The early morning sun glinted through gauzy curtains as my eyes adjusted to this newly awakened light. Slowly, my mind made itself cognizent of various thoughts and facts, and I realized it was Mothers Day. Delighted to have a chance to linger in the comfy quilts a while longer, I began to look back upon fond memories of my life with children. There were so many beautiful moments and happy times, precious episodes of pure joy. And for each of these, there were at least twice as many that were simply Episodes. We go into motherhood with soft-focus expectations of love and beauty, but real life, though sweet, is also salty and suprisingly full of poop.
For example, there was a particular birthday party for one of the little darlings that had a South American theme. One of my brothers had recently returned from Brazil with gobs of ethnic toys, candy, and musical instruments. He even brought one of the flouncy white dresses that are popular with the mamacitas as a gift for me. I chose to wear it that day even though he had been away while I was busy growing yet another baby, and my ever-expanding belly jutted ostentatiously between what had become on me a too-small halter top and low-slung rows of ruffles. Ever positive, I decorated and baked, thinking surely everything would be perfect on this glorious day.
Our home filled with children of all ages. Nieces, nephews, & neighbors mingled with aunts & uncles, grandparents, family friends, and one of my husband's buddies from way back in his days with the band (I'm pretty sure that guy was under the influence when he showed up.) The stereo played a samba while cake & treats made their way around the room. Even our gentle pitbull who suffered from anxiety and irritable bowels enjoyed the delights. Normally too nervous around crowds, he stealthily made his way under the radar, cleaning up plates of dropped cake and perhaps a few pieces of bubble gum.
Everyone was having an excellent time, and we thought it could only get better when I brought out the bat and blindfold and announced that it was time for the pinata. One after another, dizzy children swung wildly at the little pink donkey hanging from the banisters, laughing and cheering. When my son finally whacked it hard enough for it to pop open, they all ran amok beneath it, eager to grab fallen candy. Happiness soon turned to dismay as they realized there was no candy to be had. Some searched along the floor while others gazed in confusion at the unproductive gaping donkey belly. The room filled with raucous laughter as everyone realized what had happened. I mouthed to the hubby, (Do they not come with candy in them??) and he replied helpfully, (I don't know - this was your idea.) Known for my quick thinking, I grabbed the nearest bowl off the table, this one filled with chips, and threw it into the air while shouting things like "Hooray!" and "Whoopee!!"
The children were now thoroughly confused as chips rained down upon their heads. The ones who were still looking up at the donkey got salt in their eyes and began to cry. One tried to eat a falling crisp and choked. While his mother raised his left arm and whacked him on the back, the wise lesbian aunt with no kids of her own was actually rolling on the floor laughing, holding her sides and getting chip crumbs in her hair, while the rest of the room maintained general uproar. Therefore, no one noticed the shy dog slipping amongst them all, gobbling up the fallen snacks until one very young child went for a chip the dog had already claimed. The sweet pitbull immediately yielded, but the toddler was spooked, anticipating an injury that didn't come to pass. His wails alerted his parents, who had been certain it was dangerous and perhaps even criminally negligent to have such a beast at a children's party, and they flew into a frenzy of rage and fear. So eager were they to find their child mauled, they began to strip him of all clothing, including his dirty diaper, in search of phantom wounds. At the site of a completely naked, crying, slightly $#!t-stained child, my husband dialed 911. My shrieks of "He's fine! He's fine!! Hang up the damn phone!" pealing through all the others screams, coughs, wails, cries, and (yes) still more laughter were not well received by the operator, and squad cars were dispatched.
Fortunately, or not as the case may be, one was in the immediate vicinity due to a call from an uninvited neighbor complaining of all the cars parked in our circle. Law enforcement was soon at our door, busily misinterpreting the situation. I've mentioned how shy and nervous our hound is, but he is a also a good and faithful guard dog. Uniforms or not, the officers were clearly intruders, and one was already brandishing a baton, which perhaps even reminded the dog of the pinata bat that had recently led to all this turmoil. They were surely up to no good, and his leap upon them was swift and (seemingly) fierce. The baton-wielding cop brought his weapon alonsgside the dog's abdomen, which was now full of sweets and saturated fats. The poor animal's rear end erupted in a horizontal volcano of diarrhea, blasting one grandmother and two of her friends from choir with a veritable confetti gun of crap. Expressions of shock, dismay, and horror now interspersed amid the laughter and tears, and the stricken ladies sat, stunned, with poop particles in their hair, brown mist on their glasses, and stains seeping into their strands of pearls. Beside them, the stoned interloper, formerly the bass player for the band Contempt, nodded his head and laughed soundlessly as he said, "Dude, now it's a party."
So there you go. That is my contribution this Mothers Day. Cheers to all you moms out there who make every event in their children's lives a special memory.
Showing posts with label FUNNY. Show all posts
Showing posts with label FUNNY. Show all posts
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Monday, March 15, 2010
Flashback of Last Year's Well-Woman Exam
For the first time in almost a year, I was able to find something positive and useful that was gleaned from my annual well-woman exam last May. It happened while I was enjoying margaritas and cooking with my aunts and mama. Usually, information flows the opposite way, and I learn a lot from their wisdom, experience, good humor and sweet souls. But, this time, I had peculiar insight.
Aunt Brunette: I'm really not very good at drinking. The last time I tried, the bed was spinning, I threw up in the shower, and the next day was plagued by diarrhea.
Me: Ah! Ooh, ooh, I know this one. If the bed is spinning, put one foot on the floor.
Aunt Blonde: (raises hand while stirring at the stovetop) I knew that!
Me: The shower was a good move (preferably sitting down or even laying on your side, the left side is better for the kidneys.) Throwing up is good. Bite the bullet and let it go. Otherwise, try to find the greasiest, cheesiest food possible - Allsup's chimichangas were really good, the taquitos with cheese are a modern day substitute, with ranch dressing, of course. You may have to add your own chiles because (a) at this point you just don't care, and (b) it might be the only thing that makes you feel like you are still alive.
Aunt Blonde: Damn! I forgot to bring the jalapenos! I put some in these enchiladas, but we are going to need more. (shakes head sadly even though every thing tastes scrumptious)
Me: I can explain the diarrhea thing, too.
Mama: Oh, please don't.
Me: (my aunts look curious, in my opinion, so I continue) Bowel inflammation. Just like our fingers and ankles get puffy when we drink and the hangover headache is caused by our brains swelling from water retention, the bowels swell, too, and can't absorb any more liquid, resulting in a mass exodus.
Mama: (garbled noise of disgust and exasperation, turns away as she sprinkles salt on a pickle before munching it thoughtfully)
Me: (my aunts are grossed out, too, but have expressions that vaguely indicate they appreciate the explanation) I get bonus points for knowing that the blackish-green color comes from drinking red wine. *smiles proudly*
Aunt Blonde: (now stirring again) I knew that one, too!
Aunt Brunette: Now, how did you come about this...information?
Me: Oh, I learned it in my well-woman exam last year.
Mama: They have classes for being a well woman? And tests??
Me: No, that's just what the insurance calls it. It's just an annual physical for girls, only instead of finger-poking, turning and coughing, we get to ride in the stirrups with our butt hanging off the table. Gloves are still involved, though. BUT, girls get to have sweet extras like hot lights and cold gel because we're delicate like that, and the drape makes a curtain between our knees so that we can't see what's going on down there or which metal instrument is making that cranking wratchet noise.
Mama: I'm glad I'm too old for this.
Me: You're really not. You have just been remiss.
Aunt Brunette: I still don't understand what this has to do with drinking and diarrhea.
Me: Oohhh, right. Well, I was really not looking forward to the exam, particularly after reading that one should abstain from having sex 4 days before it, which reminded me that two years was probably enough time to have lapsed. Then, I got to thinking about the years leading up to the divorce and realized I really did not remember the last time I had sex and now I probably never will again. So, I ended up drinking too much, having the black diarrhea, spent a couple of drunk hours thinking I was dying of some kind of cancer, and asked about it in a wobbly voice during the exam.
A few lectures about overeating and alcohol consumption later, the doctor had explained it all. She also flashed some lights in my eyes and told me I had nyastagmus. Panic-stricken, I asked what that meant, and she said, "It means you are still a little bit drunk."
I was non-plussed at that point. So I said, "If we had to go through this whole exam just to come to the conclusion that I am a fat drunk, I could have saved a lot of time & money by telling you that when I walked in here. I saw how much you charged my insurance company for this." Then she was non-plussed. Come to think of it, it's about time to schedule this year's appointment...
Aunt Brunette: I'm really not very good at drinking. The last time I tried, the bed was spinning, I threw up in the shower, and the next day was plagued by diarrhea.
Me: Ah! Ooh, ooh, I know this one. If the bed is spinning, put one foot on the floor.
Aunt Blonde: (raises hand while stirring at the stovetop) I knew that!
Me: The shower was a good move (preferably sitting down or even laying on your side, the left side is better for the kidneys.) Throwing up is good. Bite the bullet and let it go. Otherwise, try to find the greasiest, cheesiest food possible - Allsup's chimichangas were really good, the taquitos with cheese are a modern day substitute, with ranch dressing, of course. You may have to add your own chiles because (a) at this point you just don't care, and (b) it might be the only thing that makes you feel like you are still alive.
Aunt Blonde: Damn! I forgot to bring the jalapenos! I put some in these enchiladas, but we are going to need more. (shakes head sadly even though every thing tastes scrumptious)
Me: I can explain the diarrhea thing, too.
Mama: Oh, please don't.
Me: (my aunts look curious, in my opinion, so I continue) Bowel inflammation. Just like our fingers and ankles get puffy when we drink and the hangover headache is caused by our brains swelling from water retention, the bowels swell, too, and can't absorb any more liquid, resulting in a mass exodus.
Mama: (garbled noise of disgust and exasperation, turns away as she sprinkles salt on a pickle before munching it thoughtfully)
Me: (my aunts are grossed out, too, but have expressions that vaguely indicate they appreciate the explanation) I get bonus points for knowing that the blackish-green color comes from drinking red wine. *smiles proudly*
Aunt Blonde: (now stirring again) I knew that one, too!
Aunt Brunette: Now, how did you come about this...information?
Me: Oh, I learned it in my well-woman exam last year.
Mama: They have classes for being a well woman? And tests??
Me: No, that's just what the insurance calls it. It's just an annual physical for girls, only instead of finger-poking, turning and coughing, we get to ride in the stirrups with our butt hanging off the table. Gloves are still involved, though. BUT, girls get to have sweet extras like hot lights and cold gel because we're delicate like that, and the drape makes a curtain between our knees so that we can't see what's going on down there or which metal instrument is making that cranking wratchet noise.
Mama: I'm glad I'm too old for this.
Me: You're really not. You have just been remiss.
Aunt Brunette: I still don't understand what this has to do with drinking and diarrhea.
Me: Oohhh, right. Well, I was really not looking forward to the exam, particularly after reading that one should abstain from having sex 4 days before it, which reminded me that two years was probably enough time to have lapsed. Then, I got to thinking about the years leading up to the divorce and realized I really did not remember the last time I had sex and now I probably never will again. So, I ended up drinking too much, having the black diarrhea, spent a couple of drunk hours thinking I was dying of some kind of cancer, and asked about it in a wobbly voice during the exam.
A few lectures about overeating and alcohol consumption later, the doctor had explained it all. She also flashed some lights in my eyes and told me I had nyastagmus. Panic-stricken, I asked what that meant, and she said, "It means you are still a little bit drunk."
I was non-plussed at that point. So I said, "If we had to go through this whole exam just to come to the conclusion that I am a fat drunk, I could have saved a lot of time & money by telling you that when I walked in here. I saw how much you charged my insurance company for this." Then she was non-plussed. Come to think of it, it's about time to schedule this year's appointment...
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Stunts My Mama & I Have Pulled
Today, my daughter greeted me with tears and a tale of wrong-doing on the part of certain employees in our complex's office. After walking home from school in the August heat of Texas, she had gone in for a little paper cone cup of water from the 5 gallon bottle the office keeps on hand, though apparently Reserved for Employees and Future Residents Only. The childless cow who guards the sacred bottle declined, in fact refused to dole out the 1/3 cup portion of water to my daughter on the grounds that if she supplied it to one kid, she would have to for all of them. The two then sat in silence and looked at each other, perhaps waiting for this flood of children to bear down on the water-keeper, for the 10 minutes it took me to fetch my girl.
I pondered this event in calm consternation as I altered my route home to include a trip to the grocery store. There, we purchased a case of water bottles and all the makings of a gift basket. My daughter watched from the air-conditioned front seat of the car as I cheerfully fashioned an elaborate display of thirst-quenching generosity, and she smiled politely when we delivered it to the aforementioned cow, whose nervous embarrassment was obviously at odds with her exclamation of thanks.
"Lady," I said, "I wouldn't piss on you if your hair was on fire, but if your daughter was thirsty I would give her a damn drink of water."
That was the second time in less than a week that I had seen my daughter gaze at me with pride and trust. While attending a school function the other day, we returned to our vehicle to find that another car had parked behind mine, effectively trapping us. My daughter was utterly perplexed, but I waited a few moments in patient meditation, giving the thoughtless driver a chance to return. When another car down the row a ways vacated a space, I told my girl to get in the car and buckle up. She paused long enough to watch me place the gum I had been chewing under the door handle of the car that had blocked me. Her shock and confusion escalated as I silently drove over the schoolyard to slip smoothly through the vacated space. Even I was impressed with our ability to exit with such grace from a difficult situation.
Tunes of "Harper Valley PTA" went through my mind as we drove on, smiling while the wind blew our hair and the setting sun glinted in the rearview mirror.
These things reminded me of an episode years ago during one of my little brother's softball games when Mama and I were watching from the car along the fencerow. A particularly hateful neighbor decided to try to pass through the narrow space with her epic-sized nachos and pickles rather than going around my mom's tiny blue Toyota. Her generous proportions made navigating the pass difficult for her, and she squawked loudly, "Some People just don't know how to paaarrk!" I don't think it was so much the remark as it was the sneering expression on the woman's face, all wrinkled nose and snarly lips, that motivated my mother to release the parking brake. The car rolled forward just enough to pin the hippopotamus-shaped woman against the chainlink fence, resulting in much waving of gelatinous arms, spilled refreshments, and ridiculous expressions that bent the snarly lips like a wire coat hanger. In case her shrill activities did not attract enough attention, Mama's boob pressed the horn for an extended amount of time as she craned forward to watch my brother catch a pop fly. It was hard to see around the spectacle.
As if sensing my nostalgia, my mom called me this evening. After our customary greetings and mutual assurance that we were doing okay and had talked to my brother recently, the conversation went something like this...
Mama: Well, I have to explain something before you find out anyway.
Me: ...okay...
Mama: Some neighborhood kids stopped by today, and I thought they were offering to mow my lawn for me so I told them I did not have enough gas in the lawn mower. They said they were just warning me that I would get a citation for my grass being too high. Since I don't want Another Citation, especially since the felony charges for assaulting an animal control officer have not been tried before a jury of my peers yet, I decided to try to mow it myself.
(Note - my mother is 61 years old and is bipolar, so get ready for the rest of the story.)
Mama: I mowed most of it even though it was getting dark, but then I realized that the keys I had pinned to my underwear had come loose and gotten lost somewhere in the yard.
Me: You have a key to the bathroom window? (Mama enters and exits the house only through her bathroom window with the assistance of an elaborate structure consisting of rusted bathtubs and cast iron stoves in the carport.)
Mama: No, no, these are keys to other things. Do you remember that cabinet I used to have?
Me: Uhh...
Mama: Anyway, I had been feeling all over and couldn't find the keys in my pants, so I took them off. Then, I got down on my hands and knees to look through the grass with my cigarette lighter.
Me: Oh, no.
Mama: Turns out, I had more gasoline than I thought I did, and that is why the fire department is here, and my turtle is dead. I love you, and I love you ... there is someone in an official-looking uniform who wants to talk to you ...
I pondered this event in calm consternation as I altered my route home to include a trip to the grocery store. There, we purchased a case of water bottles and all the makings of a gift basket. My daughter watched from the air-conditioned front seat of the car as I cheerfully fashioned an elaborate display of thirst-quenching generosity, and she smiled politely when we delivered it to the aforementioned cow, whose nervous embarrassment was obviously at odds with her exclamation of thanks.
"Lady," I said, "I wouldn't piss on you if your hair was on fire, but if your daughter was thirsty I would give her a damn drink of water."
That was the second time in less than a week that I had seen my daughter gaze at me with pride and trust. While attending a school function the other day, we returned to our vehicle to find that another car had parked behind mine, effectively trapping us. My daughter was utterly perplexed, but I waited a few moments in patient meditation, giving the thoughtless driver a chance to return. When another car down the row a ways vacated a space, I told my girl to get in the car and buckle up. She paused long enough to watch me place the gum I had been chewing under the door handle of the car that had blocked me. Her shock and confusion escalated as I silently drove over the schoolyard to slip smoothly through the vacated space. Even I was impressed with our ability to exit with such grace from a difficult situation.
Tunes of "Harper Valley PTA" went through my mind as we drove on, smiling while the wind blew our hair and the setting sun glinted in the rearview mirror.
These things reminded me of an episode years ago during one of my little brother's softball games when Mama and I were watching from the car along the fencerow. A particularly hateful neighbor decided to try to pass through the narrow space with her epic-sized nachos and pickles rather than going around my mom's tiny blue Toyota. Her generous proportions made navigating the pass difficult for her, and she squawked loudly, "Some People just don't know how to paaarrk!" I don't think it was so much the remark as it was the sneering expression on the woman's face, all wrinkled nose and snarly lips, that motivated my mother to release the parking brake. The car rolled forward just enough to pin the hippopotamus-shaped woman against the chainlink fence, resulting in much waving of gelatinous arms, spilled refreshments, and ridiculous expressions that bent the snarly lips like a wire coat hanger. In case her shrill activities did not attract enough attention, Mama's boob pressed the horn for an extended amount of time as she craned forward to watch my brother catch a pop fly. It was hard to see around the spectacle.
As if sensing my nostalgia, my mom called me this evening. After our customary greetings and mutual assurance that we were doing okay and had talked to my brother recently, the conversation went something like this...
Mama: Well, I have to explain something before you find out anyway.
Me: ...okay...
Mama: Some neighborhood kids stopped by today, and I thought they were offering to mow my lawn for me so I told them I did not have enough gas in the lawn mower. They said they were just warning me that I would get a citation for my grass being too high. Since I don't want Another Citation, especially since the felony charges for assaulting an animal control officer have not been tried before a jury of my peers yet, I decided to try to mow it myself.
(Note - my mother is 61 years old and is bipolar, so get ready for the rest of the story.)
Mama: I mowed most of it even though it was getting dark, but then I realized that the keys I had pinned to my underwear had come loose and gotten lost somewhere in the yard.
Me: You have a key to the bathroom window? (Mama enters and exits the house only through her bathroom window with the assistance of an elaborate structure consisting of rusted bathtubs and cast iron stoves in the carport.)
Mama: No, no, these are keys to other things. Do you remember that cabinet I used to have?
Me: Uhh...
Mama: Anyway, I had been feeling all over and couldn't find the keys in my pants, so I took them off. Then, I got down on my hands and knees to look through the grass with my cigarette lighter.
Me: Oh, no.
Mama: Turns out, I had more gasoline than I thought I did, and that is why the fire department is here, and my turtle is dead. I love you, and I love you ... there is someone in an official-looking uniform who wants to talk to you ...
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Road to Hell
The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I witnessed such a path this weekend. As I was making my way back from the mailbox, I watched a sweet little blue-haired lady slow her Cadillac, roll down the passenger window, and helpfully advise the close-cropped (black) woman and child wrapped in colorful towels that, "In this country, we wear our tops back from the pool so that our bosoms won't show." In response, the noble lady kindly overlooked the cultural condescension and said, "This is my son, those are not bosoms, and I was born & raised in Haltom City." The elderly lady, surely trying to save face, said, "He needs to lose some weight, then." That is when the Haltom City lady threw her 44 ounce Slushie at the elderly dignitary's windshield.
I hid my laughter and shock in my own voluptuous bosom as I stooped to collect my dachshund's stool in a ziploc baggie so as not to foul the grounds. My private mind speculated upon similar collections elsewhere in the world.
I hid my laughter and shock in my own voluptuous bosom as I stooped to collect my dachshund's stool in a ziploc baggie so as not to foul the grounds. My private mind speculated upon similar collections elsewhere in the world.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Yule Blog
Gloriosa Magnificata - A good-hearted coworker offered tickets to the Gloria at his church to everyone in our department. My background (limited at that) is in Catholicism, and my overall view is spiritual but anti-organized religion. I think I expected simply a Christmas-y evening of music and fellowship with nice people.
My preconceived notions began to slip away when I arrived at the campus of the 70,000 strong congregation and tried to find a parking place. There was much horn-honking and fist-shaking, and I began to suspect that some of these people might not be very nice. Tail tucked, I slunk off in search of unclaimed spaces not designated for clergy. I was almost out of gas by the time I found one. Fortunately, a convenient shuttle cruised by and gave me a lift from the M Lot where I left my independent little nondemonational car amidst a sea of religious & political bumper stickers on gas-guzzlers. With no Star of Bethlehem in sight, I made a mental note that I parked under Orion's Belt for when it came time to find my Saturn after the show.
After the exodus from the shuttle, I paused to let the crowd pass and gather my bearings. My brow knitted with fears that perhaps I was overdressed as I noticed many people wearing sweatpants and athletic shoes. As it turns out, I had simply entered the church through its fitness center. I made my way past the four basketball courts, through the banquet halls & conference auditoriums, past the Starbucks, and into the atrium. A kindly usher in a burgundy velvet jacket processed my ticket and helped me navigate to my seat through the cameras, microphones, and booms. Craning my neck behind me at the four levels of stadium-style seating, I was grateful for his assistance and impressed to have floor seats at stage right. I had arrived late, and John Tesh already stood before me almost as tall as he appeared on the two giant screens that simultaneously broadcast his image to those lesser Christians who did not shell out for the good seats. (Uh oh, I was feeling the effects already.)
The 1000 member choir was astounding and sang beautifully. Even without the Hollywood-grade sound system, their voices would have surrounded us. The tinnitus in my ears dulled my senses, and I really did not mean to shout, "Holy Crap!" when the ballerinas were dropped from the ceiling on wires. I was simply surprised, and the light show was confusing me. The ballerinas' aerial performance was amazing, as was that of the drummers in mirrored cages who were lowered during The Little Drummer Boy. The tribal beat and costumed dancers that ran up and down the aisles were a bit unnerving, though. Their painted faces made them look like Picasso portraits, and their outfits sounded like dozens of flapping wings. I was afraid one might touch me or throw bees at me or something. At that point, I thought nothing would surprise me.
Again, I was proved wrong when, three costume changes later, the dancers froze in a pose indicating the giant screens where a fourteen-minute public service announcement advertising Baptism was aired. My mouth gaped as my gaze wandered between it and the motionless dancers. One's cheek was twitching, and her raised arm wobbled a bit now and then. The others were still as stone, but their eyes slid towards her with flashes of anger and irritation. She would surely be fired from the dancing gig and banished to Hell for her poor performance and lack of spiritual fortitude.
The whole spectacle eventually worked itself into a frothy climax that left me stunned, speechless, and rather delighted by the sparkly confetti. You may think I made this all up, but I have proof. I was issued a dvd of the event as I was carried along with the crowd and the glitter and expelled from the church's maw onto the sidewalk outside. I quietly thanked God that they had not dropped me into the salvation tank as I hailed the M shuttle. "M is for Let's Get Out of Here" my disoriented mind thought to itself. Once I was finally tucked safely back into my car, I spent a half hour letting the traffic clear, shuddering and picking confetti out of my bra.
My preconceived notions began to slip away when I arrived at the campus of the 70,000 strong congregation and tried to find a parking place. There was much horn-honking and fist-shaking, and I began to suspect that some of these people might not be very nice. Tail tucked, I slunk off in search of unclaimed spaces not designated for clergy. I was almost out of gas by the time I found one. Fortunately, a convenient shuttle cruised by and gave me a lift from the M Lot where I left my independent little nondemonational car amidst a sea of religious & political bumper stickers on gas-guzzlers. With no Star of Bethlehem in sight, I made a mental note that I parked under Orion's Belt for when it came time to find my Saturn after the show.
After the exodus from the shuttle, I paused to let the crowd pass and gather my bearings. My brow knitted with fears that perhaps I was overdressed as I noticed many people wearing sweatpants and athletic shoes. As it turns out, I had simply entered the church through its fitness center. I made my way past the four basketball courts, through the banquet halls & conference auditoriums, past the Starbucks, and into the atrium. A kindly usher in a burgundy velvet jacket processed my ticket and helped me navigate to my seat through the cameras, microphones, and booms. Craning my neck behind me at the four levels of stadium-style seating, I was grateful for his assistance and impressed to have floor seats at stage right. I had arrived late, and John Tesh already stood before me almost as tall as he appeared on the two giant screens that simultaneously broadcast his image to those lesser Christians who did not shell out for the good seats. (Uh oh, I was feeling the effects already.)
The 1000 member choir was astounding and sang beautifully. Even without the Hollywood-grade sound system, their voices would have surrounded us. The tinnitus in my ears dulled my senses, and I really did not mean to shout, "Holy Crap!" when the ballerinas were dropped from the ceiling on wires. I was simply surprised, and the light show was confusing me. The ballerinas' aerial performance was amazing, as was that of the drummers in mirrored cages who were lowered during The Little Drummer Boy. The tribal beat and costumed dancers that ran up and down the aisles were a bit unnerving, though. Their painted faces made them look like Picasso portraits, and their outfits sounded like dozens of flapping wings. I was afraid one might touch me or throw bees at me or something. At that point, I thought nothing would surprise me.
Again, I was proved wrong when, three costume changes later, the dancers froze in a pose indicating the giant screens where a fourteen-minute public service announcement advertising Baptism was aired. My mouth gaped as my gaze wandered between it and the motionless dancers. One's cheek was twitching, and her raised arm wobbled a bit now and then. The others were still as stone, but their eyes slid towards her with flashes of anger and irritation. She would surely be fired from the dancing gig and banished to Hell for her poor performance and lack of spiritual fortitude.
The whole spectacle eventually worked itself into a frothy climax that left me stunned, speechless, and rather delighted by the sparkly confetti. You may think I made this all up, but I have proof. I was issued a dvd of the event as I was carried along with the crowd and the glitter and expelled from the church's maw onto the sidewalk outside. I quietly thanked God that they had not dropped me into the salvation tank as I hailed the M shuttle. "M is for Let's Get Out of Here" my disoriented mind thought to itself. Once I was finally tucked safely back into my car, I spent a half hour letting the traffic clear, shuddering and picking confetti out of my bra.
Bubba's Grill
Perhaps not all stories should be told. Entire situations could silently exist indefinitely as long as no one asks certain questions.
During a stint as a front desk receptionist, I received a package for a coworker. I alerted him by email and within minutes he was in front of me, eager to claim the package. "Why so excited?" was my first mistake.
"These are the counter-weights for my grill!"
Confused, I proceeded quickly to mistake number two. "Why do you need counter-weights for a grill?"
I swear to you, his reply was, "Well, to hold up the flagpoles, of course."
My puzzled expression fell to stunned consternation, but he wasted no time explaining further. He obviously had other things to do that afternoon as he hurried out the door. Another coworker was passing through on his way to lunch and had overheard part of the exchange. He helpfully offered, "Bubba won't be back today. The man has a walk-in grill."
I plopped in my chair and answered a few calls as though the world had not just turned upside down, and I wondered how I fell into that rabbit hole. Eventually, though, curiosity got the best of me, and I found myself deliberately seeking out opportunities to ask progressively nuttier questions. I really should not have bothered because the explanation was almost as confusing as the remarks that warranted it.
As best I can tell by the way it was described to me, Bubba's walk-in grill is fashioned similar to a dog-run cabin. There are two smokehouses (one for beef and one for pork, naturally) on either side of a covered patio. The patio has four multi-tiered grills lining both sides of it, for a total of twelve grilling surfaces. Bubba stands in the center of the patio with his spatula, basters, brushes, and tongs holstered in an apron with a toolbelt sewn to it, and there, I hear, he truly shines.
Also, there is a free-standing fire box that contains a five foot rotating shoe rack Bubba has bastardized into a chicken spit. He is able to roast up to twenty birds at a time. Apparently, this is the location of the flagpoles which sport one American flag and one OU flag, Bubba's alma mater. These soaring banners could potentially cause the whole contraption to take flight, hence the need for counterweights.
I found that my final question could only be WHY?
"Because he is in the Knights of Columbus," was the answer, and I gave up. That's what I get for asking.
During a stint as a front desk receptionist, I received a package for a coworker. I alerted him by email and within minutes he was in front of me, eager to claim the package. "Why so excited?" was my first mistake.
"These are the counter-weights for my grill!"
Confused, I proceeded quickly to mistake number two. "Why do you need counter-weights for a grill?"
I swear to you, his reply was, "Well, to hold up the flagpoles, of course."
My puzzled expression fell to stunned consternation, but he wasted no time explaining further. He obviously had other things to do that afternoon as he hurried out the door. Another coworker was passing through on his way to lunch and had overheard part of the exchange. He helpfully offered, "Bubba won't be back today. The man has a walk-in grill."
I plopped in my chair and answered a few calls as though the world had not just turned upside down, and I wondered how I fell into that rabbit hole. Eventually, though, curiosity got the best of me, and I found myself deliberately seeking out opportunities to ask progressively nuttier questions. I really should not have bothered because the explanation was almost as confusing as the remarks that warranted it.
As best I can tell by the way it was described to me, Bubba's walk-in grill is fashioned similar to a dog-run cabin. There are two smokehouses (one for beef and one for pork, naturally) on either side of a covered patio. The patio has four multi-tiered grills lining both sides of it, for a total of twelve grilling surfaces. Bubba stands in the center of the patio with his spatula, basters, brushes, and tongs holstered in an apron with a toolbelt sewn to it, and there, I hear, he truly shines.
Also, there is a free-standing fire box that contains a five foot rotating shoe rack Bubba has bastardized into a chicken spit. He is able to roast up to twenty birds at a time. Apparently, this is the location of the flagpoles which sport one American flag and one OU flag, Bubba's alma mater. These soaring banners could potentially cause the whole contraption to take flight, hence the need for counterweights.
I found that my final question could only be WHY?
"Because he is in the Knights of Columbus," was the answer, and I gave up. That's what I get for asking.
Why Terrorists Did Not Target the South - a skit in which my mother plays all 4 characters
A short skit loosely based upon a recent conversation with my mother...she plays all four characters...
[Scene opens with hapless terrorists Akhmed and Abdullah holding an elderly couple at gunpoint. Their plan is to strap bombs to the elderly couple and send them and their Cadillac crashing into the Walmart headquarters in Bentonville, Arkansas (financial capital of the South) in a second attempt upon America. The couple, Billy Mac and Bessie Mae, are beginning to get the gist of the plan...]
Bessie Mae: Is he talking about that September 9th thing?
Billy Mac: Wasn't September 9th. It was September 11th.
Bessie Mae: No, it was September 9th cuz it was the same day we got that coupon in the mail for the new restaurant. I remember, you had the chili and was sick for days.
Billy Mac: No, it was September 11th cuz I was only sick for 2 days, and they bummed those radio towers when I finally passed it.
Akhmed: Are you joking me? I am not joking you. Shut up.
Bessie Mae: [ignoring Akhmed] They weren't radio towers. They bummed the World towers.
Billy Mac: You dingbat! Any idiot knows you take out communications first. The World towers was just the name of the radio towers. It was a code name.
Bessie Mae: Alls I know is our bathroom stunk for DAYS. I thought I was going to have to call the insurance adjuster.
Abdullah: Stop! Stop this blasphemy from coming out your mouths! Our soldiers martyred themselves. They stood proudly before Allah after killing thousands of infidels. We brought your nation to its knees, and you cannot even remember the date? Everyone knows the date!
Bessie Mae: Honey, I am 83 years old...
Billy Mac: 81
Bessie Mae: ...eighty-one years old, and I don't remember my own name for days at a time. Now, ask me when Truman died, and that I can tell you. It was March 28, 1969.
Billy Mac: It was not. That's when Eisenhower died. Remember? Your dad had a sheep named I Like Ike...
Bessie Mae: Now, that he did. He named it that just to make Mama mad.
Billy Mac: ...and he did not want to sell him but he had to, so he waited until the anniversary of Eisenhower's death out of respect.
[Akhmed drops his rifle and blinks in disbelief. Abdullah is speechless.]
Bessie Mae: Well, you are right about that. Be that as it may, smart aleck, what year did Truman die?
Billy Mac: I don't believe he has yet.
Akhmed: Shut up. Shut up, shut up, Shut Up! You people are too stupid to kill. You are not even worthy of being our sacrifices. I might as well go back to herding goats!
[Akhmed and Abdullah murmur in outrage as they walk away.]
Bessie Mae: Did he say that he hurts goats?
Billy Mac: Might have. You know how them Messkins like to eat cabrito...
[scene fades to black]
[Scene opens with hapless terrorists Akhmed and Abdullah holding an elderly couple at gunpoint. Their plan is to strap bombs to the elderly couple and send them and their Cadillac crashing into the Walmart headquarters in Bentonville, Arkansas (financial capital of the South) in a second attempt upon America. The couple, Billy Mac and Bessie Mae, are beginning to get the gist of the plan...]
Bessie Mae: Is he talking about that September 9th thing?
Billy Mac: Wasn't September 9th. It was September 11th.
Bessie Mae: No, it was September 9th cuz it was the same day we got that coupon in the mail for the new restaurant. I remember, you had the chili and was sick for days.
Billy Mac: No, it was September 11th cuz I was only sick for 2 days, and they bummed those radio towers when I finally passed it.
Akhmed: Are you joking me? I am not joking you. Shut up.
Bessie Mae: [ignoring Akhmed] They weren't radio towers. They bummed the World towers.
Billy Mac: You dingbat! Any idiot knows you take out communications first. The World towers was just the name of the radio towers. It was a code name.
Bessie Mae: Alls I know is our bathroom stunk for DAYS. I thought I was going to have to call the insurance adjuster.
Abdullah: Stop! Stop this blasphemy from coming out your mouths! Our soldiers martyred themselves. They stood proudly before Allah after killing thousands of infidels. We brought your nation to its knees, and you cannot even remember the date? Everyone knows the date!
Bessie Mae: Honey, I am 83 years old...
Billy Mac: 81
Bessie Mae: ...eighty-one years old, and I don't remember my own name for days at a time. Now, ask me when Truman died, and that I can tell you. It was March 28, 1969.
Billy Mac: It was not. That's when Eisenhower died. Remember? Your dad had a sheep named I Like Ike...
Bessie Mae: Now, that he did. He named it that just to make Mama mad.
Billy Mac: ...and he did not want to sell him but he had to, so he waited until the anniversary of Eisenhower's death out of respect.
[Akhmed drops his rifle and blinks in disbelief. Abdullah is speechless.]
Bessie Mae: Well, you are right about that. Be that as it may, smart aleck, what year did Truman die?
Billy Mac: I don't believe he has yet.
Akhmed: Shut up. Shut up, shut up, Shut Up! You people are too stupid to kill. You are not even worthy of being our sacrifices. I might as well go back to herding goats!
[Akhmed and Abdullah murmur in outrage as they walk away.]
Bessie Mae: Did he say that he hurts goats?
Billy Mac: Might have. You know how them Messkins like to eat cabrito...
[scene fades to black]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)