NothingSacred

The Top Twelve Reasons I Will Never Forgive That Twat Holly Collis

Here's the thing, I am awful at holding grudges. I just can't seem to do it.  I've got "forgive and forget" down, but I can't help feeling like the wisest people forgive but don't forget, and that way they don't get fucked over more than once by the same person. Not me! It's like when I decide to forgive someone the erase button in my brain is pushed and I can't remember the offense to save my life. (TOM, I'm sure, uses this particular character trait of mine to his full advantage.)

That said, obviously there are not a lot of people in my life who've made it onto my permanent shit-list. My memory isn't good enough to hold that many grudges. 

I thought it might do me well, however, to revisit why one particular girl is on that list, and refresh in my memory exactly why I cannot ever forgive her, as who wouldn't want to remember this little romp of past indiscretions for all of eternity?

12. You lied to every person you ever met. Especially me. 

11. You slept with my boyfriend Junior Year. You remember? The first guy I ever really loved? You did him. He told me years later. 

10. You cut your hair like Metallica's bassist and made me feel compelled to tell you it was awesome. It wasn't, but I didn't want to hurt your feelings. See? You even taught me to lie.

9. While working for Target you would steal trunk loads full of merchandise, drive to the Target in Northglenn and return it all for cash (this was before Target's stringent no-receipt/no-return policy, which I'm pretty sure you were instrumental in getting enacted). You thought there was nothing wrong with that and when I asked you about it, you accused me of being insensitive to your position.

8. You told our mutual friend, Kitty, that I blamed her for your accident.  Seriously? I told you I blamed myself for being out of town, thinking that if I had been there you would never have been in the situation. I beat myself up about it for years.  But let's face it, maybe you were destined to run that stop sign. You were always looking for a reason to make your life shitty.

7. You slept with my boyfriend Senior Year. (Got his best friend to confess it when I was catching up with people at our ten year class reunion. The one I helped organize. The one where your invitation was "lost in the mail". Yeah, that was really something to hear about. While I was sleeping in the next room at my parent's condo you screwed my boyfriend.  Sweeet.)

6. You tore the transmission out of my car while I was out of town by driving it like a fucktard through the mountains.

5. You slept with my other boyfriend Senior Year.

4. You lied about the whereabouts of the t-shirt said boyfriend gave me, claiming you had no knowledge of it at all. Until I found it stuffed under the bed you were sleeping in. You remember, the bed in my guest room? Yeah, you were living with me at the time. Rent-free. You're welcome.

3. You stole a credit card out of one of the guests' rooms at the hotel my parents owned and charged it up.  Fucking awesome! Then you said it was my fault because it was just too hard to have a friend who had everything while you didn't.  Guilt-trip, too? Oooh, may I have another?

2. In college you used to call me at 1 AM to try to patch up our friendship and when I told you that was too late to be calling, you called me at 6:30 in the morning to chat and said, "Now don't tell me this is too early?!" Yeah. It was.

1. You tried putting the moves on my baby's daddy (TOM) after I had momentarily decided to give you a second chance after college, figuring we'd all grown up and there was no way you'd STILL be up to your old tricks.  Wrong about you, again, I see.

So there it is, in black and white: the reasons I cannot forgive Holly Collis (and you should be grateful, bitch, that I chose to change your name), for I would be foolish to EVER forget the litany of charges against you. 

There, now don't I feel better for getting that off my chest? 

Can any of you beat that for history's shittiest best friend? Spill it. 

 

Holy Roller

It is no secret that I embarrass myself often. Probably because I am unlikely to admit that I don't know how to do something, so I go ahead and guesstimate the actual abilities needed to accomplish certain tasks.  This doesn't usually happen with Deuce's Pre-K teacher, possibly because if she were eligible she'd be up for sainthood.  I tell you when things are bad all you really need is a hug from Mrs. Seaver.

That said, when I go in on Wednesdays to do my morning volunteering in her class, she generally has some project for which I am wholly ill-equipped.  Lots of time it has to do with baking and I'm forced to admit that I'm going to need a detailed recipe that would be best written in small words and minute detail. Pretty much if the kids in her class couldn't do the project without me it probably shouldn't be attempted with me. So this past Wednesday I went in for my weekly dose of preschool fun (which I've actually become addicted to if for nothing else the adorable bon mots the wee ones shout out, usually pertaining to something their parents would rather be kept secret), and I was handed my greatest fear: Pillsbury Crescent Rolls.

I'm not sure why Pillsbury insists on delivering delicious sorta-homemade goodness to us in what amount to grenades, but let me be clear, I am frightened.  Biscuits in pop cans may be the bane of my existence. Perhaps it harkens back to the urban legend tale of the lady who forgot she had some in her backseat on a hot day. You know it, right? She jumps in her car with a load of grocery bags in the back (evidently the biscuits in question were strategically positioned right on top, aimed directly at her), and hears a loud gun-like bang, feels impact on the back of her head and reaches back to find warm goo gushing from the back of her skull. "I've been shot! My brains are falling out!" she thinks right before she passes out, slumped over the steering wheel. Later she's woken by a passerby who points out that, no, she has not been shot, but seems to have dough all in her hair.  Yeah, it's a real yukfest. I heard that story when I was about nine or ten, and had already developed an intense aversion to loud, sudden noises-- the result, no doubt, of being an only child to a mother with a loud noise allergy. 

You can imagine my life now, living with three boys and a man who find the popping of balloons a most pleasing diversion and illegal fireworks the very height of entertainment.  C'mon, I live with four beings who think that a sudden explosion from between the legs is cause for celebration, so you can guess at how I walk around the house in a constant state of noise panic. At any given moment there will be an unexpected cacophony that will spike my blood pressure. 

And of course these goons like to eat. Particularly anything out of a Pillsbury pop can. So I attempt to open these dastardly contraptions way more often than what is comfortable, but it usually ends in me walking through the house with the can at arms length, like a bomb in need of defusing, in search of someone else to do the deed, worried that at any moment the fucking thing is going to go off like TNT.  I can't help it. Each and every time I open those things they scare the shit out of me. 

When I was very little I had a jack-in-the-box. One of the old-fashioned metal ones. And I would crank it slowly, squinting and turning away, trying to close both ears with my shoulders, one little squeaky note at a time until BAM! I'd get scared witless. Over and over again. I have no idea why I played with that darn thing.

So when Mrs. Seaver handed me three cans of crescent rolls and told me we would be making "Resurrection Rolls" I could hardly be expected to hear her further instructions over the sounds of blood rushing, right? From what I gathered after the fact the concept was to wrap a marshmallow (symbolizing Jesus) in a crescent roll blanket after "anointing" it in oils and spices (melted butter and cinnamon sugar). Then the seams are sealed up just like Jesus was sealed into the tomb.  After baking the marshmallow "disappears", symbolizing Jesus' resurrection.  

Well, after describing the symbolism 16 times to kids who clearly all had an aversion to getting melted butter on their fingers, and having my nerves shattered by cracking open three cans of pressurized madness, can I be blamed for what was to follow? I think not. Sure, on my way out the classroom to the antique monster of a commercial oven in the cafeteria kitchen Mrs. Seaver told me to make sure that all the rolls were sealed or else there would be a big gooey mess, but honestly I was concentrating on whether I should check the rolls every three minutes or four minutes to make sure they didn't burn. 

I hauled the cookie sheets down to the basement cafeteria where a class of 10th graders was listening to a lecture. I let myself into the kitchen as quietly as possible, thinking about how even if they didn't see me, they'd certainly be soon tempted by the delectable aromas that would waft from my baking accomplishments. That was why I wasn't paying attention to whether or not the heavy wood kitchen door would slam so hard behind me that I nearly wet myself.

I did the dishes while I waited for the rolls to cook. They did smell good! Finally, a baking success! Twelve minutes later, I grabbed the ancient oven mitts, which may or may not be asbestos, and pulled open the heavy oven door.  Holy Jesus.  Our marshmallow Jesuses had not only risen forth from the tomb, they'd burst out like super heros! Each and every "Resurrection Roll" has blown open, marshmallow exploded all over the pans, carmelized goo blackening between mangled pastry detritus.  Oh my god. I realized I'd have to take these upstairs and show the class. And the teacher. Heaven help me.

Luckily the children took it well. Sure, I heard them leaning over to each other when I set them out at snack time, whispering things like  "Look! Jesus blew up!" and  "Jesus is all burned up!" Yeah. Exactly how the story goes kids.  After Jesus was anointed and wrapped in clothes and sealed into his tomb he burst into flame, and blew the door right off the hinges! 

Fantastic. Happy Easter everyone. Don't go knockin' my door down to get a seat at my Easter dinner table now!

PS- regardless of revolting appearance, those rolls were DEE-licious!

To the Disappointment of Mrs. Robinson

Friday Night, Movie Night. Most Fridays The Old Man and I get a pizza and a Blockbuster and movie candy and settle in with the boys for a fun-filled, sugar-fueled night of family time.

Things are a bit rushed as we throw together the plans, TOM volunteers to wash the baby while I go procure a pie. This is normally a big decision. Do we get Mama’s favorite pizza from Proto’s (only the best pizza available in the US), or do we give in to the boy’s hopes of a more mainstream pie from Pizza Hut? We compromise on Anthony’s where we can get a pie that is thin crust (for Mama) and yet greasy (for the boys). I decide I will go pick up since I have to run out for a few copies of the local paper as my first guest op/ed piece has been published that day and to get the movie and candy. I cajole Deuce into accompanying me since once I get past the protesting whines that he doesn’t want to go, he’s usually a swell errand companion. I promise Deuce he’ll get to choose all the candy, so he relents, begrudgingly, to come along.

All in all, it was a really good week. I was in a great mood, and had even had time to slip in a shower and a blowdry that day (which as all you mommies know, CAN be classified as an accomplishment on some days). I’d put on a sweet little sundress from my favorite local boutique, Tarzhay, and had my favorite little date man in tow. Things were sunny to say the least.

Now bear in mind, I’ve been off the dating market for some time now, and I will admit to being a bit rusty on reading signals from the opposite sex. But I tell you what, there was no mistaking that when we walked through Anthony’s door, I was getting vibe. From a kid.

The boy(!) behind the counter was clearly still in high school, working a summer job. Oooh! Damn! Edna’s not going to believe this! I thought. (My gal, Edna, she lurves the young ‘uns!) So as I order up our ginormous pizza pie (why I think my young sons eat like teenagers is a mystery. They eat a slice apiece, and that is after much threatening, followed by much begging on the part of myself and TOM.), I couldn’t help but feel like yes, indeed, this kid’s flirting with me!

Damn! This YMCA bootcamp I’m doing must be really paying off!! Look at me! I’m a MILF!

So Deuce and I settle onto the little bench to wait for our order. I’m feeling quite self-conscious now, as the kid behind the counter is directly facing us, and still smiling me up and really checking me out. Does he think I’m babysitting this kid? I open up the Tidbits all dramatically and hide behind it, making sure that I hold my left hand out in front to hold the paper, really showing off my diamond-y finger, just in case he hadn’t noticed it when I’d ordered.

We get all the way through the Tidbits (its not that big a paper, but still, its been a bit of a wait), and as I lower the paper and look up, I see the kid still standing there, looking at me.

“Is it still really hot out?” He asks me.

He’s asking me about the weather. He’s making small talk. WTF? He totally just said “hot” to me. Is that some sort of come on?

“No, its pretty nice,” I say, and turn my body toward Deuce and try my hardest to think of something I need to discuss with him. What does one urgently discuss with a four-year-old?

Order after order comes out of the kitchen, none in a to-go box. I start to wonder how long I’m going to be sitting there on display for this kid. I also start to wonder just how pretty I must look today to garner all this attention from him. I’ve become beyond self-conscious now, I’m getting flustered.

The owner of the place and the delivery guy have come out of the kitchen and are hanging out by the cash registers now, and Deuce has decided to sit upside down on the bench. The kid just keeps checking me out. Does he know he’s being that obvious? Suddenly my mind is flooded with memories of high school boyfriends recounting stories of the times they all seemed to have scored an older woman, a woman nearing 30, a woman with kids. I remembered how disgusted I was at 17 at the idea that these “OLD” ladies were sleeping with high school boys. How could these kids find anything attractive in some old lady who’d pushed out a couple of kids? In retrospect, I knew a surprising number of boys in high school who had made the “big score” with an older woman. Where were they meeting these women, I’d wondered. Dear God, was it the pizza parlor?!?!

I’m shaken from my reverie by the kid. He’s come around the counter and walked right up in front of me. Oh my god.

“So, what’s your number?” he asks with a shy little smile.

Holy Shit! I’m married! I think. I’m thrown by the question, and certainly must look confused. I am the deer in headlights. I believe I started stuttering. Just as my mouth regains connection with my brain, and my mouth opens to say, “I’m married”, the kid continues, “I can check on what’s taking your pizza so long. Do you have your order number?”

Riiiight. My ORDER number! Of course! He wants my order number to check on my pizza! He didn’t just come ask for my phone number in front of his boss, his co-worker, and my son. Of course not.

“I don’t know!” I tell him, thanking God that those words had overridden the already issued thought to respond with “I’m married!”. I told him what we’d ordered and as he disappeared into the kitchen to find it, I’m pretty sure I had a minor cardiac arrest. Furiously pawing through my purse to find my receipt, I can’t hardly put two thoughts together. I’m too shaky and flush-faced to focus on the task of finding the receipt, even though by now it is completely unnecessary. There it is! Under my giant, mom-sized ass! “Here it is!” I call out to the kid, waving it at him like my own personal dork-flag. He comes back with my box of piping hot pizza, which is approximately 50 degrees cooler than my embarrassed cheeks. “Thanks!” I call over my shoulder as I literally sprint for door, dragging Deuce behind me in an effort to shield the retreating view of said Mom-ass and the rolls of back fat spilling out from under my bra.

Methinks that we won’t be picking up from Anthony’s again for some time. At least until summer break is over and all the high school kids are done with their summer jobs.

Packing Heat

May 2, 2008 - Friday

Packing heat Current mood: giggly hypothetical: You get a text that reads "guy in front of me at Giant Eagle is really packing heat!" What do you guys think this means? (Mz D, you are not allowed to reply!!)

A Quickie for KM

Current mood: incredulous So last Friday Cathy and I met up for our weekly fitness-at-lunch-class.  We went to the usual-- Sculpt class at the Rec. Center. I always get so excited about this particular class cuz its the only one I reliably have a real outside-of-gym-friend who will meet me.  The class is pretty good, too, even though it can sometimes be too crowded and the people tend to be a little less friendly than the people at the Y (where I normally take classes).  Plus, there are always two or three young teen girls who show up for no other reason than to illustrate just how far gone we all are in terms of proportion and body fat percentages.  Anyway, we'll call the instructor... um, i don't know, Andrea... because that's her name. So... this past Friday Andrea seemed to really have it in for us. The class was fairly small, but she had us really, really working!  I don't know why, other than my crazy self-absorbed ego-mania, but whenever class is really hard I seem to think that the instructor is only doing that to try to break ME down, personally, and make ME quit. So I'm feeling that Andrea really is trying to make me cry now, and that only pushes me harder to not quit, and it makes me a little more cheeky, like, "Bring it on, baby! I could do this all day long! I LOVE to sweat!!" all the while staring down the instructor like daring her to make it harder. So Cathy and I are really sweating it out, agreeing with each other that Andrea is pushing us crazy hard and giggling that she's clearly working out some sort of mid-life crisis or personal angst and totally taking it out on us. Normally mid-way through circuit work Andrea will call out that we all need to either run two laps or walk one lap around the adjacent track, and it was bizness as usual last Friday.  So Cathy and I are huffing and puffing through it and Andrea calls out another track lap.  Cathy and I agree to jog one lap around since we're already working pretty hard. So as we're jogging away Andrea runs up to us and goes, "You know, I've found the only way to really get rid of the belly fat is to just burn it out on cardio".  Completely unsolicited.  "Really?" I reply. "Why would you tell us that? Whatever would give you the idea that we need to lose some belly fat, Andrea? I don't know what you're talking about! Do you, Cathy?" She ran on around us then.   I'm still not sure why she felt the need to tell us that (rolls eyes sarcastically to match rolls of jelly hanging over my waistline). I do know, however, that it is fun to laugh at your instructor while you jog, though.  Whatever. She's STILL not gonna break this big-belly-pooch-mama down!  Bring it, sister!

Personally Taxing, or, More Shit I Probably Shouldn’t Share

April 15, 2008

Current mood: silly

On this, my least favorite day of the year, I thought I would share a funny little story to help lighten the mood of the day. (An interesting side note to further prove that God does, indeed, still love me: my firstborn was due on this, the worst day of the year, and in Ace's very first action he proved his brilliance—he came three days early and avoided birth on this most inauspicious day! Well done, son! Had you been born "on time" you may never have seen a birthday party, cake, streamer or gift!)

Clearly no one looks forward to the day you have to sit down with your CPA and turn over the previous year's documents and government slips, bank forms; the annual dump of the shoe box full of dry cleaning receipts and Goodwill vouchers.

              Luckily, my CPA pre-schedules the appointments and sends me a letter with the time I am to show up. Otherwise, they'd see me April 14^th. They also send me this hilariously large "organizing folder" that I am to use to gather up all those pesky forms and receipts and whatnots beforehand. I don't even take it out of the envelope they mail it in. I just show up with a bulging folder with everything I think may remotely be related to taxes and dump it on the conference room table.

                 This year The Old Man and I met with Jennifer, our CPA's apparent protégé.  For the past couple years she has sat in on what are undoubtedly the most amusing of her fact-gathering meetings as she watches The Old Man and I look blankly at each other as we are questioned by our CPA as to whether we withheld this or prepaid that, whether we used Roths or IRAs or put the coversheet on the TPS report. 

               In 2008, Jennifer got the pleasure of meeting with our family solo.  She's a nice lady. Pleasant, youngish, with far more social graces than you might attribute to your average number-cruncher.  She's affable and talkative, and best of all, she laughs at my jokes.

               The Old Man never understands why I make him come with me to these tax meetings.  Frankly, I'm not sure why I make him come, either. He never has any answers, and he usually just annoys me by having even less an idea of what is going on than I do. I suppose when I really break it down, I make him come suffer through it because I must. He's my misery's company. So this year we both show up, wiser than ever to the fact that we know jackshit and we've done less than jackshit to prepare for yet another year of the federal ass-raping to which we're becoming more and more accustomed. Sure, every April 16^th we plan on doing things better in the coming year, but we never do. We couldn't find tax shelter if it came gift-wrapped to the door and we had to sign for delivery.

                      I think this year we both walked into the meeting already resigned to our fate, and that led us both to be a little frolicsome, a little rascally. What can I say? Improbably, we were in good moods. So as we sat and began the little inquisition we playfully bantered with one another; laughing and showing Jennifer what a great, loving and healthy relationship we have. 

               As Jennifer asked again about daycare for the younger kids and which ones counted where and I searched my brain for any sort of deduction I could possibly find (Would we get a tax break to divorce? Or would that just count for 2008? Can I count the dog and cat as dependents? They wouldn't eat without me.  They are technically dependent on me…), The Old Man started signaling me. 

              You know how after you've been with someone long enough you can have an entire conversation just with eyebrows, neck jerks and vague hand movements? Well, naturally, I am at that stage with my husband. He flicked his eyes toward Jennifer, raised his eyebrows at me and took a quick, sharp nostril breath in. Jennifer continued sorting through the massive pile of detritus spread before her. The Old Man repeated the signal. Head nod toward our accountant, eyebrows, snort. The signal was clear.  He was telling me that our accountant was high on blow!!

       I squinted at him and tried to shake it off. No. She's not. She's an accountant for heaven's sake!  Well… maybe; she is chatty today. And she's flipping through everything fast. She does seem to be having trouble making eye contact with me. Is she shaking?! Well, it's tax season! It could very well possibly be that a little nose candy is the only thing getting her through!  No. Not her. Its 11 AM, for Christ's sake! No. She's not.

            I continued pointing out the intricacies of my "filing" system, and telling her all the paperwork that had either not shown up yet or that I'd gone ahead and lost already. Jennifer listened and nodded at me. I realized she was really good at listening, too.  She really makes you felt HEARD. She looked up at me and made full, direct eye contact.  Yeah, there's no WAY she was high on blow. The Old Man is crazy.

       The Old Man's knee knocked my knee. Again with signal.  I rolled my eyes at him. Stupid, I thought. Even if she is, it's not our business. This is a high-stress job and its all-hands-on-deck-go-time. Tax season! She's allowed if she needs to, now quit calling attention to it! I silently screamed at my husband by flaring my own nostrils at him and flashing my eyes real big.

        Then he did it. He actually reached up and did the unmistakable "coke nose" wipe. Great. Now she's going to know that he knows and he told me so now I know and she's going to get all coke-paranoid.  Super. I give him one big grim smirk and acutely, actively ignore him. He shrugs and starts texting on his new fancy iPhone.  Good, now I can concentrate on what I'm doing when I'm not answering questions… which is playing BrickBreaker on my phone. Goddamn is that game addictive!

Tinkly-bing-bing.

         I have a text. It's from him. The fucker just can't leave it alone! Jeez, let the little accountant have her fun and leave it alone already, Babe!

You have a bird-strike in the left intake. I read.

Huh? I give him a glare and a shrug. That doesn't even make sense! Another text rings through.

You have a booger hanging out of your nose!!

Right. Naturally. My accountant is NOT addicted to blow January through April. No. Of course she's not. I've just been sitting here for the past 35 minutes earnestly talking to my accountant, meeting her eye, explaining this and that, and she's stared right back at me, nodding and mmm-hmming, and, evidently, trying really hard not throw up on herself.

The Old Man REALLY needs to work on his non-verbal communication, I think.

Ahh the joys...

Current mood: fingered

So I just got done a the gyno’s with my little annual "pick-me-up", where I stole a three-month old Glamour magazine with Christina Aguilera on the cover. I can’t help it. It has the "50 best Do’s and Don’ts of the Year!" (That’s their exclamation point, not mine)  I always take at least a ripped-out recipe. I guess I feel like if I’m paying them forty bucks for the pleasure of inspecting the Canal Zone the least I could get in return is a fabulous new one-pot dinner meal or tips on how to make my ass look smaller.  Am I the only one out here that does this? Is it a major problem for doctors offices the nation over? I don’t know. Just a random thought.

Could It be Age-related Dementia Already?

Current mood: embarrassed

Ok, here’s the sitch... I have been a subscriber to Us Weekly for EONS, ok? It isn’t something I’m necessarily proud of, but it is what it is. And I have to say over the past year or two they have REALLY fallen off their delivery game.  Now I know after all these years of dedicated readership that the new issues hit stands Fridays, and that happens to ALSO be when they arrive in the mailbox. I know this because at my house when the Us Weekly arrives everything else stops until I have read it cover to cover. And heaven help the unlucky bastard who dares touch my Us Weekly before I get through with it.

So, particularly over the past year (since moving to the new place... although it happened when I lived in Prospect, too) my Us Weeklys have been showing up late and on TWO occasions never showed up at all! I finally wrote them a nasty email a couple weeks ago about their UN-timely deliveries and how I was getting pushed past my limit! I got a response asking me which issues I was missing (as if! That is OLD news, mon ami!) and lo and behold, my issues started arriving on time again!

(And please! There is no greater torture-- ok, I exaggerate, but stick with me here-- than SEEING the magazine that you want, that STILL hasn’t arrived, on the checkstand at the grocery and KNOWING that you can’t buy it!! The headlines taunt you, it is nearly spirit-crushing! Especially when there is something REALLY juicy going on... luckily there is now Perez to keep us all up to date... but he never shows us how stars are "Just like Us!")

So, I arrive home today after a fabulous day of skiing with the fam and bring in the mail. And lookie-there. No Us Weekly! Well, this 33-year-old isn’t taking that crap ANY MORE! I got online asap and went straight to their website with the following message:

"Once AGAIN, I come home to find that my new issue is not in my mailbox! I depend on my Us Weeklys to be in my box on Friday!!  You should change your name to US Weakly. You suck! Where’s my issue??"

Thirty minutes later, while basking in the glow of the anonymous, smarmy, little tell-off I realize: Oh fuck.  It’s Thursday.