Heidi in Real Life

Return of the Twittering Bunny

2012-02-06T18:49:00.004-06:00

I hardly ever do this...but...does this fur coat make me look fat?

HELLO?! HELLO??? That's all Dr. Phil's rep says when I call to describe my friend's problem. It's like they can't even hear me.

I enjoy the fact that "rabbit trailing" is an insult used by "suits" to make fun of those off-topic. MY trails ARE the topic

I don't think sitting stone still and looking casual is fooling anyone.

"Ding Dong the Falcon is Dead" is a song I hum when I'm happy.

The problem with eating tulips is that you just can't stop at one.

I would like to propose that Dust Bunnies be called Dust Raccoons

Everyone I know is sleeping, yet I am wide awake, staring at a starry night. I think I'll write my name in paw prints.

A deer told me my butt was fluffy, so I opened a can of 'whoop ass' (which in my case entailed staring intensely and thinking evil thoughts)

Suckling an icicle like a gerbil's water dispenser. Long winters make strange bedfellows.

Nominating new species symbol--Peter and Easter aren't exactly role models. Bugs is too sarcastic and Jessica Rabbit is an enigma.

If you want to do the "Bunny Hop" or drop into a rabbit hole, which is something like dropping acid, I'm told, you can follow me @bunnyinmygarden on Twitter because I'm ver

Was that too many characters? Fluff!

Oops, dropped the F-bomb.

I Hear Naked People

2012-02-05T09:43:00.003-06:00

In our gym locker room, I am often called upon to talk to naked women. I try to look down and rush to a “doored” private cubby, but they find me and want to talk about ordinary things. They don’t seem to care that something (a lot, actually) is off.

Why can’t they just leave me alone??

I know we’re all women. I’m not offended by their casual attire, even if it does feel a little "National Geographicy" at times. It’s just not part of my normal to talk to strangers without at least two layers of something between us. The weird part is while I am at my MOST vulnerable that “that condition”—they don’t see it that way. I’ve actually been scolded by a nude.

“You should mop up the floor under you, those puddles are slippery!” I turned to apologize and was greeted by angry eyes and a lot of peachy flesh. There’s something about a bold, “Unashamed to be Naked” woman that intimidates me.

I had nightmares for a week.

I’m no prude. I’ve had plenty of pleasurable private naked historic events, but none of them ever involved yappy senior female nudists. Maybe it’s just me, but if you’re going to enter my personal space-bubble (as many of them do) unclothed -- you should at least buy me dinner.

Here’s my personal decree: If you’re naked in the locker room and you want to talk to me, I’ll be able to pay attention to you for approximately 2 nanoseconds. After that, my brain starts sending a million ADHD-fueled conflicting signals and…Heidi will have left the building. If you really want to talk to me, unless it’s about danger or that a spider is about to drop on me--can’t I just meet you in the lobby?

“What do you think about the “Piggly Wiggly” expansion?” A member asked me. They never ask me “Yes/No” questions.

“I think it’s nice,” I, all dressed and packed up ready to go, managed to say, looking at her hairline.

“I think it’s fantastic. They’re really giving Festival…”

WARNING: Heidi NAKED DECREE will COMMENCE in ..3,2,1

Followed by, “Blah, blah, blah, blah, boob, blah, boob, blah,” She had run-over my 2 nanosecond attention span and I was a deer in her headlights.

“I got to run, Hazel.”

“O.k., but when are you teaching…”

LA-LA-LA-LA-LA

Et Tu Waistline

2012-01-28T11:31:00.002-06:00

The last time I actually measured my waist was in 1987 using units of toilet paper squares at a baby shower. I haven’t needed to know how large or small I am since. I can see pretty well, and I know what goes up to it smoothly and what pushes everything north of my waistline up under my chin.

This year, my co-workers voted we should all go as 50s girls and host an open house. The costume shop had 3 basic adult female costumes: a slutty meter maid, a slutty nurse and a slutty witch. I did see one poodle skirt, but Scarlett O’Hara’s Mammy couldn’t have gotten me into it.

And it was a slutty poodle skirt too.

I decided to make my costume, which would finally require taking actual measurements. I hoped I was wrong and that my waistline hadn’t really left me for the elastic salesman. As it turned out, the size of a circle I needed to cut could be compared to a deflated hot-air balloon, a landscaped roundabout, or a Barnum and Bailey’s 3-Ring Circus ring.

I honed in on circus ring.

“I don’t think you’re that big,” my daughter, Krista, said, as I was looking for a yard stick to tape to another yard stick.

“You don’t develop good girth estimating abilities until you’re in your 30s, my dear,” I said, scraping the back of my brain for the Pi formula.

Months after my ego recovered from wearing the “Statue of Liberty-sized” poodle skirt, the same work-crew who voted “IN” the 50s wear took me shopping while we were on a business trip for the sole purpose of getting Heidi some cool jeans to wear on casual day.

“Do I HAVE to?” I whined, scoping the store for the “Circus Attraction” section. “I need my elastic. They’re not going to fit me!”

“Yes they will!” they sang merrily. “What is your size--we’ll help you look?”

STOP THE CAR.

“We might need to measure you,” the store clerk inserted, “because we have a whole different sizing system now.”

I rest is of the story is kind of a blur. I remember pants flying over the dressing room door. I remember chaffing skin and trying to put my head between my knees from lack of oxygen and greeting my own boobs under my chin. I also recall quivering biceps from doing too many “Blue Jean” curls.

When I came to, I was sporting some smokin’ hot jeans—the first new pair since my late 20s. The “World Denim and Spandex” reserves did have to be tapped, but it was for a good cause--my husband, Fred, couldn’t take his eyes off me.

But then, he’s into circus folk.

A Christmas Miracle—The Transformation into My Mother is Now Complete

2011-12-17T12:12:00.003-06:00

In an effort to trick myself out of eating all our annual Christmas baking before it gets delivered to deserving family and friends, I decided to wait until the week before Christmas to start the process. It’s a lot harder to eat 15 dozen cookies in 6 days, then in, say, 6 weeks.

Enlisting help in this endeavor from my daughter, Krista, should make the event fun and less frenzied. She is artistic and loves to decorate, but in this kitchen, with this time constraint, we can’t put perfect smiles on every Santa Claus, now can we?

“Why don’t you make all the smiles, then go back and make all the eyes, and so on?” I suggested, adding up the seeming 10 minutes each cookie is taking.

“But I want to do it this way.”

The assembly line had come to a complete steam-hissing halt.

“Krista, we have 20 million cookies to make, can you hurry it up?” Christmas clouds are darkening, laughing has ceased and I’m starting to feel like if something pure like an Angel or a Muppet entered my kitchen, it would fall dead from the “Cheer Vacuum.”

“O.k., Krista, you keep going, I’m going to make more.”

My husband, Fred, entered the kitchen and remarked that I should have started earlier. All it took was ONE LOOK from me, and he hurried out covering his genitalia.

In the same time I made 2 batches of fudge, 2 trays of caramel bars and removed the ceremonial molten peanut brittle from the microwave, Krista had completed 25 Santa faces--and they were magnificent.

“O.K—we’ve got gingerbread to roll out and this time we decorate before they go in the oven.”

“I think I’m going to take a break.”

“Christmas Cookie Elves don’t take breaks!!!” I blasted, “Especially while their mothers are pouring their heart and soul into making everything… (Face reddens for dramatic effect) PERFECT!!”

At this point, Heidi had left the building, replaced by the voice of her now deceased, always Christmas-Stressed Mother. It had to be her; I haven’t heard the words “Christmas Cookie Elves” since 1972.

I have rapid flashbacks of those hard, metal Christmas decorations that break your teeth rolling all over the floor because they never stick in the dough. I remember her taking my little hands firmly and telling me to make the dough balls NOT sausages. I’m reeling, remembering at age 7, when I accidentally broke a glass near the cookie making station and she had to start…all…over… again. I really, seriously thought she was going to KILL me…but she did worse. She cried.

As soon as I realized that Dolores had channeled me, I shook and came to my senses.

“I’m taking a break too,” I said, “LET’S EAT SOME!”

If you, on my cookie recipient list, don’t get your cookies this year…they were delicious.

Ho-Ho-Ho!

Putting the “Luck” in the Potluck

2011-11-09T22:12:00.007-06:00

I earned a bad reputation for myself at a company Potluck when I accidentally added a plastic-sealed recipe fold-out to my batch of fudge.

“What are these layers made of?” one executive asked, splitting the fudge in two to reveal the white strata.

“Layers?” I asked, my eyebrows rising to my hairline.

“It looks like it has writing on it,” another executive added.

“Writing on it?” My mind-- visibly racing; my forehead--wet with anxiety.

“It’s paper!” someone shouted and in a flash, everyone’s head was up, like a herd of deer who just heard a twig snap.

Those fellow employees will never look at a plate of fudge the same way again. They will be mistrustful and wonder, “Did some dingbat put plastic in these?” I’ve done this to them…and I am ashamed.

I can relate to their distrust because I’ve had similar “Close Encounters of the Putrid Kind” at pretty much every Communal Food Event I’ve ever been to. Here’s how a typical “Potluck Action” plays out: Heidi spots the cheese and sausage tray, present at all these spreads. Heidi takes a slice of sausage, alerting the “Sausage Preparer’s” keen ear. In a flash, he appears at my side smiling:

“How do ya like my sausage?” He’s way too anxious for me to try it. I suspect he’s a hunter, or “meat mingler” as experience has taught me.

“It’s good,” I appease, nodding, thinking, “come on, buddy, what is it? I know you wanna tell me.”

“You’re eating squirrel and wolverine sausage,” he announces with pride.

“Didn’t you make the “pulled pork” in the crock pot too?” I sputter.

“I never said it was pork.”

Trust is also key when it comes to offering temperature sensitive food. It’s especially hard to maintain quality Potluck food control when alcohol is being consumed and dulls “Food Spoilage” senses. After a few hours, and the third of fourth round, the SERIOUS "munchies" set in. I've probably saved the life of many intoxicated party goers by standing in front of a suspicious shrimp ring, trying to get them interested in Doritos instead.

"Are those shrimp moving?" a guest asked. Reanimated shrimp are a neighborhood favorite, along with a couple of my specialties: "Taco Dip" swill and "Cause of Death" potato salad.

From the paper in my fudge incident, I realize I had poor awareness when it came to food preparation. But I’m not the only one putting the “luck” in the Potluck. An acquaintance of the family made these unbelievably good fruited Christmas cookies. People would beg her to bring them to parties. One day I went to pick up a batch, and saw her secret: She threw a bed sheet on to the kitchen floor and tossed the hot cookies into a pile of powdered sugar. A lovebird cage with two feathery residents hung just above it.

That wolverine sausage didn't seem so bad after that.

Bagging the “Big One” Takes a Woman’s Touch

2011-10-22T11:47:00.002-05:00

“Why don’t you just dig a pit and cover it with leaves like they did on “Gilligan’s Island”?” I suggested as my husband, Fred, was getting his stuff ready to revive his hunting spot in the woods, “That way, you can put bait on it and when Mr. Deer walks over to eat, shlooof (!)--down he goes.”

Fred ignored me.

It’s heartbreaking for me to watch Fred do all the “right” things to land a deer and then come home with unopened cans of beans, cold seat warmers and a forlorn look instead of venison. Sometimes I wish a deer would just tap on his blind and say, “Look, I’m frickin’ starving here,” and take gun barrel like Jeff Goldblum did as “The Fly” and point it at his own head. A mercy kill—a man can still come home proud after that.

My wish would also include “said” deer would have 20 of those “Antler Thingies” too.

As I type, Fred is out there, somewhere, planning and planting apples. At the same time, some male deer is taking just as much time on his end trying to hide, while his mate is saying, “Why don’t you just saw those stupid things off and act like a doe.”

Since deer camp is generally a man-thing, I can’t help but think that the female intuition element has been ignored. Like my pit suggestion—perfectly logical, unexpected. There is the matter of hoisting the deer OUT of the pit, but that still seems feasible.

Most men sit in a deer blind during rifle season and wait. They have a minimal view and minimal opportunity. Therefore, my first suggestion is to hunt like a pack of wolves. Get a group of hunting camp buddies, circle the area, corral whatever is in there into a main point (just don’t shoot across the circle). Any meat could then be shared (rock-paper-scissors for the antler rights).

Couldn’t be simpler.

Another clever idea involves motion detecting sprinklers. Bambi passes a certain maple tree, for example, and a sprinkler goes off---BOOM, he’s not hurt, and he’s on the run, making it easier for seated hunters to be successful.

I thought Fred would like that idea, but Mr. Negative reminded me that most rural forests aren’t plumbed. I can’t be bothered with details like that.

My last unpopular suggestion? Take the alcohol factor out of the picture completely. If I drank all night and woke up at 4:00 am, I would want to shoot…myself.

Happy Hunting, Guys.

Adventures in Unremarkable Organ Removal

2011-09-28T17:21:00.001-05:00

Distraction was the key to managing my pre-surgery jitters when last week I finally got the guts (*cough*) to have my gall bladder removed.

The drugs didn’t come until later.

It was my husband, Fred, who accidentally cheered me up in the waiting room by trying to make a “basket” with my wadded up wet facial tissues. He missed so many times it was like watching a Laurel and Hardy movie. By the time he finally sunk it, a crowd was engaged, Fred was red-faced from bending over and I was snorting.

“Whatever entertains you,” Fred said, embarrassed.

Next, I was kept busy trying to put my sterile gown on all by myself. I was required to ASSEMBLE the gown from scratch, snapping material together to create sleeves and various ties (A – D) threaded through various holes (1-6). The technology was dizzying. Finally “dressed” and on the gurney, some guy came along with an EKG machine and promptly undid everything.

The pre-surgery fun continued with my shin wrap fitting. These wraps inflate and deflate so you don’t get blood clots. The irony is--I’m way more “motionless” and, thus, “blood-clot fertile” at home in front of the TV than I am during a 1 hour operation, but after a few minutes I rather liked the massage feeling my calves were getting. It almost felt like a spa treatment.

Almost.

I was finally all hooked up to IVs, massaging shin apparatuses in place and draped in my masterpiece snap-together gown. Naturally I had to use the bathroom. I kept the nurses busy readying me for my bathroom trip, which resulted in approximately 2 teaspoons worth or pee. Back to bed, I was hooked up again.

“Do you SERIOUSLY have to go again?” Fred inquired, moments later.

“It’s just the “idea” of “not being able to go”,” I said, pulsing the nurse-button.

For all the grief “Gally” the gall bladder had giving me these many months, I half hoped it would emerge in the operating room covered with barnacles and spikes to the horror of all who gazed upon it—an “Alien” hissing organ that fought to survive, bopping and weaving away from the surgeon’s pincers like a boxer.

“Did the doctor write anything about my gall bladder?” I inquired, doped.

“No, he usually dictates his notes later,” a nurse replied.

“But, did YOU see my gall bladder?” I asked.

“No.”

“Damn.”

You Think You’ve Got it Ruff?

2011-08-28T10:51:00.002-05:00

My owners are idiots.

They brought me to the grandparent’s house, leashed me to a shade tree, left me a bowl of water and patted my head. They were gone for 2 hours (that’s 14 in dog hours), during which time the old folks’ automatic sprinklers timed ‘on.’ There I was trapped in my 10 foot circle while the Ch-ch-ch-ch-tsssssssssssss Ch-ch-ch-ch- tssssssssssss spritzes of water, from which I could not escape, nailed me every 20 seconds. Oh, they came home and felt bad, but I definitely heard some chuckling at my expense.

This latest incident follows a long summer of “First Time Dog Owner” follies with me as the main act. Heidi’s previous blog detailing my humiliating “all-over” shave was a crock of dog-doo. I would have titled it, “Jasmine feels all exposed and NASTY.” I’m glad she got butt-fur on her face. If I had known it would have caused her such discomfort, I would have blown the hair up at her myself.

This all started back in July, when the “fam” took me with them to a lake house. They let me swim and run around on the sand bar, catching Nerf balls, which was great. But all that physical activity loosened things up and you know…I had to go. As soon as they saw me squat (and it was WAY too late for me to stop squatting), I got yanked back in the boat while someone danced around screaming for something plastic. I was brought to shore immediately, which I thought was silly, because I was “clearly” DONE.

A couple of weeks after the lake weekend, I started to itch--A LOT. The recommended Borax bath was supposed to dry naturally--so I couldn’t be toweled dry on my way outside. BOY was I heavy --I could hardly move. I couldn’t stand it…one…. more…minute… and I shook so furiously, the ceiling and walls were dripping. That felt better. Then my skin and hair turned snowy white. The neighbor dogs raised their tails and growled at me. Hey—it’s still me guys, I tried to communicate, even though I looked like the canine Methuselah.

The doctor admitted the bath didn’t help, because 2 days later I was covered in the grossest possible nodules. She prescribed BIG green pills for my skin infection that I got to eat off a spoon with peanut butter. That almost made up for the fact that I had to be brushed 3 times a day to get rid of the potato-chip sized flakes in my hair.

Well, after this past weekend “Sprinkler Soak”, I decided to get even.

I tried to stay as moist as possible so the wet-dog smell would permeate the carpet and car upholstery on the drive home. Next, I inhaled all the air in the car and exhaled it through my mouth. It was raining so they couldn’t open the windows. To their credit, the four of them didn’t complain much, and I got 10- 15 Pizza doggie treats just for looking cute.

Guilt is a wonderful tool.

Signed, Jasmine

MY GOD! Animals are covered in hair!

2011-08-04T06:29:00.004-05:00

Jasmine, our Golden Retriever, needed a special bath to help sooth a skin irritation. My idea was to shear her hair shorter so the bath concoction would penetrate better. I have a friend who shaves baby cows to prepare them for the county fair—BABY COWS! How hard could clipping a 60 lb. dog be?

Ah, the naivety of a first time dog owner.

I decided I should give her a haircut before I got out anything electric. Jasmine “laps up” any attention I give her, so for the majority of the grooming session, she lay in her deep-sleep, “Butcher Chart” pose, still, aside from her tail thumping. The books will tell you to have her either stand or sit…but I didn’t think to consult those books.

Using the “Grab a Hank and Cut” method, I felt like the White Witch from “The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe” with Aslan on the stone table. After an hour and a half of squatting, rolling and panting (me, not the dog), one slightly molted canine emerged and one garbage bag of 4” hair was harvested. The books would tell you to bathe the dog before you trim her hair too. Next time…

For step two, I found Fred’s hair clipper (which I use it on him semi-monthly) and popped a ¾ inch hair measurey-thingy on the end and started it up. MY GOD! Animals are covered in hair! With the exception of a small portion of flesh on her belly and maybe her nose and eyeballs, everything else had follicles. I sat on our porch outside on a non-windy, humid day with Jasmine across my lap and buzzed and buzzed until my buzzer hand was cramped and the clippers and I whined for a break.

Then I had to flip her.

As I turned her over on her opposite side…a sudden wind blew. A flurry of Jasmine’s fluffy white butt-hair, made fluffier from the procedures, blew up at me and stuck to my sweaty skin. All of a sudden, I was itchy and I didn’t have enough fingers to scratch all the itches. I wanted to quit, but I was only half done. Back straining, arms shaking, I shore my last stripe 30 minutes later. “Alternate Dimension” Jasmine was born--not quite a dog, not quite a sheep. A SHOG. She happily ran off.

Covered with dog fuzz, I wasn’t quite sure what to do next. I didn’t want to go in the house like this. I considered just hosing myself off outside, but I didn’t think I could do that to myself. Finally, my solution was to strip off all my clothes in the garage, with the door closed of course, plug a small fan in and hold it up to my face to release the hair that wasn’t cemented to my skin. I then streaked into the house for a shower.

I startled my daughter, Krista, who had just come upstairs and who was completely oblivious to what I had been doing. Alarmed, she asked, “Why are you naked?”

Followed closely by, “Why are you furry?”

Shog grazing.

In the mirror, I was “The Shaggy DA” wearing a Charlton Heston (as Moses) descending the mountain with the 10 Commandments in hand, white wig.

I’m glad I’m a “fairly” hairless human, who will probably not complain about her one chin hair anytime soon.

Freddie-locks and the Three Chairs

2011-07-31T17:37:00.005-05:00

Once upon a time, my husband, Fred, wandered around from store to store, searching for a comfortable, portable outdoor chair. I, as his wife, decided to come to his rescue and order what claimed to be a “Mammoth” chair, suitable for giants like 6 ft 5 Fred.

“Why is the box so long?”

“All the better to seat you with, my dear.”

Fred straddled the box and pulled with the strength of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. Finally, out sprang a long, long, rigid canvas anaconda-like parcel. He set it up in the living room and unfurled the arms. Eyes and mouths wide open, we stood in silence. It was the “Great Chair of the Forrest” –the FATHER of camp all chairs. Three bears and three pigs could all enjoy a little “down-time” on the chair and not rub fur or skin. Its 6-cup holder equipped arms stretched out like King Kong reaching for the Empire State Building.

Fred in his chair.
Note feet not touching the ground

Bravely, Fred climbed 5 foot 6 inch “Mt. Chair” like Jack did his beanstalk. Once in it, he swung his feet like a child. “All I need is some zinc oxide for my nose and I could be a lifeguard in this thing,” he beamed.

The legend of “Fred and his Humongous Chair” would live on for centuries if he set it up… anywhere. To enjoy campfire fun, he’d need a 7 foot marshmallow stick. While sitting on it next November, in the snow, waiting for deer to show up, a whole herd could walk right under him, ducking their heads only slightly, whispering to each other, “Get the camera, I want a picture with his guy.”

That chair was tooooo big.

Fred, upset.

The second chair arrived to serve its new master from a catelog. It was stouter, but offered more power with its reinforced front legs. Fred took the second chair with us for the weekend in the outdoors. In a short time, it was clear that the chair was not made very well and already had a broken leg, causing Fred to sit lower...and lower…and lower. He bound it together with half a roll of duct tape and finished the weekend.

This chair was toooo frail, and had to go back.

Unknown short-statured person
beside King Fred.

By the time Fred’s third chair arrived, he was weary…and leery. Fred surrendered himself to this one…last…chair, and brought it with him to an outdoor music event. At last, he was feeling kingly and confident in this, his new throne. Animals were lying down next to him, a rainbow appeared in the sky and bluebirds swooped. All was calm and bright...because this chair was JUST right. The only disruption to the peace of a good chair was the arrival of a "little person", whose size posed such a distracting difference to Fred's, that his friends ran for their cameras.

But Fred has lived, so far, happy with his chair ever after.

The Gall Bladder of the Pastry Whore is Enflamed

2011-07-20T16:28:00.006-05:00

I’ve discovered there’s a whole new world of denial out there, associated with medical conditions that require non-emergency surgery. I call it "Surgery Avoidance World." Much like Elmo’s World on Sesame Street, it’s filled with bright colors, friendly people and most certainly NO scalpels.

I’ve heard of people who let hernias bulge so far it looked like the Loch Ness monster. I’ve heard of people who walk around with goiters so big that bounce. I used to wonder why they wouldn’t get those taken care of. I don’t wonder anymore, because I’ve met them all in "Surgery Avoidance World." The sun’s denial rays are so bright here--we don’t notice such things.

I have gallstones, you see, and when I get a good helping of cinnamon rolls, my gall bladder screams, “You Pastry WHORE! It’s ON! I’m going to ENFLAME!” And it does. Apparently the stones are large enough that they can’t escape, but still make mischief and rattle the walls of the organ like a convict clanging his cup on the bars.

Dr. Minkey was all set to do my gall bladder-ectomy last November. But when I heard his name, all I could think of was Peter Sellers in “Return of the Pink Panther” talking to the blind organ grinder and saying, “Filthy Minkey (“monkey” in Inspector Clousea-ease).” I can’t possibly let someone cut into me with such a silly name, could I? I’d be wondering where his squeeze box was, and giggle, which would probably tick him off and he’d “Whoops” drop his gum in one of the holes he would bore near my belly button and leave it to rot. But non-emergency surgery was up to me to schedule and even though Dr. Minkey (snicker) said it would get worse…all I heard was I’m free. Soon, my gall bladder forgave me for the doughnuts and re-friended me. I decided if I was going to have the surgery, surely it could wait until I lost a little weight or cut out fatty foods completely.

Time marched ahead one month.

Napoleon probably had an enflamed gall bladder, because I can COMPLETELY relate to the position of his hand inside his coat. He’s using his forearm to cradle his sore side. Napoleon was in “Surgery Avoidance World”—and who could blame him really? He probably ate the fattiest meals possible before he posed for his painting. See that “I’ve got a Gall-Stone” grimace? It’s the same one your see on the Mona Lisa--who probably had an enflamed gall bladder too—solving, once and for all, the mystery of her wince/smile. I have a dozen pictures of myself at Christmas looking like that saying, “Hurry up and take the picture so I can lie down with my pillow” like a ventriloquist.

Dr. Minkey retired two months ago, waiting for me to schedule the surgery.

My new doctor’s name is Dr. Collision. Collision. With a name like that, I just hope he looks where he’s going when he’s wielding that knife.

Unless my gall bladder re-friends me of course, and then I’m calling the whole thing off.

Butterfly Enemy #1 and 2 (and maybe 3)

2011-07-01T16:10:00.000-05:00

The first time my oldest son, David, was terrorized by a butterfly, he was 3. He was sitting in a shopping cart in a flower nursery when one landed right on his nose and wouldn’t move. He cried…a lot. It was a big bug, after all.

The second time (age 5), it was when my mother innocently put on a butterfly puppet in the mall and flapped it around him. He screamed like he’d just seen …a big stuffed butterfly overtake his Grandma’s hand. I suppose it did look creepy--5 wiggling black gloved fingers and Grandma making a buzzing sound.

The third time, age 8, he was on a school trip to a butterfly house when another winged-intruder came very close to his face. A couple of nanoseconds of flailing arms and then STOMP, he killed it dead, causing a scene of unimaginable proportions including, screaming, running and hysterical zoo keepers scraping up the remains of the Ruby-throated Pussycat Swallowtail with cardboard. I’m sure there’s an age-enhanced picture of David at the zoo—even now--with a “Keep Him Away from Butterflyarium”” warning.

We’ve made gentle fun of him over the years for it and he’s taken it reasonably well.

Flash forward 20 years, when I take my first turn in a butterfly enclosure. It was very hot and humid in there--to satisfy the needs of the plants and the butterfly cocoons. There were pretty flowers, but buzzing everywhere.

Naturally, one landed on me, and I did the very uncool, “OH MY GOD!” scream and, using both my hands, rapidly flapped at it until it was gone (and I didn’t care where). The entire population of the exhibit (including the butterflies) turned to face me. The guard straightened his face menacingly. I imagined the butterflies lining up and performing stunt flights in a flying “V” and skimming my hair like bats.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave, “the butterfly-loving guard said, which would normally have embarrassed me, but only brought me joy.

“I could kiss you, “I said, sincerely.

In the “Decontamination Chamber” where you go to make sure there are no butterflies are on you, I ran “in place” –which is “hurry up” in body language-- while a “netted” guard whisked one off my neck.

This past weekend I sat outside the zoo's new butterfly exhibit, while my daughter, Krista, and husband, Fred, went in together. I soon spotted a kindred spirit--a woman passing rapidly through the line, knocking children over, and repeating “Get me out of here!” As she rushed past the “Decontamination Chamber” and out, I spotted a butterfly on her back.

Poor thing. The woman, not the insect.

“I Never Do”

2011-06-22T12:06:00.002-05:00

I’m feeling kind of “Weddingy” these days. I just saw “Bridesmaids” and now my youngest son is engaged. A friend’s daughter is set to wed on Saturday and a neighbor in a couple of weeks.

Because I have a lot of experience in what not to do....HERE COMES THE: Wedding “I never Dos”

1. Brides--Never, EVER pretend to throw the bouquet.

I was 20 the first time I tried to catch a bouquet. I was at a wedding reception with my boyfriend. The bride positioned herself to toss the flowers backwards. Just as she made a motion to throw, I, alone, charged for it, crazed ram-like. I tripped and when I raised my head up from the grass and saw my boyfriend, now sheep-white with several men around him slapping his back and laughing. The bride had only pretended to throw it that time.

After 26 years, I still want to punch her face in.

2. Never allow yourself to be photographed doing the “Chicken Dance.”

I was having a very good time at my wedding. Such a good time, I didn’t realize that my new uncle-in-law had stopped filming the 19 year old Danish foreign exchange student and turned the camcorder on me until we were at a post-wedding gathering at the Eagles Club 2 weeks later.

“Is that you?” my husband, Fred, asked. I looked up from a conversation to see myself flapping and making “talkie-crab hands” on 5 giant T.V. screens. Thanks to a prior undocumented slow dance with Fred’s sweaty friend, my make-up was running.

I was Alice Cooper in a giant lacey albino orca suit.

Don’t even get me started on the “Hokey Pokey” clip.

3. Unless you want exploding boutonnieres roses, never order from “Discount Flowers.”

I ordered peach roses for my bouquet and the men’s boutonnieres from a cheap florist. We were outside only 10 minutes before the temperature change caused the cold flowers, pinned to the men, to explode. We’re talking Morticia Addams-like beheaded flowers. Petal-less stems. “Anti-Boutonnieres.”

4. Make sure your wedding photographer doesn’t have a brain tumor.

We took requests for extra picture copies back to our wedding photographer—who had a complete personality change and didn’t know who we were. I described us, “The Frazers. You know, exploding flowers, white nightmare “Chicken Dance”, super-model foreign exchange student?” But still, “No. Sorry.”

“What are you talking about you don’t remember—don’t you keep records?”

“I had a brain tumor removed and my short term memories are lost,” she eventually stammered. She might be able to locate the negatives… but then she asked me who I was again.

5. Never acknowledge it was your kid who took all the cheese cubes off the ice sculpture table.

Well, obviously.

Aunt Heidi Speaks on Mature Body Awareness

2011-05-22T12:57:00.006-05:00

This is not meant to replace your annual physical, mammogram, pap-smear or prostate check.

We all remember “The MOVIE” right? They put the boys in one room, the girls in the other to teach us about the forthcoming changes in our bodies? How about making one for us in our late 30s, so when things start changing… again…we don’t think we’re dying?

Man Movie Highlights:

When you reach your 40s, you’ll have new and wonderful areas of expanding skin…just above your eyebrows. Don’t worry--the hair isn’t disappearing, it’s just moved… to inside your ears. The new 4” long eyebrow hairs you’re growing should take the focus off your shiny head. Nature finds a way!

Speaking of ears-- it’s not your imagination-- they actually ARE getting bigger. Don’t bother your doctor--you’re not becoming a chimp--ears grow forever. Your nose grows forever too. In fact, in about 30 years, you and all your male friends can have an “Elmer Fudd” look-alike contest…and you’ll all win.

Please--don’t worry about that indentation on your “remote control” thumb. You’re not dying. That’s from turning the volume up…a lot. It’s not the new plumage of ear-hair interfering with the sound waves either. Go get an exam or one of those “Miracle Ear” thingamajigs and give your family a break…or we’ll all go deaf!

If you think I’m picking on you men—I dare you to be a 45-year old woman for a day….

Woman Movie Highlights:

I’ll start with some free association:

Turkey-neck. Leaky Bladder. Grey Hair. Anti-Gravity Boobs.

Eye-lid Hoods. Wrinkled...EVERYTHING. Hooves.

Dried-Up Like a Wind-Mummified Nomad.

Don’t be surprised by facial hair growth. Like most 13-16 year old young men, peach fuzz can appear on our upper lips and chins. And…just like 13-16 year old boy, if you shave your chin often enough, the hair will come in like Rasputin’s.

Warring hormones will burn you like a cross on a vampire, causing sleeplessness, marital challenges and angst among your coworkers. You’ll also have to go to the bathroom at night as often as a new puppy. Advice: Go to your happy place and put a piece of duct tape across your mouth…and reorient your bed so you’re closer to the bathroom.

Heidi trying to avoid being photographed.

If you’re in your 40s now, chances are you worshipped the sun as a teenager like I did. Hope you had fun, because it’s time to pay the “Tanning Piper.” I look so much like a spotted hyena right now and if I got on all-fours and laughed, someone would shoot me with a tranquilizer gun and haul me to the Milwaukee Zoo. Be sure to have a “Mole/Liver Spot” map made with your doctor. Be sure to ask for credentials if you happen to go to a “Free Full Body Scan” clinic.

If you’re having trouble reading this…

Go get some bifocals. There are no more “lines” to tip off people that you’re half blind. The true tell-tale sign of a bifocal wearer is “Nodding” to find the right spot to see through. It also makes us appear very agreeable.

Does this help in your transition into mature adulthood?

Yeah, me neither.

I’ve Mounted WAY MORE than My Share of Birthday Saddles

2011-05-20T08:07:00.001-05:00

Anyone out there who has darn-near hyperventilated blowing out trick candles; who’s had 20 friends startle you in a darkened room; or who’s been attacked by 30 pink flamingos on your front lawn—and hated every second of it—let us commiserate together.

But we do like the cake and presents though.

“Is having a nice, quiet birthday too much to ask?” I inquired of my husband, Fred, earlier this year…pre-birthday.

“But what fun is that for everyone else?” he replied and flashed that I’ve-got-something-in-the-works guilty look.

Each year, when I blow out my birthday candles I wish the same wish—just give me my fattening dessert and don’t involve strangers with fiendish grins. I wish, O granter of birthday wishes, that there was a law against embarrassing birthdays, so that the next time someone slips a waiter a note about my birthday, a police officer would poof in, put them in handcuffs and force THEM sit on a table-side saddle in front of 150 strangers on their 40^th.

Yeah! Ride THAT cowboy!

This year a friend offered to take me to lunch at my favorite Mexican restaurant on my birthday. I accepted, but begged her—

“Please don’t tell them it’s my birthday—I SERIOUSLY do not want to wear the sombrero!”

But…faster than you can say, “Where’s the ladies room?” a mariachi band had assembled and the Spanish speaking waiter presented me with a fabulously ornate black sombrero, fiendishly grinning, saying, “Feliz Cumpleanos!” which I hoped meant “Here is a million dollars” or at least “We spray for head lice.”

My “Birthday Embarrassment” is not limited to dinning. In fact, surprise parties should be listed on a bottle of Benadryl as a cause for hives. Fred threw me a surprise party for my 33^nd birthday but he now knows if he ever does that again, he should plan to sleep with one eye open and his good ear up…forever.

Children LIVE for their birthdays and they don’t mind people staring at them waiting for their amusing reactions and having total strangers size them up to guess their age. They squeal happily over the fuss and don’t fret about how they’re going to look in all those candid pictures (or who will post them on Facebook). Save the parties, the hats and horns and the singing restaurant employees for the little kids….

…and leave us this old, camera-shy “Birthday Grinch” alone!

I still want cake and presents though.

Please Don’t Let Me Sound like Charlie Sheen (repeat)

2011-03-04T09:53:00.006-06:00

I had a job interview yesterday. It was mental and physical Get-A-Job Olympics. We began with the:

Job Applicant Triathlon

In retrospect, it seemed a WHOLE lot like they were administering a psychological test, from behind a one-way glass, designed to weed out any of us job candidates (nay Olympians) from undesirable “Charlie” personalities—those being: Charlie Brown, Charles Manson, Chuckie and Charlie Sheen.

Event 1: 12-page Application Completion- Those fun-loving employers set us up with a clipboard and pencil on a rickety, wheeled office chair and no table. I managed to recant my life with only one episode of writer’s cramp and one small “Hoo-Hoo-Hoo-Hoo” Tigger from the 100-acre wood sound-effect when the chair moved backwards unexpectedly.

· Charlie Brown would have talked himself out of trying.

· Charles Manson would have tapped on the one-way glass like a bad boy does in an aquarium to make fish move.

· Charlie Sheen would have put is feet under the chair and done 1,000 sit-ups

· Chuckie would have scared the dickens out of the receptionist.

Event 2: Math Test in an 80-degree Room- I haven’t had a math test since I was 16. That fact alone made me sweat, not to mention the high room temperature. Deductions for water requests (which I made).

· Charlie Brown would have screamed “AAUGH!” and all you’d have seen was his mouth and the top of his nose.

· Charlie Sheen would have rolled it up and smoked it.

· Charles Manson would have scribbled swastikas on it.

· Chuckie would have melted

Event 3: Viewing of the Corporate Video- This doesn’t sound much like an event, but the office manager put the video on, left the room, but neglected to hit ‘play.’ The same video scene ran for 2 LONG minutes before I got up and pushed ‘play’ myself (full marks for bold movement). They tried to increase the difficulty by seating me in the middle of the busy, distracting office environment.

· Charlie Brown would never have pushed ‘play’.

· Chuckie would have torched the place.

· Charles Manson would have interacted with the people in the TV.

· Charlie Sheen would have found the remote and flipped around for the Porn Network.

Next was the:

Interview Hurdles

To my great relief, this morning’s interview was one-on-one. Questions asked included the dreaded, “What is something you’d like to improve about yourself.” I managed NOT to say, “How long do you have?”

And finally the:

Endurance Run/Wait for the Phone Call

I’m passing the time waiting for my results by practicing sitting on an unpredictable chair and not making cartoon tiger noises.

Unless that will get me the job, in which case, “Hoo, Hoo, Hoo, Hoo!”

Did you SEE that Half-Naked Woman in the Bakery Aisle?

2011-02-24T14:53:00.004-06:00

My pants fell down in public this morning. I just thought you should know that up front.

It was a “Perfect Storm” when it came to conditions of my “self-pantsing”:

· A banded-bottom sweatshirt exerting force down (and in)

· “Day before laundry day” looser elastic underwear

· Cargo pants with “wannabe” sweat pants waistband

· My apparent feigning sensitivity related to air on my bare flesh

At this point I’d like to interject an apology to all plumbers, electricians and rappers, who I previously chided, behind their backs, for their density regarding the exposure of their backsides. I would say, “How could they POSSIBLY NOT KNOW their butts were exposed?” Even my husband, Fred, deserves an apology for the numerous times I’ve said (and meant), “Crack kills” when he was bent over.

I’m a humbler person now.

It all stated when I felt my underwear roll down one side off my hip while walking in a store. When it became distractingly uncomfortable, and I couldn’t stand it another second, I said to my friend:

“I’m having an underwear emergency” and I left her puzzling with my cart and purse.

5 paces toward the restroom, the final lip of underwear rolled off the other hip and hung low on both sides, supported only by my inseam--an incredibly awkward feeling.

10 paces later, I felt cold… colder than maybe I should have felt minus only a thin layer of cotton. 5 more paces, I reached down and realized that not only had my underwear rolled down…but they took my PANTS WITH THEM!

I was bare-assed in the grocery store! And I didn’t even know it.

It probably took just seconds to pull everything up again, but it happened in slow motion, just like in the movies. The only other time (aside from that mooning incident in college) my butt has been viewed by strangers was in a delivery/examining room. At last in the store restroom, I comforted myself. Probably no one saw, I thought, rocking myself in the fetal position.

It could have been worse. I could have fallen. Some Samaritan would say, “Do you need help?” then, “Holy Mother! Why are you naked?” Followed closely by an announcement, breaking up the England Dan and John Ford Coley medley over the loud-speaker:

“Stock person report to Aisle 2 with a tarp. And dark glasses.”

My friend cheered me up on the way home by giving me clever suggestions for potential Hallmark cards related to a “Pants Fell Down” category:

· Sorry to hear you’re “Down in the Pants”

· Got Caught with your Pants Down? (inside) It could happen to any 3 year old.

· Happy Birthday …Suit

I explained the incident to Fred when I got home, and he said (and in the immortal words of Dave Barry…”I’m not making this up.”):

“Do you think there’s something wrong with you?”

Yes.

Here Senator, Senator!

2011-02-19T15:37:00.016-06:00

I understand the difficulty we have finding Osama Bin Laden in Afghanistan, but how hard is it to find 14 Wisconsin state Democratic senators hiding out somewhere in the mid-west? Illinois, their rumored location, has traversable terrain and no mine fields. Apparently those Senators are more elusive than Bugs Bunny was to Elmer Fudd.

They’re supposedly on the move. Maybe we can put up a sign, “All Wisconsin Democratic Senators are Welcome” by some luxury Wisconsin-bordering hotel and see if they take the bait. Many of the rebel Senators are older men and they’re not going to comfortable sleeping on “just any” old bed (I sleep like an old man myself--I should know). They’re gonna need Hilton or Marriott mattresses. Their spinal preferences should narrow the realm of hotel hide-outs down considerably.

Three of the renegades are female. As a female, I know--sooner or later one of them will need chocolate. If we leave a trail of Godiva truffles, we can lure them out of hiding. They won’t even realize it until after the chocolate-buzz wears off. A fake chocolate delivery service would work too. When they give into their cravings and call…SHAZZAM! Back to Wisconsin with you!

They might be bold enough to come out of hiding for something remarkable. How about we shine a light up in the sky like the “Bat-Signal,” only this time a silhouette of the Democratic donkey? Offer them the chance to wear a cape and tights and they should run out, waving their hands enthusiastically and taking practice flying leaps. A side note: Offer anyone a cape and tights and they’ll be putty in your hands.

Tracking their electronic activity through their cell-phone and credit card use should be easy--unless, of course, they’re smart enough to use cash and pay-phones. Getting all their pictures out there is also a good idea--they won't be easy to spot. It's not like they're tattooed, 9-foot Big Foots with distinguishable scars and 6 fingers on their left hands (are they?). I bet they're maddeningly ordinary looking.

People do know where they are. Good Morning America just conducted a live, face-to-face interview, on February 17^th, with Democratic Senator Mark Miller, while agreeing to keep his location a secret. Where are those slimy National Enquirer paparazzi when you need them? If they can find Lindsay Lohan at a moments’ notice, why can’t one of them sniff out at least one of our missing elected officials?

They'll have to come back soon. No one who has ever had fresh cheese curds can stay away from Wisconsin too long!

Beware of "Little Green-Sash the Cookie Pusher"

2011-02-15T09:00:00.003-06:00

(No sheep were harmed for the purposes of this blog)

I’m thinking of marking my front porch with lamb’s blood, so the Girl Scout Cookie Sale will pass over me next year. Or maybe I could run a pair of my fat pants up the flag pole to deliver a less scary, less biblically themed message that I should not be sold any more food.

But that’s for next year.

Are they still out there, canvassing neighborhoods, popping up at football parties and “sick-ing” their mothers on me to get me to buy their cookies? I can only hide so long. I just survived a sweet-free Valentine’s Day because my candy-pimping husband finally listened to my “No chocolate!” pleas. I’m well on my way to a svelte spring body and I don’t need the temptation of those delicious cookies.

My problem, besides overindulgence, is it’s practically impossible for me to refuse a child pedaling anything on my porch. I had to sell fruitcakes door-to-door as a kid and I still shudder recalling the rejection of a fruitcake hating public.

A few weeks ago, as I was flipping through my daughter’s cookie sales material, I saw a Facebook message from a friend announcing her daughter is ready to take my cookie order. Within hours of the Facebook message, our quiet neighborhood streets were populated with the cardboard-chart holding uniformed midgets. The mad cookie pusher/cookie consumer “Cat and Mouse” game, starring me as the Mouse, had begun.

As soon as I kindly-but-firmly sent one away, another appeared, with a “harder-sell” approach. They were sending increasingly confident girls…with sales pitches… and dimples! My resolve…and my doorbell…were being tried.

“I’m sorry but my daughter is a Girl Scout and we’re buying cookies from her,” I lied, “but thank you.”

“But they’re delicious,” said Little Green Sash. I repeated my statement, smiled and gently closed the door. “They have zero-trans fat!” she added.

Then they sent in the big guns—Pig-tails.

“Sorry sweetie, but if I buy one more box of cookies I’ll blow up,” I joked. Pig-tails got a blank look on her face, then turned back and ran screaming to her mother in the driveway.

Oh MY God, what had I done? I meant I would blow-up from eating too many cookies. I walked out and shrugged my shoulders and waved. Pig-tails came back and said, through sobs, “Th-th-th-thank you, anyway.”

“Wait—I’ll buy some of your cookies!” I consoled. 5 boxes later she danced back to her car. I hadn’t actually seen any tears.

I read that a good way to control your consumption of the cookies is to freeze them (the cookies, not the Girl Scouts).

Yeah, like that will stop me from biting one.

Every Time I Turn a Bratwurst, an Angel Gets His Wings

2011-02-06T09:27:00.003-06:00

I’m trying not to let my husband, Fred’s, exuberance over tonight’s pending Super Bowl irritate me. The bare truth is that in the 18 years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him happier about anything. Christmas, babies being born and our wedding dim in comparison to the glorification of “The Men in the Tight Yellow Pants.”

I like football. I just don’t love it. Here in Green Bay, I am Dorothy in a foreign land, in the midst of the thousands of green and yellow outfitted munchkins and they’re all “a little muttled” by my lack of enthusiasm.

“Were you just singing in the shower? I asked yesterday, brushing my words with bitter butter, “You’re starting to get on my nerves.”

“It’s a holiday weekend!” Fred sang, merrily. He’s taking post-game Monday off.

I then spoke the unspeakable-- “It’s just a game.”

Fred’s face went white. His lower lip started quivering. Somewhere an angel fell dead. The “Packer Enthusiasm Committee” which likely governs this football-crazed city, is probably on patrol and when they sense negativity with respect to “The Pack” will drop a net on me, drag me to a tail-gate and make me do beer bongs until I paint my face and put on beads.

I have become Super Bowl Fun-Smasher #1. Remorseful, I said, “But, I’ll be making all the football food you like, though” and his lip stopped quivering.

There is a way to be part of the excitement and not actually watch the whole game--Football Food. Being a part of the “Feed-the-fans on Weekends” committee earns me three important, non-football related things:

1. Redemption in Heaven. Every time I turn over a bratwurst, and angel gets his wings.

2. A great seat bellied up to the buffet table. While everyone else is bent over and tense with expectation, I’ve got a plate of taco dip all to myself.

3. Positive Energy. Each time I offer someone a beer, they look at me like I’m Miss America. I *get* that it’s an “alcohol induced” appreciation, but I’ll take it.

Fred took our daughter, Krista, shopping yesterday for more Packer fan gear. She came home wearing a $70 glamorous jersey that has a gold, bedazzled neckline and sparkles. He has been working hard to make her a Green Bay fan because she prefers football teams that are represented by animals she likes. Colts for instance, are baby horses; lions—big fluffy cats.

She has it on again this morning.

I see I’m outnumbered. Alright, for the Super Bowl title…Go PACK GO!

Ooo Eee Ooo Ah Ah…CHOO!

2011-01-28T13:24:00.004-06:00

I have had a terrible cold for a month. I have “Seven Dwarf” symptoms too-- Dopey, Sleepy, Sneezy and Grouchy. I’m thinking I need Doc, but I know what she’ll say: “It’s a Virus.” But I’m miserable enough to risk getting the "V" word.

Nice Lady at Doctor’s Office (NLDO): “What are your symptoms?

Me: “Green *goo* pouring out many of my orifices and the total loss of 4 of the 5 senses.”

NLDO: “Do you have a fever?”

Dishonest Wench (still me):“Yes, 101 (always a good number to say when you’re fibbing about your temperature) but I took Ibuprofen so now it’s normal.”

NLDO : “When can you come in?”

I’m on the schedule, but not home-free. In years past, green *goo* (which wasn’t a lie) was the ticket to getting a prescription. Now? Not so easy. Mentioning a fever, may make a bigger impression. I’m hoping I can manage something like a friend of mine, who was bequeathed with a prescription when he “saved” what was sure to be a sensational, slimy “loogie” for an hour until the doctor came in. He hawked it up right then and there, in its brownish-green glory. I only hope I’m that lucky.

In the doctor’s office, I’m sweaty, which can only work to my benefit, and coughing.

“You’ll need to wear this mask.”

Now I REALLY can’t breathe. My one good nostril is over-extending itself even farther over to the other side of my nose, seriously blocking my already bad nostril. Struggling to inhale? This can only be a good thing when it comes to looking pitiful. 30 minutes of re-inhaling my hot, germy exhale later, my name is called.

Sadistic Person: “Can you step on the scale?”

Me: “Yes.”

Sadistic Persistent Person: “Will you step on the scale?”

Stubborn Fat- Yet- Sick Person (me): “Do I have to?” Childishness is definitely a symptom of some kind. My mental faculties are diminishing. Doctor—HELP me!!

After only two minutes with the doctor:

Vicious Drug-Withholding Monster (VDWM): “It’s a virus.”

Honestly Sick Person wishing she had a loogie of any size available (me): “Did I mention I’ve been sick for a month? Don’t you want to prick my finger or something?”

VDM: “Why?”

Old Person-because only old people say “When I was a kid” (still me): When I was a kid… they pricked your finger with a nasty pointy silver stick, and a nurse dressed all in white would suck my pooling blood up into a straw, and, while I was still holding a cotton ball on my throbbing digit, I got some dad-blame penicillin and I felt BETTER!!”

VDM (unaffected by my ramblings): “Doctors have been over-prescribing...” Followed by mumbo-jumbo, doctor speak that my ears interpret as “I want to take your money and do absolutely nothing for you”.

Old and Defeated (you know who): “What should I do about this *virus*?”

Rather than hitting the pharmaceutical lottery and leaving with a piece of paper for my druggist, I took down the formula for concocting my OWN home chemistry-spun “Mucus-cide” (or sorts), instructed on how to use the nasal power-washer and told about the benefits of chicken soup. None of which worked, I may add.

Achoo!

Next time I’m skipping the MD and hunting for a WD (witch doctor). Hit me with a voodoo stick, blow white powder in my face and tattoo my forehead, I don’t care--only fix this snotty nose!

Ting Tang Walla Walla Bing Bang

Hunka-Hunka Burning Love

2011-01-19T11:46:00.001-06:00

I am a nuclear power plant at night…and it’s making me irresistible!

Fred, after almost 18 years together, is now polarized to my side of the bed during the night. His feet take up my foot room, leaving a wedge of mattress space for me sleep on the size of a circus peanut. He’s drawn there not because I’ve been working-out lately, but by the heat given off by my peri-menopausal hormones clashing together like excited electrons.

“You are on my side again,” I complained to Fred the other night.

“No, I’m not,” he murmured and cross-country skied his way sideways to get as close as possible. Attempts to move him over got me kneed in the kidney and partitioned off to the North-west corner of the mattress (2 circus peanuts wide).

“Do I have to prove it to you?” I said, questioning my judgment, secretly. I imagined us on some National Geographic type animal reality show like “Meerkat Manner” with night vision…and narrators.

“There—you see, the male is definitely moving in,” some “Bowling Tournament Announcer” voice would describe our activities.

The hotter I get, the more Fred wants a piece of my warm bedside. The more Fred is on my side the hotter (and bitchier) I get. If I were to make a cartoon flip-book, it would show the following “night moves” in sequence:

1. Me sleep-radiating, 2. Fred moving closer, 3. Me pushing and poking, getting hotter and grouchier, 4. Fred retreating (guarding his ‘manhood’).

Repeat.

I thought of putting little army men on the mid-point, so that their pointy guns and jagged edged foot/stand assemblies would burrow into his hip, causing him to roll…but that seems extreme. An electric fence crossed my mind, but the current would undoubtedly run both ways.

“I’m hotter than Hell over here!” I, sleep-challenged, coverless and angry, yelled. I was finally starting to understand why some married couples sleep in different beds.

“Back!” Fred sat up. He turned on a clip-on fan and pointed it at me like a trainer with a chair and a whip. I was immediately soothed. He attached it to the backboard and left it blowing on my face all night.

“AH!” I signed, and fell instantly to sleep on my hot, hot side of the bed.

Now I have my soul-mate, the FAN, in bed with me every night. The fear of getting my hair caught in it during night is totally overruled by my comfort.

Plus…it makes a good Fred barrier…when I need it.

Ohhhhh, FFFFFFUDGE!

2011-01-13T17:03:00.005-06:00

The more I try to avoid chocolate, the more trouble I get in and the lower the Limbo Pole of Chocolate-Related Embarrassment keeps going.

Yesterday, I found two Godiva chocolate bars I was going to put in my kids’ Christmas stockings. I ate them like Scarlett O’Hara, filthy from the war, mauled that dusty radish on Tara

I got a paper cut on my forehead from putting my whole face against a carton of Whoppers last week.

“Mom, my malted milk balls are missing!” my daughter announced. Guiltily, I bought her another box and then had to make it look like the same box by getting “rid” of some of them.

And I'm not imagining things when I walked into a candy shop and the customers in the store looked up at me, in unison, like animals sensing a predator. They clutched their selections and scurried to the cash register. The candy clerks became super enthusiastic, determined to make me feel like the most important Demy-God in the entire mall. When the manager of the store saw me, his eyeballs rolled back and became dollar signs like Uncle Scrooge McDuck.

I wouldn't have tackled them--there was plenty for everyone.

Trying to be a reformed choco-holic, I went to a sporting goods store looking for some new exercise gear. On the cashier’s counter was a display of extra-long Snickers, next to them Butterfingers large enough to be labeled Butterfeet.

“That’s gotta be one of those “Power Bars” with asparagus, bark and antler powder in it, right?”

“Nope, they’re just big candy bars.”

“Ring it up”

Blast you, Chocolate, for lurking in unlikely places!

If Clarence, the “It’s a Wonderful Life” angel would indulge me one of those life without something moments, I think my life minus chocolate would be very different. On the one hand, I’d surely be thinner, more energetic and with at least one two-piece bathing suit. On the other hand, would life really be worth living?

Are there other chocolate consumers out there who get woozy when they pass a chocolate donut or hear, “Buy me, you know you want to” whispering voices when they are standing next to a Ghirardelli brownie display? If so, we must unite and harness this dark power to coexist with candy everywhere.

But let’s wait until after Valentines Day.

Bunny Tweets Again

2010-12-16T09:39:00.003-06:00

Do Rabbits get hernias? If not, I think I need some stronger back teeth.

Are you following me? Cause if you're following me, I'm going to stand stone still, twitch and then run away. I mean it.

I saw a cucumber the size of a scuba tank this morning. It seemed too good to be true, so I, the eternal skeptic, did not nibble on it.

With two different kinds of legs, finding it hard to make snow angels look like actual angels.

Other rabbits are looking at me (sideways of course) and rolling their eyes. Independent thinkers often get this reaction. Sheep don't.

I spy a tomato that's bigger than me, and remembering Peter the Pumpkin eater, I chuckle.

Observed Heidi light gas grill with giant flash of fire followed by singed hair odor. Gladtobeknownforkeenhearingnotsmelling

Wondering if you can load a gun with rabbit pellets?

If so, I'd like to.

After listening to Elvis Prestley's famous song, new favorite activity is to make hound dogs feel defeated.

Long ears are occurring in epidemic proportions among elderly humans. But theirs just droop, while mine are still perky.

It's very windy today. Wondering if there are any animals besides rabbits, donkeys and elephants that have to worry about involuntary ear movement.

Wants to feel Christmasy, but all-red lights on favorite fur tree makes abode look more like all-night brothel (which isn't a bad thing in my culture).

The “Have a Happy Dysfunctional Holiday” Game

2010-12-09T15:06:00.007-06:00

Note: Characters are fictitious. Any similarity to a person alive, dead, in rehab, in my family or in the house down the street with the pink shutters, is purely unintentional.

Dysfunctional family holidays are all the rage. If your relatives don’t always mesh, and you’d like to brighten your nerve wracking events, try…

The “HAVE A HAPPY DYSFUNCTIONALHOLIDAY” Game

Object of the Game: To keep everyone together in one room without getting hurt.

Players (pick any number): 1 Pair of Grandparents, 1 Outspoken Male and 1 Fainting Male, 1 Texting Teen, 1 Alcoholic in Treatment, 1 Emotional Eater, 1 Angelic Child, 1 Confrontational Female, 1 Quiet Female, 1 Mr. Manners, 1 Single Parent and 1 Dog

Decks of Cards: OFFEND OTHERS, WHAT TO SERVE FOR DINNER

When all seems lost…SPIN THE ARROW for Stress-Relieving Suggestions.

The board is separated into 4 rooms (you can substitute yours): The Living Room with the T.V. for distraction, the Basement, the Kitchen where the grandparents always sit because they can’t get out of the living room furniture and the Porch for smokers and (sometimes) Dog.

Sample (Fictional) Scenario: The players start by sitting in various rooms. The Alcoholic in Treatment will draw first from the OFFEND OTHERS deck. His reads his card outloud, “TALK ABOUT SOMETHING GROSS” and he starts explaining, in great, graphic detail, about his recent strip search. This will cause Mr. Manners to leave the room to join the grandparents in the kitchen and the Fainter to turn lily white and drop to the floor. The Emotional Eater retreats to the kitchen, straps on the feed-bag and eats from it like a mare. Angelic Child tries to get the Confrontational Female (CF) attention, but CF) is only interested in the Dog (and says so). The Texting Teen exits to the basement for privacy.

SPIN THE ARROW for a Stress Relief Suggestion to try to bring them back together. It lands on Alcohol Time, which makes the grandparents very fun. They start talking about recent colonoscopies and the necessary preparations. Ooops! Fainter hits the deck again and when he regains consciousness goes to the porch for a smoke, while Mr. Manners, now slightly intoxicated and slightly less uptight stays seated. Alcoholic in Treatment joins the Fainter on the porch to avoid the temptation. Emotional Eater badly needs a drink, but doesn’t want to hurt her gall-bladder.

Outspoken Male draws from the OFFEND OTHERS deck. He reads his card, “Burp out Loud” and does so, causing Mr. Manners to twitch, change colors and change rooms again. Texting Teen and CF laugh in mocking amusement. Alcoholic in Treatment has the power to burp “at will”…and does…which causes Mr. Manners to LOSE it, and temporarily exit the party.

Everyone draws from the WHAT TO SERVE FOR DINNER cards. Angelic Child draws a “Sweet Potato” card and the dish goes in the oven. However, one of the grandparents drew “Turn the oven up for your own dish without telling anyone” card from the OFFEND OTHERS deck and the sweet potatoes go up in flames. A Fruitcake card is shyly drawn next by Quiet Female and everyone scatters. A quick SPIN THE ARROW for a Stress Relief Suggestion and Hookah Pipe time and the entire room is finally mellow. Single Parent, swirling, takes 15 minutes to open her napkin.

The drawing of the WHAT TO SERVE FOR DINNER cards produces 3 dishes that everyone can eat with various stomach ailments and vegetarian preferences: Beets, Lemon Juice and Meatloaf. CF uses her OFFEND OTHERS card (“Break the ‘No Feeding the Dog from the Table’ rule) and while everyone is finally seated, offers Dog her meatloaf. The grandparents push away from the table and ask for their coats.

SPIN THE ARROW for a Stress Relief Suggestion again and it’s Sing-A-Long Time. This throws the Emotional Eater into a feeding frenzy. No one sings, but Angelic Child is pressured by the grandparents to play the piano. Emotional Eater instead turns on music channel cable and the effect is soothing and draws everyone near. The lights are dimmed and the Christmas tree shines. At last, all is calm with everyone ‘high’ and equally offended.

Game over.

Happy Dysfunctional Holidays to all!

To "Channel "Jackie or Pass on the Office Party?

2010-12-05T07:58:00.007-06:00

“I need to find you an escort,” I told Fred recently, dreading his upcoming swanky office party. There is a thin, pretty, quiet woman inside me dying to get out to serve as my husband’s mute eye-candy (no offense to mutes), but I have her distracted with cinnamon rolls and promises of long walks.

I’m not the person you want by your side at a dignified party. I’m the girl who rides a mall massage chair like a bucking bronco, gets stuck in a ladder-less pool and cracks toilets seats. My ADHD fueled social nervousness is a catalyst for event disaster. I don’t even need alcohol.

I’m not exaggerating the problem.

A Great Tit

Once, while dining with a British associate, he began talking about his hobby of watching tits. Watching TITS! I tried coaching my imagination (“he did not just say tits”), but he kept talking about the different colored ones he’d seen in his field and my face pulled back like The Joker and my drink sprayed out my nose like a shower spigot.

“Just pretend you’re on a job interview,” Fred suggested. Fred’s memory is short. I once said, ‘I am woman, hear me roar’ at a job interview. I once told a potential interview panel about my Mom’s blackhead. I’m dead serious.

In the past, at proper dinners with Fred’s co-workers, I’ve tried saying nothing, and just smile and nod. But inevitably someone will make eye contact and ask me a question and sweat starts rolling down Fred's face.

But maybe some preparation might help. What kinds of questions are they likely to ask?

Question 1: Do you work?

Answer: Yes, I’m a fitness instructor.

The table would fall silent at this answer. Confused looks would come upon their faces. Did you say, ‘FITNESS instructor?” Unspoken: “She couldn’t have said FITNESS instructor, she’s not at ALL fit” and “maybe she said ‘fatness instructor.’”

Alternative Answer: Yes. I’m a humor blog author.

As I rattle off my blogspot site, I would remind myself of some recent titles such as “Diarrhea on a Plane” and “Awakened by the Bathroom Vampires.” Would reading my blog do Fred any social GOOD at work?

Another Alternative Answer: Yes. I Twitter.

Some polite person would ask me the name of my “handle” and I would reply, “Bunny in my Garden.” People would eye Fred sympathetically and politely ask me the reason I write from the perspective of a garden rabbit.

A dignified, Jackie Kennedy type answer would require a lie.

Fred should take his mother.

Misfit Christmas Treats

2010-11-25T10:36:00.007-06:00

Enter Heidi's House of Horrible Holiday Misfit Treats and enjoy:

Sperm Cookies

Mouse Cookies gone wrong. Instead of darling little cookies that look like mice, a simple margarine mistake later and suddenly little almond ears and red-hot candy noses were floating in opaque little blobs with long red licorice tails. Very unappetizing.

Molten Peanut Brittle

There is no such thing as a safe bowl or oven mitt when you’re making microwave candy. The ceremonial “Dance of the Molten Peanut Brittle” performed while removing it from the microwave is much more about pain, burns and trauma than enjoying the treat--which will break your teeth anyway.

SOS Pad Sea-foam

Only 3 ingredients in this "light as air" candy, yet with all the unwritten fussy technicalities like being quiet while standing on one foot, coaxing the sugar into submission with sweet talk, a door or sneezes could instantly de-foam the concoction and morph it into flat Brillo pads that even a dunk in chocolate cannot make taste good.

Bird-Poop Cookies

Always DRIZZLE your white chocolate onto your chocolate cookies --never "plop and smear.”

Skeet-Gun Ammo Cookies

Quite possibly the most labor intensive cookie ever invented are the German anise picture cookies called Springerles--a sophisticated treat. After the 2-day process, my square, concrete-like creations could pulverize clay pigeons…probably real ones too.

If anyone wants my recipes--let me know! ;-)

O.k. I’ll vote, but don’t call me “Sir”

2010-11-04T07:03:00.000-05:00

The skies were bright yesterday in Heartland. Warm air filled my lungs, caffeine buzzed in my brain and my thoughts were clear and determined as I walked into the building to vote.

Until someone said, “Here’s your ballot, Sir.”

Granted the man behind the table was 100 years old, with lenses as thick as a butcher block, but sheesh, what an insult! Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his table-mate elbow him--a spring chicken compared to Mr. Magoo’s grandfather who wronged me--but it was too late. Damage done. Mood deflated to Depressed Middle-Aged Frump Status.

So it's no wonder I was miffed by the time I read the following referendum:

Should the Wisconsin Constitution be amended to prohibit any further transfers or lapses from the segregated transportation fund?”

WHAT?? I am a writer, and a grumpy one now, so all I want to do is edit this confusing nonsense. Here’s my Heidi version:

Do you want to change the Wisconsin Constitution to prevent politicians from robbing Peter to pay Paul? YES or NO

Boom! Done! Why do they have to write it in such tricky language? Shouldn’t something that needs a vote be crystal clear? Are they doing it on purpose so the average person just says, “Oh, the HELL with it and votes, “NO”?” If I were a sneaky politician, that’s exactly what I’d do.

But, actually, right now I care a lot more about being called a man than I do about difficult-to-understand political mumbo-gumbo.

That cat called me “SIR!”

I propose the following voter amendment referendum:

Do you want to change the voting volunteer rulebook to ask people with negligible eyesight to take volunteer jobs that don’t require sexing people? YES or NO

Or better yet:

Would you like to see people who DO use the wrong gender assigning word to drop through a trap door (onto something soft—I’m not completely heartless)?

It’s not like I’m a dog who doesn’t care if you call it a “he” or a “she.”

At least I hope they don’t care, because I make that mistake all the time.

“Fred, You Smell like a Cheap Prostitute”

2010-11-01T15:13:00.003-05:00

My husband, Fred, has not been sleeping with a cheap prostitute. I know this because the whorish scent he sported the other day is the new "man" cologne he bought himself on a recent trip to Kuwait.

“I’ve been wearing Canoe for 30 years.” he said proudly displaying a fancy new bottle, “A woman at the mall sprayed me with this and I liked it.”

Awlugh-lulgh! Holy Urinal Cake ala Strawberry Pot-Pori! It smells like Earl Grey Tea. And Pine Sol. It’s so bad it could turn vegetables different colors.

“Oh, honey, it’s nice,” I lied.

Just as I was feeling badly about my lie and trying to figure out a nice way of saying, “You wasted your money, because the dog’s dust-mite aggravated ear-ooze would turn me on faster,” I thought, “How often does he really wear cologne?” I might not have to mention it at all.

But this morning, Fred was getting ready for a flight to Texas. He kissed me goodbye and left the room. He returned and said, “I’m going to put some of this on.” Before I had a chance to say, “Your cologne could be used as a chemical weapon!” he had sprayed both sides of his neck with it.

I PITY the poor fool (said with a “Mr. T” accent) who sits near him on the 2-hour flight. Poor Fred, thinking he smells great, will surely be confident and friendly. Would someone tell him his cologne is too strong? It might be easier to hear from a stranger.

There might be other intended uses for “Putrid in a Bottle,” known only to Kuwaitis:

1. - Maybe in a “Cultural Comedy of Errors,” the scent he purchased was really meant to attract animals to hunt, like Americans use Doe Piss (Fred’s word) to get a deer?

2. - Maybe it is supposed to be used to mask other odors, like Febreeze does if your carpet smells like a wet pet?

3. -Maybe THAT is why Kuwaiti women wear veils over their noses—to block out the scent…of this scent?

4. -With a name like “Jaguars Appear” maybe it’s made with hallucinogenic bong water?

Fred really does like the smell of this stuff. I suppose it’s better than some odors. We recently had our carpet soaked by an overflowing sink. After 3 days, that smelled worse than “Jaguars Appear.” Burnt rice also smells worse.

I think I need to buy him some new cologne and find another home for "Jaguars Appear" before my lungs collapse. I’ll try spraying it in the holes in our lawn, and see if our dog will stop digging in them.

The Right Kind of Camouflage

2010-10-25T16:31:00.008-05:00

We recently took our daughter, Krista, on a “Bow Shoot” in the middle of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. I packed the warmest and brightest possible clothes so the animals and the men carrying the pointy sticks could easily see me. Krista had the same idea and packed fluorescent pink…everything.

But when we arrived at the camp everyone was wearing mostly brown "brush" camouflage. If I had wanted to "blend in" I most definitely would have purchased the dark green and beige splotched variety of camouflage and thus, would have been shot at instantly for looking like "Predator" or an otherwise large, scary, moving bush.

“I'm going to invent “Living Room Couch” camouflage so next time you won't be able to FIND me when these kinds of things come up, ” I offered Fred. Fred gave each of his friends a different excuse for our embarrassing colored outfits:

“My wife and daughter are both color blind.” And the just as believable:

“There were these two hitchhikers.” to:

“Can ANYONE throw me a beer?”

All in all, I did learn a lot:

1. The difference between a real bow and a compound bow. Krista has a real bow, like Shootsthebuffalo used in “Dances with Wolves.” Compound bows have a technological adaptation on your more primitive weapon that uses pulleys to shoot further. Native Americans would probably have kept this country for themselves if someone had invented a compound bow sooner. Second runner-up to Sitting Bull’s chiefdom could very well have beaten Sitting Bull in a sharp-shooter competition and been crowned chief had he been able to use a compound bow with its optional laser “sight” (read: arrow GPS).

2. What is, and is not “GAME.” Game is what kind of animal you can shoot. At Station 14, Krista thought a giant ground hog decoy looked like a monkey (never shoot a monkey). Our dog, tied to the wrong tree, also isn’t “game.”

3. Never tie your dog to a tree at a bow shoot.

4. The NOSE of a fake animal is always 0 points, even when an obnoxiously dressed city woman balks that a nose IS a vital organ.

5. If this were a real hunt, I would have been duct-taped to the cabin for cheering and applauding. Enthusiasm, here, is frowned upon.

Finally, I knew before we left that there was no working plumbing at the camp. I was prepared. I didn’t even complain.

“Who dropped the purple hand sanitizer?” the host asked holding up a purse-sized bottle. Everyone turned to look at me. “Why would you think it’s mine?” I asked, scratching the giant red bobble on my bright green wool hat.

“Mom, it IS yours. Remember I gave it back to you when you said weren’t eating off those plates?”

It was really time to go anyway.

“You were kind of fun,” Fred said to me on the drive home, “Thank you.”

In The Arms of Another: Mall Massage Chair and Me

2010-10-13T18:44:00.002-05:00

It all began when my husband, Fred (who I blame for the entire incident) was taking H-O-U-R-S going over the particulars for his new cell phone plan with a sales clerk in the mall. My daughter and I walked around the shopping center to a point at which I finally announced, for the first time ever, I was sick of shopping. Our quest for a comfortable seat ended at a pair of “Pay-As-You-Go” black vinyl massage chairs.

“Can we try them?” Krista asked. “Why not? It’s only a dollar,” I said.

As soon as Krista’s chair motor started up, she jumped up and out. “It feels like it’s trying to pinch my spine,” she exclaimed.

“No, it’s just working out the kinks,” I purred. As she cautiously plunked back in her seat, the mechanism in my seat was luxuriously swirling the backs of my shoulders. I was starting to relax.

Until the spin cycle started.

“Mom, are you having a seizure?”

“Nonononno, whwhwhwhy?” I shuttered, shimmying like I’ve never shimmied before. The chair was making me do unspeakable things. Things I definitely did not want to do--especially in public.

My chair faced the entrance to a “Game Stop” store where numerous male 14-year-old Halo players were exposed to my middle-aged body now opening up and shutting, grinding and jerking. They were too astonished to snicker, too repulsed to move and too affected to ever look at a woman the same way again. I tried to laugh it off, but the look on my face caused the one with a Mohawk to drop his chain wallet.

The chair began bucking like an overzealous St. Bernard and making an awful whining noise. Afraid it might start to smoke, I tried pushing another button on the remote control. However, lacking the ability to adjust my glasses during the “chair quake” to see through the bifocal lower portion, my best guesses as to what the buttons read were: Shaggy Knead, Body Plumbing and Squeal, none or which sounded better than the current mode-- Dance Puppet.

After another minute, it DID pinch my spine, which sent me launching near a couple of teenage girls, who were bold enough to say, “What a loser” so I could definitely hear them.

Fred, meanwhile, was urgently trying to make his new cell phone’s video option come to life.

Thank God for delayed cell phone activation

Awakened by the Bathroom Vampires

2010-08-16T11:10:00.005-05:00

“Where did you get this bruise?” my doctor said at a recent physical, noticing a black mark on my…well…butt, while scanning my full-body* for signs of skin cancer, rippling fat and Lyme disease.

“Uh….I fell.”

“Do you feel safe?” she asked, suspecting my gentle husband of abuse.

“Yes, I’m safe (I’m a lot safer than my husband is some days). The bruise is from my toilet. It bit me,” I blurted.

“Oh,” she responded, soberly.

About 2 weeks ago, I had to use the bathroom. When I sat down, I heard a crack. When I tried to stand up, the seat BIT ME and wouldn’t let go. It took me several painful minutes, attached to an angry piece of plastic, to realize:

1.
1. When you crack a toilet seat, and the seat is bearing your weight, the crack is nice and wide (the toilet’s NOT mine).

2. 2. When you get up, releasing the weight, the crack closes up (again, NOT mine), thus creating a “Toilet Bite.”

Now…I have been trapped in a high-walled backyard pool unable to lift myself out; been asked to go to the rear of a plane because it was “nose-heavy” and frightened small children with my thunderous approach, but THIS, this unmistakable sign from GOD should awaken the thin woman inside me to diet my way down so that seats everywhere can remain in-tact when I sit on them.

And, like the alcoholic’s recovery begins with an admission of powerlessness, the first step in a “Cinnamon Roll-aholic’s” journey to success is to put the FORK down and pick up a pen.

Shouldn’t be hard for a writer to journal food intake, weight, measurements, etc., right?

Day One:

Weight: (not on your life)

Measurements: (when Hell freezes over)

Breakfast: Ate bowl of cheerios. Drank coffee. Forgot multi-vitamin, but ate pop-tart (which contains vitamins) instead.

Snack: Cut-up apple.

Lunch: Absolutely STARVING. Ravaged pantry for something, anything, to satisfy intense, life-threatening hunger. Discover that everything needs to be cooked. Are you kidding me? Where’s the FAST food (apples, bananas, whole wheat crackers, yogurt, and carrot sticks do NOT count), the delicious gooey stuff that fills me up…with LOVE?

Frankly, I don’t see the problem.

*doctors are supposed to do this, right?

If the Rabbit in My Garden Could Twitter

2010-08-02T09:52:00.002-05:00

Thinking the song “Little Bunny Foo-Foo” paints us in an unflattering light.

Attempted entry into Heidi’s garden by running against webbing where perimeter is weakest.

I’m in.

Getting frustrated with my sideways eyes. My difficulty focusing close-up has caused me to nibble half a pricker weed instead of a red pepper leaf.

Decided to eat everything green regardless of pricker texture.

Wondering why it’s so easy to get these plants. Is it a trap or is Heidi just stupid?

Hop and see.

Finding solace under the oregano patch.

Why do I want pizza now?

Heidi’s got some Japanese beetles on her grape leaves. Too bad I’m a vegetarian—they look like cherry chips.

LOL at Heidi’s chicken-dog, Jasmine. She’s actually afraid of me.

Boo!

OMG! Heidi is walking around her garden now, a few feet from me.

She picked the cucumber I wanted.

I’m nervous (I’m always nervous).

Trying to play "statue" becoming more and more difficult.

Must bolt out. Must bolt out.

I...can’t....stand...it...one...minute...more

RUN!

Run against webbing right next to Heidi’s foot, drop and race under shrubbery.

LOL! With my very LONG, acutely sensitive ears, hear her SCREAM HER HEAD OFF and watch her run into the garage.

Time to multiply.

Gag Me with a Mozzarella Stick

2010-08-01T12:29:00.003-05:00

My husband, Fred, knowing my passion for carbohydrates, lured me out to lunch today with a trail of bread crumbs. I haven’t eaten anything beige in 6 days, and lately I’ve been dreaming in sepia tone--to replicate the look of buttered bread, no doubt.

At the particular local bar-type establishment Fred ~~took~~ dragged me biting and writhing to, the only “legal” food item was the decorative lettuce trimming around the vats of cream soup at the condiment bar. I mustn’t let this diet overwhelm my life. So “When in “Pub,” eat as the “Pub-Crawlers” eat.

“Order me up some of those French-fried mozzarella sticks with a side of ranch dressing,” I said confidently to Fred, “...for an appetizer.” I added. It was going to be o.k. One naughty meal wasn’t going to pop any buttons.

When our steaming tray of tubular, cheesy, battered joy arrived at our table, I drooled. And as an extra surprise, the mozzarella sticks came arranged in a bed of French fries.

I bit an inch-sized end off the crunchy, crispy, rubbery...and FLAMING log! In fleeting seconds, I decided I was o.k. letting it burn my tongue rather than spit it out in my napkin (thus wasting delicious food). I kept it in my mouth, and exhaled, thinking my 98.6 degree air would cool the cheese off enough so it didn’t “brand me”. But...then I INHALED, through my mouth, and a flake of the fried coating soared backwards into my windpipe.

My face reddened.

I started coughing forcefully.

The ENTIRE bar crowd stopped enjoying themselves (and their gigantic sports screens) and gaped at me in total silence.

To his credit, Fred, did repeatedly ask, “Are you o.k.?” But in trying to answer and nod my head, the “crispy invader” tickling my airway, causing me to cough even more.

I was a cat expelling a hairball.

I was a barking terrier.

I was a cow who yakked up too much cud.

“Are you sure you’re o.k.?” a compassionate woman asked, at the table next to me.

“I’m fine, really.” I squeaked like a dog toy, sputtered like a model-T and whinnied like a horse. After about 10 minutes, my normal voice returned, and I was able to dab my watery eyes.

Ah...that’s better.

“I thought I was going to have to give you the “Heime-Licker”,” said Fred. This made me laugh, which re-lodged the flake down the wrong tube and started the whole process again. Cough, bark, repeat.

Moral of the Story: Never bite flaming, beige food around Fred and expect to “Blend in.”

Diarrhea on a Plane

2010-07-23T10:13:00.001-05:00

Those who read my articles know my most documented phobias involve ants, lip hair, having my vast-supply of flesh exposed, and plane rides. I spent two days churning away from home, convinced that my stomach flu would board the plane back with me to Wisconsin...without a ticket!

How do you actually manage diarrhea on a plane? I was pretty miserable waiting at the gate, thinking the safest seat for me was one with a deep hole beneath it. I wore loose, drawstring-type shorts, tried popping anti-cramping medication, and went to my “happy place.”

I boarded the plane and sat next to a window. It wasn’t 20 minutes into the flight before I crawled over the squirmy man next to me, clutching my purse to my chest and shut the metal door of the restroom.

I pictured a line of cross-legged passengers stretching all the way back to the cockpit, complaining and dancing around. Maybe the First Class facilities would need to go “public.” Were there BAGS like they have for astronauts so at least the MALE passengers could “go”?

The flight attendant knocked on the door:

“Are you o.k.?

“Yes.”

“There are people waiting.”

“I know.”

“If you don’t come out soon, the pilot will jettison you.”

“Go ahead, at this point, I welcome death!”

“You’ll have to pay a fine.”

“Fine? I’ll be right out.”

O.k., I added the jettison and fine comments for dramatic effect.

I exited the bathroom clammy and sweaty. The two impatient men in line behind me went WHITE and staggered back from the yellow cloud I’d unintentionally left for them. I hoped the odor wouldn’t cause the oxygen masks to drop.

What would they do if I hadn’t gotten out of the bathroom? They couldn’t MAKE me leave...could they? Back in my seat, delirium taking control of my mind I imagined...

Over the loud speaker: “Captain Ray, we have a situation.”

Fearful nuns would cross themselves. Passengers would twist their heads around to see what was happening and mouth, “What’s going on?” to one another, some of them assuming I’m a newlywed COUPLE in there earning “Mile-High” wings. A stewardess would retrieve the “Jaws of Life” and, while I’m still in the restroom, hunched over, cut a hole in the door.

“You can’t make me get out—I’m sick.” I would scream.

“We know.”

Reaching in with a gloved hand and she would push a button, plunging me down a level to the “Pet Area” into a lion-sized litter box.

Snapping awake, I realized the “Pet Cargo Area” isn’t a bad place for you if you have diarrhea on a plane. You can take your time, lay down and afterwards you’ll likely get a shower (albeit with a hose).

Does My Webcam Make Me Look Fat?

2010-07-21T18:37:00.005-05:00

(I’m typing this eating a pint of Ben and Jerry’s “Coffee Heath Bar Crunch.” I hope this thing’s not turned on)

“Do I have a snaggle tooth?” I asked my husband last night, lifting my upper lip like Mr. Ed. I was testing my webcam software, seeing myself for the first time on my 14” computer monitor, realizing that on-screen it looks like I’m either missing a tooth, or have a darkened, mangled one. I’m absolutely amazed by the technology that transports images of my loved ones to a screen right in front of my nose, but I’m not yet used to seeing myself online.

While patting the computer keys is usually a task I do anonymously, I have found the new need to pay attention to the way I look at my home office workstation. A SKYPE call came in this morning while I was typing, wearing my husband’s holey t-shirt, hair was twisted up like a suma wrestler’s and a gum stimulator in my mouth. I hit the IGNORE button, ashamed.

I also need to pay attention to the background. I accidentally made a call testing my microphone functionality last night and when I got no answer forgot to hang up. On their screen, my friends saw a darkened room and an empty chair. They reported feeling voyeuristic, laughing and imaging something naughty was about to happen. I have no idea how long they stayed online waiting for something risqué to occur.

I had a dream last night that my webcam became activated by an outside source (which sounds completely feasible to me), and scanned the expanse of our bedroom. It found me shutting the door and photographed me disrobing from behind and immediately flash-transported the footage to You Tube as part of a “Video Most Likely to Make You Vomit” contest. I was getting hits by the millions.

Having a webcam is a probably a good tool to see how you really appear to the outside world. I’m not exactly a “Hang Out in Front of the Mirror” girl, so seeing me sitting there is new. What’s happened is that NOW, I am finally forced to acknowledge that one of my breasts REALLY is bigger than the other, I hunch like “No Neck” from Rocky Horror Picture Show and the mole I THOUGHT I had removed 20 years ago is back, with a vengeance, and looks as big as a bowling ball finger hole. The image also magnifies age spots. When I’m laughing, with my now obvious snaggle tooth, I really DO look like a spotted hyena.

Because I’m so distracted by my own appearance, I feel the need to make up for it--be more animated, move around. I caught myself swaying like Stevie Wonder, gesturing like Snoop Dog and “peacing out” like Richard Nixon. This has already gone beyond obsession and I’ve only had it one day.

I thought of putting a paper bag over my head with two holes cut out so I can see the other person, but the grocery bag won’t cover my body. Bagless--I HAVE to wear a bra and will likely cover my teeth with my lips like an orangutan.

If you SKYPE me, it’s best to wear sunglasses.

Out! Damn Hair!

2010-06-25T10:44:00.006-05:00

“Mom, it’s time for your cream,” my 10-year-old daughter observes, eying my upper lip.

“Already?”

My mustache is struggling for dominance on my face again. Like a weed that gets pulled without its root, the follicles remain alive; the “lip quills” get reincarnated and replicate—an army of hairy zombies in need of vanquishing.

There are plenty of women out there wishing they could ignore the skin beneath their noses. “Upper Lip Awareness” is prevalent in women in their 40s. It’s all part of the “Dry up/Stop Laying Eggs” process, I imagine. I wonder if there is a place, where bluebirds fly, somewhere over the rainbow maybe, where “Women of Bristle” can feel normal--probably in the Middle East...involving veils that expose only our eyes.

“Didn’t Great-Aunt Amelia have a full beard?” I asked a relative, in attempt to confirm the yarns Mom used to spin about the aunt she feared as a child. “It’s true,” she said, staring off into the distance, shuttering.

I suppose I can trace my fur-lip trait to my South African circus-folk ancestors, who must have greeted each new baby girl born in the tent with reverence and joy. “This one will be our GREATEST fortune,” Great-Uncle Ernest would exclaim, elbowing the strongman and “high-hoofing” the Goat-Girl.

I have friends who also struggle with “Crop Control.” Permanent removal was attempted by a friend with Laser Treatment. Each visit involved blasting an intense light beam, creating a mini nuclear explosion on your face. The feeling is casually likened to a rubber-band being snapped on your skin...for EACH hair. “It felt like I got skewered like a shish-kabob... ten-thousand times,” she confessed, sore. Another permanent removal process tried by a friend was Electrolysis. She said it was one of the most painful experiences she’s ever been through, and has cursed the modern American culture that forces “Women with Facial Coats” to feel bad...ever since.

I’ve tried all the non-permanent methods such as bleaching the hairs—which made me look like Colonel Sanders--to waxing, which only substitutes a soft, furry mustache with a red-raw one. I’ve also tried tweezing and ACTUAL shaving (just don’t do this). The only thing that HAS working my favor is my feigning eyesight and that of my husband, Fred’s. It also helps that Fred has a mustache, so any lip-tickle can easily be blamed on him.

I’m trying to instill in my daughter the joys of being a woman, but I’m afraid when she looks at me, she is thinking deep-down, “Am I going to look like HER?”

“At least you don’t have “Back Hair”,” she said cheerfully after reading this article.

“Well, that’s something to be thankful for,” I muttered, holding the mirror up to look behind me.

A Short Guild to Coping with the Wilderness: By A. Suburbian Girl

2010-06-08T12:42:00.010-05:00

1. Never Shine Your Flashlight into a Rustic Toilet

“Eyes on me--Do NOT look down,” I commanded my daughter last weekend at a Wisconsin State Park facility while on a waterfall tour. The fact that I knew how to coach her in the "Proper use of a Rustic Park Toilet” speaks to my previous experience in matters of the hole.

When my son, David, was 9, he had to use the outhouse at night, while camping in the woods, and he made the “Life Altering” mistake of shining his flashlight down into the vast hole beneath the plastic seat. He froze, and dropped the flashlight. I looked over his shoulder and saw the light, down, down...down illuminating the indescribable horror up from down the cylinder to Hell.

“I AM NOT going,” he announced, the fear-induced adrenalin-rush enabling his body to “plug up” like a hibernating bear. We departed the next morning, but it wasn’t until days later that he relaxed.

2. Speaking of Plugging Orafaces...Invest in Some Good Earplugs

“Tweet. Tweet. Tweet. Tweetity, Tweet, Chirpy, Chirp Chirp!”

When you finally do get to sleep, don’t get too comfortable. At 4:30 am, plan on greeting the new day feeling like you’re in an Alfred Hitchcock film. I love birds, but my first morning, I willed all bird nemeses of literature and cartoon--Sylvester, Simpkin and Tom, etc.--to unite like forces of EVIL and scare the feathers off of those cheerful, eardrum attackers.

3. Can I have a Blindfold with that Martini?

Although I am an over-protective mother, there are a few things that gross-me-out to the “dry-heave” point. One was when my then-three year old son, Jon, lost his thumbnail after he shut it in a door. Another involved a mouse and a snake, and the latest one was witnessing a tick crawl up my daughter’s pant leg. I was repulsed. I was paralyzed. I wished I had had a few drinks. It didn’t bite her, but it was no thanks to me. Fred, my fearless, outdoorsy husband, had to race over and take care of her.

On a positive note, we did invent the “Tick Crawl” dance move.

4. Bring along Jodi Picoult, for Instance

You might never get to read it--but a good soft-cover, 450 "pager" makes a great fly smacker, in the absence of a more traditional weapon. My apologies to Ms. Picoult (whose novel "Nineteen Minutes" I finally did read and recommend)--I soiled your book.

5. “Never go to Indonesia. I mean it.”

This is a quote from a good friend, Marni Rachmiel, who read my article on bugs and knotty pine. I don’t know the specifics (I’m sure it’s related to size and quantity of insects), but I trust her...so should you!

*Note: No birds were harmed during the writing of this article.

“I Feel All Exposed...and Nasty”

2010-06-04T00:28:00.009-05:00

At this point in my life, I am not at all comfortable prancing around in my bathing suit. To prevent mishap, men turning to stone, and children having nightmares of my rhinoceros legs, I much prefer to be viewed or photographed fully-clothed, wearing a furry, winter coat...in a shadow somewhere, with someone strategically positioned in front of me.

Recently, on a camping weekend, my husband, Fred, found a place to go “tubing” on a river. I have never “tubed” before, but as it was described, it sounded harmless and fun.

“You’ll have to leave your belongings locked in your car,” the clerk said, “and walk your tubes down to the river.”

“Along that busy street?”

“Yes.”

Holding a tube over my head, wearing just a bathing suit was uncomfortable enough, but, wearing just my bathing suit marching along a busy highway was going a...little...too...far. But...my daughter, Krista, had already begun the trek down the road, followed closely by Fred. I tried to hold the tube at my side so at least the drivers would be shielded from me...but I dropped the tube... and had to bend over to pick it up. A car horn honked...and then brakes screeched. With my un-tan, poultry-white leg-skin, I must have looked like a tailless, albino mare.

“What IS that?” I imagined the driver saying to his passenger.

“That’s something’s ass.”

I was relieved once we reached the river--I wouldn’t be as “visible” on the water. Fred flopped into his tube, floundered a bit, and then opted for the prone position. I plopped onto my tube, my knees wide apart and pressed against my stomach like a "Butterball" ready to be trussed. The last time I was in this position, someone was shouting “Push!”

“This is NOT a good look for me!” I called to Fred, and repeated the “Shrek” Donkey line, “I feel all EXPOSED...and NASTY. I was a parade balloon minus ropes and helium.

The river was “low” due to a lack of rainfall. I could float for about 5 feet before my butt crashed into a protruding rock. By now, my 10-year-old was floating WAY ahead of us...alone. The only way to catch up was to "lift and release" the heavier parts that were getting stuck on the river bottom. These “Butt Lifts” made me think of Jane Fonda in her 1980s leg-warmers, saying, “Feel the burn.” The main difference between Jane’s glut-squeezes and my “Tube Maneuver” was that SHE had TIGHTS ON under her leotard! When I “hiked it up,” I prayed that my suit stayed in place, but I REALLY couldn’t tell...and I HAD to get to my daughter.

When the river bended, we got out and boarded the bus that returned us to our car. Towel-less and sore, I gave up trying to cover myself. In the bus seat, Fred pointed to my chest. Momentarily flattered, I looked down, and realized one of the under-wires from my bathing suit bra had sprung free and protruded in a half-moon up to my neck.

“Mom, what’s that?” Krista asked.

“All that’s left of my dignity.”

How About a Nice Coat of Paint on that Knotty Pine?

2010-06-02T12:47:00.001-05:00

“Isn’t this peaceful?” my husband, Fred, asked me as we sat on the porch of our weekend rustic cabin rental.

“No.” To me, the wilderness is totally over-stimulating.

From the dozens of chattering chipmunks, invisibly darting through the tall grass like “Predator,” to the twittering birds, buzzing wasps and the annoying rustling leaves, I longed for my serene, painted walls and bird-less, tree-less living room.

Inside, the unfinished, natural knotty pine look was just as over-stimulating. I understand the charm of white pine--it arouses the pioneer spirit, the urge to shoot a gun and to eat baked beans. A room made from this material coordinates perfectly with “Little House on the Prairie” era quilts and furniture. But the irregular, hundreds of “eyes” on the wood surface make perfect camouflage for bugs. At night...I know critters crawl out of their deceptive, dark spots...to do their evil, woman-frightening work.

At bedtime, after final inspection and conclusion that the only bugs inside were dead (or at least faking it), it was mutually decided that my daughter, Krista, and I would take the bed and Fred would take the futon in the front of the cabin so he could do “Woodsy-Man Things” like whittle or shave himself with a hunting knife.

“Mom, that dark spot up there just got bigger,” she said after a few minutes in bed. I tried to follow her finger to the knot in question, but without my glasses on, the knots were all beginning to look like bats--which, as all women know, are much worse than any unidentified “night bug.” “Your eyes are playing tricks on you. Go to sleep.” I said.

“I hear something buzzing!” she cried minutes later, and, in one movement, attached herself to my side like a Koala Bear to a Eucalyptus Tree.

“Something....tickles,” I said and wildly batted at my leg.

Fred, hearing the commotion bolted in, saw the huddled females and grabbed the only weapon he could find--a long-handled, plastic broom. “What? What’s going on?”

“Daddy!! There’s a bug diving at us up by the light!” Krista screamed.

“I’m gonna get it and then you’re going to sleep.” Fred announced and crashed the broom against a ceiling support above the bed. The reverberations from the sudden smack caused dust, bug carcasses and the moth he just killed to come showering down on the bed. Krista and I looked at each other and together screamed:

“OH, MY GOOOOOOOODDDDD!” and rolled over out of the bed still “koala-ed” together at the hip, “Are you CRAZY?” I accused. Fred, crestfallen, retreated to his man-room and scrounged around for ANY kind of alcohol he could find. “It’s gonna be a long night,” he muttered.

Next year, we would prefer a wilderness-themed Hotel...without knots, please.

Boob Relocation Awareness (BRA)

2010-05-15T11:27:00.005-05:00

As I walked through the threshold of the big-chain lingerie store, I swear the model on the giant window poster looked sideways at me, like a portrait in some haunted mansion.

“I can shop here--I’m a WOMAN damn-it!” I thought.

But as I rounded the corner, images of “REAL” women made me feel like “Androgynous Pat.” Clearly, I am a “She-Wolf” compared to the specimens attacking me visually from every angle. I appear to have the same anatomical parts, but mine look like someone stepped on them and yanked them down like a window shade.

I don’t think I’ve ever even met a person who could qualify as a “Bra and Panty” model. They must live on “Fantasy Island” somewhere. I wonder what they do all day, in between modeling assignments. They all have that “not-exactly-happy-but-I-could-be-soon” looks on their faces. My daughter, Krista, once asked, “Why aren’t they smiling?” “They’re hungry, dear,” I told her, “and cold.”

“Do you have anything that will fit me?” I dared to ask a skinny clerk. All I wanted was something new to wear instead of my husband’s t-shirt and pajama pants. Now I think I may be in the wrong shop. “Is there such a store as “Bertha’s Secret”?” I clowned.

“Well, you could try the clearance rack,” she offered, stiffly. The clearance rack is where they send freaks like me, to scrounge around for factory misfits. I can hear it now...

“Hey, let’s get all the material together and make a HUGE one--big enough to fit Ying-Ling the Panda-Woman,” they’d joke in some far-eastern sewing room... after an especially long shift.

I picked up something and held it next to me. It was a MIGHTY bra that looked like something Wonder Woman would wear, minus the gold-encrusted eagle. It stood up all by itself on the dressing room chair, challenging me to strap it on like a Roman chest plate. It was red and ridiculous, but it fit and buying it would mean I could carry that smutty lingerie bag all through the mall.

“I’ll take it,” I beamed, “and wear it home.” As I left the store, the poster model’s eyes again shifted sideways, but I pulled my shoulders back, my new “rack” in front of me--where it belonged--for the first time in 25 years. I’ve never felt more alluring.

My self-worth improvement was not without consequence, however, as my new chest-enhancing, molded-foam apparatus made me unbalanced. My body radar askew, I kept bumping into things like a wind-up toy that runs into walls and changes directions. With things pushed tightly together, my air supply was being compromised, dizzy, I brushed up against things and I couldn’t see my lap at lunch.

“You look different,” my husband, Fred, said later that day, “are you getting taller?”

I flashed him a “not-exactly-happy-but-I-could-be” expression, and he guessed again.

Take a Thrill Ride with a Teenager Behind the Wheel

2010-05-03T13:57:00.005-05:00

Training a teenager to drive is on my “Top Ten List” of worst parenting experiences—slightly above having my mouth throw-up INTO by a 2-month-old.

Because I was once driven by a teenager:

· I still sweat at night

· I have a recurring rash

· I’ve aged prematurely

My friend recently told me that her daughter, nearly 15, will be taking Driver’s Education classes this summer. I laughed... and then my facial tick came back.

“We’ve taken her out a few times already,” my friend reported, “and she does pretty well."

“You’re fooling yourself.” I told her, “Wait till you get her on a highway--it’s “Freddy Krueger” scary.”

David, my oldest son, led me to believe he had experience seven years ago when he first started driving, because my husband, Fred, had taken him out several times to practice. “Okay, let’s take a ride,” I said.

Apparently, Fred had forgotten the “Put Your Foot on the Brake When Making a Turn” lesson. During our first “donut” (there were more to come), my hair turned snow white. After the last complete revolution I was tensed up so far into the fetal-position I could have fit into a 12” box.

“STOP!!!!!” I screamed, white hair flying.

The gravel and dust cloud he created has finally subsided somewhere over the Ukraine.

Backing up in a teenager driven car is another fun memory. My over 6-feet-tall son didn’t realize the mirrors were adjustable. He blindly backed out of a Wal-Mart parking spot and we first heard breaks squeal, then saw a man with a walker “fast-walk” behind a truck, presumably to hide, losing both of his tennis balls in the process.

“Sorry!” He called out the window and once again threw it in reverse without checking his mirrors. Horns blared and a few middle-finger salutes later, we left the lot in shame.

Certified driving instructors have a few advantages. For one thing, they have a car that is equipped with a second brake pedal. They also have a STUDENT DRIVER marker on the roof, which repels most sensible drivers. I also firmly suspect they are heavily medicated. We parents don’t have those luxuries. Riding with David was like being on a wild amusement park ride, feeling sick and wanting to get off, but instead hearing the “Carnie” working the controls yell, “You wanna go FASTER?”

When our second son, Jon, was old enough to drive, we paid a large sum of money to have a private school teach him, because, included in their fee, a driving instructor would take him on the road for his full 30 hours of practice-- instead of us.

I would have prostituted myself to get the money to pay for this privilege.

Rise Up, "What-iffers"! The World Needs You

2010-04-30T10:48:00.018-05:00

(I'm allowed one semi-serious piece once in a while, aren't I?)

An executive at BP oil, when addressing the recent Gulf of Mexico oil disaster and its resulting oil leak said they would "...take help from anyone" with regard to stopping the spill and containing the now migrating slick.

Rise up, “What-iffers!” Your time is now!

For years, we “What-iffers” have been stifled, called “Worry Warts” or “Helicopter Moms,”-- negatives names in order to suppress our catastrophic-izing habits. But NO MORE!

Cast aside your anti-depressants; embrace the full power of your “Expect the Worst" worry neuroses!

Our world needs us.

“As an engineer, it bothers me that they didn’t think of the possibility of something like this happening,” my husband, Fred, said the other night about the disaster off the Louisiana coastline.

I’m not an engineer, but if I REALLY think about what it is they’re DOING out there in the deep, with a mile-long proboscis sucking up oil like a mosquito, it’s not hard to imagine 100 hair-brained, out-of-the-box “What- ifs” that could possibly go wrong. We have ALL experienced leaky plumbing and pipes that break—imagine the logistics of a pipe 5000 feet long? If only they'd solicited "What-iffers" to ask the following questions, for example, they might have been more prepared:

Can’t Salt-Water break things down?

Did they ever consider hump-backed whales might pole dance on it?
What if there's an unexplained explosion and the pipeline bends, fooling the fail-safe into thinking it's still supposed to pump?

BP wants our help, so a think-tank of “What-iffer Worriers” could suggest things to assist them like:

1. Throw something that oil would COAT, but wouldn’t sink, into the slick. Sponge? Millions of Paper-towels?

2. Drop something REALLY heavy down to the ocean floor to stop the leak, like a barge or a giant steel deck.

3. Sink a gigantic hair-color cap down and pull a draw-string to cover the leak and suppress the oil.
4. Put a floating "Weber" grill type cap over a controlled burn to filter and clean the toxic smoke before it joins the sky.

Far-fetched? Yes. Plausible? Maybe. To submit your ideas go to: BP Transocean Drilling Incident.

We gifted worriers with wild imaginations can stop calming ourselves with “Oh, they must know what they’re doing,” self-talk when it comes to other modern engineering feats too, and help our world.

Consider nuclear power plants. We all know it’s about smashing atoms and lowering the resulting heat with water. We don’t have to understand the technicalities to think up what might go wrong. We owe it to our fellow man, our intelligence, our very nature, to speak out and have our crazy ideas be considered.

They are expanding a bridge near where I live, and my daughter, Krista and I remarked together about why they were using wood to build up the sides and on the foundation.

“Doesn’t wood rot?” my young, “What-iffer-in-Training” asked me.

“Why, YES it DOES!”

Have they thought of that?

Hug a Garbage Collector Today

2010-04-27T09:54:00.006-05:00

When my husband Fred married me, he agreed to “Love, kill all bugs that scare me and take out the trash once a week.” Our village-issued giant dumpster makes life simpler, yet one fated Thursday, Fred left early, and, against his sacred vows, didn’t put out the garbage.

“That’s o.k.,” I said, “It’s still really cold outside.” This statement backs up my basic philosophy that winter serves only ONE good purpose...to make sure my garbage stays frozen.

Sometime during the following “Second Week of Rot,” raccoons, opossum, and rats lined up outside my house, on their hind legs with little knives and forks in their “rodenty” paws, begging for access to the fermenting chicken carcass and fridge-rejected vegetables stored in “Dumpster from Hell,” I dreamt.

“YIKES!!” I awoke the next garbage morning to the sound of the sanitation truck pulling away, while my dumpster stood rumbling with noxious gases still in my garage. I raced down the street in my pajamas, pulling the 90-gallon beast like a mad ox towing an 800 lb. plow, calling “Come Back, PLEEASE!” Fred (this time blameless) was out of town.

On the third week, things got even worse. The recent warm temperatures coaxed “All Things Wicked and Rotten” to spawn inside my trash container. Fly larvae spontaneously multiplied, came to life and buzzed menacing. There were nightmare noises coming from INSIDE the bin and around my house there was a green glow like a 1980s CRT screen.

“I missed our trash pick-up, is there anything I can do?” I asked our public works clerk.

“Yes. Wait until next Thursday.”

“But it smells!!” I cried.

I did find a few options:

Plan A.: With the power lines marked by power, water and gas personnel, and toxic waste suits donned, we would have to dig in secret, by night, like a grave-yard worker...or a suited-up ground hog, and bury it.

Plan B.: Take it to another area of the village that has a Tuesday pick up, find a friendly person who wouldn’t mind having “Putrid” at the end of their driveway for the day, and then retrieve it later, hopefully “Maggot-free”.

This morning, seagulls swooped above me as I pushed the dumpster, now swirling with flies like a cyclone, to the road wearing gloves and a scarf over my mouth. The sight of the garbage truck driving towards me made me fall to my knees and weep. As its gigantic arm poised to accept my offering, I blew the driver kisses.

I bet he gets that a lot.

Mo Rocca, Shame and Airline Bathrooms...Oh MY!

2010-04-19T14:04:00.016-05:00

Returning from the Erma Bombeck Humor Writer’s Workshop in Dayton, Ohio, I was assigned my very first front row plane seat. Like a kid who just got a triple-scoop ice cream cone and the means with which to eat it dribble-free, I beamed. Good fortune was sure to follow me today.

My luck-cup bubbled and spilled over when comedian Mo Rocca of CBS Sunday Morning sat next to me. "Play it COOL, Heidi," I coached myself. I nonchalantly opened a book I purchased at the workshop. He would recognize it, realize we’d both been at the Erma festivities, and ask my opinion. I would then say something SO HILARIOUS, so hilarious, that he would beg me for my blog address.

“Someone in the first two rows is going to have to move to the BACK of the plane--we’re “Nose” heavy,” the flight attendant announced.

No one moved.

I feel it necessary to point out at this point that although I am a plus-sized woman, I am not “Jabba the Hut,” or "circus tent attraction" big. But, as the unanswered request loomed, of the 8 of us in the first two rows, I was the girl “Most Likely to Weigh down the Nose of a Plane.”

“OH, I’ll do it!” I blurted when I couldn’t stand the pressure one...more...second. “It was just a fluke that I was sitting here anyway!” I began awkwardly gathering my stuff. No “Mo Encounter of the Close Kind” for me, I thought.

Then I couldn't get my seat belt unbuckled. Seriously. I became quietly frantic.

“Mommy, the Airplane Nose Weigher-Downer is thrashing in her seat!” I heard children announce with glee, as if they’d just seen “Bongo the Gorilla” peel a banana with his toes. They gawked at me and clutched at their parents, mouths open in amazement. I felt up the arm rest for the eject button or maybe a trap door... to escape through... and die, when finally, I sprang free.

I took the “Walk of Shame” down the narrow aisle to the back of the plane, wincing, imaging what the fellow passengers were thinking:

“Did she try to sneak into First Class?”
“Is the plane going to “pop a wheelie” now that she’s in the BACK of the plane?”
“Please don’t sit here.”

Creating a spectacle and redistributing the weight of the airplane weren’t my only jobs on this flight. I was kept very busy in my new seat, next to the lavatory, answering questions from passengers who couldn’t get the bathroom door to open, or who wanted to know where their used paper products should go. I, of course, didn’t dare use the bathroom. I might have caused the plane to a roll.

Spoiled Music Memories

2010-03-16T12:29:00.008-05:00

1. Attaching Beloved Song to OBJECTS:

You sold your souls, Queen, when you allowed “Toothbrush- Tune” manufacturers to use “We Will Rock You.” Now, whenever a child applies pressure to their toothbrush, a gnarled version of your PRIMO 70’s classic literally plays in their head. My daughter, Krista has heard that song 2 gazillion times over the past year, and still can’t understand the words. In the car recently, she sang, “Buddy you’re a mingsti borboy mmskmsioasoi sposdi…We will, we will, brush you.”

Tragic.

I can understand, Mr. MC Hammer, you needed to bail yourself out of some tax trouble, but when you put a “Hammertime” sound chip on a greeting card, you might as well be on an infomercial for George Forman zit cream.

2. Letting your children listen to your 80s favorites:

Just don’t do it! Preserve your precious memories and play those songs privately, with someone your own age! I once made a CD of my old favorites which included a Jeffrey Osborne song. The actual line, “You give me special joy oooooo, make me feel just like a school boy ooooo” cracked-up my sons, Dave and Jon, who said it sounded like something a pedophile might say.

Then there’s Duran Duran’s, “Hungry Like the Wolves,” which contains a verse that Dave claimed sounds like “Mouse’s Alive.”

Finally, I played the Styx tune, "Mr. Roboto" to my daughter and she asked me what the funny lyrics meant, so I looked up dōmo arigatō misutā Roboto, which I always thought sounded so cool. It means "Thank you very much, Mr. Roboto" in Japanese. That's just stupid.

3. Attaching Beloved Music to Presidential Campaigns:

Fleetwood Mac crept out of a cave to help Bill Clinton get elected by letting him use “Don’t Stop.” Now, any previous “F-Mac” Republicans fans will liken that song to a mosquito buzzing in their ears. Last year, Barrack Obama wisely contracted a composer to write his OWN song to lure voters, “pied-piper-like” to the ways of the Democratic party. If we happen to hear that song--we will think of Obama and not dancing “back-in-the-day” with some sweaty 7th grader in a gymnasium (no offense to sweaty 7th graders).

Note: Wouldn’t it be NICE to have our own theme song. Possible titles for mine: “Raiders of the Lost Reading Glasses” or “March of the Kangaroo Pouched Woman”

4. Commercials:

“Anticipation” by Carly Simon will forever more remind me of a glass ketchup bottle. Ozzy Osbourne supposedly licensed “Crazy Train” to Mitsubishi for some 1999 car. Although I wouldn't want to buy a car that reminded me of a crazy train.

5. Choreographing:

Throw me in “music-abuse” jail for this one. I choreograph water aerobics to popular music. Every Wednesday I see the lifeguard at the YMCA cringe as a new Nickleback song plays—the image of 30+ senior citizen ladies leaping to it, burned in his memory like a Sharpie doodle on linoleum.

Sorry about that.

Y She Gotta B So Gnarly?: A PMS Story

2010-03-09T13:15:00.006-06:00

I am a cactus--full of water and prickly. The imaginary “duct tape” that restrains my sharp tongue 21-days a month has come loose. Doctors and friends over 40 will attest that PMS gets worse each year. It’s pretty bad now—will I need an exorcist to expel the grouchy, weepy demon who squats in me monthly?

My husband, Fred, has never been very adept at dealing with my “Issues of Bloat.” A smart husband would, upon encountering his noticeably puffier wife, open the front door, throw in a box of chocolate like a trainer would toss meat to a tiger or a ball to an overzealous dog, and run in the opposite direction. This would be a good thing to teach them in Boy Scouts. But Fred is a “Bear Poker” and inevitably he will mutter something like:

“I know--I just have to wait this out.”

...which causes Housewife from Hell to screech, “YOU have to wait this out?!!!” Followed by a list of reasons why he, under no circumstance, should ever judge why I’m “not myself.” Frankly, though, sometimes even for me, it’s only AFTER I’ve zinged someone like a snapper turtle, that it occurs to me why and I settle down.

But don’t tell him that.

At this point, with escalating PMS symptoms, it would help everyone concerned if I changed color during this time to remind myself and others that I might become “disagreeable”...at any moment! Hormones can do so many other things—why not send out a temporary fluorescent orange warning hue?

“She’s ORANGE! Here, take MY seat.”

”She’s ORANGE! Does anyone have any Girl Scout Cookies?”

“OH, huh, I’m ORANGE. I can simmer down, retract my eyeballs and ride the 5-8-day coaster with awareness.”

I know this “Hormone War” will not cease until the weapons of “Hot Flashes and Flatulence” began firing. Until then, I could make quite a reputation for myself during those dark days. Some possible texts messages between family members, referencing Mom/wife’s personality transformation in the next few years could include:

“zero 2 “Godzilla” in 60 seconds”

“Stop-get chocolate 4 Mom”

"Y she gotta B so gnarly?”

“The Elusive Nights Sleep” Motel

2010-03-02T10:00:00.013-06:00

My hu sband, Fred, our daughter, Krista and I stayed at a nearby mot el for a weekend getaw ay. Our room was equipped with 2 lovely queen-sized beds, which were piled high with lots of pillows in a variety of shapes and sizes. After a pizza, pop and some television, we pulled back the covers and anticipated a comfortable slumber.

Right away, Fred and I realized our bodies were touching. That may not seem unusual, but Fred and I share a king-sized bed and after 17 years together, some nights there’s so much space between us a Billy goat could climb in with us and I’d never notice.

“Move over!”
“I can’t--I’ve got one leg over the edge already,” Fred replied.

We also quickly realized that the “blanket” was not the right size for the bed. That didn’t REALLY matter because it was furry an d scratchy like “The Wookie Chewbacca” from Star Wars and neither of us wanted it touching us so we pushed it onto the floor. This made us cold, so we reluctantly pulled up “The Bedspread of Many Germs.”

Fred was really tired and managed to fall asleep before I did. All 8 of my pillows were WAY too hard and forced my neck into the “V” position. I punched them down and tossed. I became hot, turned on the air conditioner, which blew artic air directly at my backside. I reached for “The Wookie” and fell off the bed.

Fred woke up and grumbled and tossed. So I grumbled and tossed. “If you turn over one more time...” I hissed, “I’m going to sleep with Krista.” That was a flaccid threat, since Krista, in the next bed, was rolled up in the sheets like a burrito. Fred and I held each other for a while, not to ignite passion, but to keep each other still. It was more like pinning each other down.
There was no noise, except the bi-hourly roar of the cold air fan. When it was on, it was freezing. When it turned off, the room felt like the Bahamas. I played a little bed “Hokey-Pokey” and put my right foot out, and then I put my right foot in...and so on, until I couldn’t stand it anymore and went into the bathroom and turned on the lights. I did what all uncomfortable writers do in the middle of the night...I got ou t my pen and notebook and wrote a love note to my previously pliable spine and neck.

I had no idea what time it was with the vampire curtains blocking out even the brightest sunlight. I went back to the bed, and realized the entire mattress had shifted slightly off the base and my corner of the mattress hung over the edge like a flap. I pulled the sheet off of Fred and finally fell asleep for 2 hours, until Krista bound ed up and announced it was time to go swimming.

“You were thrashing around like a tuna on a boat deck,” Fred said the next morning, “I liked it!”

The Bear-Moose and the Didgeridoo

2010-01-28T10:41:00.003-06:00

“Mom! Mom! Wake up!”
“Mmmmm, what is it Krista?”
“You’re snoring.”
“O.k. BKKKKKAAAAWWWA.”
“Mom! You’re rattling the ceiling fan chain in my room.”

I, Heidi, a female, am now Fred Flintstone, “The Skipper” from "Gilligan’s Island", and all other barrel chest-ed MEN that come to mind when you think of snoring. I image myself in an animal print, jagged-hemmed toga, or in a hammock with Gilligan swinging above me, growling and drooling like a Bear-Moose.

Multiple sources confirm my condition. Occasionally, I’ll feel my husband Fred’s elbow drilling into my shoulder. I’ve scared myself awake with an especially low rumble, and although I forewarned them, on a recent mother-daughter sleep-over with friends, earplugs didn’t drown-out my “Midnight Weed Whacker” impression.

“You should get a Sleep Study,” my groggy friend advised the next morning. Sleep Studies help diagnose the dreaded “Sleep Apnea” and its treatment— the Constant Positive Airway Pressure (C-PAP) machine with accompanying unattractive, “alien-meets-scuba-diver” face mask. Fred assures me, however, I do not stop breathing--I just sound like all Three Stooges.

The good news is there are a number of shocking and amusing snoring cures to try:

Flexible, Sticky Strips Applied Directly to your Nose- These are used to increase the amount of air you take it with each breath. I have tried these, but “Amount of Air” must not be my problem. They also make my nostrils look like King Kong’s.

Holding Your Mouth Shut- A device whereby your mouth is held shut by bondage scarf, headgear or string. But what if my nose really IS plugged and I need to mouth-breath? I’d hate to have “Death by Chinstrap” written on my tombstone.

Sew a Cannonball into the Back of your Uniform- I got this one off the Internet. Evidently, during the revolutionary war, the Brits had this snoring prevention method in practice so they wouldn’t disturb their fellow soldiers. Lacking a uniform (and a cannon ball), I could sew little plastic revolutionary war “guys” into the back of a t-shirt instead.

Take up the Didgeridoo- Although I’ve never heard of it, two of my kids knew all about the Australian Aborigine instrument (Krista claims she heard it on "Spongebob"). This hollowed out eucalyptus tree is used to make all kinds of different sounds. Research shows that by playing it you can strengthen your soft palate and throat, thereby preventing the vibrations that cause snoring. All Aborigines must sleep very peacefully...until someone picks up a Didgeridoo and starts playing it.

Apparently, Guinness Book has tracked down THE loudest snorer. At a record breaking 93 decibels, the noise replicates a lawn mower. If I were his wife, I’d buy him a chin-strap.

Casting Pearls Before Swine (A.K.A. Seeking a Job in 2010)

2010-01-08T12:31:00.014-06:00

“What the heck happened to the “Help Wanted” ads?” I complained to my husband, Fred, one Sunday, “the section is tiny.”

“Most jobs are advertised online now,” he said.

“Why? Does the tedious process of locating individual jobs sites, typing in statistics, and pasting resumes into vacant fields sort out the “men” from the “boys”? If you’re not internet savvy, you’re up “Unemployment River” without a paddle, aren’t you?” I ranted.

Fred cowered.

Job descriptions online are ridiculously specific now. To have all the qualifications they ask for it would be a bloody miracle. I read one on Fred’s behalf a few months ago:

MBA, BME, Lean Six Sigma. Applicant must have 14 years experience in FEA software and trimmed sideburns. Size 11 feet are a preferable. Must have off-road drilling vehicle experience and a credit rating of 750. Spouse that bakes brownies (no nuts) on Fridays—required.

If Fred’s feet were smaller, he’d have that job nailed.

If you manage to get past the “Letting your Resume Loose Online/Pray it doesn’t Show up in Arabic on the Other End of the Web” step, and do get a phone call to schedule a “Phone Interview”...don’t get too excited. They usually assign that task to the office Plant Lady. You’ll be lucky if she puts her leaf duster down to write down your answers.

If you get past the phone interview, you might get another phone call to schedule a “Face-to-face-to-face-to-face-to-face” Group Interview. These meetings definitely make you feel like a “detainee” having your cerebellum probed. I once went to a Group Interview for a lousy, 9-hour a week church secretary job and faced a grim panel of church people firing questions at me like BBs. I did so poorly, I thought they were going to yell, “WITCH!”

If you get through the “Group Interview”, you’re still not home free. With so much competition for open positions these days, managers can take their time, tease you and keep you waiting, like a rotten boyfriend. During the weeks, maybe months of waiting, it’s always good to write “Thank You” letters to all the "inquisitioners."

If a prospective hiring manager does call you in, wear a different outfit, have your references on alert and bring a pen or pencil so you can hand-write out an application with all the same information you already provided weeks ago.

Remember: You’re the “pearl” they’ve been looking for....but make sure your shell is closed.

The Incident on Lawbreaker Court

2010-01-07T07:18:00.014-06:00

I have never gotten “out” of a traffic ticket on my own, even when I was cute, thin, tan, flirting and sobbing. Years ago, my 4-year-old son Jon got me off with a warning by charming the policeman with distracting comments like, “I have a Looney Tunes t-shirt” and “I like your hat.”

Recently, an ordinary day began with manic alarm and a wild rush to deliver two kids to two different quadrants of the city, unexpectedly. I sloshed down a cup of coffee and raced. On the way home, I saw a police car coming toward me and I slowed...way...down. As he passed me, I looked in my rear-view mirror and realized he was turning around. In one, strange, maniacal, irrational and fiendish moment, I tried to ditch him by quickly turning onto the next street. So THIS is what it feels like to be a criminal, I thought, panting.

Unfortunately, it was a dead-end street.

Officer Stout came up to my window and asked me what I thought I had done wrong. A cross between “Novocain-lip” gibberish and an Elvish curse came out instead of “I think I was speeding” and sounded something like:

“Ithoobiiiiy ishop.”

Officer Stout said, unflapped, “You did not come to a complete stop back there.” He asked for my driver’s license and when I reached into the glove box, stating “Whiney pissomer istakey, see?” (which meant, “My ‘09 sticker didn’t stick to my license plate, so here it is.”), Officer Stout took a step back and put his hand on his weapon. I handed him my documents, smiled and he soberly went back and sat in his car.

I looked in my rearview mirror again and jumped. The reason he took a step back was not my barrage of “fool” words or my “glove box reach” for a potential weapon. What really freaked him was my appearance. I was wearing one of Fred’s holey undershirts and baggy pajama pants. I had brushed nothing. I had a boulder sized eye-booger in one watery eye and my eyebrows, unkempt, arched at the ends like Sir Graves Ghastly. As I looked down, damp coffee stains on my white shirt made it semi-see-thru.

When Office Stout came back to the car, I was rolling the crud out of my eye and smoothing down my eyebrow hairs with a licked finger.

“Can I ask you why you turned down this street?”

Oh God. I started to speak again when Officer Stout held his hand up in the stop position, “Have a nice day and come to a complete stop next time.”

Moral: One way to get out of a traffic ticket is to look as gross as possible.

An Honest Christmas Letter

2009-12-01T12:39:00.009-06:00

A friend of mine, after receiving my traditional, cheerful Christmas letter last year, said she felt bad because she didn’t have as many positive things to write about her family. That got me thinking...I had only written the good news.

So here, in response, is our 2009 Christmas letter.

After being laid-off last May, Fred recently got a job at a local truck manufacturing company as a project engineer. Just in time too. After 6 months of togetherness, Fred had become the houseguest who wouldn’t leave. We’d taken to occupying different quadrants of the house and only grunting to one another. At 3 months, I was “googling” Voodoo doll manufacturers, and planning which body part on my Fred “replica” I was going to prick first. You might have felt the earth move the day Fred got the job offer...that was just me jumping.

Krista got a spark-making scooter for her birthday. She promptly hit a mud patch at the side of the road, flipped over the handlebars and nearly broke her wrist. The scooter is now for sale. She got elected to the student council, takes piano lessons and does spinning classes at the YMCA. Fred and I tried taking the spinning class too, but I was diagnosed with the rare condition known as “butthurtsalot,” brought on by the anteater-nose shaped bike seat and had to quit. Fred stuck with it, but admitted his “manhood” was in jeopardy with each pedaled revolution.

I’m still a water aerobics instructor at the YMCA (5 years now). I’ve been learning how to cook a lot of great new dishes thanks to the “Food Network.” Consumption of these great new foods, plus hours logged on the sofa learning to cook them have definitely made me a "before" example. Next year my goals are to lose 60 pounds, order orthopedic shoes to relieve the pressure on my bone spur and continue with my bi-weekly chin-hair checks. Don't even get me started on my bursitis and female pattern balding.

Fred and I redecorated our living room this spring. It looks so cozy and colorful. Especially with the addition of Fred’s prize ~~garbage~~ garage sale find—a 1970s electric organ with some electronic issues. It was on sale for $20, but they ended up GIVING it to him. Now it's the first thing you see when you walk in. Maybe I can dress it up with a candelabra and some rose pedals. Does anyone know how to play an electric organ?

Jasmine Buttercup Ruby is our 3 year old golden retriever. She is a joy. She was recently developed a dust-mite allergy which makes her scratch her ear until it smells like beans and shake her head vigorously to deposit the scales and whatever loose hair she has on her all over our living room. Unfortunately, with Lily Munster as an owner, she'll be stuck on her steroid pills for life.

We traveled to Florida over spring break and Krista caught a 25 lb. Redfish on the inner-coastal waters. Fred also made many trips to the U.P. to get ready for hunting. Fred didn’t see any deer, but apparently saw 2 other animals: a bluebird and a squirrel.

We have them mounted on our mantel.

Merry Christmas!

The Fingernails of a Tomato Canner are Orange

2009-09-22T21:57:00.007-05:00

After 4 months of hosting a tomato garden, I have famously lost interest in the whole endeavor. The dozen or so tomatoes I handpicked out of my garden in August were delicious and satisfying. But, they are now ripening at an alarming rate; appearing everywhere, decorating the plants like Christmas bulbs. Only it’s not Christmas. It’s “Canning Time” and like Lucy and Ethel on the candy assembly line—I can’t keep up.

Although I’ve never “canned” anything in my life, friends and websites assured me that it was easy. So I took 20 lbs. out of my fridge and studied the recipe.

Directions to Can Tomatoes:

1. Start cauldron filled with 4 gallons of water to boil using 2 side-by-side burners

2. Run jars in dishwasher cycle

3. Put lids in water to boil

4. Put tomatoes in a large pot of boiling water, and then thrust them into a large ice bath so peels will be easy to remove.

By this 4^th step, I have some notes to add:

Some peels came off of some tomatoes. The others needed to be peeled with a potato peeler. Peeling the skin off a mushy tomato is a bit like shaving an inflated balloon. The tomato skin is taut, but unexpectedly your finger (or the peeler edge) ruptures the peel, causing the inner red-orange, seeded goo to escape and fly. I’ve plumbed and been squirted by so many tomatoes, my kitchen looks like a bloody scene from “Grey’s Anatomy.” On the bright side, I think I may have invented a new art form.

The recipe reads on:

5. Core and cut peeled tomatoes into smaller wedges.

I liken the “Hold down the Slippery Tomato in Order to cut it” maneuver to that of Ms. Pac Man trying to gobble the ghosts before the time is up. This step could be a game by assigning a child, equipped with baseball mitt, to catch rocketing tomato pop-flies.

6. Into sterilized jars, put tomatoes in within ¼ inch of the top. Put in lemon juice and fill with boiling water.

7. Place jars with lids in water cauldron and boil for 45 minutes.

8. Remove and let cool. Jars will be sealed when you hear a “ping” signifying a proper, safe seal.

I listened, and waited...4 hours, but I didn’t hear a single “ping.” Doubt has now been cast as to whether the proper, safe seal has been achieved. Will I give my family botchulism? Will I be known as the notorious Heidi the Poisoner?

Anyone interested in one of my quarts of homegrown tomatoes? If not, you can get the same size jar at Piggly Wiggly for $1.98.