About Sex, ‘Cause it’s Funny

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If there is anything in my mind that points towards the Theory of Evolution, it would be sex.  I have a hard time imaging God, with his clipboard, saying “Walking apparatus, check.  Nutrition system, check.  Beelzebub, do you have the reproduction system ready to go online?”  And, from the bowels of the earth, comes an evil laugh.

Can you imagine the conversation between Adam and Eve?  You want me to do WHAT?  Did they even have tennis bracelets then?

Sex is funny.  From the time The Goose and I got together, sure we had invented great sex, we would sit in church (Quick aside, our entire family has a real problem behaving in church.  Not one of us can be quiet or control our laughter and The Goose frequently chooses this time to whisper something dirty in my ear.  Latent rebellion to mean Sunday school teachers, I’m sure.) and covertly point to old couples and whisper “they do it”.  Our worst insults have begun “yo mama ….” and we don’t even have to finish with what.  Nothing says gross like parents doing, uh, that.

Once, The Goose was on the phone and then handed it to me saying that his mother wanted to talk to me.  I didn’t believe it because his mother NEVER wanted to talk to me.  Thinking there was no one on the other end, I put the phone to my mouth and went on to describe exactly, in graphic ugly detail, what his mother could do to Hosea Williams (why him, I do not know), only to hear his mother stammer weakly, “what…?”.

One would think this would have dissipated over the years, but we still glance at other couples and raise our eyebrows to each other.  The picture in our minds is just too funny to ignore.  I mean, really, Barbara Bush?  My 4th grade math teacher?  Mr. Rogers???

Sex becomes completely unfunny, however, when one has kids.  The first time I realized this is when it came time to name their private parts.  Those of you who feel kids must learn anatomically correct names can stop reading here, take your kids to their “Upward” sports games and hand them an organic celery stick because I feet it perfectly acceptable to use those time honored, more mannerly names, “whooha” and “willie”.  I feel confident that if they are in some sort of accident involving these parts, they will be able to adequately convey to the emergency room doctor what their problem might be.  “Bit’s and pieces” can be substituted in a pinch, as can “tompan, tallywacker, coochie, ladytown, jimbob, thingie, twinkie, ding dong, junk or bidness”.

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Left up to me, my kids would still believe a public toilet seat, a house with no parent home, hot tubs and sharing swim suits can all cause spontaneous pregnancy.  I felt this covered two great issues, early pregnancy and germs, but the The Goose took it upon himself to educate them at a very young age.  Driving them home from a baseball game, when the kids were around 9 and 7, he apparently blurted out a convoluted version of where babies come from that included Tim McGraw, our neighbors and Subway sandwiches.  During this talk, when my poor daughter asked why anyone would do this, instead of answering that it’s a sacrifice we made so we could have our wonderful special children, he answered “because it’s fun”.

I sat with each child as I put them to bed that night and asked if they had any questions.  True to their individual personalities, Cricket’s eyes welled up and she said “please, please, promise me you’ll never let him do that to you again” and I crossed my fingers and swore, agreeing it had been a cross to bear.  Moving into The Boy’s room, his eyes shining with new and evil gleam, I asked if he had any questions.  He said, in his gruff little boy voice “So, does my willie have to be way up for this, like when we go over the railroad tracks in the car?” and I stammered “It helps” and he nodded sagely, “I thought so.” and I sadly turned off the light and left him to his imaginings about the pigtailed little girl in his class.  I then went downstairs and informed The Goose he’d ruined my children.

One never wants to think that their child might someday, well, you know.  We have talked, ad nauseum, about “the deed” and tried to make it as horrible and scary as possible.  We have used time honored sayings, some from The Goose’s mother and handed down in the family such as “a willie has no conscience” and “alcohol can cause someone to slip and fall on a tallywacker” but they have fallen on deaf ears. I have described millions of diseases that can make willies fall off, pregnancies wherein, if a girl is under 25, 6 legged monsters with whiskers and horns are formed, and the unimaginable physical agony involved to teens participating in this practice necessitating a call to the fire department, all negated while The Goose makes lewd gestures behind my back, smacks me on the tee-hiney and whistles happy songs coming out of the bedroom.

It has helped, though, as they’ve grown, that they are as disgusted with us as we might be about them.  I feel this might be the greatest deterrent ever. Because they are nearly grown, The Goose and I can spend a lot of time away together and the tables have turned.  When they start to get uppity, we play it to the hilt and mime deep and amorous kisses at every chance, allude to romantic dates and try to throw the word “snuggle” into our conversations within their earshot.  This bothers them greatly.  It worries and disturbs them. My son shakes his head and whispers “no…no” and our daughter coughs and gags. They say we burn their eyes.

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This weekend, Cricket was spending the weekend downtown, with friends, and I texted her and asked her when she was coming home.  When she had the audacity to ask why, I responded, “because it takes a lot of time to roll up the trapeze and put away all these handcuffs properly” and I got the response “I just threw up”.  In this way, I know my ploy is working I am still doing my job as a responsible parent.

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Divine Wine

ImageThe Goose said the other day that, truly, alcohol was the cause of most of the trouble in the world.  I was shocked that he would say that to me.  I felt personally offended.

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I sound like a bigger lush than I am.  I would say I am low to medium in the world of 45 – 55 year old women who love wine.  I feel like wine ranks in the top ten list of things necessary to a good life, but not in the top 5. I think most women my age feel wine is what KEEPS trouble from happening. I’m sure that during those scary mid-winter evenings, when my child announced he had a project due the next day, his father was working late and our printer was out of ink, a small tipple is what kept me from committing a harmful crime upon a child. I have no doubt the Wright Brothers mother, after watching her children take to the skies, turned to her best friend and said, “well, I think I need a little something”.  I feel certain the reason so many marriages stayed together in the 50s is surely because of that golden slice of time, “the cocktail hour”.  How many women would have made it through visits from mother-in-laws without a little help?

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That said, it HAS caused problems.

The Goose’s and my favorite thing is the crime blotter from the little paper from the town near our lake house.  Each and every one of these brilliant crimes is alcohol fueled and causes us no end of mirth.

Here is just a sampling of some police blotter incidents, not all from our town:

  1. Man said ex-girlfriend broke into home when he was not home and stole all the sheetrock from his house.
  2. Police responded to a report of a drunk man who had broken into a store.  Upon entering the store, the officer shouted out “Marco”, to which the suspect, who was hiding, responded “Polo”.
  3. Police responded to a man who claimed someone was in his bedroom, standing in the corner and looking at him.  When officers turned on the light, it was discovered that it was a cardboard cutout of Arnold Schwartzenegger.
  4. Surveillance cameras showed a man weaving through the pet store and shoving a baby alligator down his shirt.

And my favorite of all time:

5.  A woman on 37th street called 911 and reported that her boyfriend refused to BRING HER A CASSEROLE.

Okay, we’ve all been hungry and number 5 might be understandable.  I once cried because The Goose would not leave work to bring me dumplings when I was pregnant. Clearly, though, each of these perps was out of his mind, most likely on MD 20/20, that low rent standby.

It’s true that alcohol does make some people fight more (not me, I love everyone and by that I mean, everyone) and it has caused countless mad bouts of slurring karaoke at office parties that has made millions call in sick to work to avoid embarrassment the next day. But, on the flip side, it has caused billions and billions of mothers, throughout history, to glance at the clock while toddlers drool on their pants leg, puppies poo on their floor and husbands call to say they’ll be late shudder with glee that 5:00 has come again and they can sit quietly and sip a glass while Mr. Rogers plays softly in the background.

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It prompts stories to be retold, year after year because someone does something stupid involving jello or shaving cream.  It allows us to know deep dark secrets because someone belts out their inner desires at a party.  Someone I know, but will not name, once went back into a bar, at closing time, went into the bathroom and fell asleep on the toilet not to awaken until she was found locked in the next morning.   That’s a good story, years later, that wouldn’t have happened if she’d been pounding diet Coke.  She grew up and became, guess what, a fabulous, stylish and respectable attorney.  See?  It all turned out just fine.

Yes, it does give false courage and cause self respecting women to pour dish soap into neighbor’s tacky fountains.  Okay, it pushes some women to call up ex-husbands while their good friends egg them on.  (I’m sorry.)  It whispers to some idiotic ladies, while lingering over a glass at dinner, to tell their children that one of them was conceived in their grandparents’ swimming pool.  Geez. It’s possible The Goose had something there.

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Like the saying goes, no good story ever started with “hey y’all, want a salad?”.  I’m not promoting booze, and I’m not talking to folks that truly have a problem.  I’m just musing about it and repeating the conversation I had with The Goose when he uttered his proclamation.  I agree, it’s not for everyone.  It causes beaucoup problems for many, but most of us keep it in its place and in perspective. I’m sharing with those women who call each other up right in the middle of helping with math homework and say “Hey, wanna come over for a quick glass?” and the response is “Oh, thank the Lord in Heaven!”.  Speaking to those of us who have sometimes wrapped a waiter in a snuggly hug when he arrives and announces that he has La Crema by the glass”.

In any tee-totaling argument I always pull out the trump card when I whip out this doozy:  The first miracle was water into…what’s that?  Oh, yeah, wine.

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How’m I doin?

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The Golden Goose and I just spent a week in beautiful Exuma, in the Bahamas.  I know, poor me.  All that spare time caused me to do three things, drink too much, get too much sun and think.  While I should have been enjoying brain dead time gazing at the florescent blue water, my mind whirled.

One night, I awoke at 3:00 am, the time when everything in the world is wrong.  Suddenly, I needed to know that my kids, who were free wheeling at home alone, were okay.  For years Cricket has been in charge of The Boy.  My friends who travel with me joke that I’ve been leaving The Boy home alone since the 7th grade.  This isn’t strictly true.  Cricket has always been in charge and has been fully able to run a small country since the age of 6.  I never worry that things will run smoothly when she’s in charge.  The Boy, however, tends to go AWOL, ignore texts, failing to email or check in.  Thus, I suddenly panicked at 3:00 that I was a terrible mother.

I prodded The Goose and asked him if he was awake.  I told him I couldn’t stop thinking.  This produced a sarcastic laugh and he told me he thought he smelled smoke.

“Am I a terrible mother?” I wailed.  “Have I gone wrong by being so trusting?  I mean, what could a 16 year old boy get into while home alone?”.

So The Goose and I got to talking about mothers.  The Goose was left to walk himself to school in Kindergarten.  He got himself ready and took himself to school.  I, on the other hand, was driven door to door in an armored car.  That’s the difference in a 4th child and an only child.  We have long exhausted the subject of my happiness with my own perfect mother as well as my delight at finding such a groovy wonderful birth mother.  This subject has been inspected, turned around, talked about and diagrammed.  I just have happy mother issues and am covered up with great mother feelings from all sides.

Things moms say make a big dent in who we become.  My mom never went to the grocery store without full make up and lipstick.  Because of her, I know what’s tacky, what’s acceptable and what’s “done right”.  I know children shouldn’t say “yeah” or “huh”, that legs really should be crossed at the ankles and that if an artificial nail comes off in the cotton candy at a school festival, one should look the other way and pretend it was someone else.  I know from her that the we are in a constant war with germs and should be ever vigilant with the Lysol, that there are peeping toms waiting around every corner and that women who color their hair bright red usually can’t be trusted.  Cricket recently had shoes that hurt and when she started to complain about it she held up a hand at me and sighed, “I know, one has to suffer for beauty.  You’ve been telling me since I was a toddler”.  I had no idea she even listened and my heart swelled because I’d passed that one right on from my mom.

The Goose’s mother was decidedly different.  Although she had many great qualities, she wasn’t a lovey-dovey mother or grandmother. “Did you feel properly mothered?” I asked him.  The Goose answered that he was perfectly happy with his mom.  Although she was not a very loving person, he always felt as if she would be there if he needed her.  Maybe this is what counts, having kids secure enough to know that there is someone there to be their safety net. The Goose’s mom had several important pieces of wisdom to impart.  Frequently, when he was a teenager, she would say to him “a penis has no conscience”.  When asked how she felt, she would often answer with “well, I feel like I do now better than I did when I first got here…but don’t tell anyone” or some convoluted version thereof.   She called having a bath a “Clara Barton” and named her end table “Abnot”.  These oddball sayings have become dear to us since she’s been gone and I find myself thinking about the quirks she had and how they helped to form the great Golden Goose that I have now.  Surely she was the perfect mother for him.

ImageThe other day I wrapped my arms around The Boy and asked him if he felt happy with me as a mother.  Did he feel he could always depend on me?  This caused him to laugh and say, “Well, Mom, you ARE a total pushover but you are a great mom.”

“What about all those Bible songs we listened to in the car when you were little? That was pretty darn respectable. Remember how much we read and how we played in the creek?”.

“I remember you read “Are You My Mother” over and over to me because you thought it was funny that it made me cry.”

“Okay, but I was strict enough with the rules that you are a good kid now”.

“I remember when you whacked the daylights out of my head with a giant sucker” he replied.

How long I’ll pay for that particular miscalculation, I don’t know.  They never forget.

“Well, what about when I was your room mom?”

“Sure, that’s back when you were allowed in the school.”  This referring to the fact that I am, mysteriously, not asked to sub anymore.

“Uh, huh, well, I gave you my great car.”

Finally, then I received a hug and some reassurance that he was, indeed, happy with me as a mom.

Both moms and dads shape who our kids will become.  Cricket never walks into the house without The Goose yelling “you da bomb, baby!”.  She, in turn, rolls her eyes.  Every single game of The Boy’s life, whether he does well or fails, I have told him, “you were definitely the cutest one out there.”  While there have been groundings and spankings, plenty of yelling, mainly over math, and several slammed doors and temper tantrums, my kids  never have to guess how much they are loved.

And so, I sought out The Boy, who had so recently called me “a pushover” (which I very well may be), looked him in the eye and told him that after much introspection, I feel that if all he has to complain about is being hit on the head with an all-week sucker, then I must have been an okay mother.

But really,  I have to thank my great kids.  No matter how “mommy” I might not have been, I still walk around in the world, connected to these strange two people about whom I know their quirks and fears.  Whose fat, wrinkled necks and Johnson’s baby shampooed bald heads I can still recall, who wrote on the back of my baby blue linen chair with a green marker, who brought a garden hose, turned on full blast, through my house while coming in to get a popsicle.  Those toddlers with deep husky voices who would climb out of their beds, come down the stairs, get as close to my face as possible and yell “MOM” to see if I was awake.  Two loonies, one of which recently put on a pair of size one jeans and called herself fat.  I know what they will eat, what they won’t, who threw up in a baseball hat and cried because I threw it away, who can sing and who shouldn’t.  I know both of them love school supplies, thrift stores and sour gummy candy.  These are the kids who changed all my passwords to Penis.  The idiots who have caused such disruptions in churches that we have a list to which we shouldn’t return. Almost grown children who hold true to their Christian, animal loving, chaotic hippie homed, vegetarian values. Two individuals who can catch my eye and burst into wild laughter at inappropriate moments.  These two humans whom The Goose and I whipped up, from scratch, who understand us, share our scary humor, love us and one who might take care of us when we’re old. These two oddballs, without whom I wouldn’t have the great and inexplicable joy of calling myself mother on Mother’s Day and everyday.   Happy Mother’s Day to every mom who finds her children to be the very best, no matter what weirdos they actually are.

The Scary Hag in the Kitchen

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This morning, after the cleaning massacre in three part harmony that occurred here yesterday, I laid around in my jammies and made a doctor’s appointment or two.  Or six.  

 

All my life, except for one small event, I’ve been super healthy.  I eat right, I exercise, I take a giant handful of vitamins everyday, twice a day.  I drink only water and, just a tad of alcohol.  No milk, no sodas, I never have. I juice kale, for crying out loud.  I have a LOT of energy.  Lots of it.  I know my family wishes I had a bit less. 

 

I’ve also been someone who scoffs at those with allergies, those with nasty, rashy skin, those complaining of aches and pains.  I am now shouting to the universe “I’M SORRY!!!!”.  I take it back.  All of it.  I’m sorry I made a mean high school girl’s face at people covered in pink calamine lotion.  I’m sorry I laughed at those with poison ivy woes, those with inhalers.  I really and truly apologize.  Please, karma, don’t let it be wine to which I’m allergic.  I promise to send in my St. Jude’s donation.  I promise not to swear at slow drivers (when they can actually read my lips and hand signals.  I feel that’s a good compromise.)

 

This summer, coming home from the lake, I developed a weird rash that covered me in pink camouflage by evening.  I went to a doc in the box, had a shot that hurt WAY more than it should, plus the added injustice of showing my spot riddled tee-hiney to a doctor half my age.  All was fine.  Then, months later, it happened again, out of the blue.  Again, I did the same thing but picked an older, less attractive doctor.  This Christmas, it came back with a vengeance.  This time, on my FACE.  My left eye swelled so that I resembled Marty Feldman.  I produced a bright red flush around my mouth that looked like I had forgotten to wash off Halloween makeup.  

 

So now, it’s returning.  This morning, I called an allergist.  I also called my breast care specialist, my gynecologist, my hormone doctor, my dermatologist because all this frowning has caused me to be able to form an expression and that, at least, I know can be remedied for four months with a shot!  I need to see the eye doctor, because I never have and I find that the world has taken on a fuzzy look but I found a really cute paisley pair of reading glasses at the dollar store and I’m just going to stick with that.  I’m scared of what I’ll see if I really can see.

 

Most of all, I called my hair dresser, who really can make a difference. 

 

The Goose was dilly-dallying around in the kitchen while I was making these appointments, waiting for his magic work pill to kick in, and I realized he was giving me serious and concerned glances.  Not the glances that say “hey, you’re looking kinda good here in this gloomy kitchen light” or “gee, I have never loved you more”.  It was more of the kind of glance Dorothy gave the Wizard when she pulled away the curtain.  

Girls, I realize now that I negligently made a classic mistake this morning.  Never, never, never let them see what keeps us propped up and looking like we’re 25.  Okay, 35.  Well, looking a little less like Mrs. Doubtfire.  I might as well been sitting there in a girdle and curlers with a cigarette hanging from my lips.  

 

I have no answers for how to remedy this.  I am scared of this old age thing. I was sure it would never find me.  I thought I was exempt since I still think I’m 16 inside. I’m going to work on it today, though. I will be braving the cold day with my top down (my car, not my shirt, dear God no), I am going to listen to rap. I might have to reach back into the knowledge of “What Would Doris Day Say?” and buy an actual negligée, I might have to wear gold lame, a push up bra and heels.  I know that I will not be bending over, with a giant swollen eye, in flannel jammies, picking up the poo Matilda left under the piano when the Goose comes back in tonight, though.  That probably wasn’t me at my best.  

 

10 Things that Confuse Me Today

 

  1. Why a dog will stand and bark for 20 minutes at a napkin ring that has rolled under the table in the dining room until I come and tell him it’s okay, I see it.  Then it is, apparently, fine. 
  2. Why the Goose can drink six Mountain Dews a day, a sleeve of cookies and three giant meals and remain slim while I exist on two celery sticks, one saltine and one chardonnay.  Seems downright unchivalrous. 
  3. Why people are interested in celebrities.  I don’t get it.  When I have been forced to watch TMZ, I don’t know anyone except Donny Osmond and Cher.  How do people keep up with these HoneyJerseyHousewifyboo people and WHY? Isn’t life interesting enough right outside our doors, if not quite as trashy? 
  4. Why anyone enjoys Christmas at all.  It seems like a big ol’ mess to me.  
  5. Why a woman, with H1N1, a throbbing ovarian cyst and a mortal shaving injury can still do six loads of laundry, find tights that match her daughter’s outfit, mentally located her teen aged son anywhere in the cosmos at any given second, run five miles, uphill, and still keep her home smelling like lemons while a man can sneeze and take to the bed, moaning and crying for soup like he enjoyed, from a dented, discounted can, when he lived with his mother, and no one even questions it. 
  6. Why someone can’t find an earth changing use for those “silk” ficus trees from the eighties.  Everyone had one, some had two.  No one has them now.  There must be a giant “silk” ficus forest somewhere.  Could they be used in prisons?  I think this is a thought for our representatives. 
  7. Why do we continually allow everyone to think for us?  My car tells me when and how to back up, my appliances tell me what they’re thinking, 20/20 tells me how large my meal from McDonalds should be, my government tells me everything else.  My inner rebellious princess is getting pretty tired of it all.  Am I normal? Isn’t anyone else feeling like they want to be a little, I don’t know, deviant?  I may have to roll someone or something. Graffiti anyone? 
  8. Why do strangers sometimes call me “hon”.  Sounds snippy, I know, but it makes me really cranky.  The Goose gets nervous when a waitress directs a “hon” toward me.  My gentleman neighbor calls me “little princess” and I’m good with that.  “Hon”, however, makes me want to snap my gum and order chili and black coffee from a woman named Flo.  I just don’t like it. 
  9. Gravity.  I include this for my daughter, who worries about me and my Dekalb County education.  As evidenced in a conversation with her recently,  “gravity, it just don’t make sense”. 
  10. How is it a house that looked sparkly and clean in the morning can look like a crack house by 6:30 in the evening?  In a direct link to number 9, is it possible there are small gravity deposits under the floor and on the bench in the mudroom, under the counters, under every surface within 30 feet of the door that would cause people to throw down their mail, books, scarves, jackets, cups still full of red colored drinks, shoes, bras (!?!) or anything they wanted out of their cars and LEAVE them there until   they are put away.  Bowls and plates of food, NEXT TO THE SINK!  Does anyone every wonder how they get put away?  People today are too soft, brought up with fairy tales and elves. I think family members need to be sat down and told the truth about the chore fairy, shown a picture of her haggard self, low on botox and hair color, pajamas held up by one remaining strand of elastic, swollen eyes from wine and salty food consumption.  Show them the real truth, the crime scene photos, the haggard mess the chore fairy has become, and maybe, just maybe, we can save the chore fairy.  Every time a cup is placed in the dishwasher, a chore fairy loses a wrinkle.  I do believe, I do. 

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Close the Door, PLEASE!

I had a funny situation last weekend that has caused the Goose and me to laugh repeatedly.

I saw an article the other day, written by a recently divorced man, giving advice to married men.  Ironic, I know.  Most were nice, hold hands more often, open doors, etc.  One, however, caused me to blanch.  It said, “do not use the bathroom in the same room as your spouse”. Actually, it was more descriptive than that.  WHAT THE HECK???  Please tell me who, in the world, would do this?  Does this actually go on?  Even my dog, Matilda, will not “use the loo” with anyone looking.

There are certain subjects that are not broached in my house.  I grew up that way, my children grew up that way, we’re just that way.  The bathroom is one of those subjects.  Until I had babies, neither the Goose, nor I, had ever mentioned any bodily function that goes on in the bathroom.  We’d already been married eight years and had traveled to strange countries and eaten a variety of unsettling foods and had still managed not to make any bathroom references. If someone feels the call of nature, we seek out the farthest, most secretive and unused restroom in the vicinity.  Jiminy Crickets!  There are just some things that don’t need to be discussed or announced.

Our drama began when I took NyQuil the other night.  It’s my sleep drug of choice when I need one.  I adore that velvety blackness with a lack of hangover then next morning.  NyQuil is more than welcome to call me for a paid endorsement. The Goose is a nighttime grazer.  I can’t imagine a scenario when I would find the call of cookies more important than sleep, but the Goose gets up every night and eats.  This night, I was out of it.  I awoke in the night, after several glasses of water and had to visit the powder room.  Since it was dark and I was groggy, I didn’t even look for the Goose in the bed.  I slipped, zombie like, into the bathroom and there most likely continued what could only be considered a drug induced trance.  It’s warm in there.  There’s a heat vent and the room is small.  I might have dozed off for a second. The Goose was coming back from the kitchen and saw the light on and opened the door to turn it off.  He didn’t know I was in there, of course.  I was quiet.  I am lucky I wasn’t in a coma.  Seeing me, he tried to quickly close the door but his movement caught my eye and I issued the longest, most blood curdling B movie scream that’s ever been uttered at my house.  At any house.  I mean I wailed. Loudly and for a long time. I scared the Goose into screaming too.  It was a confused, nighttime terror as we looked anywhere but at each other, both bawling and bellowing like when Drew Barrymore sees ET for the first time. The Goose, still hollering, slammed the door and I continued my shrieking for a good minute or so.  By the time I got to bed, though, we were giggling like a couple of stoners.

Then, the Goose got a text from our daughter, Cricket.  The kids’ rooms are far away from ours and we didn’t think they could hear us.  Apparently they can. This brings up other questions that we are choosing not to address.

Cricket called the Goose from her room and the Goose, genius that he is, clicked decline.  She called again, he accidentally did it again.  Then she texted: I am hiding in the troll door in my closet.  I’m scared!”  This caused us so much enjoyment that we were literally limp, cackling and howling.  During the time we ignored her, she called her boyfriend to tell him that we were being murdered downstairs and he got up ready to come kick some burglar ass.  Finally, we managed to text her what had happened to which she texted back “freaks” and it was over.  We still lay there giggling for a good half hour though.  I might interject that during this entire episode, which went on for a while, Cricket did not go and make sure her brother wasn’t being killed, and for this, I will tell him that he is the favorite, for at least a week.

My point, and to bring it back around, according to the divorced man’s article, I would say that there are apparently weird people out there with no shame whatsoever.  Some things are private and I am pushing the bounds of privacy by even writing this. If this is you being disgusting, stop it.  It’s not nice.  It’s gross. If you wonder why the zip is gone, this could be the reason.  Close the door, LOCK it!

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Rise of the Machines

I have been in blog purgatory.  This is the holding pen for those of us not quite able to get to writing.  It’s not that I haven’t had things to say, oh, I always have something to say, it’s just that I’ve been technologically unavailable.  

First, I had to have a new car.  I was happy with my old car.  I liked it so much that I bought three of the exact same cars in a row. Then my last baby turned 16 and it just made sense to my family for him to rip my beloved car away from me and for me to get a new one. Well, they don’t make the old kind anymore.  Shopping for a new car made me angry and confused.  The Goose complained, my kids offered useless advise by continually asking if I’d driven a Maserati. Finally, I actually did go test drive a Maserati and this made me grouchier than before because I found that I WANTED a Maserati.  I realized I was TIRED of driving a mom car and, by golly, it was about time for MY midlife crisis since the Goose has already had two.  Of course, he is older. 

When I finally chose my cute convertible, a cheaper, slower, more trailer trash cousin of the Maserati, I tried to settle back into life, but I still didn’t feel like myself.  My car wanted to converse with my phone.  My daughter, Cricket, set this up for me and, though I didn’t understand it, I accepted it.  Sometimes people call me and they speak to me through the radio and I’ll have to confess this freaks me out.  I saw a lot of scary movies as a teenager.  Now it’s happened, they are heeeerrre. I just shout back into space and hope someone can hear me. 

The next trouble came when my children declared my comfortable old green phone a dinosaur.  A veritable covered wagon of a phone.  A brick.  It’s true that it no longer did everything I asked of it, but I understood, feeling much the same about things myself.  There is much I’m asked to do that I just don’t feel like doing anymore. Still, I went forth and bought the most up to date, space age phone known to mankind.  Because I don’t understand the phone, I am still unable to do everything, just like before, but I have the added bonus of constantly being afraid I’ll break it.  

Tired of this tech hell and feeling dazed, I came home and curled up with my sweet little white Mac, writing, emailing, Facebook stalking and, low and behold, my phone of the future cannot talk with my computer of 2008.  WTH!  That’s okay.  Just breathe.  I’m good with that.  Except, oh yeah, my wonderful little laptop, who has traveled with me and been by my side for years took issue with having the space age phone try to initiate foreplay with it and sent me the black question mark of death.  Thus, I traveled BACK to Apple and just handed over the deed to my house to them for yet another purchase.  Oh, you want another little white laptop?  Guess what, DON’T FREAKIN’ MAKE THEM ANYMORE!  Wake up, lady, we’re all stainless steel now, just like the dishwasher you had to replace last year and the stove that is a bitch to keep clean even though you never use it. 

I can’t keep up with technology.  I just want to get something, stick with it and have it work on some basic level.  I don’t need my appliances to converse with me or each other.  In fact, I’d prefer they wouldn’t.  That little song my washer sings when it’s through?  I don’t want my refrigerator singing something back.  They could be talking about me. 

Washer: Did you see the giant ass in these jeans I just washed?

Refrigerator: No duh, she’s in here every 10 minutes. 

Dishwasher: I can’t keep up with all these wine glasses!  

Oven: I feel so unloved.  She never even glances at me!

While my old car is out there, sleeping in the driveway, saying nothing because it can’t.  It’s just a car, like it’s supposed to be. This is the age of the rise of the machines.  We should all be very afraid. 

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