Why I Have Unhappy Feelings About Fried Chicken

When I was 16 years-old, I thought it would be a fantastic idea to go out into the world and make some money.  At the time, my resume was pretty short…. It included mowing the lawn, unloading the dishwasher, and talking on the phone.   With these skills, I knew that I was looking at a high-paying, part-time, after-school job.

A new fast food joint was opening up nearby… Mrs. Winner’s Fried Chicken.   The building was still under construction and they had a big sign out front that said they were hiring.  This obviously met all my requirements – I needed a place that was hiring and they wanted to hire people.  Yep, a match made in heaven.

My friend Cheryl and I hopped in my parents 1980 Caprice Classic station wagon with the wood paneling on the side.. and we cruised over to give Mrs. Winners the opportunity to hire us.

*Actual picture of me at age 16  I still look happy, so this was probably prior to employment*

Much to my surprise, they wanted me to fill out an APPLICATION.  What?  I was under the assumption that I would walk in and they would immediately be thrilled to see me and hire me on the spot.  Ok, fine, this must be some kind of formality.  I had never been gainfully employed before, so apparently this is how it goes down.

A week or so later I received a call from a brilliant Mrs. Winner’s Fried Chicken supervisor informing me that I was hired.  My friend Cheryl wasn’t hired.  This would only lead me to believe that somehow something I wrote on my application led them to believe that I would be better suited to put fried chicken in a bucket than Cheryl.  It was apparent that Cheryl didn’t have the qualifications needed to work in this fast-food industry..   I believe she was devastated.  In fact, she was so devastated, that she never did work in fast-food, and ended up with a high-paying, satisfying nursing career.  Poor Cheryl.

 

The FRIED CHICKEN training was SERIOUS.  This shit wasn’t for sissies.  I had to press buttons on the cash register that matched exactly what people ordered.  I had to smile and be polite when the chicken-eaters came in and couldn’t decide what side-items to order.  GOOD GOD!.. just pick one – COLESLAW, FRENCH FRIES, or MASHED POTATOES.  You aren’t buying a car, people!  It’s a frickin’ side dish…

Anyway, this is the part where I explain how I got fired.  I often refer to the firing as the...

 FRIED CHICKEN TRI-FECTA.  

My first problem:   I experienced some difficulty distinguishing a breast from a thigh.  Seriously, the thighs seemed large, and the breasts were small (much like some un-named friends) .. and when you throw them in a big pile, it was confusing.  The supervisor kept annoying me about it. …

Supervisor:  “Kelly, this person ordered a two-piece all white-meat meal.”

Me:  “Yes, it was a good choice. It only took them 17 minutes to decide on their side item.”

Supervisor:  “You gave them a thigh instead of a breast.”

Me:  “OH THE HUMANITY!”

I didn’t see the big deal.  Just eat your damn fried chicken.

*Obviously from this picture you can see the pressure I was under.  All that chicken looks alike.*

Second problem:  They made me interact with the public in the dining room.  They handed me a tray of strawberry shortcakes (left-over, day-old stale biscuits that they threw some strawberry’s and whipped cream on top.)   They would “give them away” occasionally to be nice to the customers – and to get rid of the old biscuits. 

Keep in mind, I had NO serving experience.  And no common sense.  So, I walked with my tray, approached a man at the first table, and asked him if he wanted a FREE strawberry shortcake.  He says yes, so I decided to defy the law of gravity, and I removed my hand from the tray because I needed that hand to give him his strawberry shortcake.  It had not occurred to me that if I removed my hand from the tray, that nothing would be holding up that side of the tray.  All the strawberry shortcakes slid off the falling tray… and directly into the man’s lap.  So, there’s your free strawberry shortcake.

For whatever reason, this made the brilliant fried-chicken supervisor think I would be better suited for the drive-thru.  I was shoved in a tiny and hot hidey-hole .. ALL BY MYSELF… talking into a shitty speaker where no one could hear what I was saying.  Ahhhhh,  life was good.   This little hidey-hole got very hot, so I was allowed to eat ice chips during my shift, so I wouldn’t die.    This now brings me to the third and final portion of the TRIFECTA…

My third problem: We weren’t allowed to eat while on shift.  This one particular day, I had to go straight from school to work, and to be frank – I was pretty damn hungry.  So while I was in the drive-thru hidey-hole, ALL BY MYSELF, I snatched a biscuit.  A stale biscuit.  It was hard and old, but I was hungry.  I looked around, the coast was clear, and I shoved that old crunchy biscuit in my mouth.  

*Actual picture of a complete stranger eating a biscuit *

A few minutes later the fried-chicken-supervisor walks over to my heavenly hidey-hole to give me my fried-chicken-encouragement speech of the day.   He starts to speak, then pauses, and asks me what I had been eating.  OH CRAP.  What if he saw me eating the biscuit … what if the coast hadn’t been clear??   I answer with as much confidence and indignation as I could conjure up… “I WAS EATING  ICE CHIPS.”    Ha.  There. 

Pause.   Pause.    Pause.

“Ice chips don’t have crumbs,”  he said matter-of-factly. 

Sure enough, my 1984 bright red lipstick had little white biscuit crumbs spotted on there like sprinkles on a donut.   HOLY CRAP, I was outsmarted by the fried-chicken-supervisor.  EPIC FAIL.

 *Not actual picture of my lips.. but imagine similar lips with biscuit crumbs. *

My short-lived fast food career was over before it started, but don’t despair.  I have learned several life lessons from my experience:

• People get very upset if they don’t get their breasts
• Side item selection is extremely important
• Wipe your mouth if you are going to lie about your biscuit eating

My Sister Pee’s Her Pants

My baby sister has a leaky bladder.  It’s not her fault, really.  I think it’s genetic.  We come from a long line of people who pee on themselves.   It normally happens during deep, hard….. 

LAUGHTER.   Get your mind out of the gutter. 

She will probably pee on herself while she’s reading this story.  Or she’ll be really pissed (no pun intended)… but that’s a chance I’m willing to take.

*Actual Picture of me and my sister *

There are so very many pee-in-your-pants stories, and my goal is to make each blog less than 3 minutes to read…   therefore, I have to choose my pee-in-your-pants story with careful consideration to give you the most bang for your buck.   I think I’ve narrowed it down to two stories.

About 2 years ago, my sister came to visit one weekend.  The first evening, we ate dinner, and then sat on the couch where we both had a small, yet delicious adult beverage.  Apparently, my sister’s tolerance for alcohol is VERY low, and is directly related to her tendency to pee.

This is the order: 

STEP 1: Drinking,

STEP 2: Laughing

STEP 3: Falling

STEP 4: Peeing

So, we’re on the couch DRINKING.  She has started LAUGHING.  So,we’ve covered the Steps 1 and 2..  I knew it was coming….

I saw my sister fall over and roll off the couch….   Yep, Step 3 had arrived….we’re on our way

Laying flat on her face, spread eagle on the floor, she peed a flood.  On my floor.  We have arrived at Step 4.  

Oh, I forgot about STEP 5 – SCREAMING.  That’s my favorite part.   So, let’s review, she was laying on my floor, facedown, spread eagle, while she was screaming: 

“I’M PEEING ON MYSELF!!!”

While she lay in a pool of her own pee, unable to get up, my son runs into the room and shoots Nerf bullets out of his Nerf machine gun at her butt.  Good times, Good times.

The next fun-filled pee event occurred in public.  There is nothing more enjoyable than having your sister pee herself in public.  It’s magical.  It’s like having leprechauns dancing and throwing gold coins in your pockets.

We were in Epcot, having a refreshing margarita in Mexico.  All was good.  For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to me that my sister’s falling, peeing, and screaming were in my near future.  I knew the drill.  Yet, for whatever reason, that yummy-margarita caused temporary amnesia. 

The next country was Norway.  We had some kind of Norway-drink.  Then we got to China, and had a Chinese-drink.  Then we got to Morocco… and that’s when I saw STEP 2 coming.  Once STEP 2 happens, you can’t stop it.. It’s like trying to stop the rotation of the earth with your mind.  Or your strength.  Either way.. you just can’t stop it.

By the time we got to Japan, we entered STEP 3 (falling) and STEP 4 (peeing).. Followed immediately with STEP 5 (screaming).  The screaming is always the same – with little variation:

“I’M PEEING IN MY PANTS!!!”            

*Actual Picture of my sister falling down, yet she is NOT peeing in this picture *

           

With every ounce of strength I had, I somehow got us through America and arrived in France.   And France rhymes with “Pants” … so I had a lot of funny little limericks that I could have used … but at that point, she wanted to lay on the floor in the middle of the movie theatre in the Eiffel Tower.  (There’s a place in France where my sister pee’s her pants..)  Sorry, I had to.

Good news, by the time we got to Canada, we were sober, she was dry, and we had not been removed by security.  So, overall – it was a good day.

And, this concludes this episode of ... "My Sister Pee's Her Pants."   Thanks for coming.  Please come again.

Where The Hell Is Uncle Pop?

Sorry to tell all you enthusiastic readers about this.. but here’s another lesson in death.  Just like the dead-dog story, there is a hidden moral somewhere here.  So, stick with me – I will try not to disappoint you…

My family does not deal well with death.  I have always found this profoundly confusing coming from a Christian family… because Christians believe when they die they go to heaven where everything is covered in awesome-sauce.  So, dying should be like winning the lottery – you get a mansion, you don’t have to work, you can eat whatever you want, RIGHT??    But, my family has some strange death-dysfunction which is baffling to me.

When I was about 23 years old, no one in my family had died yet.  Actually I think someone may have died, but I don’t remember caring, so maybe it was someone I didn’t know.  Regardless.. I had a great-uncle by the name of Pop.   His real name was Bernard Nelson, and he was an Irish Catholic from Savannah, and he always wore an admiral’s hat.  Pop was always old, but spry.  When I was with him, everything always felt a little magical… like the Keebler Elves would jump out from under his admiral hat and shoot yummy-delicious cookies in my mouth. (This is only a metaphor. This really didn’t happen)

   *Here's an actual picture of my Uncle Pop with my Aunt Flora. I think this is infront of the court-house the day they got married.*

Let’s cut right to the punchline – Pop was a million years old and ..well, one day, Pop got sick and died.  My family cremated him and put him in an urn. 

A few months went by, and I went to visit my great-aunt Flora … This was my first visit back since Uncle Pop had died.  I think my aunt was approximately 117 years old, but she still drove a light-blue, big-ass old car.  Obviously I was either drunk or had a momentary lapse of reason, because we were headed off to run some errands that day, and I thought it would be perfectly ok for her to drive. 

As we took our first turn out of the neighborhood, she barely slowed down, and the car wheels squealed as she spun around the first corner.  My head practically hit the glass passenger door window.  But, curiously, I heard a loud object in the trunk roll from one side the to other, then a loud THUD.

A few minutes later we made another sharp turn, and still I heard a loud rolling sound, and THUD.

And then again.

Finally I inquired:

Me:    What’s that noise in the trunk?

Aunt:   I don’t hear a noise.

Me:    I keep hearing something load rolling around and a loud thud when it hits the side.

Aunt:  Oh, that’s  Pop.

Me:    You left Uncle Pop in the Trunk?

Aunt:   I didn’t “leave” him there… That’s where we keep him. (said in a matter-of fact tone of voice)

HOLY CRAP.  She keeps Pop’s urn in the trunk.  Are you kidding me?  What is wrong with these people?  What’s next?  Are we going to put grandma and grandpa in the salt & pepper shakers in the pantry? 

*Not Pop's actual urn, yet similar*

So, after I prayed to the patron saint of safe-driving, we eventually arrived back at her house.   I went inside and looked in the closet for uncle Pop’s admiral hat.  Then I went back out the car, removed Uncle Pop from the trunk, put him in the front seat, buckled him in and put the admiral hat on top of the urn.  Now at least Pop could sit in the damn front seat.  That’s the least he deserved.  

*Replica of my Uncle Pop's admiral hat *

My aunt drove around with Pop in the front seat until she became too old to drive at the ripe old age of 248.  She eventually died and was cremated too.   Now, both her and Pop sit in urns – behind the couch in my mom’s living room.  

I give up.

I imagine in a few years, we’ll have a whole family behind that couch.  Which is better than the trunk.

*Actual picture of my uncle and aunt as I remember them *

**note, I believe at some point, my mother and my aunt Pat took Pop’s urn to Savannah.  I cannot verify this, as I was not there. Never-the-less, I'm reserving my spot behind the couch.  Space is limited. **

Why My Birthday's Kind Of Suck

If you’re reading this blog right now, I can safely assume you’re alive.  And, if you’re alive, I can also assume that you’ve had a birthday…

SO…Ok, here’s the deal.  I’ve had 43 birthdays.  As legend has it, the first few were a ton of fun.  I can’t remember them, so my mother would probably go on-and-on about how super-duper-awesome my birthday parties were as a child.  There’s no extensive documentation of any of this…There was no facebook nor blogs back then, and my mom claims she has approximately 25 thousand dark, grainy, and off-centered pictures in boxes located randomly in her house, but I have only seen a few pictures to certify my awesome childhood birthday parties.

 *Above is an actual picture of me at my 5th birthday party. Notice my mom meticulously cutting the cake.  I'm also pretty sure she cut my bangs, too*

*This is a picture of me at my grandmother's at my 15th birthday.  NOTICE THE STRANGE CANDLES in the cake.  Its like someone said "Oh crap, no candles!.. Here..shove these in."  And my sister looks like she knows that I'm getting ripped off.. she's the one in the glasses.  I don't know why my dad is attacking my grandma.*

Then I grew up, and the celebrations of my birth continued to decline.  When I was 19 I verbally mentioned that no one was making a big deal about the remarkable day when I was born.  My mother (yes, the same one who claims that she threw me amazing childhood birthday parties) tossed me a $20 dollar bill and told me to go get my own cake.  WHAT?  What happened to the ponies, and piñatas, and pin-the-tail on the donkey and stupid party games??  Has it come to this?? “BUY YOUR OWN CAKE?”  Woman, have you gone mad??  I can’t remember exactly what I did with the twenty, but I’m sure it involved vodka.

Any celebrations from 19 thru 39 are a complete blur, and not exciting enough for an honorable mention.  Yep, even the 21^st birthday was a lackluster event – completely unremarkable. 

THEN, A few years ago I turned 40.

This particular birthday, in a historical perspective, should be monumental.  I had made it semi-successfully through four entire decades without any MAJOR incidents.  I was pleasantly surprised.   It’s not that I thought I wouldn’t make it to 40 for any particular reason..  In fact, Billy Joel told me that only the good die young… so I was thinking I would be good for at least a few hundred years.

                                                             *actual picture of billy joel*

For reasons unexplainable and unknown to the common-man, I decided to spend this monumental birthday in Jacksonville with my family. 

We rented a condo at Amelia Island and I arrived fully prepared for my family to celebrate all 40 years of my awesomeness.  So, there I was, in the middle of my big celebration, when I came to realize that I was the only one celebrating.   Here is the conversation as I remember it:

Me:  HEY PEOPLE, in case you are wondering… yes, this is the day of my birth.

Sister:  Yeah, so?  Do you want something?

Me:  Yes, I would like a lobster.

Sister:  I can’t afford a lobster.  Buy your own lobster.

Me:  Ok, I’ll go to the store and buy my own lobster.

Sister:  Great, while you’re there, buy me and my husband lobster too.

So, for my birthday, I bought lobster for everyone.  So, far 40 was sucking the big one. 

Then came nite-nite time.  Yes, it was my BIG FREAKIN’ 40^th BIRTHDAY.. and we were all ready to hit the sack at the very reasonable, and normal 11pm.  

The room we were sleeping in had 2 twin beds.. one on each wall.  There was just enough room between the two beds for a blow-up bed on the floor.   And, for WHATEVER REASON,  my sister slept in one bed, my brother-in-law slept in the other bed… and I WAS STUCK ON THE BLOW-UP BED between the two of those nut-balls ON MY 40^th BIRTHDAY.   Did I fail to mention to everyone it was my birthday?  My 40^th birthday?  That I had bought everyone dinner?  The whole reason we got together was because it was MY BIRTHDAY? 

As I drifted off to sleep, I was beginning to feel that turning 40 sucked.  And when I woke up in the middle of the night, I realized that my blow-up bed had a hole in it, and it completely deflated and I was pretty much laying directly on the floor.  Then I knew for SURE that turning 40 sucked.    I had more fun at my first mammogram.

                       *This is NOT an actual picture, but I'm trying to give you people a visual.*

I noticed weeks later the mistake I had made on a pamphlet titled “Early Warning Signs of Dementia” – it listed one of the questions as:  Did you decide to spend your 40^th birthday with your family? If the answer is yes, please see your doctor immediately.

Birthdays are important.  So, unless you’re going to throw your loved-one a party, or sing songs about their numerous accomplishments and the height of their awesomeness, Or unless there is a piñata..and someone’s kid hits their dad in the groin with a bat, don’t bother..

Final disclaimer… If one person says to me “You’re age is only a number”  or  “You’re as young as you feel”… I may pull out my FIST OF DEATH and monkey-punch you in the face.  J

My Homework Is Late Because of The Rapture

For anyone who grew up in a Southern Baptist household, you would be familiar with the ever-popular term of "THE RAPTURE."  For people who don't love Jesus enough to know what THE RAPTURE is, I'll explain it to you so you can prepare yourself for it.  Don’t freak out.. This is not a Bible Study.

THE RAPTURE is talked about in the chapter of Revelation in the Bible and refers to the “OH MY GOD THE WORLD IS ENDING!”.  Ok, that's probably not real biblically accurate.  So, I’ll talk in normal terminology -  All the Christians suddenly disappear off the face of the earth, wreaking total havoc and chaos.  (good times, good times.)

Then the anti-Christ comes and everyone is miserable and eventually people have to wear 666 on their foreheads in order to buy groceries.  This is a general summary.  Don’t email me to tell me what it really is…. I saw all the movies and heard all the sermons. 

*Actual Picture of THE RAPTURE button located at First Baptist Church *

As a child, this caused me great fear, as well as a fair amount of total confusion.  First of all,  I was constantly told – “the rapture is near.”…. so, not being convinced that I would actually disappear during THE RAPTURE, I was making preparations for what would happen to me if I was left behind.  For example:  If I flew on an airplane, I would desperately hope that the pilot wasn’t a Christian.  It would completely suck if you were on an airplane with a Christian pilot during the rapture.   And, if my mom was driving me somewhere in the car, I was always braced for impact in case she disappeared before we arrived at our destination.  

I had a brief scare when I was about 10 years old:  My mom was in the family room vacuuming and she left the vacuum on and walked into another room for some reason. I entered the room and saw the vacuum on and NO mom attached.. my first thought was “HOLY CRAP.......I'm glad we weren’t in the car.”   Second thought, “Now I guess I have to make my own dinner before the anti-Christ comes.”

But, in fact, the biggest problem caused by THE RAPTURE was that it taught me to procrastinate.  Here’s the scenario that I was following:

My science teacher assigned a term-paper.  It was due in 2 weeks.  Then I went to church on Sunday.  The pastor talked about THE RAPTURE.  My 14 year old brain thought - "What if I DID disappear during the rapture??  I don't want to frickn waste my time writing a term paper if the rapture was right around the corner."  Duh.   

So,  I would wait until the night before it was due to start writing it, because – frankly, I was a little busy waiting for the rapture.  BUT NO…   there was no rapture.. then my paper was due, and then I was stressed writing it, and then it would turn out crappy and I would get a bad grade.

DAMN THAT RAPTURE.   Where’s the rapture when you really need it??  

Moral of the story:  Don’t wait for the rapture.  It will just give you bad grades.

Lessons Learned from A Dead Dog

Stories about dead animals are not very popular.  But, I’m not here to be popular… I am here to teach you a lesson about how to not tell someone that their dog is dead. So, listen and learn.

(I would like to also point out that there is some controversy surrounding this story, as each family member remembers it differently - but this is my blog and my story – so if you are a family member that remembers it differently, then feel free to create your own blog and tell your own stories.)

As a kid, we had a big, black, furry dog named Ginger.  She was a mutt from the pound.  My dad loved Ginger.  Here is a picture of my dad napping with Ginger:

                                        *Actual picture of my dad and our dog, Ginger*

Anyway, my dad was out of town, and through of series of events that aren’t relevant to the story – my mom took Ginger to the vet.  Well, for the sake of time - let’s skip to the end… the dog died at the vet’s office.

My dad was not due back in town for 2 more days, and the vet offered to keep our dead dog until my dad returned.   The remainder of this story will be an example of a lack of communication…

My mom calls my dad to ask him to get Ginger from the vet on the way home.  My dad arrives at the vet’s office and tells the receptionist that he was picking up Ginger.  She goes in the back, and comes back out and tells my dad that they’ll bring the dog out in a second.   One of the vet technicians promptly arrives from the back with a big, black hefty-garbage bag and hands it to my dad.  My dad looks at the garbage bag, and says, “What is this?”

The vet tech replied, “This is your frozen dead dog.”

YES, it appeared as if my mother failed to tell my dad that GINGER WAS DEAD. 

So, my dad thought he was picking up a cheerful-fluffy-alive dog… and instead he picked up a very-frozen-DEAD dog.   Mind-boggling, I know.

Angry dad comes home with frozen dead dog… and yells at poor-communicating mom for failing to leave out the DEAD part of the “Go pick up the dog” request. 

“Poor-communicating mom” blames “You never listen to me” dad - -   She claims she DID tell him and he doesn’t pay attention.  Either way – this taught me several life lessons at an early age:

1. Husbands and Wives generally have a failure to communicate
2. It’s traumatizing for children to see the family pet frozen in a garbage bag.
3. The word DEAD changes the whole meaning of certain sentences.

NEW NOTE:  After my dad read this blog... he sent me this email.. let's consider it "THE REST OF THE STORY" -

 "I began to dig a hole in the back yard and after a half-hour of digging, the hole was the appropriate depth that the vet told me to dig.  The hole had to be pretty deep so that the other animals would not smell and uncover the dead dog.  Well, after a half-hour of digging and wiping tears from my eyes, your mother appears at the back door and shouts - "that's NOT where I want the dog's grave!" "  

Why It's Hard to Date A Clown

A long time ago,  in  a distant galaxy far, far away – I used to date.  Many of these dates are nothing but faded memories and blurs of boring.  Normal dates usually followed the same cookie-cutter pattern –food, movie, makeout, home. 

Then…  one day…. I dated a clown… and everything changed.

*Actual picture of me and the clown*

Before I dated a clown, my normal preparations for a date included showering, putting on makeup, and ensuring fresh breath.   Preparations for dating a clown included, learning to juggle, learning to ride a unicycle, and various magic tricks.   Oh, I must mention, the clown eventually morphed into a magician… so my duties as a girlfriend also morphed.

I knew he really like me when he put me in charge of the magic bird, Clyde.   And, then as our relationship progressed, I was cut in half, my head was put in a box penetrated by swords, and I knew we were very serious when he asked me to eat fire.  (Eating fire is not a euphemism for something sexual.. it actually means he wanted me to put a flaming torch in my mouth.)  Stop thinking dirty thoughts.

My other friends were going to the movies, or the beach, or football games.  I was eating fire.  Oh the irony…

I have to tell you, eating fire is not as easy as you would imagine.  Fire is hot.  And it burns.  And, at the time, I was only 16 years old, and I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with burnt-up lips.    I wasn’t sure this relationship would last forever, and these lips may need to be put to good use on someone else….

One day, my mom was at the grocery store and the clown/magician came over for our fire-eating practice.  He lit the torches, and we were simply trying to desensitize my face to hot burning flames.  The living room was right at the entrance of the door to the house.  Within 5 minutes, my mom walks in the door with big brown grocery sacks in her arms. 

Picture this scene:  I am sitting on our living room couch with my head tilted up and my mouth wide open, clown/magician boyfriend is standing in front of me with a flaming torch about 2 inches from my mouth.  (Once again – this is not a euphemism – this is all LITERAL).   My mom walks through the entrance, pauses, takes one step back, looks at us… and without missing a beat says:

“DON’T EAT FIRE IN MY LIVING ROOM.”

I’m sure these words – this VERY sentence – had never been uttered by another human being ever before.  However, that sentence HAS echoed in my head for the last 27 years.  "Don't eat fire in the living room."  Good advice.

Eventually, the clown/magician and I broke up.  However, we’ve remained close friends for 27 years…..   and every now and then – when I’m in the produce section of Publix, I feel the urge to juggle the oranges… 

                                             *Actual picture taken a few weeks ago *

Satan Lived In My House

In honor of my mother's birthday, I'm posting this story - It's a classic and one of my all-time-favorites.

For any of you that don't know me, I was previously married to an idiot.  During the 5th year of our marriage, my parents came to stay with us one weekend.  (We lived about 3 hours from them)  For the most part, everything was as "normal."  The parental units spent Friday night at the house without incident.  We spent the entire Saturday doing parent/grown-children activities..  They spent the night Saturday night - and planned on leaving on Sunday morning after breakfast.  All seemed to go according to plan.

Several months later I called my parents to let them know that I was filing for divorce from the idiot.  After they FREAKED OUT, my mother and I had the following strange conversation:

MOM:   I KNEW something was wrong when we stayed with you a few months ago.

ME:   Really?  Were we acting weird?

MOM:  No.  On our last night there, I woke up in the middle of the night, and I was freezing.  I got up and walked thru the house, and there was this strange feeling surrounding me.  It was Satan.

ME:  Are you sure? Maybe you just needed a fluffy blanket.

MOM:  No, I’m certain it was Satan.  And, now that you tell me that you’re getting divorced, this confirms that Satan was definitely in your house.

OK.  Fine.  Let’s just go with her story.   I then took a moment to reflect on the morning after her demonic encounter.  On that Sunday morning, we got up, made yummy eggs, pancakes, bacon, biscuits. We drank coffee on the back porch.  We had fresh orange juice.   There was not a single mention of Satan the entire morning.  They packed up their crap – hugged, kissed – and off they went. 

Now, 3 months later – I find out that Satan lives in my house!  REALLY??!!

So, I called her back to let her know that if she thought Satan lived in my house, I think a reasonable person would MENTION such an encounter to the homeowner.  For example, maybe that Sunday morning we could have had this kind of conversation:

ME:   So, mom.. how’d you sleep last night?

MOM:  Fine, except for the fact that I was woken-up in the middle of the night by the very presence of Satan.  These pancakes are extra fluffy.  I’d like another cup of coffee.

Maybe Satan WAS there… that’s not really what I’m disputing.   I just think it would have been considerate to have been told.   So, if any of you plan on spending any time with me, and you feel any demonic spirits in my house, I would freakin appreciate a heads-up.

Your Cornholio is too small

This post is dedicated to my niece - who will always be known by her nickname - Pot Roast.  When she came out.. she was not fully cooked.  And furthermore, she only weighed 5 pounds or something.. and I made a comment at that very pivotal moment that I had just cooked a Pot Roast bigger than her.

                 *Actual picture of my niece*

So, I had a recent weekend encounter that included an ENORMOUS TURD, a Civil War re-enactment, and a very small cornholio. 

We arrived at some Fort that the popcorn-kernal brother in law wanted to visit.  The Pot Roast was screaming in pain as we pulled in.. so in the parking lot, in the HEAT, in the broad daylight - - my sister announces..

"OH MY GOD!  SHE'S CONSTIPATED."

My sister is a blurter.  However, this blurt had a ring of truth.. so here we are, pulling off her diaper, lifting up her legs.. (the baby - not my sister).. and sure enough.. there WAS an  ENORMOUS turd stuck in the hole.  Picture a pingpong ball trying to come out of your nostril. 

So, Pot Roast is screaming.. and right on cue...here comes the Civil War re-enactment.. drums, cannon, soldiers, horses...  Even in the midst of war, that turd was NOT coming out.  And, the south would not rise again.

SISTER:  She has poop stuck in her hole!
ME:  I see that.
POT ROAST:   WAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!! (translation: HELP ME, PEOPLE!  I have a big turd stuck in my butt!)
SISTER:  What should we do?
ME:  I suggest you try to pull it out.
 (Picture this conversation with the cannons bursting and Yankee Doodle Dandee playing in the background)

Here is where I list all the reasons why constipation sucks.  Forget it.  You know.

I'm sure you're now sitting on the edge of your seat wondering what happened to the turd.  Rest assured, it came out.  And the moral of the story is:  It sucks if your cornholio is too small.  And, don't be constipated during the Civil War.  And sometimes it sucks to be a baby. 

Why I LOVE Skating Rink Cheese

Oh readers, it's way past my bedtime, but I feel like I will let you all down if I don't blog something tonight.  So, here goes.  I'll probably edit it tomorrow.

There comes a time in your life when you realize that your life completely sucks.  That particular moment happened to me at the skating rink.  My daughter got an invitation to a birthday party at the local skating rink...  She was in first grade, we had just moved here.. and she wanted to go...    This seemed perfectly reasonable to me. 

We arrived at the skating rink, and at this point I was TOTALLY unaware that this whole experience would completely BLOW.. so in the midst of my naivety... I'm thinking there are still rainbows, unicorns, and lollypops at this party.   Then I pull the GIANORMOUS dirty metal door open with all my strength...and that's when *IT* happened.  That moment.  If you're a parent, and you're reading this, you know the moment I'm referring to...    The moment when you know with all certainty that YOU. ARE. SCREWED.

With the aroma of decaying feet compounded by the darkness and strobe lights, AND the deafening techno-rap music.. I was certain that God hated me, and this was my punishment for all the bad things I had ever done.  My survival instincts went into over-drive... how the hell will I endure FOUR HOURS here.  DEAR GOD -   they don't even serve alcohol here like they do in Chuckee Cheese... what will become of me?  Panic and Fear replaced my Rainbows and Lollypops.

Now, here's my favorite part... the birthday kid CAN"T EVEN SKATE.  REALLY??     He put on his skates, desperately grabbing at other skaters for dear-life during his one lap around the rink... and that was it.  He took off his skates and he just walked aimlessly in the dark in his bare feet for the rest of his VERY.LONG.PARTY.   Ummmm, did these retard parents not know that their kid couldn't skate? AT.ALL?  Hey parents...  here are some more great ideas:

Birthday Kid:  "Hey mom and dad, I want to scuba dive for my birthday party."
Retard Parents:  "Ok, son.  That sounds super awesome..even though you don't know how."

OR...

Birthday Kid: " I would like to fly a real airplane for my birthday."
Retard Parents:  "Super idea! Let's send out the invitations."

Don't misunderstand... up to this point.. I loved skating rinks.   I spent my Saturdays during my childhood inside the Cassat Avenue skating rink.  I made big colorful homemade yarn pom poms on my skates, sporting my Farah Fawcett hair, and I skated my pre-teen, misguided heart  to "Blinded By The Light" .... and during couple's skate.. I would lean on the wall of the rink hoping that Andrew Flemming would ask me to skate to "Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady"....     Then, my skating gang would skate on over to the concession stand.. and there we would partake in some yummy nachos with Skating Rink Cheese....   Yes, this was the answer!

Now I'm in my 40's, so I can't see very good in the dark, but somehow I made my way over to the concession stand .. although briefly I thought I would siezure from the lazer beams and strobe lights...  but I made it there... and  spent the best $3.50 of my life.. on The Skating Rink Cheese Nachos.   If I stuck my nose right over the nachos, it even temporarly covered the decaying buffalo carcass smell.  

I used to love the skating rink.  Now I just love cheese.

Not Your Mamma's Devotion

My brother in law (yes the popcorn kernel guy) gave me a bumper-sticker for my birthday a few years ago.. it read:

I wasn't allowed to put in on the car.  (??)  

I. LOVE. THAT. FRICKIN. BUMPER.STICKER.  It sits in my top drawer, amongst my panties in my dresser.  Some people read the Bible, but I read my bumper sticker every day when I pull out a new pair of panties. 

There are at least 417 billion times a day that I encounter someone that makes me scream it so loud in my mind over and over and over and over again...that I'm certain that it will just rupture and spew out like rabid aliens eating their own flesh..  Sometimes, while I am conversing with various of these a-hole people, I actually have a hard time believing that even Jesus loves them.  Jesus must be super awesome.  Because all I can do is picture a gianormous rusty pitchfork stabbed in their heads.

So, this isn't my most uplifting blog, sorry.. I can't always tell funny stories ALL THE TIME.  But, I bet most of you have felt this way, and you have suppressed it deep deep inside..... and your bowels are now all messed up, you have high blood pressure, and an ulcer.  How 'bout you start a blog and get it off your chest? I feel better already.

I'll leave you with this... The best advice of the day: "It's a good idea to test out how people will react to the words "Jesus" and "asshole" before you post it to your facebook profile.  Show a little self-restraint. Your audience will appreciate the awkward-but-present segue into the more offensive and disturbing branch of your sense of humor."

Also, don't underestimate the value of a bumper sticker as a super-awesome birthday present.

Dumb Things My Dad Has Done

This entry is dedicated to my dad.  No, he's not dead.  But, he's done and said alot of really dumb things over the years.. and I don't want him to feel that my mother has the corner-market on stupidity. 

*Actual picture of my dad from high school.  (No he is not related to Buddy Holly) *

This particular story happened a year or so ago.. and once again, it has to do with my sister.  My sister lives in closer proximity to my parents than I do, so she experiences a great deal of stupid shit.  I am merely the story-teller.. she has to live it.  ha.

Last summer, my sister had temporarily traded cars with my mom...she needed my mother's minivan for a week because she was hauling around alot of kids, and she needed more seats.  She came to the house to return the van, endured normal family torchure, and then headed home .. which is about 35 minutes away. 

Upon arriving home, she realized that she didn't have her house key on her keyring...and she had left the garage door opener in the van back at my mom's house.  So, she called the parental units to discuss her dilemma..  It was about 9pm .. she was tired, and she had kids in the car.. there was no way she could drive all the way there and back again... Here is a similation of how the conversation went:

DAD:   Hello?
SISTER: Dad, I'm locked out of the house, and I left the garage door opener in mom's van.
AND:  And??
SISTER:  Could you PLEASE bring it to me
DAD: Sure.

So, our brilliant and efficient dad went out to the van, grabbed the garage door opener, and drove 35 minutes to my sisters house.  My sister and kids were still sitting in the car in the driveway.

Dad pulls up, gets out of his car.. points the garage door opener at the garage.  NOTHING. 
My sister gets out of the car, walks over, and asks him what the heck he is doing.

DAD:  I'm trying to open your garage.
SISTER:  Why are you trying to open it with the DVD remote control?
DAD:  OH CRAP!

For some unexplained reason, our father grabbed the remote control from the DVD out of my mother's van, and then got in his car, drove 35 minutes.... only to prove that the DVD remote control does NOT open garage doors.   For any of you that are wondering if the DVD remote control and the garage door opener resemble each other  - the answer is an astounding NO.  They do not.  Not at all.

Good news is that our dad makes the laws that people have to follow.  Do not be afraid. 

How Salad Dressing Can Ruin Your Life

I  spent the first 18 years of my 43 years of life being blissfully unaware of the "BUY ONE, GET ONE FREE" trickery.  The better part of my childhood I lived in fear that one day I would want a salad, and there would be NO SALAD DRESSING in the pantry.   Now that I'm an adult, I shouldn't have to live in fear anymore.

Apparently, my mother had this same fear, thus leading to the salad dressing hoarding.  *NOTE: I find it important to let my readers know that I have enough material on my mother to blog every day of my life, and I would NEVER run out of material.

If you are a person that has ever been in a grocery store, you know that at ANY grocery store on ANY given day of the year, you can find salad dressing on a "buy one get one free" sale.  I have to keep reminding myself of this.. because I keep hearing this voice saying, "You better stock up, you never know when these salad dressings will be on sale again."    Dear GOD!.. that voice is my mom.  It is NOT the voice of reason.

My mother cleverly disguises her salad dressing hoarding as "finding a good bargain."...  Recently, my sister and I have gone through her panty and found bottles of salad dressing dating back to the late 90's.  We speculated that she was stocking up for Y2K.  My mom would have ruled the world had it ended in 2000 -  as she would have held the world's entire supply of ranch dressing in her panty. 





*Actual Picture of part of my mother's pantry*

As it turns out, I may be incapable to stop myself of this genetic pre-disposition to hoarding.  The unexplainable part is that I KNOW in my mind that I don't need more salad dressing, yet I feel compelled to buy it anyway.  A thousand curses to my genetics.

*Actual picture of the inside of my mother's refridgerator.. with possible expired items circled in blue*

But, alas.. it doesn't end there.  While cleaning out my mom's freezer, my sister and I also found many baggies -  each with bits of Honey-baked Ham inside..meticulously labeled for future use. 

For example:  "Easter 2002".  

HOLY CRAP. I feel like I'm going to start hoarding Honey Baked Ham now.  What is happening to me?  Will it never end?