carries various pamphlets in her purse and can whip them out quicker than Paula Deen’s chicken pot pie out of an oven.

*examples of pamplets*

SIDE NOTE:  I am not sure that the way to heaven is on a rusty playground swing

FOR EXAMPLE:  If you were at an Italian restaurant and you can’t decide between the spaghetti with meatballs OR with clam sauce… *WHAM*  She could extract a pamphlet from her oversized-Baptist-purse that would tell you something bad about clams.  Or meatballs.  It all depends.  It’s like having an iPhone app...but a crunched-up, colorful app. 

When I was in college, I had a boyfriend (who shall remain unnamed) coming to stay with my family for the weekend.  I don’t remember the details of why this was happening, so I can only assume that I hated him and wanted him to be miserable. We spent the day my family doing various non-sexual activities, and then it was time for nighty-night. 

Of course, we had to stay in separate bedrooms with no sneaky-peaky, hanky-panky. 

He went to the guest room, pulled down the covers, and there it was: The dreaded pamphlet...

The title was:
SEX IS NOT LOVE

Thanks mom.  That was awesome.

For those who know my family… being around them makes you NOT want to have sex.  Ever.   Essentially, that pamphlet was not necessary. 

*replica of pamplet*

I was a 20-year old girl trying to have a boyfriend because of my Baptist requirement was to get married ASAP to someone that could fully support me so I could procreate and stay at home and do all the laundry and grocery shopping and cooking and cleaning, and I had a tight time-frame. 

"I can't wait for my husband to get home so I can have LOTS of sex"

Leaving pamphlets under the covers for my boyfriend was NOT HELPING…WHY WOULD SHE SABBATOGE her own plan to marry me off?? 

Whatever.  The pamphlet DID had some useful suggestions; however, I chose to ignore almost all of them.

At this time, I would like to take a second to give a shout-out to my SECOND-PLACE favorite pamphlet... and the award goes to:

CHOOSE A DATE THAT WOULD MAKE A GOOD MATE

My Mom's probably reading this right now thinking:

“HA!  You may have been annoyed at my feeble attempt to keep you on the straight and narrow; however you REMEMBERED the names of the pamphlets.”     

Well, of course I remember.  I think you framed them and hung them on my wall.  Or, I could be imagining that. 

*This pamphlet covered everything that I should never  do, including giving cigarettes to a cat*

Either way, I remember being annoyed.  In fact, it annoyed me so bad that it made me WANT to have LOTS of SEX with someone that I didn’t love and that would make an awful mate.  HA!  I showed you!  

Then, I wrote my own damn pamphlet:

  DIVORCE IS AN AWESOME ALTERNATIVE TO MURDER

I Can Only Excersize With Celebrities

I am not a fan of exercise, but I do it anyway for all the stupid reasons that everyone knows about… so I won’t bore you with all that stupid crap.  

I’m a member of a little gym that next to my work.  The gym is small -only 4 treadmills, 3 ellipticals, 2 stationary bikes, and the standard weight equipment.  I normally try to exercise on my lunch break so that I can make my co-workers think I’m all-healthy, while I’m sticking an entire sleeve of thin-mints into my pie-hole.

My schedule got a little wonky a few months ago, and I had to go the gym AFTER work.  I put on my low-budget gym clothes and hopped on the treadmill. There was no one else there.  I felt like I was stuck in a weird purgatory run by Richard Simmons.

Then suddenly, someone hopped on the treadmill next to me. The treadmills are VERY close together - only about 16 inches apart.  Because of the close proximity, I always feel the need to make an acknowledgement - like when someone gets in your elevator. I figured it may be a co-worker from my building, so I did my cursory glance and nod.  Hmmm, this person does not appear to be your average-disgruntled-government worker…  I glance again.  Weird.  I have to turn my head ALL THE WAY to get a good look-see… and damn if it isn’t Kirstie Alley. 

Here we are.  Me and Kirstie.  Work-out buddies.  Except for she’s got like a whole entourage of people doing things for her.  Someone brings her water, someone sets her treadmill, someone sets up her TV channels.  I keep looking around for someone to bring me water.  No one comes. 

*her entourage is full of really cute guys.  My entourage is full of just me *

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  Is Kirstie as fat as she looks on TV?  The answer is no.  She looks pretty good.  Especially for her age.  I tend to “freeze” people into the age they were when I first saw them.  So, if I met you in 8^th grade, you will ALWAYS be 13 years old to me.  I saw Kirstie on Cheers when she was in her early 30’s, so that’s what she is to me.  However, in REAL LIFE, Kirstie is SIXTY (60) years old.  I KNOW!  WHO KNEW?

So, everyday for two weeks, I would get to the gym, and there was Kirstie.  Sometimes we held short yet intimate conversations.  Once she said to me “I think that elliptical isn’t working right.”  Then I said, “Ok, thanks.”  

 

I bought new gym clothes, jewelry, and made sure my hair and makeup were looking good.. just in case TMZ or Entertainment Tonight showed up at the gym unexpectedly for an exclusive Kirstie Alley workout segment.  Or, as I started calling it – the “Kirstie and Kelly” workout. 

As our relationship grew, I found myself excited about going to the gym.  One particular day, as Kirstie and I were working out together, she took a cell phone call and sat on the Pilates table right next to me.  I turned down the volume on my headphones to listen to her talking.  (oh please, like you wouldn’t do it too.)

She would be considered a loud-talker, and her conversation included monkeys, traveling gnomes, and general famous-people-insanity.  I was so engrossed listening to her conversation, that when it was over, I realized that I had run 6 miles on the treadmill.  This had become the only way I could exercise.  Having her at the gym was my “magic pill.”  I needed her.

*Me falling off the treadmill without Kirstie*

One morning I was packing my gym bag getting ready to drive to work, I saw on TV that Kirstie Alley was going to be on the Oprah show.  It was a re-run… and I had the most super special awesome idea EVER.  I was going to watch Kirstie Alley on Oprah at the gym WHILE working out RIGHT NEXT TO KIRSTIE ALLEY.  Oh my GOD!  How brilliant is that?  I will be watching her on TV simultaneously while being right next to her.  It was sort of confusing, yet awesome.

I was excited as a fat-guy at a KFC Buffet.  I couldn’t wait.  It was like all the stars were aligned.  Then, it started raining. Then it started lightning.  WHAT IS HAPPENING GOD?  Will this weather keep Kirstie away?  Surely the gods of health and exercise were happy with me…  what is going wrong?

At 4pm sharp, I got to the gym.  NO KIRSTIE. 

I tried to work out.  But I couldn’t.  I needed you Kirstie.   I.NEEDED.YOU.

I’ve never seen her there again.  Surely she misses our time together.  The gym used to be magical and fun.  Now, it’s a vortex of pain and horribleness. 

WWJD - What Would Jesus DRIVE?

Sometimes I struggle with my feelings about religion.  Not God, and maybe not even the institution of religion…. More specifically – crazy-religious-people.  Growing up in a very strict religious background, I have encountered my fair share of CRAZIES.    My toleration of CRAZIES fluctuates… sometimes I use it as my entertainment, sometimes I feel like I’m going to smack the crap out of them.

*cartoon representation of various crazy people*

A few months back I was forwarded this email.  THIS IS A REAL EMAIL from a REAL PERSON.  I have removed the names to protect the crazy, I mean, the innocent.

The bank just towed my car away so I am depending on the will of God to get me where I need to be.  I am excited to see what God has in store for me…I wonder what He is going to do next.  Waiting on Him…and reminding myself of Jeremiah 29:11 and the fact that the car was too small anyway.

 Pray for a vehicle in good condition to be donated to my ministry according to His will.  A Lexus would be nice, I like the color white or pearl, and a working CD to play my worship music…less than 80,000 miles.  He says to pray specifically….can you help me out and add this to your prayer list? 

 I know God would not want to drive around in junk and since He goes with me everywhere, I'm sure He'll want to be comfortable.

 This email left me speechless, which is rare.   I read it several times and felt a combination of disgust and amusement.   I created a response:

"I am excited to see what God has in store for me…I wonder what He is going to do next."
I think I know what God has in store for you next.....  God wants to introduce you to PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION.  

“The car was too small anyway” If the car was too small, then why did you buy it to begin with?   I bet that God wants you to make responsible choices the first time. And, here’s a thought…Maybe God wants you to ONLY BUY CARS THAT YOU CAN AFFORD.

*disclaimer - Jesus DOES want you to get good gas mileage*

 “Waiting on Him…”  If I had to guess…..God wants you to stop “waiting on him” .. go out and get a job, or a second job, or re-think your budget.  God gave you a brain, so how about you giving that a try while you’re “waiting?”

“I know God would not want to drive around in junk and since He goes with me everywhere, I’m sure He’ll want to be comfortable.” 

Comfortable?    Really?!?    I would *LOVE* to see Jesus riding around in your pearl-colored Lexus.  I think Jesus WALKED everywhere or he rode a DONKEY. 

Yeah, riding on a DONKEY in the heat without a CD player sounds super-comfortable.  But, the donkey only had 26,000 thousand miles on it, so it was a practically new donkey. 

JESUS hung out with lepers, and poor people, and had no worldly belongings.  I doubt he really cares if you’re driving a Lexus, a Ford Festiva, or a 1998 Chevy station-wagon. 

Stop embarrassing Jesus.  There are people in the world that are dying, or fighting for their lives, or that are homeless, and you want GOD to GIVE YOU A LEXUS?   Really??

Please dear GOD, please give her a Schwinn Bicycle. 

 I swear, if she ends up with a pearl-colored Lexus.. I'm going to stop making payments on my used mini-van and start praying for a black Mercedes convertible.

Why I Wanted To Be Set On Fire By Fairies

I’ve always been a “writer.”  Even as a small child I would write letters to my parental-units expressing my displeasure about how I was being raised, or some horrifying injustice, or general complaints.  My mom saved these letters and ceremoniously bestowed them upon me recently. 

There were so many letters.  But, here is one of my favorites.  I posted this to facebook a few months back, but I think my adoring fans that may have missed this post deserve a chance to see it.. and I’ve added a *new* element that I had not shared before.

I was in 8^th grade when I wrote this letter:  (THIS IS THE ACTUAL LETTER, people!)

Dear Mom and Dad,

 Please don't make me play the piano.  I have no talent, I have no desire, and I have a deep hate for it.  I hate it so much that I lie about it.. I filled out a form for church choir, and it asked if you could play a musical instrument and I said no.

 I can't go thru another year of lessons and recitals.   I hate our piano, and the piano teacher is creepy.  Take the money from my piano lessons and buy groceries or something.

 I don't want to go thru another year of HELL and torment to improve this "wonderful ability" that I have... which is a bunch of garbage.  If I'm so great, then how come I can only play one song, I can't sight read music, and I can't even read notes...  and I've been taking piano lessons for THREE YEARS!

You told me I could quit, but I guess you lied.  Thanks, Kelly

 Obviously, anyone can see my early talent as a writer in this well-thought-out letter.   The reason behind the letter was multi-faceted, but I think it had to do with fairies….let me begin at the beginning..

My piano teacher was the crypt-keeper. 

*not actual picture, but close*

To my recollection, she ate small children who didn’t practice their piano.  There are missing kids everywhere, and they could probably all be traced back to her stomach.  A piano recital was coming up, and I knew in the darkness of my too-small heart…..this wasn’t going to be good.    She used her old, skinny, crooked fingers and fumbled thru some papers and pulled out THE PIANO PIECE that I WAS GOING TO PLAY.   It was worse than I thought. 

 Come, Fairies, Come.   

Yep, that was the name of the song that I had to play.  Surely God hated me.   

Come, Fairies, Come ??     Really?  Why God? WHY?

I hated that piece.  I hated the piano.  I hate recitals.  I had a PLAN B:  I was considering chopping off my arms and eating my raw flesh.  But, that didn’t seem too reasonable.  So, I sucked it up and went to the damn recital.

Picture this: A small, yet opulent auditorium.  A big black grand piano on the stage.  The students were sitting on folding chairs up on stage on the side.  All the parents were dressed up in their Sunday clothes, with their big, Baptist hair-do’s,  with their Polaroid cameras.

There was a microphone up on stage right in the front.  One by one, each piano student stood up and went to the microphone and said, “Hello, my name is ______.  The first piece I’m going to play is _______________.”    We had two different piano pieces.  I have no earthly idea of what my second piece even was.

So, in my mind I went over my line...over and over and over…

 “Hello, my name is Kelly Wise.  The first piece I’m going to play is Come, Fairies, Come.”  

“Hello, my name is Kelly Wise.  The first piece I’m going to play is Come, Fairies, Come.”  

“Hello, my name is Kelly Wise.  The first piece I’m going to play is Come, Fairies, Come.”  

*this is how I incorrectly pictured myself*

“Hello, my name is Kelly Wise.  The first piece I’m going to play is Come, Fairies, Come.”  

CRAP, its finally my turn, I get up… walk over to the microphone.  I looked out at all the big- Baptist- haired- moms, and bored-as-hell-dads…..  and I summoned all my awkward-13-year-old-confidence, and spoke as loud as possible right into that microphone.

 “HELLO.  MY NAME IS KELLY WISE.  THE FIRST PLACE I’M GOING TO PEE.....”   

What?  Did that just come out of my mouth?

 “The first piece I’m going to play”  turned into “The first place I’m going to pee.”  

It was like God really hated me.  I wanted the fairies to come immediately and set me on fire.   COME FAIRIES COME!!  Please come set me on FIRE and put me out of my misery.

 I’m pretty sure I blacked out, because the next thing I remember… I had written the letter above.

This is where a normal person would end the story.  But here’s the REST of THE STORY:

My parents DID let me quit.  My mother was very angry and said emphatically "YOU'LL BE SORRY ONE DAY!"   Which I have to say.. I'm not sorry AT ALL.  I never walk by a piano and think "Wow, I wish my parents made me keep taking piano lessons.."  

NEVER.  NOT ONCE.  Not one single regret.

 My mother did NOT use the piano lessons for groceries.  She took the money and SHE took piano lessons, however my mom had even LESS talent at playing the piano than I did.  This provided me with a great deal of amusement at HER first piano recital... and guess what?  That's right...  she quit.