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.

Friday, September 30, 2011

More From Court

I think that some things go without saying, but apparently I am wrong.  So listen up, folks:

If a man chokes you to the point that you defecate and then he takes it and smears it all over your body, you don't have to stay with him because he has cable.  EVERYONE has cable.  Certainly, you can find someone that won't smear poop all over your body in exchange for the privilege of watching his HBO.  And, for the love of all that is holy, DO NOT tell the police that his cable is the reason you stay with him.  Comments like that just end up on blogs like this one.

Fyi--POLICE CARS ARE WIRED FOR SOUND.  If you are ever in the backseat of a cruiser, DO NOT say anything like, "I told you to put the drugs up your p*ssy!"  And NEVER say, "Tell them you got the drugs from a drug dealer--some other drug dealer, not me."  You pretty much have no defense at that point.

When you beat your girlfriend/wife and you appear for court, DO NOT yell at her, for EVERYONE in the court to hear, that she better change or story or you will f*ck her up.  Again, you have made sure that you have no defense.

And this may come as a shock to you, but your public defender is a REAL attorney.  You don't get out of your last two periods of high school to go to your job as a public defender.  You actually have to have an undergraduate degree AND go to law school, AND pass the bar exam to be a public defender.  When you tell your public defender that you want a REAL attorney, you accomplish two things:  you confirm that you are, in fact, a moron; and you make your public defender secretly wish that you get the death penalty for shoplifting.

Now that we have all that straight, carry on with your day, hopefully a little more informed.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

More Of What I Learned In Court

I like to keep you all informed, just in case you ever wind up in court or, worse yet, the slammer.  So this is what I learned this week while carrying out my duties as a public defender:

If a drunken brawl breaks out at your house on your birthday, try to refrain from throwing your birthday cake, candles and all, at the police car that responds to your neighbors' request to quiet down the trash that lives next door to them.  And then don't get mad when you're charged with disorderly conduct, idiot.

Do not EVER write in a police report that you only let your boyfriend/pimp have a certain type of sex with you on New Year's Eve and the Fourth of July.  That is WAY TMI, and, trust me, the police report will get passed around to everyone who walks into the courthouse.  Aside from that, it's just not very classy, even for a prostitute.

No matter how angry you are, do not smear your own feces on the wall of the holding cell.  You are the one that has to stay in it and admire your artwork.  Moron.

Try really hard not to scream "F*** you!" over and over again at the judge, prosecutor, bailiff, secretary, and anyone else in the courtroom.  You can be held in contempt of court for a long time.  Then again, if you're in court on bank robbery charges, contempt of court is probably the least of your worries.

Finally, on a personal note, tell your public defender that you bathed IN THE TOILET that morning BEFORE she shakes your hand!
____________________________
Thank you so much for all my sweet birthday cards!  I felt so loved!

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Payless Is Great

Can you actually hack up a lung?  I've heard that expression, but I never saw it happen, or met anyone to whom it has happened.  If it is possible to hack up a lung, BE WARNED: I THINK MINE IS COMING WITHIN THE NEXT 24 HOURS. I would advise you not to stand in front of me, especially in your good clothes.

Even if you choose not to heed my warning, I promise, I'll find you a great pair of shoes that match lung.

So, I'm still sick. The doctor said I have asthma, bronchitis (Danny didn't think I would really tell the doctor that I've been using eleven year-old Biaxin to treat it), and pan sinusitis.  I figured I had all those diseases and disorders; I mean any hypochondriac worth her weight in salt has all that diagnosed before she walks into the doctor's office. 

But listen to this shiznit:  HE THINKS I MAY HAVE A HEART CONDITION!!!!   That kind of information can send a hypochondriac to an early grave.  Okay, I have to write the obligatory letters to my children, husband, parents and sisters.  I have to clean my house (not happening, but it feels like I have to at least write it), choose my funeral, get a mani/pedi, and have my hair styled and colored.  I also have to find bone marrow donors.    

The most important thing I need to do is write a post to my Internet family letting them know how much I love them.

Sheesh.  Is someone with a heart condition supposed to work that hard?

The doctor interrupted my mental-list-making by explaining that he thinks I might have mitral valve prolapse, which is relatively benign in females, and that it is regurgitating my blood in the heart.  (Yes, I do have  blood, and sometimes it's even warm.)

So I did the only reasonable thing:  I called my sister and cried because I know she has mitral valve prolapse, for which she is medicated. 

As usual she was quite supportive about the matter.

She said, "Dumb ass, you already know you have mitral valve prolapse."

"Huh, what do you mean?"

"Yes, you ass!  You got tested after I did and I remember your results so clearly because when I heard them, I thought, 'Can't I have a single effin' thing this bitch doesn't have also.' "

Well, I have some shopping for lung-colored shoes to do.  Do you prefer Payless or Nordstrom?  (Please say Payless, please say Payless, please say Payless......)

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Please Help Me Get My Ear Back!

The elfin ear depicted in the photo to the right------------> (just in case you're a real idiot like I am and you have to sit there and think about which way is right and which way is left) is gone. 

It wasn't a Van Gogh-esque self-mutilation, and I wasn't attacked in a dark alley for the $.50 and the curiously strong Altoids I carry in my purse.

That ear has always been a family joke because it is a wee bit elfin-shaped.  Until this year, I would never wear a ponytail because of it.  Then I decided, "Screw it.  You've got one foot at the crematory and the other on that filthy dirty kitchen floor of yours, so wear a pony tail, for the love of the Son of God," so I did.  And even with my paranoia issues, I didn't feel like anyone was looking at me. (Yet another psychological breakthrough!)

Anyway, I was straightening my hair the other day, and I got to that part of my hair and I tried to be extra careful.  But Beelzebub and Lucifer (my sister and my husband) were in rare form and distracted me, and I burned the elfin part of my ear off.  OFF.  It hurt so much I would rather have a baby come out sideways!  Oh, the humanity!

And all I could think of was how mad my sister was going to be at me.  She LOVES to torment me about that ear.  Hopefully, there will be lots of scar tissue or it will heal worse than it was before and she can still make fun of it.

A girl can pray.

In fact, we all can pray. What are you doing Thursday at about 7 p.m. EST?  What if everyone gets down on their knees and prays for my ear?  That would be so kind of you!  Thank you, in advance.

And if you're a member of one of those chanting religions, you can do it too.  I'm not making fun of your religion; I just don't know the name of it. Oh, hell, I am making fun of your religion.  Let's face it: I'm making fun of my own religion, so yours doesn't get a pass.  But at 7 p.m. EST on Thursday, if you could just repeatedly chant, "Melissa's ear, Melissa's ear,"  I'm sure that would be ever so helpful, and I'm sure all of you, chanters and non-chanters alike, will amass a boatload of heaven points.  I, on the other hand, have most assuredly guaranteed my way into hell with this post.

Oh, well, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to get her ugly ear back.

Saturday, July 2, 2011

Idiocy

My doctor but me on a new medication and I've got idiot, like Scarlett's father in "Gone with the Wind". It doesn't happen when I'm speaking ' only when I'm writin, so I'm writing, so I'm writing this entire post without changing anything.  I want you to see what this drug has done to me.

I soooo wiosh I could tell you everything that's been going on, but too many of the people involved read my blog and I don't have the balls to read handle the after math.  Of course, they're all paranoid, so they will correctly thing it's about them anyway.  Still, no balls.

My older baby graduated and my sister took her Europe.  They went to Denmark, London, Paris, Gaermany, Switzerland and Italy.  ( I wrote some cities and some states because I'm not smart enough to know which cities she talks about go with which countries.  I shoul've paid attention more in high school.  Turns out you really do need it.  Only for a stupid blog, but nonetheless, you really do need it.)

Just to horrify me, I'm sure, they put a video of my sister 9 (really daughter(but I'm not changing anything, remember?) blowing a horn at the Moulin Rouge (soooo coool) on Facebook and titled it "Delaney Blows Swiss Wood".  Yeah, I pretty much wanted to die.

I just found out I'm late for an appoint ment, so I fave to go.
Love you guys so much!!!!
Melissa

Friday, June 24, 2011

Some Friendly Advice

After going to court yesterday, it occurred to me that some of you might need some advice:

First of all, if you are working your way through college at a strip club (because that's the only reason anyone ever works at a strip club) don't be surprised if some drunken man or a drunken co-worker tries to beat the crap out of you.  I'm not saying you deserve it; I'm just saying don't be surprised.  Also, don't be surprised if your co-workers try to steal your cocaine.  Some people just have no morals.

Don't be surprised if your husband or boyfriend is beating you bloody and you are yelling for someone to call the police, and someone does.  So try not to get too hostile with the police that were called at your request, or with the person that honored your request and called them.  Perhaps a more appropriate outlet for your anger would be the douche that was beating you.

When you write a statement at the time of your abusive husband/boyfriend's arrest, please don't change your story when you go to court.  Everyone knows you're lying.  It happens everyday, and it does nothing but make you, your husband/boyfriend, and your husband/boyfriend's public defender look like giant idiots.

If you are going to steal a dozen or so items, try not to leave your wallet in the gym bag with those items.

Try not to call your public defender a bitch.  She really is the only person in the room on your side.

Try not to hug your public defender.  She is being nice, but she really is afraid of the lice she thinks are jumping from your hair to hers.  Give her some peace, please.

Do not ever, ever tell your arresting officer that his hat "looks gay", regardless of how silly it really does look.  You just have to trust me on this one.

Don't ask me for bus fare.  I got burned on that once, and it's not happening again!  

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

I'm Ba-a-ack!

So here's my next report on being a sahm:

Still nothing. Zero. Zip.

I've stayed at home, and I've been a mom, but I've been sooo sick for weeks.  I mean, I've been Black Plague sick.  It's been awful.  I just manged to kinda get my voice back on Thursday.  All I could do for weeks was to go to Delaney and Daniel's graduation and graduation parties (cause I'm just THAT kind of mom).  Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures to show you just yet because I don't know how to work the camera. 

Oh, wait!  Yesterday, I did manage to go to a mandatory cheerleading meeting for Emerson and then spray half a bottle of weed killer on the tall-as-my-knees weeds in my flower beds.  That's a sure sign I'm on the mend.

I kinda don't want to be on the mend, though.  I lost about ten pounds during this little illness, so I'm quite certain I could have the Black Plague everyday and be perfectly happy.

Love,
Melissa

Friday, June 10, 2011

I'll Be Sleeping With The Fishes

Okay, it's time to report back to you about my first week as a sahm.

I have nothing. Zero. Zip.

This was Emerson's last week of school, so I gave her cold cereal for breakfast while in my pajamas, and I didn't have to teach her the wonders of the universe over noon-time lunches, and most nights I fell asleep before she did.  One day I even stayed in my pajamas all day!

So I guess I failed.  Surprised?

Well, I did have one MAJOR Pass that my brain turned into a FAIL.

I managed to dodge the PTA all week!  They wanted me to chaperone a field trip at the zoo, but, darn, I had a doctor's appointment that day.

They wanted me to help out with Field Day, but I had company coming in from out of town.

They wanted me to help with lunch duty, but I had an appointment to take my car into the shop at that precise time!

Can you believe the coincidences?

I just plain wasn't doing any of that.  There was a torrential downpour at the zoo and, well...it kinda smells like animals at the zoo.  Out!

I hated Field Day back when I was a participant, and I can't even imagine what it would be like to re-live that experience.  I would probably suffer PTSD and go kill my old gym teacher, Mr. Austin.

And the cafeteria thing--no way!  The cafeteria lady scares me.  All cafeteria ladies are mean, and this one does nothing but yell, even at the parent helpers.  No way, no how was that happening!  I had enough of the cafeteria lady when I was in school!  These kids are on their own with her!

I was feeling smug and quite proud of my accomplishments until I realized whom I was dealing with:  I WAS MESSING WITH THE P FRIGGIN' T FRIGGIN' A!!!!!!!

Now I'm scared.

Aren't the PTA moms trained by the Mafia, or don't they go to one of those guerrilla warfare camps or something?  I think they try to hide it, but I've heard rumors.  If you get one of them mad, you've had it.  You end up wearing the cement shoes.  The "dues" are actually payment to keep them from breaking your legs if you say no.

And I said no THREE TIMES in one week!

I know I'm waking up tomorrow morning with my cat's head  in my bed.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Gratitude

After telling HolyMama! that I was going to do it, I am stealing her idea for a post (because, as I teach my children, if you're going to steal something, you have to tell the owner first).

So, right here, right now, I am grateful:

for my family, friends, home, health, blah, blah, blah.  Amen.

for the fact that my children are in school and Danny is at work, which gives me the opportunity to neglect my sahm duties in favor of blogging and Bejeweled Blitz.

for my pajamas, which I am still wearing, at 12:37 p.m. EST.

for my other pajamas, which I will put on tonight after my bath, when I finally take off these pajamas.

for my mother, who has not asked me in the last five minutes who I am.

for my mother, who has not asked me in the last five minutes who my father is.  ( I always give her the name Amil Dinsio when she asks that question, but I then explain that she's the only one who knows for sure.  I mean, am I right or am I right?)

for Benadryl.

for the fact that the spider bite on my right butt cheek is going away.  It itched so much.  I can't even explain how much it itched, it was so bad.  It was one of those itches that causes you to look around to see if anyone's watching, then rub up against something to scratch it.  (Stop looking at me like that!  You know you've done it!)

for napkins, because we're out of toilet paper.  (You're looking at me like that again!  Stop it!  You know you've done that one too!)

for Lexapro.

for HolyMama!, who doesn't mind that I steal her stuff.
_________________________________________

Thank you all for your comments about my pictures in my last post.  The result:  I'm still undecided. (Who didn't know that was going to be the result?!)  If I have to get head shots taken by a professional, I will D to the I to the E!  I hate pictures of myself!  But, seriously, some of you said the sweetest things, and I cherish you for it!

Love,
Melissa

Friday, June 3, 2011

Where Is The Craft Aisle?

So, Monday will be my first official day as a stay-at-home-mom. 

I'm thrilled about it, but I'm not exactly sure how it happened.  One minute Danny was the one staying at home, and then the next minute it was me.  I do recall some hormonal churning and crying on my part while blubbering something like, "She's my last baby and I'm missing everything."

I've never done this before, so I've planned out our days together, and this is what I have so far:

I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to get out of bed before she does, take my Lexapro so no one gets killed, and make her something like eggs and toast and get her a glass of milk.  Giving her a bowl full of sugar-infused cereal and telling her to get her own juice box doesn't cut it when you're a SAHM, right?

While she's eating, I think I'm supposed to get some meat out of the freezer for dinner and put it in a crock pot.  Or let it thaw. Or do something with it.

Then I get her dressed, right?  Wait, am I supposed to get dressed before breakfast?  Or do I do it before the meat thing?

Sometime during the eating of the eggs and toast, I put in a load of laundry.

Then I clean something--like the refrigerator--while letting her watch something educational on television.  Educational programming is okay, right?

After I put the load of laundry in the dryer, we go for a walk during which I point out how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly.  (I need to brush up on the wonders of nature by next week.  I'm not really sure how any of that happens.)

Are we supposed to eat lunch on our walk and turn it into a picnic?  Or do we have something nutritious at home after the walk?  (Note to self:  Learn about nutritious lunches ASAP!)

Then we do some craft project that involves popsicle sticks or gluing macaroni onto something. FYI, I am really screwed in this department.  I need to buy LOTS of books about crafts because I HATE them.  (But don't tell anyone that; I think you get stoned to death if you're a SAHM and you hate crafts!)

After the crafty stuff, I should make dinner, or stir what's in the crock pot, or something like that.

How am I doing so far?

Then Danny walks in the door and we all stand around him and sing, "I'm So Glad When Daddy Comes Home."

After the song, we sit down to a lovely dinner, during which Emerson will explain how a caterpillar turns into a butterfly.

I'm pretty sure that I clean up the dinner dishes while Danny and Emerson play lovingly in the living room.

Then it's bath time for Emerson.

Hold the presses!  Why do I still stink?  When am I supposed to take my shower?  Is it during the eggs and toast?  And if so, when is the laundry supposed to get washed?

Then it's bedtime for Emerson.  I let her pick out a book and I read it to her while making funny voices for all the characters.  I kiss her goodnight, and she says, "Thanks for a wonderful day, Mommy, and thanks for sacrificing your career for it."

Once she's asleep, I clean something else and go to bed, anxiously awaiting the next day when I get to do it all over again.

So, what am I really supposed to do all day?

And when am I supposed to blog?!!!!!

Seriously, people, I'm freaking out!!!  I give this whole thing about 3 days, max.

Remember the name Emerson Dinsio.  Someday you'll hear it again, and that time it will be associated with guns and clock towers.

And Matt Lauer will tell you it's all because her mother hated glitter glue.

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Not So Boring After All

Well, we've already established that there's nothing for me to do in Las Vegas.  I don't gamble or drink and prostitutes aren't my thing, so the only other thing to do here is get married.

So I did.

Yep, Danny and I got married Thursday night at the Excalibur.  And it was the most beautiful wedding $249 (tax and tip included) could buy. 

I wore a $20 dress that I got at Target a year ago (if my mother didn't have Alzheimer's, she would beat me for revealing that), and my wedding ring hadn't arrived at the jeweler yet, so we used my mother's that I always wear on my right hand.  Now, the ring my father gave my mother has extra-special significance.

Rather than walking down the aisle to Danny, we walked down the aisle together, symbolizing the partnership we've already created.

But the best part is that my girls, my sister and her fiance, and two of my cousins were already in Las Vegas for my sister's wedding, so I got to have them as guests at mine.

It truly was beautiful.

My sister is going to be so mad tomorrow after her $15,000 wedding when she realizes she could've had one just as gorgeous for less than two Franklins and a Grant (tax and tip included).





Friday, May 27, 2011

Hell

I came face to face with the devil.

I always believed that Satan and his minions were all around us and could take any form they wished to entice us to do evil. I always believed it, but I never thought I would be a victim.  I have a new opinion after my plane trip to Sin City.

Beelzebub and his sons of darkness were definitely on my plane with me.  No doubt about it.  They took the form of two children, their mother, and a flight attendant.  (And I'm pretty sure one was disguised as a TSA agent, but I didn't spend enough time with him to be certain.)

I had the window seat, my two daughters were next to me, and Danny was across the aisle from us.  Two innocent looking children and their mother sat in the row directly behind us. 

In all the confusion that was going on when you board a plane, I went to take my medication and accidentally took three Ambien because I didn't bother to read the bottle before I opened it.  Half a second later when I realized my mistake, I naturally assumed that I would spend the five hour plane ride in peaceful slumber.  But, ohhhhh no, the devil wasn't having any of that.

It started before we even took off.  The "kids" were screaming at each other about whose toy, game, book, and anything else you can think of was whose, and the screaming lasted the for five hours.  I "kid" you not; I endured five hours of their screaming, and heard not a single "shush" or other word of reprimand from the "mother".

Maybe I could've handled that, but they were pushing me over the edge when they started kicking the back of my seat.  That went on for three hours before I snapped.

I broke when the toys came flying over my seat and onto my lap.  I grabbed one of the toys, turned around, and whipped it as hard as I could at the "kid's" chest.

Okay, I know that sounds really bad from a forty-two year old woman, but this wasn't a child.  Remember, I was dealing with the destroyer of all humankind.

The enemies had me so frazzled that I started yelling at my own kids for no reason.  Danny, who was three seats and an aisle away from me, asked, "What is wrong with you?"

I answered as loudly as I could,  "Satan's spawn is sitting right behind me!!"  Still, no reaction from the mother.

I needed just a few minutes away from all of this to regroup, so I stood up to go to the restroom.  That's when the "flight attendant" told me that there were too many people in line and I had to sit down.  I started to tell her of my plight with the devil, but then I looked into her eyes and I knew she was another one of "them."

People, I have been to hell and back.  I have actually seen hell. 

And let me tell you, lakes of fire and brimstone will be a walk in the park for me.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Hades, Here I Come

I'm going to hell.

This is where those of you who know me laugh at the fact that I just figured that out.  First of all, very funny.  Second, I don't mean the eternal hell, although I have no doubt that pitchforks and lakes of fire and brimstone are down the pike for me.

I mean the thank-goodness-it's-less-than-a-week hell.

This weekend, I'm going to my least favorite place on the entire planet:  Las Vegas.  I am being subjected to this particular brand of hell because my sister lives there and she is getting married Sunday.

The whole fascination with Las Vegas escapes me.  It is hotter than my eternal destination, and if you don't gamble, there's nothing to do.  If I drank, I could buy a six-pack right here in Youngstown, Ohio; I certainly don't need Sin City for that.  And prostitutes just aren't my thing, thankyouverymuch.

I will admit that the casinos are beautiful and I love looking at them; however (and this is probably something I should never tell anybody), I always get trapped in a random casino and can't get out.  When I manage to find an exit door (two hours later), I take two steps outside and have to go back inside because it's 115 degrees outside!  ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN DEGREES! And then the vicious cycle starts again.

One of the last times I was in Las Vegas, I called Danny from inside the MGM.  Of course, I was stranded in there and my feet had blisters on them from the aforementioned escape attempt.  On the verge of tears, I told him, "I hate this place.  It's the most boring place on earth.  There's absolutely nothing to do here!"

Seriously, why would anyone go to that hell hole voluntarily?

If only my sister lived somewhere good, like Gettysburg.

Wear A Cup

Did you ever have one of those days where you just felt like kicking everyone in the crotch, but you don't because you just don't have enough energy to raise your leg that far?

Good.  Then you can totally relate to how I feel today.

Work was an effin nightmare.  It was worse than a nightmare, but I lack the vocabulary to adequately describe it.  I have never felt so used and abused in my life.  I feel like I should go to the hospital to get a rape kit done on my psyche.   It would definitely be positive, and I'm sure DNA would be present.

I cried all day and then came home, got in my bed, and cried some more.  Danny keeps coming in to check on me and try to talk about my day.  He quickly retreats in horror, though, when I refer to someone as a cutthroat bitch or bastard.  (Only true blue "House" fans will recognize that reference.)

Oh yeah.  I'm a real gem today.

And speaking of gems, Bejeweled Blitz isn't loading right on my computer today. WTF???  I probably could lift my leg far enough to kick the effin cutthroat bastard that won't let the game do whatever it's supposed to do to make my life better!  Doesn't he know it's all about me? 

What about you?  How was your day?  Really, I want to hear something positive.  Or negative, as long as it's funny.

Love,
Melissa


P.S.  These people are not related to me at all, although this is something everone in my family would do.  I just thought it was funny and wanted to give you all a chuckle!

Saturday, May 21, 2011

The One, The Only...



This is my cousin, the REAL Glass-Eyed Grady.

Grady was from northeastern Alabama, but he "has long since gone on home."  Even though he has been gone almost six years,  I sure do miss him. 

Grady was such an important part of our childhood.  He lived at a fishing camp when we were little, and we loved it there.  We went there several summers during the eight years when my father was gone, and despite the fact that we have traveled all over the world, that fishing camp still tops our list of favorite places on earth.

If you look closely at the picture (that is Grady's home after the trailer at the fishing camp), you can see all the junk behind us.  (Did you hear that rumble?  Grady just rolled over!)  He loved his "merchandise", a la Sanford and Son, that he bought at his flea markets.  And he didn't just confine his "merchandise"to the privacy of the inside of the house.  Lordy mercy, no, he couldn't do that! The outside of his home looked very much like the inside because his "merchandise" filled the yard as well!

Yep, Grady was the quintessential hillbilly, and I couldn't be prouder to have his hillbilly blood coursing through my veins.

Now, do you know what the inside of an eye socket looks like?  It's thanks to Grady that I do know.  He would pop out that glass eye any time he wanted a good laugh from the screaming kids.  Halloween with him was an absolute riot!

Seriously, I do miss Grady and all the love and compassion he showed everyone who knew him.  It was no surprise to anyone when Grady lost his eye because he was protecting a child.  The boy's drunken mother pulled a gun on the boy, and Grady ran and grabbed the child and caught the bullet in his own eye.  Grady never even learned the name of the child, and he never regretted his decision to save the boy's life.

That's just the kind of man Grady was.

You can read more about Grady in my first blog post EVER, here.
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Also, if you have some time on your weekend, please go over to "The Bank Burglar's Daughter" and read the new post there.

Have a great weekend!

Love,
Melissa

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Nothing

I want to grieve. I want to cry. I want to feel something.

My mother-in-law smoked from the time she was a teenager until shortly after she was diagnosed with stage one lung cancer. She had a lobectomy, but the disease progressed quite quickly to stage four, where it has remained for about three years.

When my husband called me that day in June four years ago and told me that his mother had lung cancer, I wanted to want to sob, but I couldn't. All I could do was tell him the truth: "I'm so sorry for you."

My mother-in-law despises me, and I don't know why.

We've had disagreements that might logically lead to hurt feelings, but not hatred.

When I began dating Danny, I wanted to love her and I longed for her to love me in return. I was even excited at the thought of a "second mother". Instead, I got forced conversations and obligatory Christmas gifts, which gradually led to no contact at all.

I want to be imagining all this. I want it to be all in my head. But, sadly, I cannot. She has told my husband, "I hate your wife and I can't be around her."

I have tried to apologize to my mother-in-law for whatever it is that I have done to her to cause such intense feelings about me, but my apologies have fallen on deaf ears. She wants no relationship between us, and I've finally accepted that there's nothing I can do about it.

So, when the inevitable comes, when she finally succumbs to her dreadful disease, I will not grieve. I will not cry. I will not feel anything.

I will simply tell my husband the truth: "I'm so sorry for you."
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This was written for the "Red Dress Club.".

Monday, May 16, 2011

Happy Monday

Check out the new post on "The Bank Burglar's Daughter."  And I would really appreciate it if you could muster up some anger against those who teased me as a child!

And don't forget to ooh and aah over the banner Madge created for the blog.  It is truly ooh and aah-able!

Have a great Monday!

Love,
Melissa

Friday, May 13, 2011

The Good Ol' Days...

I currently have not a single talent, but the summer after I graduated high school, I did have one. Wow, did I ever!
I could drink beer like a champ. I loved it and I was really good at it. I didn’t have to force it down, and it just came naturally to me. I could out-drink everyone I knew.  I honed my skill so much that I couldn’t even remember two entire consecutive days of that summer.

(All of my friends who joined me: you can stop holding your breath; I’m not mentioning any names!)

It’s too bad I didn’t have a talent for being drunk. That would have come in really handy.

I shudder when I think of all the times I drove drunk. I really am lucky to be alive. I was so drunk one time that I drove right through my friend’s mother’s flower beds. (By the way, she made me re-plant her flowers—good for her!)

I have so many stories that are truly hilarious that I could tell about those days, but I’ll stick to my family’s favorites because the others are just too embarrassing, even for me!

The first one I think of is every under-aged drinker’s horror. I had been drinking since heaven knows when one day, and on the way home, I got stopped by a State Trooper for erratic driving. As if that weren’t bad enough, the Trooper shined her flashlight in my backseat and found about eight million beer cans. (I vaguely remembered that everyone, including me, thought it would be really funny to dump all the cans in my car.  Yeah.  Not so funny when the po-licewoman was looking at it.)

As if THAT weren’t bad enough, guess who pulled up right behind the State Trooper. No, really, guess. It was my father! Can you believe that? That could only happen to me! It turned out to be a blessing, though, because my father talked to the Trooper and she agreed to let him take me home with only a speeding ticket. Now guess how much trouble I was in when I got home. Let’s just say that I considered moving into the local homeless teens’ shelter.

Another of my family’s favorite stories is about the morning my sister looked out the bathroom window, came downstairs, and asked about the location of my parked car. Of course, everyone went to the window, and there was my car, parked right in the middle of the front yard! Why is it that the earth never actually opens and swallows you up when you need it to?

Okay, the final story is the Queen Mother of all the favorite “Missy Drunk Stories” in my family. My mother had gone out of town and my father was out stealing something. He figured that my younger sister and I were responsible enough to stay alone at home. WRONG! My sister was definitely responsible enough, but I wasn’t even close.

I invited a couple friends over and we drank beer all night. I had so much fun--until I passed out.

Then I woke up because I had to go to the bathroom.

In my drunken stupor, I walked into my sister’s bedroom and saw her white wicker nightstand. White wicker must have equalled white porcelain in my Miller Lite fogged–up brain, because I pulled down my pants, backed up to the “porcelain” nightstand and proceeded to pee all over it! I shorted-out the controls to her electric blanket and puffs of smoke were rising up into my you-know-what. And here’s the REALLY bad part: I peed all over the Bible! The Bible!

I have a vague remembrance of my friend laughing hysterically and my sister screaming, equally hysterically. My sister made me get a bucket of soapy water to clean it up. The last thing I remember about that night is passing out in the Spic-N-Span.

Thank goodness I became an active Mormon again and don't touch alcohol.  Trust me, wicker doesn't make a good toilet.

(This was written as part of a meme for the Red Dress Club.)

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

I Haven't Laughed So Hard In A Long Time

I just wanted to let you know that I probably won't be around for awhile.  I'm pretty sure I'll be busy defending my sister for the murder of her husband.

Yesterday Danny called me at work and said that my sister's husband had been "in a bad truck accident'' and she was "too upset to go to the hospital alone."

Naturally, I flew out of work, picked up my sister, and drove her to the hospital.  The whole time she was crying.

When we got to the hospital, we found my brother-in-law walking around and standing outside smoking cigarettes.

His hand was pretty messed up, but at least he was going to live--for awhile, anyway.

He explained that he was driving a semi for work, went off the road, and the truck landed on its side in a ditch.

Of course, Debbie's first question was, "How did you go off the road?"

As long as I live, I'll never forget the completely serious look on his face as he said to my sister, "I was reaching down to get a pork rind."

A pork rind!

He almost killed himself over a pork rind!

Debbie quit crying and gave him the death stare.

That was it for me.  I busted out laughing and couldn't stop.

I laughed as he told the nurse he was reaching for a pork rind.  I laughed as my sister begged him not to tell the Trooper he was reaching for a pork rind.  I laughed as he jokingly told Debbie, "Well, I guess I could tell him I was trying to roll a joint."  Debbie was not amused, but I sure was. 

I think I laughed the hardest when he actually told the Trooper that he was reaching for a pork rind. 

Or maybe I laughed the hardest when my brother-in-law told Debbie that he can't use his right hand for anything for at least six weeks, and she has to do everything for him.

Ahhh, good times are ahead for my family, folks!

By the way, in between my uncontrollable chortles, I kept saying, "I can't wait to blog about this." 

I asked Debbie if she cared, and she disgustedly said, "I don't give a shit." 

Sounds like permission to me!

Monday, May 9, 2011

A Tribute to My Mother

I wrote my Mother's Day post on my other blog, "The Bank Burglar's Daughter".

By the way, don't you just love my new button on my sidebar for that blog?  It was designed by the amazing Madge of "I-Madge-ine the Twaddle".

If you find my other blog at all compelling, please put the button on your website.  Thank you so much!

Have a beautiful Monday!

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Prom Nightmare

My baby went to her Senior Prom last night.  She came home so excited because it was everything a prom should be.  It was enchanted and mystical, and she was with a boy she loves.

I am so happy for her because she had an amazing once-in-a-lifetime experience.

But you know me:  I didn't focus on her very long; I started thinking of my own Senior Prom.

Enchanted?  Not so much.

Mystical?  Negative.

A boy I loved?  Hardly!

I was in love, but I wasn't allowed to go to the Prom with him.  My parents hated him because they thought he would "teach me bad things".  (By the way, good call, Mom and Dad.  He taught me things that would make you cringe!)

Anyway, my mother lived for school dances and fancy dresses and everything associated with them, so I knew she would cave and let me go with my boyfriend.  I turned down all the requests of the boys who asked me, and I told my mother all about them.  She repeatedly told me,  "You shouldn't do that, or you're going to miss your Senior Prom."

I thought she really played a respectable game of "chicken" in our Prom stand-off.

Guess who won the game.

Yep, two weeks before prom I was scrambling to find a date and a gown.  It turned out to be a lot easier to find a gown.

The only person I could find to take me to my Senior prom was my fifteen year-old cousin, Ricky.

Yes, I went to my senior Prom with my cousin!!!! 

He couldn't drive, so we had to take a limo to the Prom, back in the days when limos to proms were not en vogue.

We arrived at the prom, and I certainly couldn't tell anyone he was my cousin, so I introduced my date as my friend, Ricky, because the last time I talked to him, his name WAS Ricky.  Apparently, though, he had changed his name to Rich, so that's how he introduced himself.

Fine, except that everyone was yelling at each other to be heard over the blaring music, and my friends thought he said his name was Mitch.

Yeah.  It took about 2.5 seconds for everyone in the room to find out that Missy didn't even know the name of her Prom date.

I was so humiliated.  I prayed for a Stephen King's "Carrie" ending to the prom and for me to be swallowed in the flames.

Mercifully, I thought, the Prom finally ended.  We walked out to the limo, which was parked in front of the building where everyone else had to walk, and discovered that the battery of the limo was dead!  I had to go back into the school and call my father.

He came to the school in his station wagon and jumped the limo's battery, right there in front of everyone!!

There aren't even words enough to describe how mortified I was!

Okay, now here's the best part...

We went to dinner after the Prom and I paid because, after all, he was the one doing me the favor, right?

Yeah, what a favor!  When I got home that night and opened my purse, I found out that Ricky, Rich and Mitch had robbed me blind!!!!

So, tell me about your prom.  Was it enchanted and mystical, or did it suck like mine?  (And please tell me if the word "prom" is capitalized.  I wrote it both ways in this post so that it would be correct at least some of the time!)

Friday, May 6, 2011

Senior Prom

It's the day of my baby's Senior Prom and I have to work all day, so I don't have the energy today to be witty on this blog (if I ever am)!  However, there is a new post on "The Bank Burglar's Daughter".  The experience I write about was absolutely horrifying for me as a child.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

You Mean There's Sex Involved?

"Jennifer's having a baby!"

That's what I told the entire fourth grade class about my best friend.  I wasn't being mean; I really believed she was with child.

The whole thing started with an "After School Special" called, "My Mom's Having a Baby".

Oh wow.  The entire school was waiting with baited breath for this one.  It was actually going to talk about the most taboo subject in our lives:  how a woman gets a baby inside of her.  Rumor had it that it was going to talk about sex, too!

Some unfortunate kids, Jennifer included, weren't allowed to watch the show.  Not us.  My mother, who dreaded this subject like an unwanted pregnancy, told my sister and me we had to watch it.  No problem, Mom!

So the eagerly awaited show finally aired.  Wow!  It did not disappoint!  The pregnant mom had her doctor tell her son and his friends how the baby got inside her.  My eyes and ears were glued to our console television set.

Which is what really makes it mystifying that I missed the whole sex part.

At school the next day, the kids who got to see the show were the cool kids for a day, and the ones who didn't get to see it were begging us for info.  Poor Jennifer asked me, and I told her all about kissing and getting pregnant. 

Tears welled up in Jennifer's eyes.  She told me that her father kissed her goodnight the evening before.  I told her, very calmly and quite matter-of-fact-ly,  "Oh, well, then, you got pregnant by your father."

Seriously.

She started bawling.  Everyone wanted to know what was wrong.  I protected her and told them to leave her alone because she's upset that her dad got her pregnant.  I was such a good friend to her.

Well, you can imagine the snowball effect.  In about 2.5 minutes Jennifer was in the guidance counselor's office.  In about 2.5 minutes after that, I was in there with her.  We both lived close to the school, so I would say that it only took about 4.5 minutes for both of our mothers to join us.

My mother acted mad in the guidance counselor's office, but she laughed once we got in the car together.

The next day, a Saturday, my mother handed me a four-volume set of books called, "The Life Cycle Library" and said, "Read these before you go back to school."

I obliged, eagerly.

I think I have it all figured out now.

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Please visit "The Bank Burglar's Daughter" for a new post.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Folsom Prison Blues

Danny:  "Why are you up at 4:30?"

Me:  "I just can't sleep.  I'm worried."

Danny:  "About what?"

Me:  "The bounced check."

Actually, it sounded more like:  "THE bounced check!"

I bounced a check for the second time in my life.  Sure, I've had overdrafts, but the bank always paid them.  But it didn't pay this one, no sir-ee.  Bastards.  Why would it pay this one?  It was only to the INTERNAL REVENUE SERVICE!!!!  That's right:  I bounced a check to the IRS!

And let me tell you about these people:  The IRS doesn't play.  Could they have run the check through a second time maybe?  No sir-ee.  If they had, it would have gone through.  I swear, there were only a couple days that we fell below the check's amount at the bank and as soon as we noticed it, we replenished the account.  (That's going to be my defense in court.  FAIL!)  (This is the part where I call the IRS bastards, but I'm too afraid of them!)

And guess what the NSF fee for the IRS is.  It's certainly not the $30 or $35 like it is at the local Waltrash.  Go ahead, guess.  $50, you say?  NOT EVEN CLOSE!  $75?  WRONG!  The NSF fee for the IRS is a whopping $100!!!

See, I told you these people don't play!

Oh, and the only other check I've ever bounced was in 1998...to the IRS.  Seriously.

Danny says it's no big deal.

I happen to think Danny is wrong.  That's why I'm sitting on my couch waiting for people in business suits to break down my door and take me to the Big House.
________________________________________

Speaking of the "Big House", there's a new post on my other blog, "The Bank Burglar's Daughter".

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Bewitched or Bebitched?

My house is an absolute, heaven-forsaken mess.  We all have been sick and nothing has gotten done.  To all those that hate me:  Now is a good time to call Childrens' Services on me.  My kids will be taken away for sure.

I was just sitting here thinking that I wish I could just twitch my nose and it would all be clean.  Then I started thinking about "Bewitched".  I watched it because it was the only thing besides the "Money Movie" (and what kid wants to watch a 20 year-old non-Disney movie?) , that was on at 4:30 after school.

(Plus, it was on after "Gilligan's Island" and everyone knows that was the best kid show EVER!!!  I am Ginger, btw, and I had a huge crush on the Professor.)

Anyway, back to "Bewitched".  That show always bothered me, and I never knew why.  Now, after ruminating a few minutes on it, I think I know some of the reasons:

1. Jealousy.  Soooo my style. I wanted to be able to twitch my nose and be done with school and have my room clean and have all the cool clothes I wanted.

2.  Darrin (both the cute one and the ugly one) and Samantha were both idiots. He was an idiot for making her conform to his lifestyle, and she was an idiot for doing it.  I would have told him to shove his mortality where the Sun don't shine.  (Well, maybe...I don't recall that Darrin ever had an affair and Samantha kept him around.  Or maybe he did, and she just had the good sense, which I obviously don't have, to keep her private life private.)

3.  Darrin wasn't just an idiot, he was THE BIGGEST IDIOT ON EARTH!!!  Who wouldn't want to be married to someone who could twitch her nose and make you the owner and CEO of the Stephens Advertsing Agency, give you gazillions of dollars, and give you everything else you could ever dream of, monetarily and otherwise?  But nooooo...Darrin had to do it the sucky mortal way and let Larry Tate walk all over him. Jackass.

4.  Could sweet Aunt Clara possibly ever have arrived in some way other than destroying the hall closet or ending up on the roof?  Really? 

Sure, it was entertaining, but why were ALL the women so weak, and/or stereotypically bitchy?

Take Serena, for example.  She was the stereotypical bitchy, slutty hippy trying to get her cousin's lame husband. WTH??  She knew he was an idiot and Serena only wanted him because Samantha had him.  Bitch. Slut.

And we can't forget Endora.  Could there be a better example of the stereotypical bitchy mother-in-law?  NEWSFLASH:  NOT ALL MOTHERS-IN-LAW ARE BITCHES.  Or so I've heard.  My mother-in-law happens to make Endora look like bumbling Aunt Clara, but I've heard stories of great mothers-in-law.

And what about silly Mrs. Kravitz spying on the neighbors (and she was ALWAYS right, btw, but her husband always made excuses for her and took her home), or Darrin's mother and her "sick headaches"?  Weak and weaker.

Aunt Hagatha and Aunt Enchantra were bitches too.  Don't ask me for any examples; just trust me on that one.

So there you have it:  I couldn't stand "Bewitched" because I was an eight year-old feminist.

DAMN!  I just twitched my nose and the house is STILL a mess!  Not being Samantha (sans idiocy) really sucks!

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Carrie Underwood: My Alter Ego

I had a meeting with the Green-Eyed Monster again last night.

Did anyone else watch last night's CMA's Girls' Night Out:  Salute to Women of Country?  We're not really big country music fans, but the performers were so outstanding, we just couldn't change the channel.

You would think that I would appreciate the beauty of their craft.  I actually do, but appreciation or awe weren't the overwhelming feelings I had.  You know me better than that.

It was jealousy; I could actually feel it coursing through my veins!

At one point, I said to Danny,  "Wouldn't it be nice to have a talent?"  He agreed.  We are the most talentless couple on earth.  If you can name it, we can't do it.  Drawing?  No.  Playing the guitar, piano, flute, organ, or even spoons?  Not this couple.  Paint-by-numbers?  Dream on!

I would take any talent, but I really want to sing.  I love to sing, but I'm tone-deaf (I think; I don't really know what that means exactly).

And I'm traumatized by it going back to my childhood.  I was forced to take chorus in 5th and 6th grade, and I was FORCED to audition privately with the teacher for seventh-grade chorus.  I'll never forget Mrs. Price's saying to me,  "Missy, do you really think that's how 'Row, Row, Row Your Boat' sounds?"  Biii-oootch, of course I did:  I was AUDITIONING for Heaven's sake!

And my father played his part in the trauma too.  I love to sing, despite my lack of talent, and I especially love to sing in the car.  My father  listened to me as long as he could.  Then I  noticed that he started getting agitated about little things, and he began shifting around in the driver's seat.  Finally,  he said with frustration in his voice, "Honey, please stop singing.  You couldn't carry a tune in a dump truck."

Was he kidding me?!!  He's my father!  He's supposed to think everything that came out of my mouth was on the wings of angels.  In retrospect, thirty years later, I feel sorry for the poor guy having to listen to me.  At least my rough and gruff father tried to soften the insult by calling me, "Honey".

But none of this stops me today from REALLY belting it out in the car.  My current favorite song is "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot", and I really get into that one.  Every time I sing the word "low" I move my body down in the seat.

(Someone shoot me.  This is getting really embarrassing!)

And I scream out the song, with the windows of the car down, complete with hand gestures and body movements, every time I play the song--OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

(OMGoodness, this is SO embarrassing.  I have to stop!)

All I ask is that when you see me in the car, or hear me from the car, don't look over.  Just keep on driving, and try not to flip me the bird.
_____________________________________

Linda Medrano, I just want to let you know that I'm having trouble commenting on your blog, but I'm still reading, and I'm so very sorry for your loss.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Linky Love

I'll start out with the self-love and tell you that there is a new post on my other blog, The Bank Burglar's Daughter.

Now onto the selflessness...You have to go to Kellie's place.  Her writing is poignant and so REAL.  I defy you not to fall in love with Kellie and her blog!

I have a seven year-old's birthday party to work on, so I must run.  I'll be back to tell you how it goes.  (How do you think it's going to go?!)

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Love My Life Day

I am officially declaring today "Love My Life Day".  (And I am quite official, so this is binding in the most serious way!)

How many times do you see "fml" on something?  I'm not criticizing at all here; believe me, I know the feeling.  (Oh, I SOOOO know the feeling!)  I'm just one of those people that believes negative energy brings on negative things (but I don't always practice what I preach), so:

Let's all think and write "lml" today and see what happens.  "Love My Life Day" might be a huge flop, but, really, can it be worse than thinking "fml"?  What do we have to lose, except a negative attitude?

(Confession:  I love Amy's take on fml.  Please go read it here.  And if you don't already read Amy, add her to your list.  She is hilarious--and an outstanding human being!!)

Don't forget to leave a comment and let me know what you think!

LML!!!
(As you can tell, my anti-depressants are kicking in full-force today!)

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

My Forever Friend

I'm not a very good friend. 

It's not that I'm a bad friend.  I don't sleep with a sistah's husband and I would never, ever let anyone talk smack about one of my friends.

It's just that I'm not a good friend.  A good friend who intended to write a birthday post about her friend would make sure that she actually wrote the post on or before her friend's birthday.

This post is two days late, and I haven't heard that my friend, Lisa, is dead, so I will go ahead and write my better-late-than-never post about her.

Lisa and I met at church when we were teenagers.  As I struggle to pull up memories from the cobwebs in my gray matter, I remember my first impression of Lisa as one of someone highly intelligent and articulate.  I can remember speaking with her about some misfortune in the world and saying, "I was soooo freaked out by that!"  Her response illustrates what I mean:  "Yes, when something like that happens, it certainly does make one acutely aware of one's blessings."

Acutely aware?!!!  WTH?!!!  I was soooo freaked out by that response!!!

Anyway, in addition to being super-smart, Lisa is also a devout Christian, of the Mormon variety.  And she is serious about it:  She doesn't just talk the talk; she walks the walk as well.  She truly would do anything for someone in need, and she rarely (unless she's really mad) says anything bad about anyone (and when she does, she feels guilty about it and repents after she calms down.)

Lisa is the type of woman who never, ever swears, and would never write in her blog anything like "...I don't sleep with a sistah's husband,"  or "WTH?!!!"  But she totally doesn't mind if others do it and she doesn't judge them because of it.  And she expects it from me.

(Lisa is laughing now.)

But here's the really cool thing about Lisa:  She loves me.

She thinks I am just the best, even when I so clearly am not.

(Lisa is crying now.)

Lisa doesn't just love me:  Lisa loves me the way I am.

(I am crying now.)

Whenever anything bad happens in my life, I know just e-mailing Lisa will make it better.  She has such insight to my soul that it just freaks me out!!!

(Lisa is laughing now.)

I could go on and on and on about the wonders of Lisa, but you get the point.  She is the real deal:  a genuine follower of Christ and the truest friend a girl could ever have.

So, Lisa, when you read this (and I know she will read this because she thinks I'm a fantastic writer and she checks my blogs regularly), know that you are one of the greatest blessings in my life and I LOVE YOU!!

And...oh yeah...happy birthday!





So, tell me, who is the Lisa in your life?

Friday, April 8, 2011

Taken

One of my very first memories in life is of the FBI searching our house in June of 1972. I was three years-old.

My eighteen year-old sister, Debbie, was there and my two year-old sister, Amie, was there. Our maternal grandmother, who helped raise us, was there. Her son, Chuck Mulligan, was part of my father's crew. He had already been arrested and was in the Los Angeles County Jail. My mother was in California with him. My father was a fugitive.

To my three year-old eyes, it seemed like a hundred federal agents swarmed my home. They weren't mean to us at all, but were very stern and made us all stay in one room. We all sat in the living room, speechless for the most part, and watched while every centimeter of our once secure home was invaded.

I don't know how long it took them to search the house, but it seemed like we sat in one spot all day.

When the search was over and the feds were leaving, they turned to my grandmother and told her they found a $20 bill from the burglarized United California Bank in her purse. She was silent.

The FBI left our home and my grandmother said, "I better go get dressed. They'll be back to arrest me."

Grandma wasn't quite ready when the feds were back with an arrest warrant for her. She asked them if she could put on her pantyhose, and they allowed her to go back to her room to accomplish that last detail.

She came back into the living room and said to the agents, "Okay, we can go now."

Then Amie started screaming. Grandma was her security, the person she loved most in the world, and she was afraid she would never see her again.

Debbie held Amie and tried to comfort her. Grandma, from across the room, explained to Amie that everything would be alright and that she would be back soon.

When Amie had calmed down, the two agents and my grandmother walked towards the front door. Before they walked out the door, Grandma turned, looked at Debbie, and said, "You tell everyone to keep their mouths shut because I can handle anything the FBI can do to me."

I sat on the couch, motionless and speechless, throughout the whole event, and just watched it unfold.

My mother called a few hours later and I answered the phone. The first words out of my three year-old mouth were, "Mommy, the FBI arrested Grandma."

My mother's response, like the rest of the day's events, is burned in my memory: "I know, Honey. We got her a bondsman and she'll be home tonight." I didn't know what a bondsman was, but I knew Grandma would be home.

And Grandma was home that night. Eventually, the charges against her were dismissed.

Grandma was an incredibly strong woman and her arrest and time spent in the holding cell of the Mahoning County Jail didn't upset her one bit. In fact, until the day Alzheimer's Disease took that memory from her, it remained one of the highlights of her life.

(This post was originally written on January 7, 2011, on my other blog, "The Bank Burglar's Daughter".I am re-posting it today as part of a writing meme at "The Red Dress Club.")

Thursday, April 7, 2011

A HUGE FAVOR

Attention Facebook-ers!  I need you to please help my niece and nephew win a wedding album.  Here's what you can do:

1.  Log in to your Facebook account.

2.  Go to.http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/album.php?aid=285444&id=285300677400

3.  Then click on the Like button at the top of the page.

4.  Then click on picture 31, Shane and Nicole, and comment under it.  A one-word comment will do.

And that's it!

I really, really want this for them, so please help!

Thank you so much to my Internet "family"!!!!


Love,
Melissa

Monday, April 4, 2011

Prisoner Number 30826-138

I'm really surprised I'm not writing this from the slammer.

Thinking back on Delaney's childhood, I've realized that there's absolutely no reason I shouldn't be sitting in the Big House right now.

Not only has Delaney always been a drama queen, but she also has always done her best (I like to tell myself it was inadvertently) to make people think I was a horrible mother.

Take, for example, when we were flying to Las Vegas.  Delaney was about six years old and, somehow, our tickets had her seated two rows behind me.  Naturally, I thought she would want to be by her mommy during such a long trip, so I very politely asked a kind-looking gentleman if he would mind switching seats with me.

Delaney started screaming, "Noooooo!  Don't do it!  Don't make me sit next to her!" 

The somewhat flabberghasted man looked at her and said, "When I was your age, I would've loved to sit next to my mom."

Delaney wasn't fazed.  She looked him dead in the eye and said,  "Yeah, that's great.  But I don't want to sit next to her."

I was so embarrassed I wanted to pull a D. B. Cooper and jump right out of the back of the airplane!

Then there was the time Delaney got on the school bus instead of waiting for me to pick her up at school.  When I got to the school and she wasn't there and no one could find her, I panicked.  I ran through the school yelling her name and looking in all the rooms.  Remember the scene in "Fatal Attraction" where the bunny-boiler stole the kid from school and the mother was frantically looking for her child?  Yeah, that's exactly what it was like.

Finally, they found her on the school bus en route to our house.

I was so mad!!!!

I waited for her at the bus stop and the second she saw me, she started screaming, "Kill me!  Please kill me!  I deserve for you to kill me!"  And she wouldn't stop!  She just kept yelling it over and over and over again, despite the fact that I told her I really would kill her if she said it one more time.

Keep in mind, we were in our neighbors' front yards in a somewhat affluent area in the middle of the day.  There's no doubt that we pretty much confirmed everyone's suspicions that we were the trash of the neighborhood.

Those were good, but the best one she ever did to me was at our local mall.  The mall has a huge, amusement park carousel in it, and I promised Delaney that if she was good, she could ride the carousel.  Well, she was an absolute monster that day and I told her well in advance of our leaving that she wasn't riding the carousel.

She must not have believed me.

She started screaming and crying and throwing the biggest fit you ever saw in your life when I tried to get her out of the mall without her carousel ride.

Then it happened:

Delaney screamed, at the top of her lungs, "Someone help me, please! I'm being kidnapped!!!"

The more I think about it, the more I think I should've just taken my chances with the hoosegow.

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If you need a good laugh--and what kind of a freak are you if you don't--go to LOL.

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And I lost 2 followers!!!  WTH?  Please click the "Follow" button on the top of the sidebar so I don't have to personally track down those two miscreants!  Seriously, I obsess over things like that.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

A Crazy Lady And A Baby

I guess it's because I'm infertile, but I get an extra strong tug at my heartstrings whenever I see a newborn.

I guess it's because I have a memory that the tug is a quick one.

My last baby was born when I was 35, and I certainly was not prepared for it, although I thought I was.  When I had my first child 11 years earlier, everything was breezy and blissful.  I didn't have an ache or pain, I only gained 12 pounds, and those first few weeks at home with her were exhilerating.

I figured things would be the same with the next baby.WRONG!!!

Every single thing was different with my last baby.  I swear, from the moment of conception, my back hurt, I puked in every toilet in town, my feet were swollen, I couldn't breathe, I got rashes on my neck and face, and I didn't sleep more than an hour total for nine months.

And I gained 55 pounds!!! 

And the hormones!  Oh, the hormones!  I went to Babies R Us to buy a carseat, whereupon I found out that they didn't sell carseats anymore.  They sold "travel systems" with the stroller and the carseat combined. WTH?

I bought the floor model because it was the only one not plaid and I hate plaid.  So I rolled it out to my car and the real fun started:  I had no idea how to get it into the car!!!

I pushed every button I could find to get the thing apart; I tried ripping it apart; and then I tried putting the whole, ginormous thing in my car just the way it was.  Nothing worked, so I did the only thing a 35 year-old, nine-months pregnant woman in this situation could do:

I threw my body up against my car and wailed.  Rather loudly, as I recall.

Finally, a young boy who worked for Babies R Us came up to me and said, "Ma'am, are you alright?"

You should've seen the look on this kid's face when I blathered through my tears, "No, I'm not alright!  Everyone was right when they said I was too old to have a baby!  I should have listened to them!  Everything is swollen, I'm gaining a pound a day and I can't get this damn thing into my car!"

I'm sure it was partially because he worked at the store and partially because he didn't want to see me kill myself right in front of him, but he took the "travel system" apart, folded it up, and put it in my car for me.  Bless his heart, whatever his motivation.

Then the baby came and the hormones really kicked in.

People, I never believed it before, but post-partum depression is real.  That shiznit will put you right out of your mind.   I didn't want to harm my children, but I told my doctor, "Listen, you have to put me on something or I AM TELLING YOU, either Danny or I will DIE!"  (Incidentally, while I was in the doctor's waiting room, I was bawling my eyes out at the soap opera I HAD NEVER SEEN BEFORE that was on his t.v.)

(I didn't pull the Marie Osmond and leave my kids and drive off to a hotel room in California, but I TOTALLY get that now!)

So, after a few weeks on Prozac, everything was fine again.

Now that I remember all that, I think my infertility is a good thing, because I don't think a strong enough drug has been made for me to have a baby in my 40's.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

A Pig's Valve Or A Coat Of Paint

Okay, you all know I love "House".  Did you ever see the episode where a blogger was the patient and she needed a new heart valve?  She had to decide between an artificial valve and a pig's valve.  She shared everything in her life with her readers (Sound familiar?  Anti-depressants?  An affair?  A dead husband?), so she let her audience decide.  Well, now I need you guys to decide something far more serious for me.

You really have to tell me what to do with my wall:




That's not (only) dirt on my wall.

It's a growth chart of my children, their cousins, and half the neighborhood.  It's on the main wall in my kitchen and I can't decide what to do with it.  Why, you may ask, did I put a growth chart in pencil on a wall in my kitchen?  I DIDN'T!!!!  My sister, Amie, thought it was a good idea and started it years ago.  (I strongly suspect that she wouldn't have a growth chart on the wall of her OWN kitchen!)

So here's my dilemma:  I can't decide if it's precious or trashy.  I'm redoing my kitchen from top to bottom, including granite counter tops (because none of my friends would talk me out of granite--please talk me out of granite), so of course I'm painting.  So do I paint over the wall because it's trashy, or do I keep the wall the way it is because it's precious?  If I paint over it, will I regret it in 20 years?  Is there something else creative I can do with it?

Seriously, help me!  Tell me what to do!

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So, listen to the douchebaggery (sorry, Mormons, but it's my new favorite word) that happened to me: Google Adsense disabled my account for invalid clicks!! Now what the heck am I supposed to do? My family relied on that 37 cents a month! I guess I'll have to go back to being an attorney and a nursing home administrator. Damn.
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In other news, today I went to the divorce hearing of Danny's ex-girlfriend and her (now) ex-husband. 

I'm guessing that's an experience most people don't ever have.  I went because he and I have become very close throughout this ordeal and he asked me to go with him.  It's strange the closeness that you develop with people when you walk down the same road with them. 

In his words, there is "a permanence" to our relationship, and we have become BFF's.  Our friendship is a tremendous blessing in my life that came from something so awful.  You just never know where you're going to find your blessings!

But I'm pretty sure they're not coming from Google Adsense.
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Post Edit:  As I looked at the second picture above, I noticed that my blog is designed in the exact same colors as my house is decorated.  When I like something, I REALLY like it!

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Recycling Is Good

I was over at Kellie's place, and now I'm stealing her idea for a post.  (Before you go anywhere, read Kellie's for a good laugh!)

I've decided to recycle my favorite post ever.  If I do say so myself, it is absolutely hilarious!


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.

Things I Can't Live Without

Love. Peace. Oxygen.

No. No. No.

These are products I can't live without.  You need to get in your car right now (well, after you read the post and leave a comment and click on the "Follow" button).

Seriously.  This shiznit is fantastic!

I thank the heavens for the day that I was standing in the local Waltrash and decided to try the Aveeno Skin Relief Moisturizing Lotion.  OMGosh!  Forget all that stuff from the fancy stores in the mall, because this lotion runs rings around all of it.

It's great to put on after your shower and all that, but here is why I love it:  I have the ugliest hands in the world.  Really, I do.  (Just ask my sister, Amie; she'll tell you.)  I'm actually ashamed of my hands because they make me look 10-15 years older than I am.  But when I use the Aveeno, my hands look (dare I say it?)
young! 



I have to thank my friend, Margo, for the next one.  If any of you are not wearing Revlon Colorstay Overtime, I have no idea why.  Maybe you are just ignorant of its magnificence like I was before Margo enlightened me.  It's 7:41 a.m. right now, I put the lipstick on at about the same time yesterday morning, AND IT'S STILL ON and looks fresh!!!  There are a boatload of colors available, but my favorites are Stay Currant and Relentless Raisin.  I get more compliments on the Stay Currant than I can stand (not true--I love compliments)!




I really want to bow down and worship the person who invented the Magic Eraser!!!  I love it!  This thing removes absolutely everything!  Honestly, I have never found anything it doesn't work on.  My little one colors on the walls AND I DON'T EVEN CARE because I know I have my friend, the Magic Eraser.


The next one is like crack or crystal meth or something else addictive.  Yesterday, My friend, Traci, introduced me to the Eighth Wonder of the World:  Puffs tissues with the scent of Vicks.  Okay, I know it sounds really lame that I'm excited about a tissue, especially in light of everything else in my life, but these tissues are...some word meaning great that I'm not smart enough to know.  Trust me, you will love these so much you better sit down before the first time you blow your nose in one.  In fact, that should be a warning label on the box.  Oh, you'll thank me for this one!

Now, click the "Follow" button, comment, and go, go, go get this stuff and make your life so much better!