Grosser than Gross

I think that we are at the point in our relationship where I can share things with you. Important things. Sacred things. And you won't judge me, right? Because that's how we roll. Yo.

One of these things is the reason why I will NOT drink white zinfandel. Ever. Again. I'd like to start off by acknowledging that white zin sucks. In fact, white zinfandel is kind of like ALL of my ex-boyfriends in that I cannot imagine what I EVER saw in them in the first place.

Many moons ago I invited my boyfriend to go to the Steeplechase with me in North Carolina. We packed a huge cooler full of food, beer and a 1.5 liter bottle of Sutter Home white zinfandel (Mmmm). My boyfriends' car was a 1976 Fiat Spider convertible which was really cool. That is until it broke down on the interstate 2 miles from where we needed to be.

Not easily dissuaded we picked up our ENORMOUS cooler and began to schlep it to the park. It was about 90 degree's and very humid as we began our trek down the interstate. After finally reaching the exit we crossed the overpass and began arguing. Because we just weren't QUITE miserable enough. We continued on, through the woods and finally into the park. By the time we arrived my left arm was approximately 4 inches longer than the right from the weight of our cooler. We were both drenched from sweat and this is why I sat down and in one sitting drank the equivalent of one and half bottles of really shitty wine. It was so refreshing. So sweet and wet. And so pink.

I vaguely remember feeling no pain for about 10 minutes. And then...I sort of recall thinking that I should "freshen up" in the restroom. I looked around through my wine goggles and found only a series of Port-A-Johns. Oh Nelly. I staggered to my feet and began sloshing my way towards the closest one. I do remember distinctly feeling as though I were walking at a 45 degree angle. This was my last clear memory for the day.

Upon entering the Port-A-Potty I took notice of my surroundings. This receptacle was no virgin. It obviously had been visited by many drunker, grosser people before I graced its' doors. I've never been in one of these things that smelled good. In fact I suspect that they all probably come off of the assembly line smelling like a thousand old beer-shits that have been sprayed down with some kind of antiseptic stuff.

Beyond the smell the first thing I noticed was that, in addition to the cavern under the toilet seat, there was a urinal. Some clever person put an entire banana in it. Hahaha. What a riot. And on top of that banana someone had taken a crap. Cue the puking. I began to retch into the bottom of this thing. Hearing my yak land on top of the fecal product of others continued to inspire nausea. Finally, I was empty. And sleepy. This is when I did the unthinkable. I fell asleep on the floor of the port-a-potty. I don't even want to think about what I was laying in. I must have looked ravishing, passed out under a shitted-on banana in the urinal.

Suddenly I became aware that the Port-A-John was moving. Violently. Someone was shaking it back and forth. I moaned and slurred, "ehhhh.....ughhhh.....theressomebodyinhere....." I heard my boyfriend shouting, "God damnit! I KNOW you are in there. You've been in there an hour. GET OUT OF THE PORT-A-POTTY!!!" It turns out that I hadn't responded to his knocking, calling, and eventual yelling he had tried to awaken me. So he began trying to physically knock me and my pot over to get my attention.

I was afraid to leave my potty. It had become not unlike a security blanket to me and I deeply feared leaving its' protective, fluorescent blue walls. But I was equally concerned that my boyfriend could knock us over and wouldn't that just be the grossest thing ever. So I stumbled out with my crazy - I've been puking into a port-a-potty and eventually passed out on the floor of it - hair.

My boyfriend didn't say a word. Or if he did I can't recall it. Upon hindsight it's hard to imagine that he ever took me out again. But we continued dating and about 6 months later he got down on one knee and proposed that we get married. Do you suppose that when he saw me stumbling out of the potty he thought to himself, "Yessiree...that's the girl for me. I can see the smiles of my unborn children in her blurry, blood shot eyes!"

www.rqmitchell.blogspot.com

Thanksgiving in the South

I live in the South and, as most people know, Southerners are very fond of deep fried food. Chicken, okra (shudder), onions, and even pickles are all fried southern favorites. So it should come as no surprise that we also deep fry turkeys. We are southern imports (born and raised elsewhere) so when my husband first mentioned to me that he would like to spend one hundred dollars for an Official Turkey Fryer I thought that he was joking. Like we need one more way to consume too many calories on our favorite Thursday of the year. But he insisted that this would be a Good Purchase that would get Good Use every year. So we bought the damned thing.

The first year we had it I bought two turkeys. One for the oven and one to fuck up in the fryer. Mine took many hours in the oven. The one Don cooked was done in about 45 minutes. I still wasn't impressed. I hate fried chicken so I assumed that I would hate a big, greasy turkey that had been deep fried. But here is the thing - it wasn't greasy at all. In fact, the only difference between our two birds was that the fried one was moist and tender on the inside. They say its because the peanut oil cauterizes the skin and locks in the moisture. At any rate, it's delicious and how we prepare our bird every year now. It's become a family tradition and now "dropping the bird" into the oil has become a must-see family event. Every adult pours a cocktail and gets ready to call 911 in case Don puts it in upside down (apparently it will come shooting out of the pot and start a big grease fire). Have you heard the popular saying of a Southerners last words? It's "HEY! Watch this...!"

This process calls for quite a large amount of peanut oil and this is why, in fact, I have a 35 pound jug of it in my laundry room as I type. For some reason (it may be just to annoy me) my husband leaves the old oil in the fryer in our garage ALL YEAR LONG. The day before Thanksgiving he dumps out the old stuff, scrubs the pot out and gets it ready for the fresh oil.

This past summer I had the kids outside playing in the sprinklers. The girls were in their bathing suits and Jax was in his birthday suit. I turned my back on him for ONE SECOND and spun around when I heard him make a strange noise. I have no idea what happened but he was standing next to the fryer and his naked body was COMPLETELY coated in old, funky peanut oil. He had marinated himself in rancid peanut oil that had been used to fry a turkey 8 months ago. Ick. It was in his hair, all over his sweet little face as well as covering his body. Jax was rapidly blinking, trying to get it out of his eyes. He knew when he saw me staring that he was in Trouble. So that's when he tried to run away. Of course the peanut oil was all over the ground, too. So he did a little Road Runner thing with his legs moving yet making no headway and then his feet went flying out from under him. He landed flat on his ass and slid halfway across our garage.

He wasn't old enough to talk yet but I'll bet he was thinking, "HEY! Watch this...!"

www.rqmitchell.blogspot.com

PS Thanks to Amy at www.sixbeans.com for reminding me about this!! Bex

Deck the Halls...A Cautionary Tale

When Don and I were newlyweds we got jobs with a local catering company for weekend work. We enjoyed the extra income and it barely felt like we were working as we were spending time together (All together now - aawwwhhhh...).

One night we were employed to work at a very elegant company Christmas party at the Convention Center. The event was beautiful - everyone was in either a tux or a gown. There was a band, lots of beautifully displayed food and an open bar. Don and I were bartending and got to share a bar which was fun. Our bar had been decorated for us and was extremely festive with many votive candles, holly leaves and confetti. Just working there was putting me in the holiday mood.

There was a table of ten sitting close to our bar and they were rocking the margarita's this evening. Everyone was pretty shit faced. What can I say? I make a mean 'rita. Towards the end of the evening one of my margarita ladies stood up at her table and looked longingly towards me. Or past me. There could have been a clock behind my head. Anyway, she was stunning in an emerald colored gown, carefully applied makeup and hair that I would kill for. It was the color of golden honey and went halfway down her back. She had it teased all around her in a way that reminded me of Diana Ross. She was truly a vision. Until she tried walking. She stumbled in my general direction and mumbled, "AhWannaNuddaMarghhareeeettttaaaa".

I looked around us to see if she had, perhaps, brought a translator. And then I said, "Um...I'm sorry?" She sighed in a way to let me know that she was annoyed as she mumbled in a loud and hissy way, "AhhhSaidAhWannaNuddaaaaMARGAREEEEEEETTTTTAAA."

I still didn't get it. And now I was embarrassed as she was looking at me like I was an idiot. "GIVE. ME. A. MARRRGHHHAAARRRREEEETTTTTAAAAA!" As she was screaming the last part of that she leaned towards me for effect. When she did this she hovered over my festive holiday display like an angry, drunken cloud. Neither she nor I were thinking about the votive candle she was over. Until, suddenly, her hair IGNITED. A fire ball shot up and off the top of her head like a roman candle and she stood there, totally oblivious, screaming at me about her drink.

Well, I was simply stunned. What had she sprayed in her hair that made it so completely combustible? I stood there, unable to speak with my mouth and eyes gaping, and pointed a finger tentatively at the top of her head. I turned my head slightly towards Don who took in the expression on my face with interest. I saw his eyes follow my arm which was pointing at a woman on fire. He sprang into action by shoving me out of the way, leaning in towards the woman and CRACK - he smacked her really hard in the side of the head. Her neck snapped sideways and slowly righted itself. She looked at him with something resembling curiosity and said, "Heyyyyy...."

The right side of her head was untouched and was still teased out and fuzzy. The left side, not so much. It was matted to the side of her head and still steaming from the now extinguished fire. She glanced over her shoulder a few times as she stumbled back to her table, filling the hall with the unmistakable stench of burning hair. The band finished the song they were playing and began looking around. Finally, the lead singer asked, "All right...who the hell is burning cats in here??!"

To this day I cannot drive past the Convention Center without thinking about that woman. I keep trying to imagine her waking up - with a horrible hangover - wondering why the left side of her head is stuck to her pillow. I wonder what she told her friends about why she switched hairdo's from a beautiful, flowing style to something short and choppy. I suppose I'll never know. But I will tell you, that when I am at a bar I pay close attention to the candles.


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The Hand

Many years ago, when Amanda was around two, we had a very scary incident at the house. I had put her down for a nap and was trying to get some stuff done around the house. The hallway where our bedrooms are has a few creaky spots and the loudest spot is right outside of Amanda's bedroom. Through the years I've learned where they are and can, when necessary, avoid them by carefully stepping around them.

I needed to go to the other side of the house so I limbered up and began my Twister-esque maneuver to prevent squeaking the spot. I was getting ready to tip toe by her closed door and was VERY focused on not waking her up. As I was creeping by something caught my eye on the floor, so I looked down. There was an arm laying there. I stopped in my tracks, startled by it. Suddenly - the fingers jumped and began wiggling! I screamed and somehow threw myself backwards - in slow motion a la The Matrix - into the wall. Then I became aware of someone else screaming...the hand withdrew itself back into my daughters room and I could hear the scream, although continuous, had become muffled.

I Kojacked her door open and ran into the room. Amanda was in the bed, face down and in the fetal position, screaming at the top of her lungs.

From her perspective here is how I think things "went down" that morning:

My mom put me to bed and I'm not even tired! She's such a silly old woman! Well, rather than talk, cry or otherwise make noises that the baby monitor will pickup and bring her in here in a fit of rage I think I'll play silently. Fa la la. Hmmm. I'm bored...I wonder if I could silently shove my entire arm under the door. Yeah...that's a great idea! Maybe I can reach a cool toy and pull it back into my room so I can continue my stealthy playing! It's a plan. Wow! My entire arm fit under the door SO easily! Now, I will begin wiggling my fingers rapidly to see if they find any toys....wiggle, wiggle...AAAAAHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!

And my friends wonder why I always have bags under my eyes.

www.rqmitchell.blogspot.com

Grammar Challenged (or should that be Grammatically Challenged?)

I know, I know. If you've been reading this blog with any regularity you've been wondering - just what kind of idiot AM I anyway?? Well, I'd like to tell you EXACTLY what kind of idiot I am. Where to begin...chronologically...alphabetically...it's a tough call.

What I can tell you is that I didn't want to call this blog the Blog of Bex. I wanted it to be Bex's Blog. But I couldn't remember if it was written like that or like Bex' Blog. Or Bexs' Blog. The saddest part of all that is I really thought long and hard about it. I didn't actually do any research or anything, but I was thinking about it. So The Blog of Bex I became. It sounded slightly better than (or is that 'then') The Blog Belonging To Bex.

BUT I do know how to tell someone in French to go and sodomize himself. So I have that going for me. And, for the record, that phrase comes in handy more times than you would think!

www.rqmitchell.blogspot.com

Don't Eat The Biscotti!

This morning I thought that I would take an hour or so to straighten up my house. This is something I don't normally do. I don't like doing it, I'm not good at it and I really look for just about any excuse to avoid it. But today...I decided to suck it up and give it my best shot. My son (who is almost 2) tried valiantly to undo me by following me and unfolding whatever had just been folded, pulling off of the shelf whatever had just been put on, etc. But I shouldered on.

Eventually Jax seemed to catch on and began to hand me things that were on the floor. To encourage this I would shower him with "Good BOY!!" comments. He handed me all sorts of things and I would finish what I was doing and then either throw away or put away his contribution. The last thing he handed me felt kind of funny. As I was caressing it with my fingers I noticed that its' texture was not unlike that of a biscotti. So I looked at it. Hmmm. It was brown with florescent specs throughout. At first glance I took it for a McDonald's Happy Meal toy. But no...upon closer inspection I realized that it was, in fact, a piece of petrified dog shit. Apparently the puppy has been sneaking around eating the kids' crayons and taking dumps in the guest room. Oh happy day. There is, however, a silver lining - it gave me the perfect excuse to quit cleaning. I am now very busy pondering whether I should cut my hand off at the wrist or at the palm.

Chuck E. Cheese, NOT the worst place! REALLY!!!

Yikes! My blog was just visited by someone from Chuck E. Cheese's headquarters! I can only assume that he or she did not come to read the boring dribble of a housewife on the edge and that the purpose of the visit was to inspect the comments I made on Friday about their establishment. I felt very defensive and immediately reread my entry in case I was unfair or too harsh in my assessment. As a result I've decided to make two positive comments about Chuck E. Cheese:

1. You are obviously no slouch, considering your lightning-speed inspection of Chuck E. Cheese related writings on the internet (I'll admit I was a little startled by it. But hey, you're just protecting your brand, right?)
2. Chuck E. Cheese restaurants are loud and obnoxious places. But my kids love them. AND at least you have the decency to serve beer to the parents. You have no idea how much that means to us parents out here in the trenches. Seriously. Thanks for that.
   

So you are not the worst, Chuck E. Cheese! Please don't sue me or send that big Mouse to my home for any reason as it will truly scare the shit out of me. That and clowns. Yick...

www.rqmitchell.blogspot.com

Chuck E. Sucks!

I had a rough day today. Not as bad as many, but bad enough for me. I have a cold which has given me laryngitis which I, of course, HATE. Not having a voice is like...huh. I can't think of an analogy. It just sucks, that's all.

The worst thing that happened today occurred around 4 this afternoon. Jax, my little guy, had been playing with my daughters in their room.

I heard the girls gagging and yelling - apparently Jax had filled his diaper with an odiferous pile. I went upstairs and smelled IMMEDIATELY what they were upset about. And then I remembered, vaguely, that Jax had indeed had chili for dinner last night. That'll show me.

So I picked him up and put him on the diaper changer in his room. Peeling back his used diaper was as heroic as anything I've ever done in my life. Kind of like throwing myself on top of a land mine. At any rate, I did my duty and was about half way done scraping the shit off of him when he surprised me by dropping a Chuck E. Cheese coin into his mouth. I heard it enter his throat and then I heard the air stop. His arms began to flail and there was no noise coming from his mouth.

When he was born he had trouble breathing and spent 5 days in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) at Northside Hospital. A condition of us taking him home was that we complete an infant CPR class. At the time it seemed like something of an imposition as I was tired (from giving birth) and we were stressed from having had our infant son so sick. But we took the class so that we could take our baby home.

The instructions I learned that day came rushing back to me as I flipped my son upside down and inverted him, head down, while striking his back. At first there was no noise other than me slapping his back. Finally I heard the coin give way. It came shooting out of his mouth, followed by a surprisingly large amount of vomit. After carefully checking him over I pulled him to my breast for an indeterminate amount of time, just feeling him breathe and his heart beating against mine. Relief is too small a word.

This happened 6 hours ago and my legs still feel funny.

After several minutes I put him down (he was anxious to continue playing) and I began to inspect the pile of yak that was now in the middle of his bedroom. Impressive. I began to formulate my plan of attack. I had a box of baby wipes at my disposal. I decided to scrape it up with them and then to return, later, with my never failing OxyClean potion to get any colorful spots. I plucked two wipes out of the box and turned to face my nemesis du jour - the yak. Unbeknownst to me the puppy had somehow gotten upstairs and had already eaten pretty much ALL of the yak. At first I was pissed - who the hell let the dog up here?! But then I thought, "Well...that's not the worst thing. My kid lived, I have a smaller mess to clean up. Everyone wins!" It's not like I was going to be kissing the pup on the mouth regardless, you know?

I'll tell you what, though. This has given me ONE MORE reason to hate Chuck E. Cheese.

Clooney/Fabio-gate!

I just read an article that stated George Clooney and Fabio got in a heated argument on Friday night in a LA restaurant. What a couple of tools.

George thought that people at Fabio's table were taking pictures of George and his peeps so he flipped them off. Fabio went over to explain that George was, in fact, not the subject matter of the shot. Apparently they eventually had to be physically removed from each other. Clooney must not be aware of the reputation that Fabio has. Do you remember when he was on a roller coaster and a goose or something flew into his nose? It banged him all up and he was bleeding all over the place. My point is, the man can take a hit (in spite of his girly appearance)!

Do you suppose that when they woke up Saturday morning (each under his respective supermodel) that they felt good about what happened? "I really showed that asshole! He won't be messing with me again anytime soon!"

Men are funny creatures. Seriously.

Starbucks Confessional

I hate Starbucks coffee. It tastes like unfiltered, bitter sludge. Yet today I drove many miles out of my way to visit one. Even worse, I drove past 2 other Starbucks to go to this PARTICULAR one. And I am not very proud of the reason. It was the only one with a drive-through.

I blame my extraordinary laziness on the Nyquil I took last night. What the hell do they put in that stuff that just completely knocks me on my ass??! I thought that an expensive cup of tea handed to me through an open window of the car might help my recovery.

Anyway, I approach the store window and, when asked, I state that I would like the Venti Chai Latte made with whole milk. And the guy says, "Venti, Whole Milk Chai. Anything else?" They always change the order in which I said the words. Why is that? Did I order my tea wrong? Am I presenting myself as some kind of Tea Poser by the way I've requested it? I just know that tomorrow I'll ask for a Venti Whole Milk Chai and the guy will say, "Whole Milk Chai, Venti. Got it. Anything else?"

While I'm waiting the song Juicy Fruit comes on. I haven't heard this song since I used to wear big, TALL bangs. So I turn it up and listen to the words...

Candy rain
Comin’ down
Taste you in my mind
And spread you all around

Here I am
Oh, this love’s for you
Hey, baby
Sweet as honey dew

Close my eyes
Oh, what fantasy
And you’re right here with me
Juicy

Cherry blossom kiss
What you’re givin’
Makes my body rock
Keeps me sizzlin’

Do what you want
I don’t care
I’ll be your lollipop
[You can lick me everywhere]

Juicy fruit (You’re so)
Juicy (Juicy)
Juicy fruit (Yeah...hey...hey...hey...hey...)
Juicy

Wow. I wonder what my Literary Forum homeys would have to say about this little nugget. It is incredible to me that someone thought of this and probably said, "Someone! Anyone! Hand me a pen and paper! I have this awesome idea for a song!!! Hurry, before I lose it!" Then they wrote it down and showed it to at least one other person who said, "You're a genius! THIS is going to be a great song."And then, decades later, it still gets air time on the radio. Incredible.

The tea was good, though.

High School Musical, not Broadway, Silly. On ICE!

My daughter Amanda turned 8 the other day. We decided to invite a few of her favorite friends to go to Phillips Arena for Disney On Ice Presents...High School Musical!!! Yippee....

I piled them all into my car and put the movie soundtrack in my CD player. "Oooohhhh...turn it up! I LOVE THIS SONG!!!" I felt slightly nauseated as I complied. But hey, when I was their age I thought that Shaun Cassidy was the sexiest man EVER. So I decided to not judge TOO harshly. I did, however, make a comment under my breath to Amanda who, in turn, put her hand on my shoulder and whispered, "Mom, please try not to embarrass me today." WHAT?!!! I'm the cool mom! I mean, I have a tattoo on my ass for christs sake! I've danced on more bars than she'll (hopefully) ever get into!!! Ugh. I digress.

So there I was with 6 little girls at a giant Ice Capades show. It was the gayest thing ever. And by 'gay' I don't mean homosexuals spinning through the air (although they certainly were). I mean it in the older sense of the word - bright and showy. Everyone was just so fucking HAPPY. Everyone but me, that is.

When we walked into the arena one of the little girls in our group suddenly fell flat on the floor. I asked her if she was ok and she said that she wasn't. She also said that she had done this on purpose. I looked at her more closely. She was on her back, not unlike a crab, with her hands and feet on the floor. But she was also about as close to being horizontal as one could be. I asked her to stand and she slowly shook her head while never taking her eyes off of the balcony. Ahhhh. She's acrophobic. Terrified of heights. THIS is the kind of information I like to have before I take someone else's 7 year old downtown with six other little kids. I told her to suck it up and nobody would get hurt.

It did not escape my attention that there was a bar right next to the place where they sold snow cones (FOR FIFTEEN DOLLARS A PIECE). I'd be a big fat liar if I told you that I didn't consider getting a little cup o' something to elevate my mood. But the soccer mom in me prevailed and I remained sober for The Show. The things I do for my kids.

The good news is that I survived, came home and knocked back a Cosmo and all was right again. The bad news is that I now know all of the words to "We're All In This Together" by heart. And in my CD changer in the car, nestled between Nine Inch Nails and Marilyn Manson is the soundtrack for High School Musical. I probably need to give my tattoo back. I'm no longer worthy.

Questions...

Today is a day, it seems, that brings more questions than answers. For example, why do two year olds drool SO much? I have heard that it has to do with teething, but truthfully that doesn't make much sense to me.

Oh. And here is another question: Why is it that, after having three kids, I still don't seem to understand that when I am playing Airplane with a two year old that I should keep my mouth shut? If you've never played airplane before allow me to bring you up to speed. Essentially the "adult" lays on her back with her arms stretched out in front of her (a la Frankenstein). The child is suspended, with his face directly over your face, while you make plane noises and laugh. You know that the game is over when you feel cold and slimy drool go down your throat involuntarily.

I'm Still Here!

I couldn't help but notice that my site meter number has been creeping up which means that there is someone out there LISTENING. Wow. I had no idea.

Normally I try to post something at least every other day or so BUT some Sadist at the county education department has given my kids off TWO days - Monday AND Tuesday. Bastards!!!

I've found it very difficult to try to put a coherent sentence together with a chorus of the following:

Amanda: Mom! MOM! Allison put a booger on me!

Allison: Did not! DID NOT! Well, I pretended to put one on her because SHE sat on my bed! AFTER I MADE IT!!! She's SO mean!!!!!

Amanda: I sat on the bed because YOU punched me in the stomach because I said that Hannah Montana sings that song better than you!

Allison: SHE DOES NOT! I just forgot the words, that's all! I'm a GOOD singer!

Amanda: Bbpppptttttt...whatEVER.

Allison begins making murderous noises with the back of her throat and Amanda runs for the hills.

In the meantime, Jax (almost 2) spends his time torturing the dog (don't tell Mutts and Moms) while trying to create a life threatening head injury on himself. This kid is like Spiderman. He climbs everything. We put a gate up on our stairs (to prevent such a catastrophe) and he now LOVES to spend his days sneaking towards them and climbing them - on the outside of the banister.

At least the dog has diarrhea. That's something. She's become a shitting machine, leaving trails of horror wherever she goes.

SO. I'm busy. I'm living for Wednesday (the next school day). I'm up to my knickers in dog shit. And my Grandma wants me to start potty training Jax. Because we don't have QUITE enough shit on the floor. A little more would make things...well...perfect.

Some day...

There will come a day - some day - when I only have to worry about myself. There will come a day when I will not have to change poopy diapers, wondering whether the substance under my nail is peanut butter or the shit of another person. There will come a day when I will look back nostalgically about getting an enthusiastic hug from a two year old, realizing afterwards that I have a sticky, green substance in my hair and on my shoulder to show for it.

There will come a day when I will laugh about the sweet child who just projectile vomited into my cleavage. That day is not today. Today is the kind of day when I will stare at the clock willing it to be cocktail hour. It's gotta be five o'clock somewhere!