The Week in Pics - Sort of

Hey hey hey! Lookie what I got in the mail! From Suzy at Hollywood: Where HOT Comes to Die. I've been wearing it all over the place. I think it makes me look kinda tough, don't you? Like, don't-mess-with-me tough? Shit happens in Hollywood, and I ain't a-scared tough? Except I'm semi-smiling, which kind of discounts my ability to intimidate even a gerbil. Anyway, I love it. So thanks, Suzy! Y'all, if you haven't visited Suzy, a very funny lady, go now. Wait, read all the way down, gift me with a comment, THEN go visit.

Gillian from A Daft Scots Lass gifted me with two awards. She likes me, she really likes me! Honest Scrap and Beautiful Blogger. (Aw, shucks.) Gillian is a Scot who now lives in South Africa. Is that intriguing or what?

Y'all go visit Gillian and say hey.


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I also got the Beautiful Blogger Award from Miz Dinah at Dinah Gogina, which is a new blog from a Vancouver girl.

Y'all go visit Miz Dinah too.
Help get her off to a good start.

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I'm supposed to list seven things about me, per the rules of these thangs, but what I want to divulge at the moment is not really printable or appropriate, even for THIS blog. At least not without causing significant embarrassment to my family. It's all about them, people (them, them, them), so I must refrain.

Frankly, it's nice to know other bloggers appreciate the total B.S. I send out into the world, so thanks, Gillian and Miz Dinah, for recognizing awefabuwondercredible B.S. when you see it. If we pass on the street, though, I guess I wouldn't blame you if you pretended you'd never heard of me before . . . I mean, that Penis Week thing just happened, like a total accident or something. I can't be held responsible.

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My daughter TG wanted to go to Goodwill recently, in search of a small chest of drawers for my #3 daughter who's visiting with her three-year-old from NOLA for TWO MONTHS! So I tagged along with TG and found myself in the book aisles (big surprise), scouring the titles for Christopher Buckley's Supreme Courtship, which I never did find. I think that book has been avoiding me for about a year. We didn't find the dresser either, but we did find this magical little ditty:

Talk about your smokin' deal! Who cares if these puppies are pre-owned, right? They must be special or somebody wouldn't have taken the time to hang them up. Now tell the truth, wouldn't these make a great gift for your special guy? Just in time for Spring Break.

Look how proud of her find TG is. We don't actually know how much these skivs were cuz we were sort of befuddled and giddy in the moment, but we're going with priceless.

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The Morning After

You know how in the morning before the sun rises and you’re groggy cuz you finally took a Xanax to get some sleep? And your alarm goes off and you smack at it blindly and crack your hand on something hard that’s not the clock and you cuss yourself awake, even though you yearn for those extra nine minutes of snoozing? And now that’s not possible so you pitch yourself out of bed, except your feet are all tangled up with your sheets and your blankie foot warmer so your head craters a hole into the carpet? And as you dangle upside down, you wonder if you broke your neck? And you kick and squirm to extricate your feet and when you’re finally free, you’re satisfied that you got in an early workout? And you cuss as you limp across ice-cold Travertine toward the bathroom in the dark?

And you know when you sit your bare butt on a frigid toilet that feels weird somehow, and it dawns on you that your foot is strangely wet? And you cuss while flipping on the light, which is like a punch to your eyes, and you squint at a smashed cat turd on your heel while realizing that some male didn’t lower the toilet seat and your thighs are making friends with all kinds of organisms that should never contact human skin? And your stomach lurches as you beeline it toward the shower like you’re dragging a club foot?

And you know how you get into the shower and your arm loops through the bendy hose of your handheld Waterpik showerhead and you gasp and flinch, thinking a ghost has just grabbed your arm, until the showerhead then plummets from its little overhead slot, right onto your head? And you cuss and slump to the bottom of the shower stall and through your tears you see that your foot still has doo on it and the ick melting off it is swirling around the drain, which is also precariously close to your hoo-ha? And you finally get all lathered up and say, “I’d rather look like an orangutan than shave anything right now?”

And you know how you reach for your towel and discover it’s wet from god knows what, but certainly something to do with those bad, bad children you live with? And you cuss and step out in search of a dry towel, when your phone rings and you lunge to answer it because at 6:45 a.m. it might just be the new hottie your buddy introduced you to? And your boss is on the other end of the line and she says, “Don’t bother coming in to work today? Because it’s a SNOW day? In Austin, Texas? Woo-hoo!

Now that's how to start off your day!

Okay, that last part? That snow-day phone call? Totally didn’t happen, though it's snowing right now outside my office window and NOW they are going to send us home. Oy.

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Wee Wisdom #8

Miss America's Poignant Pearl of the Week

On discussing where she and her family will be moving after school is out in May:

Miss America: "I don't want to move where any black weirdos are."

TG is appalled and quickly admonishes her. "We don't talk like that around here."

Miss America: "But, Mommy, I don't like black weirdos. I like it here."

TG continues to explain passionately about insensitivity and bias. Racial equality is something our family believes in steadfastly, and we tolerate nothing less in our house.

Miss America is distraught now. She tears up and says, "But, Mommy, they might crawl on me and bite me."

Sometimes you just need a translator.

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Sadly, I Am Frigid

In case you've been asleep at the wheel, brrrrr, it's freakin' frigid outside! I don't know how I'm supposed to get my happy ass to the gym in this weather. That would require me to get out of the clothes I'm wearing and expose my skin to the cold, just to get into different clothes that aren't designed to keep me warm at all. No sir! They're made for cooling me down, and that just goes against my beliefs about gluteal warming.

WTF? you are probably saying. As often as Fragrant Liar professes to enjoy running around naked, she should be reveling in the constant headlight action! But you would be wrong in that supposition. Remember what assUme really means, people.

Actually, I only get enraptured by going commando when it's quite warm. Not hot, mind you. I can explode mercury out of a little glass tube all on my own, with no help from the weather. No, I mean warm as in 85 degrees, warm as in where's the beach, warm as in oops, time to shave that stairway to heaven I call my thighs. I can smile just thinking about basking in spring sunshine.

My skin prefers cocooning during the winter. It rejects this unprovoked transition from bundled and toasty to naked and frosty, and shrivels at the thought. It fights me to stay covered up. So you see, being the largest and bossiest organ of my body, my skin can wage this little coup against the elements and prevent me from working out this week. And probably this weekend, if the weather peeps get something right. I'll suffer through it though, and just go to a party. But you can bet I'll be layering up tits to toes. Cuz, brrrr, it's freakin' frigid outside!

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Whack-a-Mole

Be honest. Does anybody really think Cindy Crawford's mole is sexy? Enrique Iglesias had one on his face, and he was smart enough to get that sucker removed. Obviously, something that distracted from his shagability was a trademark worth violating. I, too, had a mole. It was under my left earlobe; and after living with its unsightliness for 40 years, I got smart and had that sucker removed. Wow, Enrique and I have one thing in common.

Let's back up just a hair or two, cuz yes, healthy moles grow hairs. As if they're not absurd enough. Said mole, which was the size and shape of a double meat cheeseburger, made me so self conscious that I never turned my face away from people for fear they would see it, point, and shout, "Get the flyswatter!" Plus I had a nightmare that while I slept, mice had come over for a nibble. It's why I slept on my left side most of the time—or my right side when I was defying my fear of nibblery, kind of like draping your arm over the side of the bed and forcing yourself to keep it there to prove there are no monsters under the bed. I always caved on that one. You can never be too careful. Hence, after a short time with my mole exposed, I turned over on my pillow.

So I made up my mind. No more cheeseburger in hair-and-mice. I made an appointment with the dermatologist. She assessed Gigantor and scheduled me for surgery. I said, "Surgery? It's a mole, not a tumor." But doc insisted, and a week later, I reported for my big operation. I mean, that doctor was in scrubs and a mask! And, strangely enough, so was Gigantor.

A protective covering was laid over the side of my face, with a tiny opening for a precision gigantorectomy. (I mean, I'm grateful my little G spot got the respect of a heart transplant, but geez!) She then gave me like TEN shots in and around the G spot to be sure it was plenty deadened; and by the time she'd finished, I thought, "Gosh, I'm glad I didn't feel any pain for this procedure." Then Doc brought out the big guns: scissors. SCISSORS!

I heard the snip, snip, snip of Gigantor being whittled away. I had to send myself to a happy place: La la la la la. Gee, this time next week, I can wear my hair behind my ears. La la la la la. Then came cauterization. People, I smelled my own G spot burning. Next, more slicing and dicing and stitches, inside and out. That's when I realized they should have knocked me out. In real surgery, they knock you out. I was robbed, people. This procedure had pharmaceuticals all over it, and I was denied. The perfect example of life's little injustices, n'est-ce pas?

Flash forward six months. Gigantor is gone, but I still hesitate to show the left side of my face. Like phantom pain, I still feel it there. You don't realize how pervasive your negative self-talk is until the reason for it isn't there anymore. I'm reminded of it many times in a single day. The ways we torture ourselves over imperfections, I swear.

But I'm still sleeping on my left side. Just in case.

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The Chicken or the Leg

I'm a little disturbed. I see you shaking your head and mouthing, Duh! But I'm not that kind of disturbed (Stop it!). See, I just found out something incredible, and it has me questioning just what kind of a mother I've been. A warning to you young parents. You only find out this stuff after they're grown. Then, when you least expect it, the most astonishing secrets reveal exactly where you screwed up. I share one such pivotal incident with you now . . .

George, my daughter TG's husband, brings home a KFC family bucket of thighs, legs, wings, and breasts—the usual suspects. Their kids are then served up the standard kid fare of chicken legs. TG rummages through the bucket for her pieces and comes out empty handed and royally pissed!

"There aren't any legs left!" TG squawks.

George: "You said you wanted white meat, so I got you white meat."

TG: "I wanted legs!"

George: "You always ask for white meat, and since you're the only one who likes white meat, I always get three pieces just for you."

Heated conversation about TG's taste in chicken anatomy ensues.

George: "You know legs aren't white meat, right?"

TG eyes him blankly while focusing on the appearance of a chicken bone after the meat is gnawed off. "That leg bone is white!"

A discussion of breasts and menu options leads to an abrupt moment of silence that stretches into 30 years of misspent chicken choices and the sudden realization that George just may be right about something.

George: "So that's why there's always three pieces of white meat left over that nobody ever eats?"

(crickets)

I blame myself. Somehow I gave TG the impression that white or dark meat was a result of the way chicken was cooked—as in till white hot, apparently. Or perhaps a matter of breeding. Feed kids too many carrots and they turn orange. Feed chickens too many white seeds and . . .

I know. It's a very dark secret, but at least it didn't come out during some tearful therapy session. Thankfully, no one outside the family knows. Now tell the truth, you have a little anecdote about yourself like this, don't you?
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Major props to TG for being such a good sport and allowing me to post this story. After all these years, she still trusts me. I have her so fooled!

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All By Myself

People, very soon I'll be on my own. That is, living with no other adults or kids—for the first time in my life!

Yeah, well, I'm known for being slow off the line. Plus it takes time to get the chitlins raised. They have finally quit rolling their eyes when I open my mouth, popping the bird finger at every photo op, and backtalking whenever I voice dissent about something dumb they're planning to do. But enough about my exes. The kids are fine, and I am free at last!

In fact, all four daughters are grown and paired off with males only now discovering what they got themselves into. The torch has been passed, times four. They all have rugrats of their own and Mom's assistance isn't needed anymore. No checking in for dinner, no taking the beauty babies to school, and no competition for front spot in the driveway. I'm calling my new adventure the Empty Next Syndrome because I imagine all the new experiences that await me. And I hear this:

All by myself,
Can't wait to be
All by myself
Furthermore.

When I was young,
I only needed number one,
And there was freedom in the sack,
Those days are back.

While I'd love to be in a long-term relationship that accompanies me on the countdown to my last gasp, just past Centenarian Time, I'm looking forward to living alone. I'm also looking forward to things that only a person who's lived decades with children can appreciate. Like:

• Walking around—or in my case, dancing—completely naked and without fear that another human may recoil and shriek, "My eyes!"
• Playing Journey, Daughtry, and Bridget Jones soundtracks loudly, over and over, until I finally learn all the lyrics for a Pink-like performance above a wildly entertained audience—the cats do enjoy their front-row seats.
• Having only low-carb foods in the kitchen. Of course, this means I'll have no one to blame for my crackies addiction, but I'm instituting a 12-step program, one step at a time from my grocery bag to the garbage disposal. Probably.
• Having no witnesses. If nobody sees me scarf a dozen frisbee-sized, fresh-outta-the-oven peanut butter crackies, did it really happen? I don't think so. My secret is safe with me.
• The garage. It's my dream to park in one, versus veering through it on foot, past the pool table, darts station, bikes, and smelly asstrays. Wait, did I say ass? I totally meant ash. Musta been a Freudian snit.
• Working out in the middle of my living room without the derisive snickering that accompanies my son-in-law whenever he catches me doing anything jumpy or crunchy.
• The remote. Booyah! No more Fantasy Football hysteria and game-channel flipping. Screw the disgusting "C" words tossed around our house so reverently: Chargers and Cowboys.
• Quiet. Sshh. Did you hear that? Neither did I. Sweet!

As an Empty Nexter, I'll have ultimate power over everything in my little kingdom. I'll probably even finish my novels, since I'll have no distractions. I'll be able to have a man over without explaining that kissing doesn't equal marriage. And no one will walk in on me while I shower, just to shoot the shit and ask me about my bits.

So why do I feel like I'm going to be missing out on a whole lotta stuff?

.

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