Monday, June 6, 2016

How To Properly Visit a Prison

It occurred to me that since we never know what life will bring, some of you could end up visiting a loved one in prison.
And you will freak the hell out.
Just listen to me and it won't be all that traumatic. I mean, you're visiting a prison, for God's sake, so you WILL be traumatized to some degree, but my words will make it a bit easier for you.
Ladies, the most important things to remember are to wear your prison bra, to wear good underwear, and to have an entire change of clothes in your car. I will return to this advice momentarily.
About two months prior to your prison visit, start working on your cardio. This is absolutely necessary because your loved one will want his 35-pound food box.
Oh, that's no big deal, you say? Well, HAHAHA, the joke's on you, because you have to park your car in the "visitors' parking," which is ALWAYS on the other side of hell. That means that you have to carry a 35-pound box with its corners jamming you in the ribs all the way from the far end of the parking lot and into the prison. You will put it down on the ground several times so you don't die from the broken rib that has punctured your lung.
Let Melissa help you here. JUST KICK THE BOX ALL THE WAY FROM YOUR CAR TO THE PRISON'S ENTRANCE. When your loved one sees the banged up box, just lie and say the guards must have done it.
When you actually get inside the prison and fill out the appropriate paperwork, you will sit alongside the filthiest, scariest looking people on earth. You will contract tuberculosis or E-bola just from breathing the air they breathe. Still, TOUCH NOTHING.
Every few minutes the guard will say over the loudspeaker, "Shuqilmeraqueu." Somehow, everyone will recognize that as the last name of the person he or she is visiting.
When you recognize that as your name, the real fun begins. The guards will tell you that something you are wearing is not permissible in the visiting room, despite the fact that it is on the facility's list of approved items. Don't panic! Remember, you have an entire change of clothing in the car!
When you return from your car, you will walk up to the metal detector and put all your jewelry, your belt, ID, money and SHOES into a box to be searched.
At this point, you will be barefoot, and you will have to walk on the filthy, disgusting floor through the metal detector.
If you are not wearing a prison bra, you will set off the metal detector. You then will be ordered to go into the restroom, remove your bra, come out with the girls just flopping all over, and walk through the metal detector again.
The whole bra thing can be avoided if you wear a sports bra with no hooks and non-adjustable straps. You can get a pack of three for $5 at Walmart. It is the best investment you will ever make. Trust me. Sometimes, I am so brilliant, I just amaze myself!
In the event that you STILL set off the metal detector, you will be strip-searched. Twice, I have been strip-searched, and both times I thanked the good Lord above that I wasn't wearing my period underwear.
When you finally make it through all that, a guard will put on your hand a stamp that is only visible under ultra-violet light. THEY TAKE THAT STAMP VERY SERIOUSLY!!! You have to show the stamp as you leave the prison, and if it is gone, all hell breaks loose. I know this because, of course, I once washed mine off. The whole place went into immediate lockdown, no one was allowed in or out, and I was detained in a tiny room in a MEN'S FEDERAL PRISON until every single prisoner was eyeballed by the guards. (I had some self-esteem issues after that.)
Do yourself a favor and bookmark this post. Please, trust me here. Forty-four years of experience can't be wrong.

Friday, March 11, 2016

Does Anyone Want This Extra Pretzel?

My precious cousins, Steffanie and Michael, had their long-awaited and much prayed-for, beautiful daughter yesterday!  This is such a big deal to me because SO MUCH of my family sucks, but Steff and Michael don't. They just are genuinely good people.

The only down-side of the experience is that Steff had to have a C-section. I feel bad for Steff because she had a C-section. Well, guess what? I had a C-section as well, and I can't believe how similar our experiences were! Look at what Steff got to eat:
Hmmm, is that a smoothie made with Silk Almond milk, yogurt, peanut butter, and frozen, organic berries? Yes, yes, I think it is. There is just no way I could have eaten all that before I had my C-section, so when the nurse handed me my three pretzels, I could only eat two.
I have not yet spoken to Steff, but when the time came to actually go into the operating room, I'm sure Steff was rolled in a bed or a wheelchair for one of the most important events of her life. Steff, I don't want to make you angry, but I think that was just a little lazy of you. I think you would have been just fine walking down the hall all alone like I had to do while trying to hold the hospital gown over my substantial ass. (For those of you who don't remember, I gained 55 pounds with Emerson.)
I also think you would have been just fine mopping the floor like I did on the way to the operating room. (OK. That didn't really happen.)
However, even though you were rolled and I was walking, I'm sure it also would have been fine if a woman you had never seen before in your life screamed at you at the top of her lungs, "When you get to the end of this hall, make a right and then a quick left." (That actually DID happen.)
And that is so great that Michael got to stay with you the ENTIRE time. It was kind of like that with Danny and me too, except that Danny got to stay with me for approximately 6.5 minutes. (Right here, I was going to make a joke that he got to stay for the birth for the exact amount of time that he stayed for the conception, but I'm way past the point of hating him, and, besides, there are way too many women that can refute me.) Really, though, 6.5 minutes! The ONLY time I needed Danny in 13 years because I was scared to death, and I got him for 6.5 minutes.
So, Steff, I can't wait to meet you! The similarity of our birthing experiences already makes me feel so bonded to you!


Monday, February 29, 2016

No Cake For You!!

"She wants to have her cake and eat it, too."

That. That right there. I absolutely HATE that saying. Whenever I hear it, I just want to shake whoever is saying it. I want to shake her a lot. And I want to shake her really hard and for a really long time. I want to shake her until she needs to be hospitalized for Shaken Moron Syndrome.

That saying is quite possibly the most idiotic sentence in the entire known Universe.  You never hear anyone say, "Hey, that Melissa is great! She wants to have her cake and eat it, too. Melissa is sooooo cool!"

It always has a negative connotation, and that is precisely why it is so idiotic.

Are you ready for this? I'm going to let you in on something that is, apparently, a huge secret:

Eating the cake is the purpose of having the cake!! So, it's not a negative quality in someone. In fact, it's not even positive. It's just the freakin' reason people have cake. Cake is food. You're supposed to eat it!

I don't understand. I really don't. If it's wrong to eat the cake that you have, what in the hell are you supposed to do with it?

I know. The next time I go to the bakery, I'm going to get the best, most scrumptious - looking cake they have. Then, I'm going to take the flower arrangement off the dining room table and put the cake in its place. And we're all just going to look at it. We're going to look at it until it attracts ants. And I'm going to tell my kids that they better not eat any of the cake. If they do, I'm going to beat their asses with a belt because, apparently, it's really, really bad to eat the cake, and it might cause the kids to become juvenile delinquents. They will have zero chance of getting into a good college if they eat a cake that is clearly meant for show.

The next time I'm forced to go to some little kid's birthday party, I'm going to say that, yes, I do want a piece of the birthday cake. Then, I'm just going to look at it sitting on the stupid Transformers paper plate sitting on the matching Transformers paper tablecloth that some kid has already ruined by spilling his juice all over it. I will NOT eat that cake.

I happen to have fantastic hearing, so I have no doubt that I will overhear the birthday boy's mother say to another mother, "What the hell is wrong with Melissa? I swear to you, she said she wanted to have a piece of cake, and then this crazy bitch just sat there and looked at it. Seriously, she didn't have a single bite of it; she didn't even lick off the frosting that accidentally got on her finger. If she didn't want the cake, she should have just said so when I asked her. Maybe she didn't take her anti-depressant today or something, because, I'm telling you, what she did was some crazy shit."

And I'm sure my feelings will be hurt by what they say, but I'm just trying to be a good human being.

Why are people even allowed to have children if they don't know how wrong it is actually eat the cake you have??

My kids are definitely not allowed to play with their kids anymore. You can't be too careful when it comes to your children.

Saturday, September 29, 2012

At Least I Wasn't Commando

Well, I really outdid myself today.

If you're from Poland, Ohio, you can stop reading now.  You either saw my misfortune, or you already have heard the folklore that surrounds my misfortune.

Anyway, you know that tie at the waistband of sweatpants?  Admittedly, I'm not a sweatpants kinda girl, so I always thought the tie was merely decorative.


It turns out that the tie is a necessity that holds up your pants.  Who knew?

I saw that the tie was missing when I decided to wear the sweatpants to Emerson's soccer game, but I didn't care because my shirt was just long enough to cover the waistband, so the missing ornamentation of the tie would be undetectable.

Oh, how we live and learn!

I drove to the soccer game still in my state of blissful ignorance. 

Then we had to get out of the car and walk down the LOOOONG, one-way road to the soccer fields.  The lightbulb started flickering in my head.

I noticed the extra fabric in my crotch area at about the same time I felt the wind on my lower back. 

I had my Diet Pepsi in one hand, so that left only one hand to deal with the impending indecent exposure.  I grabbed the pants at one hip with my free hand, but I was walking, so that movement caused the pants to fall down around the other hip.

I was limping like I was just getting used to a new leg prosthesis, which is what must have caught Emerson's attention.  She looked at me and screamed,  "Mom, everyone in all the cars behind us can see your underwear!"

I turned to look at the horror, and there were, indeed, cars behind us as far as the eye could see.  Of course.

Finally, with Emerson crying from embarrassment, we made it to her field and she started her game.  I put down my Diet Pepsi and stood there, like a crazy lady, holding up my pants.

I did a pretty good job for awhile, but damn my kid for being good at soccer!  She was on offense and the ball was right in front of her.  She was kicking it like a madwoman down the field, and I started screaming.

And then it happened.

I cheered and let go of my pants.

I stood there in horror as everyone at an eight year-old's soccer game watched my pants fall to my knees.  Literally.

Thank God my underwear was from Victoria's Secret. 

Unfortunately, they were thongs.

Friday, September 28, 2012

Greek Life

So, when last we spoke nearly a year ago, I had died.

Allow me to catch you up on my life since then:  I accepted a new job, blah, blah, blah, I resigned from said new job.  Trust me, there is sooooo much contained in the "blah, blah, blah," that I could--and would--tell you about, but Danny would kill me. 

That means I'm a stay-at-home-mom again, and I totally suck at it, just like I knew I would.  Add sahm-ing to my list of non-talents.  There's no glitter-glue around here, not one piece of macaroni has been glued on anything, and the number of nature walks/picnics we've enjoyed?  Zero.

Somehow, I've managed to keep everyone alive, though.  Delaney is easy because she's at college; Emerson learned how to work the microwave; and Danny has become quite familiar with the Burger King drive-thru. 

My mother is still living at the nursing home, and every once in awhile I get a phone call informing me that she's making out with another Resident.  She's on the clock, though.  There is absolutely nothing physically wrong with her, so her demise is nowhere in sight.  Normally, that would be a good thing.  However, my father is getting out of prison in 4-1/2 years, and I'm not living with both of them again.  I tried that once, and it resulted in my marrying at 18 to get away from them.

Unfortunately, if I have to live with both of them again, someone's getting a pillow over the face.  I've actually thought this out:  My father, even at 81, could, I'm sure, overpower me; so, it looks like my mother will have to be the one to go.  Sorry, Mom, but you kind of deserve it for making me wear shoes with alligators on them on the first day of fourth grade.

So, what, you may ask, do I do all day? 

Nothing.  Abso-freakin-lutely nothing.  Except Facebook.  I need rehab for that one.

In fact, when Danny left this morning, he looked at me sitting on the couch and holding the computer, and said,  "What are you going to do today?"

I eyed up the couch and the computer and said,  "You're pretty much looking at it."

He then informed me, in his best supportive husband voice,  "Well, just so you know, this place is starting to look like a frat house."

That's encouraging to me:  better a frat house than a crack house anyday.

Friday, November 18, 2011

My Obituary

Melissa Dawn Dinsio-Miller died today from the funk that had been in her lungs since May, and the thought of getting a seven year-old ready for school simply overwhelmed her.

Melissa was born on August 23, 1968 in Youngstown, Ohio, to Amil and Linda Mulligan-Dinsio.  She was their favorite child, which was really great during the younger years of Melissa's life because her parents never made her do anything.  Unfortunately, though, being the favorite child came back to bite Melissa in the arse because she ended up taking care of her mother with Alzheimer's.  Of course, Melissa died only ten days after putting her mother in a nursing home.  That is the kind of luck she always had.

Surviving Melissa is her husband, Danny Dinsio-Miller, whom Melissa repeatedly married.  She just couldn't quit.  It was the weirdest thing.

Also surviving Melissa are her two daughters, Delaney and Emerson.  Delaney is a freshman in college and is quite wrapped up in her own life there.  She has always been a wonderful daughter, and will attend her mother's funeral if a sorority event does not conflict with it.  But Melissa would understand, because Delaney gets fined if she misses sorority events, and that's just a ridiculous rule.

Emerson is devastated at the loss of her mother, but she will get over it.  Soon, she will be calling another woman "Mom" and Melissa will become a vague memory.  Melissa will be okay with that, too, because that's just the way she rolled.  Melissa was really kind of cool that way.

Melissa is also survived by her sisters, Deborah and Amie.  They were surprised at Melissa's death because everyone just assumed Debbie would die first.  She was the oldest and the sickest, so it really should have been her.

Miraculously, Melissa earned a B.S.Ed. and a J.D.  She rarely attended the classes or bought the books for them.  The only way she got through law school is by becoming close friends with the three smartest people in the class.  Later in her life, Melissa became a Licensed Nursing Home Administrator, which was her true calling in life.  Too bad she didn't work at it very long, but, hey, that's just the way the mop flops (as her mother was fond of saying).

Overall, Melissa's life was kind of boring. She hated to travel and she had no bucket list.  None.  Pathetic, really.

Melissa's casket will be closed because Amie will look at her face and determine that Melissa should've had Juvederm and Botox injections, and no one should really see her face in its present condition.

Melissa's mother will not be attending the funeral because it will be too annoying for everyone to say every thirty seconds, "Melissa.  Your daughter.  She's the one in the box."  Her father will not attend the funeral either because he is in prison in New York, and the authorities will not transport inmates across state lines for funerals.  Even for those of their favorite children. 

Despite how boring Melissa's life was, she enjoyed it.  She loved her family and friends, and she saw the humor in everything.  She was also addicted to Facebook, and someone really should have staged an intervention for that problem.

Melissa is not upset about her death at all.  She was a Mormon, and had absolutely no doubt about what is on the other side of the veil.  Currently, she is enjoying a beautiful reunion with family and friends who passed before her.

Interment will be in Jacksonville City Cemetery in Jacksonville, Alabama, even though she hates her cemetery plot.  It is right up against the fence of a stranger's backyard.  But that's what you get when you send your glass-eyed cousin, Grady, to find you a cemetery plot.  Lesson learned.

Melissa's death is senseless, really.  The whole thing could have been avoided if today were Saturday and she didn't have to get a seven year-old ready for school.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Trust Me

Just some things for you to think about:

1.  When you are stopped for a DUI, DWI, OVI, or whatever your state calls it, try not to literally sh*t yourself while doing the field sobriety tests.  When the officer looks down and sees the contents of your colon (nice alliteration) running out of your pants and onto your shoes, it's a pretty safe bet that you'll be arrested.  But that's not your only problem.  The officers then fight over who has to put your smelly, poop-covered body into whose cruiser.  That makes them hate you.  Then, when you go to court for your DUI, you get labeled "Poopy Pants" and no one wants to listen to the half-assed defense I have to come up with for someone who sh*t his pants.  And that makes me hate you.

2.  Do NOT urinate in the backseat of the cruiser.  Admittedly, urine is slightly better than poop, but TRUST ME, when you get to court, no one will know your name; you simply will be referred to as "The Assh*le Who Pissed Himself."  That does not make my job any easier and, again, that makes me hate you.

3.  Look, we all know Troopers look gay in their hats.  They know they look gay in their hats.  Gay-looking Trooper hats are just a part of life that we have to accept.  So, when you tell the Trooper that his hat looks gay, you strike a quite unpleasant chord in him because, as I said, HE ALREADY KNOWS HE LOOKS GAY.  You, my friend, are going to jail, drunk or not.

4.  A cruiser is NEVER the appropriate place to masturbate, especially if you are unattractive.  'Nuff said there.

5.  Do not tell the officer that you are going to beat his *ss.  Really.  You smell like a brewery, you can't stand up straight and you have bodily waste on your clothes.  You're no match for the guy with the taser and the Glock who is wearing clean clothes and is sober enough to stand on one foot.  And, of course, you will become someone that I hate.  And you will do alot more jail time than the significantly smarter drunk that didn't threaten the cop.  It's a simple concept, really.

With that, I hope I've helped to make your next DUI traffic stop go more smoothly.