I Love My Mom But She Should Not Be Allowed Near the Internet or Telephones

December 1, 2010

My mom knows how to use the internet to get to pogo.com, and from there, she can play the games. Usually.

She can also check her e-mail. Usually.

I was sent on a mission to find a song that Garrison Keillor sang on Prairie Home Companion. “It was beautiful”, she said. “I need more than that”, I replied. “He had other people singing with him”. Ok, so I go on my mission, which means I look on the NPR website and see if there are any songs listed. Apparently he sings a ton of songs in every broadcast. So I sent my mom a link to the latest broadcast so she could see if she recognized it. She couldn’t follow the link. I followed it for her, and read off the list of songs, when she says “I don’t think it was in English”. None of the titles were in anything other than English, so I suggested she just listen to the entire broadcast until she hears it. That was actually going very well…until the internet stopped working.

I was upstairs getting extremely frustrated at Facebook, because it was absolutely necessary that I spend my 3 hours in the middle of the night on there. It loaded, but then I couldn’t do anything on it. So I closed and reopened, restarted, and cursed a lot. Then I hear “Beep”. “Beep” in this house means the phone has been turned on and is about to be dialed. It’s that loud. Then I hear “beep….beep……….beep…beep…………beep….”. That would be the sound of the phone being dialed. I knew what was next. My phone started ringing.

“Yes?”, I say.
“It stopped playing”, says my mom.
“What did?”
“The radio”
“Did it end?”
“Yes. But I clicked on the thing that says Part 3 and nothing happened. You need to fix it” “The internet is being weird, it’s not something I can fix”
“Well just make it play”
“That’s not within my power”
“It was playing before”
“I know, I’m the one who made it play. You probably opened too many windows and disabled the internet” (my attempt to freak her out)
“What are windows?”
“I don’t know if it can be fixed”
“Can I play my games?” (her attempt to indicate she doesn’t care who broke the internet, she wants to get on pogo.com right NOW, damn it)
“I’ll be right down”.

So I go down and do the usual – unplug everything, then plug it back in. It worked fine and we were both happily on the internet, me upstairs, her downstairs. I also threw in a load of laundry so I’d have underwear for the next few days, but that is completely beside the point.


Here it comes…..


“Did you get that e-mail from Melisa?”
“I don’t think Melisa has ever e-mailed me”
“I meant in my e-mail”
“Why would I have gotten something in your e-mail?”
“Never mind. There was this card. It was on the internet and it is for her grandmother’s 97th birthday, and I was supposed to sign it. I wrote a really nice message, it was very nice. Now it’s just sitting here and there’s nothing that says “send”. How do I send it?”
“I don’t know, I’m not looking at it”
“Should I hit ‘enter’?”
“I’ll be right down”.

I did have a really great blog in my head about this apple I ate yesterday that was obscenely big, and it got caught in my apple cutter thing that you put on an apple and push down and it makes it into slices, and it was all really funny. Now I realize that was just a story about me eating an apple, it wasn’t that funny at all, and my mom is far more entertaining.

151 and Darcy J = Hitting on Dick Goddard

November 29, 2010

I don’t know that this one really needs any explanation. I went out with some friends from high school and had a FUN time, which is kind of crazy because I hated high school so much I tried to get myself homeschooled at least once a week. But I like these people. Quite frankly, I like pretty much all the people in my class, they grew up to be good people.

Anyway, I had some 151. We really don’t need to go into details as to how much. I was taken over by the spirit of a dirty whore and it all went downhill from there. But gosh it was fun. Dick Goddard was at the bar we went to, so naturally, I felt I should hit on him. He gave me a wooly bear sticker. I wanted to ask for more, but I was too scared. He was a nice man.

I also ran into some guys who used to skateboard in my backyard and they know my brother. I became “Dave Lindner’s little sister” and it was often followed by “is freaking crazy!”.

The boy and I are back, thank God. I hope it stays that way, and I think it will. See, we like to provide entertainment for the people who have normal relationships, so you know, this is all for YOUR benefit. You should be thanking us, and possibly throwing coins at us. Or dollar bills, we’d take those, too. Bills aren’t as aerodynamic as coins, so you might want to hand us any bills, rather than throwing them.

The thing about my manager telling me to pull my head out of my ass – all those vying for my job, don’t get too excited. I know exactly where I stand and as I hope would be assumed, Mr. Manager and I are in daily contact about not only my successes and failures, BUT YOURS TOO! I think I worried/excited some people that my job may be up for grabs soon, but unless I die again, which is completely plausible, you are stuck with me. And no fair poisoning me, either, I have to die of natural causes.

Now for the real point of my post. This is for the ladies only. Do you ever get that one chin hair that you can feel, and you can’t stop touching it because you are so aware of it? And of course you don’t have any tweezers because you don’t think ahead, and so you spend all day trying to pluck that sucker with your nonexistent fingernails? And then FINALLY, after hours of hand cramps and scratches on your face, you manage to pluck that chin hair. God, isn’t that a great feeling?

For those of you wondering about my Book Intervention progress…I haven’t been too bad. But yes, I’ve snuck books into the house. I have found my problem is that if I like a book and I own a hard copy, I want a Kindle copy so I can have it with me at all times. Then if I get a book on the Kindle and I like it, I want a hard copy so I can have it in person.

Lastly, I’m taking bids on who wants to clean and organize my bedrooms without judging me in the process. Ever since I started doing my own laundry (don’t ask, my dad is OCD about laundry, but he ruins it because he throws it all in the washer and dryer, so I had to take over), I have no clean clothes. I have to frantically do a load of laundry just to have something to wear the next day. I am a disaster.

I Know I Have a Lot to be Thankful For

November 25, 2010

I don’t want to sound like a complete bitch, I have a great life. Really, my life is better than almost everyone I know. It’s not that I have “stuff”, it’s that I have family and friends who I can count on and who are always there when I need them.

That being said….MAN AM I PISSED OFF. First of all, last night I got dumped. That put a damper on my evening. This morning…well, wait, there was no this morning. I laid in bed in a state of depression until 5 or 5:30pm. In the dark. So that kind of pissed me off, too. Then it was decided a few weeks ago that because I am the only female in the family who has not “hosted” Thanksgiving, this would be the year to do it. This year. The year I got kicked off the planning committee for my dad’s surprise party because I was so incompetent I couldn’t actually function in any helpful way. This year, the year that I was told over 100 times by my manager to “get your head out of your ass and use your brain for once”. The year in which the highlight was that I didn’t die from pneumonia. This is the best year for me to host Thanksgiving.

So I went grocery shopping at 8pm the night before Thanksgiving. I’m prepared like that, and like to plan ahead, you know? And have I ever mentioned my pathological fear of grocery stores? I get in there, and I freeze. My mind goes blank and I have no idea what to do or where to go. God help me if I run into the live lobster tank.

Have I ever bought food for 14 people? No. Do I know how much people eat? No. Could I even remember what other people told me they were bringing? Big. Fat. No. I thought I was brilliant for buying cheese cubes and crackers because I thought ahead and figured everyone will be here for hours while I try to put something together, and they’ll get hungry. And who doesn’t like cheese cubes and crackers? I go to the checkout line, proud that I thought of that, with a cartful of fairly random things that I was hoping would come together in some way. $160. That didn’t include an actual turkey. I get home, still proud of my very adult accomplishment, and I am instantly told that my father will kill me and I better find someplace to go (like, permanently) when he wakes up in the morning and sees what I did. Level of pride? Down slightly. Then I announce my brilliant plan to throw cans and cans of sweet potatoes into a pan and then….wait for it…cover them in marshmallows. What could be better?? Well, it turns out I bought enough sweet potatoes for, and this is not an exaggeration, 32 people. Fail #2 (or really probably more like 34 or 35). THEN my mom finds out my plan of using marshmallows and not making this casserole thing that we have every year that people love and would try to stab each other with knives to get to. That was when I was told I ruined Thanksgiving for everyone and that my dad will probably have heart failure and die, all because of me. Oh, and I’m still dumped, so no boyfriend on yet another holiday.

I’ve decided to move to Maine. I’ve always wanted to live there. Not so close to the ocean that I could die in a hurricane, but close enough that I can go look at it (the ocean, not the hurricane). I believe there are mountains there, too. In Maine, I won’t have to pine over my boyfriend who I still love and who still loves me, just not enough to date me at this point in time. I will be away from my parents who I love dearly, but really, I’d be doing them a favor, as I believe I am slowly killing them day by day as I live in their house. No one would know me and I could even make up a new name if I wanted. My cat would enjoy the scenery and wildlife, and we could live in a remote house that I would surround with booby traps. I could work on building my wings, look at the ocean, build my wings, look at the trees, build my wings, look at the ocean. It’d be good.

I’m going to have to make my get away pretty soon, as my dad will be up in about 3 hours and will discover the amount of money I spent. Also, I left the kitchen a mess. My pangs of boyfriend pain will begin again as soon as the sedatives wear off, which also gives me another 3 hours or so. And then, after the horror of the things that will happen in 3 hours (now 2.5 hours), I get to stay awake more so I can clean the house that I was supposed to clean a week ago, and continue making things for dinner. THEN…and here’s the kicker…actual people will be coming to my house expecting ME to be a host. The best I’ve ever done is “Hi, want some coffee?” and then I pretty much hide. I love my relatives, but I get nervous as hell with groups of people. Also, we like to play games and I cheat. Not for myself – I cheat by giving the losing person/team major hints so that they can catch up.

Oh, and guess what – my dad just woke up two hours early.

No More Books

November 18, 2010

I am 34 and I live with my parents. I have since I was 31. It’s not entirely my fault. You see, I lived on my own since college and many years after. I had an apartment with my best friend. We frequently needed our mothers to come out and help us clean because we’d get so buried in stuff that neither one of us knew what to do. We would declare a Cleaning Day, and then we would both stand in the living room, staring at all the crap. Then we would sit down in the living room and talk about how much crap we accumulated. Then we’d turn on the tv and Cleaning Day would be over. Not only did our mothers come to help us clean, but friends would as well. They would be so disgusted by the mess we lived in that they would randomly start picking things up when they came over.

We learned to ignore it. When the living room got so bad we couldn’t stand it, we would just avoid the living room and pretend it wasn’t there. We would come and go through the back door to avoid the living room altogether. Then the kitchen would get bad, so we would eat out. When we finally did get a clean apartment, either through our mothers or us getting some strange, most likely drug induced, streak of motivation, we would celebrate by having a party. We’d see how clean and nice our apartment was – and really, when it was clean, it was a NICE apartment – and we’d think, hey, this needs things that light up and glow. And if we have things that light up and glow, that means we have to have a party. So we’d make our apartment look totally awesome, go all out with alcohol and food, and have people over. Then the apartment would become a mess, and we’d come out of our rooms the morning after the party, look at the living room, and not know what to do. This cycle repeated for about 10 years.

When my best friend died, I had to move out of our amazing apartment. I moved into Paul Floriano’s basement. Paul Floriano is an actor who had randomly asked me a month or two earlier if I knew anyone who wanted to live in his basement. It was a nice basement. We moved all my stuff in there, and all of my wonderful friends and family who helped said that I was not allowed to buy another book, because moving boxes of books sucked.

While I was at Paul’s house, my very own mother encouraged my book buying habit by buying me bookshelves to go in my basement living room. I filled them. And then I accumulated more books and filled boxes with them.

After two years underground I felt the extreme need to live above ground. I couldn’t afford to live in an apartment by myself and no one existed who was willing to live with me and my cat. So we moved to my parents house….with my books. I had to pay movers this time because the thought of moving all my crap was overwhelming. They came down to the basement after giving me an estimate over the phone, saw my boxes of books, and added $100 to the cost.

At my parent’s house I have two bedrooms, which I quickly turned into a bedroom and a library. I lined the walls with bookshelves…and filled them. And then some. Then I emptied the closet of everything and installed more shelves…and I filled them. I have a lot of books at this point.

My parents declared that I may not bring another book into the house, and if I do, I will be forced to move into an apartment and figure out how to pay for it. I think I would actually cause less trouble if I were a crack addict. No one minds helping a friend move their crack. Crack doesn’t take up a lot of room. Crack is portable. Crack doesn’t need shelves. And crack addicts are always skinny, which is a definite plus. While I was on the verge of deciding to become a crack addict, The Boy stepped in and bought me a Kindle with an orange case. Now I read books on there! As many as I want! My purse is no longer stuffed with 4 books at a time and instead it holds, like, purse things. But then…I want to own the books I read. I want them in hardback. I want them in my hands. It’s not enough to just read them, I NEED TO TOUCH THEM.

So now I’m back to considering crack. I’m pretty sure crack addicts don’t read, anyway, and I’d probably have to sell my books for crack money, so it’d solve a lot of problems.

Textures I Like and Textures I Do Not Like

November 15, 2010

I have a lot of issues with textures. I thought this was pretty normal and common until I “came out” of the Texture Issues closet and people began to torture me with them. I thought, hey, I’ll just find out their Texture Issues and torture them back. But then no one else had any.

Paper towels when they are dry and my hands are dry.
Paper towels when they are wet or my hands are wet. This is why I use so much Windex at work – if I get the paper towel wet enough, I am ok touching it. It’s not really because I love Windex.

Raw broccoli (but I still eat it because that’s another thing people yell at me about)
Cooked broccoli, it’s nice and smushy and feels neat

Wood that isn’t completely smooth, particularly in the form of popsicle sticks
Metal that when you touch it makes your mouth taste like pennies
Brown paper bags
Dust jackets on books that aren’t smooth
Painted surfaces that aren’t smooth, like most walls
Oranges (that white stuff on them is horrible), unless they are Mandarin oranges and they come out of a can or jar
Wool, unless it’s on a sheep, but I don’t think it’s called wool then. I think it’s called Sheep Fur. I like Sheep Fur.
The kind of tuna that people eat that doesn’t come from a can – it’s like biting into squishy rubber
Biting on napkins – ugh, the very thought is giving me the heebie jeebies. Just don’t ever bite on a napkin, ok? NEVER. It is never ok to do that.

Whatever my orange scarf and my blanket that my mom crocheted are made out of. I believe it would be yarn. But they are both super soft and squishy and I like that.

Silk sheets and/or underwear. There is a time and place for slippery silkiness, and in my pants or on my bed are not those places.

Soft things. That pretty much sums it up. I like to pet things.

People at work touch cardboard a lot to freak me out, and it works. If Tiffany wants me to go away from her and stop talking, she picks up cardboard and threatens to touch it. Then they tell me if I didn’t react so violently, they wouldn’t do it, they just like to get a reaction out of me. But if I didn’t react, that means it would be something that didn’t bother me and they choose to do things that bother me, so I react. How can you not react to something that bothers you?? It’s impossible! And that, in a nutshell, is why I am the perfect target for torture.

The Day I Tried to Save a Deer and Then the Police Came and Murdered Him and a Man I Thought Was a Marine Ate Him.

November 13, 2010

I have told this story before, but tonight I saw 6 deer and 8 police cars (not together) (actually, some of the deer WERE together, but they weren’t with the police) while I was driving and that made me think of this and then I felt the need to rewrite it for the one person who has not yet heard this story so that they, too, will be as traumatized as I was (am).
The Boy and I were driving down a busy street and I saw a deer lying on the side of the road. He had obviously been hit by a car, but he was still alive. I freaked out and made The Boy pull over into a shopping center so that I could go and save the deer with what I thought were my Saint Francis-like healing powers. The Boy chose to stay in the car. I went to the deer. He moved to the street and fell and laid down in the middle of the lane. I stood next to him to indicate that cars should not run him over. I called the police and told them there was an injured deer and he needed to be saved, because police save people. I was squatting in the middle of the busy street petting the deer and telling him not to worry, the police would come and save him. I also began to channel Saint Francis and envisioned the deer standing up, thanking me, and then coming home with me to be my friend. In my mind, I was comforting the deer and letting him know all would be well. In retrospect, I was probably just scaring the crap out of him. A giant truck stopped and blocked traffic so that the deer and I would not get run over, and a man who I thought must be in the military got out. He was wearing all camouflage. I thought the United States Military had been sent to help me save the deer. The man walked up to me and told me I was stupid for petting a deer in the middle of a busy road because I could get hit by a car or the deer’s friends could come and kick my ass. I opted to keep petting the deer because I am pretty sure any deer would sense my animal love and want to be my friend, not kill me. A policeman and a policelady came and they stood with the fake military man and said “Do either of you want to keep him?” I thought that was fantastic, they were going to save him and then I would get to keep him as a pet. The fake military man spoke first, though, and said that he had room in his truck. That confused me because I was still waiting for an ambulance or something. Then the policelady pulled out her gun.

Here’s an aside to explain my feelings for guns. They terrify me. I was in a police station once and there were police people all around with guns and I stood frozen in horror. Policemen shop at my store and I can’t ring them out or interact with them because I can see the freaking gun sitting there, waiting to kill me, on their belt. The very sight of one is enough to send me in to a panic, which usually means I run in a circle and flap my arms around and stutter. Afterwards I usually need to take large amounts of sedatives and/or alcohol.

So she pulled out her gun. Guess what I did? The thing I was stuttering while I was running in a circle and flapping was “Are you going to use that?” The three of them watched me with their mouths slightly open, and she said “Yes”. I then stuttered (and ran and flapped), “IN FRONT OF ME???”. She said “Not if you leave fast enough”. The last thing I said was “You were supposed to save him”, but I didn’t hear the reply because I stopped running in a circle and ran in a straight line, back towards the car in the shopping plaza, which was actually about 1/8 of a mile away. Apart from running in circles when traumatized, I do not run. I duck and cover, but I do not run. I freeze and stand very still and hope that whatever is chasing me will not notice me, but I Do Not Run. My version of running was to hold my arms in a T-Rex position in front of me and clomp down the busy street in a very ungraceful way. They laughed loud enough for me to hear the entire time I was running and then I heard the gun shot. She waited about 5 seconds for a fat girl to run like a T-Rex down the street before she murdered the deer I had befriended. I took a lot of sedatives when I got in the car.

Oh, and for the record, I have since been told the nice military man was not nice and not in the military. He was a hunter, and hunters are Very Bad, and he wanted to keep the deer, not to rehabilitate him, but to eat him.

The Day I Failed and Shakespeare Cursed Me

November 9, 2010

I have offended the Bard. I have been out of classes for over a month now because God struck me down with pneumonia, bronchitis, The Pleurisy and, just to make it a little more embarrassing, a UTI. I got so behind in my classes, I had to drop one, so I picked Shakespeare and dropped him like a dead weight. If you have not read any of his works, consider yourself lucky. But if you have, you know he just loves to kill people off and then have them come back as ghosts and be main characters in the story. I am pretty sure he will be appearing to me as a ghost tonight, telling me I made the wrong decision. I imagine it will go something like this.

Me: “snore snore snore” (See, I am asleep)
Shakespeare: “Wake the fuck up, bitch”
Me: “What? Shakespeare, is that you?”
Shakespeare: “Damn straight. I will haunt the ever loving shit out of you for dropping my class. I AM THE BARD. There is a reason there are entire classes – not just one, but many – all about ME. Who the hell do you think you are?”
Me: “Can I just take the class next semester?”
Shakespeare: “Fuck you. I’m leaving. Do what you want, mortal.”

Then my cat will come in, because cats can always sense ghosts, and she will be like, “Hey, was that Shakespeare?”, but she can not speak English, so it will actually sound like “Meow, meow meow meow. Yawn”. Then I will misinterpret what she is trying to tell me, and I will go downstairs and feed her, assuming that is what she was trying to tell me. Then she and Shakespeare will eat cat food together and discuss what an ass I am for dropping the class and for thinking my cat wanted food when she really just wanted to know if Shakespeare was visiting. I really do not see any decent outcome from this situation. I can deal with Shakespeare being a little peeved, but I am sure he has many people to haunt for dropping his classes, or saying “MacBeth” out loud in the backstage of a theater. I am worried about my cat’s opinion of me and my inability to interpret what she was saying.

Also, Shakespeare was a total perv. Every freaking thing he wrote was about sex, cheating, more sex, a little incest, sex, and sex. I feel dirty reading Othello. They should have a Disney version, I would be all over that.