News Round Up

1. Weekend before last MDH and I drove to Indianapolis (I know, I know, we are just too posh and glamorous and need to get over ourselves immediately) where we met with some good friends and saw the traveling King Tut exhibit at the children's museum.

It was the weekend of our wedding anniversary so MDH and I decided to arrive a day early to take in the sights of Indiana's state capital which is how we ended up touring the home of 23rd president Benjamin Harrison (yet another "feather" in our cap of presidential homes visited across America , we are now up to 7 - I know, I know, you're jealous of our James Bond like jet-setting life style filled with danger and erotic intrigue the level of which would bring a blush to the cheeks of the editors of the Penthouse forum). We thoroughly annoyed the poor docent by interrupting his scripted and well practiced room by room guided spiels to frequently and vigorously interrogate the poor old fellow on the origin and subspecies of various displayed items and tchotchkes about which he knew nothing. At the end of the tour Mr. Docent was kind to enough to call over one of the historians to help answer some of our questions.

Mr. Docent insisted that it was no trouble and explained that he actually considered our intense interest refreshing and enjoyed our challenging questions because he is used to corralling busloads of unruly school children who could care less about American history and our 23rd president and don't ask him to answer any question more taxing than the location of the restroom.

MDH and I topped off our busy day of sight seeing with a romantic dinner at St. Elmo's where we gorged ourselves on typical steakhouse fare such as shrimp cocktail, giant cuts of aged beef and a bottle of moderately priced red wine. Afterwards we waddled drunkenly back to our hotel room, bellies full and proceeded to spend the rest of the evening lolling around our hotel suite and stinking the place up with our noxious gasses. So sexy.

Anyhoo... we had a good time in Indianapolis. Thankfully I packed some Tums.

2. The following Monday afternoon after our return from Indianapolis (that would be last week) my dad called me to tell me that on Saturday as my mother was bending over, filling out a form to bid on an item in a silent auction at some affair they were attending at their country club someone at the table where she was bidding moved a box that had been under the table so that the box was now out in the aisle in front of the table and when my mother was finished filling out her bidding form she tripped over the box and fell down and broke her pelvis.

My mommy fell hard and broke her pelvis and was still in the hospital when my dad called to tell me 3 fucking days later. Fucking A man. I'm not sure why they do this, but not contacting me is pretty much included in all of their emergency planning meetings. Granted they live in Florida so I wouldn't have been able to do anything anyway, but still, keeping me, their only living child out of the loop, it's weird right?

So now my mom is in a rehab center learning how to perform exciting tricks like putting on her own underpants and rolling over in bed by herself. She may have to be there for several more weeks.

She refuses to talk to or see anyone but my father and me (with one exception described below) and even I'm not allowed to call her without permission. She arranges for me to call her via my dad who will call me at 11:27 and say "Your mom wants you to call her today at 11:30 and she will talk to you for 20 minutes or so...". It's like mission impossible.

Anyhoo... you may assume that I am concerned about my mother's condition for all the normal reasons that anyone would be, but I am also concerned that the multiple new medications she is taking for pain and anxiety (apparently she has mini-freak outs just before some of her more intensive physical therapy sessions) won't mix well with the Scotch my father has been sneaking in for her on his daily visits.

I am also concerned that my dad, left to fend for himself has thrown his low fat, low sodium, no cholesterol diet right out the window without my mom there to control every bite he puts in his mouth like she normally does.

The situation has gotten further out of hand because you see my father is a handsome and charming old chap who is very popular in the community, especially with some of the ladies, who have wasted no time swooping in to fill my parents refrigerator with their home cooked pot roasts, quiches, lasagnas and various other meat, cheese and egg heavy meals. My dad is far too polite to tell these sweet, concerned creatures that he cannot eat their fatty foods and frankly having all that good stuff conveniently prepared and ready to eat has been too much of a temptation so he's been eating it and now his ulcer has been acting up again.

An elaborate plot?

It wouldn't surprise me one iota to find out that any one of these ladies (not actually pictured above), who I personally have witnessed shamelessly flirting with my dad right in front of me and my mom, planted that box for my mom to trip over in an effort to get my mother out of the picture. There are a lot of lonely widows and divorcees in the neighborhood and my dad would be quite a catch.

My level of importance...
The charity auction where my mom fell and broke her pelvis was organized by a famous golfer who happened to be standing near my mother when she fell and who has been sending my mother flowers and calling her every single day since the accident. My mom is thrilled and I haven't the heart to mention that the famous golfer is probably only trying to butter her up so she won't sue the plaid pants off of him. She takes every call from the famous golfer even though the famous golfer has a tendency to call at the most inconvenient times, like when she is on her bedpan or sleeping or what have you. When I suggested that she simply not take the golfers calls or explain to the golfer that she was sleeping or in the middle of a big shit she acted as though I had lost my mind. How rude not to take a call from the famous golfer. And yet all my phone calls to her have to be by appointment only. At least I know where I stand.


Only 2 items in the News Round Up?
Other than job searching, overeating and watching too much TV that's really all that's been going on around here lately. I'll write again when I have more farting to discuss and issues about my parents I feel like airing publicly.

Kindest Regards,

Lady

Gypsies, Tramps & Skeeves

Well there is nothing quite like combining your 42nd birthday and a family reunion all in the same weekend to leave you feeling a wee bit maudlin. We've been back from Columbus for just a week and I've been a bit down. Not that I didn't have fun. I did. And not that I wasn't happy to see (most of) my family. I was. Perhaps things were a little too good and I wasn't quite ready to leave my old stomping grounds.

Last Friday afternoon I went out to lunch with my mother (in town for the reunion as well), and my friends Amy and Becky. It was marvelous. We laughed and laughed. Until my mom created one of those bizarro moments where the entire world (or in this case the entire restaurant) stops spinning, mouths are silenced and all ears became focused on her when she told this whacked out and racially tinged story about Romani Gypsies that she tried to dignify by saying she'd read it in "the paper".

Awkward.

Fortunately we recovered the moment and the good times resumed as my friends and I collectively made a decision to smile, nod and ignore her crazy ass and quickly move on to less nutty topics.

After my mother left I tried to restore my friends faith in journalism by revealing that the only "paper" my mom reads is the Villages Daily Sun and all they ever report is who died or who has grand kids visiting. I reassured them that she didn't read that clap-trap Gypsy story in the Washington Post or the New York Times. Clearly she made it up.

It's scary to see your parents age. A sad point, driven (literally) home to me in the bullet points listed below in the order that the thoughts popped into my head, as I got in the passenger seat of my mother's rented mini-van and took a short drive across the parking lot of a large mall after luncheon when we all wanted to grab coffees at a nearby cafe:

• Damn. She has to drive? It's so close. Her legs must be very fucked up. I should ask her how fucked up her legs are ...


• Damn. She uses a cane at home? Why hasn't she ever mentioned this. Um... Why didn't she bring it with her?


• Vanity. Apparently my mom is more self conscious about being seen using a cane than she is about getting into a car and driving 50 feet.


• Um... why is she driving in circles? We just drove right by the cafe. There's a spot. Oh. There's a spot. Oh. There's one. Oh. What the fuck?


• Great. Now she's blind too. Apparently she only parks in spots where she can pull forward instead of having to back out.


• This is bad.

I'll just say this about my mom's driving - the only reason she hasn't mowed anyone down (that we know of) is because thankfully they saw her first and were able to get the hell out of the way.

As for the rest of my weekend - here is the highlight reel of my family reunion in the form of, you guessed it, more bullet points:

• Babies, babies, babies! My family sure can breed! I have two cousins who are my age WHO HAVE GRANDCHILDREN. I find this appalling when birth control is so cheap. I can't get excited that you are a grandparent. I just can't. Is that wrong?
  
  
• Speaking of family planning, I'm old enough now that no one is asking MDH and me when we are going to start a family and this made me a little sad. It used to piss me off.


• I raised a huge stink because there was no mustard. Who the hell was in charge of this BBQ shit pile? Call your event planner and get your money back no mustard. (It was my aunt Nan and I totally forgive her - but I made some noise) Hundreds of cheap-ass hot dogs and not one squirt of mustard in the whole goddamn place? I don't mind a cheap-ass hot dog, but I need to put some mustard on that shit to maintain my dignity.



• What the hell? My sister's youngest child is going to be a senior next year. Stop it all of you. No more growing up. I mean it.




• My entire extended family stayed at the Holiday Inn Express near the reunion venue and we basically took over the entire place. It was like that scene from Raising Arizona when all of those wild kids are trashing Hi & Ed's trailer. I lost count of all the people who walked into the pool area, fully decked out in swimsuits, crisp white hotel towel draped over one shoulder, rearing to go and then took one look at the drunk and noisy clan of rednecks who had high jacked the place and hauled ass right the fuck out of there.


• My aunt Libby, who is in her late 60's and seems like a perfectly reasonable person on the surface, came down to enjoy her complimentary breakfast in that room hotels always have right off of the lobby, within clear view of the reception desk, elevators and main walkway of the establishment, wearing nothing but her housecoat (a light blue cotton whisp of a garment with embroidered flowers, gingham patch pockets, and white metal snaps up the front) and slippers (light pink terry cloth slides). Clearly she has come unhinged as she seemed neither to notice nor care that nobody else was dressed in this fashion or that it might be inappropriate or uncomfortable for the other patrons (me) in the hotel to see her in such a state of undress.
  


• I got over it.
  


• I slurred drunkenly on and on about Libby's embarassing housecoat at dinner Sunday night with MDH and several of our friends.
  


• Apparently I wasn't over it, although I had forgotten all about my mom and the weird Gypsy thing until I talked to Amy on the phone last night.

0.0 Miles from Crazy

MDH and I will be off visiting my folks this weekend. We visit every year on Memorial Day weekend, and usually squeeze in a couple of days away by ourselves at Disney World or something, but this year we decided to spend the entire time with my parents.

What the fuck were we thinking?

My parents are lovely people. Truly, they are. If you were to meet them you'd say my god, what lovely people! And you'd be right, they are wonderful and amazing and I am lucky to have been raised by two such as they, but after about 2 days they will annoy the living shit out of me.

We aren't even there yet and it has taken 4 days of negotiations via email and phone calls to make plans for MDH and I to go to the movies on Saturday afternoon. It has been decided that since my mother doesn't want to see the movie and my father thinks that the sound systems in modern movie theaters are too loud that MDH and I will go to the movies by ourselves. Thank you baby Jeebus.

Meanwhile since the movie theater is too far away to go by golf cart and they are paranoid about anyone driving their car, they have decided that it is no trouble at all for them to drive us to the movies and then pick us up when the movie is over. Like we're in middle school over here.

After 5 days trapped in The Villages with my folks don't be shocked if you see me and MDH on the news flying down the freeway a la OJ Simpson, back to Orlando in a stolen golf cart. That's just a joke. I'm not planning to stab anyone.

Wish me drunk, I mean luck.

Things Are Not Always As They Seem

Case in point, tonight's dinner.

Contrary to what you may believe from looking into the pot, I did not pull the rags off the end of a dirty mop and marinade them in dirty dishwater.

This morning I got up at the crack of my ass and tossed a pork tenderloin into the crock pot and poured some vinegar and sauteed onions and herbs on it and let it cook all day on low while I was at work.

It looks like a dirty mop, but tastes so good you'll want to smack your mama. Twice. Not really, leave your mama alone. She's totally innocent in this endeavor and if your mama is anything like my mama she never cooked anything that didn't come out of a cardboard box with directions that said "Just add water".

Anyhoo, my slow cooked pulled pork tenderloin is a thing of beauty. Made even more delectable due to the fact that in light of recent memory problems I forgot that I had cooked it until I walked in the back door after work tonight and got a snortful of the amazing aroma.

I'm getting to like this other me, the one who remembers to do all of this cool stuff. She's amazing.

Other things that aren't as they seem:


My kitchen chairs are lovely, but really uncomfortable. We didn't sit on them before we bought them. This was a big mistake. We should have brought a bucket of chicken and sat down on them for awhile before we made this purchase.

Gotta get some seat cushions.

Also the notepad is not what it seems. You'd think I'd be all organized and shit because I write stuff down all the time. I'm not.

This cool subway poster that MDH pulled down from the wall of the London Underground, glue and multiple layers of other posters and all is also a deadly weapon.



He mounted it on this piece of corrugated sheet metal, but did not do anything to the edges. They are like razors and every time I move this thing I cut the palms of my hands.

Dammit.




My face is not as it seems. Because I am a master make up artist with concealer you can hardly tell that I have a rash around my mouth and chin in the shape of a goatee. I hope it is not because of all the strawberries I've been eating.

Unfortunately I can do nothing to conceal my crazy eyes.


In other news:

1. I got a raise last week. Not enough of a raise that I can actually tell a difference in my paycheck, but a raise none the less. Still my paycheck seems the same.

2. I have added Jerry Fondue to my list. Welcome Jerry. You are in good company. Jerry Fondue seems kinda cheesy, but he's actually a nice guy.

3. How could I forget? It seems that my father accidentally backed over my mother in their driveway with his SUV. That is not how she describes it but that is pretty much what happened. She said he bumped her while she was putting some things in the hatchback. He "bumped" her hard enough that she fell down and hit her head.

She also says that she is "just fine", but then went on to describe a laceration that extends the entire length of her left arm and "a goose egg" on her "noggin". Whatever injuries she suffered were apparently not serious enough to keep them from meeting friends at their country club for happy hour where she described soaking up the blood on her arm with cocktail napkins. It seems the bartender at the club is also an EMT and helped clean her wounds with antiseptic (the kind you can't drink).