Living in a college town means a few things: always being able to buy an Alma mater sweatshirt at any gas station, having an endless supply of foam "we're #1" fingers and looking forward the mass exodus of flip-flopped, pop-collared, cocked-hatted frat boys at the end of every May. Once commencement commences, I sigh in relief knowing that for the next two months, I won't have to listen to any more "Abercrombie and Fitch on Parade" conversations about how many beer bongs and keg stands that dude did last night as I wait in the check out line at the super market behind a pack of young men pushing a cart full of Doritos, red solo cups and cases of Miller High Life. I am equally thrilled that I don't have to watch eighteen year old girls at target pick our which furry throw rug to buy for their dorm room that will most likely get them a date with whichever aforementioned upperclassman-purchasing-beer they have their eye on.
But last night, I waltzed into a bar frequented by the college crowd and was shocked to see it almost empty. I don't mean a noticeable decrease in attendance, I mean it was damn near ghostly. I felt bad for the band. Then were good too. I didn't know who they were or anything, didn't really care, I mean, I went there to get a little tore up and then verbally abuse strangers. It was sad though, a couple or two would periodically get up and dance to their Texas-themed rhythms, the small crowd would clap at the end of songs, but that was it. I was saddened to witness this lack of drunken participation. But just before last call, I was relieved to see a flock of mildly overweight young ladies in excessively thin summer dresses and spike-heeled shoes march in. "Thank goodness" I thought, as the last one, in Daisy Dukes, a camouflage tank top and cowboy boots stomped up to the bar, "I was worried the drummer wouldn't get any head in the bathroom tonight!"
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Dear Friends from High School and College,
Holy crap! Since you heard my dad died, that was like so awesome of you to friend me on Facebook and then show up to my dad's funeral after you totally blew me off for like three years. I'm totally going to forget about how you didn't call or text me or email me back after I got divorced. I know, my ex-husband was for sure the one to side with, even though I didn't cheat on him or spend all our money on hookers and blow, he was obviously the victim because he was way better at looking pitiful. So you were absolutely in the right to take his side and ignore me and act like we were never friends in the first place.
No, seriously, I get it. It's absolutely the grown up thing to do, to decide which of us you were loyal to and then completely shun the other. I loved how you made up for it though, by looking ashamed and telling my mom, a grieving widow, how you felt really bad and wish you had called me or something. That was classy. But do you know what my all-time-favorite part was? How you hand delivered some letter from my ex-husband to my mother. That was awesome! No I didn't actually read the letter, but I bet whatever it said was something a grown up that was too embarrassed to show up to his ex-father-in-law's funeral would say.
Cool, well, it was really great seeing you. Thanks for the hug, I enjoyed comforting you while you cried during my time of loss. And, you know, if you ever feel guilty enough to awkwardly contact me again, go for it! I'll probably be halfways polite and not introduce you to my new husband again!
ADDENDUM: Okay, so it's like three weeks later and I'm a total bitch. But you can't fault me for it. Or, you probably can. Agreed: it's my fault I'm an absolute bitch. I'm going to play the "My Dad Just Died" card, and I'll see your "I Know You Were Friends With th Ex-Husband Longer" and I'll raise you a "I Suppose I Shouldn't Get So Angry, it's an Awkward Situation All Around."
No, seriously, I get it. It's absolutely the grown up thing to do, to decide which of us you were loyal to and then completely shun the other. I loved how you made up for it though, by looking ashamed and telling my mom, a grieving widow, how you felt really bad and wish you had called me or something. That was classy. But do you know what my all-time-favorite part was? How you hand delivered some letter from my ex-husband to my mother. That was awesome! No I didn't actually read the letter, but I bet whatever it said was something a grown up that was too embarrassed to show up to his ex-father-in-law's funeral would say.
Cool, well, it was really great seeing you. Thanks for the hug, I enjoyed comforting you while you cried during my time of loss. And, you know, if you ever feel guilty enough to awkwardly contact me again, go for it! I'll probably be halfways polite and not introduce you to my new husband again!
ADDENDUM: Okay, so it's like three weeks later and I'm a total bitch. But you can't fault me for it. Or, you probably can. Agreed: it's my fault I'm an absolute bitch. I'm going to play the "My Dad Just Died" card, and I'll see your "I Know You Were Friends With th Ex-Husband Longer" and I'll raise you a "I Suppose I Shouldn't Get So Angry, it's an Awkward Situation All Around."
Friday, May 20, 2011
OK, OK. Now I'm Ready.
Grief does crazy things to crazy people. Now that I'm ready to talk about how my dad's Death-by-Pirates makes me feel, I want to remind you that not everyone handles loss in the same way.
The week before the pirates actually killed my father, my mom, sister, aunt, brother and uncle and I all took turns laying in bed with him, sitting next to him and holding his hand while he struggled to speak, and at last, breathe. The following week I watched as my brother and sister's kids alternated between hysterically sobbing and playing games with one another as if nothing had changed. Watching my 5 youngest nieces and nephews cry and laugh and play and run, I finally understood that loosing my dad meant one thing: I want to trip my brother's kids.
Now, now. Before Brother and Brother's Wife get all upset, let me just say, I want to trip my sister's kids too. Next time any of them run by I want to stick out my foot, or an elderly relative's cane or move a chair leg in their path and I want them to fall. And when the are splayed out on the ground looking around in disbelief, just before they start to cry, I want to throw my arms out to my sides in a "T" formation and yell "Safe!" or point my thumb behind me and yell "Yourrrrr ouuuut!" or do jazz hands and say "Ta-dah!" or just hold up a big card that reads "9.6."
Why? Why would I do that? Because I'm mad as hell. Not at them, not at my siblings, and not because I will never have my daddy back. I am angry because this isn't fricken fair. All these kids got to know what it is like to have the best PawPaw in the world and my kids never will. My kids will never know how perfect a person he was, and they will have to settle for learning his hand-me-down lessons from a highly imperfect daughter. My unborn kids will have to trust their father and I and all the rest of us who are left when we tell them the tales of this larger than life man, this giant, this demigod. And honestly, if I ever heard the stories we tell about how genius and unbelievably selfless my dad was, I would assume they were mostly exaggeration and hero worship.
For the record, I did not clothesline any children at my dad's memorial service last night. Though I badly wanted to. And there were plenty of kids running about, just askin' for it. I'm pretty sure my dad wouldn't have tripped a child if he were upset about something, but I know he would have laughed about it. Indeed.
The week before the pirates actually killed my father, my mom, sister, aunt, brother and uncle and I all took turns laying in bed with him, sitting next to him and holding his hand while he struggled to speak, and at last, breathe. The following week I watched as my brother and sister's kids alternated between hysterically sobbing and playing games with one another as if nothing had changed. Watching my 5 youngest nieces and nephews cry and laugh and play and run, I finally understood that loosing my dad meant one thing: I want to trip my brother's kids.
Now, now. Before Brother and Brother's Wife get all upset, let me just say, I want to trip my sister's kids too. Next time any of them run by I want to stick out my foot, or an elderly relative's cane or move a chair leg in their path and I want them to fall. And when the are splayed out on the ground looking around in disbelief, just before they start to cry, I want to throw my arms out to my sides in a "T" formation and yell "Safe!" or point my thumb behind me and yell "Yourrrrr ouuuut!" or do jazz hands and say "Ta-dah!" or just hold up a big card that reads "9.6."
Why? Why would I do that? Because I'm mad as hell. Not at them, not at my siblings, and not because I will never have my daddy back. I am angry because this isn't fricken fair. All these kids got to know what it is like to have the best PawPaw in the world and my kids never will. My kids will never know how perfect a person he was, and they will have to settle for learning his hand-me-down lessons from a highly imperfect daughter. My unborn kids will have to trust their father and I and all the rest of us who are left when we tell them the tales of this larger than life man, this giant, this demigod. And honestly, if I ever heard the stories we tell about how genius and unbelievably selfless my dad was, I would assume they were mostly exaggeration and hero worship.
For the record, I did not clothesline any children at my dad's memorial service last night. Though I badly wanted to. And there were plenty of kids running about, just askin' for it. I'm pretty sure my dad wouldn't have tripped a child if he were upset about something, but I know he would have laughed about it. Indeed.
Why Can't Homosexuals Just Let us Take the Damn Picture?
I know, I know. Pirates killed my father. But you know what? I'm just not ready to discuss it.
Do you know what I am ready to talk about? Why gay men can't just take a regular picture like the rest of us. Cheeks sucked in, one eyebrow raised like they are asking a provocative question, their heads tilted, one shoulder slightly forward, as if prompted by an invisible Glamour Shots photographer. Even more disturbing are the hundreds and hundreds of these photos that are stored in the memory cards of the Droids and iPhones these men carry, not only of themselves but of other men. They snap pictures of themselves constantly, while driving especially, and then swap them like electronic trading cards.
In group photos the gay can always be spotted sitting up the straightest (how ironic) perfectly posed and making best use of the available lighting. The rest of us are slouched and shoving a sandwich in our faces, with half-closed eyes that make us appear as though we have been drinking since nine o'clock that morning. Which, in my case, is probably true.
I suppose my title was a bit misleading, because upon reflection, these men don't make us stop so they can get in perfect picture mode, they just somehow always are when the flash goes off. Which makes me wonder, are they perpetually prepared for photographic opportunities, more photogenic than heterosexuals, and females in general or are they just superhuman picture ninjas?
Do you know what I am ready to talk about? Why gay men can't just take a regular picture like the rest of us. Cheeks sucked in, one eyebrow raised like they are asking a provocative question, their heads tilted, one shoulder slightly forward, as if prompted by an invisible Glamour Shots photographer. Even more disturbing are the hundreds and hundreds of these photos that are stored in the memory cards of the Droids and iPhones these men carry, not only of themselves but of other men. They snap pictures of themselves constantly, while driving especially, and then swap them like electronic trading cards.
In group photos the gay can always be spotted sitting up the straightest (how ironic) perfectly posed and making best use of the available lighting. The rest of us are slouched and shoving a sandwich in our faces, with half-closed eyes that make us appear as though we have been drinking since nine o'clock that morning. Which, in my case, is probably true.
I suppose my title was a bit misleading, because upon reflection, these men don't make us stop so they can get in perfect picture mode, they just somehow always are when the flash goes off. Which makes me wonder, are they perpetually prepared for photographic opportunities, more photogenic than heterosexuals, and females in general or are they just superhuman picture ninjas?
Monday, May 9, 2011
Happy Hospice Day!
Yesterday was Mother's Day, I know. But my family celebrated another holiday as well. This is a lesser known holiday. And like Easter, it doesn't always fall on the same day. Some years it falls on your birthday, sometimes on Christmas and sometimes on a regular old Tuesday. But this year, Hospice Day came on Mother's Day!
Never heard of it you say? Well, maybe that's because you have never had a terminally ill person or three living in your home. It works like this: the Hospice Fairies come to your house and deliver all sorts of goodies. Pamphlets, medical equipment and emergency morphine death kits. Lots and lots of family members and friends come over in rotating shifts and whisper nice and sometimes awkward things about the person you are celebrating for.
Then, everyone stays up real late at night and tells stories about the Hospice King or Queen laying in the special bed in the quiet room in the back of the house. Different families have different traditions when it comes to this part of Hospice week. Our family gets real drunk every night starting at about four in the afternoon. Then we start making up songs about everything we are doing at the moment. This year, we started a new tradition where the youngest daughter of the family shows the oldest daughter her vajazzle first thing in the morning. Happy Hospice Morning Sister!
If you have never celebrated this holiday, I hope you get to someday, because geeze, it's about the best one there is!
Never heard of it you say? Well, maybe that's because you have never had a terminally ill person or three living in your home. It works like this: the Hospice Fairies come to your house and deliver all sorts of goodies. Pamphlets, medical equipment and emergency morphine death kits. Lots and lots of family members and friends come over in rotating shifts and whisper nice and sometimes awkward things about the person you are celebrating for.
Then, everyone stays up real late at night and tells stories about the Hospice King or Queen laying in the special bed in the quiet room in the back of the house. Different families have different traditions when it comes to this part of Hospice week. Our family gets real drunk every night starting at about four in the afternoon. Then we start making up songs about everything we are doing at the moment. This year, we started a new tradition where the youngest daughter of the family shows the oldest daughter her vajazzle first thing in the morning. Happy Hospice Morning Sister!
If you have never celebrated this holiday, I hope you get to someday, because geeze, it's about the best one there is!
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Hey, Federal Government, While You're at It...
I know you are really busy with this whole Osama DNA testing thing, but I was wondering. I have had like, no luck on the Maury show finding out who my baby daddy is, and I was hoping you could maybe check that Osama DNA for me?
It's probably a long shot, I know. But I've already had those guys at Maury's check Darnell, Leon, Frankie, Paulie, Stevie, Angel, Paco, Lalo, Lupe and Eddie. I was gonna see if they could look for Juanito, but I think he was locked up at the time I got pregnant with Junior, so it's probably not him anyway.
I guess what I'm saying is that you guys are checking that dead Bin Laden guy's DNA anyway, so it wouldn't be much extra work to see if maybe he's my baby daddy. If he is maybe his cave family has oil money or something that I could get for child support, you know? I mean, Junior's got brothers and sisters who have daddys that never send their checks neither, and they need pampers and whatnot too. So, you know, just let me know.
It's probably a long shot, I know. But I've already had those guys at Maury's check Darnell, Leon, Frankie, Paulie, Stevie, Angel, Paco, Lalo, Lupe and Eddie. I was gonna see if they could look for Juanito, but I think he was locked up at the time I got pregnant with Junior, so it's probably not him anyway.
I guess what I'm saying is that you guys are checking that dead Bin Laden guy's DNA anyway, so it wouldn't be much extra work to see if maybe he's my baby daddy. If he is maybe his cave family has oil money or something that I could get for child support, you know? I mean, Junior's got brothers and sisters who have daddys that never send their checks neither, and they need pampers and whatnot too. So, you know, just let me know.
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