Category: Uncategorized

I’m thinking our hearts are much like a hot dog. Some hot dogs are plumper, some kosher, some stick out of their bun because they’re so big, yet they’re all made up of pulverized mystery meat and molded into shape.  The heart is just like the meat of a hot dog because our kids take pieces of our heart and drops them into a Cuisinart and pulverize it.  The little bastards start this the day they are born and continue that shit until THE. DAY. YOU. DIE. What makes it even worse in my case, is possessing traits of an Empath, a gift and a curse all rolled into one friggin bun.  When my kids are full of anxiety – so am I; when they’re down the shitter – so am I; when they’re happy as a pig in shit – so am I, and I can pick up their emotions from as far as 1818.5 miles from Galveston, Texas to Block Island, RI. Truth.

Have you ever thought about the amount of packing you’ve done?  Life is all about packing – we discard what’s no longer useful and take with us whatever we need to the next level of our journey.  We packed as kids for sleepovers, vacations, college, a first apartment, a new home, to a new life with someone, for the hospital to bring a new baby home, seasonal clothes, seasonal decorations….those are some big life events right?

I’ve spent a helluva lot of time packing.  Packing my children’s clothes to donate, unpacking hand-me-downs given to my children, packing up seasonal clothes twice a year times 3 along with my own (a 2 day job as the clothes whore-der I am).  Packing my Mom’s clothes up after she passed away and my childhood home when my Father sold it. Clearing out personal belongings after a divorce.  Reflecting on it now, there was a lot of emotion involved in all of that and even though I’ve been truly blessed with incredible coping skills, I used to possess a genetic defect when it came to crying. It was a rare occasion for me to cry.  That drought ended the minute I helped the first kid pack and sent him off to college. I could fill a 12 person hot tub with the amount of tears I’ve shed in the past 9 years alone.  I’m sure mental-pause was a big contributor along with a few slippery curve balls to the head that I didn’t duck fast enough for.

Child #2 – College Drop off – I cried the entire ride to Providence, Rhode Island as well as the return trip, and continued until I hit the 48 hour mark.  I missed an Italian block party because I was ugly crier with that heaving stutter.  Then that kid had the nerve to go on not one, but two semesters abroad once again making me cry.

Child #3-  Is the instigator and baits me just to make me cry.  I have a new hole in my heart each time she walks out the door to head back to school, and since she got my car last summer we don’t have that pick up/drop off time together any longer.

So, if that wasn’t torture enough, in between all that, my son decided he was going to continue his education in Texas.  He packed up quick and took off in a 15 year old truck hightailing it knowing I turned into a crybaby.  I picked over 60 tomatoes from his garden that day, cleaned up every inch of the yard all in manic mode while I sobbed and exhausted myself enough to pass out.

My basement went from a finished playroom to a flooded-now-equipped-with-a-sump pump storage facility.  It’s nothing more than a stripped down dumping ground for everybody’s cast off shit including the kitty litter shit.  My middle daughter lived home for a year after college and announced she “kind of might” move in with her boyfriend.  That was to break it to me gently as her possessions slowly began disappearing and one day she never came back unless it was to visit or “borrow” the washer and dryer.

Now that same daughter is returning her wordly possessions back to our underground cement shit-pod because she’s moving to St. Croix just in time to ruin MY big holiday, Halloween.  Then there’s #3 who has been prepping me about staying in New York to get her Master’s degree.

Now that I’ve given my history on packing, along with my emotional flaw of not being able to shove my kids out of the nest, maybe my 3 kids will get off my ass about why I don’t ever go down the basement let alone have the ambition to pack up, clean up, and organize the basement shit-pod as I’ve done for the past 24 years in just this house alone. Asides from my pink tinsel Christmas tree adorned with cheesy flamingos and Darien pink and lime green balls, there is nothing of importance down there except maybe the geriatric commode that I use as a flower planter.  Everything that means anything to me has two legs, a smart ass mouth, and usually leaves with a rolling suitcase or duffel bag.

Coincidentally, I was already writing this post while laying in bed alongside a mountain of kleenex on a sick day, when my daughter sent me a text message that morning which read, “Wanna send me a love email?!? Mom’s wise words of wisdom on moving and how everything will be ok?!?  I could use one .. ha ha ..” This from the defector who will be ruining my Halloween when she moves to St. Croix.  So, as the saver of everything, I re-sent her an excerpt of a New Year’s letter I had sent to all three of my children in December 2012.  As I told her, at least I’m consistent because what I wrote 3 years ago still applies today.

Being the middle child, you’ve had to endure some situations with your siblings and have done it with grace and kindness.  You’re the on-the-move child much like your brother & me.  If you keep moving, it makes it easier to cope & ignore what’s really bothering you.  I will say the same to all three of you – DO WHAT MAKES YOU HAPPY.  I will never get in your way or guilt you.  I may gently guide you if I think you’re truly making a huge error in judgement and only when I know from my past experience that the end result won’t be a good one.  You’re on a good path to independence and I commend you for sticking it out with a shit paying job.  In the end, I’m sure there will be a reward for you.  Any job you do is worthy job if you do your best!  Carry on.

The simple truth is I love and adore my 3 children.  I embrace and cherish all their differences.  I am proud of the adults they have become, and if I didn’t like the little bastards so much, I wouldn’t suck so bad at launching them.  Besides, does she seriously think my ass won’t be hopping flights to St. Croix or buying an in-law bungalow next door and doing my laundry in her house….or “borrowing” her underwear, eggs, toilet paper, paper towel, toothpaste, kleenex, shampoo, conditioner, body soap, cleaning supplies, etc?  Matter of fact, I plan on waltzing down her driveway decked out in one of her brand new outfits, wearing one of her thongs over it as payback for all the years of borrowing my underwear and clothes.

Keyword-Falling

So, my brother, Peter, got married this past Saturday.  It borders on miracle that it was pulled off. This is his second marriage since as his first wife passed away way too young.

Peter, the hopeless romantic, proposed to Holly on Christmas Eve (naturally….Holly…..get it?) because he is and always will be a total goober for love, a trait I admit that we share.  After all, he had all the synchronicities that Holly was the one.    He lived on “Holly” Pond when he met Holly.  His daughter and son-in-law bought a home on the corner of “Holly” Lane. Even though he has asked me not to talk about such things as synchrinocities, coincidences, and most especially spirit presence, I am pretty damn sure after this weekend he won’t deem me the family “Witch” anymore because it wasn’t me who was driving the bus with the shenanigans that occurred coming up to this wedding.  I just helped clean up one mess and smirked a lot.

I’ve been told by Peter among others, I have an annoying characteristic of reading people, and its usually by those who don’t want me to get inside their heads.  The latest example happened when I was out to dinner with friends last night.  Two gentlemen were dining across from us, and I asked if the younger man was asking the older man for his daughter’s hand in marriage.  It’s funny how people react when I just blurt this stuff out.  They don’t even have time to recover and figure out a cover.  Needless to say, I was correct.

So, Columbus Day weekend was chosen for Peter and Holly’s  wedding date. Ugh-shit really?  Columbus Day weekend is usually a gorgeous weekend, and I would know this because it was THE same weekend I got married 30 years ago to 1X.  Memories…..light the corners of my eyes….and burn right through my retinas.  I had also heard through the family grapevine my niece’s husband was going to be at his Step Brother’s wedding in California.  Now they had two good reasons to change it ya? Not on your life.

All during the wedding preparations, I never heard about any prenuptial drama then again I’m not sure where the hell I am or what I’m hearing one minute to the next.

So, with absolute no help from me, I’m headed to beautiful Stonington/Mystic area on Friday to check in to what turned out to be a one step up from a Motel 6 – don’t take your flip flops off ever, keep your toothbrush in one of those toothbrush condoms at all times hotels.  My brother booked the room for me because I can’t think beyond a single day anymore and most people in my life understand why that is and now I think he gets it as well.  It was bad enough that my family drove the bride & groom crazy with our lack of family RSVP’s.  Who can’t come because they’re working.  Who can’t come because they may be moved to St. Croix by then.  In the end, everybody could go and their meal selections had to be sent via text message.  We are one tacky crew, but our intentions are always good.

I no sooner check into the toothbrush condom hotel and my brother needs help with the flower arrangement delivery to the wedding venue.  He’s high energy (putting it mildly), and I can’t even recall where or how the hell we got anywhere.  All I know is at one point he handed me an Alex and Ani bracelet with the Mystic charm on it as a thank you.  I said I didn’t do anything to be thanked for…..I should’ve known.

We go to load the spectacular flower arrangements into his car and it’s cluttered with crutches, a scooter and his Mother-in-Law-to-be is asking what to do with the wheelchair. I’m confused – who the hell is needing all this damn geriatric equipment?  Is the whole damn Avalon assisted living compound coming to this wedding?  Oh, I didn’t tell you Peter says, “Holly missed the last step into our driveway and broke her ankle.”  After the initial shock wore off, followed by speaking a few words of encouragement to the bride on how great her scooter wedding will be (she didn’t buy it), we loaded the arrangements into both our cars leaving the bride in the front seat with her patriotic foot – red toenail polish, white bandage wrapped around a blue foot.

We pull up to the wedding venue and Peter has the first two arrangements and is rushing up the stairs.  I had a BAD feeling watching him and then in that slooooow motion he falls up the stairs shattering the glass of both arrangements with his sausage fingers all in the mix.  I put mine down on the stairs and ran to find someone with a band aid and mop-eeen.  All the while this is happening, Holly is in the car pulled up far enough that she can’t see what’s going on…not yet anyway.

In between humping the remaining I don’t know how many damn arrangements up those hexed stairs with shin splints forming, it’s determined by the wedding hall employee (former nurse) that Peter needed stitches since he’s bleeding like a stuffed pig, and I’m sure the damn baby aspirin he eats daily as a blood thinner didn’t help matters.  This would be the same young woman who convinced Holly to go for X-rays on her ankle only a few days prior so she was at the eye rolling stage.

We finally had to come clean and break the news to Holly that the bleeder needed to make a trip to emergency care, and asked the woman from the wedding hall to drive Holly back to the room so she could get ready for the rehearsal.  I drove Peter to an emergency walk-in 20 minutes away.  This was where it got real interesting because the tables were now turned.  My brother was asking me what I thought about the “trip” down the stairs and the “shove” up the stairs.  All I know is I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time.  We made fast friends at the Emergency Care, nurse Judy giving us our own Kleenex boxes because of our hysteria.  Once they learned the bride had broken her ankle and we were completely missing the rehearsal, they took pity and processed the sausage thumb pretty quick.  Turns out, Peter’s sausage thumb didn’t need stitches because there wasn’t skin to stitch since he sheared the tip off.  So, they dressed it up wedding formal nice with some foam skin growing crap and wrapped it up gift worthy.  I jokingly asked if I could score a few splints and bandages for the remainder of the weekend.  I did lift a few of those handy umbrella bags on the way out the door so the jerk had something to put on those sausage links to shower so he wouldn’t smell on his wedding day.

I haul and drop his ass off to the already ended rehearsal and fly back to Motel 6 to change for the rehearsal dinner because all I had the entire day was a Starbucks latte and a piece of lemon cake, and a headache from laughing.  As I’m driving to the restaurant it’s pelting rain and I no sooner plant my strappy sandals on the flooding pavement, open my umbrella, there’s bolts of lightning feet away.  To the heavens I say, “Okay! You’re taking this a little too far!  We get it.” I knew who was behind this, and it turns out I wasn’t alone in my thinking.  I was greeted by my nieces and nephews giving me the look of who was behind these wedding debacles.  We were beginning to wonder if the bride and groom were even going to show up at the rehearsal dinner at all.

I woke up at 3 am the next morning having to shuffle my shin splinted, fat ass in search of antacids.  It was a 50/50 shot – I was either having a heart attack or suffering from a mixture of 2 double seabreezes, 1 sauvignon blanc, 1 bailey’s, along with the unusual combination of food I had scarfed down due to starvation, and I’m not a foodie by any stretch.  Obviously my stomach was acting like a cement mixer churning it all because to the dismay of some, I woke up.

The day of the wedding I hid for fear of anything else that could go wrong and showed up right along with every other guest.  The wedding was thoughtful, beautiful, the weather was perfection, and the bride didn’t scooter down the aisle but looked magnificent perched on a bar stool.  She danced her first dance on her broken ankle.  Their love song selection prior, during, and after the ceremony did impale some of the divorcees like a deer on a wrought iron fence with the spear finials because they told me so, not that the running mascara on their faces wasn’t enough of a telltale sign.  They were still crying trying to re-group at the cocktail hour, and as much as I can sympathize with them, I know unless you move forward you’ll always be stuck in the past and you’re not going back there.

With that said, my new Sister-in-law has many wonderful adventures that lie ahead with this family who has embraced her wholeheartedly with so much love and admiration.  In my heart I do believe my Sister-in-law, Barbara, has been with our family in spirit on multiple occasions since her passing and has made her presence known at my niece’s bachelorette party, in my great niece’s crib, preventing my getting a ticket twice within 14 hours, pennies left on a pillow, my nephew’s house (her childhood home), via song choices that “just” happen to come on the radio at inappropriate moments, and the crowning moment of this push & shove wedding.  For as many of my family members that embrace these signs, there are just as many who are uncomfortable with it, and I respect that.  In my world, spirits just want us all to know that you continue to be loved  and watched over by them, and have brought peace to so many that are grieving.  Some might even give you a little push or a shove so that you will acknowledge.

I will be writing about a woman I met over a loveseat.  Her name is Marion, a Medium and Spiritual Healer.  My Mother , Jenny, inserts herself quite a bit through Marion, and she describes Jenny as Lily Tomlin in Saturday Night Live, jawing on the phone – one ringy dingy – two ringy dingy, with pink curlers, smoking a cigarette or with a group of women doing the same.  That would be a most accurate description.

 

I will be a reader at my Brother’s wedding today, and I received said reading so I could familiarize myself with it beforehand. When I started reading it, I said to myself, Oh, dear Lord they have got to be kidding.

Mistake #1 – they chose me to read this.

Mistake #2 – was giving me time with it. If they had any good sense at all, they would’ve given it to me at the rehearsal.  Oh wait!  I missed the rehearsal along with the groom-to-be because I had to take him to an emergency care center.

Falling in Love is Like Owning a Dog by T. Mali

On cold winter nights, love is warm. Oh yea, and so are hot flashes

It lies between you and lives and breathes Oh, and snores like a buzz saw

and makes funny noises.  Oh, like flatulence?

Love can wake you up all hours of the night with its needs. Oh, Sweet Jesus I’m not even going there

Love can give you a sense of security:

When you’re walking down the street late at night

and you have a leash on love, Oh, or shackled & drawn

ain’t no one gonna mess with you. Oh, ok killer -taco bell dog

Love needs to be fed so it will grow and stay healthy. Oh, NOT touching this one

Love does not like being left alone for long. Oh, because you’re looking at what happens

But come home and love is always happy to see you.  Oh, I give it a month then it’s back to the old chew toys

Love may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life, Oh, or accidentally throw something that perhaps makes contact with your head

but you can never be mad at love for long. Oh, really?  Apparently someone doesn’t watch 48 Hours…

Love leaves you little surprises here and there.  WHAT???? No! No! No!  There are Depends so you don’t leave little surprises here & there. Matter of fact I was so worked up about both of you leaving little surprises, I bought you his ‘n her Depends as a wedding gift.

Love makes messes.  What now????? You already left little “surprises!!!”

Sometimes you just want to get love fixed.  Oh, like what? Therapy?

Sometimes you want to roll up a piece of newspaper

and swat love on the nose, Oh, or a salad bowl to the back of the head

But then love gives you big kisses,

And you laugh at the little things.

Sometimes love just wants to play.

Running you around the block, leaving you panting. Oh, bless you two because I can’t make it to the refrigerator without panting

It pulls you in several different directions at once,

or winds around and around you, yea, Oh, just like a swirling vortex of insanity

until you’re all wound up and can’t move.

And love brings you together.

People who have nothing in common but love stop and talk and greet each other on the street. Where the heck do you live? I don’t know of any such person in the Northeast. In fact, when Northeasterner’s see another human approaching, their neck swallows their head like a turtle to avoid any eye contact whatsoever.

Most importantly, love needs love, and lots of it.

And in return, love loves you and loves you and never stops.

My Sister-In-Law to be is so sweet and geniune, I will read this today MINUS my snarky inserts because she has endured enough with this whole wedding fiasco.  Holly is a beautiful soul – always graceful and kind, the quintessential lady, and that’s no easy feat when a) marrying a man whose family suffered the loss of their Mother too young, and b) marrying into our family period. Holly is who she is, and is embraced by all for exactly that reason. 

However, I cannot promise I won’t roll my eyes, start laughing uncontrollably or long pause on some of those lines.  I can’t be who I’m not either.

Stay tuned for Part 2…Falling In Love….crutches, scooter, wheelchair, half a thumb’s up.

 

 

 

Cell phones = The Devil

These are solely my observations and if I’m off base, by all means feel free to call me out and share your perspective.

When you’re in another person’s company, especially a person you have chosen to spend time with, do you ignore your phone, tuck it away and give them your undivided attention?  Or are your loved ones/people in general no longer worthy of uninterrupted time from you?  Unless you have a wife in her 9th month of pregnancy or a loved one close to taking their last breath, why would you ignore the still warm and breathing person you’re with.

In August, me and my group of friends did our rooftop bar crawl in the NYC meat packing district.  Our first stop was the rooftop of the Standard Highline.  It was a spectacular evening, view, cushy astro-turf, furniture, and pitchers of Mona Lisa’s (adult Italian Koolaid).  My crew was watching me watching people –  Gay, straight, beautiful, Asian, it didn’t matter.  Every couple had one thing in common, can you guess what it was?  They were all on their phones.  If they weren’t scrolling on their phones, they were taking selfies with the incredible view as a backdrop then naturally had to show everyone on social media that they were having an amazing time….ON THEIR PHONES.  Right after the selfie shot, of course they had to post the selfie, followed up by now having to see how many likes they got.  It is now the way of life to instantly alert everyone that your life is beautiful (or portrayed as such)  so some depressed, lactose intolerant sitting home with a shovel in a gallon of ice cream can feel even worse about their lives.

What I want to know is where’s the Instagram of you not making it to the bathroom in time and having to throw your pants out in the garbage, sneaking out of the bathroom wearing your jacket as a skirt, and you’re a man.  Where is the post you had to go to the Vaginologist because your who-ha accidentally ate your tampon?  Where is the photo of all your kids beating the shit out of each other and crying while you’re trying to take the family Christmas card photo in the matching ugly Xmas sweaters?  Where’s the school picture of your kid when his/her head hasn’t grown into those bucky beaver teeth that could do a cord of wood in an hour?  Huh? Huh?  I want to see those pictures.  Those Posts. Every day life of shit happens.  Not just the version you wish to portray.

Now this here is a real gem – the Queen of Versaille texting behind her daughter’s casket.  This photo stirred so much negative feedback, a newspaper writer responded on her behalf with, “There’s no authoritative manual that tells us how to grieve.”  Apparently not ass wipe, and if that wasn’t tasteless and disrespectful enough, there’s always the family selfie shots and photos of the casket.  Who the hell warrants enough importance to be texting at your child’s funeral honey?

The Word on Selfies – Go ahead, take shit boats to make sure you get 300 likes on social media.  It’s teaching the next generation that life is all about the physical image you portray online that’s important versus the inner person you can become.  Loving this article, “Selfies are Deadlier Than Sharks.” Hey!  As long as the selfie doesn’t show any billy goat hairs emerging from my chin, I’ll back off a cliff to get the perfect photo.

http://www.foxnews.com/health/2015/09/22/selfies-more-deadly-than-sharks-reports-show/#.VhD9MEXw8Vk.email

Then there are times when cell phone placement or absenteeism isn’t necessarily out of respect for your companionship.  Over the years, I’ve watched significant others and their placement of cell phones whether it be face down or purposely left somewhere out of reach.  Like I said, this isn’t always out of respect,  and there’s a real good chance there’s a juicy chapter in that phone.

My daughter’s childhood friend posted something in regards to people embellishing their lives on Facebook, but she knew it was only a smoke screen for what their life was really like.  I responded with:

This is what I know:

• You love (your boyfriend) to the point that you squeeze him til he screams for a breath of air.
• Your sister works at a pool joint & puts up w/no b.s.  Can’t pull one over on her. EVER.
• Your Momma just wants peace in the world & likes everything that isn’t negative.
• My daughter loves her boyfriend awful.
• My other daughter don’t want no one to know nuthin.
• Me – Drinks well with many others. The rest will be published.
• CONSTANT posts from “Real men don’t cheat” means your man dung you wrong.
• Posting photos. Careful there people. You never know what’s in the background. Perhaps your shadow while taking a picture of a tv screen when you’re supposed to be AT that game.
• Family portraits when the world knows your separated means nice try liar liar pants ablaze.
• MY PERSONAL FAVORITES -#1- CONSTANT selfies- Get a shrink. Get good medication. If people need social media to reaffirm how good or beautiful they look all the time then you gotta start loving yourself.
• #2 – What’s with that stick your hip out pose? Keep that shit up & you’ll need hip replacement! You look stupid. Just f’ing smile. It doesn’t make your boobs look bigger either.
• #3  – Airing the dirty laundry. Just call the jerk up & rip them. No one cares to read your posts while you’re sticking pins in a voodoo doll.
• #4 – Quotes – They tell ALL about your life or lack thereof.
• #5- Gym check ins. I’m sitting here making animal figures with my silly putty stomach.

I know who is religious or spiritual.  Who is against animal cruelty & for God sake you don’t have to post a picture of a puppy being hung to prove it. It just gives another sociopath kid/adult an idea. I know who hates Obama, who is a racist/reverse racist, a police supporter & non supporter, who has cancer, who has angels, who died, family members in heaven…who is a good soul, who is not, who is a liar, who needs intense therapy, who’s struggling with something & who’s mentalpausal.  It’s all there….welcome to social media. And I came up with all this whilst removing 3 dozen acorns with my toes at the bottom of my public pool.

Personally, I gain much knowledge from my personalized Facebook feed.  There are wonderful articles from Collective Evolution and Spirit Science, Living a Life of Purpose just to name a few.  I love seeing family photos, new babies, Throw Back Thursdays, friends goofing on each other with funny posts that apply, and more importantly I can keep tabs on friends who’ve moved. I will hit the “Unfollow button” on disturbing posts because people don’t realize how much it effects people like me.

My hope for my children’s generation – I hope as you grow older and more forgetful, you’ll be able to recognize your friends by their posted pictures because Lord knows it won’t be from the annoyance of having to actually communicate face to face and listen to each other like in the prehistoric times circa 1990 and prior.

I like talking to people face to face.  I appreciate eye contact and that’s difficult for some people.  I like the personal touch of hugging someone after a conversation or giving their hand a squeeze. Is there an emoji for that?

For the longest time, I had an actual red dot age spot right smack in between my eyebrows and some wise ass would always ask if I owned a 7-Eleven, and then one day it was just gone. Wish I could make that happen for a few other things that are now attaching. Just as we say death comes in 3’s, so did Red Dots for me.

Red Dot to Airport:  This 4am trip took the prize.  My pick up was 3:40am and of course being the anal retentive punctual person I am, I loaded in on time from the Marriott.  One more client was supposed to be picked up along with me, but he wasn’t there yet so we hopped over to the next hotel and picked up big boy, the Gurgler who sits behind me.  We go back to the Marriott, and the driver is calling the missing client, Tyrone, on his cell and it’s going straight to voicemail.  How I knew it was a Tyrone is because the van was equipped with a mounted tablet that displayed all your personal information for the entire world to see.  Tyrone was clearly on CPT (colored people time) and since our driver was a kind of brotha himself (Jamaican) and understood such things, we waited.  Tyrone took his sweet ass time sauntering out and hoisting his double wide ass in next to me taking up all of the two remaining seats leaving me a solid 6 inches.  No greeting, no apology, no nothing.  Oh, happy day – the Doo ragger next to me and the Gurgler behind me. I don’t know what the hell orifice those noises were coming from all the way to LaGuardia, but something was about to implode and it wasn’t going to be pretty. I was just hoping there were no leave behinds from the Gurgler in the Vanna White after he was offloaded.

I must have some sign over my head that reads “Therapist” or “Minister” or both.   Jamaica hadn’t even put the gear in drive after offloading Doo and Gurgler, and began telling me his woes and about how he likes older women.  He was 37 and was married to his first wife for 18 months, and they had two children which I told him was very impressive since last I heard it takes around nine months to produce a baby.  Then he was married to a woman 14 years older, but he couldn’t stand her kids. My guess is because her kids were his age and they fought like siblings.  Now he’s on number 3, an American woman versus Jamaican. Number 3 was trying to get her dog walking business off the ground, but since Americano’s ass was fused to her sofa and t.v., it wasn’t likely she was into exercise, dogs or walking.  He tells me he’s really trying to make this marriage work by working multiple jobs, but he got to make “hisself” happy if you know what he means.  (Oh yea I know wha you mean you little hound dog you). He was all about making “hisself” happy and he don’t care if his wife catches him because he’s tried to make her happy and it ain’t working, so in order words, Jamaica was justifying his hall pass. Mind you, this all transpired the 12.3 miles between LaGuardia and JFK.

Knowing what I know about a lot of shit, in the .3 mile before I jumped out of the moving van, I straight up told Jamaica, “Find hisself !!!!  Hell! Three marriages in 37 years was almost a marriage a decade starting at birth, and leave that non-working lazy Americano ass on the sofa and figure hisself out.”  For any man to be married that many times and especially to one 14 years older, has some Mommy issues and should put himself up for adoption to find a Mother not a wife.

Jamaica got my name, number, and address but it wasn’t from me.  It was all in bright lime green on his tablet.  I just hope he never shows up at my doorstep with the Red Dot Vanna White loaded with his 2 kids, sibling/step kids, 2 Jamaican women, and 1 Americano holding a leash with a t.v. set attached to it.  Nothing would shock me anymore.

Red Dot Home – I had a flight home that landed 45 minutes early, and I called Red Dot, and the nice dispatcher told me my pick up was already at the airport and to call when I had my luggage.  Now how lucky am I? Apparently, not so lucky. Forty five minutes later and the luggage belt hadn’t even coughed out one suitcase from my flight, and of course I was anal retentive in getting to the airport early so I’m sure my bag was the first one on, since it was definitely the last one off.  Finally I get my bag and call again and they tell me where I’ll be picked up.  Everybody from my flight and the two flights after me are going, going, gone and I’m the last standing human icicle on the curb.  I call again and am told my driver was in the wrong place.  Ya think? but who am I to bitch just coming off a week in Aruba.  Then I meet Ephraim all apologetic, animated, and offering me a bottled water.  I noticed his English was very strained and since I was the only one in the van, I asked him where he was from. That’s all I ever have to do is ask one question.  Yes, I got a 45 minute version of how Ephraim literally won the lottery to come to America from Ethiopia to live the American dream.  I know how much he makes an hour, where he lives, where his sisters live, his hopes, his dreams of being a plumber, and his views on Americans. Someone shoved me a little levity up an orifice that night. It was the perfect ending to a perfect trip considering I got home 2 hours later than I would have if my flight wasn’t 45 minutes early.

I wasn’t home a full 24 hours and was already exhausted with my life of non-authorized, non-licensed, non-paid therapy that went into in full swing.  I ripped into a friend for her fucktardia-ness behavior, and it was warranted. I clenched my teeth, and kept a mental vice grip on the memories of my Tiki Cabana and dirty bananas served at 10 am.

In case anyone should wonder about my recall abilities, I’ve written most everything down somewhere on something.  Just ask my friends who had to come put it all in chronological order by subject matter.  I save my signature line, “the disk is full” solely for work shit.

 

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.