Debra Anastasia's Blog, page 70

How my mom functions.

You know, some days are more interesting than others. Last night, Mr. The King took the kids outside to play. I was commencing the rigmarole that it takes to get my family ready for a weekday. Lunches, ironing, folders signed.

Lots of stuff.

My telephone rings. I glance at the caller id. The number calling me has an area code of "000". Now this perks my interest. Because as far as I know the "000" area code does not exist. But here it is, calling me. Maybe the call is originating in the Bermuda triangle. Maybe they installed a phone in Area 51 next to the black mailbox.

My curiosity gets the best of me.

Me (somewhat timidly) ~ "Hello?"
 
Expecting the high pitched squeal of an alien, or the deep timbre of a pirate swirling in the lost waters in Bermuda.

I get:
 
My mother ~ "Hello!" She says it in a real chipper, nothing is wrong kind of voice.
 
Me ~ "Mom?! Where are you calling me from?!"
 
My mother ~ "My computer!"
 
Her voice resonates with an electronic echo. I'm perplexed.
 
Me ~ "How in God's name did you manage that?"
 
My mother giggles ~ "I don't know!"
 
Our conversation is interrupted by the beep of call waiting on my phone. I tell my mother to hold on. I'm picturing her all Max Headroom stuck in her laptop.

I glance at my phone's display. Showing, like nothing could ever be more normal, is my mother's home phone number.
 
I'm not sure what to do. So I answer it.
 
Me ~ "Hello?!"
 
My mother ~ "Hello!" 

She's all happy.
 
Me ~ "Mom?"
 
My mother ~ "It's me!"
 
Me ~ "Holy Matrimony. How are you doing this?"
My mother ~ "I'm not sure."

The best part is she does not care. She's not the least bit interested how she has somehow bridged the time space continuum and called me from two places at once, one of the "places" not actually a phone to start with.
 
She wants to talk to the grandkids and is frustrated that I'm having trouble comprehending the impossibilities I've been presented with. In her mind, she's on the phone and I'm wasting grandchild time with my slack jawed amazement.

Big Nuggets

Recently, My husband and I pulled up to a local Chick-fil-a, kids waiting for lunch in the back of the van. Now, my husband has one very weird problem. He sometimes uses a high pitched squeal when ordering from drive through speakers.This time the chick on the other end of the speaker forgot to address him as "'Mam".
 

Which happens.
 
A lot.
To him.
And it makes me laugh.
Now, she didn't call him "sir" either, but I keep the observation to myself.
We pull up. Respectable. Reasonable.
She looks him dead in the eye and says in a really loud voice

"WE ARE JUST WAITING ON YOUR NUGGETS, SIR"

Now that comment is just too much.
Come on.

So many jokes I want to crack.

Loud, inappropriate jokes.

My husband won't look at me. He knows what I'm brewing. I start nose laughing.

He's still avoiding me. I'm surprised at his self control. Because he probably already knows what jokes I'm telling.

In my head.
 

And they are good ones.

This past Father's day, I let my daughter pick out her dad's father day gift all by herself. She found a T-Shirt with a squirrel on it. She insisted on it. I did try to steer her in other directions. His face was precious when he opened it.



So only my comment, after we were clear of the hard working chicken girl, was, "Well, your nuggets are big."


hehe

Weirdo Whisperer

Here is a chapter from the Disney Trip Report I wrote involving pools, poop and weirdos:

So we pack ourselves into our bathing suits and head towards the Bowling Pin pool. I love Disney. No matter what weirdness you are rocking, you can find more people just like you, or worse! No matter what kind of cheese your thighs resemble, your twin is out there rocking her matching cheese.

Looking for a bloated, florescent chick?…..Check! There are bunches!

Luxurious Jigglers? ……..Check! Three just like you!

Are you an old, hairy dude wearing your Speedo thong backwards?....Dear God…..Check! Another you!

You know the part I hate? When you walk up to the pool you are all normal, wearing your cute sarong, Fake Dior glasses, even the twins, your boobs, have risen to the occasion, God Bless them.

Then there is the moment.

You try and prevent it from coming.

But removing Flip Flops only takes so long.

Then you have to let them have it.

Remove the sarong.

And try not to run into the pool.

Cause running sets your evil in motion.

You try and be nonchalant about it. Gee Whiz, we all do. We're all pretending we're not almost naked. It's so bizarre that we wrap ourselves in a small amount of spandex and then try and act normal. It's almost like we should speak another language when we engage in this bizarre ritual.

Pool Speak.
It's almost nakey time!!!

Blorf Naorfg Kkofjirj!!!

So we are in the pool. Talking pool speak, when I notice an alarming amount of already wet people headed for our pool. Our slightly crowded pool. The wet people are arriving at a steady rate. Like somewhere, someone was handing out money for people to junk up our pool with their bodies. Nuts. Now there are three of those old, hairy dudes.

As they start to wade in, we catch snippets of conversation.

"Closed"
"Cleaning"
"Don't know when they will open"
"Hippy Dippy"

So we piece it together. The Hippy Dippy pool is closed because someone took a dookie in it.

We are experts at the dookie in the pool.

No!
Not for that reason.

For Pete's sake people have some trust.

We faced the "Cleaning The Pool" on our last long Disney trip. We learned that it is quite common. We hoped it was mostly babies. Butt, you never do know for sure unless you're the unlucky skimmer guy.

Poop Skimmer guy has got no game with the ladies.
 
You always know the answer when you ask him, "How was your day at work?"

We see the Bowling Pin lifeguards looking in the pool next to my husband's foot.

Then they look at my husband.

Then they look at his foot.

Finally, my husband looks at his foot.

Very close to it there's a leaf. A sunken leaf. I can tell this. Hubby can tell it's a leaf. Butt the lifeguards have no idea what it is. Well, they think it's a dookie. Man dookie. Not baby dookie.

They send up the smoke signal for the poop skimmer guy.
 Husband decides to put the lifeguards out of their misery. He does not want to become a wet refugee to the Computer Pool. He reaches for the leaf with his foot.

Now, I don't know what the public has been doing to these lifeguards, butt from the look on their faces, you'd think my husband was about to pull the pin on a grenade with his toes. He grabs the leaf and shows it to the mortified lifeguards. They nod and look at him suspiciously.

I don't know what kind of poop-throwing gorillas people have been smuggling into the Bowling Pin pool at Disney, butt it needs to stop. These boys were traumatized.

We exit the pool, and head towards the Classic Hall for Linner or Dunch. Or whatever that poorly timed meal should be called. I was still hoping to return to the Magic Kingdom. So, we figured we would eat Dreakfast or Binner there.

And the Hippy Dippy is closed for cleaning. My kids' idea of heaven is the Hippy Dippy pool. They love all pools, but that one, for them is the end all. I've flashes of a closed Hippy Dippy for the length of our stay. What if they can't reopen and it's really some sort of large scale CLEANING, not related to poop?

This is the first time I'm actually hoping that is was poop in the pool.

We all bust out our Dinning Plan Cards. The freedom of having those cards was almost too much to bear. Drinks, meals, don't forget dessert! We all had to keep track of each other's trays to make sure we got was coming to us. I was forced to get a little personal chocolate cake. With a curl on the top. It was coming to me. God, I love when food comes to me. Especially chocolate.

I also began a very monogamous love affair with the POP century Crusted in Something wonderful Chicken breast, with a salad and a personal loaf of bread. I could not stop ordering this chicken every time I had the chance.

We sat down to eat in the super large booth. I cut into Something Wonderful Chicken, put the piping bite almost to my lips when, as usual,

  Daughter ~ "I have to use the bathroom."

Always. Like clockwork.

I sigh, and whisper to my chicken, "Just a moment, my love"
My girl grabs my hand. Don't you just love when they do that? Such a natural movement. Her hand slips in mine. I always squeeze it just a little, like a hand hug. I try not to take hand holding for granted.

We get to the bathroom. We all know how I feel about this place. 
And I have something to say about it. Surprise, Surprise.

Us ladies have to take a seat, we all know this. Butt, I've noticed that we have a ritual when choosing said "seat". When looking at a line up of stalls, almost always the doors hang halfway open. Not open enough to see the seat, but you can tell it's not occupied.

We all do the same thing. Like a dog sniffing a tree. We head close to the stall, but we never bust in and lay down the law on just any open toilet.

We peek.

I don't care how many times you filled your refillable mug, you'll always peek. You take the smallest tip of your finger and push, ever so gently, on the stall door. So gentle, there could be a sleeping baby on the other side. But we're not looking for babies.

We're looking to see what awful atrocities have occurred to the possible seat before we arrived on the scene.

And you know ladies, sometimes you peek and hit the lotto. You get a clean seat. Brand new clean. The seat's still up clean. You have to knock it down with your foot clean. And that's nice. Man, that's a sight to see. Sometimes, you can forgo the jiggler protector because you're the first one there.
 
You can claim that throne.

And you know ladies, sometimes you peak in and there is no lotto winning.
 
There's only horror. How it got there we do not know. Some woman must be just like the gorilla in the pool. You peek with your gentle hand, just the tip, to reveal what looks like some kind of murder scene.
And we all think the same thing, "What the hell was that woman up to in there?"
 
"Did she somehow suspend herself from a trapeze before she handled her business?"
 
What do we do? We shake it off. We move on to the next stall. Or maybe two down if it is really bad. There must be a compartment in our brain that tucks those sights from our memories.

Now a suggestion, if I may, try and dry yourself off before plunking yourself down on a jiggler protector. Because when you are wet from the pool, they become a tattoo. And you have to make sure you get every sticking piece off before prancing around in your bathing suit again. The wet protector protects nothing when the germs get stuck to you like a second skin.
Just a suggestion. It's not like this has ever happened to me.

Another suggestion. If you happen to be in an extremely quiet bathroom and you're not alone, hit the hand dryer button on your way in. For some background noise. Give a courtesy hit on your way out for the poor soul on the can, too. Random act of kindness and all that jazz. Because we all hate when it's quiet. It's awkward. And gets competitive.

And please. Please.

Don't talk to me if I don't know you.
Why do people open up to me in the toilet? I'll tell you why!
You have heard of the Horse Whisperer? How about the Dog Whisperer?

Well, I'm the Weirdo Whisperer.

If you are weird, you'll find me anywhere and feel vocal diarrhea coming on. Hard.
And you might feel it is okay to hug me.

Just yesterday, I was shopping in the Wal-Mart, looking for Cd Mailers. I walk past the books and an old lady stops me. I look at her pleasantly "Can I help you?"
 
She tells me she's looking for a book. She can't find it and is frustrated. I can't find her book either, so I asked her what type of book she likes. Turns out she likes The Bourne Identity series. So I figure she likes action, and I spot Angels and Demons by Dan Brown. I loved the book and it was action packed, so I tell her about it.
Doesn't this sound lovely? Normal? Sweet even!

Well, in her gratitude, she winds up spanking me in the jiggler with Angels and Demons by Dan Brown.

Numerous times.

Now mind you, I was not bending over like a naughty child.
No.
She kept finding the jiggler and smacking it.

Walking away from that encounter, wishing the woman well, I couldn't help butt wonder why it's okay for people to spank me? I must be comforting to them in some way. Like Dr. Phil with hair.

Dead Animal Show

Just before we left for Disney a few summers ago, I took the kids to a special program at the local Library. It was something about big and small critters. The programs have a decent reputation and considering how much my daughter loves animals, I thought it would be a good break before the long car ride to Florida. I was picturing live animals brought in for the kids to admire and maybe even touch. I had to pre-register months in advance. 

Expectations were high. I met up with a friend and her two boys there. We settled in to our seats. Our kids got great ones, right up front. I looked at my friend with eyebrows raised. In the front of the room there were no happy cages, no safari dressed bubbly animal wrangler. There was a woman who was blasted out of 1972 and plopped in front of a number of taxidermyed animals. Really old dead animals.

Oh no! Will my daughter have nightmares? Will she figure out that they are dead? Front row seats mind you. We had two little foxes, faces arranged in snarls, baring teeth. A large bird, talons exposed, A black bear, ferocious glare in place. And the saddest piece of all, a momma raccoon with her small dead baby raccoon in her mouth. Holy Guacamole, who thought this one was great show for kids?

The refugee from 1972 began her presentation in the most monotone, boring tone of voice she could fester up. I think listening to an insurance salesman discuss the virtues of looseleaf paper would pack more of a punch. The kids ranged in ages from 2 to about 12. They were like angels listening as 1972 picked up one dead animal after another pointing to various dead parts and moving them slowly in a macabre horror show. She got to the raccoon family. She holds them up. All of the mothers in the audience look horrified. 1972 points out that these dead animals are so old, the mama raccoon's "fingers" have worn off to nubs. 

Why did I let my kids sit through this? 

Well, the reward was getting to "pet" the animals.
 
1972 pulls my son out of his chair. He always gets picked for stuff, but usually it's good stuff. She hands him the two stiff, dead foxes. He dutifully stuffs one under each arm and holds them at the right height for the other kids to "pet" them. My daughter gets on line and waits for her turn. Her reward. All of us mothers stand around waiting for our kids to do the exact opposite of what we would tell them in the wild.
 
"Don't touch the dead animal!!" is echoing through all our heads. I guess you can put anything in a library, label it a "kids show" and we will all put up with it. I'm thinking of all the road kill I try and prevent the kids from seeing in our hours on the road. But I brought them out special for this nightmare. I look at my friend and say "I really hope the kids won't be too disappointed when we get to Disney and the characters move around. Dead animals are so electrifying."
 
We get in the van. I turn to look at their confused faces. My boy sums it up with a, "Well Mom, that was weird"
 
Sorry Kids. Oops. Let's rub some Disney on that weirdness until it goes away.

My Grandfather

This week I had tears because my grandfather would have been so proud that I had a book available. He was the funniest, most alive person. I miss him. It's been more then a year. It's been more than two years? Time goes on I guess. I still miss him. I wrote this a few weeks after he passed:

Can't Make Is to Was
I find when I think about Poppy I can't change is to was. I can't make the transition that good sense dictates. He can't have been. He can't be in the past tense.
 
Maybe other people can. But other people did not live life with such relish. If people have flames that flicker and sputter out at the end of their time, Poppy had lava, that refuses to obey any rules. He knocks down walls, burns a path that could never be ignored. He leaves a legacy so strong it becomes part of the landscape. If he touched your life, you won't forget it.

Lucky enough to be called a friend? Well, that was a treasure that would never lose its sparkle.


But if he loved you.


But if he loved you.

Then close your eyes and know, deep inside where your heart settles right next to your soul, he is right there. You are chartered with a job. A job to take each day, and do something to celebrate being here.

Sing. Out loud.

Dance. To every song.

Laugh. Until you are gasping and crying.

Love. Like you will never leave.

If you are not having a good damn time, it's your own damn fault.

My Son

This week I accompanied his class grade to a field trip.  This field trip had two classes and only two chaperones (me and a dad) both from the same class. When we got where we were going, I knew I would step up and go with the chaperone-less class. He didn't complain once that his mom did not come with him. One of the students needed to go home because she was sick. So I took over for the teacher for a little while. As I was directing the kids to the picnic tables for lunch, boychild grabs my lunch and his, saying, "Got your lunch Mom." I watch as he chooses a seat at a table with his friends and sets my lunch bag next to his. Saving my spot. My heart ached with the beauty of it. Sitting there with his back to me, a simple brown bag that the other children respected as "space taken."

I was gathering the stragglers, handling lunch debacles , a bloody nose, and a discipline situation. And every time I glance his way, there was my spot, waiting. That lunch bag had let me know I was missed. He'd never know that my heart was already there, sitting right next to him. Finally, he gives up and races over to me with the brown bag. 

"Here's your lunch Mom."
 
How thoughtful can a little boy be? 
 
I told his earnest, sky blue eyes, "No, Please put my bag next to yours. I'm eating with you." 

I was rewarded with his limitless smile. And I did. 

The teacher came back, I marched over and planted the Jiggler right next to him.

Did you ever get lost in the beauty of your child's face? To see a thought play across his face, the connection and peace they have when they find yours, so they can share what was on their mind?
 
I could watch this child for hours, if life would let me. I think it's the cheeks. So plumpy and kissable. The scent of those cheeks is exactly what a scented candle made in heaven would smell like.
 
After lunch we parted ways.
 
That night I tucked him into bed. He had so much homework and soccer practice, I hadn't had time to squeeze him into a hug. That lonely brown bag deserved a big hug. So he got it. And a quiet, "Thank you" from a mother who can not believe her luck.

The dog's god damn diaper.

Lately, my little dog has been having trouble with "housetraining" I decided to buy him a diaper. I went into Petco and the dog diapers were $22. So I marched over to Target and purchased 3 toddler reuseable training pants. (24 months) I came home, cut a hole for his little tail and slipped them on. The first thing my husband said to me when he saw my regal maltipoo was, "I am never changing that diaper"


I laughed. The diaper looked silly, but worked like a charm. I was thrilled with how resourceful I am. I saved money and I'm helping the dog with house training. You see, he never goes in the diaper.  The husband has grudgingly pulled the diaper on and off the dog when taking him out. It is very cute and makes me giggle.


Today, I pulled out of the driveway all dressed up for my special event. I few miles into my ride the cell phone rings. I am surprised to see the hubby is calling me. He knows I can't talk on the cell phone and drive at the same time. Worried, I pick up the phone. "Your damn dog crapped his ####ing diaper!! It's so disgusting." Click.






So my man, bless his heart, changed the dog's diaper. Well, he pulled it off and hosed down the dog. What a great husband. I was laughing so hard I could hardly drive

A trip to Epcot

We hear the music, we smell the smells. Ahh. We love Epcot. First things first, the potty. The Jiggler (my ass) has a little problem with some Disney potties. You see, I rarely potty alone. I've mastered the two and three person potty trip. Of course, we all cram into one stall  This potty trip it's just me and my daughter.  Girlchild and I make our way in. I back The Jiggler in [beep, beep, beep] and drag her in behind me. I straddle the toilet and try to close the door. She was at the stage in her development where her head was just high enough to bang into the toilet tissue dispensers. I usually wound up cramming her head between the stall door and the dispenser, pinball style, a couple of times per trip. 

Big green eyes would stare up at me in disbelief that she has to deal with a mom who has no concept of spatial relations. After we were safely locked in, I rotated the Jigger around to get the Jiggler protector (the toilet guard tissue). I carefully pluck just one (wouldn't want to be wasteful). Gently and daintily I lay the Jiggler protector down. The toilet is competitive, just like the spider at the car wash. The toilet feels I shouldn't be a wimp and I should just lay the bare Jiggler down. "Toughen up" the toilet thinks and then it sucks my Jiggler protector down with enough force to render me nude if I were standing closer. Girlchild screams and holds her ears. 

 "The flush is too loud," she wails. 

 In a frenzy to find a safe harbor, she winds up bouncing between the Jiggler and the stall door. "Well," I think, "I'll try this again. Because I like to win. I want to beat the potty at its own game." I lay the protector down, nicey nice, and the middle falls in, sets off the super sensitive sensor and… sonic boom flush. Girlchild is now a little leery of sitting on this insatiable monster that eats the Jiggler protectors so ferociously. What will it do with her teeny, tiny hiney? I'm totally unaware of my daughter's concerns. It's me verses the potty. I break out the ultimate weapon. 

The bare Jiggler. 

If I can move fast enough, I can hold that protector in place. I'll anchor it down and show that potty who's boss. The potty has had a lot of practice. I moved as quick as lightening. Place the protector, swing the Jiggler around, knock into girlchild, who bounces into the toilet tissue dispenser… again. I'm almost there; the bare Jiggler will be safe from all the germs of the 100 gazillion women that have done their business before me. I hear a high pitched whine I'm not fast enough. My plan will not work. The potty sucks down its favorite treat, for a third time. The Jiggler's not a fast enough anchor…To add insult to my bruised ego and germs to the germs I now get to wear, like a nasty accessory all day long, I get the the "finishing touch." That splash of ice cold potty water. 

"Aggh!" I let out a little scream. 

Big green eyes are watching this whole show. Hands covering ears. In her sweet little head, that potty just took a bite of the Jiggler and Mommy was getting sucked down next. She waits. Now, it's her turn. She bangs her head one more time against the t.p. dispenser in a futile effort to render herself unconscious and avoid being sucked down by the Jiggler protector eating, sonic booming, auto-flushing potty. She's unsuccessful and she's up next. I did what all good moms do. I bribed her. With toys, treats and ponies. 

She's still not crazy about loud flushes.

Spring Sucks

Stupid Spring.


Stupid Spiders.


So apparently I am having spider flavored posts lately, which sucks for me. My bathroom has a tiny little portal to Spider Wonderland. I'm way too clueless to check the shower before jumping in and committing to the nudity and wetness required there. So tonight I hop in and start my cleansing, shaving the bits, etc. I look above my head all happy and spot a fucking daddy long legs on the ceiling.


 Figures.


So I say, "Fine spider, I hate you. I'll be in this shower for two minutes total. If you don't move, we'll both live through this."


 As much as I hate looking at its spindly body, I know I have to keep him in my sights the whole damn time. So I do. I don't trust him and my instincts are right. He starts crawling slowly towards me in the heavy, hot steam.


I tell him, "You are making shitty choices spider." Soon he'll be over my head head and I hate that. So I decide to put my conditioner on, then step out and call the hubby in to get the spider. Decision made, I turn, grab the bottle, and put my beady eyes on the ceiling.


And he's FUCKING GONE!


 Gone, gone, gone. Aggghhhhh.


 Where is he? He's supposed to stay put, yet he was moving, then he was at least supposed to stay sticky like all god damn spiders, but he's an underachiever or a super ninja attack spider.


 Is he in my slippery hair? Is he in the CRACK of my ass? Where the hell did he go?


 Hop out. Get full body eebbjeebes. Freak out. Grab towel and spot the bastard. He's slogging his way through the downpour in the tub.


Call husband.


Back against wall and wait to be saved.


The air conditioning vent is level with my butt. If I fart it'll turn into an icicle. The hubby scoops up the spider with a wet piece of toilet paper and I can see the WAVING LEGS.


Then I go back to my shower. Right now, I only have one arm pit shaved and that shower was awful. The best is that these spiders all wait by the portal to their Wonderland and when they see my dumb face bopping into the bathroom, they send one of their team out to torture me.


Spring sucks.

Car Wash

 Before a family trip, I like to clean my van. Preferably, it will be int he comfort of my own driveway. Sometimes I have to resort to the local car cleaning joint to get my needs met on a deadline. This post is about one of my least favorite times:

Due to the layout of the car wash, I had a nice big audience of gentlemen that work in the professional detailing business. They were working in the center and my progress would be in an semicircle around them.


Lucky me.


I pull up to the automatic wash and pay the reverse ATM. Belatedly, I remember to pull off my antenna Mickey ears and Walt Disney World magnet, so I jump out while the machine is screaming "Pull up to the car wash," over and over. I run back around the van and hop in, pull in and yup, you guessed it, I forgot to put my window up from paying. The super powerful faceful of water reminded me to press the up button. Power windows are realllllly slow. My audience of men were when they saw how wet I was. But water and humiliation can't keep me down, so I drove over to the vacuum. I get out, shake off, pull out the mats, wave to my fans, and take my only cash --one dollar-- over to the change maker. Four quarters and a big hairy spider plop out into the silver cup. So now I have to get the quarters away from the spider, who would like to keep them for himself. I hate spiders. I hate greedy spiders even more. So I am screaming, jumping and getting my freaking quarters. Now the boys are just watching the show Whatever, I got my money, plugged the quarters into the vacuum and start vacuuming 6 weeks of crap and crumbs out of my giant van. I'm very competitive. I want to win. I want to beat the vacuum at its own game. I'll make every spidery quarter worth it. So I'm running around inside the van, vacuuming my butt off. Just at the very end, I jump out to do the mats and in my frenzy, and an ill chosen low cut t-shirt, my boob pops out. To all the boys working in the car wash, you are welcome