Filed under: Middle Age, Sports | Tags: bourbon, election, family, Food, horse racing, humor, Ireland, Montpelier, south, southern, subourbonmom, swing state, tailgate, Virginia
Last weekend I was doing what God has ordained all good Virginians do in the fall: Tailgate.
But not at a football game—watching horses race around a mile-long course at James Madison’s home, Montpelier plantation. They were jumping bushes and fences no horse in its right mind would ever do if there wasn’t an annoying tiny-man on its back hitting it with a stick.
For any southern tailgate, the men don their uniforms of khaki pants, button down shirt with bowtie, and navy blue jacket. The women dress up in silly hats, colorful scarves and ridiculous boots no self-respecting horseman would ever wear anywhere near a barn. They spread their southern delicacies (i.e. ham biscuits, devilled eggs and pecan pie—not everybody can bring chips and salsa!) on fold-up tables covered with their best tablecloths and silver chafing dishes. The centerpiece is an opus of fall foliage around silver candelabra or a horse statue. And lets not forget the most important feature: the drink table. Bourbon, wine, rum, vodka, champagne, and Bloody Mary mix are all ready to be tumbled into Jefferson cups or, in our case, red solo cups (nothing but the best for my friends!).
It was a beautiful day, free of cell phones, election flyers, and pimple-faced doorbell ringers. Not a tramp stamp in sight.
Until, THE INTERVIEW, that is.
That’s right, folks, an Irish reporter from a television station had a camera man in tow, circulating among the drunks, asking what it is like to live in a swing state. And guess what? He interviewed me. Yep, the least political person who’d already had about three bourbon and gingers.
That went well.
It’s a little vague, but I’m pretty sure I offered him a drink about every other sentence. In my golden-hazed mind, I managed to string together this thought: Irish-guy-must-want-to-drink-so-be-a-good-hostess-and-offer. He politely declined each time.
He asked me what it is like to live in a swing state. Thankfully I choked back a comment about all the rumors of swinging couples in the area where I live. Or at least I hope I did. In my head, I planned to give an intelligent rant about how we all are huddled in our living rooms, cowering from the ringing phones and massive recycle pile of election mail, and that the electoral college is unnecessary in this electronic age.
I’m pretty sure what came out was something like “It sucks.”
Yep, I’m a voter. Mr. Kluge, my Government high school teacher would have been so proud.
I’m pretty sure you’ll never see that interview on the news in the U.S., except maybe on YouTube as one of those Dumb American posts, but I have done my part to ensure that the international world’s view of Americans is still intact.
The news guy never did take a drink. Maybe if I’d had some Guinness…
Filed under: Misc. Humor | Tags: chipmunk, family, frozen chipmunk, humor, kharma
Usually, I can tell when I’ve got good or bad Kharma coming to me, since most of my actions are pretty straightforward. But sometimes the line gets a little fuzzy. Like last week, with the Chipmunk Incident. (PETA members, you might as well stop reading, but for the record, I really was doing the best I could.)
I came home for lunch one day, and Hubby called.
“Did you see what I left in the trash can?” he asked.
“No. Why would I look in the trash can?” (Does he really think I look in there each time I pass by?)
“I left you something.”
“What?”
“The cats left a paralyzed a chipmunk on the back porch, so I put it in there.”
“Is he dead?” I asked, hesitating. Why else would Hubby be telling me this?
“He might be by now. But, I put him on top of the bag,” Hubby said, defensively.
So of course I had to go out and look. Sure enough, there was Chippy, only he wasn’t on top of the bag anymore—he’d slipped off and was gasping in a puddle of trash juice.
“Why didn’t you kill it?” I asked, enraged. “You can’t leave him out there to starve to death! That’s a horrible way to die! It’ll take days.”
“Well, I couldn’t do it! You have to do it.”
Now I was angry for two reasons: first, I’m not a big fan of the circle of life, and second, my husband has demonstrated a repeated lack of understanding of one of the fundamental rules in our marriage: I clean up the poop and vomit, he, being the man, finishes off small animals. So far, he’s managed to convince me to take a paralyzed bunny to the vet to be euthanized, and has now left a poor chipmunk in the bottom of the trashcan.
“I can’t,” I said.
For several minutes we debated the best way to put poor Chippy out of his misery. Finally, after being called several choice names, Hubby asked, “Well, what are you going to do?”
Not able to hit the side of a barn with a gun, that option was out. So was a friend’s suggestion to smear it with peanut butter and leave it in the garden so something else might finish it off (You see? These are the people I have to deal with!) Another friend suggested using a sharp shovel. Euthanasia by the vet was out of the question, since the last time I tried that (see bunny incident above), they were going to charge me $80 to stick a needle into the bunny’s heart. How is THAT humane?
Finally, I hit upon the best solution I could think of: I would put him in the freezer. Hubby reminded me that friends of his in Bermuda put lobsters in the freezer to kill them before cooking, and since Chippy was already in shock, and it would be quick and painless.
When the deed was done, I sent Hubby an informative text: “The deed is done, you big pussy.”
Instead of being ashamed and remorseful, this is what I got in return: “S-s-soooo c-c-coooold…”
Me: “You left him gasping tiny gasps in trash juice!”
Hubby: “I thought you said he was going to starve. He could’ve lasted for days on that juice.”
Hereafter, Hubby will now be referred to as Hubby #1. I hope the Kharma that comes back from this remembers that I really did try to be humane. It’s the cats who have something to answer for.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: Apple, computers, humor, Mac vs PC, southern, teenagers
I am technology-repellant.
In fact, there are probably some groups like the CIA or FBI who, I am sure, would pay me a lot of money if I would walk into a room and wreak havoc on the computers, phones and televisions there, just as much as I do on the ones in my house.
I am the DEET of the technology world.
Hubby, in a moment of extreme sweetness and concern for me, decided with Daughter #1’s help, that not only do I need a new computer (which I desperately do…mine occasionally screeches like a coffee grinder), but that I need a Mac.
First, let’s be clear: I am a PC person.
And my brain is full. I simply cannot add any new information without deleting stuff that is vital, such as the location of my keys and the wine bottle opener. Learning a new system is out of the question.
So a couple of weeks ago, in walk Hubby and Daughter #1 with a brand new Mac for her, and one for me, too. They were so excited I couldn’t reiterate right then my firm desire to stay in the world of PC. To their consternation, as Daughter #1 sat at the kitchen table happily exploring her Mac, doing the awkward two-finger scroll thing, I sat on the couch and slowly let the resentment boil up.
“Who did they think they were, anyway?” I muttered to myself. “As if they know what I need in a computer! Maybe they could just pick out my clothes and tie my shoes, too…” This went on for some time, I think mostly inside my head. If not, they wisely ignored it. And yes, I did realize that I sounded like a spoiled little brat. But the tirade rolled on, as fast and furious as the election ads during The Voice.
The next night, with their encouragement I tried to make it work. First I had to transfer files from the PC. I did it!
But then I couldn’t open anything. Nothing worked. I fumed. By ten o’clock I had stomped off to bed, ratcheting up the sleep number so there was no way Hubby could climb up next to me.
The next day I tried to make the requisite appointment at the Apple store for some help. When I called, a chirpy, automated male voice announced that he understood complete sentences! He actually said this with real-ish enthusiasm. Then he cheerily informed me I couldn’t make the appointment I wanted except by going on-line. So I did.
It didn’t work.
Blood rushed to my face, and filth came out of my mouth that I’m pretty sure would have embarrassed Emimem. So I reached for the phone, ready to call back and yell, “F%$#* you! Did you understand that?” But, I resisted. I still needed to get in the damn store, and I’m pretty sure they tape those phone calls.
So I called Hubby instead. After listening patiently to ten minutes of foulness and hatred of inanimate objects misdirected toward him, Hubby was eventually able to get an appointment for me (don’t ask me how). That afternoon, in a strange role reversal much like the movie Freaky Friday, I became the petulant teen and Daughter #1 had to talk Mama down from the ledge.
“If you will stop being so pissed off, I’ll tutor you tonight,” she said, with the patience of Jobe. Later, she added, “Stay in the kitchen. I don’t want you to see what I’m doing. It’ll only make you ask questions and get all mad again.” Wow. She’ll go far in life, I’m telling you.
Even my tech-savvy teenager couldn’t figure it out. So, I soon sat at the Apple Store with another teenager/tutor named Zach, prepared to be humiliated. And really, Computer Gods, did he have to be cute in a Zach Ephron kind of way? I’m not a full-blown cougar, but it was hard not to notice…
Instead, he mumbled a lot of “that’s weird,” and “why won’t it do that?” Eventually, Zach managed to get most of it sorted out, then sprinted off his beanbag (seriously, that’s what we were sitting on) to escape the pathetically grateful Mrs. Robinson next to him.
So please, accept this blog for the miracle that it is—done on my new Mac, with only a small amount of cussing and one bourbon and ginger.
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: clothing, humor, Mammary Jack in the Box, Middle-Age, muffin top, Plato's Closet, southern, tank tops
There’s something about hitting your forties that stirs up a civil war inside your psyche, or at least it did for me. Part of me (a large part) is vain. I still strive to keep the muffin top from lopping completely over my waistband, I hide the gray streaks under a veneer of bleach, and I apply ridiculously over-priced creams to a face that I like to tell my kids shows “I had a fun life.” I go to the gym and flail around on the “I-limp-and-drool” every other day. I even have a pill tray so I can keep track of my vitamins, glucosamine, calcium and allergy meds. At least I’m not on the cholesterol/diabetes/heart medicine train just yet. And, for the most part, I’m pretty happy with how I look.
But I’m beginning to have some setbacks.
At the beginning of the summer I took my daughters to a consignment store called Plato’s Closet. This store is great, stocking name brand clothes for teenagers (and those hopeful they might still be able to wear them) at deeply discounted prices. In fact, I have gotten a few J.Crew and Banana Republic shirts there myself. This time, however, I made a grave mistake. I tried on the tank tops.
While my daughters flipped patiently among the racks, I snuck to the back of the store and spied several cute tank tops that weren’t too young, or too slutty, or splattered with Aeropostale across the front. With a gleam in my eye and a prance in my comfortable mom-approved New Balance sneakers, I dove into the changing room to try them on.
Guess what? They didn’t fit.
Shocker.
Apparently, the makers of teen-age tank tops long ago realized something I had not: Teen-age boobs are not located in the same place on your body as “I’ve had two kids” boobs. In fact, there is anywhere from a half-inch to a THREE-inch difference!
So, still innocent of this bitter pill I would soon have to swallow (right after I choke down another calcium pill because you have to take them three times a day), I tried pulling the tank tops down, only to have them ride up again until they looked like some awkward, Victorian-cut nightie. My boobs were happily bouncing beneath the seam, making me look like a dog who’s had a few too many puppies. So I tried another one that looked more forgiving. With a vague feeling of desperation I made one last try. I took each boob in hand and tried to tuck it into the empty space in the shirt where they should rest. They looked great until I moved, then out popped each one, like a crazy mammary Jack-in-the-Box.
And don’t get me started on the jeans! Thankfully I had sense enough to know they were never gonna fit my forty-year-old ass. I mean, look at how they fit on the teenagers. Low-rise waists can’t hide their hormone-in-the-chicken-and-milk muffin tops, and they certainly didn’t make the tramp stamp folded in half on their lower backs look any better, although I have to admit there is something mildly entertaining about trying to figure out what the stamp actually is when you can only see half of it. Half a butterfly or angel looks a lot like a “W”, which I assume stands for WIDE–hey, if the tattoo fits… Anyway, if fourteen-year-old girls can’t wear those jeans and look good, you know an ass that’s sunk two inches and flattened like a pancake isn’t going to fit.
But I took heart in knowing that:
a) Pretty soon I’ll be like my older brother and will just give up entirely (he admits this–this is not intended as an insult!). Then he won’t be able to make jokes about my not knowing what color my hair actually is.
b) I will never have to worry about whether I have on my good undies (you know, the ones where the elastic waistband is still covered by cotton) when I wear my mom-waisted jeans, and
c) I can afford to buy the good bras and Spanx that put everything (temporarily) where it should be. Deal with that, Teenagers Who Still Have To Bum Money Off Your Parents! I may not have your bodies, but I only have a few more years to fight the good fight. You’re just entering the ring.
Subourbon Mom 