Don't Ask, Don't Tell

My mom worked in accounting at the main office of a chain of appliance stores for over 30 years. She took a short break after my sister was born but was right back at it as soon as my sister was old enough to start going to school. Thirty years is a long time to work at the same place. I just can't imagine it.

Over the years the company changed and grew and my mother's job along with it. She had started working there part time when she was still in college and they only had one or two stores in Central Ohio. Back then her office consisted of herself and two other women and the owners of the company. By the time she retired the company had stores all over Ohio and the Midwest, she had a staff of over 20 people and she was a company wide legend. Everybody knew her and she knew everybody.

When you work somewhere for that long people really get to know you and in my mother's case it seemed that she shared every intimate detail of her life with these people. Whenever my sister and I tagged along at any company or accounting department sponsored party or event her coworkers seemed to know everything about us. Good and bad. Mostly bad it seemed. They all knew to congratulate me for making the honor roll or to chastise me because I had gotten caught making long distance prank phone calls. They knew about how I had stolen the "key" to the cable box and watched pornos. They knew that I had spiked the kool-aid at a slumber party with my dad's moonshine. They knew everything. I figure my mom must have walked in the door of that place each morning and immediately begun to blab about me to her coworkers and anyone who would listen all goddamn day.

Not that I didn't constantly give her the need to vent frustration.

Still I assumed that some things between my mother and I were sacred.

I was wrong.

Eventually I discovered the degree of my mothers blabbitude, much to my horror and disgust when three or four of her co-workers actually fluttered about me like buzzing middle aged mosquitoes at a 4th of July picnic (or some potluck or such) somewhere around the year of our lord 1978 and had the collective balls to talk to me in loud whispers all about how I'd recently started having my period. As if they thought we were all chummy characters in a Judy Blume novel having a lark and not a shy and stunned 11 year old girl being psychologically tortured by cackling grown-ass women who were, although very good friends to my mother, strangers to me.

I thought I would die.

I had a hard enough time talking about period related stuff with my mother (I had even begged her not to tell my dad) so it was the last thing that I wanted to discuss with my mother's co-workers. I soon discovered though that it was only the beginning of a long, one sided and yet very intimate relationship I was to continue to have with 15 to 20 women that I only ever saw or spoke to about 3 or 4 times a year. Women with whom I could barely match faces to names, but would know it seemed every single detail about my life.

After the Great Period Fiasco 1978 I confronted my mother regarding her breach of respect, trust and privacy and she merely laughed at me like I was an adorable little chit.

"When a bunch of women get together they talk", she shrugged.

"Yes, I get that, but did you have to talk about that?"

"Yes." She said. "I did. I can't help it. You're my kid and you hit a milestone and I told all my friends about it. I'm proud of you and if it makes you feel any better they all tell me all about their kids too."

It didn't make me feel any better, but over the years I got used to it I suppose and began to automatically assume that everyone at the appliance store knew my bra size, the diameter of my nipples, my preference of tampons over pads, and all about my every cramp and gas bubble. Frankly the Great Period Fiasco of 1978 was the beginning of the end of me sharing any personal information of any importance with my mom.

At this point you might think that I'm telling you all this psychotic episode inducing shit about my mom so that I may continue to use my blog as a form of cheap therapy. Well there is that. But it's also so that I can tell you about how our friend Pecan Sandie is sending her teenage son Miles to come and stay with us this week.

Long time single mom Pecan Sandie called us a few weeks ago crying and babbling about how Miles had gotten himself into a spot trouble of a sexual nature with a girl. Nobody is pregnant or diseased or anything like that. Actually it's all pretty innocent and normal stuff (by my standards) and my only beef with any of it is the fact that I FUCKING KNOW ABOUT IT AT ALL.

Suddenly all that stuff about my own mother discussing the intimate details of my life with her friends was brought screaming and unwelcome back to the forefront of my cranial lobe. I thought I had put it all behind me.

Sandie had told me over the phone all about what Miles had been up to with the girl in very graphic detail. I'll just say this - it was pretty juicy stuff - but waaaay too much information and while I wanted to be a good friend and good listener at the same time I wanted to throw the phone across the room, put my hands over my ears, shout LALALALALA and stamp around in circles until all of the damaging visual images Sandie had put in my brain went buh-bye. I was able to steer the conversation to a place with fewer details but wondered how in the hell she had come upon all of this very personal information about her son. Apparently he'd told her all about it. I shuddered.

Anyhoo... Miles is coming to stay with us because Sandie thinks that MDH is a good role model for how a young man should conduct himself with the ladies, which just makes me want to snicker, and she's hoping that Miles will be able to talk to MDH about things of a sexual nature in such a way that she as his mother is unable.

Meanwhile I'm looking forward to having Miles come and visit for many reasons. He's a great kid and it's always nice to have a house guest. Besides, MDH and I could use some more youthful influence around here. We have lots of plans to take Miles to do cool stuff while he's here, but I will leave all discussions of sex up to MDH and plan to pretend that I myself have been given no knowledge of Miles and his recent previous shenanigans.

Finally, what I realized after all this time is that talking about your life and your children with your friends is only natural. I myself, although I don't have any children, can think of oh so many embarassing personal details about the people that I love, including my husband, that I have spilled not only to my friends, but right here for public airing on this blog. So I'm guilty too, but what I have also realized is that it wasn't the fact that my mother shared stories about me with her friends that upset me so much as it was that her stupid fucking friends, who I barely knew, felt like they could openly discuss these intimate details about my own life with me.

So I'm never even going to hint to Miles that his mom said a word to me about his sex life. If anything I might talk to him about the many benefits of keeping secrets from your parents and if I have that discussion with him I won't tell his mom about it.

LALALALALALA.

Just So There's No Further Confusion

If I am married to you and you hear me holler to you from another room, "Honey, will you come help me?", you can go ahead and assume there is a silent "now"* at the end of that sentence. In bold with an underline. In fact for future reference if you don't hear the phrase "when you get a chance" in front of that sentence please imagine the worst.

In other words, put down the bong and pause the the History Channel special on Hitler's Secret Pants that you have already seen eleventy billion times (it's why we have a DVR, pause is a great feature). Get your ass off the sofa and come help me this very instant.

Assume that I am bleeding to death or that the cat is on fire and get your ass over here. Pronto.

I know you heard me. So don't try to pretend like you didn't.

Anyhoo... I can only hope that you are not disappointed when you arrive to find that I am not actually bleeding to death or that the cat's not on fire and will do me a solid by helping me with whatever thing it is I needed helping with and not ask me too many questions. I will say thank you, probably give you a little kiss if you don't give me any sass and I am way more likely to reward you in another more delightful manner, at some future time to be determined at my discretion, if you were to ask me if I perhaps needed your help with anything else before you take off back to the den. I promise, at some future time to be determined at my discretion, there will be extra credit for a good attitude and can-do spirit.

If you have failed to respond quickly enough to the hollered sentence "Honey will you come help me?" and it is followed 30 to 45 seconds later by a much louder HONEY?? in the all caps oral equivalent of shouting, then you may assume to exchange the word HONEY?? with HEY ASSHOLE!

For further clarification if I ask you do to something prefaced with the phrase "When you have the chance" you may translate that to "Sometime within the next 30 minutes" and "Sometime this week" means "Tomorrow".

*I cannot explain, but for whatever reason avoiding use of the word "now" makes me feel like less of a harpie. I'm not saying it's rational.

I Love the 70's

Lately I've been enjoying a blog called Plaid Stallions and have decided not to keep it to myself any longer. Perhaps some of you have already visited.

If you grew up in the 70's and lived your life around the seasonal arrival of the JC Penny catalog you will probably love this blog as much as I do. I'm more of a lurker over there but I read every post. Mostly it's all about the toys, games and action figures, but frequently it's all about the stylin' 70's clothes and the posts about the clothes are my favorites. The commentary about the clothing ads almost always make me laugh out loud.

Here's a link to the blog itself:

http://plaidstallions.blogspot.com/

Here's a link to the posts tagged "fashion mockery":

http://plaidstallions.blogspot.com/search/label/fashion%20mockery

Dear Fashion, Nobody Needs This

Dear MaxMara,
I'm writing to let you know, just in case you drank too many Papaya-tinis or swallowed too much Extasy at the photo shoot and weren't aware, that the model in your advertisement is wearing her leotard underpinning backwards. Also I feel it's important you understand that high waisted, tight fitting pants in a large cammo-floral-ish pattern look hideous on, oh I don't know, just about everyone. The other components of this outfit seem all right, except for maybe the leather bolo thing. Fuck it. Other than the sweater it all sucks donkey balls and if all you've got to offer us is a brown cardigan you should probably know that we can get one of those at Kohl's.
Sincerely,
Women Everywhere


Dear Topshop,
Finally! Now I know exactly where to go to buy the over sized faded t-shirts and cut off Daisy Duke jean shorts that pooch out in the crotch and make me look like I have a big giant cock. I mean where else on earth could I find that? I mean besides Goodwill... Anyhoo... now I know exactly what to wear when I give $5 blow jobs on the subway platform. Please, please tell me that they are also hand sewn and caked with the dried blood of Sri-Lankan pre-schoolers. I just love cheap hooker clothes that are made with child labor.
Crackwhorishly Yours,
Lady

Dear Calvin Klein,
Send help quickly! The model in your ad has fallen into some kind of nightmarish tree nest and her arms are too skinny for her to pull herself out on her own power. Please help her, she's trapped! Send her a cigarette and a turkey sandwich, stat. Hurry! She's starting to look really depressed.
Kindest Regards,
The Lady Who Actually Eats Lunch

The News Roundup: Much Ado About Pillows

Today I give you yet another set of numbered points filled with verbal wanderings and highlighted with photos of food and some new stuff I recently purchased, oh, and this cartoon:
1. I found the cartoon at Married To the Sea and it's almost eerily fitting for what I'm about to tell you, which is this: I finally heard back from the recruiter that has been helping me try to get a job with the company that was hedging on whether or not I was going to get a second interview (remember that? it was a couple of posts ago) and it made me angry. It made me very angry. It was not good.

Apparently the reason why they are not sure that I am the right candidate is because I mentioned during the interview that MDH and I love to travel. Apparently whatever I said about our love for travel gave them the impression that I would be off gallivanting all over planet earth so frequently that I wouldn't be able to put in enough hours working for them. Um...what? THEY ARE OUT OF THEIR GODDAMN MINDS.

Frankly I don't even really remember talking about traveling much at all, except to say that I like it, when asked the question that people in interviews so often ask, "what do you like to do in your spare time?" I pretty much always answer by saying that I like to read, cook and travel in lieu of the smarty pants answers that I'm tempted to give like, beat up nuns, masturbate and cry while watching QVC and making crafts from discarded dryer lint. I certainly do not remember acting like some kind of jet-setting prima donna, as though I would demand more vacation time than what would be offered with the position.

So in addition to being angry about the whole thing, I'm terribly confused. The recruiter was angry and confused and thought they were out of their goddamn minds as well. What-evs. As far as I'm concerned these people can suck my cock. I say good day. Next issue.

2. Wednesday night my lovely friend Ladette came by for another cooking lesson. This time I showed her how to make baked mac & cheese with bacon, pan seared pork chops rubbed with brown sugar and smoked paprika (and some other spices), and then we blanched and sauteed some fresh green beans. I made her do most of the work and she did a great job...

Speaking of masturbating and crying while watching QVC, after dinner I forced her to stay and watch TV with me. She sat through Millionaire Matchmaker and 2 episodes of The Mighty Boosh before I allowed her to leave. She even pretended to laugh a little which means she's not only a good student, she's a good sport.

3. Around September it dawned on me that the already shabby and stained toss pillows in the den were beginning to disintegrate and smell a little ripe. Those pillows get a great deal of abuse from us because we use them not only for decoration and back support, but since the den often performs double duty as a dining room, we also end up using the pillows as TV trays and placemats. Even if I didn't mention the drool, spilt beer and various other cat and human related fluids they have accidentally soaked up over the years you should be getting the picture - these pillows were exhausted.

After all this time I couldn't bring myself to spend the money on new toss pillows because I'm not working right now and the expense seemed rather decadent. Yet I couldn't stop obsessing about replacing them. It was a silent obsession because it's certainly not the sort of purchase that I can plan out and discuss in great detail with MDH. He has made it clear, typically via rolled eyes and grunting, that he is not interested whenever I attempt to bring up all things decorative. Especially when money is tight. If it were up to him we would not have new toss pillows (or anything nice) and in fact I might even venture to guess that I could have replaced the toss pillows with old horse blankets stuffed with dirty kleenex and cream cheese and he probably wouldn't notice the difference.

Anyhoo... I shopped and shopped but stopped short of actually buying anything because good toss pillows, or at least the ones I'm always drawn to, tend to be ridiculously expensive. I could never justify spending the money and I could not find a way to compromise my toss pillow ideals, namely: There must be 4 in total, they must be of a certain size (large enough to use as a TV tray or placemat), they must somehow be washable, and they must all be in a matching color or pattern that have (to me) a certain je ne sais quoi.

I knew that I'd know it when I saw it and late last month I saw "it" at CB2, or more specifically the CB2 catalog (because do you think there is a store like CB2 anywhere near the Tundra? No.). They arrived a few weeks ago and they are nice. I mean all cotton with a down pillow insert and removable washable cover nice. For $14.95 each.
My nook...

The loveseat...


I want to decorate the rest of the house in this color scheme. I don't think that MDH will notice. (Please pardon our hideous paneling).

4. This afternoon I really wanted to get out of the house so I racked my brain and rifled through the utility closet and pantry trying to think of something we needed to buy so I'd have an excuse to go shopping. All I could come up with was paper towels so I went to Target to get some. On the way home I decided to troll around in TJ Maxx for awhile where I found these big sterling hoop earrings:

You try holding your hair back, turning your head sideways and taking a picture of yourself without looking like a total weirdo. Not so easy is it? Anyway... blogworld, meet my mole.

5. How could I forget? My poor little kitten (read 16 pound behemoth grown cat) has been sick. He is sneezing, has a runny nose, inflamed tonsils and a general malaise that is very out of character. The vet gave us some anti-biotic and some goo to help him digest hairballs and he seems to be feeling better, but a rather comical side effect of this illness is that he also seems to have laryngitis, so when he's not busy sneezing and going gack, gack, gack all over the place he does this weird thing that MDH have started calling the silent meow. It's really pathetic.

Thanks for putting us at the table closest to the bar

Jogger's wedding reception on Saturday night was a big old hoot and featured a photo booth... with some props. Oh, and Raspberry Stoli... which I drank in abundance with soda and a cherry and kept 'em coming. Here is the highlight reel:

The lovely Ladette and me... In retrospect I can't believe she put those sunglasses in her mouth dude. Hindsight is always more disgusting.

MDH sporting a teeny-tiny purple pimp hat and busting out what I can only assume are Portuguese gang symbols.

I hope you all had as good of a weekend as we did, although I'm kinda still recovering.

Drinking Game

Last night after dinner MDH and I created a new drinking game while watching back episodes of House Hunters that have been piling up on our DVR. The game is called Man Cave. The rules, as with any drinking game, are simple:

• Watch any given episode of House Hunters* and chug a shot every time a guy uses the phrase "Man Cave".


• Chug two shots if a female says it because for some reason it sounds twice as stupid to hear the phrase come from the mouth of a woman.


• Players will draw for different finishes and features, ie., "granite counter tops", "stainless steel appliances", "crown molding", "tray ceiling", etc., and must drink each time their own special finish or feature is mentioned.

We didn't actually play the game because between the two of us we have too much common sense and probably not enough liquor in the house anyway.

(I'm looking forward to spring and summer when it's not unusual for MDH and I to spend the entire evening without turning on the TV.)

*Or for that matter any given half hour time slot on HGTV's prime time line up. Property Virgins, Bang for Your Buck, etc.,.

WARNING: Playing this game with the DIY show that is actually called "Man Caves" could lead to alcohol poisoning and possibly death. Play at your own risk.