Month: September 2015

You would think after numerous years of using “hemorrhoid” as a character description for a vast number of people, I’d know how to spell it by now right?  No…..likely due to my love of abbreviating, and I’d just refer to them as a total “Roid.” We all have them:  some we work with, some we marry, some we are related to, some just are.

Hemorrhoids – are vascular structures in the anal canal

(basically when a person is constantly up your ass)

They become pathological or piles when swollen or inflamed

( swollen egos who get really inflamed when caught in pathological lies)

Internal hemorrhoids – make you bleed

(self-explanatory)

External hemorrhoids

(The every day pain in your ass)

Usually constipated people in your life play the key role in the development of hemorrhoids.

Now you have it – why hemorrhoid is a proper term to use as a character description.

One of my relatives just had her first experience with these little beauties, and in order to write this I had to clear it with her, then I shared my first experience with her this evening.  The difference between our generation and the now child bearing generation is they google and Web MD everything, have way too much information, and they’ll be a therapist’s dream because of their online TMI.   Now I’ll share my A-hole story with you since we’re speaking of TMI.

I was newly married and my groom was having ass discomfort and asked me to take a peek see up there in the abyss before we were heading to my parent’s house for a family cookout.  I know I begged off, but as usual I relented.  That was like 30 years ago, and there are just some things iron branded in your memory you only pray you’d forget. So, as the newlywed bride, I took a look and what I saw looked like a damn asshole vineyard of grape harvesting.  When we arrived at the cookout, I confided in my sister-in-law, the nurse, that the groom thought he had ass cancer (and there wasn’t even online diagnosis then), and of course his plight was announced to everyone that he had a case of hemorrhoids or as I began referring to them, ass grapes. I shouldn’t have laughed.

My karma – have some kids and before you know it, you’re flat on your back on a lounge chair on your deck paralyzed from the pain of hemorrhoids.  That’s until one of your kids announces your ass pain to the neighborhood and your good Samaritan neighbor, Big D, comes over to give her recipe for relief.

Hints from Hell-Ease – The Recipe for Hemorrhoid Relief – full proof recipe

Needed:  Milk of Magnesia,  a disposable wash cloth ( unless you’ve got it in for somebody then save it AFTER use) or cosmetic pads (probably a better choice)

Soak wash cloth or cosmetic pads with Milk of Mag and stick in a baggie and put in the freezer or refrigerator (whatever your preference is for freezing out the little bastards)

Tuck way up into your ass cheeks especially at night so you can get gentle overnight relief like a Correctol.  I wouldn’t recommend taking a Correctol at this time unless you have a death wish.

Back Up Plan B – Before bed, shoot an ass bullet of Calmol 4 up, an over the counter hydrocortisone suppository.  Don’t you just love that word suppository?  Oh, the people I’d love to watch get some suppositories stacked up like a Pez dispenser followed by a big Fleet enema.

I brought frozen grapes to the beach and shared with my beach cult.  Frozen grapes are great until you refer to them as hemorrhoids.  No one ever wants any of my grapes anymore.  They’re all such Roids.  I think on the next hot day, I shall bring chilled wash cloths in baggies for them to blot their faces with.

Like a hemorrhoid……..

Dedicated to the real Mrs. Foster, and yes I may recall something about throwing up in your antique sewing bucket. I’m sorry! Talk about having to continue paying for your sins from 40 years ago!

March 1, 2015 – It was a Sunday and all day I was thinking about my first love, the boy next door.  I couldn’t shake it, and was reminiscing about when he moved from one town over and I would stalk him from my friend, Paula’s front porch across the street playing Mr. Bojangles on our guitars for 12-16 hours a day.  I was about 12 years old, and I was in love. He was a bit of a wild child at the time, but in today’s world he would be categorized as a scholar.  I was thinking about how we would toss a coin to see who got the couch in the Athan’s basement for playing tongue hockey, and depending on how you want to look at it, Ronnie and I won on this particular occasion.  I got caught by Mrs. A and pulled up to the kitchen for the “talk” about how to conduct myself.  Loser. Pootana.  Shit.

Fair to say, you never forget your first love or their family.  Ronnie was #4 in the line up of 6 kids, and upon reflection of raising half as many children, his Mother, Joyce, was a saint.  The quintessential lady who was always patient and  kind, and God knows she had enough ammunition to become unhinged.  Before our first day of school, Joyce asked me what the style was since Ronnie was coming from Stamford where it was wear whatever the hell you want and can afford.  This was the early ’70’s and I told her it was Levi jeans (the ones with the W28xL30 on the ass patch), those camel color work boots, and work shirts with a popped collar.  It was pretty much the identical attire for girls except my Levi’s patch was probably W36xL20 (or how I perceived myself at 100 lbs).  I missed the first day of school because I had strep throat and a high hallucinating fever.  I won’t even get into that, and like I said you NEVER forget your first love, dementia or not.  I managed to get outside to see Ronnie come home and he had on the Levi’s, not jeans, but mint green corduroy.  He had a work shirt, but it was a mint green floral pattern to match the pants, and then there were the boots.  The boots were the right ones, but I would’ve at least scuffed them up a bit so they weren’t screaming, “I’m the new kid, please let me fit in.”   Basically his Mom amp’d up our Darien cookie cutter fashion and Stamford-ized it with some color bling.

March 1st would’ve been Ronnie’s Birthday, and he passed away much too young.  Since I obviously wasn’t firing on all pistons that day, I hadn’t made the connection until I saw the date on my phone then PING!  At 8:19 that night I sent his sister a private message about what happened that day and just that I was thinking about him and the family.  It’s odd and I’m odd to some people, but I do that a lot for people who have lost a loved one.  She didn’t respond that night which was a good thing because……

TWO DAYS LATER  I go to my accountant, Mezz, to do my taxes. We’re joking about keeping all the folders straight for my kids, my ex husband, and my ex sister-in-law whose name is the same as mine (thus Behoxie).  I tell my accountant I need to change my last name because of the TWO sister-in-law thing (go back to the About Me section).  I told him I need an entirely new last name. He’s hunched over my 1099’s and mumbles “Foster.” I said, “What did you just say?!?” He looks up and said, “Foster.”  Then he said, “I have no idea where that just came from.”  I told him about my Sunday, March 1st. He was a bit freaked out, and as always, I was very entertained. Mezz was still mumbling when he walked me out.  The spirits find a way to acknowledge, and they can be very persistent.

A few weeks after that, my Father came home from our shared Accountant and put an envelope on the table from Mezz to me.  It just had “Mrs. Foster” on it.  I explained the reason behind it to the 87 year old. I’m not exactly sure what goes on his head at any given moment, but I was the first one he called very excitedly (if you knew my Dad, this is NOT a normal characteristic) to describe a very vivid dream he had the day after his cousin died.  He won’t ever admit it, but he’s on board now because you don’t get a dream like that for nothing.

I have an 8×10 notepad in my kitchen that has my name across the top, and “I Quit In May” on the bottom with photos of me sneaking a cigarette out a window among others.  My friends will use anything and everything against me for a good laugh.  I even have my own label for wine bottles when I took out half of my front tooth with an e-cig.  For months after the “Foster” story, I’d pull a note off the pad and my name would be crossed out and it would alternate between Mrs. Foster and Mrs. Hoxie.

Foster family (especially Joyce) – Thank you for putting up with me all those years.  My memories are fond even though some of you are still stuck on me barfing in the antique sewing bucket and still trying to solve the mystery of the condoms (it wadn’t me).  My Mother would’ve taken the brush to me to the point I would’ve resembled swiss cheese.  Can I at least get the famous bean soup recipe?

Little by little, I’m letting go of all the things I was a slave to since I moved out at the ripe age of 19:  cooking, cleaning, window washing, painting, etc…..making everything merry and bright and pretty much anything and everything domestic.  Been there, done that. I spent years making our house a home in decorating, DIY network window treatments, painting the rooms so many times my friend would tell me, “You’ve lost 4 f’ing feet in the circumference in just coats of f’ing paint.” I’m done.  I don’t care if my house is “as is.”  In fact,  I love my margarita green and flamingo pink deck, and I love all its tackiness.  I did hire a college kid to paint my kitchen and my daughter came home from school and commented, “Well, at least now we’re upper lower class.”

Off the tangent, the point is I’ve replaced all that, and added bi-weekly manicures among other things for me.  Did you know you could smuggle booze into salons?  We do it, and that’s exactly what we did this week.  My oldest and dearest friend of 46 years stopped at the liquor store and brown bagged us some libation like street drunks scoring some cups from our deli friend next door. We drank, kibitzed, answered text messages in between mani’s and pedi’s.  They treat us like royalty there and Man-Hands-Anna gave me an extra 10 minutes on top of the 10 minute massage. It was being Anna manhandled that I had a deja vu moment of something that happened a few months prior at that same nail salon.

I try and go early in the week right after work before all the school moms bring their kids in for their weekly Essie Ballet Slipper mani/pedi’s .  You bitches know exactly which color I’m talking about! It’s like a damn town ordinance.  When they’re really feeling wild and whore-ish, they’ll do a boor-ing French manicure with Oh! ballet slipper undercoat.  It’s still virginal pure and works well with the little black dress for the Junior League fundraiser.  Save the French for someone in the medical field that needs to look as if they have clean nails.  Anyway, I’m going for the big time and getting a mani and pedi on this particular day most likely in the color change gel.  It was just prior to peep-toe season because I don’t usually get pedicures since my feet are too ticklish.  I can literally crack a tooth or need a mouth guard afterwards with the gritting I do, and added to that my inability to offend anyone and ever say, “No,” I end up agreeing to that callous remover, aka acid lead paint stripper for feet.  At that point, I’m really writhing in the chair needing a straight jacket.

Pedi’s come first as you all know so your tootsies can dry well so you don’t have to wear those stupid foam bird looking things on your feet to the grocery store afterwards.  The ONLY other customer in there is a man and of course they have to seat me right next to him.  There are six f’ing chairs and I have to sit next to Suit Man.  He was already making comments to the owner (who is a man) that he didn’t come in for him to give him a pedicure.  He wanted one of the girls.  Of course he did, but it was obvious that the owner knew him and I bet my ass none of the girls wanted to pedi the El Pervo.  Then I got a glimpse of the feet attached to the Suit.  Holy Shitoid!  I felt like asking him if he walked to the salon from another f’ing state!  You had socks and shoes on those filthy, nail curl over, crusted, and cracking as a homeless person feet? I closed my eyes and pretended I was meditating because he was one of those A-holes who wouldn’t shut up and just liked to hear himself talk.  I finished up first since my toes are pristine unlike Crusty Homeless, so I got to move to the front for my nails.  Thank you sweet Jesus.  Guess who moves right the F next to me for a manicure?  Yes, crusty homeless feet.  Now there are like 5 stations on both sides and I ask why, why, why me? Why?!?!?

At this point a couple of women had come in and are starting their pedicures. The back door of the joint opens and it’s as if I sensed it, this behemoth is charging like a bull to the front right towards me and Suit.  He saw it.  He went pale.  My brain went uh-oh.  She looked at me and no words were spoken yet so I didn’t know why I got the “glare.”  I’m sure I had on one of my “I’m not dead yet” ensembles that throws up the colors of the rainbow.  I must’ve looked pretty good to warrant the “look”.  Then she asks Suit, “What are doing here?  When did you get off the train? When did you get out of work?” You know that semi-automatic line of questioning from a wife to a guilty husband.  Suit is pale as shit.  Matter of fact, I was surprised he didn’t throw up.  He calmly told his behemoth he had just got there (YOU LYING PIECE OF SHIT), and just needed to get his fingernails cleaned up after the weekend of working around the yard (or digging your own grave).  Mind you, his homeless feet were already tucked back into his shoes so he failed to mention he had his tootsies tickled by one of the girls. My eyes were darting from my manicurist to Behemoth to Suit to the owner to the pedi ladies in the chair to the back door flying open and what to my wondering eyes should appear?  No, not Santa.  My friend, Maggie, with bagged libation in hand, donning those fugly circa 1975 duck boots with a raincoat, albeit attractive, but whatever was underneath wasn’t showing so it made her look like a flasher. I just started laughing because she comes barreling in as if she owns the joint and tells me to hurry up so we could get our happy on. Bless her soul because she saved my ass that day and perhaps my life because I think Behemoth thought me and her homeless knarly footed husband were having couple services.

Suit was done with his creepy fingers, and I almost advised him, “Hey lying POS, you may want to treat your wife to her pedicure since you got snagged,” but remembering my new boundaries, I zipped it.  I must’ve channeled that to the stupit because he  yelled back to Behemoth that he would pay for her and she yelled back, “I’ll pay for it myself, that’s something you do for a girlfriend!”  Well, clearly he wasn’t gettin’ hisself all ditty’ed up fer you honey since you didn’t know he was a regular at your salon.

I escaped unscathed to happy hour with the flasher, but not before making multiple faces to all my girls working at the nail salon.  It took everything they had not to burst out in laughter.  I’m sure this scene made their day and possibly week.  Suit probably had to go find a way to extract his testicles after his wife rocket launched them up his ass and deservingly so.

The Lesson:  If you lie, you’re gonna get caught.

Dedicated to Mary J – a million thanks.  Here’s your special request.

The Statute of Limitations is still 7 years right?  God, I hope so.  Seven years ago, June 2008, I came home from work and was doing my usual clean up run of our frat house:  collecting dozens of cups, bowls cemented with mac & cheese & other mystery funghi, disinfecting counters, picking up socks that smelled like swamp ass – oh, the usual.  I didn’t know what the hell went on while I was at work, when my 3 children were supposed to be in school all day.  I can tell you this much, I scored some nice designer shit in my son’s room, none of which belonged to either of my girls. 

It’s fair to say, I had put blinders on.  My then husband, the mailman, had been off delivering more than mail….so we were basically cohabitating by then.  He was boot legging limoncello with his cover up boy, Denise.  While mailman was making limoncello,  a couple of my children and their friends were becoming very adept at baking.

I remember I was vacuuming and opened the fridge for a drink and lo and behold was a plate of chocolate chip cookies.  BIG ones.  Unless you’re allergic to chocolate chip cookies, I don’t know of anyone of sane mind who would pass one up.  Although they had a big note, ‘DO NOT EAT’ and sealed with that crappy saran wrap (I am a Press ‘n Seal girl now), I took one.  My house, my fridge, my cookies.  I just about took the last bite when my son came flying through the kitchen and ripped the last crumb right out of my hands.  I believe he berated me as well like I was a child.  As I said, I was baked.  I didn’t even have the wherewithal to question the why. I didn’t care.  I just wanted everyone to leave me the hell alone.

Well, after our awkward family dinner with me bursting my husband into flames in my mind, I was setting up to give my two girls manicures and pedicures; one for high school graduation, and the other for middle school promotion ceremony.  No sooner do I bend over to start doing their toes, I’m going down.  By down, I mean my heart started racing, I was crawling across the floor, everything was swirling, and couldn’t catch my breath.

The mailman made no attempt to help or revive me.  I’m pretty damn sure he was ticking off his winnings while I was propped up against the kitchen sink cabinet just like in a Weekend At Bernie’s.  ‘I get the house, cars, kids (they’re out of diapers? yea, I think so), boat, my pension, 3 life insurance policies.  Shit!  I’m just gonna watch for a little while and let nature take its course.’ After about a half hour, the bastard finally relented and called 911, and I scored me a ride on the Post 53 teen party bus to the hospital. When asked by the baby-in-training EMT what my symptoms were I said I may have had a panic attack, never having one before, never having another one again because simply put, I was just stoned.

Apparently, they took me at my word because I was left on a gurney in the hallway of the ER while the mailman was pacing or outside talking on his cell phone to his girlfriend and making my funeral arrangements.  One thing mailman didn’t do was come anywhere near me.  He was not happy.  Since I was left to my own devices and my brain started re-booting, the light bulb went off and inside that bulb was “the cookie.”  In 2008, I had a flip phone….you know the ones you have to hit 3 times for an F, 2x for a U, 2x for a C, 2x for a K. At that point, I began texting my children, “What the hell was in the cookie! What WAS IN THE GOD DAMN COOKIE?!?!” I was screaming via text message to all the little bastards in my residence.  No one replied.  Do they ever even when you’re paying their f’ing cell bill?  As I understand it (truth comes out in dribs and drabs years later for fear of retaliation), there was a fleet clean up of the contraband while I was doing time on a gurney.

I was released without having any blood work done because I would’ve had to explain the THC level in my blood then go home a beat some kids.  Do you know what it’s like living in a small town?  Everyone knows what you’re doing before you know what you’re doing.

I went to work the next day.  It was only 7 damn 30 in the A of M and my boss had already heard about my little field trip to the ER from one of our employees, a volunteer fireman.  The same volunteer who made sure he was at the front entrance upon my arrival  and says, “What happened Barb-bar-ite? making the tweet tweet sounds along with the bird wing gesture like, “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”  My boss took one look at me and told me to take the day off.  I didn’t share the specifics with him that day because I needed to do a little recon on my family.

Meet the bakers:  My youngest daughter, the middle schooler, was used for her academic achievement in mathematics and measuring.  Mind you the others involved were all high school graduates at the time (so much for those CMT’s, CAPT tests).  The cannibus butter was prepared on the mailman’s Coleman camp stove in our back yard while I was at work and when they were SUPPOSED TO BE AT SCHOOL.  A few days after the “incident,” I was cleaning out my refrigerator and found a container that looked like bacon fat but it was green and smelled like skunk.  I threw it away.  Unbeknownst to me, it was the last of the evidence, and I got yelled at for tossing the liquid gold.  Imagine the nerve of that shit?

There’s more.  There’s always more.  I read this to my 87.5 year old Father tonight to cheer him over his pen pal’s death, Yogi Berra.  Since he has ZERO filter and has mortified me with his off color remarks on numerous occasions, I figured I’d return the favor by giving his defibrillator a little jump start.  If he wasn’t vertical, you’d have sworn he was dead with the jaw locked in that open position.  He won’t be coming downstairs tonight for any cookies or ice cream.

The Lesson:  Never talk smack about anyone’s kids.  Ever.  I will personally guarantee karma will come back and bite you in the ass.

For those of you old timer C-Section’rs and newly acquired C-Section’rs, here’s a little fun ditty to store in your cache.
I have a friend who was recently having discomfort with her C-Section scar. Mind you, it’s been 17 years since that scar had been stapled shut, stitched inside and out, and closed up for business. However, upon her discomfort level she did one of those peek sees down her pants and saw  it was popping open or something because it was bleeding.  (ladies you know what peek-see I’m talking about…years of the MENNIS, I mean menses).  After closer scrutiny, she realized something was sticking out and it very much resembled a fishermen’s slip knot.
After a few calls and her physicians thinking they were dealing with a Maunchausen Syndrome patient, her OB/GYN office relented and booked her an appointment.  Well, when her Doctor saw her old war wound sprouting knotted fishing line, he just couldn’t believe it or didn’t want to believe it.  I think my friend has the potential for making the Guinness Book of World Records for having the longest residing non-dissolving suture.  This wasn’t the first time either!  One of these fly fishers surfaced 2 years ago at the 15 year mark.  I begged to photograph the area with the hope her insurance company will pay for a tummy tuck after the surgeon goes in to remove her internal chia pet. She hasn’t bought into my photo op yet, but she knows full well my photos always come in handy at the most opportune moments.
In the meantime, I told her if her knotty scar was rubbing against her clothing, she should use my ingenious idea of placing a little panty liner onto her undies/padded side towards the inflicted area.

Since she refused having her little fishing expedition photographed, I had to use an archived photo; and as you can see, the panty liner cushion works great for laparoscopic holes as well.  I’m sure men would just love this as well.

Your new age “Hint from Hell-eased,”  aka Heloise.

• Extremely independent
• Enabler extraordinaire
• Girlfriend/Ex-girlfriend
• Ear piercer & baby teeth extractor (clearly a missed calling to be a nurse)
  
• 34B model for Cross Your Heart f’ugly bra packaging
• Wife/Ex-wife
• Mother of three and a few others I didn’t birth
• Domestic goddess/Ex-domestic goddess
• Meals on wheels
• 24/7 soup kitchen
• Hostel Manager (minus the fee)
• Sanitary Engineer (i.e., the dump runner)
• Daycare provider
• Hairdresser (minor trims & buzz cuts only since I sheared off the top of my son’s ear)
• Waitress
• Hospice caregiver
• Employment Recruiter
• Secretary
• Clothes/jewelry/shoe whore
• An empath (google it)
• Clairsentient (google it)
• Good friend/Ex-good friend
• Big fan of Mother Theresa, Erma Bombeck, Ann Landers, and Heloise, and Maya Angelou
• Voice of reason or
• Psychopath (when provoked with lies and I just know…..)
• Work wife
• Working Mother and work Mother (two different roles entirely)
• Union representative, Ex-union rep, suckered back in Union Rep
• Labor/delivery coach (6 babes & pretty awe-inspiring since I had 3 C-sections)
• Therapist, divorce mediator, private investigator, drug, alcohol, legal, and suicide counselor – ALL performed without proper credentials.

This is one of those lists that defines the old term, “Jack of all trades, master of none.”  However, I’ve mastered many quite well, and the outcome has provided me with more than enough material for the makings of a nice trilogy and then some.  I’m no fool in acknowledging that almost everyone has a twisted story and a book just waiting to be written, but my writing is for self preservation to release some of these demented tales to take a load off of whatever brain cells I may have remaining.  It’s exhausting having to tell dozens of people the same, “You’re not gonna believe this shit” story and try to keep track of who you told.  My wonderful friends and family pounce right on me when I’m repeating, so before telling one of our numerous sagas, we’ve all adapted this signature line of,  “I may have already told you this, but….” Basically it’s the CYA (cover your ass) way of embarking on the road to CRS (can’t remember shit).