Ask Davis

Dear Friends,

Since the clock has starting ticking on my fifteen minutes of “blogging fame”, I have been inundated with questions. Therefore, I thought I would take the opportunity to address my fans and answer some of the more frequently asked questions.

Q: Are all the stories you write about true? – Anonymous, Indianapolis, IN

A: Dear Anonymous - In one word YES! I do not fabricate stories! However, occasionally I will change a name (to keep from being sued or killed) or edit a story for the sake of space or boredom.

Q: Sometimes when I read your stories, you come across as a little “slow”. Are you of normal mentality? – Just Curious, Philadelphia, IL

A: Dear Curious - I get this question a lot actually, and by all accounts I am of normal mentality. I have taken several online IQ test that put me in the 137 – 142 IQ range (one test refused to give me my score because I wouldn’t pay $29.95 but I am pretty sure I aced that test, too). I should admit, though, that occasionally I fill my own head with so much useless trivia that all common sense is pushed out.

Q: Is your husband as wonderful as you make him seem? And if so, why do you never say his name? – Mandy, Springfield, IL

A: Dear Mandy – Thank you for asking. He is most definitely wonderful. I could not have asked for a kinder more loving husband. I do not list his name because he threatened to choke me to death, if I did.

Q: First off. Let me say I just love your blog but I read in People magazine that you hate Australians. Is this true? – CrocLover147, Melbourne, Australia

A: Dear CrocLover – Unfortunately I did make that comment but I shouldn’t have. After some serious soul searching and Court mandated counseling, I have realized that I do NOT hate Australians. I simply hate Crocodile Dundee and the word Crickey. I apologize to any and all Australians who were hurt by my slanderous words. It was a careless comment and I feel horrible it.

Q: If I was rating your blog on a scale of 5 stars, I would definitely give you two thumbs up! Have you ever thought about writing a book? – Mark, Springfield, IL

A: Dear Mark – I think about writing a book every day! I hope to have something out in the stores by this time next year. Thank you so much for your support and your many, many, many letters. (No really, thank you… please, stop writing. You are starting to scare me.)

Q: Now that your blog has become so popular and you are somewhat of a Z-list celebrity, would you ever consider competing on Dancing With The Stars? – Kim K., Hollywood, CA

A: Dear Kim - I honestly don’t think so. My agent came to me with the idea about a month ago but I really feel like it would take to much time away from my writing and that is truly where my heart lies. Though I will admit that if scheduling allows I will be singing “We Are The Champions” during the American Idol Season Finale.


I should probably confess that I made up all of those questions. But had they been asked, that is how I would have answered. I am really just trying to prepare myself for my inevitable fame. If any of you ever do have any questions or comments, I would love to answer them.

Drop me a line at olivesandunderpants@comcast.net.

Love you all - D

WWRCD?

Occasionally in life we are all met with trials and tribulations, both large and small. (Where in the world did I put my keys? How on earth will I pay the mortgage this month? Should I put my mother in a home? I really like this guy. How long should I wait to tell him about my Herpes?) It is in these times that each of us tends to look for support in different places. Some of us ask for help from our friends. Others look to our families for advice. But me, I turn to my faith and my church… Glen Oak Community Church. My sister and I joined this church more than 10 years ago and, quite frankly, our spiritual cups overfloweth. Glen Oak Community Church, led by Reverend Eric Camden, has services almost every day of the week and I (we) invite you all to join. You can locate it in your local T.V. Guide under 7th Heaven.

I can only speak for myself, but Glen Oak’s congregation, as well as Reverend Camden and his family (He and his wife, Annie, have 7 adorable little moppets – Truthfully only 5 of them are adorable, 2 of them give me the creeps!), have seen me through "many a darkened day" with their love, kindness, and sage wisdom. I know that some of you are probably thinking, “7th Heaven is just a television show!” but to those people I say, “You are soooo wrong!” 7th Heaven is a way of life. Before I make any major life decisions, I ask myself WWRCD - What Would Reverend Camden Do? (I’m thinking of getting one of those bracelets made).

• Would Reverend Camden beat his children's asses for hiding a dog (for over a month) inside the broken-down van in the driveway? NO! He wouldn't! So, I didn't.



• Would Reverend Camden call the police on the crack head who came to the door at 11 o'clock at night trying to sell a bag full of partially used cleaning products? NO! He wouldn't! So, I didn't.



• Would Reverend Camden cuss out every single person who says "No offense, but you're not like most black people". No, of course not! (Not just because he isn't black but also because he has goodness in his heart). So, I don't.

Reverend Camden has guided me through almost all of my normal adolescent curiosities (except I was in my 30s and just very emotionally stunted). It was his sister, Julie Camden’s, struggle with alcohol that taught me that alcoholism is a disease best treated through love and support. Simon's brief but dangerous interest in smoking and his subsequent lesson learned erased every subliminal messaging that the Marlboro Man had implanted in my head. And Precocious little Ruthie... ahhh little Ruthie... she reminds me every single time I see her that it is o.k. to speak my mind, stand up for what’s right, and have Muslim friends. (Ruthie is positively a wealth of knowledge. She is just outstanding to know. I am so proud to call her my friend!) Also, for the record, if I had Mary and Lucy’s friendship when I was in high school I may very well have been a virgin when I got married because they set such a good examples for their peers (That's probably not true, if we had been friends back then Mary definitely would have partied a lot more. I was a bad influence and Mary is always right on the edge). But most importantly, if it wasn't for Annie Camden, I would have no idea that all you have to do to punk out a gang member who is harassing you is slap your own chest really hard and yell. (Seriously, the Reverend's wife is hard core!)

If after my testimonial, you are still on the fence about joining let me tell you who some of the other members of our congregation are. Ashlee Simpson used to go there (I mean before the whole lip syncing thing). Nick Zano, Bo Derek, Carlos Ponce, and Gabrielle Union have all attended. So obviously we don't have a lot of ugly people (Actually, we welcome everybody we just put the ugly people in the back). You should know, though, we always, always make room for more at Glen Oak Community Church and I would welcome any opportunity to come to your homes and share "the word" with you (Actually, I would just come over, turn your television to the ABC Family Channel, raid your refrigerator, and leave quietly, but believe me your life will never be the same).

Doctor! Doctor! Gimme the news...

In my whole life I have really only liked two doctors, my current physician (Dr. A, I can't pronounce her last name) and my gynecologist. Dr. A recognizes that there is more to me than the craziness the world sees and always knows the right thing to say and my gyno thinks I am completely crazy but seems to find it mildly amusing. (Believe me when I tell you that no one has seen anything quite as insane as me with my feet in gyno stirrups asking my doctor if he could at least light a candle and sing the first few bars of Let's Get In On before he started my first exam. He passed on the candle and agree to hum Oh, Susanna. I knew right then he was meant to be my doc.)

Now, I am certain that as a result of my almost exclusively potato, cheese, and Diet Pepsi diet, as well as my 25 sit-ups a month workout regime, you all assume that I am the picture of health. However, you couldn't be more wrong. I almost always have one ailment or another ranging from the normal (a sinus infection) to the obscure (an infected taste bud) and from the minor (a stubbed toe) to the major (a prolapsed uterus). Because of my constant poor health, I am now on a first name basis with the the nurse in my doctor's office (big shout out to Joslyn!) and have had to start using my general practitioner as my secondary source of medical care and have obtained a new primary care physician. His name is Web M.D. and he is fabulous. I don't mean to imply that Dr. A is not fabulous, she is... she really is, but the time that I tried to convince her that I had a brain tumor after seeing the brain tumor story on 20/20, she suggested that perhaps I just had a headache from reading in low lighting and wanted me to take some Ibuprofen and wait a week until I rushed in for a CAT Scan. A headache? It couldn't possibly be that simple. Not Web M.D.though, I simply went to my home computer typed in my symptoms (headache, being sleepy, and my tendency to forget things) and I found out that Dr. A was right. I probably didn't have a brain tumor but I very possibly could have Dementia or was in acute Kidney Failure! (Score one for Web M.B.) When I was convinced that I had Crohn's disease, after what I have taken to calling "flatulence weekend", Web M.D. confirmed my suspicions (another point for Web M.D.) but Dr. A. only reminded me of my Lactose Intolerance and asked me how much diary I had eaten (yes, I had eaten 2 slices of Cheesecake, a caramel sundae, and a Steak 'n' Shake caramel turtle nut milkshake in a 3 day period but that was beside the point). But it could've been temporary Crohn's disease, couldn't it?

I'm just sayin' that where Dr. A is educated, reasonable, and wise, Web M.D. will tell me what I want to hear. Any disease I assume I have can be mine, all I have to do is type in the right symptoms. It is not as if I want to be sick, it is just that I want to know exactly what is wrong with me and to be able to share information on these illnesses (while I am lying limply in bed propped up with pillows) with my loved ones. However, according to some of my friends and family that makes me a hypochondriac. Hypochondriac? Are you kidding me? So what, if I was convinced I had scurvy for a week after I saw Pirates of the Caribbean! And sure, I thought I had Epiglottis for awhile because I kept choking on my own spit... Who hasn't? I don't think that necessarily makes me a hypochondriac, I think it just makes me... well, alright... I'm a hypochondriac! I admit it! But that in itself is an illness, isn't it? Thank God for Dr. A! I have no idea why she keeps me on as a patient, I can be a teensy bit of a handful. But, she does her best to take care of my actual illnesses and to creatively treat my imaginary ones and I truly appreciate it. So, I guess I will stop my daily visits to Web M.D. and take her back as my #1 doc. I probably should call her tomorrow because all of this typing is starting to hurt... maybe I have Carpal Tunnel...

Thank you for shopping at Wal-Mart

Today was my favorite day of the week. It was Wal-Mart day! The day when all things are possible! The day when 3-cheese ravioli and bullets, Pampers brand disposable diapers and 30 weight motor oil, and a month's supply of Xanax and a $32 homecoming dress can all live together in one giant cart of harmony. I am telling you Wal-mart is a magical place! So, when I woke up I was predictably excited. I jumped out of bed, 1/2-assed brushed my teeth, pulled my unbrushed hair back into a knot, and then threw on a headband to hold back any stray hairs. I then grabbed some jeans off the floor, tugged off the over-sized tee shirt I slept in, put on a bra, put back on the shirt I slept in, slipped on my Keds’ (no socks), grabbed my son’s big orange sweatshirt and headed out the door. This is my normal Wal-Mart day attire. That is why I love Wal-Mart; I can go in my grubbiest clothes and not stand out one tiny bit!

I picked up my prescriptions, a new work shirt and vegetarian faux turkey slices for my daughter, some coloring books for the grandkids and was just heading to the hair care isle to pick up my monthly dose of Feria Havana Brown Hair Coloring when I ran into an old friend of mine from high school. She was luminous, hair perfectly coiffed, flawless make-up, spotless clothing, and heels, my God, heels… at Wal-mart… and I was just standing there looking like a big, nappy, dirt stained pumpkin. I immediately started the verbal vomit, spewing forth explanations for my extreme hideousness… I’ve been on vacation… I have been gardening… I am preparing to bathe my dogs… I have decided to become a pig farmer… etc… If my attire sparked any thoughts that I may have indeed morphed into some mentally ill vagabond, my hyperactive explanation of my appearance solidified it and most likely had her half-expecting to find me holding a “Will Work For Food or Diet Pepsi” sign at the exit as she left.

I do not know why I always seem to bump into the most outstandingly "put together" people when I look my very worst. Why couldn't she have seen me last Friday night from 7:45 to 10:37... I looked fabulous or even mid-afternoon a week ago Monday. I did not look shabby then, either. But no, not me... I have to run into the someone who looks like the friggin' Queen of Beautiopolis when I look like the Duchess of Dirt. (Seriously, can't you just picture my throne - an old cracked toilet propped up outside of a condemned trailer). Why couldn't I have had on my cute jeans? I just had to have on the jeans that give me a camel toe if I don't where the right underwear (and to answer your question, I did NOT have on the right underwear!).

You know what, though? I blame her for this. Wal-mart is my turf! It is not for the classy and dressed-up! It is for those of us who are not ashamed to go months without eyeliner or wear flip-flops well into November. So this is what I propose: I will never go into Target, Shopko, or Meijer without the proper attire (i.e; a bra, appropriate footwear, deodorant, etc...) if you beautiful people (you know who you are) will stop coming to my stomping grounds - K-Mart, Wal-Mart, or Bob's Bait and Tackle - dressed like you are ready to work the Runway.

I really believe if we all work together on this, a peace can be had. My husband and I can run into our favorite Super Store in ratty sweats and tank tops to get a 50lbs bag of dog food and extra patches for our four foot deep inflatable pool without fear of judgement... and you all won't have to explain to your children why the hobo lady behind you in line looks just like the girl in your high school yearbook.

Have a great weekend everbody!

Olives and Underpants!

My grandson is four years old and most definitely the most beautiful, inquisitive, funniest four year old the planet (and I am not just saying that because I am his Mimi, strangers stop me randomly to tell me) but last week he was sick, too sick to go to daycare. So, he was with me. I made him hot cocoa with mini-marshmallows, we snuggled in my bed and watched the Monster Buster Club and Transformers, and right before he went down for his nap he said, “Mimi, you always make me feel better”. (I nearly melted away) Being a grandmother might very well be the best job I have ever had, despite the fact that I went into it kicking and screaming. When I was first told of my little buddy’s impending birth, I was stunned to say the least. I mean aside from the obvious, my son and his girlfriend weren’t married and were not as mature as I would have liked them to be, I was (am) way too young and cute to be a grandma! I immediately decided I would not be called “granny”. I spent the next few months trying out different titles… Grandma?…uhhmmm, no…G-ma?… sounds like a gang member, nope…Big G?... sounds like a big gang member…Nanny?...hhhmmmm, pass. Eventually I went to the web. I discovered that Lola means grandmother in Brazil. I repeated it over and over… Lo-la… Lola… Lola. I liked the sound of it. Lola is still cutesy enough to be an acceptable grandparent moniker but could double as a stripper name if they ever bring back Amateur Thickens Night at the Déjà Vu Strip Club (Doesn’t it always come back to stripping with me?) So, Lola it was, and the closer it got to the big day the more excited I was. I don’t know why though. I generally don’t like children, especially babies, they always seem to be leaking one thing or another and if they are ugly it is hard to find something to say to the parents, “Wow, little Mackenzie Ann is sure interesting to look at” or “Hey, I thinks it’s neat how little Patty Jane can look at two things at once” or “Gee whiz! Look at those teeth; little Bobby will be able to eat that apple right through a picket fence”. But my grandson was perfect – extraordinarily beautiful, flawless complexion, his eyes worked as a team, no potential for bucked teeth, just perfect – and the moment I held him, Lola was gone and I was Mimi. I don’t know where it came from but it fit likes a glove. And well, it’s still cute and kind of sexy, right?

The relationship I had with my grandparents was completely unlike my relationship with my grandkids. My grandparents were… uhhmmm… different to say the least. Unfortunately my Dad’s parents, Bertha and William, died young and therefore I never had the chance to know them but my Mother’s parents were around… Boy, were they ever! When my beautiful white mother (she looked a lot like Natalie Wood in her Senior High School photo) married my equally as beautiful but black father, my grandparents were not as excited as one might have anticipated. They did not exactly welcome him with open arms or even as gracelessly as in the movie Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner (If you haven’t seen it, you definitely should). What they did do though is tell all of their friends and neighbors, clergymen, store keepers, paperboy, etc… that she had, in fact, died. Yes, I said died! And since my parents lived in Illinois and my grandparents were in West Virginia, everybody believed them. Poor, poor Alice and Louis – their daughter died so young (re-read the last line while playing Taps in your head – it gives the effect that I am looking for).

But then something incredible and miraculous happened… ME! Beautiful baby me (I really was a good looking baby. I didn’t reach my awkward stage until about 7 or 8, until then I was absolutely adorable). After I was born, my grandparents moved back to Illinois and reconnected with my apparently resurrected mother. It wasn’t an easy process but eventually my parents and my grandparents made peace. Growing up we actually spent a lot of time with them but they were never the snuggle up and read us a story kind of people (but sometimes if we were good granny would give us a margarine tub of popcorn and let us watch Days Of Our Lives from the kitchen table).

My Granny and Papa, who for some reason took to calling me Missy, did love me and my sister a lot but they were just a bit cold and terribly, terribly cheap (They used to make homemade Ham Salad by grinding their own meat in a grinder clamped to their kitchen table. However, they used blocks of bologna they bought in bulk instead of ham. Yet, they still called it Ham Salad). Therefore, when they showed up at my sixth birthday party with not 1, but 2 presents. I was ecstatic! All of my friends were there and my parents had really gone all out with everything! A great cake! Streamers and balloons! Party games! I felt like a Princess! When it was time to open gifts, I was nearly vibrating from a combination of sugar and excitement! I went crazy tearing paper and ripping off bows. Jackpot… It’s a Baby Alive! BINGO… A black Barbie! BINGO, Again… A white Barbie! Crap… A Board Game! Yes… A Sit-and-Spin! Finally, I came to my grandparents’ gifts, which I had purposely saved for last. Granny handed me the first one and oddly shaped present and I proudly announced to my very jealous friends, “This is from my granny and papa” and tore into the package. The room went silent. It was a jar of olives! My grandma smiled and announced, “It’s just a little joke! My Missy just loves olives. ”. I was so embarrassed but I steadied myself and opened my REAL gift. Underpants!

Olives and Underpants at six years old!

And so a lifetime of humiliating moments began! Thanks Grandma!

Romancing the pole

One of the most magical moments in my life (that doesn’t involve my children or their children) was the weekend that my husband asked me to marry him. We had been dating for about a year when we decided to take a trip to New Orleans. We had never been away together (In fact because I had my oldest son so young, I had never actually been on any trip without my kids – except for one spectacularly wild weekend on a college campus when I was about 20) so I thought that this would be the perfect opportunity for us to solidify our relationship. I did my normal pre-trip preparations – checking out books on the destination, researching hotels in the area, downloading driving directions and hours of operation and ticket prices for local entertainment venues, identifying area hospitals and Red Cross offices, and then compiling all of the information into three identical and neatly organized travel folders – One to carry with me, one for my mother in case she needs to find me and one for the trunk of the car just in case I lose my first copy. (Did I mention that I am terrified to travel?)

When we arrived in New Orleans (pre-Katrina) it was like landing on an entirely different planet! At this point you should understand that my entire adult vacation experiences include a week at Disney World and Sea World and one weekend in Chicago, so you can imagine how the host of drag queens, street performers, and drunken debauchery sparked my imagination! Everything was outstanding. We visited the cemeteries, the Aquarium of the Americas, Jackson Square, Anne Rice’s House, and, of course, the French Quarter! New Orleans French Quarter is fantastic! We walked and drank Hurricanes, window shopped and drank Hurricanes, listened to live Jazz and drank Hurricanes, visited a Voodoo Shop and drank Hurricanes, and after about 3 hours of Bourbon Street and 15 Hurricanes my husband got down on one knee, looked up at me lovingly, and said, “I love you! I love the kids! Would you marry me?” I melted; it was like a fairy tale. I mean, how many of us get a second chance at real love. I inhaled deeply and I answered the way every man in love hopes for and screamed, “Are you fucking with me?” (A lady, wearing a bedazzled tee shirt, Bermuda shorts, a sun visor and fanny pack, who happened to be passing us at the time assured me he wasn’t) And so, we became engaged! And what do all newly engaged couples do? That’s right! They go to a strip club! (Calm down, we were in New Orleans it’s like a law there. Plus, it was either that or a drag club and given the tender and intimate nature of the celebration that would have just been tacky!)

Now, I have been to strip clubs before, well one actually. My friends and I went to amateur night at our local strip club. A girl we knew (not necessarily liked) was entering and we went to heckle. However, she ended up arriving at the club and passing out in the bathroom before hitting the stage. We found her crumpled around the toilet dressed as a schoolgirl (or maybe Gogo from the Kill Bill movies, I’m not sure). My friends and I decided to show mercy on her and carried her out of the club. Michelle took her arms and I took her legs (which lead to the revelation that she came in without underwear, obviously she had prepared to dance to a very short song…, but I digress) and after making sure she was safe we went home. But even after all of that, I had never seen anything like a New Orleans strip club. These women were gifted to say the least, the very least. Women were dropping to splits and popping back up on beat, swinging round and round on the bright shiny poles (sometimes upside down) holding on with only one leg, and gyrating into more positions in a single lap dance than I had during my entire 4 day stint of Yoga and Pilates that I learned from a video I check out at the public library (Side note: I pronounced Pilates – “pie-lates” – until my sister corrected me, unfortunately I had mispronounced it no less than 15 times publicly before she “smartened me up”!). I could not believe the moves on these chicks! Did you know that there are women who can squeeze their butt cheeks together so quickly and forcefully that they make a clapping noise. It was magnificent (like that Statue of the Virgin Mary that cries). That night was so romantic! Here I was, engaged for nearly 45 minutes, drinking what I believe to have been my 16th Hurricane, stuffing dollar bills in the g-string of blue-eyed black woman, while she danced on my table in Lucite platform heels to Warrant’s Cherry Pie. That just screams commitment, love, and marital bliss! Am I right?

The next morning we woke up incredibly hung-over and incredibly broke and incomprehensibly he still wanted to marry me. But why? I can’t make my ass clap, I can’t work a pole, I have a trick knee, and my brief foray into thong underwear went very, very badly! Maybe it’s because I have raised four children to respect and love themselves, as well as each other. Or perhaps, it is because I have chosen to learn from my mistakes rather than to wallow in them. Or it could be because I have loved him more freely and honestly than I ever thought was possible. To tell you the truth, it could be any of those things but it is probably because I can drink like a sailor without throwing up and that night, back in our hotel room, I did my own striptease (except I was wearing plain white underpants and my favorite Keds’ tennis shoes). I guess he just loves me because I'm me!

It's a beautiful day in the neighbor"hood"...

At this moment there are two birds battling for nesting rights in the awning outside my bedroom. They are chirping and flapping their wings frantically, it is hilarious and heart-warmingly natural. This, as well as the sporadic patches of green grass and freshly bloomed daffodils sprouting in my yard, triggers my mental alarm that spring has once again sprung. I have noticed that people are ditching their heavy winter coats and gloves for windbreakers and a smile and realize that seemingly normal individuals are no longer driving or even walking but jubilantly skipping to nearby cafes and restaurants for workday lunches and breaks. Squirrels are frolicking, birds are chirping, and I… I am ready to lock my front door and not come back outside again until late fall. I know this might seem silly to some but those people do not live in “The Hood”. Now don’t get me wrong, not everyone in the hood feels the way I do, some hood-rats are just exploding with excitement! You see, in the hood there are two teams.

People on Team A are generally older couples who have lived in the hood since before it was “the hood” and have so many ties to their home and neighborhood that they would be lost anywhere else. Team A also has people who moved into the hood when they had no money or no other option and have successfully raised their children, built careers, and refuse to turn their backs on the place where they got their start. Team A takes care of their homes, tries to mind their own business (I mean within reason sometimes we just need to know things), and respect their neighbors. By and large, their yards are fenced and manicured. Their cars are sensible and affordable and they rarely have a Pit Bull tied to the front porch with a tow chain.

However, people on Team B drive tricked out old police cars (with the unattached searchlight still on the side). They can afford “spinner rims” but refuse to pay their $400 in fines which would get their driver’s licenses reinstated. They will splurge for $300 in fake hair and nails but won’t pay $29.99 for a proper car seat for their 2 year old, Man-Man. (Let me make myself clear before everyone gets their panties in a twist, that I am speaking of no ONE race. “The Hood” welcomes everybody! For example, at the end of my block there is a group of four or five flamboyantly gay teenage boys, who walk up and down the street from March to September, in skinny jeans, flip-flops, and Aunt Jemima head scarves – they are black, so I guess that doesn’t prove my point but it is still quite amusing!) Team B smokes pot at a kitchen table that has been moved to their front yard and plays the music in their car so loud that people for blocks around can sing-a-long.

Now, if there is any doubt in your mind, I assure you that I am on Team A (the team who goes into the spring and summer months kicking and screaming)… but my neighbors, well, they are on Team B (the team that celebrates the warmer months like every day is some Rastafarian version of Fat Tuesday, complete with the Beads for Boobs trade-off – except the Boobs are so saggy that the areolas resemble misshapen pancakes and the Beads are crack cocaine). You have to believe me, I would like nothing more than to enjoy my yard when the weather is nice, sit on a bench beside my birdbath and read a good book, but so far this year I have found 2 empty malt liquor bottles, a half a bag of Popeye’s Chicken bones, and (I shudder to tell you this) a used condom in my driveway. Does that make you want to go outside and play hopscotch and search for fairy rings? (For clarification that was not a jab at the aforementioned boys on my street, I don't mess with them. Those fellas are mean as hell! They ganged up and beat the crap out of a guy at the park who was apparently workin’ their last nerves! Miss Mae, our neighborhood gossip, said it looked like a posse of Little Richards bitch-slapping Mike Tyson.)

Despite my complaints (and I have many), I love my house, my yard, and even my neighborhood. There is a post in my basement that my children kept track of their growth spurts and you can still see the shaky little lines and poorly written names in faded Sharpie. There is one dead rabbit and a host of dead gerbils buried in my backyard and the elementary school that the kids attended is visible from my bedroom window. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. I would, however, enjoy walking my grandchildren to the park without worry of a contact high, a drive-by shooting, or a RuPaul style mugging… but I guess, hope springs eternal!

My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard!

A couple of years ago I got really sick, not donation can at the handy pantry / let’s organize a chili supper fundraiser sick, just a tremendously bad flu. I was off work for nearly a week and didn’t eat anything besides chicken broth and Diet Pepsi for five straight days. Usually I convince my husband that ice cream will make me feel better and he runs out, grabs me a quart, and won’t let the kids have even a spoonful but not this time. I felt horrible; I just laid in bed and drifted in and out of sleep. My husband slowly took up residency in the living room calling me “a carrier”. The children stopped asking for me and my bedroom was treated like the Bermuda triangle. I was alone except for my one constant companion, loyal friend, and confidant, my dog Jack (his full name is Jackson – named after Samuel L. Jackson, the coolest man in Hollywood.) Jack stayed right at the foot of the bed and it was his love that pulled me through those dark days… O.K. I admit that was a bit dramatic, it was just the flu but he truly was good company. Anyway, even though I started feeling better my appetite didn’t come back right away and after about two weeks I realized that I had lost 7 pounds. WOW! Seven pounds without even trying! A couple of people commented and I started thinking, “I’ve already decreased the amount of food I’m eating. Why not see how far I can take it?” So, I kept my meals small, my snacks healthy (for the record though baby carrots are never as scrumptious as Oreo Cookie Blizzard, they just aren’t), and even started a light exercise regime. When I say light, I mean very light! (I did sit-ups on my bed while my husband sat on my feet and played Playstation 2 – Grand Theft Auto). Even so, after 5 months I had dropped 36 pounds, every night I could do 50 sit-ups (without farting… as much as before, anyway), and I felt SUPER SASSY. So, I decided to treat myself and went to Wal-Mart and bought some new clothes (Hey! Don’t judge… I said I lost weight, not hit on the lottery and besides I could also pick up dog food, school supplies, and oil for the car. You can’t do that at Macy’s!) .

About six months into my metamorphosis, I got hungry. Not terribly hungry but just hungry enough that I was always painfully aware of any caramel-coated or salty deliciousness around me. Then one night my stomach woke me from a sound sleep and I was not happy (In my dream I had been white-water rafting with Brad Pitt and he was trying to explain away his horrible Aniston-Jolie behavior. He had just told me, “I love Angie, D, and I need you to understand but I also need your forgiveness”, when I heard what I thought was the rumble of a waterfall. It was my stomach and I woke up). I checked the clock 4:25 a.m. and I had to get up at 6:45. I thought about it and decided in order to go back to sleep I would eat part of my breakfast now and the rest when I woke up. It made sense to me so I ate two pieces of toast with honey and went back to bed. Sounds logical, right? Of course, it does. About 7:30, I ate a light breakfast, minus the toast, but then at lunch time I was hungrier than usual. I had fallen into the habit of having a big salad or soup and sandwich for lunch, but since the early morning toast had thrown me off, I opted for both and vowed to forgo my afternoon snack of grapes. I was so hungry after skipping my afternoon snack that I ate dinner that night at 4:45. I woke up hungry the next morning at 3:50 and had a full breakfast which then caused me to eat a bigger lunch at 10:30 a.m. and dinner around 3 or 4. This process continued for several days until somehow I was eating my Friday breakfast of Cornflakes and toast while I watched Thursday night’s 10 o’clock nightly news with Jerry Lambert and Elizabeth Wooley. Finally I had enough and decided to get out of this vicious circle, which tantamount to borrowing $400 from Check In To Cash loan to pay off the total due on your $250 Pay Day Loans loan (Let’s just pretend that was just a hunch and that I have no actual personal knowledge. Is that cool? Thanks) and I just decided that after almost six months of dieting and learning self-control that I could relax. I decided that this little snafu was a direct result of too much self-denial. I should learn how to allow myself the random treat as long as it was in moderation. Treat number one on my list: ICE CREAM! I love ICE CREAM! It is yummy and cool, sweet and creamy, and quite frankly spectacular in nearly every flavor (Except pumpkin pie flavored ice cream. Who the hell came up with that nonsense?) The point is I love ICE CREAM and had not had any for 6 long months. When I finally had my double scoop of Banana Caramel Walnut Supreme, I was in heaven!!!!.. for about ½ an hour. That is when I was the grumbling started, like a storm in my stomach! I began to pass gas as if it was an Olympic event and I was going for the Gold! It was bizarre! Apparently, somewhere in the passing months I had become lactose intolerant. All of that sacrifice and my reward was gas! What a rip-off (no pun intended)!

However, that was the end of my diet and over the past year I have gain 25 of the 36 lbs. back because I refuse to deny myself any longer. A few weeks ago, I went to McDonald’s and got my yearly Shamrock Shake. (Ooooh, I adore the minty goodness!) I came home, kicked off my shoes, jumped onto my bed (Jack by my side, of course), turned on the Sci-Fi channel, and enjoyed big, green, delicious milkshake! Less than an hour later, I was once again flatulence’s bitch! This time, though, I was prepared; I had the house to myself and nowhere to go. It was just me and Jack… where was Jack? Hiding in the living room, that's where! About a minute or two into my “dance of the bubble guts” he had high-tailed (again, no pun intended) and run. Obviously, my milkshake does NOT bring all the boys to the yard!

Let your freak flag fly!

Occasionally I get asked, "What the hell is wrong with you?” Actually, if I am being honest, it is probably more than occasionally - it is daily! My answer to this varies from day-to-day but basically I think I am perfectly sane (that might be a stretch but very, very close to sane)... Sometimes I just forget not to say (or write) my every thought. I think everyone (maybe not everyone but some people... at least one... yeah, at least one other person) has the same random thoughts that I do. Like, if a white cat crosses your path does that mean good luck? or Wouldn't it be great if they had Community College Musical for the less popular cast members of the High School Musical series? These are the things that pop into my head and I can't be the only one, can I? I also wonder if Bill Clinton and Thomas Jefferson (both ex-presidents who had a little soul and a propensity to cheat) got in a fist fight who would win, my money is on Tommy Boy. And just how long did it take the cave people to figure out that sex leads to pregnancy? It is not as if your stomach swells with a 7 lb. 6 oz. bouncing baby boy two seconds after coitus (I love the word coitus, it sounds so much smarter and classier that "doin' it).

Admittedly, my mind might work a bit differently than some but I am generally a happy person and have a good time wherever I am. I have (various times, I might add) spent up to forty-five uninterrupted minutes trying to levitate a pencil with my mind and I still periodically try to wriggle my nose like Samantha from Bewitched. Sometimes when I am home alone, I still put chewing gum over my top teeth like I am wearing braces and I once dripped candle wax on my boobs to see if it was as erotic as they make it look on HBO (It is not! It burns like hell! Whoever started that "farce of sexiness" should be shot!!! There is nothing, I repeat nothing, sexy about a nipple blister!) Anyway, I know deep down in my heart that other people do just as many idiotic things as I do - Why am I the only one who owns up to it? I'll tell you why! You are all a bunch of chicken-shits! (Wow, that sounded way too harsh but why should I fly my freak flag alone. It’s a lot of pressure!)

I believe that everyone would be so much happier if they felt the freedom to act a little stupid sometimes, you know be a little juvenile once in a while. Why do you think kids are happy 99% of the time? No, it is not because they don't have stress - they do. Red rover and freze tag can get seriously cut-throat, if not properly mediated. Children are happy because they feel uninhibited enough to be tiny little idiots. I am not talking about being so immature that you put your relationship at risk or so ridiculous that you lose your job but wouldn't it be fun to cut loose once in a while... to go to someone's house while they are at work and leave a framed picture of a complete stranger on their wall or give trick-or-treaters who are too damn old job applications (Really, there's a fine line between trick-or-treating and begging and that line is the age of 12!). I mean how funny would it be if you brought 7 uncooked hot dogs on a platter, garnished with parsley and radish roses to the next potluck you are invited to. I guarantee that if you did it you would be in an outstanding mood the rest of the day. Yes, it does sound stupid… but only because it is! And that is why it is liberating!

When I do or say something that makes people wonder if indeed Jesus had made me one of his “special” flock, I know that it’s because I chose for them to view me that way - Not because I am an accidental moron. I am a dumbass on purpose! Do you think I could have made it through 40 years of near daily humiliation without some semblance of control? No! I have learned from experience not to take myself too seriously. I choose to laugh at myself before anyone else has the chance! I choose to admit, loudly and proudly, that I sometimes fart in the car and blame it on my one year old granddaughter, that I slobber so badly in my sleep that I have to flip my pillow every two hours to keep from drowning, and that I have put panty liners under my boobs to try to keep the sweat from soaking through my bra and shirt (not one of my best ideas, I might add). I confess that I have prank phone called my boss, worn my husband’s underwear when none of mine were clean, and that I laugh when ice skaters fall during competition. I am just me… no apologies, no regrets, and I invite you all to do something completely carefree and silly this weekend, have fun with it, and DO NOT APOLOGIZE!

Booty Call

Knowing my love of As Seen On T.V. merchandise and late night commercials and infomercials, a friend of mine drew my attention to a commercial that I had never seen. I quickly went to YouTube (a constant and reliable news source in my life… well, along with Wikipedia and Perez Hilton) and found several commercials for one website – www.onlinebootycall.com!!! Seriously, it’s true! I laughed for 10 minutes just at the commercial but then I went to the website and saw… I promise you… the Ten Booty Call Commandments! I almost wet my pants!

I realize that in this day and age (God, I sound like I’m 80 years old) it is hard to meet kind and smart singles, especially those who you might find attractive, and the Internet has established itself as force to be reckoned with in the matchmaking department. But has it gotten so bad that we need the Internet to locate a “booty call”? Why can't people just drink and dial the way we did in my day? Sit at home, get drunk on nice wine cooler - vodka cocktail, and call someone they have had a ongoing flirtation with and invite them over for a night of nasty! That's how we rolled! What happened to the good ol’ days when a nice girl got shit-faced in a club with her friends, made out with a guy who is soooo hot from the middle of C+C Music Factory’s Gonna Make You Sweat until the end of Quincy Jones’ Secret Garden, and then hooked up at 2:54 pm just as the clubs light came on? What happened to him chauffeuring her back to her car early the next morning and her awkward “perp walk” (in last night’s bar clothes) across the bar parking lot (which on Sunday mornings was especially great because the parking lot always seemed to be across the street from a church)? What happened to those good times? How about the horny desperate calls to an ex at 1:30 in the morning under the guise to of telling them some ridiculous piece of information (“Hey, if you turn it to Channel 30 right now, that comedian you like is on” or “I am so sorry to call you this late but I had a nightmare and you are the only one who knows how to calm me down… when I am all alone… in bed”). Thirty five minutes later, the exes were together, comfortable and naked, without a thought of the fact that they actually hated each other. Now doesn’t that seem tons more panache than some damn “booty call” website? Of course it does!

“Booty calls” are the easiest part of “dating” because there is not ACTUAL dating. You don’t have to find someone who sees a future with you, just someone who doesn’t find you sexually repulsive. You don’t have to come up with just the right outfit to wear to dinner and a movie, just clean underwear. There is no need to save money for the perfect evening, HIV tests and condoms are free in most cities. Come on, people, let’s be honest – 92% of the public can manage to find their own “booty call” and the other 8% do NOT look like the photos on the website (the homepage features people who strongly resemble the cast of Gossip Girl). Almost all of us remember driving clear across town in the middle of the night or getting up and unlocking your front door and quickly changing into cuter pajamas just to get some nookie… it’s just plain patriotic (like Cherry Slurpee's at the Arab gas station / convenience store, Beer Pong, or O.J. Simpson - you know, things that we are not always proud of but are part of the American fabric)! In my opinion the online “booty call” is probably marketed to the guy (or gal) sitting alone, late at night in their parents basement, handling their “own business” to 1970’s VHS “fur bikini” porn that they found in a box marked Dad’s Fishing Equipment.

It's not like I think that this website will not gain a following... I am sure it will (this blog alone proves that anything can find a fan base - believe me I am well aware that I am not writing Chaucer or Dickens here) but it makes me sad that people think they need it. Anyone can get laid... Seriously, anyone! Have you not seen a pregnant, filthy homeless woman with no more than 10 teeth total? I know I have! How do you think the bun got in that dirty, dirty oven? Sex! Charles Manson had nearly a harem of women. What do you think was going on in that compound? Sex! Chang and Eng, the conjoined twins from Thailand, had 21 children between them. How? Sex! Do you REALLY think that homeless people, serial killers, and Siamese twins can get laid but a girl with a dead eye and the orthopedic big shoe or a guy with exorbitant back hair and a tinge of an odor can't get some action? I can't speak for them finding someone who would want to make a lifelong commitment but I am SURE that they can find a pal to come over in the middle of the night and "bump some uglies". But if I am wrong, I guess there is always onlinebootycall.com.

Problems and Solutions

In my daily travels, I have noticed a few reoccurring but easily fixed problems. I have decided to share both, the problems and my solutions, with you all.

Adorable: Cherub-cheeked children exploring nature with the wide-eyed innocence of youth.
Not so adorable: Filthy children playing in mud puddles on the side of the road in nothing but dirty tee shirts, sagging urine filled pull-ups, and cowboy boots.
Solution: Clean and fully dress your children before sending them out of the trailer and if you must let your toddler play by the edge of the road, take down the confederate flag blocking your view from the porch.

Comforting: The love and loyal companionship of a pet.
Not so comforting: The radiant smell of an appliqué covered sweatshirt soaked in cat piss.
Solution: Clean out the damn litter box, make some two legged friends, and stop buying (or making) appliqué covered clothing.

Outstanding: Looking into the coffee colored face of a little boy and knowing that one day he can become President.
Not so outstanding: Seeing the permanently ashy white snot tracks leading from his nose to his mouth.
Solution: Wash and lotion your baby’s face and teach him to use a dang Kleenex.

Touching: Watching generations of men of all shapes and sizes playing basketball in the park.
Not so touching: Walking past a man sitting on the sidelines and seeing his saggy, sweaty testicles hanging out of his shorts.
Solution: Stop using the lining of your shorts as underwear (especially after your nuts pass a certain length).

Lovely: People of mixed races and ethnicities having the freedom to find romance and love.
Not so lovely: Mothers of bi-racial children who do not comb and style their kids’ hair properly.
Solution: Take care of your kids’ damn hair… You brush yours! Brush theirs! If you don’t know how, ask somebody. One of us will help you, seriously.

Relaxing: Laying on the beach watching families frolic in the sunshine.
Not so relaxing: Being horrified by the multitude of women who forgot to take Miss Kitty to the groomer before putting on a swimsuit.
Solution: A wise woman once told me: If you want somebody to play in your yard – You have to cut the grass!

Romantic: Falling into your lover’s arms after hours of sex and drifting aimlessly into sleep.
Not so romantic: Waking up with sweat-molded bed head and the stench of 5 hours of sleep-marinated “afterglow” stuck to your thighs.
Solution: Kiss your lover passionately, walk naked and sensuously to the bathroom, and take a whore’s bath in the sink. It just ain't that hard!

Thank you in advance for your attention to these matters.
- D

Gimme a beat!

I am fairly certain that my life would be better with a daily soundtrack. Think about, at the beginning of everyday your theme song would wake you up and at the end music would trail off as the credits roll. Love and lust would be easier to differentiate (There is a distinct and noticeable difference between Etta James's At Last and TLC's Red Light Special). You could always be alerted to looming danger by the eerie melody swelling in the background (think Friday the 13th or Halloween). How hilarious would it be if the Wicked Witch’s theme song played every time your boss or mother-in-law sauntered past? I’m pretty sure everyone knows at least one overly confident man with a comb-over who should be shadowed by Right Said Fred singing I’m Too Sexy or an office tramp who should blast Super Freak every time she crosses and uncrosses her legs. I’m just sayin’ that a daily soundtrack might make my days a little less complicated and lot more humorous. Now I realize that most girls out there would either pick either I'm Every Woman or Bitch for their theme songs but not me I like to think outside the box. I would probably pick I Wanna Be Sedated by the Ramones or Sir Mix-A-Lot's Baby Got Back to start the Davis Show and skip through the rest of the day carefree, just like in the movies. My life would be golden - not the endless string of humiliations that I have experience in the past. "Music can't do all that", you proclaim! I say, "Yes, yes it can!"

My freshman year in high school I fell down the steps in front of a very hot junior while I was wearing my favorite cranberry straight skirt (he told me I had a nice ass and I lost my balance) but it might have gone from pathetic to comical if I'll Tumble For Ya had been playing in the background. I also may have been able to find humor in the time my bra strap broke causing my boob to break free during a gym class volleyball game if only I could have heard Gettin' Jiggy With It instead of the mocking laughter of my peers.

A little musical insight also might have softened the shock many of the numerous times I was cheated on (Disclaimer: I am speaking past tense! My husband is not a cheater but nearly every other boy in my life has been). The time that I brought my hard-studying, college boyfriend dinner from Burger King and found a naked slut in his apartment, had I heard Secret Lovers in the air, I might have saved my money and stayed home and not smacked him with a bacon cheeseburger after pushing her naked ass into the hallway. (I usually don't blame the girl but I realllllly hate this girl... still... to this day!) I also wouldn't have exchanged monosyllabic pleasantries and small talk with the "mild to moderately" retarded chick that I "randomly" met had I received a lyrical heads-up that she was sleeping with my (now ex)husband. (Yes, he did actually cheat on me with a retarded girl and let me assure you it does nothing for the self esteem! When I found out, she asked me if I was mad... and she was serious!)

I am not crazy enough to think that if I had a soundtrack bad things wouldn't happen - I am just sure that at 16, when my water broke while I was wearing my Snoopy pajamas and had my friends sleeping over, Otis Redding might have made it a little less humiliating.

Kissing Frogs

When I was about 5 years old I fell in love, not like the minor crushes I had before, real and impenetrable love that lasted for more than next 10 years of my life. His name was Michael Jackson (yes, that Michael Jackson, but in my defense it was his pre-baby dangling days) and although he was 10 years my senior we were meant to be together. I knew him better than other people did. Every time he sang or did an interview, I could see the pain and pressure that fame was putting him through. I imagined our first meeting: I would get to go to a concert and be picked, along with a handful of other girls, to go backstage. (This selection would be based on my gleaming smile and soulful eyes – I had high hopes at 14) All of the other girls would be screaming and demanding autographs. I, however, would be cool, hold back and when he noticed me… I wouldn’t scream or rip at his clothes; I would just talk to him like a normal guy. I would recommend some good books, Of Mice and Men or maybe Animal Farm (again, I was 14 and knew he liked animals), and we would just talk. He would be so infatuated with me because I treated him like a “normal” guy that we would become friends and talk on the phone after every concert. Eventually we would fall in love and then he would propose to me at my senior prom, where he performed (for free) and dedicated every song to me. Now obviously this little fantasy of mine did not work out (I outgrew my crush after the BAD album, Michael Jackson’s face slowly whittled away to nothing, and he became a rampant pee-pee toucher) but I continued to look for people who in my opinion other people didn’t understand or I thought I could transform. I dated a couple of “bad boys” because I wanted to be their salvation and (I am ashamed to admit) even dated one very religious boy because I wanted to be his one temptation. (I know this was crazy, even for me). I saw boys not the way they were but the way I assumed they were and if they needed, I wanted to fix them. Most of my assumptions were way off, based on nothing more than a first impression combined with my very, very vivid imagination. The boys I considered sooooo bad were honestly just poor (my sister and I grew up on the upper end of middle class) break dancers (Reminder: It was the ‘80s and I was brainwashed by the movies Breakin’ and Breakin’ 2 – Electric Boogaloo). I mean, they weren’t exactly naïve, clean-cut young men but they weren’t Leopold or Loeb (Side note: Leopold and Loeb were thrill killers from the 1920s – Google it… it is quite interesting). The religious boy was indeed very religious (Evidenced by him getting down on his knees and praying after every make-out session. I am so, so serious!). Ironically, he ended up a crack-head in his mid-20s. If only I could use my powers for good instead of evil.

I guess I just wanted to kiss a frog and end up with a Prince. Isn’t that the dream of most little girls? If he changes for me, be it for better or worse (Don’t you just hate it when you break up with a boy and he takes it well? Not, even a little post-separation stalking!), it means I am special – you know like Cinderella, Beauty, or Ariel. God forbid a woman just meet a nice guy, get to know him, have respective HIV tests, get married, have children, grandchildren, retire, eat oatmeal and die. No, that is never good enough (The oatmeal thing is optional, my grandparents ate an immense amount of ham salad, that oddly they made from scratch out of bologna because it was cheaper. My little oddities are starting to make sense now aren’t they?) In order to have a truly romantic and destined relationship, young girls are trained to believe that we have to overcome adversity, hurdle some monumental obstacle. It took me thirty years but I finally realized the main obstacle I needed to overcome was me. I needed to get over myself. I needed to stop saying, “He’s just too nice” and looking at my sweet guy friends and saying, “Why can’t I find a guy like you”. I needed to stop acting on immediate physical attraction and then sifting through pounds and pounds of bullshit to find an honest emotional connection or a sliver of mutual respect. I needed to flip the script and act on the latter and then let the physical attraction build. It makes no sense that I would let a guy show up for a “date” three hours late with his friends in the car over and over again but if that first kiss didn’t make my panties drop, I couldn’t see a future.

I admit openly and honestly that I in the past I have been a ”love moron” (I once apologized to someone for driving him to cheat) but I am very proudly recovered. Believe me, I do not claim to have all of the answers, but I am attaching a few hints that helped me during my recovery process.

• Of course he tells you his wife is a bitch but how many men have come up to you and said, “My wife is a sweetheart and great mother. I still tell her I love her every night before we make love but I would really you to pull up your skirt and bend over.”
• If you bring out the worst in each other to the point where you are fist fighting, it is time to find someone who brings out the best in you.
• It is alright to be single sometimes, that is why God made HBO and vibrators.
• If he has been fired more than three times since you’ve met, it probably isn’t the “stupid manager’s” fault.
• If he cheated on her with you, there is a 90 to 95% chance that he will cheat on you to be with the next.
• Just because two puzzle pieces don’t fit together, it does not mean that either is broken. It just means that they were made to fit somewhere else.
• Bitch, Cunt, and Slut are usually not terms of endearment.
• There is no Earthly vagina that cures alcoholism or drug addiction, if there was they’d make prostitution legal and put a Cooter Kiosk in every hospital and rehab center.
  

My Super Sweet 41st Birthday

Before I begin today's diatribe, I have to handle a few bits of "blogging business". First, I really need to thank my friend Mark for his help. He proofreads my blog every day and gives me corrections and feedback. It is not easy being my friend yet he still hangs in there (speaks volumes about his character but not much about his sanity). Second, from now on I will only have new post Monday through Friday, Saturday and Sunday will be saved for my very understanding husband and children (it only seems fair). Now on with the show...

Although it is a bit embarrassing to admit, I once spent an entire Saturday watching a marathon of MTV's My Super Sweet Sixteen. For those of you who have never seen it, let me summarize it for you - Each episode is devoted to the planning and execution of a 16th birthday party for an incredibly spoiled child with incredibly rich but stupid parents. Some of the parents are celebrities or sports stars and a few are just really wealthy business men and women but they are all, for the most part, stupid. Stupid? Yes, stupid! Their children are the most spoiled, ungrateful beings ever filmed and yet Mom and Dad are laying out (if you are not sitting down, you may want to) 10s of thousands of dollars for parties and for the cherry on top, at the end of each episode these little heathens are presented with a car. (No, not Corsicas, Tempos, or Nissans! We are talking BMWs, Escalades, and Mercedes). It is mind-blowing. These parties have well-known musical artists performing and one kid sent pre-loaded iPOD's to each of his guests as invitations. It was sick (and not in a good way). I had a pretty nice 16th birthday party. My parents rented a party venue, there was a DJ, and a cake shaped like Michael Jackson! It was wonderful! I was happy! We had fun and my parents didn't have to mortgage our house to pay for it! These kids are horrible and have done nothing to deserve such indulgences... but I have! So, I have been secretly planning My Super Sweet 41st Birthday!!!! (This party is dependent upon my winning the lottery... twice... but this is how it would go!

My Super Sweet 41st Birthday would have an Old School Theme. I would rent out our local skating rink and immediately have the parking lot repaved and then I would have the cement painted purple paisley. Each of my guest would receive hand delivered invitations accompanied by...Raspberry Berets for the women and sequined gloves for the men. There will be a stage set up in the parking lot where The Bangles and Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam will be alternating performances while people are entering the main event.

My V.I.P.s and I will make my entrance an hour after everyone arrives, Spinderella will stop the music and the lights will go dark. My girls and I, will come in dressed in military attire and do the dance sequence from Rhythm Nation. 5...4...3...2...1! My guests will go wild!

After we finish, the girls and I will all go change into very hot outfits and I will take the stage. I will point out the different dance podiums that I have had built throughout the building (Just like on Soul Train and the long haired Black-Chinese girl dancing in the corner... Just like on Soul Train). Right at that moment New Edition will take the stage with BOTH Bobby Brown and Johnny Gill (of course, that means Eddie Murphy will be somewhere close behind, no pun intended). After performing Mr. Telephone Man and If It Isn't Love the lights lower and they start to sing Can You Stand The Rain and my husband and I take the floor (he is wearing a white tuxedo shirt, bow tie, and a members only jacket). When we get done dancing I go to the Boone's Farm Wine Bar and order a plastic cup of Strawberry Hill.

Right at that moment my sister takes the microphone and tells me she has a surprise for me!...A surprise?... what for me?... And then I hear it, a bird call of sorts?... Oh my god (OMG for those of you under 30) my sister has hired Morris Day and the Time. Immediately I am pulled on stage and although I am overcome with emotion, I still look incredible...

OK... so maybe I got carried away but it could've been worse. I could've had Bananarama pole dancing next to the bar and Marky-Mark and the Funky Bunch giving Lap Dances in the Champagne Room. I'm just sayin', if money is to be spent on a party it should be a.) spent on someone who deserves it and b.) spent on someone who truly knows how to party and since I will be chauffeured home from the party in a little red Corvette driven by Prince, I think that someone should be me.

Please send pledges of donations for my Super Sweet 41st Birthday Party to olivesandunderpants@comcast.net. However, I'm fairly certain donations are not tax deductible.

Thank You

Girls, Friends, and BFFs

In my lifetime I have found that there are three types of friends (I give the disclaimer that this is from a girl’s viewpoint,t it could be quite different for boys – if I had a penis, I might have a much different perspective). I must tell you, though, that I am talking about true FRIENDS – not acquaintances, co-workers, or even “clubbing buddies”, true friendship is very different.

The first type of friend is the “GOOD” friend (not “good” in the level of friendship but “good” in general personality and being). The “good” friend is kind to you, strokes your ego when you need her to, she chooses her words carefully if she doesn’t like your outfit and will hold your hand as you cry over your breakup from a complete jerk. Christa is my good friend. We have been friends since before high school. She has been with me through weddings and funerals, celebrations and heartbreaks and never once have we exchanged cross words. There have been many times that she should have thrown me to the wolves (Like the time I told her that I was pregnant with my daughter, two hours after I had given birth to her. I had hidden being pregnant with big boobs and big tee shirts. I was unmarried and already had two kids and really don’t handle confessions well) but not Christa, she put me on hold for about thirty seconds and then made plans to come and see me and my new baby at the hospital. Why? Because she is a good friend!

The second type of friend is the “BEST” friend (to clarify the “best” friend isn’t necessarily a better person than your other friends, it is just who she is). The “best” friend shows up or calls whenever you need her and is reliable. She will tell if your jeans are a tad too tight but will help you pick out a new outfit that is just perfect. You share history and secrets with her and when your jerk of a boyfriend breaks up with you, she reminds you that he never deserved you. Now my best friends are Annie, Michelle, Mandy, and my baby sister, these are four of the most outstanding women that you will ever meet. All four are very different but they have one common thread – they love me (I told you I am adorable) When I had my gallbladder removed, Annie sat with me until they wheeled me into the operating room. She didn’t flinch when, after being given a mild sedative, I told the lovely black man in scrubs that she was my life partner. She helped me clear the dance floor at the club so that we could do the dance routine to Ghetto Superstar that we had made up earlier. (Two quick side notes: We were VERY drunk and my sister was there but when we began to dance she pretended not to know us). Michelle and Mandy both let me be my crazy, quirky self all of the time. They encourage me every time we speak and I admire them immeasurably. Mandy has a fear of store bought dairy products and has taken to making her own cheese and yogurt (You really didn’t need to know that but damn it, it’s funny). Michelle and my sister are very much the same – They always seem to have it all together, they are incredibly smart and beautiful and have seen me through more tough times than I can count. (I have single handedly borrowed $7,410 from my sister in $10 and $20 increments yet she never makes me feel bad about it and I once called Michelle, drunk, at 5am in the morning and whispered “If my boyfriend calls you later – I was with you last night.” She called me a drunk bitch and hung up but later… when he called... she did as I asked – no questions asked).

The last type of friend is your “GIRL”. Your “girl” always has your back. However, she may or may not show up on your birthday (it depends what other offers she has) and she definitely won’t tell your jeans are too small, she will tell you that your ass is too big. She won’t sit and listen to you cry over “some dumb-ass” guy but she will slip on a fierce black outfit and stocking cap and then “key his fuckin’ car”. My girls are Felicia and Chrystal – they are both nuts (and sometimes a little scary). Chrystal knows everybody and everything about them. She comes across tough but is actually a sweetheart but you never want to get on her bad side. Back when I was out in the “dating scene”, I asked her about a guy and she was able to report on him like a resume. “Has had four jobs in the last two years. His ex-girlfriend has herpes and he smoked crack from’93 to ’98”. Enough said. That's my girl - short, sweet and to the point.. no edit button. Ask her, "Hey do you know Shaniqua?" and she'll answer, "Yep! That Bitch is so nasty, she has roaches in her car!" . If you tell her, "I think Andre is attractive.", she will respond, "He's fine but he has the dick of an 8 year old chinese boy". Yeah, that's Chrystal and exactly why I love her but during my “leaner” financial times (that was from 1989 until 2009), Felicia taught me how to handle bill collectors (when they call, you use a Chinese accent and broken English and say, “She no live here, she not nice girl. She owe me money, too. You find her, tell her call Ms. Kim.” and then you hang up). She is also the one who introduced me to the Dollar Store. The first time I made my husband dinner , she was the one who ran out a half an hour before he set to arrive and bought a set of drinking glasses for me (I called her hysterical when I realized that I only had McDonald’s collectors glasses and Hardee’s Moose Cups in the cabinet). I was her partner in the delivery room when she gave birth to her daughter (She told me that if I started being too “chipper and cheery” or emotional, she would kick my fat ass out of the room. She is evil when she is in pain).

All of us should have at least one of each of these types of friends, just in case you have to kill someone. Your good friend will probably turn you in but she will pray for your soul and visit you weekly in the penitentiary. You best friend will lie for you under oath and if you still get convicted she will smuggle you in a cake with a file in it. But your girl will help you bury the body and take you out for tequila shots after you're done.

Hey Kool-Aid!

When we were little, my sister and I used to fight… a lot. I mean a whole lot. It was like Holyfield vs. Tyson in our house every afternoon. She was two years younger but faster, smarter and stronger than me. She was the dominant person in our relationship (still is) but I could be a bit of a jackass. (I would pick fights with my sister that I couldn’t possibly win and would then grab the phone and lock myself in the bathroom until my parents came home) So we fought, constantly. My hair was longer and I threw it in her face. I was only an inch taller but 50 pounds heavier and she threw that in mine. Nasty words were shouted, punches were thrown, and furniture was broken. It was ridiculous and if my two cousins (Boys – one chubby and one skinny, mean and wiry. Bet you can guess where the lines were drawn) were at our house it was twice as bad. Because of all of the drama and the constant phone calls at work, my parents enlisted the services of a neighborhood high school boy to come over and “babysit” during the day in the summer. We were too old for a sitter so maybe he was more a referee but he did his job and he did it well. We laid out by the pool, spent two weeks putting together a neighborhood production of Grease in our backyard, and I began my lifelong addiction to General Hospital (Did I mention I think he was gay?) But when he was around, we didn’t fight and we learned to get along. She and I found that if we just worked together, we could get away with a lot more shit.

In an attempt to stop our father from smoking, we poked pin holes in his cigarettes. When that didn’t work we carefully emptied out the tobacco from each one and put the unfilled cigarettes back in the pack. Around the holidays we would carefully unwrap and then rewrap all of our gifts to assure that we would be satisfied on Christmas morning and once when we found ingredients in the fridge for our least favorite meal (Ham and Cheese Soup – YUCK!) we hid them in the broken dishwasher. (My mom was so mad but that was one bullet we were willing to take!) But the act of “teamwork” that I remember most clearly is what I like to refer to as the “Unfortunate Kool-Aid Incident”.

Back in the early '80s, Kool-Aid used to have points on the back of every packet and my sister and I would collect them. These points could be traded in for Kool-Aid merchandise (i.e., Beach Blankets, Tee Shirts, Comic Books, etc…) but what we wanted most of all was a glass Kool-Aid pitcher that looked just like the “Hey Kool-Aid” guy. It was really cool (sorry, kool) and when the Kool-Aid booth came to the State Fair we knew we only had ten days to earn enough points to make our artificially flavored drink mixed dream a reality. One hitch, though, our dad made us promise that we would not throw away or waste the Kool-Aid, we had to drink it. So we drank glass after glass after… glass… pitcher… after… pitcher… after… Well, you get the idea. That last day we drank about 6 pitchers (that’s 12 quarts- 384 ounces) of orange Kool-Aid. We rooted each other on when we thought we could drink no more, pushing each other to the limit. We sloshed back and forth to the bathroom, stomachs distended with the faux orange liquid deliciousness, just waiting for our father to get off work. We must have counted those points a dozen times! We were ready… bloated but ready!

When our dad pulled up we grabbed our points and headed out to the car. Our dad asked us “Do you have enough points?” We told him we did and he pulled out of the driveway. “And you drank the Kool-Aid? You didn’t waste the Kool-Aid?” he asked starting down the street. We assured him that we drank it all. All 6 pitchers! He said came to a sharp stop at the corner and turned to look at us (probably in shock) just as we began to vomit all over his backseat. He turned the car around and took us home. We didn’t get the pitcher and we didn’t drink Kool-Aid again - for a very long time.

It is perfectly fine to be white!

I spent this past weekend doing one of my favorite things… No, not skiing, not yachting, and obviously not competing in any sort of Walk-A-Thon (I do not do “A-Thons”. They make me feel like if I am out of shape, I am condoning the issue. “You only walked a block in a half? You must be Pro-Child Abuse!) No, I spent this Saturday and Sunday curled up on my couch watching very low-budget horror movies. I love bad horror movies, actually I love most horror movies, but if the actors are bad, the premise is poor, and I can see the fishing line pulling the newly animated severed hand across the counter, I am ecstatic! I don’t know why but they are just so damn entertaining – Ice Spiders (Gigantic, radioactive spiders attack a ski lodge), Frankenfish (A genetically altered Snakehead fish attacks and kills in a Louisiana Bayou), and my new favorite Drive Thru (A fast food restaurant mascot, Horny the Clown, kills Orange County teens with the “meat cleaver from Hell”). This might very well have been the funniest movie I have ever seen – The actors were ridiculous, the script was atrocious, and Horny the Clown was seriously hilarious! However it was the opening scene that I would like to discuss.

The movie begins with four very, very, Caucasian, (not that there is anything wrong with that) Orange County teenagers riding around in an Escalade. Two of the teenagers are performing some sort of sexual act in the backseat (Most low-budget horror movies double as soft-core porn, except for those on the Sci-Fi network – they keep it real!). Anyway one of the white boys is sporting cornrows and the other very closely resembled what I can only imagine Kevin Federline and Eminem’s love child would be and the O.C. chicks are just loving it. Throughout the scene they talk about “Bustin’ caps”, drink malt liquor, and call each other “Nigga’”. Well, that is until one gets split literally in two with a meat cleaver and the other gets his face plunged into the deep fryer (seriously, an incredible movie). But this leads me to yet another Public Service Announcement.

White people, it is o.k. to be white… non-whites will still like you. Please, please, please, I beg all of you adorable blue-eyed, toe-headed darlings from the tiny towns of 1500 (usually having only one black guy, probably named Otis, who keeps to himself) to stop trying to sound like you are from South Central L.A... Why? Why do you do this? I just don’t understand. If it is to fit in, you don’t need to; we would really prefer that you didn’t. I cannot speak for all people of color but I am sure that a majority of Native Americans would also appreciate it if people would stop putting on sweatshirts emblazoned with the profile of a wolf, hanging dream catchers from their rearview mirrors and claiming to be 1/8th Cherokee. All of you could not be 1/8th Cherokee, it is not possible. What about all of the other tribes? The Illini? The Quileute? The Unami? There are so many but when was the last time you heard “I am 1/8th Luckiamute.” (Yeah, they are real tribes, I did my research. But why is it always 1/8th?)

Truly, I understand wanting to be something different. In the 7th and 8th grade I desperately wanted to be Asian. I taught myself to use chopsticks, spent an excessive amount of time at the mall’s Asian Gift Store, and tried to learn as many Korean words as possible from Mr. Kim, my best friend’s father. So I do appreciate the longing to feel exotic , but I was 12 and these are grown people. I think it would be absolutely outstanding to see a 6 foot 3 inch dark-skinned black man walking around in wooden shoes claiming to be 1/16th Dutch. How about a Vietnamese woman wearing a Kiss Me I’m Irish tee shirt and ordering her beer with a thick Irish brogue? How great would that be?

I’m just saying that if you are indeed Native American, wonderful! If you have Latino descendants, superb! And if you’re white and from South Central, that’s cool too… but if you are Dawn Marie from Pleasantville, pull up your pants and take off the Snitches Get Stitches Tee Shirt.

Remember: You don’t have black in you, just because you did last night!

Verbal Vomit

I am sure at this point you all see me as a cool, calm, and collected woman of grace and dignity (yeah, right) but I have to be honest and admit I have a slight, but ever-present disability. When I get nervous, I tend to blurt out inappropriate things. It is as though my inner mind-to-mouth filters cease to exist. I call this problem Verbal Vomit, from the Latin Verbalist Vomiticus.

I once told my son’s new girlfriend that she was dressed like a porn star (he had told me that he really liked her and he asked me to make good impression – it was too much pressure). When starting a new job, I told my new co-workers that it was usually hard for me to make friends because of how pretty I am (yes I did say it with a straight face). When my husband got down on one knee and proposed marriage, I said “Are you fucking with me?”.

But to date, my worst bout with Verbal Vomit was probably when I was called for Jury Duty.

When I got that little card in the mail, I was soooo excited. (Crazy, huh?) I realize that most people try to get out of jury duty but was determined to get picked. I was going to do my civil duty, play my part in keeping my community safe and just, and participate in something much larger than me. On the day I reported I dressed the part of a smart, conscientious, respectable citizen in a nice sweater, nice skirt, pantyhose, and heels (Mistake #1 – if I am not comfortable, I get nervous). I answered the initial set of questions thoughtfully and honestly (If you have never been called for jury duty, it is an “experience" to say the least. Most everyone there’s trying to avoid being selected, so they are doing their very best to look crazy, racist, or just plan incompetent and believe me they are doing a fantastic job). But me… I made it through the first part of the process and was taken to a different floor, where I was ushered into a court room. It was just like on Law & Order except the room was pretty much empty – No Judge, No Prosecutor, No Defense, and they didn’t do the Law & Order music (which oddly is now my cell phone ring tone) Where was everybody, you ask. Well, in a room behind the courtroom, of course. The room was small and had a round table right in the middle (which threw me off because I think I assumed it should be rectangle or at the very least square, which led to Mistake #2 – Sometimes I get fixated on completely unimportant things which keeps me from focusing my energy on being normal – and believe me it is truly best for everybody if I stay focused). Besides me, there was the Judge, two Prosecutors, the Defense Attorney, and the killer (Ooooh I’m sorry ALLEGED killer). After I sat down the Judge, seemingly a nice guy, explained to me that they would just be asking me some questions and that I should just relax and answer honestly (Mistake #3 – Strangers should never tell me to relax; the exact opposite always happens). Everything started off fine they asked me casual questions… What type of work do I do? Am I married? Do I have children? Pets? Hobbies? And then came the question that caused everything to go bad – extraordinarily bad.

What is your favorite television show? (Seems like a simple enough question, doesn’t it?)

“Dawson’s Creek”, I answered.

They continued to ask questions I continued to answer but then I raised my hand. (There were five other people in the room and I raised my hand)

“Yes?” the judge asked.

“I think I just perjured myself”

“How so?”

“I don’t watch Dawson’s Creek. I don’t know why I said that. I’ve seen it in bits and pieces but I don’t watch it. I mean I know who Joey and Pacey are but I ‘m not like Pro-Dawson / Anti-Pacey or anything. Well, I guess I might be a little Pro-Pacey but I really think that is just because I think Dawson’s head might be a bit too large. You know, like a hydrocephalic.”

“Well…”, the Prosecutor asked hesitantly, “What IS your favorite television show?”

“Law & Order. But don’t hold that against me. I don’t think I know everything about the courtroom because I watch it. I don’t. “ I cocked my head to the side, “But I am pretty sure that I can cut a tracheotomy with a box cutter and a ball point pen because I saw it on ER. Don’t worry though I would only do it in an emergency. Just for the record – I don’t hate hydrocephalics.”

They all just sat there wide-eyed. Amazed. The killer (Again, sorry. Alleged killer), however, looked exceptionally entertained. I apologized and explained that I was nervous. They asked me a few more questions but… very… very carefully.

Finally they asked me, “If the defendant is found guilty, do you think that you would be able to vote for the death penalty without personal prejudice?”

I looked directly at the ALLEGED killer and said, “Betcha’ hope I say no, don’tcha?” He laughed.

I did not get selected for Jury Duty.

Moonlight and Lesbians, part deux

For those of you who are daily readers of Olives and Underpants, I thank you. For any newcomers, I welcome you. Today I will be making some slight… corrections to yesterday’s blog Moonlight and Lesbians. "Why?", you ask. Because, well because at age 40… uhhmmm… my Mommy told me to. Suggested that I should, really. According to my mother, my memory has faltered on two points.

1. That she took my Aunt’s hand to skate onto the floor. And…
2. That she knocked the mean lady on her ass.

Apparently she skated onto the floor alone while my aunt ducked away pretending not to know her. I realize that only a handful of my readers are acquainted with my aunt but this scenario is quite believable because my aunt does truly hate confrontation and my mom can be more than a bit embarrassing when she is on a mission (Sorry, mom but rage makes you crazy.) I was also asked to clarify the fact that my Mother, my dear sweet adorable Mother, did not a.) Kick the lady’s ass b.) Knock the lady down or c.) Purposely cause the lady any physical harm. Her version of the story is that she simply skated on to the floor and coolly and calmly tapped the women on the shoulder and she must have fallen from shock.

Those are the corrections that I was asked to make and I have. (I am nothing if not accommodating.) I am sure that now that the story has been revised that none of you will think my mother is (as she put it) some sort of hooligan!

So, in summary: My memory may be occasionally foggy, my aunt does not like confrontation, my mother is NOT, and I repeat NOT a hooligan but can be so incredibly terrifying that sometimes you just fall down.

There, Mom! Now you don’t have to skate over to my house and kick MY ass!

I love you, thank you for being such a good sport!! – D.