This morning on the way to Montessori, untitledson and I were talking about his upcoming birthday party and the goodie bags we’ll give to his friends. He said “Why do we give goodie bags?” I said “To thank your friends for coming to your party.” And then, the ultimate comeback — not one I’d expect from a four year-old. “They should thank ME.” Touché.
Archive for January, 2007 Page 2 of 2
I knew it would eventually happen. I just thought I had a few more years to go. untitledson has unearthed my little friend — the battery-operated one I keep in my bedside table. It happened after our new dog (yeah, we just got a new miniature Dachshund about a month ago) holed up underneath our bed to drop a load. It’s a king-size bed and the defiant little beast knew just what to do. He busted out his abacus and determined the one four inch by four inch spot that would place him out of our reach.
“No! NO NO NO! No poopie!” I screamed as he assumed the position. How could something with ears as cute as his do something so heinous? Pooping under our bed. On MY side of the bed, no less. For a moment, I considered pooping in his kennel just to teach him a lesson.
So there we layed — helpless, heads to the floor, watching untitleddog pinch off a steaming fatty on our new cream-colored shag carpet. After he skulked away, I took my Pier One bamboo back scratcher (recently dubbed the poop stick, due to its new functionality) out from my bedside table and pulled the turdlet towards me, being oh-so-careful not to create a trail of crumbs in its wake. Given untitleddog’s fondness for defacating in the most unreachable of places, my dexterity at this task has gotten quite good — enough so that I wonder if I didn’t miss my calling in the sport of curling. Once within grabbing distance, I swathed the poop in a thick mass of wadded up toilet paper and wisked it away to the toilet.
Following this ordeal, I scrubbed my hands like a surgeon and retreated to my easy chair so I could finish reading my book. I am deep into chapter seven when I notice untitledson standing at my side, holding my vibrator. I must take a moment here to clarify that this isn’t a big old Hong Kong jelly dong. I mean, what kind of girl do you take me for? I had to drink two glasses of wine and watch three episodes of “Sex and the City” just to muster the courage to order it from the Adam and Eve web site. It is truly the Janet Reno of vibrators — austere and hardworking, just there to do its job, ma’am. It has three settings — low, medium and annihilate. One could easily pass it off as a back massager, and I’m sure there is a 76 year-old nun somewhere that uses it as such (that is, when she’s not using it to scramble her eggs).
“Give me that!” I squawked, horrified by the convergence of my two lives — that of loving mother and filthy street whore.
“I’m I’m I’m… using it to scare away the POOPS!” said untitledson, obviously taken back by my panicked tone. If only it were that easy. I envisioned myself using it in the backyard. Instead of pooper scooping, I’d point my buzzing wand at the turds and watch them dissappear in a poof of sparklies and fairy dust. The neighbors would marvel at my ingenuity before embarking upon a search of their own at Home Depot.
I took the device back to my bedroom and placed it in the bedside table, assuming untitledson would forget where he found Pandora’s box… or that which Pandora puts in her box. Oh, how I underestimate his curiosity. I have since found untitledson back there on several occasions, peering into the drawer with silent awe. He knows he should not be there, but yet he cannot look away. When he’s 14, he’ll remember all this and the puzzle pieces will snap together. Only then will he know his mother for the nasty slut she truly is.
This is not my ass, but it very well could be (on a good day, when I’m wearing my miraculous microfiber panties). This photo has been one of Yahoo’s “Most Emailed Photos” now for a few weeks. It accompanies a story on obesity. Being it’s the most emailed photo, I imagine people sending this photo to their friends. “Did you see this? OMG!” “Had no idea you were in London over the holidays!” “This here is the reason I never sit next to fat people when I fly.”
It seems to me that no rules — legal or moral — apply to those who villify fat people. I’ve even had people at work tell me fat jokes, right to my face. Hello. Nice to meet you. Did you not notice that I, too, am FAT? I do not find your fat joke amusing. But alas, I will laugh, because the only thing worse than a fat person is a fat person that isn’t jolly.
When news organizations do a story on, let’s say, disabilities, news photogs don’t walk outside and snap a photo of someone in in a wheelchair. When there is a story on gang violence, we don’t see generic b-roll of people who live in the hood. It would be wrong, and no editor or producer would let it fly (and rightfully so). But whenever there is a news story on obesity or diet pills, they show us a parade of fat asses. The message — a fat person isn’t actually a person. He or she is simply fat, which is why we feel it’s OK to let this one fat person visually represent ALL fat people. But just to be kind, we won’t show their faces.
The fat ass in this picture belongs to somebody. Somebody’s mother, somebody’s child, somebody’s wife. Maybe she knits booties for the newborns at the hospital in her spare time. Maybe she cares for her sick husband. This photo was snapped at the Heathrow Airport. She’s probably waiting for her flight, worried about what witty thing she can say if she doesn’t fit into the airplane seat, or how she’ll handle it if they pull her out of line and make her buy a second seat. Turns out she should’ve been more concerned with the photog lurking behind her.
Some people might think she brought this on herself. She chose to overeat. But I can assure you, obesity is a very complex emotional and behavioral problem. It’s not about a lack of discipline. Unlike thin people, there is something inside of our bodies and brains that creates a drug-like addiction to food. It’s a hourly torment that is magnified by the sideways looks we get and the whispers we hear. We all have flaws, but some of us aren’t lucky enough to have invisible ones.
I do not deny that I am difficult to buy for. If there’s something I want, I get it for myself. But I am learning that when a family member asks for gift ideas, it is in my best interest to pony up. Otherwise, I run the risk of receiving the same kinds of things I have received in past years:
- A big Pepto-Bismol pink calculator made of flexible plastic that one can roll up like a sleeping bag (or use as a sleeping bag, for that matter). I’m contemplating busting out this bad boy during my Monday morning project status meeting. Palm Pilot, be damned.
- Three days of the shits (aka a chub of summer sausage). I can now attest that The Burning Ring of Fire has nothing to do with rings or fires.
- A series of religious novels about a ragtag band of Quakers (at least, this is what I think the books are about, given the cover art). C’mon people. Perhaps I was not clear. I do not read anything that does not feature a de-frocked maiden, assless chaps or a naughty vicar on the cover.
- A gently used Tupperware container. OK, so I received this for my wedding. But I could not pass up the chance to call this to your attention. It was USED, with scratch marks and everything. It was my “something borrowed.” I don’t know what’s worse — the fact that someone gave me used Tupperware, or the fact that it’s currently in my fridge, filled with sweet potatoes.
- His and her copies of “The Purpose Driven Life” (one for me, one for untitledhusband). Duly noted, people. Duly noted. But I can assure you that I indeed have a purpose, and right now, it has more to do with the battery-operated device in my bedside table than it does with this shitty-ass tome.
- A t-shirt with a blurry photo of untitledson ironed onto it that says “I love my Mom.” While I couldn’t bring myself to throw away anything with my son’s face on it, this creation did inspire me to make a t-shirt for untitledhusband — one that features MY face on it. I make him wear it to work on casual Fridays, that is, when I’m not using his lifeless ballsack as a coin purse.
- A teddy bear wearing what can only be described as a blue doiley, a faux pearl necklace and matching earrings. The creature came perched in a little wicker chair and looked like a crusty old drag queen who’d spent the entire weekend smoking Misties and watching the Bette Davis movie marathon on Turner Classic Movies. And here I thought bears plugged their buttholes with pine needles and hiberated during the winter. Oh wait, that’s me.
- Enough black soot to soil every wall in our home (aka an industrial-sized box of vanilla scented candles from the dollar store). We use them to light up our jack-o-lanterns during Halloween.
Given my past luck, I left no room for error this year. I was specific. I asked for a set of Lancome makeup brushes (which I got), a giftcard to a specific salon (which I got), a hand blender (did not get), a sports watch (did not get), and any of the Post Secret books (did not get). But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit weepy about not receiving crocheted can coozies or season six of “Murder, She Wrote.”