Tag Archives: misc

And in the End…Home Trumped Ovaries.

I’m sitting here reflecting on how, right at this very moment, I would be coming out of major surgery to remove my lady bits.  But instead, I am home and able to celebrate the 16th birthday of my daughter.

About three weeks ago, dear husband and I decided that there was no way we could financially survive me not singing or teaching for two whole months.  I thought long and hard about it all…weighed the pros and cons…finally deciding that in order for us to be able to eat and have a roof over our heads for the next year, I had to take one for the team. That makes it sound like I am the bread-winner; I most certainly am not.  I’m more like the crumb-loser.  But it occurred to me that it’s time that we needed to get real about what is really happening to us financially.

Federal Debt

We are in big trouble.  There.  I just said it out loud.  Most people don’t want to hear that.  Many are in trouble too and don’t want to share that.  Some simply just don’t want to know the real story.  “GAH AHHHH!!!!DON”T TELL MEEEEEEE!”

My dear husband has been gently encouraging me to watch motivational videos by different financial analysts, ranging from get-rich gurus to more emotionally connected professionals like Suze Orman.

A really strange think happened to me when I started to watch them:  I would choke up and bawl.  I felt some strange emotions and I did’t understand why i was getting so upset. It was blocking me from really listening to what some of these people are trying to help me understand.  Suze Orman really got me.  She’s good.  She basically pointed out that we are are a bunch of people walking around, not being real and not talking about our debt.  And that’s why we all have it.

We are not a family that has ever had money.  Never since we have been married….we have struggled to stay afloat for 18 years.  EIGHTEEN YEARS. Yikes. We are people that barely meet the needs of our children, much less anyone’s wants.  But they do get to do their sports and play their instruments and we struggle because we try to make that happen.  We get ourselves into trouble “trying to make it work.” We don’t spend money to impress. We don’t care what our neighbors are doing or the other kids at school or even our friends.  But wait.  That’s a lie.  We are trying to impress someone.  Our children.  We want to give them what they need and want to show them how much we love them and it’s killing us.

What is my greatest financial fear?

I have a couple: Losing our house.  It’s very real right now.  Therefore, not being able to provide a roof over our children’s heads.  Another one?  Feeding them.  Getting number three her braces.  Keeping number 2 in therapy.  Making sure they can all go to college.

So, we set our goals.  My first goal is to try to prevent all the scary things I just listed from happening.  Have money on hand for emergencies.  Start saving for things that we need to improve our house like floors and paint.  Build a back paver.  Remodel a bathroom.

Big goals?  Vacation.  We have never brought the kids on a vacation.  No Disney, No Cabo, no skiing.  Any trip we have taken, it’s been to Florida and it was gifted for holidays and birthdays by my parents.  How grateful we are and how embarrassed we are.  That’s honesty for you.

The saddest thing is we work hard.  Dear husband has a great job.  I teach around 25 lessons a week in three evenings and sing at night 2-4 nights of the rest of the week.  I also have a part time day job at a friend’s store.  Darling husband comes home from a long day and he feeds and takes care of our three kids while I work.

And it’s still not enough.

We don’t “go shopping” or “go out on dates”.  We don’t have “credit cards”. We don’t have “cable” or “go do family outings”. Most of our money is spent on our mortgage, bills, food, school and paying the high interest on the loans we need to take out to make it another month.  We are in a huge hole and we will not be OK until we can crawl out.

How are we fixing it?  By being honest.  Here it is.  We are so broke, that I can’t get the operation I need.  But, when one door closes, another one opens.  Or in this case, when one ovary is not removed, we can make a mortgage payment.

We are working with a great budget program and have been analyzing our spending for the last three months.  We are figuring out where we can save and make cuts.  We are setting goals and will try to turn around the way we look at our money.  The little we have.  And we try like hell to make it grow.

As far as my Fallopian Tubes…oh well, stay comfy in there, you goofballs; we get to keep partying together until next January.  Let’s make 2018 the best year ever.  Midol, anyone?

 

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Fallopian Send-Off Countdown…and Go!

I just scheduled my appointment to get gutted.

This moment only took me four years.   But alas, I am here.  I have officially been put in a vaginal timeout by my Lady Doctor and there is no going back.  My last check-up a few weeks ago with him went a little something like this:

(Scene: Doctor’s office follow-up with results, after complete biopsy under the hood.)

Lady Doctor: Besides your endometriosis, your fibroid is growing.

Me: I’m an overachiever.

Lady Doctor: (Not amused.  I start to think: when you look up chee-chaws all day long, I guess humor slowly erodes away like lining of a vaginal cavity.)

Lady Doctor: Last year your fibroid was a lime.  Right now it’s an orange.  It’s time.

Me: Hm.  Ok.  Now, would you classify that as a clementine? I love those little guys.

Lady Doctor:  (Not amused.) Not at all.  The big one.  It’s time.

Me: That doesn’t sound apPEALing! (I laugh too way hard, trying to hide my tears.)

Lady Doctor: (Literally no expression.)

Me: K.

*****

Fallopian-Tube-1

My Trunk Junk.

Friends, meet cervix.  Cervix, meet friends.  In 2 short months, all of these once-overactive baby maker tools will be Jack-the-Rippered out of me.  Sayanara, sweeties!

The saddest part is all the excuses I have made.  I can say that I put these shenanigans off because of “work”. I book our gigs months in advance and I don’t want to screw my musical partner out of months of work=valid.

I can say that I can’t afford to stop teaching and singing for two months=valid.

I can say that I don’t want to leave my students voice teacher-less in the heart of high school spring musical audition season=valid.

I can say that I am scared to get all the weird and non-glamorous side-effects I will adopt, after they rip out my woman bits=valid.

I can even say that I am not sure what I am going to do with myself for two months, because I literally have watched the absolute and complete entire collection of Netflix=VALID TO ME.  And also embarrassing.

But the real truth…the one that festers and bubbles…the one I dare not whisper to anyone, even sometimes to myself…is that I am dreading the pain=The most valid.

But it’s going to hurt me so badly.  Not so much from the relinquishment of my reproductive whozits and whatzits galore, but my actual BODY will pulse and vibrate with breath-taking pain from not being medicated.  I have to go off of my Humira 10 days before and I can’t start up again until 6 weeks after.  During that time, my rheumatoid arthritis will unleash from the very gates of the seventh circle of hell to attack every joint in my body.  It’s a dark place, brother.

I could be all Pollyanna and pretend that it will “not be as bad as I think”, but fuck glasshalffull.  I know it will suck hard, because it happened to me unexpectedly last year.  (Please refer to the past WOUND posts.  It wasn’t pretty.)  It freaking hurt.  I’d rather have 5 more babies, all popping out at the same time.  Oxycodin from my surgery will help, but eventually I will have to stop, to prevent me from being an addict looking for a fix in the parking lot of Mariano’s, Zumba and all the other popular mom-addict drug spots in the surrounding Lake County area.

But it’s time.  Now I have 51 days to really show my ovaries a rockin’ good time.  I’m taking them to Florida.  I am definitely not going to neglect them from any opportunity to enjoy a tall Tito’s and soda.  They can help me decorate my Cubbie Christmas tree this season.  I’m even going to dress them up in flapper sequins and let them sing with me at my big closeout NYE gig this year.  They will want for nothing…..these bitches will be spoiled, but they are going out in style, yo!

Word.

 

 

 

 

 

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The Moran Elf Project 2012: Watch it, Bucko.

 The little rat bastard is BACK.  Billy Bob Joe…Merry Christmas; come trash my house.

Let’s face it.  He is creepy, snarky and get’s into all my shit.  But he is very loved, intensely anticipated and he is filled with the stuff that makes Moran little-people-memories. So let’s see what the little North pole Juvie has in store for my clan.  Bring it, Elf!

Welcome, Trouble.

Dec 1: Welcome, Trouble.

Those pretzels were for lunches.  Not a good start.  I may send him out to the Jewel to get new snacks ’cause we are not made of money around here, Elf.  Wasteful troll.

Dec 2: State is not for Suckers.  Go Lulu.

Dec 2: State is not for Suckers. Go Lulu.

I was SO pissed off he punched holes in the Cuties with little toothpicks.  Those things are pricey.  I may juice HIM.

Thanks, Billy Bob Joe, for the Mammories.

Thanks, Billy Bob Joe, for the Mammories.

I will make him finish that whole glass.  And if he comes back from his little “check-in visit” from the North Pole tonight and that Oberweiss is not fully consumed, then it will still be waiting for him to finish in the morning.  And the day after that.  And the day after THAT.

Cause Mommy Dearest doesn’t screw around.

pirate1 pirate2 pirate3

Bitch Pirate Barbie strikes again.

apples1I think someone is officially DTF.

fishies

Here fishy, fishy, fishy…..

copy

elfbutt

Too much egg nog at the office party, ya little brat?

jar

Jar-head, busted.

repel 3 repel1 repel2

“Creepy Elf boyfriend, I am falling and I can’t get up!”

“I’LL SAVE YOU!”

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I’m Fine, I’m Fine, No Really, I’m Fine.

This is exciting.  I am an empty day nester!  I cried on and off for the first 2 days and now…I am good.  Cracker, Bambi and Alpha are all nestled into their classrooms and I can rest easy.  Cause like I literally have to rest.  I went to my rheumy yeterday and he actually diagnosed me with exhaustion.  It’s making me twitch.  Full truth, people.  It’s made my RA bad and now my muscles have been effected.  And I have had an eye twitch for 2 weeks.  I am NOT winking at you.  It didn’t help that after singing last night, I couldn’t get to sleep until 2am.  I have a million projects and things to do…a house to scrub…but for today, I need to get rid of this twitch.

And so, for those close friends and family that have been worried about me, I am fine.  I am going to go rest.  But not before I share with you todays Heatherevent:

This all started with my dear friend “Sid”.  I call her that because she has undiagnosed OCD.  I am pretty sure I came up with that name after too much Pinot Grigio, while she was scrubbing my floor on her hands and knees.  She is incredibly thoughtful and she picked up some cream for me at the store the other day when I was feeling ill.  (BTW – “Sid” started this whole nickname thing with calling me “Rah”, making fun of my awful auto-immune crippling disease know as Rheumatoid Arthritis.  Love that bitch because laughter is the best med I take.)  I had this really bad, crazy week where I found myself not being able to have a freaking cup of coffee.  I was starting to get a little obsessed with the absence of it.  And I only drink decaf, which makes the whole scenario a lot more embarrassing.

 First, I was out of coffee, then I was out of cream, then I tried skim and it tasted like poop, then I thought I would drive to Starbucks then I was too sick to drive to Starbucks.  Then my sweet dear friend “Volly” from next door came over and bought me some coffee.  Then I was still out of cream so it just sat there. Then “Sid” eventually came over at some point and brought me 2 small creams, instructing me to put one in the freezer and pull it out the day before you need it.  Her mom always did that, she said and I can verify that her mom knows everything.

HELLO “Sid”, who do you think you are dealing with?  It’s “Rah”.  Like I would ever be organized to plan ahead.

Today, I made a gorgeous pot of coffee and I couldn’t WAIT to enjoy some quiet time on my stoop after the bus left…and I go into the kitchen make THE perfect cup of coffee and I am freaking out of cream.

Now, I know what I am going to do next.  And it’s going to suck because it’s not going to work out well for me at all.   But I do it anyway, because I lie to myself that I am an optimist.  I go into the freezer and I pull out the frozen cream.   Frozen, rock hard, frozen, frozen.  I mean like, take-a-day-to-thaw-a-turkey-frozen.  I dropped it on the counter THUNK and stared at it for a minute or two.  I now have time for this, you know.  I decided  to go get a teeeeeennnyyy weeeeeennny little kid’s knife.  I shoved that little knife in there and I scraped and scraped little tiny shards of frozen cream into my coffee cup.  Plop.  Plop. Plop.  Stir it up….and voila!  Outcome?

I’m going back to bed.

 

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I have misplaced my ability to read…

…it must be around somewhere….I used to be able to read all the time…let’s see….let me get my glasses…oops, don’t know where they are either…probably on my head….nope…darn it all to heck…that’s really a shame because I FINALLY got a copy of the middlemarch book , but upon opening it, I realize it’s typeset is sized for readers the size of…

THUMBELINA

The cover is super pretty, ya’ll….looky….

I finally grabbed a spot on the couch…it was really quiet a beautiful breeze blowing in..kid were upstairs and I had about 20 minutes to spare before getting ready for a fun Friday night out…and I stared at the cover for about 5 minutes.  I kind of got lost in it, really.   I ceremoniously adjusted my head on the couch pillow and started to read the first page.

Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.”   Kick-ass first line.  This is going to be good.

Then a wet naked Barbie flew over me on the couch.  Oral bomb noises quickly followed,  and ended with a biff-to-the-forehead noise and an “OUCH-UH!!!”  (That’s a new thing that the girls are doing…adding “uh” to the ends of words.  That’s DUMB-UH, WHAT-UH,  COME ON-UH.   WTF is that?  Look, there is even a FB page for it HERE)

 Then Bambi yelled at Cracker for whipping it at her and they had an apology fight.  “You apologize, no YOU apologize.” Someone please fucking apologize because I have read the first line 5 times.  Then the phone rang.  Then I really tried hard to concentrate and while I was reading the first paragraph, I tried really, super hard to concentrate but then I thought about if I have time to take a shower before we go over to a friends and did Cracker leave her Sonic shake in the car because I will forget about it for a couple of days until it smells and OW!!! I  suddenly got one of those shooting boob pains, what the hell IS that when that happens cause I don’t die from it when it happens but it’s in my boob and I think I need to Google that…READ READ READ, concentrate….I came across words like “frippery” and I really wish I could be reading this on my Kindle so I could hit the word and the definition pops up.  I suddenly realized I am going to need a pocket dictionary.  Hey, look.  I am no chump.  I am no idiot.  I was an English Lit. minor in one of my many colleges I attended.  I done read good.   But it’s been awhile and I have spent the last 12 years reading Highlights Magazines, Mattel Toy Assembly instructions and “Everybody Poops”.  (Great read BTW, highly recommend.)

I got down to about a third of the page and I started to schvitz a little bit.  I flipped back to the end of the book .  746 pages.  That’s a lot less than Volly, my reading project partner.  That’s maybe because my font size is -1pt.  

“The pride of being ladies has something to do with it…”  What is that smell?  What IS that?  Is that a rotten orange?  Shit, I forgot to drop off dress at the dry cleaner and I can do it tomorrow….no I can’t do it tomorrow, what is tomorrow, what do I have tomorrow, OMG why can’t I remember what tomorrow i-FOOTBALL scrimmage, right, then drive Papa and Nana to airport and

Shit…ok….“The pride of being ladies has something to do with it…The Brooke connections, although not slightl-“

I was staring at the words.  I was starting at each individual word, trying to process it.  It actually made me feel like I was going a little bit insane.    I heard a fly and thought of the bad meal we had a a local place this weekend because we ate outside and there were flies everyone and I thought about how they poop on everything and how everyone always freaks out and really, how bad could fly poop be, I mean it’s so small that it’s almost as small as the font size in my book.

Then I really start to ride the procrastination train and I start reading the quotes on the back.  Who does that but people who are procrastinating?  Or bored people pooping on the potty?  Then I read the biggest quote on the back.  I quite literally made me jump up, shove a Bath and Body Works 20% coupon in the book as a marker and run into the office to quit reading forever.

“One of the few English books for grown-ups.”  – Virginia Wolff

I am too busy to read now.  I have to go get that shake out of the car, find the source of the kitchen smell and starting drinking heavily.  Then, when I stumble wasted into bed later tonight and read the first page of my book 12 times, I will at least have a very good excuse.

(I have NEVER even blogged the word “poop” before and I think I used it today about 10 times.  See what a bad influence reading can be to a person?)

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Book #1. Purchase Fail.

For those of you DROOLING and KEENING and WAILING in anticipation for the start of my “1oo Most influential Books Evah” reading/blog project:

Houston, we can’t obtain the first book.  Nice start, idiot.

I ordered “MiddleMarch.”  I really did.  Last Monday from Amazon.com…I promise you, I am not bullshitting.  I waited and I waited and I waited…

-meanwhile-

Volly got her copy from the library sometime around Tuesday or Wednesday, which I should have done, but I owe them money.  (TOTAL EMBARRASSMENT.)

Volly informed me that the book has 801 pages.  SSSHHHWWWWHHHAAAAAAAAAA??????

Innocent enough from the front.

Side View…DOH.

Yesterday, while I was drunk at the Cubbie game, I received this email on my phone from Amazon:

Due to a lack of availability, we will not be able to obtain the following item(s) from your order:

  George Eliot “Middlemarch (Collins Classics)”

We’ve canceled the item(s) and apologize for the inconvenience. If you see a charge for the canceled item, we will refund you within 1-2 business days.”

Suckage.

Then I get a text from Volly and she says, “I finished the book!  Loved it!  (801 freaking pages and she started like 2 days ago.)  Can’t wait for you to read it!  No pressure!  LOL

NO pressure? Shit, man, I still need to GET the friggin’ book.   She’s a rockstar.  That is all.

Oh Man…now I am going to have to push through my hangover and head over to the library with my head down and my checkbook open.

Library Fine Shame.

Next time you hear from me, sometime in Spring or summer of 2013, I will have my first damn book report.  Peace out, bitches.

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Heatherevent: A Definition.

 Heatherevent [spelled phonetically, in case you are truly the biggest idiot on the planet: HEH-THER-EE-VENT]: an annoying and stupid occurrence or event that happens to me on a daily basis.

The Goofball in Question.

Here are some past Heatherevent posts from Facebook.  Stupid random shit happens to me.  It’s a wonder that I make it through the day.

 “Today’s Heathervent: I just walked into the laundry room to change out the clothes and an entire industrial strength ginormous jug of detergent was thrown off the washer during the rinse cycle, shattering the top and emptying the entire contents of new bottle onto whole floor of room. Cocktail, please.”

Could Have Been Worse.

“Heathervent of the day: not only were [Thor] and I stupid enough to be the only people to go out to movie and dinner in a snowstorm last night for my birthday; I insisted on wearing high heeled-boots.  Eventually, I slipped two times coming into house and busted finger. Nice.”

Disclaimer. This is not me. I am totally hotter.

“Medieval Heatherevent: what NOT to do when you have a massive horse allergy – forget to move inhaler to new purse and then completely have huge asthma attack in enclosed space with fog and horses running around. Otherwise you may end up outside missing the whole show with about six really cute fireman and paramedics giving you a neb treatment in the parking lot. *sigh*”

“Beach Heatherevent: Great day at the beach with my cousin [Apricot] and friend [Volly].  See that line from the cooler??? You know how hard is is to drag a cooler with wheels on sand? [Alpha] was pulling it and getting a workout so I tried to help him pull. He grabbed a chair I was carrying off of my arm and when it whipped around, he whacked me right on my face…then two seconds later, [Apricot] bent down to help me and whacked me right across the head. True live stooges action. In other news, [Apricot] just took a day full of gorgeous beach pictures with no memory card. Livin’ la vida loca, bitches!”

Image

“The Heatherevent of the day already happened and it’s a doozy. This was back when the guys and I were performing in NYC.   You know the hair iron that TSA stole at the Dullas airport and I practically launched a nationwide Facebook smear campaign because of the erroneous theft? [PianoMan] and [BassMan], remember how I berated every poor employee we ran into at the airport, warning them to not steal ANOTHER $200 hair iron from me? [Nana Toad], remember when I cried and said that nice guys finished last and called the hotel 100 times to check if they found it? Well, looky looky, check out cookie: I just found it. In the side pocket of the garment bag that I just took to NY. It was sitting in there for 7 months. I suck.”

THOSE AREN’T PILLOWS!

“Coffee Heatherevent: I spilled my Starbucks DOWN the front of my dress walking into work tonight. TWICE. Like, right down through the boob canal. I smell like a grande decaf americano. And roses, thanktoyouverymuch. But I don’t think you should buy below above shirt for $85. (REEDONKULOUS) Instead, I will happily sell you my cute baby doll dress for $8.50.   People are suckers. “

Sadly, there are a million more Heatherevents occurring by the second.  Already this morning, [Thor] had to wake me up because I had both my phone charger and ear phones wrapped around my neck like a fetus.  Weeeeee!

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The Man I Love Has A Thousand Looks.

Thor is severely hotter than this man.

I was inspired today by a new blog a friend turned me onto…called Momastary…check her out, she is totally brill.

Definitely read her blog post from today…(Aw hell, read them all, she is twelve times the writer I am.)  Anyway, in her latest post, she mentions how her husband gave her a “look”  when she said something to him that he found slightly shocking.  Hey, hey!  I get that look a lot!

Let’s make a case study of that.  (Puts on hot school teacher reader glasses.)  It varies, the look.  If the lips curl on one side, Thor is a touch disgusted by what I say.   There may be an occasional eye squint when he is thinking I am exaggerating the truth.  Which I do a lot.  The eyebrows may jump up at a rapid pace when there might be a sexual overtone.  It’s important to add that his eyebrows are up a great deal of the time.

So I thought, in honor of Momastary’s brilliant blogging and Thor’s distaste of most everything I do or say, I have decided to name a few looks I get from my husband Thor.  Note:  These are LOOKS.  He hardly ever SAYS anything to me that is negative.  He is the nicest of men.  I DRIVE him to internalize and contort his face.  It is really important to point out that Thor is the sweetest, most forgiving and kindest man I have ever met; not to mention the best father.  I just absolutely cannot blame him for thinking he married down.  Most of the time, I am a ridiculous wife.

I don’t have pictures, because (1) I can’t find my camera (2) my phone is dead and I can’t find the charger and (3)he would absolutely catch on if I started taking pictures of him reacting to everything I do.  Your land of imagination is a special place! Use it!

First I will tell you what I said or did, then I will name the special Thor look.  Off to the races:

  • I tell him I went $365 over budget at The Target = The “have-fun-taking-a-shower-in-melted-snow-because-now-the-water-is-going-to-get-shut-off” look
  • I can’t find my keys for the 11th time today and I am shedding actual tears because of it=The “you-are-holding-them-in-your-hand-dufus” look
  • I come home from a gig late night with false eyelashes, slutty makeup and one shoe with a broken heel= the “wanna-do-it?” look
  • He comes home from work in a bad mood and I have neighbors over, we are having a blast, some wine, kids are everywhere, no homework has been done, no birthday party thank-yous have been written, no dinner has been started and every single remaining Christmas present has been opened and is sitting in a pile in the living room floor and someone spilled something on the rug that he hasn’t noticed yet, but now he knows  about it after reading this blog=The “you-just-really-suck-as-a-mother-and-spouse‘ look.  (It’s important to note that this look is followed by my “NON-look” because I refuse to look at him at all for the rest of the night.  This is because I am on strike for him making me feel guilty.  I will set up shop to sleep on the couch, but it’s really uncomfortable, so I wake up at 1:45am with a crick in my neck and a Cheetos stuck in my hair.   I peek in the mirror and give myself a look called, “you-freakin’ idiot” and I slink up into bed.   It’s called projection, people.)
  • And finally, the ever alluring, I wrote this blog and published it so everyone we know can read it = The you-are-dead-to-me-and-lawyer-up” look.  (I will be expecting this look to walk in the door today around 4:45pm.)

Special mention looks worth adding are stares like “how-many-old-boyfriends-did-you-HAVE?”, “that’s-not-what-the-screwdriver-is-for”, “where-in-the-hell-is-my-brush-again”, “my-mother-was-right” and one of my personal favorites, the “there-is-something-really-really-wrong-with-you-please-get-help.”

One of these days, I am going to haul ass and give the look back.

Watch it, bucko.

Just kidding.  Cause for every look that I get, I have given him 500.  There is no doubt that I wear the bitch in the family.  I love Thor.  Hope he loves me back.

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BAN THE CLAW

THE CLAW

THE CLAW

Do you see this thing? This evil tool from the game room of the pits of hell?

It’s the claw game.  Most of you have seen one.  It’s the gargantuan crack-like monster lurking in the corner of dusty and dirty game rooms in mid-rate family restaurants across the land.

And Bambi is addicted.

I mean it, I am not sugar-coating it.  Where did I go wrong?  Why can’t she be drawn to the mint bowl like Alpha or the lollypop stash like Cracker?  But Bambi aims higher.  Oh, and let me say also that Bambi is a doll.  A gorgeous, sweet, funny, lovable sweetheart and I love her more than anything.  But she turns…Every time we encounter the crappy animal stuffed beast, she spots  it, right at the moment when we walk in.  If she doesn’t find one right away, her eyes bulge with her mission, eyeballs ever searching, jutting, tearing apart the layout with tiger-like prowess.  She makes her mark and she starts to jiggle, jostle around and sweat.  And she spots her Shangri-La.  She is instantly transformed, she is Gollum.  THE CLAW THE CLAW, THE MIGHTY CLAW.  From the second we sit down, she starts the “claw whine” and I know how badly it will end.  It will end with her crying all the way home.  But let me fill in the middle.

She starting the please game.  “PPLLLEEEASSSEEEEEEEE. “

“Honey, you can’t play that game, we go through this every time.”

“But Mommy, just ONE TIME.”

“No, sweetie, no one ever wins.”

(This is when, conveniently, the little brat from the next door table returned with her gloating father, carrying a cheap ass, Korean-stuffed, lower-quality-than-carnival-crap teddy bear.)

DAYUM

“MOMMMMMMMMM-“

“Just- Honey, can we order first?”

Movie in my head:  I walk over the table, grab the satanic prize  from the little brat and then I smack the dad in the face repeatedly while yelling at him for not being a team player.

If parents across the world would just say NO, then the owners of these establishments would remove them for non-use.  But we get suckered in.  Because we are hungry and we want the cheeseburger and draft beer and we can’t have them until they stop begging and we give them a fucking quarter.

We try to avoid this.  Mike and I do a “claw check”  when looking for a place to eat, much like the old “kid friendly-non smoking” peek in from days of yore.  He double parks and I run in.  If there is a claw, we move onto the next Applebees-barnabys-Hackneys-TGIF’s-crap place that we are looking to dine at…

Santa even had the elves construct a real claw game for HOME.  She plays with it non-stop, while I crouch in the corner and whack my head repeatedly with a wooden spoon to the beat of the circus song that plays over and over and over and over and over an

This should sate her, we gave her the crack pipe.  We let her use it in the comfort of our home.  Surely, she need not go out to get a buzz.  But crack kills, kids, crack kills.

We had an incident the day after Christmas.  Damn, I let my guard down ONE MINUTE.  We were heading to meet family at Buffalo Wild Wings.  It was my cousin Coconut’s birthday and we were all coming together to celebrate.

THERE WAS THE CLAW.  Stop staring at me, you big red greedy whore. You thief, you stealer of little tykes’ hopes and dreams.  Starter of addictive personalities.  DON’T EVEN LOOK AT IT.

What could we do?  We couldn’t leave, this was not our gig.  I could have said, “a table please, very far away from the claw”,  and an older motherly hostess would, with a twinkle in her eye, lightly chuckle while winking and lean in to whisper, “I completely understand, let’s see what we can do”.  And she would put us in the farthest corner from the devil box.  Alas, we didn’t have Aunt Bea, but this young waitress at the prime of her life with her tight sports jersey and her perky, non-breastfed boobs and she would not get it.  She will know soon enough when she starts to breed, but this time,  the slutbag she seats us right smack dab in front of it.  Not directly near it, but riiiiggghhhttt where Bambi can stare at it.

Who am I kidding?  She would have found it.  All the kids were walking around, scoping out the video situation.  Planning and strategically toying with our money in their quick little minds.

I was at the women’s table with the mommies and the offspring.  “A round of chicken tenders, chocolate milk back, for everyone!  And three beers for us, please.”  Cracker was getting a cold and was not recovered from her 5 minute nap in the car.  She whipped off her shoes and hunkered down into doublefisting both her and Bambi’s chocolate milk.  Seven minutes after that, the caffeine kicked in, her legs started to pump and spin like the Road runner, and for the next hour, I chased her while she did laps and half tripped every nubile, perky breasted waitress in the joint.  My beer was neglected.  I needed one of those hats with the beer holders and the straws – Spongebob recently owned one of those.  So J.

And everytime she came back, she went to me first.  Ol Battleaxe Betty who tells it like it is.  “No one ever wins, sweetie.  They make them that way.  Yo-”  (And piping in from the party of 8 in the corner) “I got one Daddy!  I got one!”

Bambi claws at me, “SHHHEEEE GOOOOTTTT ONNNNEEEEEE, MOMMMMYYY PLLEEASSEEEEEE”

“Go talk to your father.”

And Mike who is sitting at the guy table, shoving habanera teriaki wings in his mouth with one hand, and alternating drinking his beer and playing computer poker with the other.  He licks his fingers clean and gives her money.  And the  nightmare continues.

Mike gave the lil nugget almost THIRTY dollars in the span of an hour and half.  Are you fucking kidding me?  AND, it was in 4 quarter increments.  Do you know how many times that means she went back to him to ask for more?  And he gave them to her?

Oh, but by no means was she alone in all this.  She had a partner in crime.  My cousin, Felt and his wife, Teeth, have two adorable little boys, Heisman and Wrestler Fan.  Heisman and my very sweet Alpha were happily content at the end of the table, wolfing down smily face fries and taking turns with the Nintendo DS.  Apricot’s little guy, Star Wars kid, who is like a 4th child to me, brought a little buddy along with him so all the boys were content in their mini-man-dom.  Cracker continued to run laps while gnawing on a chicken tender, which leaves us with the dynamic duo, Bambi and Wrestler Fan.

Those kids were nothing, if not diligent.  At one point, Wrestler Fan, I think was amazed at her determination and put all his efforts into grabbing one for Bambi.  And we all rejoiced!  Our champion!  Our knight!  Victorious!  Slaying the dragon and bringing Guenevere the riches of the world!  Now she can shut it, sit down and eat her mac and cheese.  But it wasn’t the one she wanted.  She wanted the MONKEY. And there were tears.  She flung the unwanted stuffed alligator at Cracker, who screeched with glee and whipped it at the couple behind us.  Bambi was finally cut off.  “You are CUT OFF.”  She remained pouting at her seat, in claw rehab.  There she moped, moaned, keened and wailed until I finally chugged my Blue Moon and declared to Mike, “Wipe your wing-stained mouth, help me grab Cracker and let’s hit it.  I can’t stand it anymore.”  And we dragged Bambi to the car, and she cried the whole way home.

The next morning, my cousin and Coconut’s wife Apricot called me, trying to entice me with bloody mary’s and HBO mockumentary marathons.  As tempting as it was, I was in my own different little rehab, so I had to decline.  But before we ended our chat, she added, “So, wow, Bambi really is addicted to the Claw.  You weren’t kidding.”

Thus,we move on..we start anew, we remain vigilant in our quest for non-claw dining and we strive to encourage home use.

And the bright side is that, although she is tiny enough to do it, she has not been one of the Chuck E Cheese idiots that have tried to climb inside.  Dumb, Bambi ain’t.  😉

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And Now For Something Completely Serious…Part 2

The mom of Voxx came on the second day.

She came in like a bat out of hell.  A large woman with the poodle perm and a cane like her daughter’s,  the old gal had a mission: to tell Voxx and anyone else who would listen the exact dollar amount of all their delinquent bills and how much money they do not have in their bank account.  Voxx and Ethan Frome owe over $600 to Nicor.  That’s a lot of gas.  And they are really really late.  But they only have $64 dollars and some change in their bank account.  And not one iota of this is something that I should know.

Our very sweet and patient Phillipino nurse, Bandaid, came in announced Movie Tuesday!  She let us pick a DVD and she ordered us some popcorn from food services.  The mom of Voxx pulled up a chair and the two us enjoyed a little Meg Ryan/Kevin Kline French Kiss, while Voxx shaked with the DT’s.  I actually really enjoyed her company.  She was my second favorite visitor.

The only problem was she just couldn’t stop talking about Voxx and Frome’s financial situation.  I was actually starting to sweat and get he DT’s myself.  I was withering and writhing to hear about someone else’s uncomfortable and unfortunate financial troubles.  And when mother of Voxx insisted on calling Comcast right from the room, I decided to go try to take a shower .  All my trials, Lord, will soon be over.

The shower?  Not successful.  I washed my hair with what felt like nail polish remover and was I really clean?  I mean REALLY?  Was I? I felt like as I was standing in there, little amoebas of germ nasty sprung from the walls of the institutionalized shower and stuck onto my flesh.

But it was fun in there compared to pity payment party in bed area two.

Mother of Voxx left and the damn woman took with her Voxx’s hand lotion.  Shit.  I heard about that for the next 7 hours.  She told me about 9-10 times.  She told Bandaid.  She told One of the many annoyed and perplexed doctors who rotated in and out of our room.  She told the food service lady.  She called a lot of people on the cell phone, too.  In the end, I gave her my lotion.  I think she threw it at her closet later on but that’s okay, she can go ahead and keep it.  I’ll get more.

On Day three, I woke with a migrane.  I have no idea why.  Hm.

I have never have one like that before.  I even rated it a sad face number 10 and I have NEVER picked that one in my life.  Every flicker of light was a BBQ skewer in my cornea.  Every sound was a swinging bat over my head.  It even hurt to move.  So, it was so frickin awesome when Voxx’s Kenyan Physical therapist came in the room for her workout session.   BECAUSE HE TALKED LIKE THIS AT ALMOST SCREAM LEVEL AT ALL TIMES IN A VERY THICK KENYAN ACCENT AND APPARENTLY HE ALSO THOUGHT MAYBE VOXX WAS NOT JUST A DRUG ADDICT BUT COMPLETLY 100% FUCKING DEAF.  FOR ONE HOUR. Who was the one whimpering now?  Me. I did.  I whimpered for 60 minutes.

Again, *sigh*

This was about the point that I realized that this is not really happening.  Like scenes like thisare made for movies or books, just so fucking ridongulous that they are a cliche.

A cliché is a phrase that is so overused that it has lost its meaning.

My existance in that room was a true dead metaphor.  I was worse off than when I got there, but I needed to leave now more than ever.

Here came the groan. I heard her stretch and moan in pain for the curtain.  She ripped it back and then I had to look at her sagging tits again hanging out the sides of her hospital gown and she thrusted a pencil at me with a menu that had a piece of macaroni and cheese on it.  “Write your address on the back.”

THINK MAN, THINK.

WhatnameshouldigiveherwhatnumbercanImakeupcanIgiveherafalseemailaddressbut shewillknowshewillknowandsheknowswhoiambecausethedrsmadeabigdealoutofmebeingaperformer

andwhensheheardthatshefreakedoutandtalkedandtalkedandralkedaboutcomingtoseemeeperformand

whatnumbershouldigiveherifilieshewillstalkmeandcometoashowandkillmeafterwards

I gave her my name.  I gave her my address and my phone number.  I even gave her my email address.  The good one.  Because I had nothing left.

I am home now.  Every time the phone rings, I do a Voxx check.  She hasn’t called. Which…is sad.

And I really hope she is okay.

But I really, really, really need to start taking vitamins so I NEVER end up in the hospital again.

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