Monday, September 28, 2009

Random Nuggets of Wild Animal Spoor

May I respectfully encourage everyone to comment on blog utterances with abandon?  Don't be a'skeered. Go ahead! It's fun.

Here're some comments I left at my favorite Bloggers' sites like little random nuggets of wild animal spoor marking the trail where I have been.


~ I awakened draped across my bed clutching a half-eaten quesadilla in my hand once. It was still good at room temperature. I think I was trying to multi-task. Then there was the dinner-plate sized housekeeping spider that captivated my peripheral vision and I forgot all about the quesadilla and the sleeping.

~ My Dad does what that horse did. It's esophageal spasms...Same string of horrifying finger-poised-on-the-1-button-having-already-dialed-91 neck contortions followed by the saliva thing and the eventual gacking up of whatever hairball could afflict such a cranky old man. And, yes, after incinerating every last ounce of adrenalin trying to figure the thing out, seratonin overachieves and sleep, albeit weird, takes over. I can attest...

~ pibloktoq is my kind of melt-down. Not just for Inuits any more!

~ Are you Hunter S. Thompson's secret love child? Just askin'...

~ God just gave St. Agatha new boobs to to teach those medieval titty twisters a lesson. Which backfired not on God, but on St. Agatha. Unfair! God likes to use us to flip off people with whom he REALLY has an issue. Like that time I got engaged to an atheist who converted to Catholicism who then turned gay and became a priest.

Wait. Was it my boobs?

~ The Rick James version of the Bible can indeed repel vampires.

~ Booby perfection indeed! It’s funny how God or Mother Nature or whatever entity is in charge, throws down just the right message at the right time. I have Parkinson’s, and like your RA, the whole freakin’ thing pisses me off to a somewhat lunatic degree at times.

And then up pops a Booby Mushroom, and all is well again!


~ Tim Gunn should definately think about spreading his genetics around a bit. Clone a Tim Gunn Army and we’d not only achieve world peace and civility, but we’d look pretty hot too! Gather around Designers and carry on!

~ She patted her hair, tucked in any fly-away ends and checked her lipstick for smears. She then arranged her face in that reveal-nothing rictus of a dutiful Senator's wife. "It's about time I was the one calling the press conference," she thought.

~ Mom: I just read your blog and it was great.
Me: Thanks Mom.
Mom: Only one thing though. Do you need to be so, well, earthy? And when did you get a DVR?
Me: Well, Mom blogs are our “voices” and that’s how I talk. And I didn’t get a DVR.
Mom: Who’s Tim? Is he nice? Why are you calling yourself Booshy?
Me: (Ding! Light goes on) That’s not my blog you read, it’s one of my favorite ones someone else writes. You clicked on it from my site!
Mom: Oh well she’s very good. Never mind then.

~ ‘Tis all about yer scabbard and how well the sabre fits! We’re all thievin’ wenches deep down inside, so quaff your rum and boff yer bums…There be ships to pillage and spoils to divvy up!

(oh dear God! shoot me before i pirate talk again. is an exorcism in order?)

~ Just thought it was harmlessly quirky when he turned into a seething pile of aggressively horny man-sex when I said something about kangaroos in a faux Australian accent…

Until I heard his GPS.

I’m going to snuff that Olivia Newton John Jezebel dashboard poser when he’s not looking!


~ Cool adventure! Those were some smart horses jackrabbiting for distance with their legs tied together. My fart-tard horse at camp would succumb to a basic restraint requiring no knot tying - the "stomp hobble." Just got him to stand on his own reins. Goin' nowhere. If I came back in a month, I swear my equine Einstein would still be there, a moldering corpse with the reins still under his dorky hoof! I stomp hobbled him frequently in the center of the ring where others of his kind could point and laugh at his doofy-ness; payback for when he bit me hard in the stomach once.

~ It’s Florida here. I frequently hear the soft “tick, tick, — tick, tick, tick – scurrrrrry,” of dinner-plate sized arachnids (There ya go Tim, exacerbate THAT!)as they traverse the bedroom ceiling at night in the flippin’ dark. Catch these freaks of tropical nature in a maglite beam and they jump aggressively forward in a blur of eight-legged alien horror, challenging like drunken hairy wind-up toys from Planet 9. And yet, with plastic cup and a paper plate I still catch and release. Trying hard not to irritate my already shaky karma.


~ Oompa-loompas spontaneously generate. Just leave damp rags, jolly rancher watermelon candies, and some taco meat in a warm dark corner free of drafts and they'll emerge in 10 days in their nymph form.

~ In the throes of that very same technicolor yawn, caused by too many shots of tequila and possibly the ingestion of the worm, a roommate of mine in college decided to pull up a laundry hamper and just bare her soul about how much she disliked my every molecule of being. She did hold my hair however in an act of thin compassion.

Friday, September 25, 2009

Reply All: An Email Play

An email play
Francesca Hargrove - Working Mom
Connor Hargrove - Her Kid
Joseph P. Scarborough - Her Boss


-----Original Message-----
From: Francesca. Hargrove @ScarbCom.com
Sent: Friday, November 12, 2004 3:00 PM
To: Joseph.P.Scarborough@ScarbCom.com, ScabbyConnor@aol.com
Subject: The Scampers Cat Food Account

Mr. Scarborough,

I am sorry this is late…but I think you’ll like the news. Scampers Cat Food graduated with flying colors from the focus group trials at the beginning of this week. All 100 subject cats ate with enthusiasm. From Crabcakes to TunaTubes, all flavors were favored. Isn’t that good news? We can now develop the campaign. Art boards and copy will be coming to you shortly for approval. The media plan is still in the think tank with the eggheads, but progressing. Thank you for your patience with the delays on this project. We’ll be catching up this coming week.


Sincerely, Frankie


-----Original Message-----
From: Joseph.P.Scarborough@ScarbCom.com,
Sent: Friday, November 12, 2004 3:07 PM
To: Francesca. Hargrove @ScarbCom.com, ScabbyConnor@aol.com
Subject: Re: The Scampers Cat Food Account

Ms. Hargrove,

Good news indeed…but, to be honest, a day late and a dollar short. You came within a hair’s breadth of blowing it. Very disappointing. Mr. Purrance called and almost pulled the Scampers account not fifteen minutes ago. I had to make a hefty contribution to the local cat pound to appease him and I don’t like cats.

On another subject, may we have a chat, please, in my office in the morning?


-----Original Message-----
From: ScabbyConnor@aol.com
Sent: Friday, November 12, 2004 3:14 PM
To: Francesca. Hargrove @ScarbCom.com, Joseph.P.Scarborough@ScarbCom.com,
Subject: Re: The Scampers Cat Food Account


Hi Mom! Wow. You were right about this guy Scarb. What a dick! A chat on Saturday. Tell him we have plans. And I don’t trust a suit that doesn’t like cats. Probably a reptile lover. ;-) Forked tongue, live mice-eating ones I bet. Want me to key his car?

Anyway, we need cat food. DON’T bring Scampers. It sucks. Pookie will yack it up. She told me. Anyway, your cats in the test group were from the pound and probably starving. They’d have eaten you if they had the chance to get their paws on you. I’m making spaghetti for us tonight. Love ya.

C.

-----Original Message-----
From: Francesca. Hargrove @ScarbCom.com
Sent: Friday, November 12, 2004 3:20 PM
To: ScabbyConnor@aol.com
Subject: Re: The Scampers Cat Food Account

CONNOR! STOP RESPONDING REPLY ALL! I accidentally hit your name on my group list. It’s right above Scarb’s address. I slipped. You were never meant to get it. God help me, he hit Reply All.  Worse, you hit Reply All.  YOU BOTH HIT REPLY ALL!  Scarb read every word. “The dick” is going to fire me for sure now. Start counting your allowance, butthead. We’ll need it for rent.

YOUR SOON TO BE ANNIHILATED,
Mom


-----Original Message-----
From: Joseph.P.Scarborough@ScarbCom.com,
Sent: Friday, November 12, 2004 3:21 PM
To: Francesca. Hargrove @ScarbCom.com, ScabbyConnor@aol.com
Subject: Re: The Scampers Cat Food Account
My comments in red below – “Scarb”

Hi Mom! Wow. You were right about this guy Scarb. What a dick! I am not a dick. But you are “ScabbyConnor” indicating you have an unsightly skin condition and are not one to talk...A chat on Saturday. Tell him we have plans. Yes, plans with me. And you should consider delivering an apology too. And I don’t trust a suit that doesn’t like cats. Oh? You trusted me to employ your mother these 9 months. Probably a reptile lover. ;-) Forked tongue, live mice-eating ones I bet. I happen to raise racing pigeons on the roof of my condo. Cats are a problem for me. Want me to key his car? Ah, the adolescent answer to everything. Want to teepee my oak tree and soap my windows while you are at it?

Anyway, we need cat food. DON’T bring Scampers. It sucks. How do you know? Tried it? Pookie will yack it up. Come on! Cats puke for no reason at all. She told me. I am appalled at your apparent distance from reality. Anyway, your cats in the test group were from the pound and probably starving. Shameful. I didn’t know. Frankie, rerun the focus group. Sounds like the data is flawed. Bring Pookie please. They’d have eaten you if they had the chance to get their paws on you... Maybe that money I threw at Purrance will beef ‘em up a little and they’ll lose their taste for human. Thank you for your observation here. I am still pissed though. I’m making spaghetti for us tonight. Don’t forget the salad. With that complexion, Scabby, you probably need greens. Love ya. Not currently.

C. “Scarb”


-----Original Message-----
From: Francesca. Hargrove @ScarbCom.com
Sent: Friday, November 12, 2004 3:22 PM
To: Joseph.P.Scarborough@ScarbCom.com,
Subject: The Scampers Cat Food Account

Mr. Scarborough,

Please accept my apology for the memo you read from Connor to me. I assure you I do not malign you at home, and Connor used terms I have never dared uttered in your regard. Nor do I feel that way about you. I will see you in the morning for our chat. I will be bringing Connor’s personal apology in writing. And the cats didn’t seem that skinny.

Horrified and tendering my deepest apologies,

Frankie


-----Original Message-----
From: ScabbyConnor@aol.com
Sent: Friday, November 12, 2004 3:30 PM
To: Joseph.P.Scarborough@ScarbCom.com
Cc: Francesca. Hargrove @ScarbCom.com
Subject: Re: The Scampers Cat Food Account

My comments in red below – “Scarb”
My comments in blue below = “Scab”


Hi Mom! Wow. You were right about this guy Scarb. What a dick! I am not a dick. Yes you are. You work my mom to the bone. Since dad left, I never see her in daylight and you want her in on Saturday? Dick! But you are “ScabbyConnor” indicating you have an unsightly skin condition and are not one to talk. Wrong! I made up my screen name when I had the chickenpox. It was the only Connor not already taken. Go figure. I happen to have skin softer than a baby’s butt. A chat on Saturday. Tell him we have plans. Yes, plans with me. And you should consider delivering an apology too. In your dreams. And I don’t trust a suit that doesn’t like cats. Oh? You trusted me to employ your mother these 9 months. Seemed like 9 years. You are an energy vampire and suck the life out of everyone around you. Her head hits the pillow until 3 am and then she’s up working at home just to stay ahead of your demands while you stuff pillows with the molt off your flying rats. Probably a reptile lover. ;-) Forked tongue, live mice-eating ones I bet. I happen to raise racing pigeons on the roof of my condo. Cats are a problem for me. Bird crap is your problem. Want me to key his car? Ah, the adolescent answer to everything. Want to teepee my oak tree and soap my windows while you are at it? Been there. That was me last Halloween.


Anyway, we need cat food. DON’T bring Scampers. It sucks. How do you know? Tried it? Of course. Won a bet. Pookie will yack it up. Come on! Cats puke for no reason at all. Not Pookie. She’s the Queen of all Kitties. Undignified to puke for no reason. She told me. I am appalled at your apparent distance from reality. Back atcha. Anyway, your cats in the test group were from the pound and probably starving. Shameful. I didn’t know. Frankie, rerun the focus group. Sounds like the data is flawed. Bring Pookie please. Only if you invite her on company letterhead. And remove the red M&Ms. She doesn’t accept many invitations. They’d have eaten you if they had the chance to get their paws on you... Maybe that money I threw at Purrance will beef ‘em up a little and they’ll lose their taste for human. Yet your hunger for human subservience is never satisfied. Wow! I’m good. Thank you for your observation here. I am still pissed though. Oh I’m just giddy. Let's get real. I really boofed it here, Scarb, and my mom, once again, gets the brown end of the stick. Since you’ll be firing her tomorrow on my account, I figured I’d go out with a bang, not a whimper. I’m making spaghetti for us tonight. Don’t forget the salad. With that complexion, Scabby, you probably need greens. You’re so packed; you probably need greens more than me. Love ya. Not currently. Too bad. What’s not to like?

C. “Scarb” “Scab”


-----Original Message-----
From: Francesca. Hargrove @ScarbCom.com
Sent: Friday, November 12, 2004 3:32 PM
To: Joseph.P.Scarborough@ScarbCom.com, ScabbyConnor@ aol.com
Subject: The Scampers Cat Food Account

Mr. Scarborough, Connor:

Please stop. Both of you.  For my sake, stop now.

Freaking the hell out, 
Frankie



-----Original Message-----
From: Joseph.P.Scarborough@ScarbCom.com
Sent: Friday, November 12, 2004 3:51PM
To: ScabbyConnor@aol.com
Cc: Francesca. Hargrove @ScarbCom.com
Subject: Re: The Scampers Cat Food Account

My comments in red below – “Scarb”
My comments in blue below = “Scab”
My comments in green below – “Scarb”

Hi Mom! Wow. You were right about this guy Scarb. What a dick! I am not a dick. Yes you are. You work my mom to the bone. Since dad left, I never see her in daylight and you want her in on Saturday? Dick! No I am not. I am a hard worker, I love my job, and I am sometimes unaware that I drive others as hard as myself. This can change. I apologize. But you are “ScabbyConnor” indicating you have an unsightly skin condition and are not one to talk. Wrong! I made up my screen name when I had the chickenpox. It was the only Connor not already taken. Go figure. I happen to have skin softer than a baby’s butt. We have that in common. LOL. A chat on Saturday. Tell him we have plans. Yes, plans with me. And you should consider delivering an apology too. In your dreams. I still deserve one. You are harsh. And I don’t trust a suit that doesn’t like cats. Oh? You trusted me to employ your mother these 9 months. Seemed like 9 years. You are an energy vampire and suck the life out of everyone around you. Her head hits the pillow until 3 am and then she’s up working at home just to stay ahead of your demands while you stuff pillows with the molt off your flying rats. I never knew. She hides it well. Pigeons, by the way, not rats. They are as devoted a pet as a cat. Probably a reptile lover. ;-) Forked tongue, live mice-eating ones I bet. I happen to raise racing pigeons on the roof of my condo. Cats are a problem for me. Bird crap is your problem. Can be. They make a load of it. Want me to key his car? Ah, the adolescent answer to everything. Want to teepee my oak tree and soap my windows while you are at it? Been there. That was me last Halloween. Mystery solved.

Anyway, we need cat food. DON’T bring Scampers. It sucks. How do you know? Tried it? Of course. Won a bet. Oh, I am so playing poker with YOU! Hope you got at least a fiver out of it. Pookie will yack it up. Come on! Cats puke for no reason at all. Not Pookie. She’s the Queen of all Kitties. Undignified to puke for no reason. That has been my experience. She told me. I am appalled at your apparent distance from reality. Back atcha. Cats don’t talk, but pigeons do. See? I can be just as much of a delusional tool as you. Anyway, your cats in the test group were from the pound and probably starving. Shameful. I didn’t know. Frankie, rerun the focus group. Sounds like the data is flawed. Bring Pookie please. Only if you invite her on company letterhead. And remove the red M&Ms. She doesn’t accept many invitations. Done. They’d have eaten you if they had the chance to get their paws on you.. Maybe that money I threw at Purrance will beef ‘em up a little and they’ll lose their taste for human. Yet your hunger for human subservience is never satisfied. Wow! I’m good. A touch, I do confess it!  Um, crap! That’s all the Shakespeare I know. Thank you for your observation here. I am still pissed though. Oh, I’m just giddy. Let's get real. I really boofed it here, Scarb, and my mom, once again, gets the brown end of the stick. Maybe not. I just wanted to talk with her tomorrow to explain that our professional relationship has changed. Scabby, I’ve fallen for her. Hard. Since you’ll be firing her tomorrow on my account, (I’m not) I figured I’d go out with a bang, (You did) not a whimper. (Never a whimper) I’m making spaghetti for us tonight. Don’t forget the salad. With that complexion, Scabby, you probably need greens. You’re so packed; you probably need greens more than me. Nonetheless, may I bring dessert? Rocky road seems appropriate. Love ya. Not currently. Too bad. What’s not to like? My thoughts exactly.


C. “Scarb” “Scab” “Scarb”

-----Original Message----
From: Francesca. Hargrove @ScarbCom.com, ScabbyConnor@aol.com
Sent: Friday, November 12, 2004 4:30 PM
To: Joseph.P.Scarborough@ScarbCom.com,
Subject: The Scampers Cat Food Account

Mr. Scarborough, Joe,

My daughter Connor and I humbly request the pleasure of your company at dinner this evening. Connor is making spaghetti. You may bring dessert. Please do your birds the kindness of leaving them home.

We have a cat.

Love,
Frankie

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

More Uncool Behaviors Observed and Shared With Hellish Glee

- Engaging in fits of uncontrollable laughter in church.
- Being shushed by the nuns sitting two rows in front of us.
- Being glared at by the priest.
- Feigning a coughing fit to cover the subsequent perp stroll escape route/walk of shame.
- Flipping off and dropping a loud F-bomb on the mother of my daughter’s best friend in traffic. (She cut me off!)
- Chaperoning school dances and wearing themed costumes to blend in.
- Supplying a playlist of my own to the school dance d.j. (Free Bird, Stairway to Heaven, natch!)
- Reminding the spawn just what I had to do with their dad to get pregnant with them.
- Reminiscing about where and when I got pregnant with them. (Captain Morgan notwithstanding)
- Guilting my son by pointing out that he did not “cone” properly when being born, his head remaining completely round all the way out. (Big honkin' rock hard skull filled with brains)
- Sporting a “Dog is Love” bumper sticker on the vehicle.
- Naming my vehicle Ursula. Because she hit a bear once on I-4.
- Identifying my spiritual beliefs to the door-to-door evangelists as Paganfarian and inviting them in for my “special tea” while barely restraining Janie the Snarling Drooling Foaming Labrador.
- Waving and yelling “Pick ME! PICK ME!” when audience participation is requested.
- Talking to the cats, in cat-speak, on the phone when calling in from vacation.
- Threatening to read Tarot Cards for profit at soccer games to raise funds for the team. (No up front investment, lucrative, people are crazy even in the ‘burbs…a win in my opinion... What???)
- Coming within a hair’s breadth of running out of gas on I-75 in BF Georgia because of excessive rocking out to 80’s hair bands on CD.
- Praying frantically out loud to the gods of the road to please just let us limp it in.
- Sweet talking the vehicle to just "hang in there.  I know you're thirsty. Just a little further...that's a good girl!"
- Coasting in downhill, on fumes, to the Stuckey’s gas stop on I-75 for a pecan log, a Nehi grape soda and discontinued Minnetonka Indian moccasins. And, oh yeah, gas.
- Sleeping, snoring and talking in my sleep in the car in public
- Aiming lit bottle rockets at the kids just to see them serpentine run while laughing hysterically. “I can’t beLIEVE you MOM, Grandma’s gonna KILL you!”
- Intoning the syllable “Moo!” everytime we pass an occupied pasture.
-  Making them sniff the milk when it’s past the date due.
- Announcing “Turd alert!” whenever pet excrement hits the floor indoors.
- Keeping “special” tongs and a spatula as essential tools of a Turd Alert Clean Up Kit.
- Accidentally incorporating the Turd Alert Clean Up Kit tools in normal kitchen activities. (Dishwasher sanitation notwwithstanding)
- Using the term "tool" to describe a frickin' idiot.
- Citing Pink as a genius for saying Kanye is a whole "toolbox."
- Capturing and relocating spiders, snakes, beetles and other animals just because they deserve to live even though they are poisonous maybe and/or could rip my face off.
- Challenging myself to run to the car to retrieve my cell phone in my panties and bra without being spotted.
- Fixing a sandwich by feel in the dark at 3 a.m. in the kitchen and expecting not to drop anything.
- Kicking the roasting pan, left on the floor since dinner for the dogs to “pre-wash,” that I couldn’t see in the dark in the kitchen at 3 a.m.
- Making good on a promise to go skinny-dipping in the lake, even just alone since nobody had enough huevos but me to do it….ah, whatever.

- Answering every Jeopardy question, in the form of a question, rapid-fire, with no chance of anyone else participating like a big damn egotistical show-off blow-hard bully bitch!
-  Getting carsick.
-  No, really, stop the car!
- Wearing Birkenstocks with a skirt.
- Wearing Birkenstocks at all.
- Pantsing the boy when his shorts are riding too low.
- Telling him to calm down, I used to diaper that butt!
- Explaining for the millionth time that the pants down around your butt cheeks fad has its origins in a prison communication method indicating a certain repulsive "availability."
- Creating an “epic fail” prison-style reverse Mohawk haircut on son by accident due to hubris with clippers.
- Giving in to MADD - Mom's Attention Deficit Disord  - What were you saying again?

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Anne Bonny, Pirate Bitch: Misbehavior Understood

(Attention readers:  Salty language and racy stuff here, so don't read it if you are easily offended or know your parents would rather you not. Honor system!)

Damn. Anne Bonny had it going on.  She misbehaved in a big way!

Sometimes I feel guilty for misbehaving. Misbehavior, as I see it and do it, is gleefully departing from social norms in such a way as to raise eyebrows and reap certain negative judgment. Why spend such a short time on this plane of existence without kicking some outlaw ass for a while just to get it out of your system? And, it is pee-in-pants hysterical to mess with the Bible-thumping-prune-faced-pursed- lipped-string-of-pearls-clutchers out there.

I believe that the degree to which one misbehaves is directly in proportion to how much time one thinks is left to bite off a generous piece of this life and wash it down with a good, no spectacular, bottle of wine...

Consider middle class life expectancies of the 1700's. Most people, let’s say women because men had a whole other scene to deal, would expect to die in the cradle of neglect-because-it’s-not-male, croup, thrush, typhoid, plague or exsanguination by lice. But if you make it past puberty, (huzzah!) maybe, just maybe, you could enjoy a timely death in your late 20's of small pox, syphilis and/or/including childbirth.  That is if your man, who "owned" you like he owned his ox or donkey, didn’t beat you to death for misbehaving or sell you into indentured servitude.

Given the choice, it'd been a pirate's life for me.

It was for Anne Bonny, female pirate.

Born illegitimate in Ireland to a lawyer and the maidservant, who misbehaved in the eyes of the pious so dramatically, they were forced to board the next slow stinking ship to the Americas where they settled, and prospered, in Charleston. That’s where Anne, anger management issues showing early, got a rep at age 13 for misbehaving in a colossal piece of foreshadowing by stabbing a servant girl in the stomach with a table knife.

Must’ve been having a bad day.

Rumor had it she also nearly killed a dude with her bare hands in her later teens.  The idiot attempted forcible relations with her landing him in hospital within an inch of his life. He must not have known about the anger management issue Anne had.  She met her first husband, purported to be a gold-digger bottom-feeder sailor and part-time pirate, and moved with him to what was the hub of piracy in those days,  Nassau.  Ever alert for any opportunity to indulge her predisposition for misbehavior, she ditched him in favor of a higher-roller in their pirate social circle, eventually landing on the dashing testosterone-exuding Captain Calico Jack Rackham, literally. Probably on top. For this misbehavior, Anne, was sentenced to a nice public adultery flogging, and would’ve “tasted the cat” except she blew the joint and went to the sea with Rackham as the first full-fledged woman pirate. In a real stupid Men-from-Mars-Women-from-Venus misstep Capt’n Jack offered to buy her from her husband invoking a lovely legal convention called "divorce by purchase."   I bet she nearly stabbed him in the stomach for the insult. Probably would of but weighing killing him against screwing him, screwing won.

In fact, the screwing would eventually save Anne’s life.


They say that Bonny and Rackham, who teamed up with a second female pirate named Mary Read, misbehaved quite effectively pillaging up and down the Eastern Seaboard and the Caribbean for years. Apparently Anne fought and fucked with the ferocity and competency of any man onboard. And it is rumored that Anne really misbehaved and played on Mary Read’s team, sporting in that naughty girl-on-girl category as well. If Rackham was anything like modern men, this fantasy-turned-reality misbehavior had to be a sheer delight. Yo ho ho!


In fact the only three people onboard who were able to stand and fight when they were surprised by the Governor of Jamaica’s ship intercept were Rackham, Bonny and Read. I suspect they were engaged in misbehaviors that would make grown men, like even Larry Flynt, blush at the time. The rest of the crew was too drunk to watch or fight. They were all taken prisoner.

For their gross misbehavior against the Realm, all were sentenced to hanging. But, avast! Anne and Mary turn up preggers, thank you Jack Rackham, champion sperm donor! The girls “plead their bellies” so they didn’t get strung up under English Common Law.

Rackham? Not so lucky even though he in all probability was the father of both pirate fetuses.

Anne, who had ever-higher standards about with whom she fought and fucked, knew when to cut her losses and didn’t mince words. She said to Rackham as they shuffled in shackles next to each other in prison, "Sorry to see you here, but if you had fought like a Man, you need not have been hang'd like a Dog."

Bet it was the hormones talking.


Rackham hanged, Read died in childbirth, and lo and behold, Anne Bonny’s now rich plantation owner lawyer Daddy bailed/ransomed her out, brought her back to Charleston, and married her off to some guy named Burleigh. In addition to birthing Rackham’s’ ill-begotten spawn, she produced 8 more kids! This Burleigh dude must’ve figured out the real deep, um, motivation that made Anne Bonny settle down and toe the line. Do I have to actually spell it out? You know what it was…Misbehavior!

Keep us happy in the sack, and we can be inclined to keep the misbehavior where it belongs.


I believe Anne lived fast and hard because, at a very young age, all she saw around her were the exigencies that would snuff her life out in a heartbeat. I will always wonder, if she had known she was going to live 82 years, would she have misbehaved in such a celebrated way.

She saw two choices: Submit to that brutal unacceptable 1700’s life of a pious god-fearing woman/thing, or fight it.

She fought like a bitch.

Misbehavior understood.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

My Uncool Behaviors As Observed By My Spawn

- Humiliating the dog by dressing her up.
- Using the term "epic fail" in a convo.
- Whipping out my clunky outdated Mavica digital camera.
- Singing and/or rocking out in the car.
- Rocking out anywhere.
- Rocking out anywhere utilizing air guitar or drums.
- Writing "I love you, Pumpkin" on their Facebook walls.
- Writing "I love you, Pumpkin" in the condensation on my car windows and dropping them off at school..
- Talking about how funny farts are.
- Especially their farts.
- Or the dog's.
- Actually farting.
- Boogie boarding.
- Wearing a straw cowboy hat to (their) sports events.
- Shouting overly personal things from the sidelines. -- Like "Fly, Tinkerbell, fly!" or "Win and you get chocolate!"
- Melting down in confusion while ordering at the McDonald's drive-through.
- Talking to complete strangers.
- Especially strangers at Wal*mart.
- Especially oddly dressed criminal-looking strangers at Wal*mart at 4 in the morning.
- Actually "getting" Dr. Tran videos & quoting from them.
- Picking them up anywhere, any time of day, in my nightgown.
- Making up pithy metaphors for every little life event.
- Texting. (It's not just for pre-pubescents anymore!).
- Attempting to discuss the merits and/or meaning of a song lyric.
- Publicly identifying tampons as either "high test" or "regular."
- Outing in writing their uncool behaviors.
- Mocking the "eye roll" and the "oh my GOD, Mom" mantra.
- Wishing out loud for menopause in a crowd.
- Providing tasty cocktails to soccer parents at the hotel on long tournament weekends.
- Jumping fully clothed into hotel pools with soccer parents at aforementioned tournaments.
- Executing rad cannonballs in said pool.
- Inquiring if I can sit in his Art History class because I just want to.
- Initiating and winning staring contests.
- "Disappearing" the torn miniscule short-shorts somewhere on the Turnpike near Yeehaw Junction, Florida.
- Repeating my impression of a local car dealer's pitchkid's voice: "Thish ish Preshton and we wanna shee ya in a Kia."
- Repeating stories over and over until they break down and say "I got it Mom!"
- Saying "boss" or "groovy" in context and with conviction.
- Insisting on providing hand sanitizer to everyone within a 10 foot radius.
-Defending and then proving that Diet Coke is the best productive medium, no contest,  for winning a burping competition.

Doesn't end there. Oh no! More to come. Book it!

Monday, September 14, 2009

Soccer. Balls. Son of...

Whaaat? Huh?!
The girls like to bounce a ball on the hood of my car because, catching me sleeping there, it is so flippin’ funny to watch me climb up into consciousness and figure out where I am. I am the notorious napping mom. I can sleep anywhere at any decibel level and with any kind of sensory fracas swirling around me. Breaks between games, water breaks, during games, makes no never mind to me.

I am the perfect hotel chaperone. As long as they leave me curled up and comfy, don’t leave the room, refrain from dipping my hand in warm water or painting me with Sharpie pens, they can slumber party their adolescent asses off.

On cold days (Yes, Virginia, it does get cold in Florida sometimes.) it is sweet when, sprawled nodding, drooling and possibly snoring in my soccer mom chair, the soccer community, as a whole, covers me up with a beach towel.

Wait. That could be so that I won’t further embarrass them. In part probably.

On hot days they rearrange umbrellas while I loll in a sweating fitful doze so the Florida sun doesn’t sear my glow-in-the-dark Caucasian hide right off. “Tori, your mama is so WHITE!”

The second half of the game is usually pretty exciting though, keeps me wide awake, since the sizing up is done and the two-level strategy is complete. First, Coach has got their number on the plays the other team are likely to foolishly repeat and the girls will now stick those plays hard to win. And, second, the girls have pinpointed the elbow-throwing-hook-tripping-fake-injury-flopping-cry-for-the-ref bimbos on the other team. Those chickies will now understand why you don’t mess with our girls until the last minutes of the game and then they best have a solid agreed upon walk of shame escape route.

This must be said, or it wouldn’t be an honest story.

For all their pride and dignity, the girls, mine included, do indeed know how to do all the bad, bad things on a field of play to serve up sneaky shadow hurts to mind and body of their opponents. Older sibs, school survival, or even to some degree, home life has given them some hard-shell pugilistic fighting skills to survive. They can throw down. But never are they schooled or encouraged to use these skills at soccer. They are coached impeccably and love the game. It is sanctuary, and they choose, until profoundly provoked, not to pull the bad, bad things out of the war bag. They know intimately the pain they could inflict in this full-contact sport, since by half-time in some of the more contentious matches fueled by hellish opposing parental zeal, at least two of them will have been sidelined or hurried to the ER by vicious physical insults. This is not a game for wusses.

The game is within the game then.

And when they are “on,” there is dazzling magical fake-out footwork, cheetah-like sprint break-aways to goal, hilariously witty field chatter, fantastically precise field changes in wide arcing V-shaped passes designed to run the other team into exhaustion, crosses, headers and goal kicks oh my…and smiles. Great big smiles.

And when they are “off,” and just cannot pull up the goods, they may complain a little, make a few mistakes, well up with trembling lower lips, but they learn what it is to lose gracefully. To come back next time loaded with new resolve.

The long drive back home is evenly sprinkled with tears and giggles. Sometimes we hit the nearest beach to wind down.  McDonalds or Cracker Barrel embrace, with cool, cool air conditioning and the scent of deliciously greasy food, our sweaty sunburned and stinky selves for quick roadside meals. Sometimes for me it is an entertaining diatribe from my daughter outlining just how uncool I can be, complete with solid examples of my public behavior she deems really embarrassing. To which I respond with eyes all wide and innocent, “So what’s your point?”


Ann Coulter, praying mantis that she is, can indeed sit and spin. Soccer Moms, with all our SUV-loving-sidelines-prowling-kid-dedicated-crazy-love-committed activities are doing a crapload more real stuff than she is, or will ever do, to instill courage and dedication to this generation of kids. I can’t see anyone naming a soccer sport complex or much else after her, but they might just name one after a Soccer Mom. Mark it!

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Soccer. Balls. Half-Time.

Soccer Moms (And, incidentally, Dads who I have neglected to mention and who are the coolest dudes on earth!) have been the undeserving butt of a lot of criticism and stand-up comedy these days because of our vehicle choices (We need the big cars for all the junk we cart around! Come on!), our so-called political leanings (Already popped off about that with my Coulter snit.), and our blind zeal for our kids (And what is WRONG with that?). Maybe I am telling the story that will change some minds. Maybe we’ll get some respect. All I know is we respect each other, and that’s the important part.


Midway through each game, both teams retreat to their respective benches and cluster in kinetic pony-tail topped huddles to map out new tactics crucial either to maintain a lead, or to make a comeback Cinderella story happen. Coaches gesture and grimace and pace, tracing plays in the dirt while the girls, rapt, sponge up their instructions. This is also when the girls, nodding their heads, pointing surreptitiously and whispering, define which of the opposing team’s players are the stealthy ones who can expertly throw an elbow or hook a foot to do maximum damage when the referee is otherwise occupied. They identify who of their soccer sisters are being “keyed” on and devise protection plans. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention, they seek revenge.

The half-time show? Roving gypsy soccer families unleash the siblings of the players onto the field to kick-kick-kick out all their pent up energy since their parents have employed every device short of duct tape to control the little ones during the game. One wandering 4-year-old did toddle out smack into the game one time, kick-kick-kicking his little circus-colored Junior Beckham soccer ball with super star flair and confidence. The little bugger narrowly escaped being jacked up by the girls who see only the ball, the goal and each other. He giggled maniacally as the ref scooped him up and deposited him with his grandma who had gone white as a sheet at the sight…

At half time, many a request is received from the players to we sweating, pacing, anxious parents during the brief respite. Since our hearts, which were stuck firmly in our throats during the first half of the game, are back down in our chest cavities and functioning as they should, we jump to their service. Need more water? Do you have any dry socks? Where’s your inhaler? Sunscreen, for the love of God, sunscreen!



My daughter and I also trade silent signals in case things are too hotted-up on the field for verbal exchange. I dread to see our special “tug on the ear” signal because it means parents from the opposing team are “talking” to them during the game.

Now, we as a group will raise Cain on the sidelines hooting and hollering encouragement to our daughters, praising their good work, and occasionally, I kid you not, we actually compliment the other team for a play well done. We would never, ever address someone else’s kid directly, unless we had something good or positive to say. Otherwise nothing is said. Not even if they were the source of some hideous mayhem out there. It is a Soccer Parent (Unwritten) Rule of Civility. The refs and the coaches are on point to make those calls.

DISCLAIMER: I must say at this juncture a MAJORITY of the teams we play display good sports-woman-ship.

But there was a spate of this weirdo-psy-ops-sidelines-buzz-babble recently, where parents of the other team scoot their Soccer Mom folding chairs, coolers and umbrellas up close to the field line and literally growl in low tones to our girls about how their kid is going to “take you out, ghetto” or “you’re no good; we’re gonna win this ‘cuz you stink!” and even darker, and I heard this, “Get ready for the hurt!” Since they are teenagers, these practices are meant to get inside their sensitive and vulnerable heads causing them to be psyched out and throw the game. For some to win, whatever works is fair in their depraved view. One time I waded into it.

True story, when I saw the ear get tugged and the frantic look on my daughter’s face one game, I knew something was really amiss. I casually strolled down the line to stand behind the parents she had pointed out and, sure enough, two bulbous, red-faced, recently permed manicured women wearing Chanel bedazzled sunglasses were hissing out these lovely utterances to the girls closest to them on Tori’s defensive line. I paused to process what I was hearing, because I truly did not believe my ears.  I lurched into action, however, when I heard my own flesh-and-blood, having had enough of hearing her soccer sisters being berated in that strange buzzing hive voice these women employed, tell an adult to:

“Shut up! Just shut the hell up!”

These women, as one in complete demented unison like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, were out of their chairs screeching to the referee that they had been cursed at, that these girls are foul-mouthed and unfit to play the game, the ref must call the game, call the GAME, CALL THE GAME and all that kind of blithering.

When they paused to take a breath, I cleared my throat and declared my opinion: “If you would stop saying such nasty things to them, and I heard you say some pretty nasty things ladies, perhaps my daughter would not have had to ask you to shut up!”

And, as one with all the volume and ferocity of the Tweedles in Xanax deficit, they turned on me and literally melted down, jumping up and down stomping their be-sandaled feet! I had spanked the wasp nest good and hard!

“Your girl obviously got her training at home to disrespect her elders! Maybe you should take her to Sunday school instead of let her play soccer! And look to your failed Godless parenting too!”

To which I lamely responded, (and this is really dorky so try not to laugh your drink up through your nose): “My kid goes to Catholic School so you are full of crap! YOU shut the hell up! And stuff it too!” Do I get points for not using the f-word? Please! I’ll cop to the dorky though.

This was so loud and kinetic and venomous; the ref did indeed stop the game and both teams just stopped in their tracks, jaws dropped with surprise at the cat fight developing off field. I think they all even "took a knee" which means just kneel until the thing going on has resolved itself.

Here’s where it gets skeevy. While the gorgons were railing at me, something about Catholics and cults, I felt someone sidling up to me from behind, turned to look and it was one of their men stinking of Pabst and muttering something to me like “You cain’t talk to my woman that way.”

Ummm, what th’???

But he, thankfully, was immediately followed on by two of MY men, my fellow Soccer Dads who happened to look pretty damn scary, and frankly very sexy, in an enforcer-big-black-intimidating-guy kind of way. They nudged the stalking muttering stinky guy aside, fixed the Tweedles with the most chilling of “back off” fry-you-to-a-heaving-crisp laser looks, and gently escorted me (I think my feet were off the ground as they had me firmly in their grip) back to the relative safety of our side of the sidelines.

“Come on Lin. Not worth it. Let’s go.”

And we did. The game continued with the line ref placed directly in front of and my two Soccer Dads standing directly behind those women, who never made another peep. We won. Karma kicked in.

There’s the whistle for the second half. Moms, take your chairs and prepare to sweat out another forty minutes of soccer – The game that the United States of America has yet to adopt as its own.



(To be continued…)

Monday, September 7, 2009

Soccer. Balls.

Ann Coulter can sit and spin! I am a card-carrying Soccer Mom and, as such, I put the full weight of my grandmother’s very potent stink-eye curse on her for co-opting my lifestyle as political fodder for her douchey attempts at national attention. Everyone, like Coulter, who thinks being a Soccer Mom means I voted for Clinton or Obama merely because they turned me on in a naughty way can just stick it. I voted for whom I voted unrelated to whether I bought into some kind of celebrity cult of personality and would like to “do” the man who was to be the Commander and Chief of this country. That’s my private business and not hers. To be totally frank, nothing icks me out more than a politician. I hold my nose and pull the lever when I vote, because they are all repulsive, incompetent and power mad. And none of the Soccer Moms I know have the time or the inclination to give a damn either.


We have our own thing. Right in our faces that no politician or pundit will ever understand: Kids to raise responsibly and prepare for the incessant assault of adult life with some small modicum of courage. End of story. How dare you? Get off our backs. Bitch.

I dig soccer, especially since my daughter kicks ass so very well on the playing field. She and her team could run down Ann Coulter’s emaciated skeletal butt, drop her, and I would  (inappropriately) celebrate the resultant red card. For the unschooled, red card means you did a bad, bad thing and must bench yourself. Oh, what a difference if this guy refereed our games.The penalty card process would be so much less painful!


Another great visual? Coulter pursued by my beloved pack of girl soccer players, her fake blonde hair, Chanel knock-off shift dress, stiletto Jimmy Choos and skinny legs flailing as she cartwheels…

But this didn’t start as a political rant. Or did it? Why did I go there? It’s coming…


Club soccer for kids is an accidental lifestyle. It so totally sneaks up. It is getting her to practice for two nights a week, suited up like an Amazon gladiator rain or shine, to perfect the arcane skill of reading her teammates’ minds and reacting effectively to push through the end result – ball in net, hurrah! It is being humbled by a Dad/Coach who does this whole coaching thing with enthusiasm and joy for free. It is waking up at the butt-crack of dawn for a tournament somewhere around 150 miles away and preparing the car to be the home-away-from-home headquarters for a weekend complete with gallons of sunscreen and Gatorade, various chairs, umbrellas, coolers, first aid kits, and so on. It is noodling MapQuest and Priceline for the best routes to the fields of battle and best deals on non-roach-infested-free-of-pimps-and- bullet-holes- in -the -ceiling -hotels.
It is fundraising. It is the knowing when that painful purple bulge makes your knee/elbow/finger/nose broken or just sprained badly, where the nearest Emergency Room is, and whether the insurance is all paid up. It is making sure all the girls get their chance to play no matter what may be obstacles at home, some of which can be heartbreakers. It is throwing down on the sidelines with crazy-beer –addled –lithium-deprived-religiously righteous (racist) parents of opposing teams and all the hilarious outcomes of those awkward skirmishes.




Tori plays defense and is the last line of resistance against full-on assault to the goalie so she takes it very seriously. No one gets by the Wall of T, and in the rare instance they do, she atones. Atones hard and fast. I get so alarmed and proud when her “mark” on the other team is a third bigger than she is. Sometimes I wish we could check birth certificates and chromosomes of these precociously developed giantesses, but whatever. She still buzzes the ball around them like a little gnat with great legs sending it back through to her mids and strikers for an attempt at a breakaway goal. It always seem to be the number nine player on each opposing team that is large enough to, when the ref isn’t looking, snag Tori, shake her like a Polaroid picture and push her to the ground. “Numbah Nine, Numbah Nine!” Tori just tucks, rolls and pops back up in a run, keeping any injury to herself until after the game, when I can freak out in a satisfying manner at the Technicolor multi-lobed bruising or bleeding cleat-induced striations where she got spiked. Get the girls together and it is like that scene in Jaws when they compare scars. “You think THAT hurt, check THIS out…!”

Our team is a standout for three reasons: They win in a big way, they lose in a big way, and they are the most colorful team in the competition, usually. Colorful is an understatement. They are every shade of passionate African American girl imaginable, feisty fiery Latinas, and a smattering of dazzling Filipinas all blended together with a minority of strong white chickies, like my daughter. Amazing variety and beauty all wrapped up in this talented group of friends and teammates. Tough too. But such a bunch of powder puffs as well, styling each other’s hair and sharing cool clothes and juicy text gossip with each other.


Coach Hugo, a brown bald Guatemalan man-angel with smiling eyes, does not mince words, either Spanish or English, when the tide needs to turn in a game. We know he is irked when he is standing with legs locked, arms akimbo in full King of Siam Yul Brynner posture shouting in espanol. When the team is winning, he sits grinning from ear to ear nodding and chuckling like Buddha. We read him and the girls do too. It is not the usual uber-dominant lockstep it’s-my -way -or -the -highway cliché Bear Bryant OC coach/team dynamic. The girls are empowered to fuss, joke, quip, and prank their Coach, but when it is game time, they respect him. When there is injustice or unfairness or intent to deliver harm to one of his players, he is “en fuego” for his girls pacing like a Mayan leopard man on the sidelines, challenging all in authority to do the right thing.

Because sometimes the right thing is not forthcoming.

Our team senses and actually hears out loud from other teams, parents of other teams, refs and even tournament organizers, that they are notorious before the fact. They hear parents from other teams postulating that they have been taught/schooled/coached to play rough. Dirty. To fight. Injure. Curse. Disrespect.

So the predominantly Caucasian refs , coaches and parents of opposing teams, and teams come loaded for bear. They announce loudly provocative little tidbits like, “You know that’s just the way they are brought up. It’s their culture to play dirty!” And even more crude, “Wow! Looks like a prison break out there on the field! ”

Nothing could be further from the truth. But the fix is in and it is open season. Funny how we are surprised every time it happens. We’d like to wish it away; hoping human beings have evolved past it but no cigar!

The team absorbs with self-control every bad call intended by misguided local power refs to keep “control” of the game. They take, with teeth gritting and escalating fear of being injured permanently, every cheap shot delivered by opposing players indoctrinated by their parents not to take any shit from this rogue thug team. We watch referees pull aside and stand face to face with our girls, lecturing them incessantly until, provoked, they utter one exclamation of discomfort or shrug in disgust and, yep, the penalty cards are displayed dramatically to keep these barbaric girls in line. Parents from the other team shout like deranged thumbs-down lead-poisoned drunken Romans in the Coliseum. “Give her a card! Give her a card!” With grim faces our beautiful, sweet-natured, proud girls hang on to their dignity best they can for teenagers and resolve to endure long enough to outwit and outplay the seething crap pile of prejudice looming over them until about half-time.

Then the gloves come off.

(To be continued...)

Friday, September 4, 2009

Monster Among

*Written a while ago in an effort to just simmer down about it. But now, it's timely in view of the news from Cali about a decades-long abduction case where a predator roamed free for a lifetime because no one dared violate his "rights."

Nightly, when they were toddlers, I sprayed air freshener disguised as "Heavy Duty, No Fail Monster Extinguisher" in closets and under the bed to terminate those dreaded multi-fanged scuttling creatures of my children’s dreams. I placed small piles of salt in the corners of their bedroom upon the advice of a Filipino friend. The salt, she said,  is house pixie kryptonite so they wouldn't ooze from air conditioner vents to pinch my sleeping children and make their beds jump and vibrate until they came frightened and wide-eyed to my room. I carefully turned their pillow case openings away from the windows so the dark fairies couldn’t crawl in under their ears and imbed wicked stories into their dreamtime.

All this to soothe my children. Monsters are imaginary after all. If they were ever real, Mom would put herself squarely between the fangs of a marauding beast before allowing a monster even near them…I'd give my life for them.

A documented sexual predator with a taste for children resides five doors down on our dead-end street.

Mentally impaired and spawned from Washington State, he lurched to the furthest point on the continent away from the place of his atrocious crime. He peeks out from beneath the thin supervision of a deluded, yet I suspect calculating, couple who have informally “adopted” him. Their story:  They met him at a flea market, heard his sanitized "poor me" version of his crime, and consider him innocent. Their compassionate mission:  They make sure he is receiving his government checks and managing his living expenses properly.

Yes. Ding!  That's correct!  He receives government checks. According to his "caretakers," this is because he cannot make decisions for himself and has the I.Q. of a 10 year old. It’s not rocket science, then, to deduce that he cannot discern right from wrong. He has no filters. In fact, he was adjudicated unfit to stand trial for his offense in Washington due to his so-called impairment.  So we have a man-child sexual predator who doesn't know right from wrong living among us with no boundaries.


And the little girl he physically overcame, stripped and molested in front of her brother in Washington knows that the monster haunting her dreams is real, and somewhere, and free.

The neighborhood knows he is here. I found out when a television crew came to my door in the dark of night, shoved a camera and a flyer with his smiling stoner face at me, and asked how I felt to have a child molester living so near my children. Here was the same smiling stoner face that had been to my door to "get acquainted," to discuss his Jesus-led redemption from drugs and alcohol, to ask to fish from our dock, ask for a glass of water, and I can only assume, to study the potential in my kids.


He spent three months among us without registering with the state Sexual Offender database. They say he tried. That the paperwork was lost. His birth certificate was late. Not his fault. He is not responsible. For this omission, he was finally arrested publicly.  Had I not been accosted by TV reporters hot on a sweeps ratings bonanza,  I would not have known. Unless I had stumbled across his record on the FDLE website I would not have known. A free-range predator would’ve continued his long slow neighborhood stalk of kids within arm’s reach. My kids.



I had a "meeting" with his people. I did not serve tea and cookies. The topic was mine to drive since I called the meeting. I outlined clearly the kinds of things of which a mother is capable should she be provoked sufficiently to defend  her children from harm.  I defined the unpredictable instincts that come into play when, even in the natural world, offspring is threatened by an enemy.  Just wanted to know if they had watched Wild Kingdom lately and had observed the brutal ferocity and lack of remorse a female can bring forth in an adrenalin-fueled blind rage when her young is threatened.  Just askin'...



Now he sits, an obese shirtless trap-door spider at a tumble-down picnic table in the carport day and night smoking. Watching. Watching children going to and fro from four public schools, day care centers, convenience stores, a foster home chock full of tots and public parks that ring his residence like some radiant smorgasbord of opportunities.  Driving in late at night, my headlights sometimes pick up movement in the lane and I realize it is him dressed in dark clothes, barefoot, walking somewhere, cutting though back yards taking shortcuts to his destination. Sometimes he waves.



The property on which he squats is shielded from prying eyes by a preponderance of haphazard shacks and derelict box trailers in varying states of disrepair.  Shiny new locks dangle from the doors on each of them.



There was a public meeting once. Halleluiah, a remedy, someone cares, an official help. Instead, we were told that there are 3500 like the monster living, watching and not capable of reforming in any way, in our greater community. And it is their right to do so.



The remedy: We were given tips to train our children on how to recognize and flee inappropriate advances from an adult.

My children activate the house alarm day and night. They know where the baseball bat is located. They take the dog on bike rides for protection. They joke about “Chester” but look over their shoulders every waking hour for the monster among us. This is no benign Boo Radley leaving gifts in the hole in the oak tree.  There will be no trick or treaters on our street under a festive fall moon.

The monster is real.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Kitties & Doggies & A Crazy Quilt Heart

Lately, everywhere, a boat load of attention is lavished upon cute doggies and kitties and their seemingly endless repertoire of adorable expressions, captionable poses, and anthropomorphic utterances like “Can I has a cheezburger?”   One can actually begin to see these domestic divas, these fussed-over fluff muffins wrap their bewhiskered lips around human catchphrases and that’s where the goofy insanity begins.  And the manipulative get busy. 

So few people actually read anything anymore, we who write are not too proud to trick our audiences into rediscovering the almost archaic practice. Fairly transparently pimping adorable canine companions and feline familiars by clever cyber-diarists lures potential readers in to SIT, STAY and READ. Mommy bloggers and Foodies seem to keep pace larding their letters with butt-clenchingly edible baby pictures and glistening drooling photos of standing rib roasts. But chum your writings with big-eyed sweet-breathed puppies and fuzz-bomb snuffling kittens and you have -  zip! bang! - Instant Following.



Far be it for me to judge. In fact I am jumping in.

My kids are not cute babies anymore.  Oh no.  Far from that.  And my standing rib roasts look like Civil War forts; assaulted, burnt down, and pissed on by Sherman's army.  So...


I’ve got it figured out. Everybody is a sucker for a fuzzy nugget of four-legged unconditional uncomplicated love.  They are cheap fur therapy since human beings dare to foolishly love one another.  As such, we right brain-left brain wonders of creation inevitably launch that leaky love skiff together onto a treacherous gulf of lava infested with mines and giant sentient prickly spiny sea urchins. We do it over and over, blank-eyed giggling amnesiacs, only to be atomized yet again with a loud “crump!” and a steaming sprinkle; parts of us raining down in a ever spreading radius and landing with dull thumps.



Just what circle did Dante invent for that heart-warming interlude?  Back to puppies and kittens, quick!



We could learn a lot from my dog Calamity Jane who, after working up a frantic full-speed run in pursuit of the almighty tennis ball, will lock up and execute a kind of Labrador-drift slide maneuver connecting head first into the wall.  She's done this twice. She stopped doing it because it hurt.


I am not complaining because the arc of love can be blissful. Just so burdened with overwrought transience for human beings. Luckily the sea urchin spines do a whale of a job when stitching oneself together after an episode. That is if you can run down all those parts that rained down and sufficiently complete the quilting bee that will ensue.



Kittens, puppies.



For me, it’s a crazy quilt heart.  I am happy, delirious even, just to be greeted at the door by a kinetic wiggling pointy-toothed smiley fur person who couldn’t care less if I have idiosyncrasies. Even better for gullible soft-touches like me, a HERD of fur persons of varying origins and pedigrees meeting me at the door. Six tails wagging, twenty-four paws patting me down for hidden treats, six silky foreheads to pet. To them, we taste, sound, smell and feel like god.  Bliss enough for this set of opposable thumbs.



As long as there is something to eat!




Tuesday, September 1, 2009

What the Funk?

I-4. Wekiva Springs. 70 miles an hour. Rain storm.

We looked at each other, eyes bugging out and watering, in four-alarm panic as the stink permeated the confines of my small rice-burner car. This was an aroma like no other we had ever encountered.

It beat the smashed skunk we rolled over and pasted to the undercarriage a few years back. Had to sacrifice a spatula from the kitchen and slide in under the car nauseatingly close to the splattered remains to scrape bits of that critter off the axle.

It far outpaced the stench we created by storing used cat litter in a sealed can until it was “full enough” to dispose of on the curb. My idea, I admit it. Not a good one, but impressive to all who encountered it.

This reek outdistanced in sheer back-of-throat-gag-impact of the dead deer carcass someone threw in our neighbor’s yard a few Christmases back. It looked like some darkly gothic Christmas gift, all festooned with vultures picking away. They stripped it in an hour. Nature’s garbage disposers are efficient…

This noisome odor shattered the puke-inducing record of my parent’s refrigerator when it ceased to be cool and croaked in a spectacular way with a few bags of my brother’s fish bait inside during the heat wave a few summers back. Cleaning that up, I looked like a deranged Bedouin with kitchen towels wrapped around my head and swim goggles on my eyes to ward off the visible fumes created by maggot-infested bait fish and Eggo waffles.

It actually beat the famous acidic cloud of funk my son can create after incubating Hormel Chili with Beans somewhere in his lower intestines overnight.  Pulling the lid off a can of that is like pulling the pin on a stink grenade!  We hear the "click! shuraack!" of the can opening in the kitchen and make plans to evacuate! T-minus a few scant hours until emission. Best to be out of the house or suffer the indignities of the hi-larious "chase mom until cornered, lift a leg and attempt to alter her olfactory reality" game.

But, as usual, the origin of the fetid miasma gassing us to unconsciousness in my car was a mystery. No one in their right mind would cop to this!


“Mom! What IS that?” she said.  Here it was...my stunningly beautiful blonde daughter glowing with good health and looking adorably quirky, her hair pulled back in her signature Tinkerbell-on-crack soccer hairdo, had removed her soccer cleats. A pervasive layer of tangy aroma wafted past. She then rolled down her soccer socks in preparation to un-velcro her shin guards. Another thick yet piquant odor pancaked down on the first aroma enthusiastically arousing my gag reflex and bringing water to my eyes. And to seal the fruity yet feisty vintage of this bacterial bacchanal, her soccer backpack, oozing with used soccer uniforms, spare cleats and more socks, gaped open next to her like an alien mouth orifice emitting what looked like its own exhalations.  A primeval perfume, it possessed three distinct notes:  Tangy, piquant and hideously vomitous.


The windows fogged in a sheen of toxic condensation. The air conditioner gasped and recoiled.  I pulled over.


Dr. Frankenstein said it best: “It’s ALIVE!”
The Supreme Soccer Stench trumps all. It came from the most unexpected place. It symbiotically set up its own  unique bio-system in my daughter’s soccer bag, home of vinyl cleats and polyester socks and sweat under cover of darkness and in perfect camouflage. And, it competes with similiar demon spawn in every other soccer bag toted around by the team according to reports from reliable sources (parents).


The bag goes in the trunk now.