Sunday, January 25, 2009

Of Sailors and Roosters

I think it already has been firmly established that I am quite immature, and now that I'm not constrained by Sue's cleanliness, I can talk about something that really amuses me.

So here goes: I will fall in the floor laughing until tears are rolling down my face at any name that can have a sexual implication or is "dirty" sounding in any way. There, I've said it, and I AM NOT ASHAMED (although I'm well aware that I should be.)

And this is something that everyone knows about me. Racitay (she values her anonymity so I have disguised her name), a good friend of mine with whom I work, occasionally warns me of the names of some of our clients in hopes that I will refrain from hysterical public laughter. "Okay, Melissa, we have a Johnson and a Ball today. Can you handle it?"

", shouldn't there be two Balls with the Johnson?" And then I giggle and giggle and giggle, just like I'm a teenager.

Actually, I'm probably more immature than a teenager because my fifteen year-old daughter gets absolutely disgusted by this behavior of mine. She can't stand it that I have to practice before I call the pediatrician's office and say the doctor's name. I am not kidding you here; there is no way I could ever call and say,"I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Cox," without fits of laughter if I didn't practice it first. Whenever my daughter witnesses this event, she gets that I-so-can't-believe-this-is-my-mother-look on her face and says, "God, Mom, how old ARE you?" as she stomps away from me.

I once had a friend whose last name was Seaman and he suffered relentless torture every day of his life (not from me...I have enough couth to make fun of someone's name behind his back) because of that name. Why, I ask you, would anyone give that name to a child? If that is your last name and you somehow manage to carry on through life with that name, then for the love of all that is holy, have the decency not to procreate!! Or at least give the child some other last name. Really, isn't that just the right thing to do?

Listen to this one. I knew a girl whose last name was Simon, but her parents chose to pronounce it "Seaman."

What??? Now that's just child abuse. If your name is spelled Simon and you have a daughter, pronounce it the common way, let some junior high student make up a limerick rhyming it with the body part associated with virginity (I'm trying to be classy in my posts), and let her move on with her life.

Jeez, I don't know what ever happened to the Simon/Seaman girl, but it wouldn't surprise me if she married the first man she ever dated, even someone named Cox or Ball, just to get rid of that name.

And I won't even get started on people who name their sons Dick.

Now before you go off thinking that it's terrible of me to be so cruel and immature about someone's name, just know that I have EARNED the right to make fun of someone's name.

My mother always said that before she named me Melissa, she made sure it was a name from which no nasty nickname could be derived. That was very important to her.

Oh, really, Mom?

Nice job.

Did it never cross your mind, Mom, that "Melissa" might become "Missy"...

and that "Missy" might become "MISSY PISSY" for at least forty consecutive years????

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Woof! Woof!

I'm so thrilled to be participating in Sue's blog carnival (even though Sue completely ignores me and my love for her)!

I thought Sue's stringent rules for the carnival would preclude my participation because Sue required that the post be about something that amuses me, and that the post be "clean."

And that combination was my problem.

A post about something that amuses me? No problem.

A clean post? I can do that too!

But I can't do them together. Nothing that amuses me is clean! Seriously! I even asked my friends and family if they could think of anything clean that amuses me, and no one could come up with anything.

Not a single thing!

(This is where I want to start telling you about all the unclean things they came up with that amuse me on a regular basis--and there are many--but I need to show respect for Sue. Dang that Sue! Look, I even said "Dang" for the first time since I was five.)

I had resigned myself to being a mere spectator at Sue's carnival, but then I went to the grocery store and cast my eyes upon the most wonderfully amusing thing I had ever seen! And it's clean!

But my amusing story does not begin at the grocery store. It begins in my seventh grade world geography class twenty-eight years ago.

I was twelve years old, and I was going through what other people like to call "that awkward stage." I, however, knew it was much more than awkward. And if you don't believe me, here's proof in the form of my seventh grade school picture that my family members (who mistakenly believe that they are really funny) have displayed at every important event of my life for nearly three decades:

Ooooh, Baby!

But it was much worse than the picture actually shows. On that particular day I was wearing Collection Brand stretch blue jeans purchased at Montgomery Ward (keep in mind that this was the era of the skin-tight Jordache), and brown earth shoes.

I know that I was wearing those jeans and those shoes because I wore them EVERY SINGLE DAY of my seventh grade existence. (Just for clarification, I had several pairs of identical jeans--I wasn't that gross!)

Okay, so maybe I wasn't that girl we all remember that smelled like urine, but I was totally uncool, to say the least.

Anyway, Satan's spawn, a.k.a. Shelley sat right behind me in world geography, and believe me when I tell you that she was the original Mean Girl. She constantly made fun of my hair and my weight and my brown earth shoes (like her blue duck shoes were any better). I hated her and I hated world geography because of her.(Incidentally,I have no idea what countries correspond with the red dots on the Feedjit map on my sidebar. I'm pretty sure about the United States, but the rest are shrouded in mystery. And it's all because of HER!)

So imagine my surprise one day when I walked into geography class and saw that she had put a note on my desk that said, "You're a saint!"

How nice! "Maybe Shelley actually likes me!" I thought hopefully (and pathetically).

Then I noticed the little, tiny arrow at the bottom of the page indicating that I should turn over the paper.

I did as instructed, and saw a single word: Bernard!

Saint Bernard!

"You're a Saint Bernard!"

(Just so you know, that is not the amusing part of this post.)

In retrospect, I can't really argue with Shelley's assessment of me, but, still, is that not the cruelest thing you ever heard in your life? I was crushed. (However, I did feel a little better when my mother responded to my recitation of that day's events by saying, "Shelley said that to you? But Shelley has a pig nose!")

So fast forward to January 21, 2009. I can't say that I've gone 28 years without thinking about Shelley and her Mean Girl note (how could I, with my family telling the story in fits of hysterical laughter every chance they got), but I really thought that my adult super coolness had made Shelley an emotional non-issue in my life.

Wrong again!

I discovered just how wrong I was this week when I came face-to-face with Shelley in the grocery store in the--wait for it--dog food aisle! I am not even kidding you, she was standing there looking at dog food!

Oh my, how times have changed! In case you've ever wondered about this, I'll just let you know that 28 years, many, many pounds, overprocessed hair, and sun damaged skin do nothing to change a pig nose.

I could get really nasty right now and say that I'm not sure if the dog food was for her pet or for her, but that would be too seventh grade-ish.

Let's just say that I'm fairly confident churches named "Saint Shelley's" will be dotting the globe in the not-so-distant future.

And that amuses me more than you will ever know!


Wednesday, January 21, 2009

An Open Letter Of Apology

Dear Speech Team Officials,

I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for my behavior during my daughter's Speech Team competition last weekend.

When you asked me to participate as one of the judges in that competition, I am sure you did not expect a 40 year-old, professional woman to behave the way I did.

I truly appreciate that you donate your time and effort to coach students, and I know I should not have commented, apparently to parents with no sense of humor, that some of you must have been shoved in lockers every single day when you were in high school. I just meant that I hope all of you had more sense than to use those strange "speechy" voices and gestures around your cruel, teen-aged peers.

I also know it was inappropriate for me to giggle loudly when you announced that one of the teams was from Licking County. In my defense, though, a county named Licking is just plain funny. I think I deserve a break on that one because, after all, I'm not the one who named Licking County. And why did they stop at Licking County? Why not a Sucking County also? I realize I'm straying a bit from my intended apology, but I think you see my point here.

Additionally, please forgive me for pretending that I didn't hear you call my name when I left between rounds to get my nails done. The salon was only a couple blocks away and, quite frankly, I thought it was a joke when you announced that the judges weren't allowed to leave the building in case of a "speech emergency." I realize now that everything at a speech competition is serious, and I'm just thankful that during my absence no one suddenly went mute and needed the benefit of my experience as a divorce attorney to restore his voice.

Further, I want to express my gratitude that when you chastised me upon my arrival from the nail salon, you did not give me the detention I suggested you give me. My Saturdays are very full and it would be most inconvenient for me to serve a detention.

I would be most appreciative if you did not penalize my daughter who works so hard at this activity. It really was not her fault. She has known me for 15 years, and that is precisely why she asked you not to have me judge the competition. She did warn you, and you refused to listen to her. I don't think she should be punished for our mistakes.

In closing, I ask you to please accept my sincerest apologies for my conduct, and to please ignore the fact that as I apologize, I have my fingers crossed behind my back.

Very truly yours,
You Know Who

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Of Transvestites And Equal Time

Drama. That's what it's all about with teenage girls.

Everything is a HUGE deal to them, and my daughter is no exception.

"You went to the mall and you bought the baby way more clothes than you bought me!"

"You told the baby four times today that you love her, but you only said it to me three times!"

"You blogged about the baby embarrassing you by saying v*gina, but I've said lots of embarrassing stuff and you didn't blog about that!"

Now, I really try to be a good mother. I try not to show one of my daughters partiality over the other, but apparently I have failed (once again) in this regard. My daughter was absolutely correct; she has embarrassed me beyond measure with talk in public about genitals, and I was remiss in not sharing them with the world (a.k.a. the twenty of you that read this blog).

So, in an effort to diminish that special brand of household tension that is caused only by a teenage girl who feels slighted, I will attempt to rectify my mistake.

Picture it. May 2003, the elementary school auditorium. The room was filled with fourth grade girls and their mothers gathered together for "the talk" given by the school nurse. My daughter was so excited at the thought of finally becoming a "woman" as the school nurse discussed the various physical changes that would accompany her impending puberty.

I, on the other hand, was so uncomfortable I wanted to puke. I'm quite immature that way. I do not want to think about my daughters having breasts and menstrual flows and pubic hair. I know it's all natural, and I'm supposed to create bonding moments with my daughters during discussions of tampons and douches, but that's not the way I roll. The whole thing is gross when it comes to my daughters, and I don't want to know nuthin' about nuthin'.

Anyway, the school nurse passed out slips of paper and told the girls to anonymously write down any questions that they had and she would answer them. The girls took a few minutes to write their questions and the nurse collected the papers.

The VERY FIRST question the nurse read was, "Why do girls grow hair on their uterus?"

There was dead silence in the room and the "What the...huh?" feeling was still hanging in the air when my daughter raised her hand and proudly exclaimed, "THAT'S MY QUESTION!"

Instinctively, I grabbed her arm, pulled it down, and said, "Shut up! Don't EVER tell ANYONE that's YOUR question!"

I know what you're thinking: bad parenting. I should have supported her and told her there are no stupid questions. And I definitely never should have told her to shut up.

But don't you DARE judge me until YOUR kid asks in front of 100 people why girls GROW HAIR on their UTERUS! HAIR ON THEIR UTERUS! If you somehow manage to live through the embarrassment, then you can talk to me about my parenting skills!

But that is nothing compared to what she did a few years earlier in the fitting room of Macy's. It was Christmastime and the place was packed--packed, I tell you. It was one of those days where there are so many people that you have to stand in line for 15 minutes just to get into a fitting room to try on clothes that you don't really want to try on anyway because of your horrible body image.

But I digress.

My daughter and I waited patiently and finally got into a fitting room. I took off my clothes and stood there in only my bra and pantyhose. Now, I don't wear underwear with pantyhose because it's uncomfortable, and it's just redundant. I mean, they have panties sewn into them, hence the name pantyhose. Unfortunately, the panties in the pantyhose are sheer. Apparently, the sight of my naked lower half horrified my daughter because she yelled, in a fitting room crammed with people, "MOM, I CAN SEE YOUR P*NIS!"

Holy crap! I didn't know what to do! My first instinct was to cover up my p*nis and run out of there. Instead, I waited in that little, tiny room until I thought most of the people in there had gone.

Despite my efforts to get out of Macy's with some dignity intact, I'm certain that word of the woman with the p*nis circulated throughout the store. When I walked out of that fitting room, I swear to you, dozens of people were gathered and I watched their eyes shift downward and try to check out my "package."

So, my dear teenage daughter, I love you just as much as I love your little sister, and I consider you equally embarrassing.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Get Ready For The Shock Of Your Life

Okay, listen to this! You are never going to believe what happened today!

My friend told me that my blog is boring!

Boring! My blog!

In the interest of preserving my friend's anonymity (thereby saving him from the volumes of hate mail he would undoubtedly receive from my public), I'll just call him... Ohnjay Owlerfay.

So, not only did Ohnjay say my blog is boring, but he also stuck his finger in his mouth and made the universal sign of gagging! The universal sign of gagging!

Hold on, it gets worse: Ohnjay said I should change the name of my blog to...!!

Ohnjay must be out of his mind!

Obviously, he missed the riveting post about my husband and daughter fighting over shampoo. And the one about the nurse commenting on my weight gain. Oh, and what about the hilarious stories of my daughter yelling "v*gina" in public? It doesn't get any better than that!

Pure literary genius! All of them!

And certainly not boring! In fact, they're the antithesis of boring!

So, Blogosphere, please help a girl out. Leave me a little, tiny comment letting Ohnjay know that my blog rocks so I can shove it under his boring nose!

(And if you do think it's boring, don't tell me because I can't handle it!!! Seriously.)

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

The Last Ten Minutes Of My Life

My bedroom doubles as my office. (OK, that sounds really bad. I'm not in THAT kind of business, for those of you with dirty minds. Or was I the only one with a dirty mind?)

Allow me to explain: I prop myself up on my bed with two pillows behind my back, rest my laptop on my Indian-style (should that be Native-American--I can't keep up with the PC anymore) folded legs, and develop what will undoubtedly become a finalist in the 2009 Weblog Awards. (Cjane is running scared. She's a cool one, though. She plays it off like she's all concerned about Autoblog when really it's the thought of ol' Grady next year that's keeping her awake nights.)

And I do this without bothering anybody; I completely mind my own business while I work.

So, why, for the love of all that is holy, does everyone have to bring their issues into my office???

Husband (talking to Daughter who is inexplicably in my bedroom): "Why is shampoo on your shopping list?"

Daughter (with a "You're an idiot" tone in her voice): "Because we need it."

Husband (with an "I'm not amused" tone in his voice): "Don't we already have a bottle of shampoo in the bathroom?"

Me: "Hello! In case you've both suddenly gone blind, I'm doing something here!"

Daughter (who is apparently not only blind, but also is deaf): "No. We don't have shampoo. We just have that Tea Tree shampoo stuff Mom likes."

Husband (after taking a deep breath): "So then the answer is yes, we do have shampoo?"

Daughter: "No, we just have Tea Tree."

Me (having been down similar roads many times in the past): "Can you two do this somewhere else, please?"

Husband (who apparently also has gone deaf): "So then we do have shampoo! Tea Tree IS shampoo, right?"

Daughter (in that ever-so-special teenage girl way): " Well, I guess--if you want to get technical about it."

Me (obviously in a frequency only dogs can hear): "Seriously, you two need to leave, NOW!"

Husband (losing it): "Technical? How is that technical? Does the bottle say 'shampoo' or not?"

Daughter: (clearly wanting the last word more than life itself): "I don't know what the bottle actually says, but it should say 'crap'."

Me (with that demonic, Linda Blair-ish edge to my voice): "GET OUT! GET OUT NOW!"

Then my head spun all the way around on my neck and they FINALLY LEFT MY OFFICE!

Monday, January 12, 2009

No Pee-Pees Here

We were filling out our 4 year-old's pre-school entrance forms and we got to the question, "Does your child have any behaviors that we should know about?" Our eyes met and the heaviness of the air was palpable as we contemplated our response.

Finally, I said it: "Should we tell them that she likes to say 'v*gina'--a lot, and really loud?"

My husband made the decision for us: "No, let them find out on their own."

And find out on their own, they most definitely will. No doubt about that.

'V*gina' has become her favorite word and she uses it indiscriminately, to the sheer mortification of her parents.

Consider what happened on observation day at gymnastics class. Forty or so nice, respectable parents were lined up against the walls gleefully watching their precious angels perform, when all of the sudden, my little darling shouted at the top of her lungs to me from the exact opposite corner of the room, "ALL OF THESE EXERCISES ARE REALLY MAKING MY V*GINA HURT!!!"

For a few seconds I tried to pretend she wasn't my child, but then I remembered that most of those people saw me walk in with her (because we were late--my husband always makes us late--darn him for making us late--I maybe could've salvaged some dignity if he hadn't made us late).

Doesn't she just look like she's in pain?

Then there was the time at softball practice when she was standing next to my husband as he was talking to the other coaches. One of them unwittingly asked her, "And how are you today?" She proudly explained, "I know the rules for touching v*ginas. No one should ever, ever touch your v*gina, but you can touch your own v*gina, but only in private."

But my absolute favorite was when we were in Sacrament meeting (for the non-Mormons, that's the regular church service) and she literally yelled, "I NEED A DRINK OF WATER BECAUSE MY V*GINA HURTS!" Oh! My! Gosh! All those kids who scream and run around and throw Cheerios during church are nothing compared to my kid! You really can't imagine the courage that it takes for us to show up there every Sunday after that!

And, of course, all of it is MY fault because I "taught her that word in the first place!"

Should I just have taught her "pee-pee" instead?

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Alzheimer's is Fun, Volume 2

Add this to the list of things you never want to do in your life: search your mother's adult diaper for food.

I guess I should clarify: I don't mean for food for you to eat (which would surpass even the grossness of the plight of the Donner party); I mean for food that she has hidden in her Depends for her to eat because she doesn't like it that you insist she eat only in the kitchen.

My mother has resorted to such subterfuge because she refuses to be victimized by me, someone who doubts her explanation that the rotten bananas (and the accompanying fruitflies) hidden under her bed were spontaneously generated there.

Just so you know, few things will pit a husband and wife against each other more fiercely than the assignment of searching an adult diaper.

Shouldn't the rule be that the one who witnessed the alleged concealment has to search the Depends?

Apparently not, because the one who emerged into the world from the area covered by the Depends in question ended up doing it.

By the way, you probably think that it can't be that hard to catch up to a seventy-one year-old woman with Alzheimer's and two hip replacements running through your house. Think again.

Do not ever doubt that any woman of any age with any physical impairment will run REALLY FAST to protect the chocolate in her pants.

Thursday, January 1, 2009

I Hung Out With A Rock Star

Melissa, Floyd, Sharon, Rebecca, and the missionaries.

Danny with the president, vice-president, treasurer, and secretary of his fan club.

What a New Year's Eve we had!

We started out the night by going to dinner with our SO cool friends Floyd and Sharon, their daughter, Rebecca, and the missionaries from our church. We enjoyed good food, great conversation, and about a hundred bajillion laughs. Did I mention that they are SO cool?

And that's why, when we went our separate ways in the parking lot of the Tuscany Square Ristorante, I was truly sad when I stated the obvious to my husband: We scared them and they're never hanging out with us again. I think we're just too weird.

(My husband maintains that I'm the weird one, but trust me, it's a collaborative thing.)

(Just give us one more chance! We'll be better next time, we promise!)

After that, we were off to a party hosted by our close-like-a-brother-you-like friend, T.J. If you thought we were weird, Floyd and Sharon, you should have seen the people at that party. It wasn't the people themselves, actually; it was just the way they treated my husband. They acted like they had been graced with the presence of a god! Or a folk hero, at the very least! I mean, I love the guy, but the way they fawned over him was absolutely crazy!

And I don't mean crazy in a wow-that's-a -little-odd sort of way; I mean it in a you-should-really-see-a-professional-about-that sort of way.

I am not even kidding you, when we walked in the front door, I could hear people yelling, "Danny's here! Danny's here!" I had to move out of the way so I didn't get trampled by the masses running up to greet him.

Then I was regaled with stories about how funny, witty, and clever he is. When one told of a favorite Danny incident, another spoke up and said, "But my favorite is the time Danny..."

Apparantly, it's hysterical how Danny says, "Victor niiine four. The po-lice have left the building." (Yeah, I don't get it either.)

On and on it went. For two-and-a-half hours they praised him! Someone even kissed his ring! (Okay, that didn't happen, but if he were wearing a ring, they would've lined up to kiss it.) The hero worship was ridiculous, and at exactly 12:01, I gathered our coats.