Why I Love to Fly in Airplanes or How a Venti Chai Tea Latte Almost Ruined my Personal Flotation Device

It was a Saturday and my sister called.  She said, "WHY haven't you written the story about the airplane?"  I said, "It's on my list," in my best, protesting, 'please don't hurt me' voice.  She said, "Your blog is great but you need to tell that story.  I insist."  (She might not have used those exact words, but that was the general gist.  I swear it.  And she didn't say anything about breaking my kneecaps with a rusty ball peen hammer or something about sleeping with the fishes.)

Okay then.

So I took a plane to visit my sister in Spokane, Washington.  I stopped in Chicago and changed planes.  Because the plane left at an ungodly hour, I was half asleep.  Then the lights dawned.  The sun came out from behind a cloud.  The angelic music sounded in trumpet-like fashion.  There was...a STARBUCKS.  Caffeine on the hoof.  I would have done a jig in the airport but the security people look at you funny when you do things like that.  (Imagine all the 'bomb' jokes I can't tell anymore because I go into an airport.  Also since I live close to DC, I'm pretty limited there too.  And folks wonder why I'm so taciturn when I take them to the Smithsonian.)

I ordered a Venti Chai Tea Latte.  It was good.  It was really good.  I could feel the caffeine flowing through my veins like crack through a tweaker.  I could focus on the real world once again.  Life was good again.  Plus once I got on the plane I could get more caffeine.  After all, I can't sleep on planes.  I'm afraid I'll wake up and I'll have been drooling on the shoulder of the person sitting next to me.  Then that person will tell me I was muttering things about a pool boy named Carlos whom I once met in the Bahamas.  (Not really.  I've never been to the Bahamas.)  Let's just say there are reasons that I say that I'm slightly neurotic.

So having drunk the Venti Chai Tea Latte I was in an improved mood.  I boarded the plane along with all the other cattle, found my seat, and surreptitiously surveiled my seatmate, who was a twenty-something girl with an iPod permanently attached to her ears.  (I was slightly bummed because she looked at me as if I would mother her or something equally horrible and wretched.)  She proceeded to turn on the iPod and close her eyes.  Lucky her.  She was capable of sleeping on the plane.

Then after all was said and done, the plane doors were closed and locked.  Then the stewardess proceeded to tell us the bad news.  Two quick things here.  One was that these people (airline people) deliberately closed and locked the door BEFORE telling us the bad news.  No one was going to escape.  Not me.  Not the pilot.  Not little Ms. iPod.  The second thing was that the stewardess (should I use the more politically correct flight attendant?) was about six feet tall, had a blond wig on, and wore a scarf tied around her throat.  Her shoulders were wider than the aisle and I ultimately came to the conclusion that she was a man dressed as a woman.  Her name was Helga or Olga or something -Ga.  I didn't care about the man thing but I think they chose her to deliver the bad news because no one was gonna mess with her.  (She blocked out the sun.)  Here's what Helga said: "Well, we've discovered that this plane has no potable water, which is not really a problem.  What that really means is that we're not going to have coffee or tea and we're not going to be able to run the water in the bathrooms."

I know what thought went my mind, but so did Helga and she went on, "But we CAN use the bathrooms so we don't have to worry about that."  Never mind that we wouldn't be able to wash our hands, but we could pee and go poo poo. 

I was okay. I'd had the Venti Chai Tea Latte.  I was caffeinated.  I had a book to read.  I had hand sanitizer in my purse.  It was a two and half hour flight and I thought, Well, okay then.  I can do this.

So the plane took off.  It was on time.  Most people were relatively happy although I did hear grumbling about no bleeping coffee.  I think little Ms. iPod was comatose at that point, which made me a little jealous.  Then the plane was climbing and eventually it seemed like we reached altitude.  But it was a little choppy.

At that point my bladder was reminding me of two things.  One was that it was the size of a walnut and two was that I had drank a VENTI CHAI TEA LATTE!  Right down to the bottom of the cup with great glee and even a small giggle as I threw the empty into the trash.  For those of you who don't speak Italian or Starbucks, the venti is the large size or 20 ounces.  (Venti is twenty in Italian.)  So I was belted into my narrow seat, with limited foot room, reflecting that I should have done an emergency last minute pee before I boarded the airplane.  After all, I had drank a VENTI CHAI TEA LATTE!  I was doing the seated pee pee dance.  One leg moved.  The other leg moved.  My butt wiggled.  I readjusted the seat belt.  I looked up and down the aisles.  I looked up at the red lighted seat belt sign.  I looked at Ms. iPod for moral support but she was drooling and whispering something about Carlos the pool boy.  (It seemed okay coming from her.)

About thirty minutes into the flight I was going to beg Helga the linebacker for the right to use the bathroom, for the love of God.  The VENTI CHAI TEA LATTE! had processed through my system like alcohol through a frat boy at an all night kegger on the beach.  My bladder was screaming at me.  NOW!  NOW!  NOW!  Any moment the pee was going to do a kamikaze moment on my personal flotation device, and no one was going to like that much.

Since there was a little turbulence, the pilot was obviously reluctant to turn off the seat belt sign.  Finally, at long last, I reckon Helga the linebacker must have told him that the passengers were ready to revolt.  Apparently I wasn't the only one who had drank a VENTI CHAI TEA LATTE! shortly before boarding.  I had my legs clenched together and my jaws clamped down and my hands had mangled the arm rests beyond recognition.

That was a mistake.  You see, at that moment the pilot relented and flicked off the seat belt sign.  He started to say something about turbulence and giving everyone a quick break to stand up and stretch their legs, which was an euphemism for letting us all run quickly to the bathrooms to stand in line and do the pee pee dance standing up for a change.  But because I was wound up like a yoga contortionist wishing for a miracle I couldn't stand up in time.  Before the first word was out of the pilot's mouth, there was a herd of people who went tromp-tromp-TROMP back to the economy bathroom.  If someone had tripped they would have trampled the poor bastard to death without remorse.  And simply put, I wasn't quick enough.

So I made a decision.  I would wait a few minutes and then go stand in line.  I clenched my legs and my jaws tighter together and settled down for more agony.  However, not more than thirty seconds passed and the crowd turned around with Helga yelling at the back like a cowboy expertly rounding up the herd.  "Passengers HO!" she bellowed.  (Not really, but it reads well.)  But the crowd did tromp-tromp-TROMP back up the aisle to the front.  Helga came on the speaker a moment later and said that the single bathroom in the back of the plane was BROKEN (and mysteriously it didn't have anything to do with a lack of potable water) and we would all have to use the one in the front in first class.

My bladder whimpered.

There was a line coming out of the first class section and extending past where I was sitting.  I think I was in row 7.  I recrossed my legs and waited for the real torture to begin.  Little Ms. iPod slept through all of this.  The lucky, little, perky-titted twinkie.

Eventually.  Eventually.  Eventually, the line got shorter. I managed to take my seat belt off and waddle to the front of the plane.  I would have grabbed my crotch but I was afraid someone would think I was Michael Jackson (this happened before his death) or maybe Madonna.  It was all I could do to make it into the queue with the rest of the pee pee dancing individuals who had made similar mistakes.  ("So what did you drink?"  "A VENTI CHAI TEA LATTE!, what about you?"  "It was a Mega Big Gulp from Seven/Eleven.  God help me."  "You poor sorry son of a bitch."  "I think my bladder just exploded."  "Me, too."  "Well, hey I guess that means we don't need the mini bathroom anymore."  "Hallelujah!")

So you would think that standing in line was the end of my agony.

Ha.  It wasn't.

The other flight attendant was named Kyle.  I'm trying to think of the best way to describe it.  Kyle was very happy.  He was happy to be there.  He was happy to be flying.  He was happy to be talking to the passengers.  He was HAPPY.  As a matter of fact, his name wasn't Kyle.  It was KYLE.  No, it was **KYLE**.  And I'm pretty sure he threw his hands up in the air when he said it.  "I'm **KYLE**.  Isn't everything just peachy?  Doesn't the sun glow with gloriousness?  Isn't the canned cabin air fabulous?  Aren't my tight pants tight across my toned little tushie?"  (Okay, my imagination and tendency to exaggerate just happened again.)

Upon reflection and contemplation, I now understand that Kyle had the more difficult job.  He was chatting with the passengers waiting for the single bathroom to open up and defusing bad tempers about not having potable water, not being able to clean their hands, to have only one bathroom, to not have access to any drink with caffeine in it, and having to stand in line with the first class passengers who were glancing up at us as if we would abruptly jump on them and eat them.  ("First class scum!  You die now!  We want your extra three inches of leg room and your hot towels!  We also want **KYLE** to be our steward, oops, flight attendant!  We're afraid of Helga!")

So about that time my feet were tap-tap-tapping.  My butt was swinging.  My legs are crossing and re-crossing.  I was muttering under my breath.  "Please.  Please.  Please.  Pee faster.  Pee like freaking Superman."  The first class people are staring at me and I wanted to yell at them.  ("I had a fucking VENTI CHAI TEA LATTE! right before I got on the fucking plane.  Don't you understand?")  And when I finally got to be next in line to use the bathroom **KYLE** looked at me and perkily said, "SO what DO you DO for a LIVING?"

And I think that was the moment when I had the meltdown.  Normally I would have been polite.  ("Why, Kyle, I'm a writer and live at home mommy.  Here let me show you a photo of my daughter.")  But it was too late.  I stared at **KYLE** with his bouncy, cheerful, pert attitude, and his little head tilted to one side, as he waited for me to say something like, "Why **KYLE**, I'm so HAPPY to meet YOU.  Aren't YOU perky?  I just want to PINCH your little cheeks to DEATH."  So what really happened was that I choked out, "I don't care.  I had a VENTI CHAI TEA LATTE! and I **NEED** to use the bathroom."

That's when I discovered that even in the tightest confines of a limited area that people can still back away.  Poor **KYLE**.  He was just trying to keep everyone happy.

Thankfully for all involved the bathroom door opened and I dived inside before the Air Marshall was called in.  My pants and panties were down quicker than a pair of high school kids' in the back seat of a 1964 Mustang.  And even over the roar of the plane's engines, I think that everyone heard my sigh of relief.  ("OH THANK YOU, JESUS!  OH, the LIBERATION!"  My BLADDER THANKS YOU, too!")

I slunk back to my seat and used my hand sanitizer and Ms. iPod woke up and said, "Are we there yet?"  She went to use the bathroom a few minutes later and had to jump into the lap of a man a few seats up because Helga the linebacker came plowing down the aisle, so she figured it out for herself.

Anyway, sorry **KYLE**,  I was grumpy.

The Strange Attack of the Fifty Foot Tall Mr. Chickenwings or How I Was Hit On While in Walmart

It was a lovely fall day. The leaves were gold, red, and brownish with a hint of taupe and green, and also the Dow Jones was up. Yea, stock market. While humming 'You shook me all night long' and chewing Bubbalicious gum, I was innocently minding my own fat woman business at Walmart. Yes, I went shopping at the Walmart SUPERCENTER where one can purchase SUPER food and SUPER junk from China while eying the Dunkin' Donuts conveniently located at the exit of the store. Who said capitalism was bad?

I had finished my shopping and had paid for my meager items. It was a slow shopping day and was headed out to the car when it happened. Yes, it. IT. IT. IT. (Like one of those nuclear disaster inspired monster movies that make radioactive, ginormous, purple polka-dotted spiders that like to nibble on hapless housewives. You know, IT!!!!!)

I feel obliged to mention that IT has happened before. When I was younger, skinnier, and my hair wasn't fifty percent gray. I can even (in my dotage) remember some of the best (by best, I really mean worst) lines. "Hey, baby, we should conserve body heat...together, I mean." (This cretin had just been swimming so I reckon he thought he was being original.) "So what kind of knives do you recommend for a single man?" (This while I was working in a knife store and I was sort of trapped there.) "Do you want to come see my...drawings?" (Hah. I bet he had to work hard to replace etchings with drawings.)

Yes, it refers to pick up lines. Do men memorize these things or am I that out of date? "Did it hurt when you fell out of the sky?" "Huh?" "You are an angel, after all." Hoped for response: "Tee-hee-hee, here's my number, and I'm off at 10 pm." Actual response: "Boy, did you ride on the short bus when you went to school?"

So as I've been married for 27 years, it happens less and less. (He who I am married to never used the angel line, which was a plus for him.) Anyway as I've become fatter it happens a whole lot less. Not that I'm complaining. My husband still hits on me. (And I mean in a good way.) But I don't normally expect it from strangers and when it happened at Walmart, I was taken aback. I was.

For one thing, it was an entirely new approach. For another thing, the guy hadn't been even looking at me. Usually you can tell if someone is going to let one stinker of a pick up line rip. He stares at you. Or stares at your boobs. Sometimes he's staring at some other part of your body. He might sidle up to you and make a tentative pass, veering off at the last moment like a skittish horse looking for just the right filly to hook up with. Then he'll come inching up later, as if building up his courage in case I go postal or maybe checking to see if I'm a bunnyboiler in disguise. It's pretty obvious. This was so out of the blue I didn't know how to react.

And may I mention that I would have never thought of Walmart as an ideal place to find your next hokey poky. "My, doesn't that beef tenderloin have a nice price, and may I say that your skin is luminescent in the fluorescent lights?" (That wasn't bad. I wish someone had said that to me.) Walmart doesn't even have a bar. It's got a Dunkin' Donuts which prompts all kinds of interesting lines. "Would you like to double dip your donut in my coffee, baby?" or even "Can I buy you a strawberry filled, double-glazed donut, sweet thing?" (Wink. Wink.) Or the perennial favorite: "Is that a donut in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" (Might not work man to woman, but hey if any woman, or man for that matter, out there is inspired, you go right ahead and use it. I'd love to know what happens.)

So I had made my purchases. I had the bags in my hand. I was struggling to find my keys before I went outside, and was attempting to switch my shoulder bag to my other hand while digging in my cavernous purse. I was studiously ignoring Dunkin' Donuts at my right because it was calling to me in a siren like fashion, "Hey, you. Fat woman. Yes, you. Come to me. Eat of the donut. Yes, eat of the donut." (Haha. Refer to the blog about The Stupidest Man Ever. I do, in fact, eat of the donut.)

Then it happened.

There was a man in front of me who seemed to be leaving at the same time who abruptly turned to me, proffered a plastic clam shell container of something, and said, "You want to go eat chicken wings with me?" (The plastic clam shell was chicken wings, for those who weren't paying attention.)

When telling the story to some of my mommy friends, one said, "And you didn't ask the guy if they were spicy chicken wings or not, Caren?" which was the best return line I could have ever thought of, and bears mentioning because that would have been fucking hilarious. I don't think Mr. Chickenwings (thanks to another mommy friend for that moniker, btw) would have known what to do. (Ideally he would have arched an eyebrow and said leeringly, "Spicy, baby.")

So I feel compelled, as I often do, to make note of several things. This was a tall, big man about my age, so I didn't feel like it was completely inappropriate. But he just suddenly pounced on me, as if he was frantically determined. ("Hey, you, fat woman. You're fat, right? Then you must like chicken wings. How about it, sweetie?") Did I have 'desperate' written on my forehead? Did I look like a woman in need of a chicken wing fix? How does that look? Like a junkie in need of a tweak? Since I was standing next to Dunkin' Donuts, did I look like since I'd just been there, maybe I was, therefore, ready to fill up on his chicken wings. (Insert lewd comment here. Feel free to be creative.)

I would suggest to Mr. Chickenwings that perhaps he should be waiting outside of KFC for his next victim, oops, I mean target. Then he would know for certain that the woman in question likes chicken wings. Or at least she likes chicken. Perhaps he should go after them before they go in. Just a suggestion.

So what did I say to Mr. Chickenwings? Well, I think I gave him a look like I was dumbfounded, because, well, I was, and I said, "I don't think so," and left him for the next fat woman standing next to Dunkin' Donuts.

Go figure.

The Stupidest Man Ever

Do I think that all men are stupid? No, of course not. Some are. Some aren't. Some women are. Some women aren't. But I've met the STUPIDEST MAN EVER. I can go through the rest of my life knowing that he was, in actuality, in reality, in the plainest truth, the STUPIDEST MAN EVER. No one will ever beat his record of disproportional dumbness. He was so dumb that they fired him from the M&M Factory for throwing away all the m&m's that had 'W's on them. He was so dumb he thought General Motors was in the Army. He was so dumb that he sold his car for gas money. He was so dumb he spent twenty minutes looking at the orange juice can because it said, 'Concentrate.'

Okay. Now I'll tell you what really happened and let you decide.

Once upon a time in the Dallas/Fort Worth area there was a restaurant called, 'Dino's.' Dino's served hoagies, pizza, and the basic Italian fare. We liked the hoagies. One in particular was favored by all. It was an all the meats on your basic hoagie roll with the works. They would put this mixture of vinegar, spices, onions, peppers, tomatoes, and some other stuff. Makes my mouth water thinking about it. This place was your basic dive but the hoagies (never tried anything else so I don't know) were wonderful. So we went there often, even though it was out of our way.

One day we went for our hoagies, and were waiting in line. (Lines were an often occurring liability at this restaurant because there were many other people in the area who also liked their hoagies.) There was a man in front of us. (This is the STUPIDEST MAN EVER, in case I haven't been building up to it properly, otherwise called 'foreshadowing.' He didn't have a t-shirt proclaiming his ignorance or a sign, but he should have. As a matter of fact, he should have had it tattooed on his forehead. It would have saved him and all the people he comes in contact with on a daily basis a whole lotta grief.) (As a matter of fact, the government should give out free tattoos to people like this. A tattoo program so they can skip over the parts that vex them. Yea, socialism.)

So this man, I shall call him George, ordered his food from the clerk. (Dino's has a front area that has a long bar where you order, then it is prepared for you in front of you while you wait. After ordering a hoagie, you pay for it at the end of the counter before stealing away to a booth to consume your high-fat content booty in mouth-watering gulps of joy.)

George: I'd like a number 9. Double meat. With the works.

The clerk (A moment to describe the clerk/waitress/work person. This is a tough cookie who we've dealt with every time we come in. She and her sister worked here religiously, as if they own the joint, and for all I knew they did. They didn't take crap off anyone, and I suppose it was part of the appeal.): Okee-dokee, that's a number 9, double meat with the works and do you-

George interrupted her: Except I cannot eat of the pig. (This was said in a holier than thou manner, as if he was dispersing his divine knowledge upon the ignorant clerk.)

The clerk's face kind of looked like this.
The clerk finally said in a stupefied manner, repeating the words as if she couldn't quite get it: You cannot eat of the pig.

George, in a kind of indignant fervor: My religion prohibits me. I cannot eat of the pig. There are religions like this, you know, where folks cannot eat of the pig.

The clerk: But the no. 9 is the all the meats. (The hidden message to George here went sailing over his intelligent impaired cranial area like a Blackbird headed for the Soviet Union circa the Cold War.)

George, devoutly: I know.

The clerk had this expression on her face.

Then she said slowly and carefully so that nothing would be misunderstood: So you don't want the bacon.

This would be the part where if George had had the tattoo on his forehead proclaiming his stupidity and general ignorance, then it would have been all right, for the clerk would have seen the tattoo and understood that George was, in fact, dumber than a box of rocks. She would have said: Oh, Gosh, look at that. You've got the tattoo. No problem. I'll take care of it. But poor woebegone George DID NOT have the tattoo, and he said: Oh, I want the bacon. I can have the bacon. But I cannot eat of the pig. No pork.

The clerk: And the ham? (The number 9 hoagie had ALL the meats; none were excluded. No bigotry against the protein products in that sandwich. When I said all the meats, it MEANT every last damn one of them.)

George: I can have the ham, too. But I cannot eat of the pig. No pork.

At this moment the clerk naturally looked at us, the people who were standing behind George in line. And anyone with a brain, except George of course, could see that she was trying to determine whether George was serious or not. Then once that wheel had turned, she was trying to decide whether she should clue him in.

The question that I had at that moment was of an inquisitorial and dumbfounded nature. If bacon and ham didn't come from a pig, then what animal, pray tell, did George think it came from? (Yes, you too can eat bacon from the elusive Bacondi, an animal who lives in the mountains of Appalachia and drinks from spring fed creeks and eats blessed grass from mountain meadows. Maybe it crapped out pieces of bacon already cut to frying pan size. What a great animal. Could I get one? I mean, I eat of the pig. Everyday, too.)

I am reminded of a time where I was watching the Tonight Show and Jay Leno went out on the street to ask people various questions. So he asked this cute, young blond girl where pork chops come from. Her reply, and I can only surmise that this girl is in some manner, related to George, was: From a Pork Chop Tree. (This is the same girl that if you asked her what kind of car she had, she would say: A blue one.)

Holy Carp. Where is this tree and does it come with cream of mushroom gravy? Are there subspecies of braised pork chop trees and lemon-garlic pork chop trees. Does one need a special machine to cut the chops from the tree or does one wait until the chops are ripe and fall to the ground?

But back to the original story. Was it the clerk's job to clue poor George in on his ignoble failure to understand that bacon, ham, and chitlin's all come from the same animal, that if he ate the bacon and the ham, then he was EATING of the pig?

The clerk looked at us as if seeking divine interpretation and we answered. Although not divine, my husband made a sort of oh-what-the-hell-go-ahead-and-give-it-to-the-dumbass-if-he's-too-stupid-to-know-where-ham-and-bacon-come-from-then-he-deserves-what-he-gets gesture.

So the clerk loaded up George's hoagie, DOUBLE bacon, DOUBLE ham, DOUBLE every other type of meat that went on it, with the exception of PORK (which was the only meat not originally offered, probably because it was sort of implied that since the sandwich already had bacon, ham, and Canadian Bacon, then it was INCLUDED), wrapped it up, took his money, and gave it to him. And George went out whistling, happy to have instructed a heathen about the intricacies of his religious state of being. The look on George's face was explicit. He had taken on a heretic and he had won.

And that is the story of the STUPIDEST MAN EVER. True story. Dude, I can't make up stuff like that.

The De-evolution of Auto Mechanics or How I Drove Those Silly Bastards at the Auto Place Insane

So one day I was minding my own business when my husband, He Who Shall Remain Nameless For the Remainder of This Blog, or Him, or HIM if I'm feeling particularly sassy, asked me to take his truck into an auto place to have the tires rotated. Since having tires rotated on his 1996 Ford F-150 Truck is a mandated chore on my wifely duties list, (See future upcoming blog about that, btw) I agreed to the task, thinking, 'No problem. I'll take it in. Manly men will put it up on one of those thingys that raise it up in the air (I'm hearing imaginary lewd comments everywhere). I'll hear air tools whirring and chirping. Tires will be rotated. I'll read my book. No problem.'

I made an error. How simple can I put that? I made a boo-boo. I goofed. I fell for the oldest trick in the book. HIM, Who Shall Still Remain Nameless and the individual to whom I'm married, took the agreement in stride, and THEN started with the amendments. I'm thinking that the amendments should have been ratified by each state in the USA by a 2/3rds vote because that's how thrilled I was about them. But I had already agreed to the duty and by God, I was going to follow through.

The amendments: 1. I shall drive the coveted, babied Ford to the auto place and I shall not slam the doors. (For some reason I couldn't seem to shut the doors on this vehicle without irritating HIM's sensibilities. I didn't think I was slamming the door. HIM did. HIM would have thought an infant was slamming those doors.) 2. I shall tell the auto mechanics to rotate the tires on the vaulted truck slash vehicle of the Gods, and lament them not to slam the doors (HIM didn't really tell me to tell them not to slam the doors but I'm sure it was implied.) 3. I shall tell them to rotate the wheels in the order that HIM has so designated. 4. I shall not deviate from the designation of the designated tire rotation that HIM has decreed. HIM has marked the tires so that HIM will know that it was done in the method that HIM has declared. (No, HIM didn't really mark the tires, but HIM did memorize the markings on all the tires, so he would know.) Tire no. 1, otherwise known as the left front driver's side tire, shall go to tire position no. 4, otherwise known as the right rear driver's side. Tire no. 4 shall go to tire no. 2 position, otherwise known as front right passenger's side. Tire no. 3, otherwise known as left rear driver's side, shall go to somedamn place that I can't remember and I'm not sure I want to remember, and the rest of the tires went someplace, but HIM knew. 5. I shall explain HIM's decree to the auto mechanics. 6. I shall also tell the auto mechanics that they must not use air tools to tighten the lug nuts. (For the less than mechanically savvy, this means, the auto mechanics were supposed to tighten the lug nuts by hand. Obviously some of the single mechanics would be better at this than the married ones, but I might be making a faulty assumption.) 7. I shall bring the vehicle back to HIM and present it to HIM in a condition better than when I was entrusted to this mighty task.

And the OCD t-shirt I got for HIM is under appreciated.

My second mistake was actually relating HIM's instructions to the receiving person at the auto place. Let's call him Fred. Fred was actually one of the mechanics and well aware of what went on in the store. A lot of oil changes, tire changes, tune ups, tire rotations, alignments and the like were the average fare here. So here comes the short, fat, middle aged woman with a set of Ford keys and a look of contrite dismay on her face. (For the wifely one doesn't really want issue forth HIM's directions because she knows that she is the one who is going to sound like a big, fat, braying jack ass.) But I did it.

So I told the poor bastard, Fred, what HIM wanted. And the look on Fred's face went something like this.

So Fred looked at me with this expression on his face. I don't think he was comprehending the magnitude of what I was asking. He was taking it in, but he couldn't quite get it. Or perhaps his neurons and dendrites were misfiring on account of the fact that he comprehending what I was saying but he didn't understand why I was demanding that it should be so. As I stood there waiting for Fred's poor, misbegotten, untried brain to function to its full capacity (which was a lot longer in blog time) his face kept getting longer and longer. Words came out of his mouth but they didn't finish.

"Ba-bah-ba-bah-ba-bah," Fred said.

At that moment I knew that Fred had de-evolutionized and was becoming apelike. I was certain that he was about to start jumping up and down and throwing his own feces in his utter and absolute confused state of being. I was responsible for this poor miserable bastard having a psychosomatic meltdown into primateship. (I had to look that word up in the dictionary and I do mean the BIG, I-could-kill-someone-if-I-hit-them-over-the-head dictionary.) After much oral repetition I actually got the auto place to do what I had been designated to do.

I was banned from the auto place (Or at least they put my name in permanent marker on the 'bad' book they keep in the back. I'm pretty sure.)

Oh, Those Wretched Critics

It's true. I write, therefore there will be critics. So in my other job I write novels. A little fantasy, a little paranormal stuff, a little thriller, some mysteries. Check it out. If you've got a kindle, a nook, or whatever, you can see my stuff on amazon, barnes and noble, and smashwords. Love those websites.

As a motivator I made most of my stuff free for a short time. It seems to be doing well. Lots of people are downloading. Can't do it on amazon for some reason. So there the cheap ones are 99 cents. Not a bad bargain.

However, and oh, how I love the word, 'HOWEVER,' there are the critics.

Example. I have a novella on http://www.bn.com/ called Black Moon. Here's the description: Donovan is a werejaguar sworn to fight against his enemies, the dreaded werewolf clan - the Whitelaws. Isabella is an uncommon librarian, a member of the Committee. When she faces the Whitelaws to retrieve a very dangerous book, she encounters Donovan and their lives will never be the same.

Okay. It's not War and Peace, I know. It's paranormal romance. Very popular nowadays. I think there's 83 ratings on bn and it's downloading like crazy on smashwords. Yea, free enterprise. But some of the critics, oi vey.

An example from an honest to gosh critic: 'This is a short story not a book ergo the lower rating.'

IT WAS FREE, you dope. What did you want? Stephen King long? The bible long? Then it would have rated a whole other star. Man. This Anonymous, (may I say something about people who criticize and are too AFRAID to leave their names, the weenies,) person was also slightly offended about the sexual content. Yes, Virginia, there was sex in the story. Paranormal romance. What can I say? Was it porn? Not quite.

Let me explain. A few years ago I wrote this novella, not a short story, Anonymous, btw, for Silhouette Nocturne. They were looking for novellas in the 15,000 to 25,000 word range, featuring cool beasties and the like. So I did this one. Nothing particularly original about the setting, but I really like the action in it. You begin reading and it goes well. When Silhouette didn't snap it up, probably because they're inundated by thousands of would-be romance novelists, I let it lie until I decided to offer it for free as an ebook to get people to read some of my other stuff. Yea, me.

There the real and true origin of the novella (NOVELLA, look it up in the dictionary, Anonymous) Black Moon.

Now as a response I get a lot of comments. One favorite was about my grammar, I'm quoting here verbatim to get the best effect: 'Alot grammer errors.' Wow. Misspelling and grammatically incorrect in the same sentence. What a winner. Thank God for the First Amendment, let me tell you.

Please don't get me wrong. I don't mind if someone says there's a lot of typos. As a matter of fact, that makes me want to go back and edit the hell out of it, which I'm doing to one of the books I put out because I'm getting a lot of feedback about that issue. But come on, people, if you're going to criticize, be constructive, pul-lease. (And for those Anonymous people who said my work rocked, well, this obviously doesn't apply to you complete winners.)

As for the sex scenes in the book. I'm not sure what I should have done to warn people. Maybe put a warning system on the book. Here goes the romance warning system I've developed:

G - Good for even 8 year old girls to read. Does not contain sex, allusions to sex, or potty words (or as my daughter says toilet butt words.) Does not even contain the word, 'butt.' Does not have a cover of a half naked man, or a woman, if that's the case, or a woman lying at the foot of a man looking adoringly, or pantingly, up at him. Good for school marms, uptight Christians, and all people with big repressed issues coloring their points of views.

PG - May contain closed door sex. The couple goes in. The door shuts. Whoopee is implied but definitely not described. Definitely no premarital sex or bad words. Occasionally a crap or damn might slip out. May contain kissing and sometimes kissing where the tongue is slipped, or the French method is incurred. Good for church going folks who have a handy fan and for people who slip the book under their pillows at night. (You know who you are.)

PG-13 - Sex is definitely involved. It may be closed door sex or described sex. However, the penis is often referred to as his manhood, shaft, masculinity, valor, virility, weapon, power, potency. The vagina is a sheath, cleft, treasure, warmth. The actual sexual act is described but in somewhat vague terms and the couple nearly always climaxes at the same time. Lots of kissing, some cunnilingus, occasional implied fellatio. Nipples can be sucked in books rated PG-13.

R - Sex is always present and accounted for. The couple is hot for each other. The penis is a dick, cock, rod, shaft, root, and is often as hard as a rock, hard enough to pound nails, erection, swollen with lust, etc. Things go to town in an R-rated story. They fuck. Fuck is sometimes used in context in a R-rater. They may be married, but mostly they aren't, although they do fall in love despite all kinds of wretched circumstances.

X - Everything is described explicitly. Go ahead. Just be offended ahead of time. Should be included in the title. Black Moon (A Novella that will OFFEND Anonymous). Of course, Black Moon was NOT X-rated. It was more like a blend between PG-13 and R. I never called the hero's penis anything bad and the hero was definitely considerate of the heroine's oral needs. But this is objective and I'm certain Anonymous would like to have his or her say.

Anyway, here's my advice. If you find a book that has the following euphemisms for having sex in it, then it's probably not worth reading: a piece of crumpet, poking the pork through the whiskers, baloney hop, bandicooting, banging the shithouse door in a gale, bouncy-bouncy, giving the dog a bone, parallel parking, or spearing the bearded clam. None of which I've ever used in a novel, with the exception of The Life and Death of Bayou Billy, which is supposed to be slightly sick and wrong. (Yes, The Life and Death of Bayou Billy is rated X, but it's not a romance novel, so take that, Anonymous.)

My First Time in the Hospital or How I Learned that Being Sick is Not Good for Your Mental Wellbeing or How I Killed my Grandmother's 1963 T-Bird

OK. I was 12 years old and woke up with a fever and a humongous pain in my stomach. Since it was a Saturday, my mother took me seriously. The moaning and groaning down the hallway must have disturbed her Saturday morning in some fashion. Somehow or another my grandmother and mother took me to the doctor's clinic while driving my grandmother's 1963 Thunderbird. (Sweet car. It had white leather interior and this actually figures into part of the story. Can you see it coming? Come on, take a guess.) The doctor determined that I was in fact, ill, that I wasn't faking it, hysterical, hypochondriacal, and that it was appendicitis or some damn other thing. (But the pain was on the wrong side of the abdomen.) He told Ma to take me to the hospital. I was going into the BIG house and it was going to be my first time.

On the way out of the parking lot I told my grandmother to pull over. It's possible I screamed at her to pull over while clamping a hand over my mouth while making obscene gulping noises. Imagine this I wanted her to pull over so I could barf, preferably not in her car, and for my consideration I got verbally hosed. Amazingly she did stop and I did get the door open in time to vomit all over the parking lot. (Wonder which poor bastard got to clean that up.) The problem was that since I was really sick with 104 degree temp and my body was not aware of grandmotherly mandates, while I was throwing up my body was also off loading in the other direction. Then my grandmother was yelling at me to stop. I mean, really, she was screaming at me to stop simultaneously upchucking and having massive diarrhea. (Sorry, gran, I didn't have any control. I defy any twelve year old alive to be ralphing with the force of a launching space shuttle to NOT lose control of their bowels.) Remember the white leather interior of a cherry 1963 T-Bird? (And I don't know who got to clean that up, either, because I was incarcerated in the HOSPITAL of DOOM.) I'm pretty sure that was what the sign said when I was rolled in the door in a wheelchair, smelling like puke and poop, feeling like a pile of living crap. Let me tell you I was the most miserable 12 year old girl on the face of the planet. I could still tell this story to a therapist and get the therapist, an individual with eight years of postgraduate school and twenty years of practice, to wince.

Upon arrival at the HOSPITAL (cue scary Freddy Krueger music here) I was checked in, prodded, x-rayed, tortured with an IV line, and permitted to clean up with a male nurse. (12 year old girl, remember? Having a male nurse in the room was like mortal dread mixed with rat poison. I was sick and I was embarrassed. The only thing worse was if my entire class had wandered through the hospital for a field trip while the nurse was holding the bed pan for me.)

So everyone got settled in. The doc came in and said that it was possible that my appendix was on the wrong side and they'd have to wait for x-ray results. Meanwhile I was given lots of antibiotics and left to rot in a hospital bed. Fortunately I was alone in the room. Unfortunately, I didn't want to be alone. So naturally what happened? My grandmother and mother left me. For the night. Alone. In the bleep-bleepity-bleeping-bleep-bleep-Jerry Springer-Inspired BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPP HOSPITAL. Alone.......

I think this was a mistake because not only do I still hold it against them, it's 35 years later and I'm still mildly pissed off. (That was a trade-off because I believe my grandmother held my spontaneous diarrhea against me for months. I didn't ride in that T-Bird again for a long, long time.)

Then the sun went down. I've been to creepy places before but a hospital at night while you're sick and at the cusp of your imaginative abilities and psychosomatic maturation is the WORST place ever. The nurses kept coming in and taking my temp and my blood pressure and messing around with my IV. They did not let me sleep. AS IF I could have slept. These weren't the nice nurses either. They didn't go, "Oh, poor little girl. Let me get you a 7-Up." Instead they went, "Oh, you're not asleep. Don't move while I shove this thermometer down your throat. Hold still while I pressurize the blood pressure cuff so tightly that your eyes pop out of your head, kid." Demon nurses.

Luckily I got to watch TV for a while. Big treat. They got three channels. I'm going to pause to try to explain this concept to my 6 year old child. Back in the auld days of yore, we didn't have cable or DVDs or satellite dish or hundreds of channels or Disney crap up the ying-yang. We had ABC, NBC, and CBS. There was no ESPN, no FOX and no Oprah. At my house, sometimes we only got one channel, depending on how windy it was outside and how precarious the antenna was leaning. So three channels was like, whoo-hoo. And I didn't have to fight with my sister. (Of course, it's hard to argue with your sister about what to watch when you only have ONE channel, but I think we still managed.) (BTW, the remote control was also known as getting your lazy ass up and physically changing the channel by turning a knob.)

Soon the nurses gave me a look and I decided to turn the TV off and get some sleep. Sleeping in a fever induced doze is akin to hitting acid in the sixties with a horde of ravenous hippies in the Haight-Ashbury District. Shall we say that the man down the hall, who moaned throughout the night, not unlike a ghost in a haunted house, did not aid in my hapless somnorific attempts?

"OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHH! Ohhhhhhh! OH! OOOOOOOOO-OOOOO-OOOHHHHH!" he went, starting after lights out.

I quivered under the too thin sheets and blankets and debated covering my head with a pillow.

"OOOOOOO-ooooyyyyy-OOOOOHHHHHHHH!" the man down the hallway groaned.

At that point he went on, intermittently for some hours. Also the nurses finally decided that I should get some rest and did not come back into my room. I would have even been grateful for the male nurse to come back. And incidentally, the nurses neglected to inform me that I could have called them in to ask WTF. The little call button thing behind my bed would have been salvation, if they had thought to inform me about it. Told you. Demon nurses from the ninth level of hell, brought up to torture and torment poor sick little children. Stephen King would have liked these nurses.

"OoooooooOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOoooooo," it went on. The man sounded like he was getting his groove on. Then the nurses got into the deal and I learned that the man's name was Bill. How do I know his name was Bill? Because the hellish nurses kept yelling it at him. "DO YOUR BUSINESS, BILL!" That's a direct quote. Silly me. Now I realize that the poor bastard was probably constipated and pissed at the nurses. If I had known I would have brought him Ex-Lax. I think my grandmother would have been grateful if I had been constipated.

The stupid nurses not only DID NOT tell me I could call them, but didn't mention that I could get up and drag my IV stand to the bathroom where I could have LOCKED THE FUCKING DOOR. Do you know why? Because they were busy yelling at poor Bill. "Do your business, Bill! Do it! Do it now!"

I would cheerfully, gleefully, happily have sent him a basket of prunes combined with raisins and garnished with little blocks of Ex-Lax, if that would have made the nurses and him shut the HELL up and stop scaring the crap out of me. (Not literally, the poor T-Bird had gotten all of that effort.)

So the next morning the doctor condescended that I probably didn't have appendicitis and I probably did have an infected ovary. (WTF was that about? Who knows?) Then he sent me home. The huge black circles under my eyes and shivering body probably were cues that I hadn't rested well, while in the HOSPITAL. (Doooo dooooo dahhhhh. Insert harpsichord music here.)

So I got a week off school and an everlasting fear of hospitals, nurses, doctors, and men named Bill. (I don't think I voted for Clinton and I know I never dated one. So there.)

Trip to the Dr's Office or How I Spent Time in HELL with a Woman Who Could Outcomplain Me Any Day of the Week

Being a fat woman, I was forced to change medications by the doctor. He should have the standard statement printed out. "You need to loose weight and exercise more." Okay. Heard that the last time. If I knew the magic formula for losing weight and exercising more I would be a billionaire. I'd make Richard Simmons look like a piker.

There is no magic formula. You just have to make yourself do it. Apparently I can make myself exercise and do. But eating, well, that's another problem. Incidentally, I'm on day 3 of DIET NO. 1, and have lost three pounds. So there. Take that, skinny people. Power to the FAT WOMEN everywhere.

Anyway, back to the story. The doctor told me I have to change my meds. So I did. Then I gained fifteen pounds. Apparently the meds that I had been previously taking helped my digestive system a little too much. So off I went and took the new stuff. "Yippee," I said sarcastically. I could choose between being constantly diarrheic and keeping the weight off, or putting on fifteen pounds and being constipated. Wow. What a choice. So now fiber is my best friend. Yea, chewable pills.

The doctor sez check your blood work in 3 months and see how you're doing. I said, "Well, great, I love being hosed by the medical insurance, so just peachy." (Referring to the bill I got from the last blood work I had done, which i took to mean that the insurance company was washing its hands of me. But this is a whole 'nother story.) Like a good girl, I waited 3 months and made my appointment.

Another note. I know that the doctor's office has both fat and skinny women working there, because I've seen them. In fact, one of the doctors in the practice is a portly gentleman and he must catch hell from those skinny little twits upon occasion. I do not hold that against them, because I try very hard not to be fat biased. (Go FAT WOMEN, everywhere!) However, and it's a BIG FAT WHOPPING HOWEVER!!!!!! when I get on the phone with the receptionist and tell her that I need to make a blood work appointment because the Doctor has thus mandated it and God knows the Doctor is the King of the World, and she tells me 9:40 AM on such and such date, then follows it with, "Are you sure you can do that?" in a voice laden with sarcasm, it's not a good thing. (RUN ON sentence alert.) I think I can say that I have self-control issues with food. I love to eat. But I am capable of fasting for twelve hours, BITCH.

And here comes another HOWEVER!!!! However, (there it is) when I went to the doctor's office and I was mildly cranky, mostly from missing my caffeine fix and not from missing food, there was a woman there who was about a thousand times worse than I am. When I drove up I managed to get in ahead of her and behind me I could hear her saying she had an appointment for blood work at 9:20 am. Well, here's the thing, she was late, and I was early by five minutes. I got into the little, minuscule waiting room with her. Her daughter joins her. While I'm messing with my phone, she asks me if I have an appointment. Of course, I don't mind talking to people at the doctor's office, except maybe to the receptionist and sometimes to the doctor when he's lecturing me about not eating right. (I eat right. I eat too much right.) So I tell her.

Her: Well, I guess we're both going to be late then.

Me, in a mistaken attempt at humor (Warning, warning, witty morning humor and ornery people do not mix): Well, then I'm not happy about missing my cup of tea this morning.

Her: And I want my fucking coffee. And my fucking cigarette. And to be seen by the fucking lab techs on fucking time.

Her daughter (sotto voce): She has another fasting appointment after this one.

Me, not completely stupid and wondering if it was too late to put on a bullet-proofed vest: Wow. That's a lot of fasting.

Her: You're damn tooting. Hey, that guy came in after us. HEY, YOU IN THE LAB, THERE'S APPOINTMENTS WAITING HERE! (This was yelled in a pretty loud tone across a space of about six feet, so I think they heard her.)

The lab techs: Yes, Ma'am. We're working as fast as we can.

Me: I'll just let you go first, huh?

Her: I'm going to the front to complain.

Her daughter, after her mother was gone: She really misses her coffee and cigs.

Me: Yeah, well. (I didn't have a witty response so I settled for a silent, 'Duh? Don't you have a cage for her?')

Her, dragging a receptionist with her by the arm: I settled their little fucking hashes.

Me, on the inside: Please let them call her first. I think she'll take out my throat if they don't.

Then, guess what happens. One of the doctors brings a patient back and he gets seen by the lab techs before us. I swear the woman's vein on her forehead popped out and throbbed. If I had a ruler I could have measured it because it was popping out so far. Then her daughter scooted over about two chairs and I was looking for the exit. I thought since I had been unfortunate enough to get into the clinic's doors about thirty seconds ahead of her that they would call me next and the woman would go ballistic.

Don't get me wrong. I wanted the lab techs to get it over as much as the other woman did, but I wasn't in mortal danger of losing my ever-freaking mind because their system wasn't exactly state of the art. As soon as she yelled at the techs, I figured they wouldn't be seeing her until after lunch time, if she was lucky. And if we weren't lucky I was watching her hands to make sure she wasn't reaching for the little gun she brought with her. I was hauling ass for the nearest exit in a speed that is little expected from a woman of my stature. ("Did you see that?" "What?" "That fat woman could have won an Olympic medal?" "What for?" "The Fastest Fat Woman Running From a Tobacco/Caffeine Deprived Maniac Event, for goodness sake. Did you hear some popping noises?")

Anyway, for the sake of all mankind and the clinic in particular, the woman was called first. After all of that, it was pretty anticlimactic.

Diet No. 1

BTW, we're starting a new diet today. 10 1/2 hours into it and I want to go to KFC and order everything on the menu. Could I be a little cranky? Hmm.

The Underwire Bra - Wonder or Horrific Implement of a Vindictive Man

There. Doesn't the title say everything? I think it might. One day I was walking around, completely minding my own lingerie-minded business, when suddenly one of the wires in my underwire bra broke in half and stabbed me in the boobie. Now I don't mind technical failure when it comes to say a rubber band or any suspension bridge that I'm NOT driving on, but when it comes to my umlatters, that's a different story. My poor whoa-mammas were not doing a thing wrong, let me tell you. See convenient illustration. I think I left out a few swearwords.

Then my boobie got it right in the tender part on the bottom. I'm not sure of the exact thoughts that coursed through my pain-addled brain but it definitely involved swearing in two languages (my swear words are limited to English and Spanish and I intend to fix that as soon as I get on the Internet for future episodes of boobie stabbing by wayward brassieres), taking the Lord's name in vain in multiples, and questioning the parentage of the maker of the bra in general. I had visions of going to the doctor's office and/or emergency room and having to explain the incident. ("Excuse me," I whispered to the clerk. "I have a little problem." "OKAY, MA'AM," the clerk boomed. "YOU DON'T HAVE TO WHISPER. I'M SURE THOSE PATIENTS AND NURSES ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HOSPITAL WOULD LIKE TO KNOW ALL OF THE DIRTY INTIMATE DETAILS, TOO." "Awk," I whispered, in extreme mortification. "I think I'll just bleed to death instead.")

So there I was with an impaled boobie and I was kind of stuck in a state of mental well-what-the-fuck-am-I-supposed-to-do-about-it and it dawns on me that a woman couldn't possibly have invented the underwire bra. I mean, she would have to have known better. I should have known better. In fact, when I related the incident to my sister on the phone she said, "Well, why did you buy an underwire bra, for fuck's sake?" (Except she didn't SAY, "For fuck's sake," but I'm pretty sure she was thinking it.) So it had to be a man. So while I was meditating on what to say next I googled it and sure as shit, I was wrong. It was a woman. A dumbass who apparently never wore the thing herself. Since she patented in the thirties I can only assume that she was both trying to appeal to female vanity and attempting to make a buck in the Great Depression. Anyway, if you're at all interested look for who invented the underwire bra on wikipedia. Nice long article that tells you way too much about boobie attire and how we really got to the Wonder Bra.

All of which makes me think of the fact that I'm certain that somewhere, somehow some pitiful unfortunate woman had her underwire bra break while she was in the middle of something and she DIED because it hit her aorta or something equally vital. (It says on her gravestone: Poor pitiful, unfortunate Gertrude Jones, victim of fashion and a weak underwire from an underwire bra. WTF was she thinking?)

You decide. The underwire bra, a boon to mankind (Ha! It only makes mankind look at boobies more.) or a horrific implement of a vindictive man or woman as the case might be.

Where are the bleeping band aids?

Not Everything is About Fat

It occurred to me today that I place way too much emphasis on fatness. Not everything is about fat. After all, I'm having a wonderfully invigorating neighbor feud with the idiots that live next door and it doesn't have ANYTHING to do with me being fat. The short version: Their five year old wonder dumpling rang the doorbell twice and slammed the door knocker in an attempt to see if my six year old could come out to play at 9 PM on a weeknight, not to mention a school night. Well, my wondrous icon of childhood virtue was in bed already because we've got our priorities straight and since I was sick, I was already asleep and my hubs was out of town on business. So when the wonder dumpling did her iconic thing, it scared the crap out of me. The following day I said to the dumpling's cow mother, "We need a new rule about Dumpling ringing our door bell." Whereupon Cow Mama jumped on her 12 year old daughter's head, screeching about the fact that the 12 year old was supposed to be watching her. So the 12 year old did what any self serving, borderline hysterical personality with the mama from hell would do and LIED. "It didn't happen." Bill Clinton would salute in sheer appreciation. So I said I didn't appreciate being called a liar and Cow Mama leaped upon me with her claws fully bared. I believe the gist of it was that since it only happened once (the five year dumpling with trigger door bell finger) then it wasn't a problem (and how dare I complain about it) and since the 12 year old is only a 12 year old and virginly pure of evil malcontent, then I was judging her by adult standards (the 12 year lying about me.) Well, at that point communication pretty much melted down. Now I'm tempted to fire a BB gun out the garage window at their tires, kiddie pool and dog because I'm feeling pissy.

So look so not about fatness. It's about idiot neighbors ticking me off. Now I have ranted and gotten it off my chest, I feel so much better. Thank heaven for blogging.

Diet No. 3

The diet came. The diet went. The pounds went. The pounds came back. I did exercise, however. My sarcasm knows no limit. Alas, my stomach is still fat.