dailydiatribes

Occasionally I am forcefully reminded that I am not living the life of a sitcom family.  Such was the case last week when I had a lovely conversation with my 11 year old daughter.  I was sitting at the computer goofing around, much as I am now, when she wandered into the kitchen.

She started rummaging through the pantry and said "Hey Mom, I need to tell you something."

"Hmmm," I murmured, intent on forming all the three letter words I could think of on Word Whomp.

"I just want you to know that I will never want to kill you or daddy," she said matter of factly.

My fingers slipped on the keyboard and my gopher moaned in despair as I turned to look at her.  She now had my full, undivided attention.  I have no recollection of Donna Reed or June Cleaver fielding these sorts of questions.  Certainly, Jan never said anything like this to Carol Brady, even in her darkest moments of teenage angst. 

"You what????" I said, perhaps a bit shrilly, because she looked at me kind of funny.

"I just want you to know I will never want to murder you or daddy," she said.  Again with the killing; where was this coming from, Lifetime???

"Abby, did something happen at school?" I asked, thinking maybe one of her classmates had confided a homicidal desire to her.

"No," she said, getting a bit annoyed.  "But I just wanted you to know that I'll never kill you."

I was starting to get worried, considering installing a bolt on the outside of her door so we could lock her in at night. 

"But Abby, why are you telling me this?  Did you see something on TV?  Is there something you need to talk about?"  I was trying to be calm and casual, as they can sense fear.

"No, Mom, would you stop it??  You're so annoying," she said petulantly.  "I'm just never gonna kill you, ok??"

The scariest part of this is I am not making it up; but on the plus side, I guess I am reassured that I can sleep with no fear of waking up to my daughter hovering over me with a butcher knife, preparing to plunge it into me.

She got her snack and walked back into the family room to continue her Disney Channel marathon and I was left staring at the computer screen in silence, trying to comprehend the discussion that had just taken place.  Did I need to worry about her pulling a Lizzie Borden?  "Abby Brunner took an axe, gave her mother 40 whacks....then she stopped to get a snack and watch Hannah Montanna....and when she saw what she had done...."  Did I need to lock up all the axes and machetes and blunderbusses?  Was I supposed to be reassured by the conversation? 

I decided to just let it go and chalk it up to the strange intricacies of a child's mind.  But if Tim and I turn up dead, check her bedroom for the murder weapon.  If you can find it under the mountains of dirty clothing!

The blonde goddess spent the weekend with my mother in law.  She was in good condition when she left, but sadly, she was returned to me with a fever and copious quantities of green mucous pouring from her nose.  She was also complaining of a sore throat, and I immediately diagnosed her with strep throat.  However, I am still waiting on my DEA number from WebMd, so Monday, I was forced to visit Dr. Renee.

Renee has been the goddess's personal physician since birth and we are very familiar with her office.  Recently, a new kiddy area was created, complete with a bookcase full of new books and a toy table with drawers.  The first time we visited after the new furniture had been placed, the goddess was content simply to open and close the drawers.  But yesterday was special.  Yesterday she opened a drawer and a golden light shone down from heaven upon the contents of that drawer and a multitude of heavenly hosts sang "hallelujah".  Because in that drawer, the goddess found a McDonald's toy in the form of Waffle from CatScratch.

Most of you are probably not familiar with CatScratch.  I am not familiar with CatScratch because I will not allow the goddess to watch it.  So of course, she knows everything about the show even though presumably she has never seen it.  Upon spying Waffle, she squealed with delight and snatched it up immediately.  Waffle is an amorphous gray blob with an evil smirk upon his arcane brow.  Still, I can tell you are not too disturbed by the image.  Let me further apprise you that this particular Waffle had one hand tucked under his armpit, his elbow sticking out an angle, begging one to pull it down. 

There are not enough adjectives in the English language to describe the sheer joy on my daughter's face when she pulled Waffle's arm down and he emitted a loud farting sound right there in the waiting room.  And oh, once was not even close to enough.  No, Waffle accompanied us to the triage area and then back to the exam room, farting merrily along the way.  Every new person we passed was subjected to a Waffle fart.   I sat in the tiny exam room with her and felt the walls slowly close in on me as Waffle performed his gross bodily function over and over again, the goddess cackling gleefully.

Finally Renee came in and Waffle gave one last fart and then was set aside as Renee performed her exam.  She consented to the strep test and the lab guy came in to take a throat culture.  Renee came back with the results: viral.  My favorite diagnosis in the whole world because the translation for that medical term is:  YOU'VE JUST WASTED YOUR $25 COPAY, YOUR KID HAS A COLD, GO HOME AND GIVE HER SOME TYLENOL AND TOUGH IT OUT.  

I thanked Renee as I gathered up the goddess while Waffle continued to fart intermittently.  Renee paused at the door, rakish in her white coat, arched a brow and said with a toss of her hair:  "I didn't go to medical school for nothin'!!"  (Ok, she didn't really, but she should have)  

Tuesday she was still not feeling well.  She was only eating enough to keep one truck driver alive, as opposed to three or four.  She was feverish and grumpy still complaining her throat hurt.  I left her with Josh when I took Abby to soccer.  The phone rang half a dozen times in that 15 minutes.  She threw Josh's phone; he threw her toy.  She hit Josh; he hit her.  Finally, in desperation, I told Josh to put her in the shower and leave her alone.

I got home and she was in the shower, playing happily.  I checked on her periodically, because once she's in the shower, she does not want to leave.  She will stay in there for 45 minutes, and my increased water bill is totally worth that 45 minutes of peace and quiet.  But the last time I checked on her, my heart stopped.

The blonde goddess lay dead on the floor of the shower, her eyes closed, the water beating down upon her still form.  In an instant, I knew she had been suffering from acute leukemia and her body could no longer fight.  Or maybe it had been meningitis.  All I knew was that she was dead.  I stared at her for a moment, not able to comprehend what I was seeing.  The water pooled around her golden hair and her cheeks were still flushed.  She looked so life-like it was hard to believe she was gone.

I yelled her name and she didn't move.  I yelled again and still she lay, a life size porcelain doll.  In despair, I fell to my knees and called her name again, my hand reaching in to the beating water to touch her one last time.

Her eyes popped open and she snarled "WHAT??"

I staggered backward, unable to believe what I was seeing.  She...was...ALIVE!!!!  Like any good mother, upon realizing her child is not dead after all, I screamed "What the HELL are you doing??  You scared the crap out of me!!!!!"

She started whining something that I couldn't understand.  In disgust, I told her to wash her hair and get out of the shower before I beat her.  It's amazing how quickly terror can fade and be replaced with homicidal rage. 

And so the blonde goddess lives on for another day.  I am taking her back to Renee though, because I'm not sure the first strep test was accurate.  No disrespect to the lab guy; it's hard to swab the throat of someone who is throwing herself around and trying to bite the Q-tip in half!

Josh had a soccer game today.  It was a perfect morning for being outside; breezy, sunny, but just warm enough to make sitting through an hour of excructiating bad soccer playing bearable.

At halftime, I had to run to the little soccer mom's room because of the large quantity of diet coke I consumed to make me intelligible at that hour of the morning.  As I strolled toward the bathrooms, a plaque caught my eye.  Seems the entire soccer field had been donated by a prominent Birmingham family.  As I crossed the bridge, I noticed another plaque advising me of the name of another Birmingham family whose donation made the bridge possible. 

This started me thinking about my own immortality.  100 years after those families are scattered and gone, the plaques will live on, commemorating their donations.  What, I wondered, will represent me when I am gone?  I pondered this as I headed to the bathroom.

Well, obviously we are not a wealthy family.  We are managing without food stamps, but we don't have large chunks of cash to donate to civic causes, so that makes our plaque options somewhat limited.  I have accepted there will never be a park or a college building named after me.  So I am afraid you readers are going to have to chip in after the funeral to make a memorial possible.  I looked around the park for cheap ideas.  Here are a few of my thoughts.  I am sure that you, my loyal readers, will scrape together the cash to immortalize me in one of these ways:

1.     The Jennifer Brunner Memorial Landscape Timber.  What landscaping scheme is complete without the landscape timber?  And if you wait until November, they'll be 1/2 off.  Just please make sure to get the treated kind that does not have arsenic as part of its makeup.  I would hate for my legacy to be acid rain.

2.     The Jennifer Brunner Memorial Sanitary Napkin Disposal Container.  Let's face it, there's one in every ladies room.  I think it's a shame these have been overlooked as possible memorial opportunities.  What a mark of respect; instead of flushing, drop it in a lovely container and avoid stopping up the toilet, all in the name of me.  A small but tasteful strip of bronze, engraved with my name, can be affixed to the lid of the receptacle.  "This Kotex Container Was Made Possible By A Grant From the Friends of Jennifer".  I like it.

3.     This Porta Potty Made Possible By the Friends and Family of Jennifer Brunner.   I think in the end, nothing would summarize me better than a porta potty.  My mind is usually in the gutter and I am full of crap as everyone knows.  So go ahead and remember me with a Porta Potty.  But make sure the hand sanitizer is plentiful please.

4.     The Jennifer Brunner Memorial Trash Can.  Again, a feature of every park.  A nice galvanized steel trash can screams "I love you and I miss you every day".  I think you can get a really big one at Wal-Mart of $13.88.  Instead of a plaque, give the children Sharpies and let them write their last words of regret and respect:  HO, you sho wuz phat fo shure".  It brings a tear to my eye just thinking of it.

5.     The Jennifer Brunner Memorial Dog Poo Station.  Well, there's one at the park where Abby practices.  It's supposed to dispense little plastic bags to use for clean up after your dog, but it never has any bags.  I expect you, my faithful, to keep it stocked for as long as one of you is still able. 

6.     The Jennifer Brunner Memorial Bathroom Tile.  You know how places like Disney World let you place your name on a brick to raise money?  Well, the bathroom tile is a less expensive option.  Especially if you go with the teensy octagonal tiles.  Mind you, someone would have to etch the letters in really small and a magnifying glass would be required, but still, it's the thought that counts.

There are countless, inexpensive opportunities for immortalizing me.  Y'all just have to be creative.  I am counting on you to keep my name out there for centuries to come.  Even if it is just a strip of bronze tacked to the bottom of the utility pole in the back corner of the farthest field that floods so no one ever plays there because the snakes get really bad when the water rises.     

April is a month of birthdays in our family.  You might recall we celebrated my mother in law's 70th birthday a few weeks ago at the country club down the street from our house.  Now lest you think we live in some kind of middle class splendor here, let me assure you that it's a plain jane neighborhood club.  Abby and the blonde goddess will not be attending any debutante balls there.  But the restaurant is really nice and it was Josh's choice for his birthday dinner.

At my  mother in law's party, I drank rather freely of the cosmpolitans provided at the open bar.  I was, dare I say, a bit smashed by the end of the evening.  I became especially close to the staff at the club who were so obligingly refilling my glass every 20 minutes.

So when we went in last night to celebrate Josh's birthday (14!) it was old home week for me.  I jovially greeted Chad the bartender and asked for a Cosmopolitan.

"Right away Ms. Brunner," he said cheerfully. 

Our waitress came and we chatted gaily as she took our dinner orders and brought us bread.  Bread which I consumed freely, slathered with butter.  Take that Dr. Atkins!!

Anyway, throughout the night, I called her by name several times just to show everyone at the table how friendly we were.  "Kristy, can we get some more butter?"  I asked and she responded pleasantly and brought some.  "Kristy, can Josh get a special dessert for his birthday?" I asked and she brought it out right away.  She posed for pictures with Josh and was having a really good time with us.

I commented on that as she started clearing our table.  "You're our favorite waitress," I told her.  "You're so much fun!"

"Well, it's easy when I have a family that likes to cut up," she said.  She was holding a stack of plates as she said this, standing behind me, and a fork slithered out of her grasp and fell down my back.

We both started laughing and I said "Oh yeah, what a great relationship, with you throwing forks at me.  I'm gonna tell Spence to fire that Kristy for throwing forks!"

She laughed and said "My name is Bretta."

"Yeah right," I said, laughing along with her.

"Seriously, my name is Bretta," she said.

I stopped laughing and looked at her.  "No it's not," I told her.  "You told me it was Kristy at Tim's mom's party."

"No," she said.  "There is a Kristy that works here, but it's not me."

"You told me it was Kristy," I insisted. 

She launched into a lengthy explanation about how much she and Kristy resembled each other and how she had been at mother in law's party, but not as a staff member.  She had been at the bar talking to Chad.  Also, she had just gotten her roots done, so that made her look a lot more like Kristy so she could see how I got confused.

I just sat there, shaking my head in disbelief.  "But you're....Kristy," I said weakly, holding on to some last kernel of hope that I had not been calling her by the wrong name all night.

"No," she said gently, "I'm Bretta."

I felt like a character in a Lifetime movie.  Everyone around the table was staring at me, shaking their heads.  The noise in the room swelled and I felt isolated, alone in my confusion.  Had I been living a lie?  Was I on some sort of carbohydrate induced hallucinogenic trip?

And then I remembered.  Remembered with perfect clarity everything that had happened that fateful night at the club.  Remembered Kristy, the real Kristy, as an attractive, older, blonde lady with glasses whom I had not seen in awhile.  Had asked where she'd been and she told me she had been at the other club owned by the management.  Remembered that she looked absolutely NOTHING like the woman currently waiting on us.

"Um, oh yeah, now I remember Kristy," I stammered as everyone at the table roared with laughter.  I seized my martini glass and brandished it, saying "It was the booze, ok.  It was the booze that confused me!!!"

She laughed and we chatted, but I was ready to crawl under the table and hide.  Not only had I gotten her name wrong, I then ARGUED with her about what her name really was.  It's hard to imagine being more asinine than that.

We finished our meal and I slunk out, muttering "good bye Bretta" as I went.  The only consolation is I will never confuse the two of them again.  Especially since I am going to insist the management provide name tags for its employees! 

Last night the blonde goddess had a soccer game.  She loves to play soccer and the experience is only enhanced by the fact that her beloved Wylie plays on the same team.  Together, they are a force to be reckoned with on the field.  Never mind the fact that a year ago, any given game would find one or the other of them, or occasionally both of them, on the ground, screaming and kicking and refusing to play.  One memorable autumn, Anna would only play if she had her pacifier in her mouth.  Kiki and I are much relieved that our little ones have worked past that and are now accomplished goal scoring machines.

Our game was at 5:00 and it was a beautiful evening.  As the whistle blew, the goddess sprang into action, competently kicking the ball down the field, her mane of golden hair flying behind her, gleaming in the late afternoon sun.  And as usual, someone felt compelled to comment.

"Jennifer", called one of the dads, "where does the blonde hair come from?"

Without missing a beat, I called back "I'm not sure, I was sleeping with a couple of different guys at the time, could've been from anywhere."

He didn't say anything, so I continued:  "I know, I know, I need to keep better records, but I'm almost positive it was that Scandinavian guy.  I mean, she's got the right coloring for it."

He continued to stare at me, so I relented and said "I was a blonde child, ok?" 

His expression cleared and he nodded enthusiastically; that he could believe.  Although, on some deep level, I think maybe he was hoping I had done the dirty with a large Norwegian named Lars and that the goddess was a product of an illicit love affair.  Unfortunately, I'm not that interesting.  There just happens to be an Aryan in the haystack somewhere back down the line.

Because when the wiggly, exuberant little sperm meets up with the more reserved egg, the Mendelian Wheel of Fortune gets a big spin.  My own sainted mother was a redhead with green eyes and fair, freckly skin and she gave birth to three of the darkest children on the planet.  My brothers and I all have dark skin, dark brown eyes and dark hair.  I'm sure she got as many looks from strangers as I do.

It will get worse in the summer.  The chlorine and the sun will turn the blonde goddess into a flaxen haired, bronze skinned warrior princess.  I, on the other hand, will turn a deep shade of burnt umber and become indistinguishable from my brown leather sofa.  Perfect strangers will approach me when I am out with her, seeking to make sure I have not kidnapped her or purchased her in a Wal-Mart parking lot.  As I told Kiki last week when I inadvertently kidnapped one of her children, you never have to worry about me deliberately saddling myself with a child.  No, the blonde goddess is mine, fair hair and all.

After the game, we went with Kiki and her family to eat pizza.  Then Tim took the girls home, while Josh and I engaged in some mother/son bonding and bought a new light for Rocky the bearded dragon.  When we got home it was almost 8 and Abby was in a frenzy, working on a major social studies project that she had known about for a month and had not finished.  Accusations began to fly immediately.  It seems the reason she was not done is because, according to her,  I had thrown away all the pictures for her project, which was an ABC book of World War 2 (and what a great children's story that will make!).  

I denied it hotly, but in the back of my mind, I was kind of remembering that I might actually have thrown them away.  I may not be the best housekeeper in the world, but when I find pictures of Nazis lying around the kitchen, I tend to chuck them first and ask questions later.  I have my standards.

As I was getting the goddess ready for bed, Abby was wailing and moaning and generally making a lot of unpleasant noises.  Every so often she would huff "well, someone could help me find the pictures on the computer and it would go a lot faster!"  Finally, I relented and sat down to help her.  After all, I was the one who chucked Rosie the Riveter into the garbage.  Not that I admitted that to her.  I just  pretended I was doing my motherly duty.

However, I snarled a lot and made sure she knew just exactly how displeased I was with her for putting off her project.  At first, things went smashingly.  She called out terms and I googled them and printed out the pictures.  Dwight Eisenhower; check.  Rosie the Riveter; check.  Henry Kaiser; check. 

Well, we got down to the last three terms and the printer quit working.  I checked the print queue; the jobs were lined up and there were no indications of the problem.  I checked the printer; no jam.  I fiddled around with the paper and nothing happened.  I was starting to get mad, because I have zero patience with machines and so I unplugged the printer and replugged it; nothing.  I went to the control panel and did a bunch of things but nothing changed.  No pictures were printing.

Twenty minutes later, I called Tim in and he fiddled around with it, doing the same things I had done.  By now, I was really mad; I didn't want to help her in the first place and now minutes of my precious time were being sucked away by an uncooperative computer.  Tim worked for about five minutes and then told me I had inadvertently changed the printer name to a printer in our closet that was not even plugged in.  Classic me.  I'm really glad I didn't call tech support.  I meekly changed the name and finished printing out pictures of the Yalta Conference.

Such was my Wednesday afternoon, filled with accusations of infidelity, Nazis and computer issues.  Wearily I went to bed and dreamed of that moment when I would flee the country, heading to Mexico and warm sandy beaches.  Anyone want to join me? 

I

Thank you for the many kind comments and suggestions.  However, I did not want suggestions.  The Constitution guarantees me the right to bitch and moan that I am not a size 2 with the metabolism of a cheetah.  I do not want to eat right.  I do not want to exercise.  I want to eat bacon cheeseburgers on Kaiser rolls with double fries every day and never gain an ounce.

Kiki offered a wonderful suggestion, advising me to step up my workout.  Kiki worked very hard to lose her weight and she looks wonderful (skinny ass bitch) so I decided to give it a try.  Yesterday I hit the treadmill with a zeal that had heretofore been missing in my workout.  I ramped it up and walked over two miles.  I was in the zone.  I was powerful.  I strained something in my right leg and I hurt my back and now I'm limping.  Still fat and now limping.  Thanks Kiki.

I believe Kathy inadvertently offered the best suggestion when she remarked we should sit on Renee (skinny ass bitch).  Lifetime has been advertising a movie called "The Staircase Murders" about some dude who threw his women down the stairs.  Well, I offer for your consideration "The Big Butt Murders" whereby a woman systematically eliminates her skinny ass friends by suffocating them with her GI-normous ass. 

Here's how it works.  I breeze into the home of, say, Nancy M. (skinny ass bitch) and we sit and chat for a few moments, she never questioning why I am wearing gloves in July.  Then I ask for a drink, or possibly a Hostess Twinkie.  When Nancy gets up to get it, I leap up and knock her to the ground with my giant butt.  Then I sit on her and squash her to death with my ample posterior. 

Think about the brilliance of this plan.  What kind of forensics can they do?  No fibers to be removed from the victim, because I have cleverly worn spandex.  No fingerprints at the scene, only butt prints, and the FBI does not keep a record of those.  No marks on the victim at all, nothing but a look of surprise on her face.  After the victim has been exterminated, I casually eat a twinkie and drop the wrapper by her body.  I will be known as the Twinkie Strangler.  Although I hate Twinkies.  I am much more partial to Ho Ho's but the Ho Ho Strangler doesn't roll off the tongue the same way.

I really think I'm on to something here.  Fat people of the world, unite under my leadership, and together we shall squash the skinny ones into submission.  We shall use our thunderous thighs to silence forever the gloating of the skinny ass bitches.  No more shall the racks at Wal-Mart be filled with size 6 clothing; under our rule, the halter tops will be replaced with mumu's of the finest quality George has to offer. 

Whew, sorry, lost it a bit there.  Anyway, this week I'm eating carbs again.  My body is constructed in such a way that it must have pasta or it doesn't work properly.  I'm kind of like a car in that I need premium unleaded pasta or you hear dings in my engine.  I'm going to attempt to walk on the treadmill now, if I can stand the pain because it is the only thing that allows me to eat pasta.

Skinny ass bitches, lock your doors; you never know when your time is up....muahahahahahaha!!!!!!! 

Everyone I know has lost weight.  Everyone.  20, 40, 60 pounds, it melts off their bodies, transforming them into what I affectionately call "skinny ass bitches".  I hate them.  I hate every single one of the SAB's and secretly, in the innermost Satanic part of my soul, where the squirrel hater resides, I find myself hoping one of them blows a ligament and is forced to go on bedrest and do nothing all day but eat Oreos and watch Oprah and get FAT!!!

I lost a lousy 15 pounds last fall when my friend Jenny died and I have kept it off, but no matter how hard I try, I can't get rid of the rest of it.  I have thought of killing off another friend (hmmm, which skinny ass bitch would look best in a coffin???) but I know I would get caught, and I don't want to lose weight on the prison food diet.  Besides, it would be so hard to choose which one to eliminate. 

So last week, I had the rather brilliant notion that I would cut carbs.  It worked for Dr. Atkins.  Ok, fine, so he's dead now, but still, he was a skinny corpse.  I started on Monday by frying myself up several strips of bacon.  I had bought the Oscar Mayer thick slice on sale at the Publix, so it was no hardship to fry and eat.  I love bacon.  I could eat bacon all day every day and never get sick of it.  The road to heaven is lined with bacon, crisply fried, thick and salty with a bit of fat on one end that melts in your mouth.  I will never be Jewish; I have too much love for bacon.

All day Monday, I was in the zone.  The first day of a diet, er, lifestyle change, is the best.  You are filled with power and conviction; there is not a doubt that you can be a size 2 by the end of the week.  Tuesday, I was feeling great.  I ate more bacon and then lots of deli meat.  I was sure the weight was melting off.

Wednesday, I grudgingly ate more bacon.  It was starting to lose its luster.  I went to lunch with Kiki the skinny ass bitch and watched despondently as she devoured two loaves of rosemary scented bread dipped in olive oil at Macaroni Grill.  I ate a salad loaded with steak and resolutely pushed the croutons to the side.  Do you even comprehend the power I exerted not to snatch the loaf from Kiki's bony fingers and shove it in my mouth, cheeks bulging with floury goodness, oil dripping onto my shirt????  That night, I took Abby to Dairy Queen and ate a grilled chicken salad while Abby and her little friends gorged themselves on chicken fingers and ice cream. 

Thursday, I went grocery shopping and loaded up on all things carbless.  I bought nuts and slim jims and turkey summer sausage (which I later threw away because it was completely disgusting) and more deli meat.  As God as my witness, I told myself, I will lose five pounds before Monday.  I went home and put it all away, grimly munching on almonds as I put the Little Debbie's high up in the pantry where I would not have to look at them every time I opened the door.

Friday I ate more bacon.  Saturday, more bacon.  Then I cheated and had Mexican for lunch.  I ate a fajita salad, but I can no more ignore chips and salsa than an alcoholic can ignore vodka.  I ate freely.  Saturday night, Don and his girls came to stay with us and I fell off the wagon slightly.  I ate three brownies and drank three strawberry  margaritas.  Separately of course.  Sunday, I was back on the wagon and I ate bacon and sausage for breakfast, ignoring the biscuits.  Sunday night I had a bunless hamburger and a salad.

And for what???  Today I weighed and I am down a pound or two, maybe.  If I went in for a blood test right now, pure bacon grease would fill up the tube and yet I am STILL FAT!!!!  I wailed, I tore my hair, I gnashed my teeth, and then I went and poured a bowl of cereal and drowned it with milk.  Because if I eat another slice of bacon I will start squealing like a pig.  Me and Ned Beatty are soulmates. 

Now I am back to square one, still fat, still surrounded by skinny ass bitches, and I am going to eat!!  So I am off to liberate the Little Debbie's from the top shelf and stuff myself silly.  Don't bother to call me because I will be coated in sugar and too bloated to move. 

Recently, there was some chatter (not from squirrels) about some of the worst songs ever recorded.  So I am presenting you with my list, entirely subjective of course, of the ten worst.  Feel free to add your own!

10.     "Honey" by Bobby Goldsboro, stands out as a particularly noteworthy happy, sappy, Splenda enhanced piece of crap.  "And Honey, I miss you...." blah, blah, blah.  What about when she wrecks the car?  I'm telling you right now if I wreck the car, I will be heading to the FBI to give testimony against Tim in exchange for a spot in their witness protection program.  "Yes, yes, he really does sell the dog corpses to Chinese restaurants for chop suey" because Tim would NOT laugh if I wrecked the car.  Consider these classic lyrics: "One day while I was not at home while she was there and all alone The angels came Now all I have is memories of Honey and I wake up nights and call her name... "  I like to imagine one day while he was gone a serial killer came in and methodically sliced Honey up into tiny pieces and stowed her in the freezer for later consumption.  I love a good cannibal song.

9.     "Wildfire" by Michael Martin Murphey was suggested by a reader, but I happen to agree wholeheartedly that it is a dreadful song.  First of all, who exactly is "she"?  The song never says who "she" is and how the singer knows her.  But we do learn, rather quickly that "  Oh, they say she died one winter When there came a killing frost
And the pony she named Wildfire Busted down his stall In a blizzard he was lost

Well, how exactly did she die?  What, was she riding around on Wildfire butt nekkid in the snow?  My guess is this song was penned by a hippy after a bad acid trip:  Whoa dude, and then there was like this ghost chick and whoa...she was like ridin' a dead horse man....freakin' awesome!"  And if you ever have the misfortune to hear an owl outside of your window, "There's been a hoot owl howlin' by my window now For six nights in a row She's coming for me I know
And on Wildfire we're both gonna go...", well, just be prepared to meet your maker.  At least, that's my interpretation of a freaky dead chick on a freaky dead horse showing up to take you away one night.

8.     "Fernando" by Abba, a song that I didn't even know was sung by Abba.  Still, it's one of those songs that gets stuck in your brain and hangs out there annoyingly, pecking away at your grey matter.  Who is Fernando?  What drums?  Here is sample for your consideration:  There was something in the air that night The stars were bright, Fernando
They were shining there for you and me For liberty, FernandoThere was something in the air that night Though I never thought that we could lose There's no regret If I had to do the same again I would, my friend, Fernando

Now to me, this song sounds like it is talking about the Mexican revolution; but isn't Abba a Swedish group?  So why do they care about Fernando and whether or not he goes off to war?  Isn't Sweden neutral?

7.    "She's Like the Wind" recorded by Patrick Swayze for that movie with Jennifer Grey where they bump and grind a lot....oh yeah, "Dirty Dancing".  The most frightening thing is this song has just been RE-RECORDED!!!  It's now some sort of R&B rap type song.  But who didn't swoon when Swayze crooned "she's like the wind, through my tree...."  I think my kindergartener could have penned a better lyric.  And what, pray tell, does he exactly mean by "tree"???  "She leads me through moonlight/only to burn me with the sun...." I mean this is a deep, deep song.  So deep.  So lyrical.  So bad.

6.     "Swinging" by John Anderson is one I vaguely remember from my youth as a twangy, slangy annoying tune.  How about these lyrics:   Yeah, and we'll be swingin, yes, we'll be swinging. Little Charlotte she's as pretty as the angels when they sang, I can't believe I'm out here on the front porch in the swang, just-a-swangin.  I have nothing to add; the song stands alone in its badness.  Someone is still probably collecting royalties on it though.        

5.     "You're Beautiful" by James Blunt is just so deliciously awful I can hardly stand it.  I believe it may have been inspired by the same acid trip that inspired "Wildfire".  The gist of the song is a stoned dude sees a girl at a train station, makes eye contact and begins stalking her, although he is most philosophical about his chances with her.  I love this line because it proves my case that he's a psychotic stoner:     Yeah, she caught my eye, As we walked on by. She could see from my face that I was,
F***ing high...you're beautiful, it's true...."  Gawd, what tripe!!  And we all know what I mean when I say tripe!  At the end, he realizes what a stoner he is and that his lady love will never have him..."There must be an angel with a smile on her face, When she thought up that I should be with you. But it's time to face the truth, I will never be with you...." because I have a restraining order against you and if you come within 20 yards of me, I'll have you thrown in jail....la la....

4.     "Sussudio" by Phil Collins just doesn't make sense to me.  Is Sussudio a person?  A place?  A thing?  A venereal disease?  Toe fungus?  The song gives you no clue. "Theres this girl thats been on my mind All the time, sussudio oh oh Now she dont even know my name But I think she likes me just the same Sussudio oh oh...";it's hard to infer from this stanza whether Sussudio is the girl's name or an expression of ecstasy Phil uses when he is manipulating himself; I'll let you be the judge.

3.     "Last Kiss" which was first recorded by Wayne Cochran and the CC Riders, whatever those are.  Then it was re-recorded by Pearl Jam, as if one cover wasn't bad enough.  I think this is a companion song to "Honey" because this is obviously what Honey's spouse/lover/companion/master would have wanted to do had he found Honey dying on the side of the road after being smacked by an SUV.  "Where, oh where, can my baby be? the lord took her away from Me. shes gone to heaven, so Ive got to be good. so I can see my baby when i Leave this world."....gaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh, I can hardly stand it!  She was probably a squirrel loving hussy and she probably went down instead of up!  The song gets worse, if you can believe it:  When I woke up the rain was pourin down. there were people standin all around.
Something warm flowing through my eyes. but somehow I found my baby that night.
I lifted her head, she looked at me and said. hold me darling, just a little
While. I held her close, I kissed her our last kiss. I found the love that i
Knew I had missed. Blech; she was probably all covered with blood, probably had a couple of severed limbs, was maybe missing a chunk of nose, so he decides this is a good time to MAKE OUT????  That's probably what got them into trouble in the first place.  They were probably out at Inspiration Point doing the dirty and were trying to make it home before their curfew.  Serves the little bastards right if you ask me.  And you see what happened to Kurt Cobain after he recorded the song?  Bad Karma.

2.    "Apples Peaches Pumpkin Pie" by Jay and the Techniques, but written by a five year old prodigy.  It's just a really incredibly very stupid song that you might actually find yourself singing because it's so annoying catchy.  " Apples peaches pumpkin pie Who's afraid to holler I? That's a game we used to play. Hide and seek was its name"  How this one got air time I'll never know.  It is a precursor of sorts to the James Blunt psycho stalker song, because the lyrics continue: Well, I'll sneak up behind you, Be careful where I find you.  Yep, time to get that restraining order out again.

1.  Drumroll please, but I'm sure you all know what it is.......the winner of this year's Worst Song Ever Competition is......MacArthur Park!!!!  Because dammit, someone left that damn cake out in the rain, AGAIN, and I will never have that recipe again...oh no!!!!!!!!!!  I am listening to some sort of weird instrumental version of it right now, just to remind myself of how bad it is.  I will give you the first stanza and you can hum along with the refrain: Spring was never waiting for us, girl It ran one step ahead As we followed in the dance
Between the parted pages and were pressed  In love's hot, fevered iron  Like a striped pair of pants...."  Yep, in love's hot fevered iron, that's what the man said.  And let's face it, thanks to the Republican party's refusal to acknowledge global warming, McArthur Park is melting, all the sweet green icing is running down and I CAN'T TAKE IT!!!!!!!!!!!  THANKS A LOT GEORGE W. BUSH!!!!!!!!!!!!  LET 'EM EAT CAKE, YOU SAID, BUT NOW THE CAKE IS RUINED AND WE ARE LEFT WITH NOTHING!!!!!!!!

Whew, sorry about that.  Anyway, that's my list!!  I'm sure I have left several hundred songs off (yes Bill, every song ever recorded by Barry Mannilow, but I think Copacabana is HOT!!!  Satan and I are going to sing karaoke in Hell every night and that will be our opener!!!!) so feel free to add your favorites!!!

The blonde goddess is truly growing up and pulling away from me.  My last little fledgling is preparing to spread her wings and fly away.  Last night, I licked my thumb to clean a smudge from her precious face and she performed several avoidance maneuvers so as not to be touched by my spit. 

Which leads me to ponder the sanctity of a mother's spit.  From the very first breath our child takes on his/her own, we are there with a mouthful of saliva, ready to disinfect and decontaminate anything that might pose a threat to the welfare of our child.  Think back to those first months when your baby would throw his pacifier to the floor.  Ok, maybe with the first one, you boiled it before you popped it back into his mouth.  But with the rest of the little rugrats, a simple spit on the nipple and a wipe on your shirt and the pacifier was ready to be reunited with its owner.

Who hasn't washed a child's entire face with a forefinger and copious amounts of spit?  I have bathed my children in the car before church with a McDonald's napkin moistened with my own saliva.  We are mammals and just like the mother lioness, we lovingly cleanse our young, if not with our tongues, at least with our spit. 

I have used spit to tame an errant cowlick.  I have used it to remove ketchup stains from clothing.  It works great as a polish for white tap shoes right before a recital.  It may even cut through tough soap scum, although I haven't tried that one yet. 

Saliva doesn't just work on the children either.  How about when you drop a contact lens on the floor of the bathroom at the stadium while you are in line waiting to rid yourself of the three beers you just drank?  No contact solution along??  Just pop the sucker in your mouth to moisten it and reinsert it in your eye.  Works like a charm.  All germs from the floor will die upon contact with the powerful female saliva. 

I was reading the New England Journal of WebMd medicine just last night and was transfixed by an article about a new research study being performed.  A group of scientists at Case Western Reserve have been given a grant to study the effects of the saliva of nursing mothers on the AIDS virus, the Ebola virus, Dandruff, halitosis, bubonic plague, ear infections, male pattern baldness and Strep Throat.  It's really cutting edge research.  Dupont is conducting research to market female saliva as a heavy duty cleaning product for bathrooms and kitchens.  It will be lemon scented of course.

Anyway, the only problem with saliva is once your children reach a certain age, they resist its healing properties.  Were I to spit on a finger and approach my teenage son, he would probably die of mortification in front of me or else run like hell to avoid me.  No amount of cajoling could persuade him that my spit is not only sterile, but it is holy and has antibacterial properties as well.  Alas, Abby and the goddess have come to the same pass, running away from me whenever I attempt to baptize them with my saliva.

So the next time you attempt to remove the chocolate from your child's mouth with a glob of saliva, take a moment to thank God for His wonderful creation.  Yes, for many it's just a means of moistening their mouths, but for mothers, it serves a much higher purpose.

I imagined this out last night after several Cosmopolitans, so it may not be quite as funny now as it was in my drunken stupor.  But I shall persevere and write it down anyway.  You never know, I may be able to catch a vodka vibe and get it right!

I was in a public bathroom a couple of weeks ago and there was a line.  But one stall was open. I walked up to it, just as another lady walked past it, clearly trying to avoid any contact with the offending stall.  I looked in, and sure enough, someone had left a doodie in the potty.  I went in, flushed it and then proceeded to do my business, thereby circumventing the line.

So here's my question:  why are people so afraid of flushing fecal matter?  It's inanimate, so it's not going to jump out of the toilet and bite you if you try and flush it.  I can promise you will never read the following headline in the New York Times:  Killer Turd Tears Out Throat of Woman Trying to Flush.  Not gonna happen.

Yes, it's gross to see someone else's poopy.  No one loves to see a bowel movement.  But they are out there and occasionally, we are called upon as Christians, to flush them down and send them on their merry way out to pollute the watershed. 

I prefer to think public poopies are an accident of fate.  No one sets out to take a dump in the Wal-Mart bathroom, but every once in awhile, it's unavoidable.  You're out running errands, you drive through Taco Hell and get a bean burrito and the next thing you know, it's coming back through.  There is no time to go home and get all comfy on your own toilet, with your own copy of Reader's Digest.  No, you are forced to use a public toilet to rid yourself of that pesky burrito.  

The flushing problem usually results when the poopy is a two flusher and the pooper does not take the time to adequately judge the size of the poopy.  Bean burritos are especially notorious for producing a large poopy.  So the pooper flushes the toilet and walks out to wash her hands, not realizing that one flush is not getting the job done.  Therefore, the next person to enter the stall is faced with an unflushed poopy and then has the unpleasant task of sending the poopy away.

So why not flush it??  Why not just grab the handle (or use your foot, which is what I usually do) and get rid of it??  Why do people tiptoe around and wrinkle their noses and generally act put out because there is an unflushed poopy in the room?  Come on people, it's just a bean burrito (and maybe some salsa, a couple of fried eggs and a sleeve of Peeps) and it's not going to hurt you.  It doesn't smell good, it's not pretty, but it has rights too.  It has the inalienable right to be flushed away and sent off on the next stage of its poopy journey.

So the next time you're in the Wal-Mart and you open a stall door and see a poopy, just get a grip.  Walk in and confront it.  Share your feelings with it.  Get to know its perspective.  And then flush it.  It can't hurt you and you can only grow from the experience.