I Wish Amanda Bynes Was Gary Busey!

Anyone who has spent more than an hour with me knows that I have a few tiny (tiny like the Titanic) personality quirks.

• I speak entirely too loud in social situations.  This fact is something that drives my husband completely nuts.  When we first got married, he would shush me and my feelings would get hurt.  No if he shushes me, I just whisper Fuck You as softly as possible and keep on chatting like a foghorn!
• I am psychologically unable to pump gas to an even number.  I, also, won't set my alarm clock to even number (or :15 because, although it is an odd number, it still feels even).
• I hate for my food to touch, unless it is cooked that way.  (For example, lasagna, spaghetti, Mongolian Beef - GOOD. Ranch dressing from my salad drips onto my pizza - It all goes into the trash and I stare at my husband until he hands my another piece because I am far too upset to get it myself.)
• I am terrifically afraid of crickets, ventriloquist dolls, and things that scurry (i.e; possums, aliens, Kim Kardashian's vagina)
• I get physically uncomfortable when someone uses the word moist.
• And if someone begins the mana mana part of the Muppet Mana Mana Song, I have to finish.  The mana mana can not just be left hanging. 

These are just a few (and quite frankly the smallest) of my many, MANY eccentricities.  I am not proud of the fact that I find it unsettling to wear socks that match.  I openly and honestly admit that despite my best efforts to stop, whenever I am in the company of the hearing impaired, I sign while I speak... Even though I know absolutely NO sign language.  It in NO way resembles true sign language.  I suspect I just look like a really succinct Italian. (You know because they talk a lot with their hands. Is that racist? Oops). Actually that may not be entirely accurate because I once made the bunny head shadow puppets fingers on both hands and tapped them together twice as the sign for kissing and I don't think Italians do that.  (Obviously, I would have stuck my tongue out while doing it for French Kissing). Anyway, it is because of my own personal oddities that I have a soft spot for the crazies or to be politically correct, the mentally preposterous.  Not like "Jeffrey Dahmer I'm gonna make me a human salad" crazy but more like Britney Spears before her comeback (I call her Britney 2.0 now - I called her Bald Vagina-flasher back then, during what I like to call,  "the unfortunate unhinging").

However, presently, its the plight of America's sweetheart Amanda Bynes that is weighing heavily on my heart.  I mean she has gone from adorkable young ingenue to wig-wearin', pot smokin' cray-cray in 3.5 seconds.  (Disclaimer:  Although I do not smoke weed, I have NOTHING against those that do.)  I am not judging.  I myself have done the mental dance to Patsy Cline, a time or two. (That was a reference to Crazy by Patsy Cline.  Sorry, I just assumed you knew.)  I have stayed in bed for days crying for no reason other than a movie made me sad.  Damn, that Ryan Gosling!   I also cried hysterically when we traded in our car, Sugarbear (that was her name), for our SUV, Spike (that's his name).  I was completely overwhelmed with emotion...  Sugarbear had been with us during so many good times and I wasn't sure that her new owners would appreciate her.  Much to my husband's horror, I sat in her driver's seat, tears streaming, and thanked her for the good times and years of reliable transportation The climax of this particular "emotional roller coaster" came when I began to detail, to the used car salesman, the story of how Sugarbear had driven my grandson home from the hospital.  At this point my husband stepped in.  He lovingly embraced me, pressing my tear (and snot) covered face into his chest and whispered sweetly into my ear, "Shut the fuck up, your scaring the nice man".   

But I digress... I feel bad for Amanda Bynes.  The whole world, at least those of us who check Huffington Post Celebrity every 1/2 an hour, is watching her breakdown.  We all gawked at our computer screens as she strutted around New York in her dead hobo wig claiming to be working on her rap album.  We bore witness when she panicked as police approached and threw her bong out of apartment window. (When I replay it, I hear Miley Cyrus and the ghost of Bob Marley screaming "Noooooo" as it falls to the concrete below in slow motion.) And worse yet, we sat in quiet contemplation as she set fire to an old lady's driveway after "cabbing it" from New York to California.

I really believe that if I had 1/2 a chance (although I am not quite sure how one could have 1/2 a chance but it sounds so much more dramatic)  I could help her... I could help her work through the 

5 Steps of Crazy

 

1. Denial - There is absolutely nothing wrong with me!  It is completely normal to argue with your own shadow.
2. Sadness - Why does my shadow (let's call him Phillip) keep yelling at me?
3. Paranoia - Did you hear that? Phillip, I think Chung Li, or Sunny (as she calls herself), planted a microchip in my thumb during my last manicure.
4. Rage - Phillip, I know that you and Chung Li are working together and I'm gonna kick your ass! (This stage is either terribly dangerous or terrifically hilarious, depending on who the crazy (I'm sorry the mentally preposterous) is angry with).  Wow!  Parentheses inside of parentheses, I think that's a first for me!                                       
5. Crazy/Happy -  Phillip, I'm so sorry that I ever doubted you.  I love you so much. Let's stay together forever!...   US Weekly Headline "Famous Whackjob Marries Her Own Shadow - Suri Cruise is Flower Girl"

These steps are unavoidable 99% of the time and without proper guidance someone like little Mandy Bynes could ebb and flow between numbers 3, 4 & 5 for years. (Example: Meryl Streep)  I probably couldn't cure Amanda, she obviously needs some sort of prescriptive cocktail and Walgreens is no longer accepting the prescription that I had been submitting on my Honey Badger Notepad... apparently, I can NOT become a physician assistant by studying WebMD and 40 viewing hours of   The Untold Stories of ER (I also did 25 hours of I Didn't Know I was Pregnant, so I could be a homestudy Emergency OB/GYN but that's not relevant right now) BUT at least get her dial it down a notch.  I should probably admit, though, that I may have a slightly inflated sense of self.  Not only do I think I could save Ms. Bynes, I also think I could cut an effective tracheotomy with a box cutter and a crazy straw or give an Oscar worthy performance as Tituba in The Crucible (not the Wynona Ryder version but a better version, starring Kate Upton). I also know in my heart of hearts that I could successfully try a homicide case and/or commit the perfect murder.  I may not be perfect or, as the kids say (in 1994), be "all that" but I know where my talents lie and am nothing if not a talented makeshift emergency surgeon/unlicensed trial lawyer/possible killer/ gifted actress/ self-taught psychotherapist.  So who better to help Amanda Bynes? I realize that she is currently being evaluated by "medical professionals" but I know that in my capable hands she could find the peace and clarity that she so desperately needs.

 

I am such a humanitarian. 

 

Look at all the good I did for Gary Busey.  Some of you probably don't know that he was one of my "pet projects" but yes, indeed, he was.  He was a nut job when I got hold of him.  It was MY care and vast knowledge of the human psyche that took Busey from any aging, dangerously insane, over-toothed actor to an aging, basically harmless but still insane, over-toothed actor... and don't we all love us some Busey? 

 

 

 

Let's make Amanda Bynes the next Gary Busey!

Pedophiles and Pantyliners

Last night I had a dirty dream featuring me and.... wait for it... wait for it.... me and George Lopez! Yes. That George Lopez. And no, I don't mean Mario Lopez! I mean George Lopez - comedian, sitcom star, and talk show host. Now I realize that he is not the traditional "sex symbol" but I am not ashamed (my aunt once had a really FILTHY dream about Al Roker). Anyway, it wasn't really that dirty just some kissing and what my mother once referred to as "heavy petting". Besides, in my dream, George was super sweet and a fantastic salsa dancer and offered me a robe when I found myself in lingerie at the baseball game (it was a really weird dream) and honestly I was just glad that I was dreaming about a guy who was old enough to vote and was not sitting in a urine soaked toilet paper diaper. I say this because my last little foray into the erotic unconscious involved a young man who may not yet be able to drive without his mother in the car and my apparent need to up my Keigle exercise repertoire. Let me explain:

It is was about a week and a half before Christmas, maybe three days into Hanukkah, and I was still unemployed and had done little-to-no holiday shopping. Therefore I am sure you can imagine the two questions that were pulsating through my brain. #1. Does simply having an (exceptionally) erotic dream about a 17 year old boy make you a pedophile? And #2. When the hell did I start leaking piss when I cough?
I'll start with #1. I am ashamed to admit that I like millions of other women and girls (and approximately 1,352,143 fabulously gay males), have fallen under the spell of The Twilight Novels and subsequently the movies. And since being introduced into the Wonderful World of Vampires and their Undead Heartaches I have fallen into love with Jacob ... The Werewolf. And apparently, if my dream was any indication, in lust with the actor who plays him… the trouble is that man (o.k., boy) is only seventeen years old. Don't judge me! I have no idea how this happened. I am definitely not that type of girl. I am NO cougar. (Well, except for back in ’98 when I had brief (but incredibly intense) and terribly inappropriate crush on the Disney Channel’s Famous Jett Jackson. But that wasn’t really my fault; he was too good looking for his age. I blame Disney! They knew mothers would be watching – they were baiting us.) Seriously though, I generally want a man who possesses profound wisdom and a wealth of life experiences. A man who knows exactly who he is and what he stands for. A man who can take complete control of a situation and handle his business! And I cannot imagine that a 17 year old, a 21 year old, or even a 30 year old could be that wise, resolute or commanding. So, then how did I find myself panting and cold sweating over a high school senior? I felt so dirty! Like I should join some damn support group (Hi, my name is Davis and I like teenage boy action heroes) or put myself on an Internet available list that hinders me from living 500 feet from a high school, a Boys’ Club or a neighborhood basketball court.

Anyway, I was so disturbed by this offensive albeit gloriously sexually liberating dream that I could do nothing but think about it for hours and hours… I thought about it while I lounged in the bed, I thought about while I cleaned the house, I thought about it while I ran errands and made my family dinner, I thought about it twice while I soaked in the tub, and I was still thinking about it when I finally curled up in my favorite chair to rest. How could I be so disgusting as to have such distressingly erotic fantasy about a boy my son’s age? I mean, it shouldn’t matter how buff and muscular he is or how his smooth tanned young flesh seems to actually glisten on screen or how delicious his plump über-kissable bottom lip might look whispering my name… over and over... and over… but I digress, he is just a child! Someone’s baby! So, I was just sitting there, hormones raging, brain cells on over-drive, contemplating what I could do to ensure the sexual safety of teenage boy werewolves everywhere when I began to cough. And cough. And cough. And cough. And deep, croopy, painful cough that left me winded and just a teensy bit… shall I say... moist.

MOIST! but not in a good way! What the hell? When did I start leaking piss when I cough? I WATCH the Golden Girls! I am not ONE OF the Golden Girls! But I calmed myself... maybe it was just a fluke. I was, indeed, just getting over a nasty bout of pneumonia and perhaps I had over-hydrated! Yeah, that was it! And maybe the meds I was on had caused my pedophilic dreams So, I just got up, changed my clothes, slipped quietly back into my normal routine.

And then it happened again! COUGH! COUGH! PISS!

And then again! COUGH! COUGH! PISS!

And again! COUGH! PISS! COUGH! PISS!

And so on... and so forth.or .. until I was completely out of underwear and down to one wholly pair of sweats! At this point, desperately I slip into a pair of husband's boxer briefs and start searching frantically for a maxi-pad, a mini-pad, wings, no wings, ANY sort pantie protection. (Sidenote: I had a hysterectomy years ago, my daughter was out of town and had seemingly taken all of her "supplies" with her, and my husband was gone with the car - so things were not looking up) I rip into the hall closet searching to no avail for an abandoned pantyliner or possibly a sample Depends Undergarment that may arrived in the mail without my knowledge. (Had anyone been home at the time I must have resembled crackhead looking for a fallen crack rock in a white shag rug.) I was maniacal, mad with distress, and was having no luck... no luck at until... well, until I found the Little Swimmer.

• YES, in fact, I did find one of my granddaughter's Little Swimmer swimming pool pampers!
• 
  
• And, YES, I did use scissors and a safety pin to fashion this pamper into an archaic form sanitary napkin which I then used to protect my husband's underwear from my impromptu potty squirts!
• 
  
• And, NO, I am not proud of this moment in my urinary history!

BUT, I am not ashamed, either, because

a.) according to the Internet "light bladder leakage affects 1 in 3 women" and

b.) walking around in boys' underpants with a Little Swimmer stuffed between my legs really waters-down my desire to be anybody's Prom Date.

So for now, I am dry and teenage boys everywhere are safe!

I'mmmmmmm Back!

I know, I know... it's been awhile and before I left, I promised at least one blog a week. I have failed you but I have a REALLY good excuse.... I'm lazy. That's it, that is the truth - I AM LAZY but I promise I will try hard to make it up to you. But first things first, let's re-cap some of the things that have happened in my world (and yours) since last we last spoke. O.K. Here it goes:

• Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, and Teddy Kennedy have all passed away,
• Sarah Palin generously resigned as the Governor of Alaska,
• my granddaughter turned 3 and I turned... well, 29 again,
• I chipped my two front teeth tearing open a pack of Kool-Aid,
• I changed garbage collectors (my husband got in a fight with our old providers after they reclaimed the 65 gallon tote that we had stolen from the neighbor's house after the tenants moved away - he claimed after 6 months it was ours "fair and square" and they had No right to reclaim it -even if we hadn't paid for it),
• Tyra went on television wig-less and weave-less,
• my arch-nemesis "Oprah" has announced her impending possible retirement... again,
• I had to replace our toilet seat because the old one broke (seemingly under the weight of my ass),
• I got a new pair of orange Keds,
• I started channeling my creative juices into baking and have inundated my friends, family and the drug dealers next door with cupcakes ranging in flavors from white chocolate to coffee & Kahlua,
• Kanye went completely and totally crazy, and...
• last but not least, due to "budgetary constraints" I was laid off from my job at our local Library!

Now, I know what you are thinking! OMG, I can't believe what a GREAT summer she had! And I say to you, neither can I!

And I'll bet you are wondering, what in the world is I am doing with my time?

Finishing my novel?

Volunteering at the local food pantry?

Learning to speak Italian?

Reading to the blind?

Not quite... I have, however, re-watched every episode of the Golden Girls. I really have made dozens upon dozens of cupcakes (Seriously, my drug-dealing neighbors love me! Think about it Munchie driven drug dealers + Bored Ghetto Martha Stewart = Symbiotic Relationship) And one afternoon, I took an impromptu trip to the local adult novelty store and bought a vibrating finger sleeve that I had seen in a late-night t.v. commercial (The instruction say it can be used alone or with a partner, however, I have had it for two weeks now and I have only had it out of the case twice. Both times I was alone for the day and just walked it around house with it on my finger like some vibrating thimble. One of the times though, I did submerse my hand in a sink full of water just to see if it was, indeed, water-proof... it is.) Anyway, I have probably not been making quite as good use of my time (or adult toys) as I should be.

Not to pressure myself, but shouldn't I have solved our nation's health care crisis by now?

Or, stood on a corner near the State Capitol building holding signs in protest of something or another?

Or, at the very least, thrown away the busted toilet seat patched together with white duct tape that is currently propped up in the bathroom in ridiculous effigy to the breadth of my ass!?

I've got to get my act together! If Whitney can kick a crack habit, drop a new album, and successfully convince anyone who will listen that Bobby is The Devil, I should be able to figure out why the fuck I have 5 cans of Condensed Milk (some dating back to 2001) in my kitchen cabinet. I don't remember ever having used or, worse yet, buying Condensed milk!

So, today I am challenging myself to change my ways! (Suggestion: hum "Man in the Mirror" while reading the rest of this, it will be waaayyyy more dramatic that way.)

I am going to volunteer more!

I am going to spend no less than 2 hours a day writing!

I am going to become more politically active!

I am going to actually put away the clean silverware and stop using it straight out of the strainer!

Today is a new day and I am going to be a new me.... and as soon as the Golden Girls go off, I am up and at'em!

Summer Changes

As you may have noticed, a new blog has not been posted in a few days. Well, there's a good reason for that... I forgot. But there is a very good reason why I forgot .... It's hot. I know that sounds silly but it is true. I hate the heat, except for the super terrific rain storms, I hate the summer. (Also, the time off while my grandson was in the hospital kind of got me out of the swing of things.) So, I have some good news and some bad news. The bad news is for the rest of the summer I will only be doing weekly blog entries BUT the good news is - in my free time I will be working on my book. Yes, I am currently working on Olives and Underpants, the book. So stay tuned in and I will be in touch soon.

Hey baby, got any fries to go with that shake?

From time to time I am approached by people and asked, "Do people ever give you ideas for your blog?" And from "time to time" I mean at least every other day. Some stories that I am told are good ones that are applicable to my life and trigger a memory that I would like to share with all of you. But the other stories (although usually funny) simply don't apply to me and it would be hard for me to write about something that I didn't see or experience for myself. However, my favorite blog suggestions are not stories at all... they are more like social complaints and witty observations.

"Do a blog about how people talk too loud on their cell phones."

"Ever notice how fat people order 2 big macs, large fries, an apple pie, and a DIET soda?"

"Hey, discuss how people online lie about the way they look!"

"You should definitely write a blog about people who talk to loud at the movies."

And my personal favorite... "Please write about the cheesy pick-up lines guys use on women."

But the problem is, I tend to talk too loud on the cell phone and everywhere else for that matter. I also have been known to order a five piece Chicken Selects, super-sized Fries, and a DIET Pepsi. I also have been known to post very flattering photos on my home-pages (I never show any of my chins) and my driver's license says that I weigh 156 lbs (obviously you cannot see me right now, but I just laughed about 157 lbs of my ass off). I try to stay quiet at the movies but my husband needs to be shushed about every 15 minutes. However, I would desperately like to touch on the way men hit on woman (and sometimes vice-versa).

I completely understand that it takes alot of courage to approach someone that you find attractive and kudos to those who throw caution (and pride) to the wind and say, "Hello, I find you interesting and would like to spend some time getting to know you." That being said, please, please, please think before speaking.

I was in the elevator at work last week and a disheveled man said, "You work here?" I told him that I did. He replied, "Oooooh I wish I could find I fine hard workin' woman like you. Da' bitch I'm dealing wit' ack like she don't wanna work." And then he followed with, "Come talk to me on yo' break." I didn't answer. I just got off the elevator and went and washed my hands. Guys like that make me feel icky.

My best friend Ann and I stopped at a liquor store to pick up some Jose Quervo before a party, once and the sales clerk yelled at us as we walked out of the door, "Come back at closin' time and I'll show you why it's called liquor (lick her) and he did a super creepy licky thing with his tongue.

And then, of course, there are the guys that just walk up and grab your ass. I once had a guy even try to lick the back of my neck! Yeeee - uck!

It is amazing to me that men think that any of these things might work on any woman of quality! So, in the spirit of "Do people ever give you any ideas for your blog?" I would like to all of you to think of the cheesiest or sleaziest pick-up lines that someone has tried on you and email me and with your permission I will share them with the rest of the Olives and Underpants crowd. (Guys feel free to share your crazy pick-up stories, too. I do not discriminate).

I look forward to hearing from you soon.

olivesandunderpants@comcast.net

Tatum's joke

Obviously, I have had a very FULL week. My grandson was sick and is now doing better. My granddaughter, Marlee (age 1), made an impromptu trip to the emergency room due to an unfortunate "Running with a Straw" incident, she too is doing better but will probably be eating very soft and incredibly bland food for about a week. They are talking about lay-offs at my job (did I mention that I was the last person hired?). I had to put out $75 for my son's summer school tuition. My husband's truck is broken down and I have a rash under my boobs caused by an ill-fitting bra and sweat. But remarkably, I am in a great mood! Why, you ask?

Because my grandkids are doing fine now. I have a job now and I live in a country that has unemployment benefits for hard-working people facing tough times. My son wanted to take summer classes and I could afford the $75 (it took some juggling but I got it done!). My husband is a mechanic and will have his truck running again in no time! (And well, there is no good spin for the boob rash but it will heal!) But mostly I am in a good mood because this morning I remembered a joke my 5 year old niece told me.

• Tatum: Why did the cookie go to the doctor?
  
• Me: I don't know Tatum. Why did the cookie go to the doctor?
  
• Tatum: Because he was feeling crumby!

I know hilarious, right? Have a great weekend and
thank you all for your prayers and support!

Age + Political Incorrectness = A Damn Fine Time

As I much as I thought that I would hate getting older, it is not nearly as bad as I thought. My only true complaints are that I constantly feel like I should have accomplished more and I spend more money per month on hair coloring than on gas, but other than that getting older is pretty fantastic. I feel so much more comfortable in my own skin and quite frankly don't really give a shit if other people like me or not (except for maybe my sister's husband. For some reason I really need him NOT to think I'm a moron... obviously I am fighting a losing battle there). But I just feel so entitled as I get older. Entitled to do and think and say, what I want.

Oh my god! I am becoming my mother-in-law! My mother-in-law, before she passed away, said whatever she wanted to whomever she wanted. For the first year of my marriage she called me by every D name but my own (Dawn, Diane, Demetria, Desdemona, etc...) and she wore BLACK to our wedding. (I know now that she was just testing me and later we did get closer but it was long and taxing road.) The first time she met my sister's husband , she asked him what he did for a living. When he told he was a Sergeant with the State Police she just rolled her eyes and said, "Hhmmpp, I never cared much for the police." And that was that.

Aging is like a free pass to political incorrectness. I clearly remember my father turning to my sister and I in the middle of the mall and yelling, "Quit acting like a couple of fucking retards!" He obviously wasn't worried about offending anyone but my mother, who was several years younger, would automatically shush him in embarrassment. There is an old man at the library who continually stands at the counter and passes gas and then looks directly at you, as if daring a comment. He clearly doesn't care what anyone thinks. Now don't get me wrong, I still bathe and brush my teeth everyday. I never go outside in my slippers or without a bra. I try to watch my language in public. And I generally excuse my self to the ladies room before digging out a wedgie. But I do these things for ME not for anyone else. I couldn't care less if people know that my underwear ride up my ass from time to time... I am human!

Back when I was in high school, I would have never been able to open my life up to the world the way I do in this blog. I would have been afraid that you all would judge me harshly, now I just say this is me... take it or leave it! I guess I have just realized that in my youth I spent sooooo much time trying to cover up my flaws and imperfections and altering my views and opinions to match the social norm that I just didn't have time to enjoy myself. Well, not now, I am going to spend the second half of my life "Sayin' it loud and sayin' it proud!". If I want to tell the idiot kid talking to me that I can't hear him until he pulls his pants up, I will! If I want to tell the giggling teenager on the phone that I believe she is too stupid to call my son, I will! If I want to tell my guy friend who always over-exaggeratedly ogles every women's breasts to give it up because we all know he's gay, I will! And if I want to scream to the world I am taking a week off and I will not take phone calls, hear problems, or do favors for the next seven days, I... well, I won't but I will not answer my phone so quickly and I will sound hesitant to help each time somebody ask for help. O.K. maybe I am not old enough to be that ballsy yet but I'm still a work in progress!

So, I say to you embrace your age tighter and tighter every year. Age brings wisdom, self-assurance, and well honed sense of personal style. And so what if your boobs are a little saggier, with the size of your butt nobody probably even notices!