Why Fake Dog Poop Makes An Awesome Present

This story was not on my list until today.  However, it’s so completely and unbelievable strange (and true) that I had to share it immediately.  I need to remove it from my head, and therefore I will now put it in your head.  That will make me feel better.

To the average person, my mother may appear normal.  She looks like your typical middle-class, stay-at-home, southern Baptist, mom.   She doesn’t travel to exotic places or work out at the gym, or dance at a bar, or gamble in a casino.   She’s the mom that made our home-made play-dough, packed our lunches everyday, drove us to dance lessons, and made pot-roast each Sunday. 

Everything looks normal to the UNTRAINED EYE.

I know things.   And, those things scare me because I see so much of myself in her, and personally, I think she’s off her rocker.  I have so many, many, many mom stories.. and each one of them could be self-sustaining … so, I won’t make this particular story a compilation.  I feel like I’m a caveman, and I’ve heard a story from another cave-person, and I have to run back to my cave and scratch it on the wall … 

My conversation with my mom today:

MOM :  You don’t have to use dirty words on your blog.  Stupid people use dirty words, like rappers.

ME:  It’s my blog, and sometimes I need to use that kind of language to reveal the depths of my experiences.

MOM:  You need a thesaurus.  It would give you alternate words to use.  For example, the word derrière is just as funny as the word ass.

ME:   I have a thesaurus.  I didn’t use the word ass to be funny.  It was just a word I used to describe my butt.  And, derrière is not as funny as the word ass.  Ass beats derrière.  Hands-down.

*This is where the conversation takes a sharp turn, and runs smack into bizarre.  She wants me to write a letter to go inside a present that she is giving to someone.  This may sound reasonable to the UNTRAINED PERSON. 

The explanations behind the present are numerous… but lets just go with this:  It’s a "gift" to a professional person who is incompetent .. and apparently is now going to deal with the wrath of my mother forever.  So, then she tells me her PLAN:

MOM:  I’m giving a “present” to  X. (x= the un-named person)  I want you to write a letter to give with the present.

ME:  What’s the present?

MOM:  Fake dog poop.  I was saving real dog poop in ziplock bags in the freezer, but I’ve consulted some people who told me that it would be best to buy fake dog poop.

ME:  Yes,  fake dog poop makes a much better present than real, frozen dog poop.  Everyone knows that.  DUH.

MOM:  So, I ended up going to Spencer’s Gifts at the mall to buy the fake dog poop.  That place is horrible and satanic.  If I had to go there everyday I would be skinny, because it made me so nauseated that I couldn’t eat.

ME:  Really?  So, Spencer’s made you nauseated, but storing dog poop in the freezer is perfectly fine.

MOM:  I've put the fake poop in a very pretty gift bag but I need something SCATHING to write in the card.  But, you can’t use any bad language.

ME:  Wow, so you want to give someone dog poop, but don’t want to use offensive language.  THAT MAKES PERFECT SENSE.  Sure, I’m in.

That’s when it hit me. 

It’s like I have time traveled forward, and I am speaking to a “Future Me”….   HOLY CRAP!  I felt complete panic set in.  Things were flashing through my mind.. because I knew with ALL CERTAINTY.. that this is EXACTLY like something I would do.  EXACTLY.  Except I would use bad words.

I quickly made a mental list of things my mother wouldn’t do… and I tried to do them all real quick… So I did a shot of tequila and I ran on the treadmill…  I turned on the radio and listed to some Sting and Bon Jovi…  I got a pedicure. (my mom told me to never get a pedicure because people die from pedicures.)  I flipped someone the bird.  

I was now ready to write the perfect letter to accompany the dog poop present:

“Dear X – I think you are a piece of excrement that came out of the anal cavity of a canine.”

There, that should do it.   Now for another shot of tequila…..

PS.  During my research of fake dog poop, I wanted to let my readers know that you can buy 1 Dozen Fake Dog Poop in Bulk from Amazon.com for 9.95.   Apparently dog poop makes an awesomely delicious present.

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 *

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.