Wednesday, February 11, 2009

One Time At Band Camp

One time at band camp…

I went to the movies with my teenagers. OK, scratch that, I was the driver to the movies for my teenagers and their horde of eating machines. This was the second time in a week that I’ve become aware of my nerdiness. Last Sunday, I went down to my friend Chucky’s new Tattoo studio and there I was, in all my marmish glory: Mom jeans, no makeup ( I figured I would be crying since this time, I would be sober during my inking), a very ugly KISS t-shirt. I Completed look with a monolith mom clip in my hair to keep it off the vulnerable area. And, there they were; Chucky, his apprentice and a friend…all tatted up and smiling. Great! Even if I did entertain thoughts of chickening out of this escapade into mid-life crisis, I’d have to suck it up and carry through. Forget about crying or wincing. I had to take it like a man. I did. Not one sound did I make, nor any muscle moved. With the help of my Lil’ Wayne, Black-Eyed Peas, Ray, Smash Mouth, Hootie, Cold Play, music… I took it like a woman. However, though I was tough and as my friend Jess said, “I always said you had ovaries of steel,” I still didn’t come off as one of them. I was still (the now tatted mom), in mom jeans with mom hair and a really big, goofy triumphant smile as if I had run yet another marathon. Plus, while cracking a joke about woman pain versus man pain, I snorted, which really startled the macho men. Shocked, they just stared at me, as if I had made some really poor off-color joke, which probably would have gone over better as opposed to my poor attempt at tattoo humor and snort laugh. I’m pretty sure after my sheepish departure, they were laughing.

You can take the mom-jeans off the nerd, but the nerd will forever be present, ready to snort laugh at the drop of a slapstick bit, ready to “join in” a conversation no mother should ever, ever think about joining into and ready to call her teenagers “honey” in front of their friends. So, there I was, back at band camp, driving gum smacking, giggling, “Whatever,” and “Oh my God, no he didn’t” lamenting teens to the movies. I was supposed to have met some friends, but they flaked and there I was, banished from the teenage wasteland of the upper rows and into the depths of dotted single seats a dozen rows in front. Obligingly, I took my seat next to another lonely old lady. As the infomercials and previews popped onto the screen, I desperately repeated in silence my personal ‘no laughing out loud’ mantra.

My laughter has been given many a grace period from many people. Though I try to abstain from a total outbreak of snorting, sometimes, I just can’t help it. It starts off with low giggling, a stifling of snorts and then out right belly laughter, along with the snorting. Once committed to the comedic cause of the moment, it’s a futile to stop it. The animal known as my laugh is loose and running amuck. Believe me, my family has attempted to stop the laughter in its tracks with, a harsh, “Shh,” hand gestures and “Mom, really, please be quiet!” Finally in desperation of actually hearing the movie or conversation, they demand I leave the room. It’s gotten so terrible; they have even suggested an intervention. The thought of a laughter intervention sends me into a tizzy and I roll on the floor, now at the age where gaseous eruptions join in the horrific display of nerdom. Imagining a room full of my family and friends, sitting and judging, trying to hold me down as they show slapstick, recant family jokes and comedy routines and make me admit the wrongs my laughter has caused them, the dinners I ruined, the family gatherings and the holidays I will never be invited to again, unless I seek help. My imagination runs over as I finally leave the room, drooling, tears streaming, on all fours and still laughing down the hall. My family turns up the volume or declares a do-over for their conversation before they were so rudely interrupted by the hyena-mom.

So there I sat, trying desperately to stifle my giggles and my reluctant movie-partner leaned over to “Shhh” me. Familiar with this term, I apologized and was abruptly “Shh-ed” again. The stiff patron attempted to teach me movie etiquette five times. A gruff gentleman behind us became so aggravated with her disciplinary actions, he told her to close her pie hole. Yes, he actually used the term, “Pie-hole.” This term sent my flash-drive into overdrive as it scanned memories and imagination coming up with a Jackie Gleason character telling Alice to, “Shut your pie hole.” Immediately, Alice reaches into the ice box and throws a pie in Jackie’s face. Of course, this just added to my already delicate state of being and my giggling immediately turned into quiet snorts. An entire row of patrons glowered at me and I was”Shh-ed” yet again from Miss Frigidaire. Mr. Pie hole leaned over and actually told us he would escort us from the movie if we both didn’t shut our ‘Pie-holes.’ The echoing snort broke out before I could grab it back, Miss Frigidaire tried in vain to declare that she and I weren’t together and Mr. Pie Hole actually started to shake his fist at us. To which she of course contested that he was threatening her and he of course countered with, “Oh ya wanna see a threat, huh?” Shaking both fists and telling her again to, “Shut her pie hole.”

The shaking of both fists did it, reminding me of an Popeye cartoon releasing the full-on nerd snort laugh from me and causing some patrons to join in the laughter and a few others to become angry. I could hear my daughters’ voice, somehow through the lofted noise that I created, mumbling, “Please mom leave, just leave, please mom, leave, now, leave…” Before I could leave, an usher came to our seats and escorted Miss Frigidaire, Mr. Pie Hole, his wife and I out of the movie. On the way to the lobby, Mr. Pie hole demanded I pay their movie tickets without their senior discount of course and Miss Frigidaire declared that she wasn’t a senior. To which, you guessed it, Jackie Gleason reincarnated told her to, “Shut her pie hole.” This sent me into my usual bout of snort laughter. Studying the man through my now red, tear streaked face, I would gather this is a guy who is a couch jockey, only eats out on coupon days and thinks a great anniversary present is a vacuum. Miss Frigidaire huffed off into her Honda Element. Mr. Pie Hole jetted out the door, wife following exactly ten paces behind to what I would assume to be Dodge.

My friends showed up just as the Pie Holes were leaving. After enlightening them as to why we wouldn’t be going back into the movie theater until the kiddies got out, we decided to do the next best thing: People watch at Walmart. See? Nerds. We usually travel in packs.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Night stands and Naughty thoughts

The night stand has such an innocent name. Most people have a night stand as it comes with the bedroom furniture. Since a young age, the "night stand" had revealed itself to me in its true form as the naughty drawer (I was visiting a relatives home, snooping), evoking strange thoughts and new ideas.

Being married since the ice age, we have a naughty drawer. Most couples who have been together for any number of years have such a drawer. While single, most naughty drawers contain contraceptives, lotions, candles and perhaps a thong or two. Even in pubescent newlywed bliss and blindness, the combined items of individual sexuality can be found in the naughty drawer. The proximity of the naughty drawer is of utmost importance. In the heat of the moment, no one wants to get out of the warm bed and walk, exposed, across the room or into the next and grab whatever is necessary to carry out a night of passion. It the same concept as to who loses the bet and has to sleep in the wet spot.

As relationships age, so do the items in the naughty drawer. Since the birth of our children, we use it as a make shift rite aide; flashlights, candles, massage oils, cold medications, earplugs, Kleenex, some old Christmas stocking stuffers I seem to annually misplace, an industrial-sized padlock for our bedroom door and a boom box. BB King’s opening serenade is immediately followed by several groans from our teens bedrooms, "EWWWWW! Not again!" Why be so obvious? The reasoning is simple: To insure celibacy in our teenagers (we are still counting on the gross factor of humping parents to dance in their heads and that their libidos haven’t quite kicked in) and self preservation. Long ago in a galaxy far away, our children were safely tucked into the young hours of the evening. My precocious five-year old daughter, crawled out of bed, answered a phone call from my sister and when asked where I was and what I was doing, answered, "She and daddy are breathing, giggling and talking in their bedroom." We will never live it down. To this day, my sister will call, snickering, asking if she is interrupting any breathing and talking sessions.

As the anthology of our naughty drawer spans before my marital lifetime, I can see into the future and the contents turning it back into it's former self: A night stand. The use of romantic enhancements will evaporate into accumulating rite aide items with the added old fart shopping list: Ben Gay, Viagra, KY jelly, Hemorrhoid cream, reading glasses, ace bandages, teeth and large cotton granny undies. Being a frugal person and I would assume in my old age, I’ll probably use my former thongs for dusting. Waste not, want not.

Currently our naughty drawer has evolved into something that is desperately kept from our kids, therefore it is also secured. When we get in the mood, we secure our bedroom door, and upload the latest BB King CD. Our new strategy dictates to wait five minutes for the inevitable knock from our nosey teenagers who were perfectly content on their computers and game boys just moments before. We answer gruffly, telling them we are busy and turn up the volume, anxiously awaiting for the, "Ewwww, not again" groans.Satisfied that we have a few moments of uninterrupted bliss, we turn down the lights, fold back the covers and crawl into bed. My husband reaches into the naughty drawer to retrieve our small ice chest. As our fingers touch through the ice, we simultaneously grasp our dove bars. Anxiously unwrapping the bars, we bite through the chocolate, sigh satisfactorily and savor the realization that we have an entire carton at our disposal, thus ensuring at least ten minutes of rapture.