Keeping Up with My Mom

I live next door to my 82-year-old mother. She has never driven a car, loves to read New Age books, and lives for the moment her mail is delivered. Five other notable things about her:

  1. She eats her hamburger in between two toasted (burnt to a crisp) rice cakes because she’s “probably allergic to gluten”.
  2. She once thought my late dad was communicating to her through her smoke detector.
  3. She firmly believes in the afterlife and brings up her own imminent death at least once a day.  (Then why bother with the rice cakes?)

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    My mom asking the waitress, “Yes, I’d like the hamburger but without the bun. Do you have any rice cakes? And could you turn this music down? How am I supposed to think about what I can’t eat with all this racket!”
  4. There is nothing she hates more than when I try to assist her in any way, especially when I try to help bring her groceries inside.  If I pick up her bag, I’d better be prepared for an onslaught of dirty looks and her yelling, “Jeezum crow, Darla! I’m not THAT old for Chrissakes! GOOD LORD! GIVE ME THAT BAG! GIVE IT TO ME!” Her normal speaking voice has the ability to cut through steel. So when she starts screaming at me, and wrestling the bag out of my hands, every neighbor within a five mile radius must assume I’m accosting a poor old lady in an attempt to steal her rice cakes. And she is always fixated on the location and condition of the eggs. Apparently, all hell would break loose if one were cracked in transit.  “Did you get my eggs, Darla? Did you bring them in the house? Which one is the eggs? Be careful with that bag! That might be my eggs!” I often reply with, “Oh, the eggs? I slammed that bag against the house a couple of times on my way in. Then swung it around like a windmill while pounding it onto the floor before I gave it a good stomping. I think they’ll be fine.” She never laughs at that bit of sarcasm.
  5. She thinks most female celebrities are cursed with “chests that are too big”. To her, this is something to hide not flaunt.

Celebrity chests and death were (once again) the main topics of conversation when she called me on the phone yesterday to chat about the typical stuff: politics, TV shows, whether we’re a ball of light after we die.

My mom is a huge talker, so all conversations are one-sided. She’s been known to interrupt herself. She could break the world record for speaking the longest nonstop without pausing for even a single breath.

The great thing about my mom is she honestly has no clue that what she says is funny. I’m barely able to enjoy a good guffaw in response because she’s already onto the next zinger. She’s also gifted at dropping a funny observation, then following it up with a heavy topic about the nature of our universe and the afterlife some philosophers spend their entire lives contemplating.

Mom: And you know what show I can’t stand? That Karbuncles crap.

Me: The what?

Mom (exasperated): Keeping Up with the Karbuncles!

 
Slide1Everyone just LOVES that show! And you know why? It’s all about their big chests! Yes! And because it’s illegal to show the nipple area, they have to show the crack instead. I’d rather see the nipple. And there’s a whole bunch of chest crack on that show. The bigger the crack, the better. On some of those girls, that’s all you see! This long crack hanging down to their stomachs! It’s because they don’t wear bras, Darla. Remember: always wear your bra or you’ll turn into a Karbuncle.

Me (laughing): I’ll keep that in mind–

Mom (without pausing): I just finished another book on what happens after we die. What do you think?

Me: Well, I–

Mom: Do you think we’re just a ball of light? What do you think I’ll look like on the other side? Will I be myself or someone else? I’d better not be a Karbuncle! I think I must have lived lots of lives before. And once I’m dead, do you think I can I split up my energy? Be in more than one place at a time? I was thinking, I might stay on the other side, but I might come down here to haunt you. I’ll talk to you all the time from the other side!

Me: Uh…I don’t know if that’s a good idea-

Mom: The mail’s here! (hangs up)

I know I should come up with a clever closing line to this post that neatly ties up the Karbuncles chest crack phenomenon with the afterlife, but my mom has me stumped yet again.

And I have no clue where I get my sense of humor from.

 

A Special Message From Sarah Palin

 

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Yeehaw! It’s time to quit pussyfootin’ around, America! C’mon, all you ditch-diggin’, hash-slingin’, cow-tippin’ proud apple pie rockin’ mamas and papas!

Click on this here link-dee-loo down below to find out what happens when Darla goes undercover at Trump headquarters! Hint: It ain’t purty.

And after you’re done readin’ — LET’S KICK SOME ISIS ASS!

Go on! Clicky this linkie-dinkie-doo –> Investigative Report: The Trump Files, by The Nudge Wink reporter, She’s a Maineiac.

 

 

 

 

Don’t waste your money because I will win.

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The odds of winning this week’s Powerball jackpot are 1 in 292.2 million.

I’ve written about Powerball before in Why can’t I get struck by lightning just once?

But people still think that they might win the 1.3 billion (about 20 bucks and change after taxes)? Get real.

Please, that’s like saying Justin Bieber might not have ruined the Mayan ruins forever.

To help you put things into perspective, here are some other odds:

1 in 292.2 million: The odds I will find even a single dirty penny on the ground.

1 in 500 million: The odds that Justin Bieber will visit a highly-respected location and not drop his pants.

1 in 3: The odds I will drop my pants at any given time.

1 in infinity X infinity to the nth power: The odds Donald Trump will say anything remotely intelligent and/or not offensive.

1 in 2.3 trillion: The odds Donald Trump will get struck by lightning, rendering him permanently speechless.

1 in 1: The odds I will open the dishwasher and get in an argument with my husband over whether the dishes are clean or not.

1 in 1: The odds I will look in the mirror in the morning and die a little inside.

1 in 1: The odds my mother will find some way to work guilt into our conversation.

1 in 1: The odds I will not win the Powerball.

Okay, I’d love to crunch more numbers for you guys but I have to go wait in line to buy more tickets. Wish me luck.

And if I win, I promise you will never hear from me again.

Because I’ll be too busy droppin’ trou in Justin Bieber’s front yard.

So, if you DID win, what would you do first?
And the second thing would be to give me the rest of your money, right?

Nobody Told Me There’d Be Exploding Bras

Well, here we are, only January 8th and my New Year is already shaping up to be chock-full of bra-exploding drama.

A few highlights (and some lowlights):

  • I exercised to a new Xbox video game program but went a little overboard. I did about 100 squats in 45 minutes. The next day I went to sit down and nearly passed out from the pain shooting from my thighs. Now I have flabby thighs AND I don’t want to sit down anymore. My will to live has vanished. So much for that resolution.
  • My 9-year-old daughter was very sick with pneumonia. She became ill on Christmas Day and for nearly a week afterward. Funny how everything in your life, every stupid little worry disappears completely when your kid is sick. Last time she had it she was very close to being admitted to the hospital for an IV, so I was very concerned (panicked). Thankfully, her fever finally went away yesterday and she was back to her old cheerful self.  She gave me a huge hug last night and said in her sweet grown-up voice, “Thank you for taking care of me, Mommy.” Melted my heart because of course I will always take care of her, that is my job! And the older I get, the more I realize it’s the most important job to me. Everything else I do is just gravy.
  • Siri followed me on Twitter. Or to be more accurate, the actual woman behind the voice, Susan Bennett. (I’m still not convinced Siri isn’t a robot sent from Steve Jobs to destroy the human race.) Sure, Siri follows about a million other people, but I was tickled pink. I was so happy I forgave her for that snide tone she took with me last week when I asked her how many squats it would take to burn off one doughnut and she said: “Give up now.”
  • I write alt-text for an academic publishing company and completed yet another anatomy textbook today. At this rate, I could easily pass for Dr. House. Or at the very least, I can rattle off every single structure of the male/female genitalia with confidence. I’m certain this skill will come in handy one day.
  • My bra exploded.
    I was picking up some heavy bags while checking out at Target, went to straighten up and that is the precise moment the metal hooks in my bra decided to break free. I have never had this happen in my life. The force of my wardrobe malfunction was so powerful, my boobs shot out from under their restraints like balls from a cannon. Really sad, floppy cannonballs. It was almost as if my bra was saying, “Nope, uh huh. I ain’t gonna hold your girls back no more. The force of gravity is much too strong. You’re on your own, girlfriend.” The best part was my bra just sadly hung there, slowly sliding down the inside of my sweater as I tried to make small talk with the clerk while simultaneously squishing my boobs together awkwardly with one arm. I must have had a constipated look on my face because my daughter tugged on my sleeve and asked, “Mom, do you gotta go poop?” Later on, after I had told her what had happened to my bra she said, “Why do you have to wear a bra anyway? What is it for?” And I thought, Yeah! What the fuck are they for?! Who needs ’em! So, if you happen to see me again at Target grinning like a fool it’s because I’m free-boobin’ it now. I make no apologies.
  • I’m reading a funny book. So funny, I cry with laughter every time I sit down to read it. (okay, I’m mainly crying because of my thighs) It’s John Cleese’s So, Anyway…. It’s a memoir and the way he spins a tale from his youth kills me. He’s got that dry humor I love.
    cleese_cover_3083340a

    “So, creatively, I was doubly blessed: constant relocation and parental disharmony. Add to these two gifts the well-established fact that many of the world’s greatest geniuses, both artistic and scientific, have been the product of serious maternal deprivation, and I am forced to the conclusion that if only my mother had been just a little more emotionally inadequate, I could have been HUGE.” – John Cleese

    One of my fave movies is A Fish Called Wanda (I saw it TWICE at the theater back in the day). But would you believe I NEVER saw a single Monty Python movie? I think it’s because my brothers watched them so much but I refused to stay in the same room with a bunch of rowdy, farting jackholes on purpose.

  • I’ll leave you all with a few posts I read recently that you need to check out:
    Over at Peg-o-leg’s blog, it’s a coyote-ugly time as Peg bravely ventures out on a walk in the woods in Crouching Tiger, Crapping Coyote.
    Blogdramedy explores writer’s block and inspirational memes in The Search For My Words.
    Exile on Pain Street contemplates Picasso and other things in This is Picasso’s Brain on Drugs.
    Paul Johnson (aka The Good Greatsby) is back writing humor and doing stand-up comedy in 5 Tips for Surviving Your Child’s Christmas Pageant.
    Jackie explores what fiction can teach us about life in Why We Read: The Truth.
    Steve tries to become a morning person in My New Year’s Resolution 

    Happy reading!

50 Happy Things for 2015: Bloggers Unite in Flood of Gratitude

Dawn, who writes the blog Tales from the Motherland, invited me to join a group post about all the things we’re thankful for this year in order to spread love and joy around the holidays.

But we have to come up with 50 and only give ourselves 10 minutes to do it.

Sounds a little stressful to me.  So in preparation, I inhaled a few slices of fruitcake, chased them down with some spiked eggnog, then burped up a storm. Ah! Now I was ready to compile my glorious list of holiday cheer.

And because this is all about sharing, we’re inviting you guys to join us. I promise that you will feel truly positive and grateful after you do this exercise.

50 Things That Make Me Happy:

  1. My kids.
  2. My husband.
  3. Yeah, I love my family more than anything else in the entire universe.
  4. Did I mention my family?
    902279_10151624812612873_503452044_o
  5. Star Wars. I saw the first one in the theater with my dad when I was a kid.  It was mesmerizing and I had a huge crush on Han Solo. And I don’t know if you’ve heard, but it’s back with J.J. Abrams. Yeah! I just wish to god I had kept my little 1980 Princess Leia action figure. I think my brother fed her to our dog, who not coincidentally was named Princess.
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  6. Shopping for gifts online in my bathrobe.
  7. Coffee! Oh, dear sweet nectar of the gods! Sometimes I just want to dive right into my mug and go swimming.
  8. My mom. She knits like crazy and loves to listen to the Doors. Yup, she’s badass.
  9. Forgiveness. My mom and I have had a pretty rough relationship, but age has mellowed us out. We’ve forgiven each other for many things in the past.
  10. Coldplay. Shut up. I love them! When I hear their music my soul feels instantly lifted. It’s full of positivity and I need more of that in my life.
  11. This year, I actually won a contest to see David Gray (one of my faves!) in a private little concert on the pier by the ocean. We sat on a cozy couch on a deck with about 20 others and listened to him sing as ships sailed by in the harbor. It was the perfect setting.
    My future living room.
    My future living room.
    Singing "Snow in Vegas", his duet with LeAnn Rimes.
    Singing “Snow in Vegas”, his duet with LeAnn Rimes.

    And I even got to hug him afterward!
    11406820_10153513611097873_4037039793727175901_n
    He had such dry humor and he was very polite. He said to my husband, “How you doin’, mate?” Mate! Oh, those charming Brits. Plus, it was his birthday so I got to eat cake. Best. Day. Ever.

  12. My microwave and crock-pot.
  13. The smell of my Christmas tree when I walk in the door.
  14. My husband for being such a loving, attentive dad. My kids worship him.
  15. Singing alone while driving.
  16. Humor. I live for the funny. I have to laugh every day or I’ll die.
  17. Late night TV when I have insomnia.
  18. Listening to my daughter play the violin.
  19. Singing Adele songs at full blast with my daughter.
  20. My son’s dimples and smile.
  21. My bed. Is it just me, but isn’t that moment when you lie down after a long day the single best thing ever? I love sleep.
  22. Blogging. It’s always been such fun and I love to do it.
  23. The Internet. I can’t live without it. I remember the very first time I was introduced to it. My brother told me to type a word to search and I typed “fart” and all these fart jokes popped up like magic. Mind blown. My life was never the same after that day.
  24. My body. It may be getting wrinkled and fluffier, but I can still go for long walks. I can hug people. I’m just happy to be alive at this point. Only took me nearly 45 years to figure this one out.
  25. Oh, my god, did I get to 50 yet?!
  26. I will never get to 50.
  27. My little tiny Prius that only costs about 12 bucks to fill up now.
  28. El Nino! It’s still balmy and almost Christmas here in Maine. After last winter, I’ll take it.
  29. Polar Express. We can’t get enough of this movie. Isn’t Tom Hanks amazing?
  30. Christmas Vacation movie with Chevy Chase.
    national-lampoons-christmas-vacation
    Especially the scene with the squirrel in the tree. Or my favorite line from Eddie: “You know that metal plate in my head? I had to have it replaced, cause every time Catherine revved up the microwave I’d piss my pants and forget who I was for a half hour or so.”
  31. Laughing until you cry. See above movie.
  32. David Bowie and Bing Crosby’s “Little Drummer Boy.”
  33. Chocolate.
  34. The fact my daughter is more obsessed with the TV show Survivor than I am. It’s our little ritual to watch it every week together.
  35. Video games. I love to play them with my kids and I sometimes win.
  36. Pecan pie. I’m making my first one this weekend. And it reminds me of one of my favorite films, When Harry Met Sally.
  37. I work from home and get to be the one to pick up my kids after school. This is one of the major reasons I work from home. I want to be there for them as much as I can. I’m sure they won’t mind if I live in their college dorm room closet one day, right?
  38. Love. I have a lot of love in my life and I’m forever grateful for all of it.
  39. Meditation. It helps calm my racing mind.
  40. Christmas lights. I could sit out in the living room all night and just gaze at the tree. Very peaceful.
  41. Football. When I watch a game I feel like my late dad is sitting next to me. Late as in dead, not as in “late to the game” late.
  42. Dark humor.
  43. That every morning without fail my husband brings me my coffee right after I wake up. He’s been doing this for over 17 years. (I think maybe it’s because he knows how cranky I am before that first sip.)
  44. Wahoo! I’m at 44! And you’re still here? Bless you.
  45. Music. I couldn’t survive without it. It’s magical and transcends everything else. I hear a song and I’m instantly transported to another time or place. My mind is free, just busted wide open. It’s therapeutic and saves my soul.
  46. Writing. Words. Writing words. Yeah. It’s good.
  47. Books. I have about 20 new ones I need to read but don’t have the time.
  48. Gray hairs. I actually love having a little bit of gray. It makes me feel like I’m saying to the world: “Yeah, that’s right! I’m old! Don’t mess with me!”
  49. The Big Bang Theory. I have major crushes on Sheldon and Leonard.
  50. My blog readers. I truly appreciate every comment and like. (I think there are still a few of you out there, right?)

Whew, I’m done!  Now it’s your turn.

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If you’d like to join in, here’s how it works: set a timer for 10 minutes; timing this is critical. Once you start the timer, start your list. The goal is to write 50 things that made you happy in 2015, or 50 thing that you feel grateful for. The idea is to not think too hard; write what comes to mind in the time allotted. When the timer’s done, stop writing. If you haven’t written 50 things, that’s ok. If you have more than 50 things and still have time, keep writing; you can’t feel too happy or too grateful! When I finished my list, I took a few extra minutes to add links and photos.

To join the bloggers who have come together for this project: 1) Write your post and publish it (please copy and paste the instructions from this post, into yours) 2) Click on the blue frog at the bottom of Dawn’s post HERE. 3) That will take you to another window, where you can past the URL to your post. 4) Follow the prompts, and your post will be added to the Blog Party List.

Please note that only blog posts that include a list of 50 (or an attempt to write 50) things that made you feel Happy or 50 things that you are Grateful for, will be included. Please don’t add a link to a post that isn’t part of this exercise.

Have fun, guys! Happy Holidays!

 

 

 

 

My New Year’s Resolutions

You say you want a resolution?
Well, Holy Giant Ball Drop! It’s almost time to kiss another year goodbye. And I am over at The Nudge Wink Report yet again. Where the hell does the time go?

Straight to my ass and thighs as usual.

But next year will be different. Because it’s resolution time, baby! If I write this stuff down, I’ll actually do it, right?

Nah.

But maybe, just maybe if I try hard enough, Adele will go away.

Stop on over and see what else I plan to fail at next year.

The Nudge Wink Report

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I know I’m a little early.

But I have so much stuff to work on! Might as well get a jump on my inevitable failures, right?

[jumps up and down on the couch and raises fists à la Tom Cruise on Oprah]

BRING IT ON, 2016! YAHOOOOOO!

Slide1

[groans] I think I just threw my back out again.

[gasps] Dammit, and now there’s a crushing pain in my chest. Could be angina. Or that last taco I had for breakfast.

[burps] Oh dear god. Either way, I’d better hurry up and start breaking my resolutions.

MY 2016 RESOLUTIONS:

  • Eat happily.
  • Exercise angrily. (I think I have a good shot at this one.)
  • Open up new restaurant called McBloaty’s that only serves extra large sacks of pure gluten.
  • Determine precisely what it would take to stop Adele.
  • Figure out what’s really inside of Donald Trump’s head. Vast empty space? Gummy bears? A dusty…

View original post 366 more words

Hello.

Hello.

It’s me.

(No, not Adele.)

Slide1

Sorry.

But it really is me! Don’t be fooled! I know! It’s truly uncanny how much Adele and I look alike. And I’m back to blogging again (sorta). Yippee! I’ve missed you guys.

So, what’s new with you? Oh yeah? Really?! NO! GET OUT!

…I’m sorry…what? I kinda wasn’t listening. I’m too busy slobbing away here in my ratty bathrobe and pajamas. Yeah, I work from home now. It’s the ideal job.  I get paid for writing text for an academic publishing company AND get to wear slippers.  Naturally, there are many perks of working from home, but man, my co-worker can be such a bitch. She ate half my tuna sandwich yesterday, just inhaled it and didn’t even apologize. That’s okay, revenge is sweet. Later today I plan on finishing off the pumpkin pie she left in the break room fridge unattended. Amateur.

So, what’s big news lately? Apparently, Christie Brinkley still rocks a bikini at the age of 60. Big deal. Why in the hell do we care? I’m gonna wait and see if she still rocks one at the age of 85.  I get the feeling the only rocks we’ll be seeing then are her boobs on the floor. Yeah, that might be newsworthy.

And hey, how about posting something that would really spark my interest? Like a photo of Abe Vigoda in a speedo? Just doesn’t seem fair to me. Why do we need to know old celebrities still look good? And for people that keep insisting body image doesn’t matter, they sure do have to keep reminding us of what their body looks like.

And as if Christie Brinkley wasn’t enough, now we get to feast our eyes on Amy Schumer wearing nothing but panties, heels, and a smirk in her new “Look at me! It’s shocking and cool because I’m all naked and don’t give a shit but I really do give a shit” photo.

Again, why? Where’s the photo of Louis C.K. wearing nothing but a banana hammock and a creepy grin? Why isn’t he concerned with how sexy he looks? And who in the blue blazes IS Amy Schumer?

All this rampant in-your-face nakedness is starting to get to me. I was standing in line at Target and had to shield my kids’ eyes from the soft porn that is now a magazine cover staple. (Don’t worry, I covered my husband’s eyes too.)

I think we all get it now. Body image isn’t important…but it really is important. It’s all about our bodies and what we look like. That’s all that matters now. And the more naked, the better.

As my 81-year-old mom says, “What’s next? Everyone is just gonna trot around naked now? Have you seen that Naked and Afraid show? Or Dating Naked? Let’s have all the TV shows naked! Football games can be naked! The Patriots can be naked! Hell, let’s have the presidential debates all naked, all the time!”

I think she kept rambling, but to be honest, I was still thinking about Tom Brady naked.

And trying to erase the image in my mind’s eye of Trump wearing nothing but that ridiculous trucker hat.

But thank god I finally snapped out of it long enough to stick a fork into my eyes. And pour acid in them. And go to therapy. And take the blue pill from Morpheus to have my entire memory bank wiped clean.

But back to my new work-at-home career power wardrobe.

This is the conversation I had with my husband last night.

Him: So, you want a new housecoat for Christmas?

Me: What?! A housecoat? What am I, Sophia from the Golden Girls?

sophia

Him: Oh, so…you DON’T want a housecoat?

Me: (thinks) No…I do.  (sighs) I really do.

Maybe I’ll order one for Amy Schumer and Christie Brinkley. Consider it my gift to the world.

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So, really, what’s new with you guys? Anything going on? Any fun/horror-filled Thanksgiving dinners to tell me about? Which one of your relatives got too drunk? It was you, wasn’t it? What do you want from Santa this year? Everyone to shut the hell up? Yeah, me too. Have you done any shopping? I shopped completely online, didn’t even get up off the couch once. It was the best moment of my life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Think You’re Thankful Enough? Take this quiz!

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Hey, gang!

It’s time once again to overdose on gravy! Yes, Thanksgiving is almost here!

And it’s my turn over at The Nudge Wink Report. So slap on a feedbag and help me explore burning questions like:

–What makes Aunt Ethel cry into her creamed corn?
–Can turkeys fly?
–What is tofurky really made of?
–What would it take for Al Roker to shut his piehole for once? Hint: Not pie.
–What did former President George W. Bush say to this turkey?
121118-president-turkey-pardon-bush-jr.ss_full
So, are you thankful enough?

Go take my quiz now and find out! —> How Thankful Are You? 

 

The Power of Free Candy

Kids today have it so easy. My son gets a Luigi costume at Target, slaps on a fake mustache, then has us drive him around a few minutes so he can come home with enough candy to put Willy Wonka in a ten year coma. Halloween is just a blip between summer and Christmas to my kids. There’s no magic, no sense of adventure anymore.

Back in the 1970s when I was a kid, times were hard and we didn’t mess around. Halloween was Go-Time. The rest of the year my brothers and I rarely got candy (unless you count the Sucrets we stole out of my mom’s purse), so we prepared for this holiday weeks in advance.

And we were entirely on our own. Mom and Dad rarely bought us a costume. We had to cough up our own spooky designs from whatever was lying around the house. And trick-or-treating? Completely unsupervised and lasted until way past bedtime even on a school night, just like God intended.

We’d spend weeks brainstorming wacky homemade costume ideas: “Hey! I know! We can have Dad cut up some of the foam insulation from the attic and make a giant Pac-Man!” We’d analyze which houses would score the biggest payload: “Okay, rumor has it Mrs. Stevens gives out jumbo-sized Snickers but steer clear of Old Mr. Pitts, he throws moldy popcorn balls or crayons at your head and he smells like cheese.”

Once darkness fell, we’d fan out by ourselves clutching our garbage bag costumes. We’d bravely roam the streets, our sad Hobo faces covered in whatever we could scrape out of my dad’s ashtray, and beg perfect strangers for a Charleston Chew.

Whenever I tell my kids about the hardships we faced back then, they interrupt me and say, “Yeah, yeah, yeah…whatever, Mom. By the way, that is the dumbest idea for a costume, like, ever, and can you give me back my Kit Kats now? That’s your third one!”

Let’s travel back in time to my childhood Halloweens, shall we?

I’m not sure what I was trying to be here, I’d guess a gypsy, or maybe Laura Ingall’s long-lost Spanish cousin. Either way, it looks like I’m thinking, OH DEAR GOD, please don’t let me be seen in public with these two freakshows! He used up all my Noxzema for this?
I was a witch this year (again) and my brothers were hobos (again). Strangely enough, they didn’t even have to alter their appearance at all. And the hobo sticks came in handy when my brothers threatened to beat me over the head if I didn’t give them my Skittles. Just look into the cold dark eyes of my younger brother and tell me he didn’t intend to mug me later on for all my Pixy Stix.
This year we were all lucky to have ‘store-bought’ costumes. Still, I felt bad for my younger brother who had to trick or treat with Yul Brynner and the freaky-deakiest Raggedy Anne I’ve ever seen.
I’m not sure what’s scarier about this photo, the giant fork and spoon on the wall my brother used to chase me around the house with… the illusion that the entire room is invisible due to my mom’s horrible paint job or the fact that I chose to go trick or treating at the age of 11 dressed up like an Amish hooker.
Finally, my favorite Halloween photo of all-time. You thought I was kidding about the foam insulation Pac Man? It is a sheer miracle my poor brother didn’t suffocate after five minutes in that thing. Oh, and you thought I was joking about the garbage bag? Behold, my genius idea for a costume. Any guess what we were? We had to wear a SIGN to let people know. Probably a good sign it’s a bad costume. 

Well, duh! We were the Fruit of the Loom Grapes!

I think people gave us more candy because they felt so bad for us. Mmm-mmm! Pity tastes delicious!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

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Yeah, I admit this post was a re-blog from a post I wrote in 2012. Sorry, but I think eating this Snickers bar is far more important than blogging.

And so it begins…

My son turned thirteen last month. Thirteen.  You know, the age their eyes roll back into their heads and molten lava starts shooting out from every orifice.

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BLAAAAARGGGGGH! I WILL DESTROY YOU!

So many, many things changed in an instant.

The day after he became a teenager, he announced at breakfast, “Mom, I need to do some chores because I need some money. And I think I want to go to the school dance next week. Oh, and I gotta go take a shower now.”

Whoa, whoa whoa — stop right there. Dance? Money? Okay, okay. I can handle that. But voluntary hygiene? You mean I won’t have to spend the better part of the morning begging you to scrape the putrid seven layer grime of raw sewage off your Sasquatch feet? Be still my beating heart! Think of all the free time I’ll have! My nose hairs might even grow back again! Oh joy! He willingly wants to take a shower! Maybe having a teen in the house won’t be so bad after all?

Oh, it be bad. Along with his newfound sense of cleanliness, all of a sudden my son thinks he’s capable of being by himself with no adult supervision.

Yesterday he called me on his little TracFone: “Hey, Mom,” he mumbled.  Because mumbling is the only language teenage boys understand. “I’m gonna stay after school and hang out in the field with Cameron and some friends before soccer practice, okay?”

Hold up.  You? In a field? With friends? Weren’t you the same boy who just THIS MORNING had to ask me for help because you couldn’t figure out how to open the car door? Suddenly you’re competent and responsible? Oh, no. Nope. That’s not how adulthood happens. You don’t pick Fruit Loops out of your belly button and eat them and then the next day hang out in a field with some possible psycho-killer named Cameron. Sounds like a made-up name to me. But my son wants me to believe he’s “mature” now. I’m not sure I’m buying it.

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“Yes, Mother. I shall be arriving momentarily at the athletic excursion whereupon I shall congregate amongst my colleagues sans supervision.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll call you if I need anything,” mumbled my 13-year-old son.

Call me? You don’t even know how to dial numbers! Do you even know any numbers?

“Okay, call me,” I sighed. “Please. Please for anything. Anything at-”

And he hung up.

I suppose I should be happy because that was the longest conversation we’ve had in months.

The next day, still riding high on soap fumes from his second shower of the day, I drove my teenager to his soccer game.  About a mile away he suddenly mumbled with urgency, “Don’t drop me off at the field. Don’t get out of the car. Don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me. Just drop me off in the parking lot. Wait, no — just slow down here and I’ll jump out into this ditch.”

Right, because God forbid any of his buddies within a 150 mile radius get the slightest hint that I exist at all. Death in a ditch is more preferable.

This coming from a boy who not that long ago, if I were a mere millimeter outside his peripheral vision for a nanosecond all hell broke loose.

“Okay, mommy’s just going to step over here to get your baba…”

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“MOMMMM!!! WHERE ARE YOU??? MOM!!!! OH MY GOD! SHE’S GONE!!! COME BACK PLEASE!!! MOMMMMMM!!!!

I pulled up to the soccer field still a bit stung by my beloved son’s dogged determination to pretend I’m not alive. I leaned over and said, “Tell you what. First thing tomorrow I’m going to buy a wig, dark sunglasses and a fake mustache. Then I’m going to steal the Invisibility Cloak from Harry Potter, you know, just in case my wig falls off. Then I’ll buy tinted windows for the car in case the cloak falls off. If your friends are within earshot, I will only speak to you in sign language. Not a sign language that anyone can understand but a made-up language only you and I know.  If there’s a slight chance one of your friends cracks the code,  I’ll communicate to you only with my eyes and mental telepathy.  But I won’t look directly at you. I won’t make eye contact. I’ll look a little off to the side. If I’m breathing too much or too loud while we’re communicating telepathically, I’ll hold my breath until I pass out.  Okay?”

“Okay,” my son shrugged and he was gone, leaving me in a cloud of Axe shampoo.

Which was good because now I have loads of free time to search for invisibility cloaks on eBay.