I’m Sorry

an23j5zsow9orgcpz5hzqi104.800x534x1

I need to come clean with you. I am aware that the stuff I have been writing lately is crap. No more recipe shares with you. No more shit posts. If I write something, and I wouldn’t read it, then I’m hitting the delete key. I’m no longer going to publish a post just to publish a post.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry because I’m legitimately sorry. I’m embarrassed and I apologize if I wasted your time.

I realize we had a pretty traumatic experience recently and maybe I was off my game. I lost my wit. I lost my humor. I lost my will to even want to write.

But I’m back. I slapped myself in the face, picked myself up and wrote something pretty cool last night. The link is here in case you missed it.

Thank you for your patience and for not totally losing faith in me. I love you all!!

PS – I’m too excited not to share this with you and I wasn’t going to yet, but guess what? A pretty major, mega-huge blogging site is going to publish an essay I wrote where I talk about my raw emotions after The Kid was hit by a car. It’s coming out October 16! So be on the lookout! (of course, I’ll be sharing it here)

Yellow Back Seats

keep-calm-and-pee-your-pants-4I want to apologize for not really being around. Besides my little Jeter post the other day, I’ve been out of commission. I’m not sure most of you know what happened. I talked about it on my Facebook page but I know not all of you follow me there.

The Kid was struck by a car a couple of weeks ago. She’s okay now. We had a scary night in ICU where I lost 20 years off my life, but she is a miracle really and is doing really, really great. So, now it’s back to normal. It’s good to be back.

I was reminded of a story from a very good friend of mine. This friend has been in my life since 1979. Probably the one person, besides my family, who I have known the longest.

As you know, I was supposed to be on the Dr. Oz show. I commented on my Facebook page about how I was going to pee my pants because I was so nervous. This has nothing to do with anything about what I am going to talk about, but since when do I not get off topic at least once during a post?

I never made it to the Dr. Oz show because the accident happened the night before. I know, tough decision. The Kid or Dr. Oz. Hmm. I mean I was in the city anyway. I’m kidding people.

So, getting back to my pee story from my youth. I have several pee stories but this one is particularly funny.

I was about 15 years old. I was hanging out with my oldest friend when her mom offered to take us to the local high school parking lot to let us practice driving. Yes, we were underage and without a permit but I think because of statute of limitations or something, all involved are protected.

My dear, oldest friend was a terrible driver (sorry J, but you did fail your driver’s test, remember? Was it twice? Hmm?). I was in the back seat, J and her mother were in front. Driving with J was like being on one of those bucking bronco guys set on the highest setting. I was being thrown all over the backseat (yes, this was also before seat belts were a big deal. And yes, I’m that old).

I tried so hard to hold it in, but I just couldn’t. I never laughed so hard. Okay, so that’s a lie. I have laughed as hard and peed too. Because I have a problem. And the problem has gotten worse since I bore my child because we all know what children do to our bodies.

Anyway, I let it out. All of it. All over the vinyl seat. But I didn’t worry. I knew it would dry up nice since it was vinyl. No one would notice. Except it was my turn to drive. When I got out and J’s mom climbed into the backseat so me and Jen could be up front, she saw it.

And gave out an, “Oh Mo! Not again!” Yes, again. I had done this before on her dining room chair, in her yard, on the floor. My friend J has this ability to make me laugh hard. Even now I have to strap on a Depends if I’m going to see her. Her laugh alone makes me lose it.

So yes, I have a problem. And I have many, many more stories just like that one. So please. If you are going to plan on being funny and making me laugh, just warn me ahead of time so I’m prepared. I should probably just start carrying around a diaper bag. Should I have it monogramed?

As far as my friend J is concerned? I hope you all have a J in your life. J’s are awesome. Love you girl.

 

You’re So Vein

hem·or·rhoid/hem(ə)ˌroid/
noun a swollen vein or group of veins in the region of the anus.

I'm talking about YOU, Hemmorhoid
I’m talking about YOU, Hemorrhoid

Have you ever had a hem-or-roid?  You know, that itchy, painful, itchy thing in and/or around your bottom? I think, I’m not sure because I’m no doctor, that I may have one. I don’t know how I got it, but it kinda blows. Well, not really. It actually itches.

Anyway, I’m not here to tell you that I have a hemorrhoid even though I just did. It’s this actual little problem of mine that brings to mind a very embarrassing story from my younger days. It involves DH and what he did for love. And because I love to share embarrassing stories. It’s what I live for.

It was fairly early on in our relationship. One day I woke up with this itchy-itch down below. Not in the front down below, in the back down below. It was relentless. While at work during this time, I spent half my day in the bathroom, panty hose around my knees and a wad of toilet paper, well, you know.

I was perplexed.  I didn’t know what it was.  At the time, DH’s brother was a nurse. Yes, we did. We asked him. I must have been drunk or something because I allowed DH to call him. And explain my symptoms. Here was his advice….

“Go into a dark room.  Make sure the lights are all out, I mean completely dark.  Have her get on all fours, bum in the air, take a flashlight and here’s where you have to be quick…flash that light right into her rectum.  If you see something move, then she’s got worms.” Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t use quotation marks here because I’m sure that wasn’t his exact words and it was 27 years ago, but it’s close enough.

WORMS???  What?  Did he think I was a 5 year old who sat in the sandbox for too long?  Sure, maybe I behaved like one sometimes, but really?  No way, no way in hell am I doing tha…Okay, but just this once.  Just don’t tell anybody.

Needless to say, I did not have worms.  I could have saved myself a little bit of humiliation by just skipping the brother nurse and flashlight test and gone directly to my good, old physician instead.  Which is what I wound up doing anyway.  And the cream worked.  Until now.  Well, that was 27 years ago…so, what’s my point?  Hi, my name is Mo and I have a hemorrhoid. If you see me at the pharmacy, I’m getting…umm…lipstick?

Demagnetization Belongs In the Toilet

hotel key

I am not a public pooper.  If I am out and about and it happens to come on me, I’m thrown into a bit of a bind.  This has been a problem with me for forever.

If I were home, it would be no problem.  Of course.  But if I go into a public restroom, my sphincter tightens up as if it were a boa constrictor sucking the life out of its prey.  It’s like my bowels are on center stage.  With bright lights and an audience.  Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit it but my digestive system and I suffer from serious stage freight.

I went away on a girl’s scrapbook retreat this past weekend.  In the middle of scrapping my 2010 vacation to the Outer Banks, I felt the urge.  It was strong and it was sudden.  And I wasn’t home.  Obviously.  Thank God for hotel rooms.  Because I was gonna be needing my private stage, err, bathroom.  Pronto.

With a sense of relief, I made it to the door of my room and swiped my “key.”  Instead of the welcome light of green, I got red.  I swiped again.  And again.  And a-freaking-gain.  Red. Red. RED.  After a few expletives, I speed walked to the elevator, climbed on and made my way to the front desk.

There is nothing worse than standing there telling the front desk employee that you need a new key while doing everything in your power to not accidentally let out any bit of why you so urgently need to get into your room at 2:30 on a Saturday afternoon.  This is the one time you don’t want them to be so friendly.  No, I don’t give a damn about the wind outside.  I’m more concerned about the wind inside.  Please give me my new key before you need to call the janitor.

I know why my key didn’t work.  I started to put it in my pocket with my cell phone.  Started to.  Which means I had it in my hand, surrounded by my fingers and palm.  When I felt my phone with the back of my pointer, I knew it meant “danger.”  And I immediately retreated.  I took it out before I let it go.  Because I know the damage it can do.  It’s happened to me before.  A lot.  But I was pretty sure I stopped the process of demagnetization.  Apparently, I did not.

metal hotel keyI miss the good old days of a plain, old metal key.  I really do.  Sure, it’s not as easy to carry.  It doesn’t slide into your wallet without a snag.  Or can’t be put into the back pocket of your jeans without you getting poked.  So what?  It also doesn’t run the risk of demagnetizing.  I would hang that friggin’ piece of metal around my neck if it meant I didn’t have to make umpteen trips to the front desk.  Every dang time I stay in a hotel.  Every dang time.  No lie.

Demagnetization.  It’s a bad, bad word.  Please don’t use it around me.  And by the way, I made it.  By the skin of my…never mind.  I wouldn’t want to give you too much information.  You know, some things should be sacred.

Toto, We’re Not In Manhattan Anymore

manhattan ksGuess how many Manhattans there are in the country?  I’m not talking about the drink.  I’m talking about the town, city, borough, hamlet.  I’ll give you a minute.  And no cheating.

I have a cousin who lives in Kansas.  He posted a status on Facebook today that he and his wife were having date night in Manhattan and asked about a Thai restaurant.  To which I replied:

“Hey, it may be something you wind up loving! Go for it! And Mitch, Aunt Terry’s son, is playing a gig at Slattery’s Midtown Pub at 8:30 tonight. I was trying to go, but I’m not able to make it. How long are you in town for?”

His reply?  “I meant Manhattan Kansas.”

Oh.

So, people.  You are about to get a geography lesson here.  What did you guess?  Because there is not just one Manhattan.  Not even two Manhattans.  There are 10. Ten. Diez Manhattans.  If you got that, you should get a prize.  Here they are.  In no particular order.

  1. Manhattan, KS
  2. Manhattan, IL
  3. Manhattan, MT
  4. Manhattan, NV
  5. Manhattan, CO
  6. Manhattan, FL
  7. Manhattan, IN
  8. Manhattan, MS
  9. Manhattan, NY
  10. Manhattan, PA

When it comes to geography, I am no genius.  Actually, that also goes with math, science and anything that I was supposed to pay attention to in school.  But really?  Who would have thunk?

I asked my Facebook friends this morning if they had ever heard of Manhattan, KS.  Because I was feeling a little dumb.  I received 15 replies.  Here’s the breakdown:

8 people said they knew.  7 responded with a resounding “NO.”  Of the 8 who said they knew, 3 claim that they wouldn’t know if they didn’t live there once or had a family member live there.  So, technically 10 didn’t know.  The way I look at it, that is more than half.  Okay, so that is more than half.  Like I said.  Not a genius in math.

Guess what?  I don’t feel so dumb anymore.  Eat that Manhattan, Kansas!  But I think I’d like to visit.  After all, I have a family member there.

Foot Mouth Disease

I have a disease.  It’s called Foot In Mouth.  And there doesn’t seem to be a cure.  I’ve tried everything short of sealing my mouth shut with duct tape.  I’ve made New Year’s Resolutions.  I’ve promised the family.  I’ve promised my friends.  The problem is that my mouth starts jabbering before my brain has time to process anything that comes out of that big, fat hole that lies just below my nose.  There must be a connection issue.  Seriously.  Maybe I should go see a brain doctor.

Every time I open my mouth and say something stupid, it hits me like a ton of shit bricks.  When it’s too late.  I waste more time apologizing for the crap that has escaped from these lips than anything else.  I mean, I could accidentally on purpose rob a bank and possibly feel better about that than what comes out of my mouth.  Possibly.

Let me give you an example.  Last week, I was at a party and talking with a friend who recently went through a divorce.  Know what I decided to say to her?  “I never really liked him anyway.”  Did I stop there?  Nooooo.  Why would I?  I was on a roll.  I followed it up with something like, “He never sat with me right.”  Well, that wasn’t cool.  It just wasn’t.  Besides being with him for a good portion of her life because she probably LOVED and LIKED him, he fathered her children.  As soon as it came out, I regretted it.  I like to blame the wine.  Yeah, that’s it.  It’s the wine’s fault.

I was cringing the entire ride home.  The next day I found myself texting a 2-page long apology.  Basically telling her that I am a complete dumbass and I didn’t deserve her friendship.  Did she mind the comment?  She didn’t seem to.  She didn’t even flinch.  Probably because she knows that my mouth is a completely different entity from the rest of my body.  I have Alien mouth.  My mouth is from Jupiter.

Another example of Foot Mouth?  At a wedding I attended recently, I was trying to get a friend to have a drink with me.  A friend who’s children were in the wedding.  Suddenly, one of her kids wanted to sit on her lap.  Because he was tired.  And wanted his mommy.  When you are a mother of a teenager, that world is a complete bygone.  Another life.  A far distant memory.  What did I say to her?  “Gawd, don’t you wish you could have left them home????”  WTF is wrong with me?  The Kid was in a wedding when she was a little girl and I LOVED having her there.  That time I like to say it was the Cosmo talking.  Blame the Cosmo.  Maybe it was plural.  Cosmos.

Again.  Cringe.  I am still cringing over that one.  My face is starting to just look like one big cringe.  You know when you cross your eyes and your mother tells you they will get stuck like that if you do it too much?  Yeah, well.  There you go.

Oh, there are SO many stories that sound very similar to the two above.  But I don’t really have the time to get into it.  And besides, I don’t want to scare away all the friends I still have left.  Just for the record, I don’t mean to sound so callous.  It just comes out that way.  I most definitely don’t have a way with words.

So, the next time you see me around town, and I look like this:

photo

Don’t worry.  It’s my new look.  Because after all, mother is always right.  Now, if I could only figure out how to do that without looking like I have 3 chins…

The Big Flush

a534544481ff0b8cbca4552eaa20fff7a2

I have some words of advice for women who use the bathroom at their child’s preschool during menstruation.  Don’t put your tampon in the toilet.  I actually broke my own rule this day.  I usually never put a tampon in the toilet.  Even if I was at Caldor.  Or the mall.  Or a campground.  Because they are not good for the system, whether it be septic or sewer.  I know, I was very thoughtful.  Usually.

I was dropping The Kid off at her preschool when I realized I was having a problem down below.  I found a bathroom in the hall and used it.  The toilets were of the teeny tiny kind.  The kind where when you sit, your knees hit your chin.  And your ass cheeks hang over the side like a 1/4 Pounder shoved into a mini croissant.  Unless you are 4, probably not a good idea to try.  With or without your period.

I forgot my head, and suddenly realized I dropped the thing into the toilet.  I flushed.  It swirled around and around.  Like the Merry-Go-Round at the mall.  Needless to say, it didn’t go down.  Another flush.  And another ride around the rim it did.  I started to break out in a major sweat.  And felt like I had to poo (when I get really nervous, I get the sensation.  And I’m not talking about that kind you have from being on top of a cool mountain).

Now, there was a way to rectify the situation.  Stick my hand in and pull the sucker out, wrap it in toilet paper and toss it into the can.  Garbage can.  I even could have just left it there.  No one would have been the wiser.  But the old Catholic guilt was eating away at me.  Instead, I proceeded to the office of the school’s Director and told her about my problem.  There is nothing more embarrassing than having a woman who you do not know watch your bloody tampon do pirouettes in a toilet made for munchkins.

I got reprimanded.  “Mrs. M., please do not use the children’s bathrooms anymore.  We have toilets for big girl’s down the hall.  And no tampons.  Please.”  I was expecting her to slap the back of my hand and send me to the corner.  It was then that the thought of going fishing occurred to me.

Whenever I see the director around town, I literally run in the opposite direction.  Or hide until she goes away.  Not that she would remember that I was the tampon lady.  But just in case.  So, if you see me cowering at the local craft store between the acrylic and latex paints, you’ll know why.

Another One Bites the Dust

I worked a seven and a half hour shift yesterday at My Retail Job.  When I got off at 5:30 I was anxious to get home.  DH and I had plans to go out with some good friends of ours.  I still had to exercise and get ready.

I got behind a car doing 25 mph.  The speed limit was 30.  I was annoyed.  Because my elliptical, shower, margarita and more importantly, our friends were waiting for me.  I wasn’t tailgating because I don’t like tailgating.  Tailgating will get you in the ass.  Literally.  But I was cursing up a storm. Damning the driver in front of me to hell.

Suddenly, and I don’t know how, a mailbox jumped out right in front of me.  It was the darndest thing.  Well, it didn’t jump out IN front of me, it kinda stuck itself out.  And hit my side-view mirror.  I don’t really know how that happened.  All I thought was that DH is gonna kill me.  I thought I could fix it and he would never notice.  I wasn’t that lucky.

Remember this?

IMG_8940

And the year before I did something like this to another mailbox:

Unknown-1

I didn’t get the chance to take a pic of what I did…ahem…what the mailbox did to my rearview mirror before DH fixed it.  But pretty much the mirror part was hanging out of the thingy thing.  You know, the housing mechanism?  Whatever you call it.  You get my point.

When I got home, I ran to The Kid to tell her but I couldn’t stop laughing.  Her response?  “What did you do, mom?”  Just like the flagpole, I really didn’t find it funny funny.  But I found myself standing there trying not to pee my pants.

My conversation with The Kid after I showed her the damage:

The Kid: Maybe dad won’t notice.

Me:  (wave of relief) You think?

The Kid:  NO!  What is wrong with you?

As for DH’s response.  He was not surprised.  He asked me if I was sure it was a mailbox.  Well, yes.  I think it was.  When I looked in my rearview mirror to see what the hell that was, I saw a mailbox kinda waving a little.  But it was fine.  Still standing.  No real damage.

Besides the mailbox, I think I got hit with a good dose of Karma.  Because of the obscenities I was screaming at the driver in front of me going so slow.  I spent the rest of my drive apologizing to him and God.  I think I learned my lesson.  I just hope no slow poke gets in front of me today.  I really hate that.

The Mortified Lagoon

blue_story

When your dad asks you to go to the movies with him because his original date — your mom — is sick and can’t go, confirm the movie you are seeing before you commit.  In 1980, we didn’t have the internet, so I was depending on his mature, grown-up ability to decipher what would be bad and/or good for a 13 year old girl to see.  Actually let me rephrase.  A daughter and father to see.  Together.  According to today’s standards, The Blue Lagoon isn’t bad.  In fact, it is pretty “G” rated compared to what modern movie production companies consider to be low threat to a kid’s psyche.

I recall that there were loin cloths, nude shots, sex scenes and the moment a teenage girl gets her period for the first time.  Oh, I forgot.  She also gives birth.  Remember, she was about the age I was at the time.  To make matters worse, the two main characters were cousins.  To rephrase what I’m sure my 13 year old brain was saying to itself, “totally gross.”

I was red with embarrassment.  The only thing I wanted to do was get on my hands and knees and make myself disappear under the seat in front of me.  Honestly, I don’t think I could look my dad in the eye for a week.

I recently caught part of that movie on some cable show.  It’s filled with plenty of cheese, but not much else.  The “sex” scenes weren’t too revealing and Brooke’s hair was glued to her boobs during the entire film.  But through the eyes of a prepubescent 13 year old girl, it may as well have been porn.  Porn that was watched with her dad.  Totally gross.  I’m sure “Herbie Goes Bananas” was playing in the theater next door.  That probably would have been a better choice.  Surely, Herbie’s headlights were a little less intimidating.

Girl of Steel

Unknown

It was a beautiful morning in the summer of 1988.  I was driving to work.  My music was blasting (I’m guessing that may be part of the reason why I now have permanent ringing in my ears).  The windows were down.  All was good with the world.  Until I tried to merge onto I-287 and was met with an 18-wheeler.  Literally.

Ok, so it wasn’t my fault.  Right?  I mean, I had my blinker on.  So what if I was driving a little 2-door Honda CRX.  It was red.  The guy should have seen me and moved out of the way.  He didn’t.  He hit me instead.  Then decided to try and make a get-away.  Yeah, right.  Nice try buddy.

So, I did what every 100-pound 20 year old young woman should do.  I got out of my car.  In the middle of the lane.  In rush hour traffic on a major highway.  And I stood there with my hand up, screaming obscenities.  Picture Superman trying to stop traffic with his super powers.  Well, without the obscenities.  Except I didn’t have any super powers.  I was cute.  Sometimes that worked for me.  But not this time.  The trucker looked at me like I had 2 heads.  I know he thought I was nuts.  In retrospect, I was.

This was in the day before everyone had a “car phone.”  My future sister-in-law saw me standing there looking like a lunatic.  She was 2 lanes over and couldn’t get to me.  Like I said, it was during major rush hour traffic.  Outside of a city.  And she’s not an idiot.  When she got to work she called my future DH.

I was a damsel in distress.  Except I was gone by the time future DH got there.  Remember those SOS trucks that used to drive up and down the highways looking to help stranded drivers?  One of those guys stopped and basically told me to move along.  As for the truck driver, he did NOT think I was very cute.  Not at all.  I don’t know how it ends.  I can’t remember.  No one was hurt or arrested so all must have gone well.  My car even survived.

So, you know when I complain after working at My Retail Job for 7.5 hours on my feet the entire time and feeling like I got hit by a Mack truck?  I literally know the feeling.  Because I was hit by one.  How many people can say that?