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.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, January 19, 2009
A new day
A new day which has long awaited is coming to our country. Tomorrow, January 20th, Barack Obama will be sworn in as the 44th President of our United States. He offers to our country a new face, both young and hopeful, yet also determined to transform the country into a more united states. On that note, it seems this country; our wonderful United States has, in its usual unintentional, big, boisterous American way, gone into Obamanic Thrust. We are united alright; united in outlandish and crass showmanship that most of our adversaries and allies detest us for.
The new rage for Presidential inauguration spectators are various souvenirs of hats, flags, pins, buttons, iPods, cell phone bling and unmentionables. You can even go online and buy from Amazon, a piece of Presidential history. I would imagine in just a few short days, the onset of YouTube images of Obama-girl in her sparkled Obama thong, totting safe sex amenities will break any firewall and commence the onset of waterhole gossip and office forwards. Though I would agree, the best marketing tactics are those presented by opportunity, it is over-the-top Obamania.
In addition, our Nations capital is now overrun by the throngs of appearances by the big wigs of the music industry, and celebs (not to mention those artists who outwardly shout to the left of politics). Sort of an Oxy-moron mantra of the man who professes that he wants to unite us without the ramifications of class, age, sex, creed, race, lifestyle or political agendas.
The parties started last week upon the arrival of several celebrities, the only ones who could afford the $1000 a night hotel rooms. Even the Jonas Brothers, who in my humble opinion, can’t sing worth beans are anticipated to show up and at least gyrate their way into history. In all our celebration and overboard hoopla, perhaps we have done a disservice for our new President intent on uniting this country? Do we really need to get the latest Botox treatment just for our spot on the mall, even though we would be watching with thousands of our countryman our new Presidents face across a large screen? I don’t know about you, but the last person I’d want to stand next to during a Presidential inauguration is someone whom I have seen plastered across the media as one who has acted badly in public, whose inauguration attire probably exceeds my salary, spends their holidays not with their families but in St Croix, has dogs instead of children because of choice and has said they want change, hope and smart politics and yet doesn’t reflect that in their own life. It is indeed a celebration, but are we celebrating in bad form?
I find it interesting that this newly elected President, the first black President of our country unintentionally overshadowed this precious day, Martin Luther King Junior Day. Though there are celebrations that this country has always held for MLK day, it almost seems underscored by all the hoopla of President-elect Obama’s inauguration. Barack Obama didn’t elect (excuse the pun) this date of the Presidential term. And I would venture to say that Martin Luther King Junior wouldn’t have it any other way. To be outshined by the first black President of the United States, is what Martin Luther King Junior had envisioned in his, ‘I have a Dream’ speech almost 46 years ago.
I didn’t vote for Mister Obama, in fact I didn’t vote for a president this year. So, I resolve to uphold my oath to myself that date in November, seemingly so long ago: That I will continue to pray for this dynamic man and his family. That he continues to look to our God for answers and that he continues to uphold what his vision set for him to do and I pray that our forefathers, including Doctor Martin Luther King Junior, continue to have great and enormous influence on any decision President-elect Obama makes. It's a new day in this country and no matter who you voted for, the best thing to do right now is pray and have confidence that our fellow countryman (and women), have voted for the best of the best.
And afterall this pomp and circumstance, ridicules celebrity hoopla dies down, Obama can get to work.
Oh-and one more thing, a sign that Obama is going to do well in his new job, he looks to one of the wisest people in his life: On several occasions, when the media verbiage crossed and he and his wife disagreed, he looked to his wife and said in quiet resolve, “Yes dear.”
The new rage for Presidential inauguration spectators are various souvenirs of hats, flags, pins, buttons, iPods, cell phone bling and unmentionables. You can even go online and buy from Amazon, a piece of Presidential history. I would imagine in just a few short days, the onset of YouTube images of Obama-girl in her sparkled Obama thong, totting safe sex amenities will break any firewall and commence the onset of waterhole gossip and office forwards. Though I would agree, the best marketing tactics are those presented by opportunity, it is over-the-top Obamania.
In addition, our Nations capital is now overrun by the throngs of appearances by the big wigs of the music industry, and celebs (not to mention those artists who outwardly shout to the left of politics). Sort of an Oxy-moron mantra of the man who professes that he wants to unite us without the ramifications of class, age, sex, creed, race, lifestyle or political agendas.
The parties started last week upon the arrival of several celebrities, the only ones who could afford the $1000 a night hotel rooms. Even the Jonas Brothers, who in my humble opinion, can’t sing worth beans are anticipated to show up and at least gyrate their way into history. In all our celebration and overboard hoopla, perhaps we have done a disservice for our new President intent on uniting this country? Do we really need to get the latest Botox treatment just for our spot on the mall, even though we would be watching with thousands of our countryman our new Presidents face across a large screen? I don’t know about you, but the last person I’d want to stand next to during a Presidential inauguration is someone whom I have seen plastered across the media as one who has acted badly in public, whose inauguration attire probably exceeds my salary, spends their holidays not with their families but in St Croix, has dogs instead of children because of choice and has said they want change, hope and smart politics and yet doesn’t reflect that in their own life. It is indeed a celebration, but are we celebrating in bad form?
I find it interesting that this newly elected President, the first black President of our country unintentionally overshadowed this precious day, Martin Luther King Junior Day. Though there are celebrations that this country has always held for MLK day, it almost seems underscored by all the hoopla of President-elect Obama’s inauguration. Barack Obama didn’t elect (excuse the pun) this date of the Presidential term. And I would venture to say that Martin Luther King Junior wouldn’t have it any other way. To be outshined by the first black President of the United States, is what Martin Luther King Junior had envisioned in his, ‘I have a Dream’ speech almost 46 years ago.
I didn’t vote for Mister Obama, in fact I didn’t vote for a president this year. So, I resolve to uphold my oath to myself that date in November, seemingly so long ago: That I will continue to pray for this dynamic man and his family. That he continues to look to our God for answers and that he continues to uphold what his vision set for him to do and I pray that our forefathers, including Doctor Martin Luther King Junior, continue to have great and enormous influence on any decision President-elect Obama makes. It's a new day in this country and no matter who you voted for, the best thing to do right now is pray and have confidence that our fellow countryman (and women), have voted for the best of the best.
And afterall this pomp and circumstance, ridicules celebrity hoopla dies down, Obama can get to work.
Oh-and one more thing, a sign that Obama is going to do well in his new job, he looks to one of the wisest people in his life: On several occasions, when the media verbiage crossed and he and his wife disagreed, he looked to his wife and said in quiet resolve, “Yes dear.”
Monday, December 22, 2008
Eight Crazy Nights
Yesterday was the first day of Chanukah festival of lights and though I am not Jewish, I appreciate the miracle and hope those eight lights represent. Just as Christmas is a miracle to Christians, the Festival of lights is recognition of the miracles and hope of God. Christmas has always been a mixed bag of dynamics for me: Emotionally, spiritually, psychologically and physically. Lately, I have had to grasp at my faith as though grabbing feathers in a tornado. Emotionally, I waver between the joy of what this season and all its traditions brings to the sorrow of missing loved ones passed, the grief my dysfunctional family sows upon me and the frustration at being nickel and dimed to death for every basic living need, in addition to the added cost of Christmas. My health takes a toll as colds, flu and other fabulous illnesses circle me like the flying monkeys from The Wizard of Oz.
It was difficult to embrace the joy of baking our traditional fudge with my children as I worried over the cost of ingredients. I have a great job, get paid well for doing something inconsequential and I still come up short…then I feel enormous empathy for those without income. This year before the Christmas break, the schools were all about charity which is great, unless technically, we could qualify. Because of karma, I purchased two gifts for make-a-wish children, just so not to piss off the higher powers. My sons class adopted a soldier, so I had to buy Costco-sized Tylenol and gum. My daughter has six teachers which adds up to six presents. By the time I was able to shop for my family’s gifts, I had twenty-two dollars left. I find it a struggle to be gleeful when wrapping my kids presents, concerned that I couldn’t get them this, that or the other this year because of finances. Elation should be my mindset since my kids are not greedy kids at all, in fact they have told me that they really don’t want or need anything for Christmas. As my very poignant 15-year-old pointed out, “Mom, it’s silly really. All that stuff is not the reason for Christmas. Why do the stores think that adding a few snowflakes, Christmas songs and puppies in their commercials make the ordinary stuff we use every day, look special for Christmas?” Amen sister. I should feel pride and relief that my kid feels this way; instead I feel even more guilt. Shouldn’t a kid like that, get everything she deserves? Battling my third cold this season didn't get me in the mood for a Merry Christmas and I was snippy towards my kids as lack of R.E.M and a head full of snot gave me a bitter scrooge face. Bah Humbug, indeed!
Add to that my compiling sense of doom as the day approaches when we have to pack in eight Christmases in five days to accommodate all our dysfunctional relatives. This includes inconveniencing me and my kids so we won’t “interrupt” my pedophile relative’s household. Grandma will meet us in the mall, so the pedophile can channel surf, comfy in his house. The apple didn’t fall from the tree and my dear kids, (like me), detest shopping. This will be a real piece of joy. Whatever. Wish I still drank. Every Christmas, I make the same wish, sending up to God, Santa and even the Easter bunny a distress signal: I wish we could just jump on a cruise and forget the whole thing. Alas there-in lies the rub, the ghost of finances past, present and future. So I continue this game of going through the motions of Christmas.
Like most families we decorated for Christmas. Since we were going to be gone, it was a majority vote in our house to forgo the tree. We have twenty-two years of Christmas anthology attached to every piece: Snowman pillows I won at a bunko game (before I was kicked out, story to follow), Icicles made of fiberglass we got at a shop in Monterrey, our door wreath I got a the dollar tree our first Christmas, advent candles we’ve made on the beaches of both Bodega and San Simeon and mismatched ornaments. Even though we voted on the absence of a tree, I managed to unpack a few ornaments and hang them about the house. There I was, innocently singing along to Chipmunks Christmas when I came across Sylvia’s spiders. Sylvia had made intricate crystal beaded spider ornaments and enjoyed entrancing my kids every year with the story behind the spiders. She lost her battle to breast cancer two years ago. http://www.sandbenders.demon.co.uk/gallery/chrspid.htm
Just as Alvin reached the line of “Hoola-hoop,”all I could do at this point was cry at missing my friend and what a miracle she truly was. Sylvia accepted me. We were polar opposites, yet she and I loved each other and embraced our differences. When one stops and think how many true friends one has, one can come to the conclusion that those friendships are indeed miracles. I am convinced that God puts people in our lives. We are all so diverse. It takes a certain personality, ego, chemistry and mood to be true friends with someone. I’ve met a lot of people I’ve liked, right from the start, but few I've befriended. True friends just accept you, walk with you, don't try and change or mold you into what they believe is right. They are just your friends.
Tonight, as I said goodbye to another friend, Valerie, destined to be another best friend had we more time together, I counted my blessing in knowing her. Though we’d only known each other a short time at work, it was clear that we clicked and our acquaintance graduated to a fast friendship: I will miss our paperclip wars, La Comida payday lunches, arbitrary giggling, movies and confidences. Valerie just accepted me. Valerie had the nerve to abandon our blossoming friendship to fall in love, make wedding plans and will move out of California. After an all too brief afternoon of shopping, eating and a movie it was time to say a tearful goodbye. As we hugged a million times in the drizzling parking lot, my faith was gradually restored. And, as I drove out of the parking lot, watching her car disappear for the very last time, Adam Sandler's song about Chanukah came on. I began to see with new eyes, the miracles of this season. It was a miracle to get my job, it was an amazing miracle to have met and befriend such a fantastic person like Valerie and I am hopeful that this technology will keep us in arbitrary giggling heaven. Knowing this, I can put away my bitter scrooge face and brave the weird Christmas I will embark upon. I can enjoy the miracle and hope of this season. May you enjoy the eight crazy nights of the Festival of lights or your Merry Christmas and God Bless us, everyone!
©All Rights Reserved, Anne Wycoff December 2008
It was difficult to embrace the joy of baking our traditional fudge with my children as I worried over the cost of ingredients. I have a great job, get paid well for doing something inconsequential and I still come up short…then I feel enormous empathy for those without income. This year before the Christmas break, the schools were all about charity which is great, unless technically, we could qualify. Because of karma, I purchased two gifts for make-a-wish children, just so not to piss off the higher powers. My sons class adopted a soldier, so I had to buy Costco-sized Tylenol and gum. My daughter has six teachers which adds up to six presents. By the time I was able to shop for my family’s gifts, I had twenty-two dollars left. I find it a struggle to be gleeful when wrapping my kids presents, concerned that I couldn’t get them this, that or the other this year because of finances. Elation should be my mindset since my kids are not greedy kids at all, in fact they have told me that they really don’t want or need anything for Christmas. As my very poignant 15-year-old pointed out, “Mom, it’s silly really. All that stuff is not the reason for Christmas. Why do the stores think that adding a few snowflakes, Christmas songs and puppies in their commercials make the ordinary stuff we use every day, look special for Christmas?” Amen sister. I should feel pride and relief that my kid feels this way; instead I feel even more guilt. Shouldn’t a kid like that, get everything she deserves? Battling my third cold this season didn't get me in the mood for a Merry Christmas and I was snippy towards my kids as lack of R.E.M and a head full of snot gave me a bitter scrooge face. Bah Humbug, indeed!
Add to that my compiling sense of doom as the day approaches when we have to pack in eight Christmases in five days to accommodate all our dysfunctional relatives. This includes inconveniencing me and my kids so we won’t “interrupt” my pedophile relative’s household. Grandma will meet us in the mall, so the pedophile can channel surf, comfy in his house. The apple didn’t fall from the tree and my dear kids, (like me), detest shopping. This will be a real piece of joy. Whatever. Wish I still drank. Every Christmas, I make the same wish, sending up to God, Santa and even the Easter bunny a distress signal: I wish we could just jump on a cruise and forget the whole thing. Alas there-in lies the rub, the ghost of finances past, present and future. So I continue this game of going through the motions of Christmas.
Like most families we decorated for Christmas. Since we were going to be gone, it was a majority vote in our house to forgo the tree. We have twenty-two years of Christmas anthology attached to every piece: Snowman pillows I won at a bunko game (before I was kicked out, story to follow), Icicles made of fiberglass we got at a shop in Monterrey, our door wreath I got a the dollar tree our first Christmas, advent candles we’ve made on the beaches of both Bodega and San Simeon and mismatched ornaments. Even though we voted on the absence of a tree, I managed to unpack a few ornaments and hang them about the house. There I was, innocently singing along to Chipmunks Christmas when I came across Sylvia’s spiders. Sylvia had made intricate crystal beaded spider ornaments and enjoyed entrancing my kids every year with the story behind the spiders. She lost her battle to breast cancer two years ago. http://www.sandbenders.demon.co.uk/gallery/chrspid.htm
Just as Alvin reached the line of “Hoola-hoop,”all I could do at this point was cry at missing my friend and what a miracle she truly was. Sylvia accepted me. We were polar opposites, yet she and I loved each other and embraced our differences. When one stops and think how many true friends one has, one can come to the conclusion that those friendships are indeed miracles. I am convinced that God puts people in our lives. We are all so diverse. It takes a certain personality, ego, chemistry and mood to be true friends with someone. I’ve met a lot of people I’ve liked, right from the start, but few I've befriended. True friends just accept you, walk with you, don't try and change or mold you into what they believe is right. They are just your friends.
Tonight, as I said goodbye to another friend, Valerie, destined to be another best friend had we more time together, I counted my blessing in knowing her. Though we’d only known each other a short time at work, it was clear that we clicked and our acquaintance graduated to a fast friendship: I will miss our paperclip wars, La Comida payday lunches, arbitrary giggling, movies and confidences. Valerie just accepted me. Valerie had the nerve to abandon our blossoming friendship to fall in love, make wedding plans and will move out of California. After an all too brief afternoon of shopping, eating and a movie it was time to say a tearful goodbye. As we hugged a million times in the drizzling parking lot, my faith was gradually restored. And, as I drove out of the parking lot, watching her car disappear for the very last time, Adam Sandler's song about Chanukah came on. I began to see with new eyes, the miracles of this season. It was a miracle to get my job, it was an amazing miracle to have met and befriend such a fantastic person like Valerie and I am hopeful that this technology will keep us in arbitrary giggling heaven. Knowing this, I can put away my bitter scrooge face and brave the weird Christmas I will embark upon. I can enjoy the miracle and hope of this season. May you enjoy the eight crazy nights of the Festival of lights or your Merry Christmas and God Bless us, everyone!
©All Rights Reserved, Anne Wycoff December 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Band Camp News: Constipation: It can happen to you!
Band Camp News: Constipation: It can happen to you!: "http://www.imeem.com/alkalyne/music/BfMrRS_f/weird_al_yankovic_a_complicated_song_constipated/"
Constipation: It can happen to you!
Anne held hostage, day eight. My pain threshold is high, but I wasn’t prepared for the mind-numbing-waking pain directly behind my knee cap. Post-surgical mending is tentative at best. Relenting after wimping out of the painful throb, I pop the Codeine and then, poof! I feel groovy and the love. The pain subsides and I am a nice, complacent woman, hear me whisper. I managed to self-clean (complete with shaving), help my son coherently edit an essay and I became more of the mom my kids dreamed of: The “Yes-mom.” After all, we had dinners coming to us from my super-mom friends, what did I have to complain about? Unfortunatly, a lot of the meals consisted of gaseous-inducing foods which led to more of my following problem.
If only someone, anyone had warned me that Codeine is cumulative and constipating. About the third day after surgery, I felt the urge to visit a room normally reserved for contemplating the universe. My first indication that the second movement of the Anne Wycoff Concerto wasn’t going to happen was that two hours in the think tank only produced a numb butt. I attempted to visualize some inspirational scenes from movies: Flushed Away, obviously the entire movie gives enough ‘think-brown’ material. Jurassic Park, when the guy ran from the car and sat on the pot to unsuccessfully hide from the T-Rex. Sparticus, the scene of all the Roman soldiers lounging around the steam room. 2001: A Space Odyssey, as Dr. Floyd reads the directions to the anti-gravity toilet. Along Came Polly, Ben Stiller going through everything that can and will go wrong in the bathroom.
It’s funny what your mind races to in times of desperation. I made the mistake of then flashing to Dirty Jobs. One would think that of all the sewers, wrong ends and poop-infused scenes in all of America Mike Rowe has visited, those scenes alone would warrant some reprieve from my porcelain bus torture chamber. But alas, since I do have a major crush on Mike Rowe, the effect was opposite and all I could do was fantasize that my crush and I were holding hands along Pier 39, eating ice cream. Remembering the real reason why I had time to relish in one of my favorite fantasies, I turned to concentrating on more pressing matters. My face contorted to something between a combination of Roseanne Barr singing the National Anthem and Brittany Spears appearance in last years MTV awards as I attempted a push that only succeeded in convicincing me that I gave birth through my back-end to a small African Elephant---ugly! Finally, with the help of Weird Al Yokovic’s song: Constipated (reluctantly, I admit, I know all the lyrics) I managed a small, short-lived success of butt air emission. On a scale of one-ten the fart was a five, emitting not only good tone, but more important, adequate relief. I sat for another hour, waiting in anticipation that the fart was a prelude to something more grandeur. Sadly, it wasn't.
So, my new mission because I chose to take it is to warn any and all pain relief users and abusers: Constipation, it can happen to you!
So tonight, although the wonderful cheese and broccoli casserole my friend Cindy made for us looks delicious and tempting, I am going to indulge in a carrot smoothie.
If you happen to get in on the wrong end and pitfalls of Pain Killers, try going to the following for inpiration:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=76knh7D_0QY
http://www.imeem.com/alkalyne/music/BfMrRS_f/weird_al_yankovic_a_complicated_song_constipated/
If only someone, anyone had warned me that Codeine is cumulative and constipating. About the third day after surgery, I felt the urge to visit a room normally reserved for contemplating the universe. My first indication that the second movement of the Anne Wycoff Concerto wasn’t going to happen was that two hours in the think tank only produced a numb butt. I attempted to visualize some inspirational scenes from movies: Flushed Away, obviously the entire movie gives enough ‘think-brown’ material. Jurassic Park, when the guy ran from the car and sat on the pot to unsuccessfully hide from the T-Rex. Sparticus, the scene of all the Roman soldiers lounging around the steam room. 2001: A Space Odyssey, as Dr. Floyd reads the directions to the anti-gravity toilet. Along Came Polly, Ben Stiller going through everything that can and will go wrong in the bathroom.
It’s funny what your mind races to in times of desperation. I made the mistake of then flashing to Dirty Jobs. One would think that of all the sewers, wrong ends and poop-infused scenes in all of America Mike Rowe has visited, those scenes alone would warrant some reprieve from my porcelain bus torture chamber. But alas, since I do have a major crush on Mike Rowe, the effect was opposite and all I could do was fantasize that my crush and I were holding hands along Pier 39, eating ice cream. Remembering the real reason why I had time to relish in one of my favorite fantasies, I turned to concentrating on more pressing matters. My face contorted to something between a combination of Roseanne Barr singing the National Anthem and Brittany Spears appearance in last years MTV awards as I attempted a push that only succeeded in convicincing me that I gave birth through my back-end to a small African Elephant---ugly! Finally, with the help of Weird Al Yokovic’s song: Constipated (reluctantly, I admit, I know all the lyrics) I managed a small, short-lived success of butt air emission. On a scale of one-ten the fart was a five, emitting not only good tone, but more important, adequate relief. I sat for another hour, waiting in anticipation that the fart was a prelude to something more grandeur. Sadly, it wasn't.
So, my new mission because I chose to take it is to warn any and all pain relief users and abusers: Constipation, it can happen to you!
So tonight, although the wonderful cheese and broccoli casserole my friend Cindy made for us looks delicious and tempting, I am going to indulge in a carrot smoothie.
If you happen to get in on the wrong end and pitfalls of Pain Killers, try going to the following for inpiration:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=76knh7D_0QY
http://www.imeem.com/alkalyne/music/BfMrRS_f/weird_al_yankovic_a_complicated_song_constipated/
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Halloween heroes and Pain relief
Hello this is Anne’s brain in black and white. This is Anne’s brain in black and white, on drugs...any questions? Recovering from knee surgery sucks! Anne held captive day two.
Two weeks of purgatory is required and I sit on my rear, accumulating cellulite and new rolls. As I stew in the same stiff position (insert obvious male arousal joke here), listening to the media coverage of campaign vomit, I realize that I’m screwed out of one of my favorite holidays: Halloween. I love Halloween! As a kid, my favorite costume was Wonder Woman. I relished in the fact that my Wonder Woman power bracelets could deflect any boy cooties and unwarranted weird friendships with a flick of my wrists.
The ghosts of Halloween past seem to creep into what’s left of my grey matter and I recall being Cat Woman, Tarzan and the Scarecrow from Wizard of Oz. To me, it seems that Halloween is a definite parade of alter egos, of the possibility of what one can be, of what one wants to be. In one way or another, our own definition of a hero. There are no rules or regulations. Last year, I was hero to myself and my kids, coming up with three costumes under twenty bucks. Fashioning my character after SNL’s Superstar, I went to a naughty Halloween party. My alter ego, little Mary Katherine Come-Lately, was a hit, complete with pigtails and a mini-mini-plaid school-girl skirt (under which I wore some bright red satin boxers-see? Naughty). I jumped into furniture yelling, “Superstar!” and vigorously smelled my armpits. The next day, I helped my kids with their costumes and we carved jack-o-lanterns. While we trekked to our Church’s Trunk-or Treat party, the kids costumes were recognized as a Confederate soldier and The Corpse Bride, sweet success of costume frugality. Halloween costume recognition enabled me to emerged from the depths of costumes-funds lost up to the status of creativity found heroine.
Yep, Codeine is a narcotic and I am feeling Frankenstein blue about missing one of my favorite holidays. Truth be told, I probably wouldn’t be up to crashing into furniture this year, but the last straw that broke this scarecrows back, was that my kids no longer needed help with their costumes nor did they want to carve jack-o-lanterns this year. They just need a taxi service. “You’ll be able to drive by then, right mom?” My daughter, now fifteen, is attending an all girls costume/hot-tub/sleep over party. My son is going to our church’s Trunk-or-treat with friends and then attending an all boys sleep over at “one of his posses cribs.” This year, my Halloween celebration is going to consist of greeting trick-or-treaters, gorging on codeine and candy while watching, 'It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown.'
So, I sit, contemplating the universe which is usually reserved for a few moments alone on the pot. The surgical pain though narcoticly bearable, nags at me, but the sitting really gets under my skin. The Molotov cocktails of daytime TV is excruciating. I can’t believe Maury Povich is still skulking around the depths of daytime television. Sadly the consolation prize of landing on the Spanish channel and giggling at our Hispanic soap opera counterpart's acting is short lived. No wonder we are a nation of fatties and Xanax abusers!
There is only so much crap I can endure from daytime TV, U-Tube and email forwards from well-wishing friends and family. I am a captive audience for forward spam and good intentions gone bad. My numerous fan base wants to relieve me from my post surgical encroaching boredom and most of them think forwarding me U-Tubes of the Carol Burnett show is helpful, but after twenty times of watching Tim Conway attempt to flub everyone's lines with his comic relief, it becomes apparent why comedy has, dare I say it? Evolved.
Even the SNL skits have reached my monotone limit. How many times can one endure the Tina Fey/Sarah Palin act? Sadly, I also discovered that my beloved Dirty Jobs CD’s couldn’t save me from the pitfalls of post-surgical boredom. Besides, watching Mike Rowe is like foreplay for me. Dirty Jobs should have a disclaimer for women in their 40s: Don’t watch alone or batteries required.
One of my friends, a single gal, owner of fourteen cats, never been hitched and still lives w/her mom, has decided it is her mission to send me forwards of the Kathy comic strips. Opening her email is like opening an anthrax envelope: I try not to sound like Dick Cheney as I scream into the echoes of my empty house: Where’s my gun? Cruising around face book isn’t safe either. My single cat lady friend is always on, waiting for the next, um, victim to show up on line and then she pounces into chat, about everything, forever. I’m just not a chatty Kathy type. I try to recall, where in the world I put those Wonder Woman bracelets...
It’s not like I don’t have anything to do, however, being the anal retentive housewife/mother that I am, pre-surgery: I scrubbed, cleaned and organized the entire house to spare myself any guilt of an inept motherhood (well, that and I really didn’t want my kids to ask me while I was stoned out of my gourd from post- surgical drugs, “Mom, where are my cleats, my bat, my art supplies, etc, etc.” I may have responded, “They are in the dogs yard, under the car, or in the pool”).
Re-reading The Secret Life Of Bees and two other novellas keeps my mind working on a sublime level. I’m organizing my photos for the umpteenth time but I will never make the Creative Memories album of the year award. Still tackling my new play Karaoke Tonight, , but I only get in a few cognitive lines before the inevitable Codeine stupor kicks in and then the dialogue starts sounding like a Hemingway novel.
My friend Kathie, fellow stinker extraordinaire and fabu writer pointed out: November is National Novel writing month. Oh brother! I took the bait, attempting to jump off the great novel-writing bridge. I’ve written a paragraph and it took the obvious turn of play writing as I struggled: Jessica, lost in her own sorrowful thoughts, pushed the stroller across the deceptively happy park as leaves and giggles from children wafted across the hot blacktop, (Jessica holds back tears as she crosses center stage right). Suddenly, a sharp shrill of a dog’s bark wakes her to consciousness (Jessica looks stage left sharply, jumps back)....The adage of write what you know has new meaning for me. I'm still under the impression that a novel, a really good novel has to have some dark, dramatic element. The only way for me to write dark and dramatic is to involve the depression which is slowly seeping its way into my mind set due to the narcotic affects of the codeine. That and sitting on my fat arse for way, way too long and then, my ridicules attempts at novel writing indeed, start to resemble a Hemingway novel.
Hemingway had it right when he said: As you get older it is harder to have heroes, but it is sort of necessary. And then I remember: I have two weeks of dinners coming our way thanks to my Wonder-women girlfriends-heroes all! Surrounding us in spaghetti, chicken and sloppy joes with dessert..not to mention that my Wonder-women super heroes drive all the way up here to Hillbilly-ville and deliver. Real super-women take-out, gotta love that!
Suddenly, my warped sense of humor flies like little Mary Katherine Come-Lately towards, not a sofa but a nano-second of genius: Who says a novel has to have dark and dramatic? Maybe I'll try my hand at the silliness of Romance novels? Flicking on the first season of Dirty Jobs: Sewer Inspector and Pig Farmer, I type with inspiration and sheer, novel genius :
Jessica holds the crimson rose between her veneers, ready to jump into Fabio's arms as the music sounds and crowd cheers. It is 'Dancing With The Stars' all new twenty-fifth season and the momentum builds as the Tango erupts from the Electronica DJ, "Now! Jessica, Now!" Fabio urges as Jessica takes a flying leap into mid air only to briefly land and spin on her head. Confidently regaining her composure as Fabio drags her by the arms across the stage, Jessica realizes this was the moment she has fallen in deep, obsessive love with Fabio. The crowd roars, the judges are on their feet in standing ovation as Jessica looks up, tears streak her face and yet, the crimpson rose still intact between her teeth, she winks at her biggest competitor, 150-year-old Cloris Leachman, as the two exchange admirable grins, ....
Two weeks of purgatory is required and I sit on my rear, accumulating cellulite and new rolls. As I stew in the same stiff position (insert obvious male arousal joke here), listening to the media coverage of campaign vomit, I realize that I’m screwed out of one of my favorite holidays: Halloween. I love Halloween! As a kid, my favorite costume was Wonder Woman. I relished in the fact that my Wonder Woman power bracelets could deflect any boy cooties and unwarranted weird friendships with a flick of my wrists.
The ghosts of Halloween past seem to creep into what’s left of my grey matter and I recall being Cat Woman, Tarzan and the Scarecrow from Wizard of Oz. To me, it seems that Halloween is a definite parade of alter egos, of the possibility of what one can be, of what one wants to be. In one way or another, our own definition of a hero. There are no rules or regulations. Last year, I was hero to myself and my kids, coming up with three costumes under twenty bucks. Fashioning my character after SNL’s Superstar, I went to a naughty Halloween party. My alter ego, little Mary Katherine Come-Lately, was a hit, complete with pigtails and a mini-mini-plaid school-girl skirt (under which I wore some bright red satin boxers-see? Naughty). I jumped into furniture yelling, “Superstar!” and vigorously smelled my armpits. The next day, I helped my kids with their costumes and we carved jack-o-lanterns. While we trekked to our Church’s Trunk-or Treat party, the kids costumes were recognized as a Confederate soldier and The Corpse Bride, sweet success of costume frugality. Halloween costume recognition enabled me to emerged from the depths of costumes-funds lost up to the status of creativity found heroine.
Yep, Codeine is a narcotic and I am feeling Frankenstein blue about missing one of my favorite holidays. Truth be told, I probably wouldn’t be up to crashing into furniture this year, but the last straw that broke this scarecrows back, was that my kids no longer needed help with their costumes nor did they want to carve jack-o-lanterns this year. They just need a taxi service. “You’ll be able to drive by then, right mom?” My daughter, now fifteen, is attending an all girls costume/hot-tub/sleep over party. My son is going to our church’s Trunk-or-treat with friends and then attending an all boys sleep over at “one of his posses cribs.” This year, my Halloween celebration is going to consist of greeting trick-or-treaters, gorging on codeine and candy while watching, 'It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown.'
So, I sit, contemplating the universe which is usually reserved for a few moments alone on the pot. The surgical pain though narcoticly bearable, nags at me, but the sitting really gets under my skin. The Molotov cocktails of daytime TV is excruciating. I can’t believe Maury Povich is still skulking around the depths of daytime television. Sadly the consolation prize of landing on the Spanish channel and giggling at our Hispanic soap opera counterpart's acting is short lived. No wonder we are a nation of fatties and Xanax abusers!
There is only so much crap I can endure from daytime TV, U-Tube and email forwards from well-wishing friends and family. I am a captive audience for forward spam and good intentions gone bad. My numerous fan base wants to relieve me from my post surgical encroaching boredom and most of them think forwarding me U-Tubes of the Carol Burnett show is helpful, but after twenty times of watching Tim Conway attempt to flub everyone's lines with his comic relief, it becomes apparent why comedy has, dare I say it? Evolved.
Even the SNL skits have reached my monotone limit. How many times can one endure the Tina Fey/Sarah Palin act? Sadly, I also discovered that my beloved Dirty Jobs CD’s couldn’t save me from the pitfalls of post-surgical boredom. Besides, watching Mike Rowe is like foreplay for me. Dirty Jobs should have a disclaimer for women in their 40s: Don’t watch alone or batteries required.
One of my friends, a single gal, owner of fourteen cats, never been hitched and still lives w/her mom, has decided it is her mission to send me forwards of the Kathy comic strips. Opening her email is like opening an anthrax envelope: I try not to sound like Dick Cheney as I scream into the echoes of my empty house: Where’s my gun? Cruising around face book isn’t safe either. My single cat lady friend is always on, waiting for the next, um, victim to show up on line and then she pounces into chat, about everything, forever. I’m just not a chatty Kathy type. I try to recall, where in the world I put those Wonder Woman bracelets...
It’s not like I don’t have anything to do, however, being the anal retentive housewife/mother that I am, pre-surgery: I scrubbed, cleaned and organized the entire house to spare myself any guilt of an inept motherhood (well, that and I really didn’t want my kids to ask me while I was stoned out of my gourd from post- surgical drugs, “Mom, where are my cleats, my bat, my art supplies, etc, etc.” I may have responded, “They are in the dogs yard, under the car, or in the pool”).
Re-reading The Secret Life Of Bees and two other novellas keeps my mind working on a sublime level. I’m organizing my photos for the umpteenth time but I will never make the Creative Memories album of the year award. Still tackling my new play Karaoke Tonight, , but I only get in a few cognitive lines before the inevitable Codeine stupor kicks in and then the dialogue starts sounding like a Hemingway novel.
My friend Kathie, fellow stinker extraordinaire and fabu writer pointed out: November is National Novel writing month. Oh brother! I took the bait, attempting to jump off the great novel-writing bridge. I’ve written a paragraph and it took the obvious turn of play writing as I struggled: Jessica, lost in her own sorrowful thoughts, pushed the stroller across the deceptively happy park as leaves and giggles from children wafted across the hot blacktop, (Jessica holds back tears as she crosses center stage right). Suddenly, a sharp shrill of a dog’s bark wakes her to consciousness (Jessica looks stage left sharply, jumps back)....The adage of write what you know has new meaning for me. I'm still under the impression that a novel, a really good novel has to have some dark, dramatic element. The only way for me to write dark and dramatic is to involve the depression which is slowly seeping its way into my mind set due to the narcotic affects of the codeine. That and sitting on my fat arse for way, way too long and then, my ridicules attempts at novel writing indeed, start to resemble a Hemingway novel.
Hemingway had it right when he said: As you get older it is harder to have heroes, but it is sort of necessary. And then I remember: I have two weeks of dinners coming our way thanks to my Wonder-women girlfriends-heroes all! Surrounding us in spaghetti, chicken and sloppy joes with dessert..not to mention that my Wonder-women super heroes drive all the way up here to Hillbilly-ville and deliver. Real super-women take-out, gotta love that!
Suddenly, my warped sense of humor flies like little Mary Katherine Come-Lately towards, not a sofa but a nano-second of genius: Who says a novel has to have dark and dramatic? Maybe I'll try my hand at the silliness of Romance novels? Flicking on the first season of Dirty Jobs: Sewer Inspector and Pig Farmer, I type with inspiration and sheer, novel genius :
Jessica holds the crimson rose between her veneers, ready to jump into Fabio's arms as the music sounds and crowd cheers. It is 'Dancing With The Stars' all new twenty-fifth season and the momentum builds as the Tango erupts from the Electronica DJ, "Now! Jessica, Now!" Fabio urges as Jessica takes a flying leap into mid air only to briefly land and spin on her head. Confidently regaining her composure as Fabio drags her by the arms across the stage, Jessica realizes this was the moment she has fallen in deep, obsessive love with Fabio. The crowd roars, the judges are on their feet in standing ovation as Jessica looks up, tears streak her face and yet, the crimpson rose still intact between her teeth, she winks at her biggest competitor, 150-year-old Cloris Leachman, as the two exchange admirable grins, ....
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