rantravewrite

This post could make me look like a bad person. I’m really not. But this will likely make me look petty and shallow; a grown up version of the Heathers from, well, Heathers.

Yes. I would have laughed at this. But I also would laughed if it was on a tiny person. Or a woman with huge breasts. Or a dude with an afro. Or any dude, really. It's just funny.

Dated myself, didn’t I?

Before I continue, let me assure you of a couple of things.

1. I don’t care one iota about your personal appearance when forming my opinion of you as a person – good or bad can never be determined by looking at someone’s outside.
2. I think pretty much everything is funny. Sometimes I go to the store in skeleton jammies. I deserve to be laughed at for that.
3. I would never laugh at or mock anyone. Where they could hear me. Unless it is a friend. No holds barred there.
4. I have never, and will never, take a phone pic of someone who is . . . we’ll go with “visually arresting” for the sake of sharing.
5. The above fact does not stop me from cracking up at peopleofwalmart.com or mugshots.

All that being said, I see awesome stuff all the time. Not necessarily ‘awesome’ in the groovy old-school surfer way, but in the true ‘inspiring awe’ sense it originally bore – jaw dropping fascination.

I have seen a man decapitated by stepping in front of an 18-wheeler on I-95. I have seen a man move the entire contents of his apartment (including refrigerator and stove) by pushing them down the road on a hand truck over the course of two days. I have seen one of those women with the freaky 20 inch long fingernails in real life – sorting through the lingerie bin at Filene’s Basement. I have had to explain a woman with a Re-Born doll to my 4 year-old.

But the other day, on a quick trip to the local grocer, I saw a guy that made me wish fact #4 wasn’t in me. And I was, as usual when these things happen, alone.

What first caught my eye was the hat:

This is Al Jorgensen of Ministry. He makes this hat rock.

Except it wasn’t merely a hat like Al’s. Nope. It had teeth around the brim, so it looked a bit like this, too:

I wonder if he wrestled the critter for those teeth.

The other thing that made this guy attention grabbing was his fashion sense:

The no shirt/leather jacket look. Stunning.

Except my guy wasn’t wearing chaps. No, no, that’s far too predictable. He was wearing these:

Daisy Duke would have been proud. Or horrified. I'm going with horrified.

Did I mention this guy’s age? He had to be closing in on 60. And he was tan.

Really, really tan.

And because it was sunny, he was wearing these:

I'm betting you weren't expecting to see Eric Estrada today.

Oh! And I nearly forgot about his boots:

What else would he choose but cowboy boots on those super tan chicken legs?

So he was pretty eye-catching. I tried to be surreptitious in my fascination, keeping my sunglasses on, using the reflection of the supermarket door for a final look.

Once inside, I was smiling as I fetched my produce and moved through to the aisles. But as I came out of the freezer section, I met him again as he cruised along a main aisle, perpendicular to my own.

This view brought me greater joy. For on the left shoulder of his adorned leather jacket was an epaulet, but not a simple bit of cord or a hoisted patch. Oh, no – too mundane. He had one of these:

The squirrel carcass was artistically draped so that the little taxidermied eyed appeared to be peeking over his shoulder.

Wow. Just. . . wow.

I was so amazed by this, that I nearly missed this:

Rat tail circa 1984. And long enough so I think it was an original.

But the capstone to all this?  He was riding one of these:

Oh, COME ON!

Could this guy get any more spectacular? I think not. And though the urge was there, I didn’t take a picture. I really wanted to, though.

Because I see these things all the time. And it is a rare day that I have someone with me. And when you have a lot of weird stories and no witnesses, you seem to be a compulsive liar.

Or that kid that lives on Mulberry Street.

Today is Mother’s Day. It’s one of the days I am most aware of the compression that comes from being the center of this generational sandwich.

I’m a Mom, I should have something lovely today. And of course, there’s my Mom. She deserves something lovely, too.

But in a foul turn, my little guy is sick. All day fever, vomiting sick, rolling over from yesterday when I spent my day off consoling and caring for him.

Hubs is crazy sick too, so not much help from that court.

My mother’s calls started Friday, wanting to know if she was going to see Q and I. And wanting to know if she was going to see my brother. I hate that part of this – the fact that she, and everyone else in the family, seem to think I am my brother’s keeper.

Q was fine on Friday, so I said yes. But by mid-day Saturday the fever was raging and I wasn’t so sure. So I called her to prepare her for the possibility that either we wouldn’t be coming at all, or only I would.

The wavering voice and tears tugged at my conscience until I knew that she would at least be seeing me, no matter what.

A big giant MUST DO on a day I should be able to kick back and have a little me time.

This whole caring for a parent and caring for a child thing results in very little me time – it is rare and elusive, like a unicorn.

Then this morning -  how dearly I would have loved to at least sleep in.

But nay.

At six AM, the little guy woke, screaming at me. “I want ice in my water. I’m hoooooooot!” I woke, stupid from the speed at which I sat up, and had time to push the covers back before he threw up all over me.

I consoled him for a moment and got him settled back on his own bed before racing downstairs for ice and cleaning materials.

And because stupid never comes in small doses around here, the St. Bernard is going through her first menses. To spare you the graphic details, I’ll just say this: Thank God for slippers.

Dog out, and that mess cleaned up, I went back upstairs gave Q his ice water and began cleaning the floor around the bed. On my way back downstairs to dispose of the rags, the phone rang and the little digital voice announced that my mother was calling.

I ignored it in favor of throwing the blanket in the laundry and shedding my vomit covered PJs in favor of clean duds.

But I could hear her message. It was long, and she was already crying. I finished changing and grabbed the phone to reel her in.

She was upset because she expected both me and my bother to come visit her today and the nursing home hadn’t bathed her in two and a half weeks.

What?

So I detoured away from the coffee maker that sat empty, mocking me from the kitchen, and went to my office instead. I had just sent the nursing home a rather nasty letter yesterday in response to learning that they waited 3 days before getting my mother an x-ray after she was injured in a transfer.

I opened up my email and began another letter while she talked.

For those of you that don’t have family in a nursing facility, you should know that it is a lot like elementary school. There are bullies and cliques and good ‘teachers’ and bad ‘teachers’. And living there brings back the adolescent angst that comes with that.

My mother hates it when I write these letters, or make those phone calls. She is afraid someone will get mad and treat her poorly. But in this case, as I wrote, I did name names and get detailed. Especially over an event during which the CNA responsible for bathing her crept into my mother’s room at 5 AM and set her clock back a half hour while my mother watched from her bed.

When she was done, my mother called her out on it and the girl admitted that she was tired and had hoped my Mom would go back so sleep after looking at the clock, so the bath would fall to the next shift.

This is both childish and unacceptable, and so hard on the heels of the most recent letter, I demanded a response from the administration.

While I was trying to calm my mother’s bully fears, Q began crying again. Back up the stairs to find I was in for more cleaning while I tried to calm my mother enough to disengage.

Outside, the dog was howling to come in, downstairs the letter to the nursing home was awaiting its final words, and Q just wanted to be held and rocked. I ignored the dog and the letter and sat with my son. I also ignored the phone when it rang, again announcing my mother. I just listened to her on the answering machine, reminding me that I had to bring her soap and shampoo when I came out.

For the filling in a generational sandwich, these days of acknowledgement and other joyful holidays are somewhat meaningless. We are always on duty. A card is nice, but help is better. And not on a ‘day’ – those days always come with demands. Give us a random Thursday. Or a Sunday afternoon. Offer to babysit. Go spend time with the people in nursing homes. They need the company so, so much. Or even better, offer to take the kids to the nursing home to see their grandparents.

Today, I’d be thrilled if someone could bring me some coffee. I haven’t had time to go grocery shopping and it appears that I’m out.

The envelope was horrifying, all by itself.

Deep, matte black, with a narrow, iridescent ivory address bar that wrapped around the left edge, so the unfamiliar return address bar scrolled vertically, in impeccable 6 point calligraphy, along the back.

The address itself was inked perfectly, in a glorious midnight blue.

It bore a stamp depicting ivory roses.

They even spelled my name right.

I’m sure it is something wrong with me that made me think, What fresh new Hell is this?

Upon opening it, I discovered that it was an invitation to my husband’s cousin’s wedding.

In New York.

And at the bottom, camouflaged within an ornate scroll, were the killing words. “Black tie optional.”

May I commend you on your taste, if not your decision making capabilities. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Black tie. This alone might have given me a slight attack of the vapors. But it was the other part that killed me.

Optional.

Optional?

Don’t waffle. If you want everyone in a damn tux, just say so. Optional is a cop-out. Optional is a compromise between a bride wanting to have the next Royal Wedding and a groom that thought a sports bar was a viable place to hold a rehearsal dinner.

And they were probably pleased to have arrived at such a compromise. Look! See how compatible we are? How easy we can manage life’s little difficulties? We compromise.

But that’s not really compromise – it’s throwing your hands up and saying, “Not it!” when told the group needs to choose a leader. It’s being that guy who insists he doesn’t care where the group goes out to eat, then pulls a face at each suggestion.

It serves to do nothing except place the onus of difficult decision-making on other people.

Your guests.

Me.

So, thanks for that.

If you can’t find a true compromise to even this small detail before you say I do, you’re going to end up with the kid in the hospital nursery that just has “baby” in the first name field of the little crib card.

It will be your own fault if your son grows up with the nickname "Baby"

You’re asking me to shell out close to $1000 worth of airfare, another $600 worth of hotel accommodations (thanks for reserving that room for us!), and another couple hundred on food and a rental car.

Not to mention the cost of new clothes for the family. Which is going to come down to a paralyzing decision on my part. Go higher dollar and fall squarely in place? Or shell out a bit less – black tie is optional, after all – and feel like the country cousins we are?

All this, just so that we can give you something from your Pottery Barn gift registry in person?

I don’t think so.

We regretfully decline.

We’re staying home.

And your gift? For such a dazzling couple, how could we go with something as simple as the set of 12 teak napkin rings for a mere $112?

No, no. We have chosen something totally unique, to outshine the rest.

We’ll be naming a star in honor of you. We’ll send you the coordinates in the card.

I’m a naturally shy person. I tend to lurk about, mouth closed, until I get a good read on any new situation I find myself in. For the most part, I keep a low profile.

This shyness translates into a natural modesty as well. I hate changing in the open locker room at the gym. I’m the squirrelly weirdo who nabs a bathroom stall to dress.

And I will always wait for the private shower stall. And yes, I have been late to work because of this.

Even if I have the house to myself, I still go to the bathroom or bedroom to change. No shedding of dirty gardening clothes as I meander through the house.

I don’t eat in the bathroom; I don’t change in the kitchen.

It’s a rule.

And this modesty thing makes me hate public bathrooms for more than the obvious reasons. I go in them only out of absolute necessity. If I think I can hold it the 45 minutes it will take me to get home, I will.

Because people talk in there. Why do people talk in there?

A public bathroom is about the last place I’m going to go if I want to make a new friend. It’s right up there with prison  and Klan meeting. And I’d hazard a guess that less than .0000001% of all lifelong friendships began in one.

Please, don’t strike up a conversation.

A simple nod is sufficient, if you really feel the need to acknowledge that we are two human beings occupying the same space. I prefer to think of the other occupants as ghosts, slipping into and out of my reality for a mere moment before being swallowed back up by the ether of anonymity.

The only allowable  conversation between strangers in the public arena should come down to these five words: please pass me some tissue. This should be followed by a silent hand off, and a one syllable expression of appreciation. Thanks.

What a glorious design! Four walls and a door provide both privacy and a natural deterrent to conversation. Or not.

A couple of days ago, I had surgery. On the way out of the hospital, I had to use the restroom. I went in, closed the stall door and attempted to sit without ripping out the abdominal stitches or crying.

“It’s a nice day.”

This was from the stall next to me. I assumed it was a girl talking on the phone. ‘Cause those nutjobs are out there too. Really, you can’t put that thing down long enough to satisfy a basic biological requirement? Are you talking someone through CPR right now?

So I didn’t respond. I was too busy trying not to inhale.

A little foot scuffled toward me under the stall. “Hey. Isn’t it great that it’s finally nice out?” The foot, encased in a red Ked, circled at me.

You have got to be kidding me.

“Mmhmm.” My acknowledgement was high-pitched both due to disbelief and the fact that breathing hurt.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“No.” I didn’t care, I was too busy trying to figure out how to stand up. This was a hospital. Shouldn’t there be help bars on the walls? I eyed the little red “Pull For Assistance” cord in dismay.

Finally, I braced one arm on the toilet paper dispenser and the other on the mini trash receptacle (gross!) and heaved, praying they would bear my weight.

Upright and wishing I had telekinesis to pull my drawers up, I couldn’t help but sigh when she kept talking.

“It’s got to be after one. Do you think it’s two yet?”

Did you just have a baby in the toilet? Are you filling out a frigging birth certificate in there?

“Don’t know.”

Drawers up, I gimped my way to the sink and scrubbed the first three layers of skin off my hands and forearms. She said something else, but the sound of rushing water drowned her out.

But I’m pretty sure she asked if I could pass her some toilet paper.

Sometimes I get stupid ideas. Which is pretty common for all of us, I suppose. But sometimes those stupid ideas take root and I can’t shake them out until I work them through to their conclusion.

A few days ago on Twitter The Anti-Barbie Doll (If you’re not following @polyhumorous, you totally should) has this glorious Tweet: “When the fridge starts beeping because the kids held it open too long, I start screaming a countdown. I told them it blows up in 10 seconds.”

My brain instantly took it to the next level. Here is my reply: “I want that fridge, and a super soaker full of pudding.”

I have no frigging idea where that came from, but the short story result was that I was compelled to go buy a Super-Soaker, some pudding (why did I choose chocolate?) and an extra roll of paper towels (a vast underestimation).

The first go was kind of a flop. Pudding kind of oozed out the end, but plopped onto the floor. Too viscous. So I took the Super Soaker apart and gave it to my four-year old to go wash in the bathroom sink while I made the next batch of pudding.

I, um, forgot that there is a slow drain in the bathroom. Just as I was tapping out the beaters and considering how much extra milk to add (why in Hell didn’t I just use water?) Quinn came racing out.

“Mama, come quick to see what I did!”

In our house, that phrase is a lot like, “There’s a fire in the kitchen,” or “The dog’s chewing on the cat’s head again!” It is grounds for immediate action.

But I was too late.

The sink had filled and overflowed while he washed out the gun, and there was about an inch and a half of standing water in the left corner of the bathroom floor.

And when Quinn had realized what was happening he just bolted for me, so the water was still running.

Turn the water off, slip on the wet floor and go down to drive an elbow onto the training potty (we don’t even use this anymore, why is it still here?), then back up to swear a lot and grab the extra roll of paper towels.

The extra roll. As in one. One roll of paper towels against the flood was a lot like trying to take down a mammoth with a barrage of spitballs.

Of course, because this is me, all of our real towels – the terrycloth kind – were stuck in the washer soaking in pre-spin cycle limbo because I forgot to put the 10 lb medicine ball on the right spot on the door when I set it going. The medicine ball triggers the spin cycle. Yes I have to do this. There is a new washer in the garage that doesn’t have this little idiosyncrasy, but that’s another story.

So no towels.

Remembering the cache of my parents’ items that are being stored in the garage, I raced out there to dig through the boxes, grabbed an armload of their old towels and raced back in to lay them on the floor. Two trips later I had made a reasonable dent in the water, but had to throw down two fleece blankets to finish the job.

When I cleaned up the towels and threw the sodden mass in the tub, I slipped again, cracked the same elbow against the edge of the closet door.

I swore some more, then looked down. The floor tiles near the sink are curling up, and the corner of one has come off completely.

Awesome. It took me nearly an hour to clean the mess and hide the worst of the damage to the floor with quick round of silicone caulk. But I’m very glad replacing that floor was on this summer’s to do list.

You would think that this little disaster would have been the end of it.

But nay.

Once I get a bee like this in my bonnet, I have to take it through to its conclusion. It’s a sickness.

So we took off for Round two.

I mixed the pudding according to directions, then added an extra half cup of water.

Better. but still no projection to speak of.

Round three was the winner. In part, because it occurred to me to do a little tweaking to the gun itself. The internal tube is fairly good sized – a bit smaller than a pencil. But the hole at the end is a lot smaller. Just a few millimeters.

A quick jab with the end of a compass point expanded it to about the size of a ballpoint pen ink tube.

Another quarter cup of extra liquid, and we were in business. It doesn’t project as far as water does. But it still has great aim, and projects far enough to give me a good head start after I ambush my husband.

Next weekend he’s building me a fire pit in anticipation of an outdoor kitchen. I expect a lot of bitching.

So the gun is in hiding, and I’ve already stocked up on the pudding mix. Now, I’m just waiting.