The Chronicles of Ray: A Tale in Two Parts

I have a friend named Dawn. She has been my friend for nearly 25 years. We met while working in jewelry store, called “RJ Walker” (not the real name). I was 20 and Dawn was 18. I had taken a semester off from college and Dawn was working to prepare to move to California, in a creepy van, with her then-boyfriend, Ryan.

This jewelry store wasn’t normal. This could be the understatement of the year. It might be the understatement of the century. Let me try to explain.

The jewelry itself, predominantly, was sterling silver. The owners bought in bulk, therefore getting exceptionally low prices. Even with their mark-up, the retail prices were very reasonable. Earrings ranged from $7 to $50, with most being in the lower range- $7 to $20. They were perfect for birthday presents – one kid to give to another. Plus the store provided free gift wrapping. And the selection was CRAZY. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of earrings to pick from. They also had bracelets, necklaces, charms, rings, crystals (yeah, it was the 90’s).

The store also had an “Estate Jewelry” section. Dawn and I were not allowed anywhere near the estate jewelry cases. Only the owners and the store manager, Liz Hooper Lesbian Lover, were allowed to go into those cases. While I’m sure the pieces were fairly priced, our grubby little paws were not permitted to touch those cases.

The stuff of my nightmares

Because they had such a huge selection, the jewelry cases were packed with stuff. And it all had to be straightened and arranged, and straightened, and polished, and straightened and the tags fixed and straightened… you get the picture. The bulk of the day, we would straighten the cases. And then around 2pm, the rush would start.

May I help you?

The store would fill up with people browsing. Then they would buy and we would write up the sales slip by hand, box and wrap the item and send them on their merry way. The customers LOVED the store.

Behind the scenes, it was an asylum.

The owners were a married couple, Ray and Jan Neurotic (again, not their real last name. I got the last name by opening the dictionary at random and pointing to a word. No joke, that’s the word I picked at random.). They were both nerdy and unattractive. My guess is they were probably around 40. They seemed old to me, but in truth, they could have been in their mid to late 30s. Jan could have been very pretty if she used a little make-up and wore some non-circa 1973- librarian clothing. She had long, straight, red hair. She always wore it pulled back severely in a tight bun. She had beautiful, alabaster skin… but she had a huge, unsightly, hairy, annoying growth… his name was Ray, her husband.

Ray

Ray and Jan were making a fraking bundle with this store, the customers loved them… but if you worked for them, it was a whole different story.

Jan was nice, actually. I always felt like, maybe, she had been tricked into marrying Ray. Like, maybe she lost a bet or had been sold into some type of white, hairy slavery. Jan had a few little quirks, but she did snicker, under her breath at Ray, which was always amusing. Jan was not nearly as self-important as Ray. I think she hated the customers, she didn’t voice it as much as Ray.

The physical sight of Ray could be daunting. He was a tall man, and was on the enormous side. Ray resembles something out of a 70’s horror p*rn film. He is Ron Jeremy-esque, only not as sexy, and hair-free.

That’s right, I’m the SEXY one

Ray had a white man’s afro, a full moustache and beard. And when I say full, I am talking about Grizzly Adams-full.

Ray looked like Grizzly Adams. Well-Grizzly Adams if he had fought a bear for a ham sandwich. Ray, also, wore wrap-around mirrored Oakley sunglasses.

I’m so cool

Some guys could get away with wrap-around mirrored Oakley sunglasses. Ray is not one of them.

He was always dressed in a suit and wore an “interesting” tie. In fact, customers would comment on his tie, to which he would reply “Oh, I decided to tie one on!” Har Har Har Har. Har.

Let’s tie one on, shall we?

Ok, the first time, maybe it is slightly funny. Slightly. But after hearing it every day, at least 4 times per day… I’m over it. I wanted to “tie one on” to his throat and pull tight.

Ray is great. Just ask him, he’ll tell you. Ray believes he is, absolutely, the smartest person in the room…and by “room,” I mean universe. He knew more about everything than anyone.

INCONCEIVABLE!

Vizzini stole his line from Ray’s mindset “Have you ever heard of Plato? Aristotle? Socrates? MORONS!!”

Ray believed he was, certainly, better than Dawn and me, but also better than the people who shopped in his store. As soon as the store emptied out, he would nitpick, criticize and laugh at each customer that he felt was not as perfect as he was- which was all of them.
• Whoa. She needs some plastic surgery.
• Whoa. She should stop getting plastic surgery.
• She should spend more money on her wardrobe, especially if she wants to keep that husband of hers.
• She should STOP spending so much on jewelry, especially if she wants to keep that husband of hers.
• Could you imagine waking up next to THAT every morning. (oddly, not said to his own reflection.)
• Maybe she should lay off the Baskin Robbins.
• She should shop down the street at that OTHER jewelry store.
• That guy is an idiot.
• Go have another drink.
• Ha! He can’t afford to shop here.
• Honey, stick with The Food Emporium.

It was endless.

Normally, I love that crap. However, these were the people who were supporting him. These were the people who, time after time, patronized his store. There were the people that paid for him to have a home and clothing. These were the people that laughed at his stupid jokes. These were the people who kept him in ham sandwiches. In my opinion, thinking something shitty and inappropriate is one thing, but saying it out loud is something entirely different.

Don’t get me wrong, both are BAD, but he was saying it in front of employees… employees who did not, as it turns out, sign a privacy or non-disclosure agreement. In my opinion it was irresponsible and frankly, it was just a shitty thing to do.

Dawn and I worked in the shop from 8 to 6, Monday through Friday. The pay, at the time, was GREAT. The Minimum Wage in 1991 was $4.25. We made $8 per hour. Which would have been great, except a considerable portion of my salary went to pay for the parking tickets I would get- literally EVERY DAY.

The town had parking meters, and even though I would feed the meter every two hours, they would ticket me because my car was in the lot for longer than two hours. So thanks Gottrocksville, CT- I’m sure my parking tickets put a new wing on the Town Hall. Jerks.

Ray and Jan had a few rules.

1) No perfume in the store (if you had perfume on, Jan would stand over you while you scrubbed off)

2) You could not leave the store for your lunch break – this way, if they got busy, they could SNATCH you, mid-bite, from your soggy, stale sandwich at any moment.

3) Conversation in the store was prohibited. Ray, Jan and Liz Hooper Lesbian Lover could talk to one another, and they could talk at us, but Dawn and I were not permitted to speak to one another, unless it was jewelry related.

To clarify, Liz Hooper Lesbian Lover- phonetically, must be pronounced:

Liz Hooooooooooooooper Lessssssssssssssbian Lovvvvvvvvvvvvah.

Are we clear?

We had a radio in the store. And the station we listened to played the same two songs over and over and over. Whitney Houston’s Star Spangled Banner and Gloria Estefan “Coming out of the Dark.”

I‘m coming out of the dark

Gloria had just recovered from her bus accident and had to have a steel rod put into her spine. Despite Dawn and my unwavering love and concern for the health of Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine- we heard that song so often we wished she had died.

Ray and Jan did not anticipate a friendship developing between Dawn and me. Dawn and I developed an entire language of talking with our eyes. Their No-Talking Rule only drove Dawn and I closer together. Every evening after work, we would regroup in the parking lot out back, and rehash the ridiculousness of the day.

Each day would start with Ray sending one of us (usually me) to a local Deli to get his lunch. The Deli was about ½ a mile away and the sandwiches were pricey. Like $6 or $7 (in 1991) Keep in mind, the time is 8:30am… and I’m ordering his LUNCH. Even the best sandwich is not so tasty sitting for 4 hours in a musty, hot back room of a jewelry store/ asylum. Every day, I’d take the lunch order. Jan would get varying meats- sometimes turkey, sometimes ham, sometimes tuna… Liz Hooper Lesbian Lover would eat nothing but celery sticks and Dawn may or may not order a sandwich. Ray would always order the same thing: HAM. Every. Cotton. Picking. Day.

It’s what’s for lunch…every day

Me: Ray, what do you want for lunch?
Ray: Hmmmmmm, Ham. On a hard roll. Actually, double ham- they never put enough on there, swiss and…Oh, I’ll go crazy, have them put a little chutney on there too.
Me: Ok.

(Not for nothing, but a typical Deli usually puts a TON of meat on any sandwich. But Ray realllly, loves his ham.)

I realize this isn’t Ham, but you get the point.

And then Ray would peel off a $20 from his fat bill-fold and place it on the counter in front of me.

Ray’s wad

He never handed it to me, he just laid it on the glass counter. He had plenty of $20’s in the bill fold and I have to say, monetarily speaking, Ray was generous and he would often treat us to lunch, which was nice. Of course, he was such a colossal douche that when he bought you a sandwich, you felt it was well-earned.

Every day, Ham. Monday? Ham. Tuesday? Ham. Wednesday? Ham. Thursday? Ham. Friday? Here is a shock, Ham.

One day, I saw a glimmer of hope. Change was on the horizon.

Me: Ray, what do you want for lunch?
Ray: Hmmmmmmm. Hmmmmmmm. Today, I am going to have a hard roll, with egg salad.

Dawn and I both looked at each other… WHAT?!?! Egg Salad?!?! Wow. I’m pretty sure Egg Salad is the 6th sign of the Apocalypse.

Oh yes, it’s right there in the Bible- “And I saw the seven angels which stood before God; and to them were given seven trumpets and an Egg Salad Sandwich.”

Look it up.

I grabbed the money and the order and started to leave and Ray stopped me “Oh Rachel…. Can you have them put some Ham on the side of that sandwich?”
I replied “Right. Side of ham.”

(Yeah, there was a girl that worked there on the weekends named Rachel. Rather than learn our names, Ray just called both of us Rachel.)

When I was hired, we did not review the roles and responsibilities associated with fetching Ray’s lunch. I did, however, assume a reasonable level of responsibility in insuring Ray did, indeed, receive lunch each day. Before I would leave the Deli, I would check to make sure I had the entire order. Any idiot knows not to poke a hungry wookie, so I always checked the bag to make sure Ray’s sandwich was there. I knew it was Ray’s because it was four times the size of every other sandwich. Ok, maybe not four, but it was noticeably larger because 3 pounds of ham tends to take up extra space.

The sandwiches were wrapped in white butcher paper, secured with a piece of masking tape. Because they were wrapped in opaque paper, I could not, visually, check the sandwich to insure the meat was correct. Well I could, but I would have had to un-tape the parcel, remove the paper and inspect the sandwich. I was a good employee, but even I wasn’t going examine a ham sandwich in the alley between Pongetti’s Flooring and the Texaco station. Net/Net, I had to place a modicum of trust in the Deli Dude, I believe his name was Scott, to make the order correctly.

One day, I returned to the store, with two sandwiches and, what I thought to be, Ray’s whole suckling pig…on a hard roll…with a little chutney.

Ray’s lunch

At Ray’s designated feeding time, ham was dumped into his trough… and there was a problem. His ham was, in fact, chicken. You thought Apollo 13 presented a problem???

Ray bounded up the stairs, with the sandwich in paw “Rachel! I ordered a HAM sandwich. This is a CHICKEN sandwich.” shoving the sandwich in my face, chicken remnants clinging to his beard and his “interesting tie.”

I apologized.

He asked me if I checked the sandwich.

I told him, Yes, I checked that I received a sandwich FOR him.

“Why, Rachel, did you not check to make sure you bought me the correct sandwich.” Ray spat.

I stood there looking at him. “I assumed the correct sandwich was put in the bag.” I replied.

As soon as it was out of my mouth, I new it was a mistake. I ASSUMED. And you know what happens when you assume, right?

Apparently, Ray thought I should be standing over the guy making the sandwich so I could guarantee he made the sandwich WITH HAM. Because that wouldn’t be weird for anyone involved.

I wanted to tell Ray to get his own goddamned sandwich and to stop being such an ungrateful jerk. Plus- eating ham every day can’t be good for you. Ever consider a salad you big, hairy oaf?!?!  I, however, kept silent.

Ray turned away from me. I thought, perhaps, he might be taking a moment to collect himself, we were, after all, talking about a SANDWICH. I didn’t steal from him. I didn’t crash his car. Nope. Ray was looking for a weapon.

Ray’s weapon of choice

Ray picked up the adding machine and threw it at me. Thankfully, Ray has the throwing skills of a sightless, armless baboon. The adding machine hit the counter and shattered into multiple small pieces. He grabbed his chicken sandwich and stormed downstairs.

I looked around. Jan had her head down, straightening a jewelry case. Liz Hooper Lesbian Lover assumed the same stance a few cases down. Only Dawn looked at me. She smiled her toothy grin, brought her fist up to her chest and quickly mimed “jacking off” in my direction.

Excuse me, do you mind if  I wax my porpoise

I proceeded to drag the cumbersome, ancient Electrolux vacuum out of the closet and clean up the pieces of the adding machine- biting the inside of my cheek to suppress my smile and laughter. Thank goodness we had Gloria Estefan to drown out my little snickers.

I fantasized, across town, Stan Brooks, CPA opens his lunch bag and finds a Ham Sandwich instead of his usual Chicken. In my mind he does not yell. He does not pout. He does not hurl electronic mathematical aids in anger. He puts his feet on his desk and says “Cool. I haven’t had Ham in a long time. But who the fuck put chutney on this thing????”

I learned two things from that episode. 1) Ray is spoiled child and 2) I had found a true friend in Dawn.

~TO BE CONTINUED~

A Rose by any other name…

My mantra, in general, is “I hate people.” And believe me, at times, it is warranted.

I am constantly amazed at the rudeness and cruelty I come across. Me? Yeah, I know, I tease and joke, and I judge … but anyone who knows me- truly knows me- knows that I would give a stranger the shirt off my back.  I am nice.  And many times, I get treated like garbage. One would think I would learn my lesson, but I don’t. I would rather give to someone and have them crap on me, and be able to sleep at night knowing I did the right thing than ignore someone who needs help.

That being said, when I see someone acting mean, I will call them out.

Today, something crazy transpired, normally I would say I’m speechless, but let’s face it, that rarely happens. Boy, oh Boy, do I have speech!

Of course, this stems from Facebook- or as I like to call it:  the root of all evil.  This afternoon, a “friend,” for these purposes let’s call him Dick (no offense to those named Dick or actual penises) – posted the following on Facebook:

“For today’s poll, who is more repulsive? Roseanne or Rosie O’Donnell? Feel free to vote.”

He then posted these photographs of them.

Ok, not the most flattering of either one. The photo of Roseanne is taken from her unfortunate performance of The Star Spangled Banner at a MLB game. Yes, it was horrible- I love my country and I thought it was disrespectful. BUT Roseanne has since publicly express regret and remorse for this “performance.” And actually sang the National Anthem again, nicely, to try to make amends.

The photo of Rosie… yeah, I can’t even explain it. It’s unflattering, sure. And she’s picking her nose… jokingly. But I defy you to say you have never picked your nose! But you probably haven’t done it on web cam, but I digress.

I was the first person to post a comment. I posted this:

“Why do you think they are repulsive?”

I was hoping that maybe he would say “These pictures are both gross.” Ok, I could have accepted that. As I said, they were not good pictures of either women.

A few other people chimed in saying things like:

“It’s a tie.”
“Roseanne”
“Rosie is a fat pig.”
“Roseanne is a disgrace”

You get the idea.

Then Dick posted that everyone should “you tube” Donald Trump vs Rosie O’Donnell. And that Roseanne’s performance of the National Anthem was disgraceful.

Everyone has feelings about Donald Trump. Rosie and Donald Trump argued publicly. Mean things were said on both sides, however, in my opinion, his attack of Rosie O’Donnell was ridiculous. He attacked her weight and her appearance and I consider those things to be low blows. Certainly Donald Trump is an intelligent man- he would not know such success if he was not. However, these types of attacks only show ignorance and make him look like a jerk.

A few more people chimed in that both are repulsive, etc.

Now, I’ve heard extensive interviews with both women and watched their shows. I know there is much more to both women than an ill-conceived singing performance and a web-cam nose picking. I felt compelled to comment.

Let me preface it by saying- these are my words, I stand by them. I knew it might cause an “issue.” But as I said, when someone is mean I don’t stand by quietly. Do these women need me- Kristin- a NOBODY- to defend them? No, they do not. But by the same token, the post was mean spirited, and thoughtless. I could have ignored it. But it was mean, disgusting and made me mad.

I posted this:

“Hmmm, let’s see which one is more repulsive…
Roseanne broke the “glass ceiling” for women in comedy. She’s been nominated for countless awards and employed hundreds of people for the better part of 10 years.

Yes, she sang the Star Spangled Banner badly, in 1990- an incident she has publicly expressed regret over. She has since sung the National Anthem- nicely at other baseball games.

Wouldn’t you love to have your nose, repeatedly, rubbed in a mistake you made in 1990- 23 years ago?

Roseanne lives, almost entirely, off the land, growing her own vegetables and fruit on her Macadamia Nut farm. What she doesn’t use, she donates to the poor in her community in Hawaii.

Rosie donated her $3MM book advance to start her For All Kids foundation to help institute standards in day care facilities across the US. The same foundation has given over $22MM in grants to over 900 non-profits, and helped local non-profits to assist people displaced by Hurricane Katrina.

When P&G announced she was the most “Un-kissable” celebrity, she donated donated bottles of Listerine mouthwash to her audience and donated $1,000 to charity every time a guest would kiss her- she donated more than $350K through that effort. Her “broadway kids” foundation benefits more than 4,500 teachers, students and families. She has donated $50MM of her salary to other charities, and has contributed hundreds of thousands of dollars to war veterans who have lost limbs in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Oh, and she has given a loving home to 4 adopted children.

Hard to say which is more repulsive.”

I don’t claim to know everything about either Roseanne or Rosie. I’m sure they have both made their share of mistakes and have regrets. But both women, pretty much, put it all out there. Both have had trailblazing careers. You may love them or hate them, but can you think of anyone who has changed “the rules” and not had supporters and detractors?

Shortly thereafter, whist on the treadmill, my phone “peeped” with a Facebook message from, you guess it: Dick.

Dick: I deleted it in your honor. Did not mean any harm.

Of course I responded.



Me: You didn’t “harm” me. Just thought it was mean. Don’t delete in my honor, delete it because it was not a nice thing to say.

Dick: It’s already gone. But, I still don’t care for them at all. Nice that they give back. Just find them historically obnoxious. 



Me: It’s obvious you don’t know much about either of them other than what they look like or a few missteps. Maybe read more about both and you won’t be so repulsed.

Dick: a few? ok. I’ll get on that.


Me: Ok, list their missteps for me and i would be happy to reconsider their repulsiveness.

Dick: I care not to waste time on such silliness. Have a nice evening.



Me: Silliness. The post said more about you than it did about them. Maybe consider that.

Dick: Wow! Apparently several others saw it for what it was, a joke. had a laugh and moved on. You make more fun of your husband than I did about them. Consider that. 



Yes, I do make fun of my husband. But I never say anything truly hurtful about him. And I never say anything that he would not say about himself. Furthermore, I tell my husband I love him a thousand times a day. I know I am lucky to have him and we are partners.

But Dick wasn’t finished with me. He decided to REALLY let me have it. He was REALLY going to show me the kind of person he REALLY is.



Dick: You are bounced. huge loss in my life. maybe you defend them because you are fat too. maybe you defend them because you are ugly too. maybe you defend them because you are a lesbian. either way, I don’t care. Grow up.

Obviously, I couldn’t respond because I am blocked. Boo Hoo. I’m not sure how I will be able to go on. How will I ever be able to live without his ignorant, homophobic rants? Good thing I have a blog!!!

Am I fat?  Yeah. Most people would probably say I am fat.

Am I ugly?  Maybe. But my husband tells me I am beautiful every single day.

Am I a lesbian?  Well no. But I have a lot of gay friends and let me tell you, they are amazing people. They are authentic and are living honestly. They have to struggle in life just to be themselves. They have to fight for the same rights as every other member of society. I love, admire and respect each and every one of them.

Do I need to grow up? Yeah, probably.

And I would rather be a fat, ugly, childish lesbian than to be an ignorant, hateful, superficial homophobe who gets off on being mean to other people.

I think we both showed our true colors.

The Mom Cookie

I have a friend, she lives in Connecticut and her family lives in the Mid-West.  She doesn’t get to see her Mom very often.  However, whenever she does, her Mom makes her chocolate chip cookies.  We always laugh about how many cookies she is going to inhale.   One day I texted her a picture of a plastic wrapped cookie from our office cafeteria.   I said I’m sure this cookie “pales in comparison” to her Mom’s homemade cookies.

Not a MOM cookie

As I sat there and stared at my pathetic little plastic wrapped cookie, I realized I was sad.  I haven’t had a “Mom cookie” in a long time.  My mother died in 1989 and had been sick for several years prior to her death, so I don’t think I’ve had a “Mom cookie” in 25 years.

Sure, I’ve had other cookies that other Moms made- and they are delicious.  I am a chef, I can make a cookie- and it would be delicious.  Let’s face facts,  even the worst cookie is still pretty good.  But somehow a cookie from my Mom isn’t just about the cookie.  It’s about more.

If your Mom makes you cookies or pancakes or anything… she loves you.   Even if she just gives you a tiny box of cereal on the breakfast table… she loves you.   If she reads to you, she loves you.  If she plays a game with you, or colors or helps you with your homework, she loves at you.  If she screams at you for being a stupid idiot, your Mom loves you.  I wish I had appreciated these small things more when I had the opportunity.

My Mom

I didn’t know how much I loved her.  You only know that kind of love by its absence.

It’s not that didn’t tell my mother I loved her.  I did.  I had the opportunity to say everything I wanted to say.  However, I was 19 when she died… 43 year old Kristin would probably say very different things than 19 year old Kristin.

My Parents

If I could have my mother back for 15 minutes… or even 5 minutes, I would tell her the following:

• Thank you for making me call you to check-in wherever I went.  As a teenager, I hated it.  I rolled my eyes and cursed you, because I wanted to do things and go places that you would not have allowed.  That check-in call kept me out of a tremendous amount of trouble.  I still got in a, more than, acceptable level of trouble, but I would probably be in jail or living under a bridge without the upbringing my amazing parents gave me.
• Thank you for sticking your cold hands under the bed clothes- jolting me out of a sound sleep.  You taught me not to waste the day, get up and GO.
• Thank you for providing me with a freshly prepared dinner- Every.  Single. Night.    And thank you for insisting we sit down as a family for dinner nearly every evening.  This is SO rare today, but I am happy I had in my childhood.
• Thank you for making me eat lima beans.  They disgust me to this day, but this taught me to be polite and eat what I am given and not to be a pain in the ass about food.
• Thank you for allowing us to have dogs.  The bulk of our dogs were complete head-cases, and this made me appreciate the dogs I have now.   I have good dogs.
• Thank you for teaching hard work pays off… eventually.
• Thank you for teaching me to not to be selfish.  Being able to give to or do for another is a gift.
• Thank you for threatening me with death if I was rude or mean or out of line.  That taught me how to speak to people with respect.  A lesson MANY people in this world don’t get.
• Thank you for teaching me manners.
• Thank you for teaching me that good things come to those who wait and not to settle for anything less than you deserve.   I have a terrific husband.
• Thank you for teaching me to value an adventure.  Sometimes she and I would drive down roads we had never driven down before… just to see what was there.
• Thank you for teaching me that adventures are great, but coming home feels awesome too.
• Thank you for teaching me that it’s ok to laugh and to be silly.  Silliness is where I live.
• Thank you for bringing me Hostess Cherry Pies when you would grocery shop.  Of course, my fat ass and thighs aren’t so thankful, but you knew I liked them and wanted to make me happy.

And most of all:

• Thank you for allowing me to hate you for being a mean Mom.  You loved me enough to let me hate you.   (“Hate” is strong- perhaps “dislike due to teenage angst” might be more fitting.)  You were not my friend.  You were my mother.  You were mean because you were trying to turn me into a functional, contributing member of the human race.    Mission accomplished.

It’s these, seemingly, small things, that are actually BIG things, that we can take for granted.    I see kids having screaming fits and I think… that wouldn’t have happened on my Mom’s watch.  Well, it might have, but I would have wound up in a coffin.

I read about kids who get in trouble, stealing or doing drugs and I appreciate that I grew up in a prison camp.  I learned how to behave and when I didn’t you reminded me.  Sternly.  And sometimes with weapons.

My Mom, me and my sister, Patti

I try to live my life with without regrets, and honestly, I have only one true regret in life, and it is something I can’t fix or undo, so I just try not to think about it.   Even though I would give anything to have my mother back, I don’t regret losing her.  I am so grateful that I had her for as long as I did.  I wouldn’t be me otherwise.  My Mom lives, tucked away, inside my heart. I wouldn’t know how much I loved her if I hadn’t lost her.

Although… a “Mom cookie” would be nice.

Mary Ann 

May 18, 1938 – April 20, 1989

Text Messages, when isolated, can be funny:

I haven’t posted in awhile.  I have some thing written, but am not certain they are funny.  They might be, but I need to mull it over.  So until my mulling is complete, I give you the following.  I went through the text message conversations between me and 3 or 4 of my friends.  While the full conversations are funny, I find single isolated texts to be rather amusing.  Perhaps you will too.

• I REQUIRE tacos

• Brandon Fernandez is getting a shellacking!

• Just washed dog’s butt with a soapy washcloth.  It was awkward for both of us.

• Maybe you will inspire a second book about horse tampons.

• On the bright side, maybe she is just doing meth.

• Hail Mary full of Butter.

• You should be able to distract them with your tatas.

• Texting like an illegal Mexican Immigrant is more challenging than one might think.

• Poor James Brolin

• Tell Dan to take his pants off.

• I am in Victoria’s Secret… how do people wear this shit outside of porn videos?

• I think I’m going to buy you an inflatable beard of bees for Xmas

• She is drunk and on our couch

• My application to hell was accepted in 1984 so it doesn’t get much worse than that.

• I really wish he and she would start f*cking each other so they can stop junking up my wall.

• She said you were helpful… which didn’t sound like you.

• Does this mean I’m in a 4-some now?

• Most problems are solved with a good log flume ride.

• All life lessons lead back to The Brady Bunch.

• We need someone heartless to tell her she is a constant complainer who brings everyone down.  We need a German to handle it.

• Perfect… hopefully I will just be getting off.       My reply:  That’s what she said

• As a reminder: You are gross.

• If it makes you feel better, I hurt my back and can’t wipe my own butt.

• That email made me want to pee in the plants.

• From what I can see, your “drill” is out most of the time.

• I only go down at night

• I got macaroons.  But I see you tea-bagg’d your other hags.

• You, normally, love a good rear-ending.

• I woke up behind a potted plant.  I am missing a shoe and my hip seems to be out of place.

More to come….

The Joys of Womanhood

Being a woman has countless  many  some  few  ONE perk.  They are  It is:  I don’t ALWAYS have to take out the garbage.

Beyond that…I am stumped.   What, exactly, are the joys of womanhood?

I know what I am supposed to say.   Woman is the most beautiful, amazing and unique creature in the universe.  Woman can conceive, incubate and give life.  Woman nurture and shape the human species. Woman is earth. Woman is light. Woman is peace.  Woman is love.

The Ideal

Now that we’ve gotten that happy nonsense out of the way, let’s talk turkey.  Being a woman is, sometimes, akin to being given a burning bag of dog crap.

The Reality

Let’s start with the obvious:  CHILDBIRTH.  I have never been through it, but I saw the video and it didn’t look like something I was interested in attempting.

Blood, pain, goop, and in the end you wind up with something that screams, projectile vomits and emits exploding poop for months, sometimes years on end.

Looks fun!

No thanks, I’ll pass.

If men had to go through pregnancy, give birth and breastfeed, you wouldn’t be reading this.   Why?  Because earth’s population would be ZERO.

Hello?

Seriously, men cannot handle that kind of pain!  If my husband has a big lunch and he complains so much I want to gag him and put him in the basement.

I’m stufffffffffffed

A few years back, I had two male friends who both had ingrown toenails.  Oddly, I had one too.   They both came back from the podiatrist, limping like Virgil Kint, with their feet bandaged, wearing sandals, in the middle of winter, because it hurt TOO MUCH to even THINK about putting on a sock or shoe.  They continued to wear sandals for a full week, as the pain was “EXCRUTIATING.”

photo credit: Bruce Barta, Blizzard of 2013

Ohhhh Crap.  What am I in for?

I went to the same podiatrist.  I was panicked.  I didn’t want to wear sandals in January!!  I relayed my nervousness to the Doctor.  He told me to “Relax.”  The doctor is about to assault me with a tiny hammer and chisel, but his merely saying “relax” puts me totally at ease.  Yyyyup.

Surgical weaponry

Approximately 45 seconds later, the Doctor said “Okay, you’re all set.”  Wait.  When, exactly, was the pain supposed to start?  And where was my big bandage?  I got a teeny Band-Aid®.  Do you know the one I’m talking about?  The little circle bandage that no one ever uses.

That one

I put my sock on.

I put my shoe on.

I was walking normally.

My male co-workers were certain I did NOT have the same procedure they had.  Trust me, I did.  I know because I asked.  As it turns out, the consensus from the medical community is, my co-workers are two cream puffs with low pain tolerance.

Topic #2: Periods.  Again, men could not handle this type of discomfort and inconvenience ONCE, much less every month for decades of their lives.

I have a good friend who, sadly, was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and had to have a hysterectomy at the age of 36.  I went to the hospital with her.  I knew she was having surgery, but I wasn’t aware it could be cancer and the thought of a hysterectomy had never entered my mind.  When the doctor came out to inform me of her situation, I was devastated for her.  I cried.  I cried because I knew she wanted children.  I realize she can still have children through other means and /or methods, but I was sad for her, nonetheless.

My thoughts immediately went to God- which is odd because normally in times of crisis, my thoughts immediately go to Krispy Kremes.

Specifically the one in the top right corner

I asked God to take away her suffering and give it to me.  Well, God did.  I don’t know how much you know about God, but TRUST ME, he loves to “punk” people.

Since that day, my “flow” has been like the flow of TWO women… on blood thinners!!!  Thanks, Funny Guy!  I buy special Horse Tampons- only sold at Target…in the “agriculture section.”

Neighhhhhh

I use these in conjunction with various maxi pads, which I weave together with Tyvek and a Red Solo Cup, to make a quilt.

A quilt with wings.

The darn thing’s got wings

I’m a Menstrual Cycle MacGyver.

I can fix it.  I just need an orange peel and a paper clip

This is the level of equipment required to handle the carnage that is my monthly curse.   At my yearly gynecological visit, the doctor informed me, if my “flow” was too much to handle, I could elect to have male hormones injected and /or have my uterus cauterized.   Just what I always wanted– a lush, flowing man-beard and a burning bush!!

My future

Topic #3: Feminine  Foundations.  Undergarments, if you will.   Thanks to my Granny Grace, I was blessed with porn boobs at the age of 10.  I was gigantic.

This is what fell out of MY family tree

My boobs were so big, people felt like they could touch them, without asking, as if they were their own entity.  What? Why?!  I have no idea, but those things were colossal .  My boobs had their own zip code.

When I was 20 years old I had breast reduction surgery.   My mother had passed away the year before, so arranging this surgery with my DAD was super-uncomfortable, as you can imagine.

Post-surgery, my friends called me:  Frankenboob.

So, great, yippeee!!! I have smaller boobs.

Except now, 20-some years later, I am blessed with a phenomenon I call “side boob.”

Guess again

And I’m not talking about cute side-boob like Miley Cyrus shows at The Grammys- I’m talking about- What is that?  Where did it come from?  HOW DO I CONTROL IT?!- side boob.   It looks like I am carrying a French baguette under each arm.  T

Hot and Crusty

here is a show on the Discovery Network dedicated to the tracking, photographing and eventual capture of my side Boob.   It’s called “Hunting Honey Boob Boob.”

It’s a real show, y’all

And bra fittings?  Women who perform bra fittings (and I’m not talking about the 32AA chicks at Victoria’s Secret) are a breed of their own.

Show me your tits

As a rule, they are heavy set, mustached, thick-accented-Eastern-Europeans, and they can’t wait to get their hands on your boobs.  When I was a teenager, my mother would bring me to the “Old Lady Underwear Store” (not its actual name, in case you were trying to Google it) to visit “The Booby Lady.”  She made me look small.  This woman had two Hindenburgs attached to her chest.  I got whacked with those things, more than once, while she tried to shackle me into my 36DDD rhinoceros harness.

My sister lives in Brooklyn, and is also blessed the “Giant Juggs.”  I recently went to a bra store there.  I was told they know their way around a boob.   The owner has been sewing bras since she was 8 years old.  She was manhandling boobs before she HAD boobs.    I was literally two feet inside the front door when the owner was tearing my shirt off and feeling me up.

 Seriously, she could have at least OFFERED to buy me a drink first?!?!   15 minutes later, I left the store $350 in the hole and immediately placed a call to Law & Order SVU.

Pantyhose, Spanx, Underwire Bras, Girdles, Thongs:  INVENTED BY SATAN.

Final Topic: Men.  If men had to deal with men, again– we would be at population zero.  I love my husband dearly but, outside of his career, he has minimal ability to learn new things.  At work, he is a genius.  He invents stuff and writes ground-breaking computer code, he is admired and revered.   At home, I might as well be raising a non-English-speaking toddler.

For years, he would put his dirty dishes on the counter.  Dish after dish, encrusted with food, left on the counter mere inches from the empty dishwasher.

I begged.  I pleaded.  I yelled.  I cried.  Six years in, I did manage to get him to put his dishes in the sink.  Baby steps, I figured.  The dishwasher is only one step further than the sink.  Perhaps, with proper training, one day we could get there.

They couldn’t be closer

I put in the time, taking him to “Husband Obedience Class,” hoping to, one day, reach my our goal:  put his dishes in the dishwasher without any wifely intervention.

I tried Scooby Snax, I sprayed him with a water bottle, I shook a coffee can filled with pennies at him, I called him “Good Boy,”  I even rubbed his nose in the dirty plates- nothing worked.    The answer was always the same “I’ll wash them later. “   Just to be clear?  “Later” never comes.

Finally, after having to clean one too many bowls encrusted with pasta and sauce, I snapped.  “Why, Tony? Why????”  I wailed, “why can’t you put your dishes in the dishwasher???”

“I JUST CAN’T DO IT, OKAY?!?!?!”  he yelled.

I burst out laughing.  I had my answer.  He just can’t do it.  Sounds silly, doesn’t it?  He just can’t do it.  But there are things I can’t do despite tremendous effort, like pee standing up and math.    We all have our limits, and Tony’s limit, apparently, is the invisible line between the sink and the dishwasher.   I can’t be mad at him, he has admitted defeat.  The dishwasher is his Achilles heel.

And why would I be mad??  As a woman, I have so many other wonderful gifts to celebrate.  I’d list them here, but unfortunately I need to take out the garbage and head to Target to restock my horse tampon supply.

Fearful Flyer

I have a love / hate relationship with Trader Joe’s.  While on one hand, I love them- it’s relatively quick to shop there, I always find yummy stuff.  On the other hand, I hate them.  I find that I always spend more than I intended, I feel like some of the products are not as fresh as they could be, and, by far, the biggest issue I have is, it’s a stable of the dysfunctional humans.  I hesitate to call them humans because I’m not, entirely, sure they ARE human.

On my last visit, I was on a mission to get 2 limes.  Because I wanted needed a Cosmopolitan when I arrived home.  I was also looking for Lychee juice… which I did not find.  I had not been to TJ’s in awhile, so I was happy to just browse.

I was tipped off in the parking lot, I saw a man getting out of his car.  Odd?  Well, no, not in and of itself, but he got out of the car while wearing a full-size camping backpack.  I would have thought he was a nomad, had I not seen him leave his vehicle.  I would have thought it was some type of back brace, however, I saw him wrestling with carts in the cart corral.  He was nimble, and he was feisty.  He did not appear to have a back injury.

Pack Mule for Hire

The man was wearing a fully-packed camping backpack, complete with a yoga mat and sleeping bag.  And a canteen hanging off the side.  Peculiar to take these items shopping.  Maybe his backpack is one of those “recyclable” grocery bags.  Yeah.  Maybe.  An already jam-packed recycle-able grocery bag.

But wait, there was something I failed to notice before.  The man was wearing hip waders.  He didn’t appear wet.  Nor were we experiencing a flood.  Hmm.  I could think of no other explanation than:  This man is a freak.

Sorry, the Internet isn’t teeming with pictures of Sherpas in Hip-Waders, so this will have to do

Moving on.  I don’t dwell on these things.  I am a freak magnet- so, honestly, business as usual.

As I entered the store, I see, two packs of foreigners huddling in various areas of the produce section.  A French Pack and a Chinese Pack.  Both packs are speaking among themselves, LOUDLY.

Oh wait, there is the Nomad, with a basket, I guess wrestling with the carts didn’t work out.  Sadly, I didn’t even notice because I was so focused on his costume.  I’m in the store for, roughly, 30 seconds at this point, and his basket is, literally, overflowing with produce.

Yes, he was in the store ahead of me.  But not an hour ahead of me.  He was in the store, maybe, 10 seconds before me.

So he’s a nomadic, fisherman/backpacker, vegetarian/vampire.  Or maybe he’s on the Amazing Race.  I can’t be sure.

Back to the Foreign Diplomats.  The French family is picking through the vegetables and are not happy.

I’m French.  And Miserable

But the Chinese family… they are all laughing at the yogurt.   There is a bountiful selection, and these Chinese LOVE it.

Say CHEESE

Suddenly, the oldest member of the dynasty blurts out “Cheese! Cheese! Cheese!”  The rest of the crew yell at him in Chinese to “Simmer down.” Or I guess in their language, it would be “现在冷静下来”

As I stand at the shelf selecting my limes, I see a “demo” happening.  A nice-looking, very well-put together, older lady is doling out Cheese and Crackers. She looks like Paula Deen, only with slightly less “butter.”

Hey Y’all!!!!

I see a TJF (Trader Joe’s Freak) bending her ear.  Well he’s more than bending… her ear is a pretzel. He is educating her about cheese.  Hmmm, maybe he should find that Chinese dude, I hear he is interested in Cheese.  The TJF is one of these dudes who has no ability to regulate the volume of his voice.  Hence, it’s MAX volume, all the time, I’m sure his neighbors love him.

He looked like this dude

I move into the frozen food aisle, nothing too out of the ordinary happening here. Unless you consider a woman stopped dead center of the aisle, talking on her cell phone, while her 3 misbehaving brats use the cart like a jungle gym and beat each other with packages of frozen salmon, out of the ordinary?  I don’t.  I call it Tuesday in Fairfield, Connecticut.

I attempt to navigate around her and her spawn, all the while, hearing the TJF still torturing poor faux-Paula Deen.

Please.  Someone.  Help. Me.

I come around the top of the aisle and hear “Cheese! Cheese! Cheese” coming from Little Beijing, currently in the Grains and Cereal aisle.  I proceed down the juice aisle, vaguely looking, but not expecting to find, lychee juice.  I loves me a lychee martini- in fact, by the time I get to the juice aisle, I could use one.  Or seven.

In “Juice,” I see a creature.  She’s, sort of androgynous, vaguely “Pat-ish.”

 She’s talking loudly, to nobody.  She’s wearing a dark blue satin jacket, she obviously reads Vogue… from 1972.  And the nicest part is, she has, what appears to be, kosher salt, sprinkled all over her shoulders.  And by kosher salt, I mean gargantuan flakes of dandruff.  Ew.  How does one have dandruff, to that degree, and not realize it.   AND wear NAVY?!?!!

She appears to be properly salted

She’s walking along, scratching her head, making it snow… and I hear her bellow “Well, I assume if you are going to buy 100% Pomegranate Juice you would know what to do with it!!!”  Oh!  She’s a comedian.  She starts to back up.  She is backing up into me, I am about to be hit with a snow squall. Noooooooooooooooooooo.  I pulled some type of limbo/ breakdance / contortionist move and avoid her.  She realizes there is a ruckus behind her, turn and meets my eye and says “What?  Are you drunk or something  Har har har har.”  I normally would be polite and just laugh with her, but I felt compelled or, more accurately, REPELLED, and said “Yeah, I was just to avoid you backing into me.”   She replied “Well, you are right, I have no concept of my body mass.”  Yeah, well, obviously.

I’m in an obstacle course of buffoonery.

“Cheese! Cheese! Cheese!

The TJF is STILL eating cheese and cracker, spitting crumbs all over the dead, bloated body of “Paula Deen,” who has, by now, suffocated herself with a recycle-able canvas bag, y’all.

I’m dead, y’all

I grab some vitamins, Lutein, because clearly, my eyes don’t see normally… I’m almost home-free.

“Cheese! Cheese! Cheese!”  Uh oh. I’m face to face with Chucky Cheese or as they call him in China:  Chucky乳酪 .   At least now, he’s in within acceptable proximity to the cheese section.  I am very, very close to the package of Genoa Salami I am seeking, when a large arm splits the air between me and Mayor McCheese.   Oh my god!  It’s Jabba the Hut, live and in the flesh.

Can you pass the salami?

His rotund arm reaches into the refrigerated case and pulls out 3 large packages of hard salami.  To me, as he was borderline “maximum density,”  the multiple salami purchase warranted no explanation, but Mr. the Hut offered me this “I eat 110 pounds of Salami per year.”  I smiled and said “Consistently?  Every year?  110 pounds?”  Four of his seven chins quivered in confirmation, and Mr. Cheese chimed in with, yup, you guessed it “Cheese! Cheese! Cheese!”

I ran to the checkout, knowing I had to escape soon or become one of them.  I stepped in line behind John Wayne Gacy.

The cashier undercharged him and he was guffaw-ing “I WISH I could pay THAT price!!!  Then I could give a nice donation to The Church.”

I turned to survey the wreckage.

•       The Nomad, as you would expect, has moved on.  He’s at a Trader Joe’s in Montana by now.

•       French family still in produce, hating everything.

•       “Paula Deen” down!!  TJF has eaten all of her samples and is now gnawing on “Paula Deen’s” heel, which he has covered with a thick layer of organic pimento cheese spread.

•       Pat is creating a Nor’Easter in Bread

•       Jabba perusing the cured meats

•       Cheese! Cheese! Cheese!

I locked eyes with the cashier, I thought I detected “H E L P  M E” being blinked at me in Morse Code.  She finished Mr. Gacy’s transaction, and began mine.  I said to her “There are a LOT of odd people here tonight.”

She replied “What do you mean?”  Oh no… She’s one of them.

Can you give me directions to Stepford?

I was so freaked out that I, completely forgot to pay and they had to stop me on the way out to remind me that Trader Joe’s is NOT a food pantry.

Yep, I become one of them.

Epilogue:

I returned to Trader Joe’s today.  My eyes were peeled.  My freak radar had been calibrated.  And… nothing.

I browsed the aisles freely, unencumbered by weirdness, kookery and The French.

Until, I got into the Express Checkout Lane.  I was behind a woman who had 25 items and was yakking on her cell phone the entire time.

The cashier looked at my basket with FOUR items in it and said “I’m sorry, I’m only taking 10 items or less.”

Does he not know the meaning of the word “less?”  Does he not know how to count to 10?

“Noted.”  I replied.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, I expected it to be, the lovely, Deb DePass Jones, who has been known to accost me in strange places.  It wasn’t. It was Gollum.

I’m lying.  She looked more like this:

Hey Pepper is out of Briarcliff and is a Crew Member at Trader Joe’s!!

She was the rare creature- “Cross-eyed Dwarf Von LadyStache.”  I froze in terror, as “little people” are my undoing (I know, I’m going to hell- tell me something I don’t know.  I’m not proud).

“Come with me,” she beckoned, “If you take a walk with me, you will learn I am a really fast ‘checker-outer.”

I rest my case.  #freakshow

Newk at Night

My husband, Tony, is British. He is the Brit in “Me, a Brit, a Pit and a Nitwit.” Like, British from England, British. Not just an American who had great, great, great, grandparents who were half British once removed, British. He was born in England, raised for the most part there (by wolves) and left England to marry me. Yep. I tricked him.

We, from time to time travel to England to see Tony’s kids, and other family and friends. People always think everyone from England is from London. “When are you going to London?”

“Um, I don’t know.”

“Aren’t you going to England?”

“Yes. But we go to Northern England, to Newcastle. Tony is from Newcastle.” Yes, like the Brown Ale.

“Oh. Hmmm.” As if they didn’t know there WAS anything other than London.

London Skyline

Yes, there are other parts of England besides London. Newcastle is just like London. I mean it’s a city… and there’s a river… and, um, pints of beer. I mean, there’s no Big Ben or Buckingham Palace. There’s no Eye and there’s no Harrods. There’s no big theater district and there’s no Tower.

Newcastle Skyline

Ok, maybe it’s not just like London, but it is England. And that’s where his family is and that’s why we go.

OH!! There are fish and chip shops!!! “Chip Shops” or “Chippys” as they are called. And late night eating- called Kebab. It’s a plate of undistinguishable meats and sauce and grease.

The Kebab

The Kebab, generally is served in styrofoam container, and is dropped on the ground at some point during the eating of- as the eater is normally too drunk to see and stand up-right. After said “kebab” is dropped on the ground, there is normally a “moment of truth.” Does the eater a) honor the 10 second rule and eat it off the ground (it’s too much of a mess to actually PICK it up) b) abandon the kebab and go home and pass out or c) and C is the most likely, return to the “kebab truck” and get another kebab. And then REPEAT the above until the eater chooses Option B, which usually comes after they have performed every other option, at least once.

The Four Stages of Kebab

One of the greatest things about Newcastle is their nightlife. They have a HUGE party scene and people there love to drink and have fun. The best part, for me, is the people watching. Having visited several times, I have learned a few things:

1) Women do not feel cold air. They dress like strippers, no matter what the time of year, and no matter what their weight.
2) Women drink their adult beverages through straws, which enables them to get drunk faster
3) People dress up for Stag and Hen Nights! (Hen Night = Bachelorette Night)
4) Regardless of the availability of a toilet, Men would rather pee outside and normally in doorways
5) There will be vomit

We’d never get drunk without these straws.  Obvs.

I absolutely LOVE the girls in The Newk. They dress like total Hos. They get their clothes at Ann Taylor: SLUT or Whores & Spencer. When I go out there, I wear long pants, a top of some sort, and probably a sweater. Tony tells me I look like a Nun. Well, yes, in comparison, I do.

God bless them though, they are completely comfortable with their bodies and frankly, I think that is great.

There are a few sections of The Newk, where the partying is better than others. Personally, I like this place in “Wallsend” called The Anson. To me, it’s like “The Winchester” in Shaun of the Dead. If we can just get there… we’ll be fine.

The Anson.  Personally, I think, the Granny in the wheelchair is a nice touch.

The Anson is a small pub, families go there, you can get your drinks, you don’t have to fight your way to the bar, it’s just more my speed. However, Whitley Bay and The Bigg Market are the “preferred” party spots for The Newky Revelers.

Whitley Bay is a lovely area by the sea coast. However, there is one street of club after club after club and I liken it to a tsunami. Each bar has a 30 minute limelight. The entire partying population rolls into a club, it’s packed and crazy. And then 30 minutes later, the crowd rolls out and goes into the club next door.

And the crowd is nuts. Scantily clad chicks and the dudes trying to get laid. There is a lot of sloppy making out, butt flashing and normally a fight or two.

At one bar (and I’ve tried like CRAZY to figure out the name and find pix) they had a little balcony dance floor area that was about 6 feet off the floor. It was round and the dance floor is about 6 feet in diameter. Because everyone there wants to be noticed, tons of people where fighting to get up on the balcony and it was JAMMED with sweating, mostly naked, drunk people. Seriously, probably 30 people on this tiny balcony. It was packed to the point that people were pressed up against the balcony railing, crushing their internal organs. There was one Meat Head dancing and leaning over the balcony and hoisting girls up to make out with him. I loved him because he THOUGHT he was hot, but he was gross. Inevitably, the first chick he hoisted would have a fist fight with the second girl he hoisted and so on and so on and so on. I kept hoping that the balcony would break and this idiot would go crashing to the floor, in a crumple pile of flesh, bones, and SoCal by Hollister… but it never happened. Too bad. THAT would have been exciting. I am kicking my own ass for not having my camera.

I have a love/ hate relationship with another bar in Whitley Bay. It’s called “The Hairy Lemon.” I mean, with an name like that, how could you not love it.

Le Hairy Lemon

The décor in the Hairy Lemon will not win any awards for design nor for being cutting edge.  Or nice.  Or clean.  In fact, the whole bar is carpeted. So, imagine the combination of, 30 years night after night, drink spilling, toilets over-flowing, vomit and NEVER cleaning the carpet… imagine the smell, and also the squish, squish, squish of the carpet and you walk on it. Vile. Right? I wore open toe shoes which I promptly burned when I got out of there.

At one point I went to the rest room, which, was overflowing, as I am told it does every night. I left my Louis Vuitton bag with Tony. I came out of the bathroom and Louis was ON THE FLOOR. I was like “WHY IS LOUIS ON THE FLOOR?!?!?!!?!??”

My son, Louis

Needless to say, Louis was Purell’d the moment we got out of there. And he’s been in therapy 3 days a week since. The Hairy Lemon is gross. But there is a certain charm about a place with squishy floors, 70’s music and old man falling off their bar stools WASTED.

Hairy Lemon patron taking a disco nap

Another great section of The Newk is The Bigg Market. It’s another area of just bar after bar. They have this place called The Gate. It’s an indoor mall of bars. It’s kind of, a great idea, in my opinion. And it has a nice alley next door for the men to pee in and for couples to “get down” in the bin (garbage) juice.

Bin Juice = Sexy

Our friends Darren and Paola, who are normal and don’t, generally, partake in all of this horseshit, have a great story about walking down that alley (that alley was a short cut to Darren’s old apartment) and they saw a couple “coupling” on the ground. In the alley. In the run-off juice from the industrial garbage dumpsters. Can you imagine anything more foul? But hey, that’s The Newk.

Stag and Hen Nights are GREAT too. Well the Stags are. The Hens all just dress up like hookers and wear sashes that say – Whatever the bride’s name is “Hen Party” and plastic crowns. But the Stag Nights are great. We saw 25 guys dressed like Pilots and the Groom dressed as, the lone, Stewardess. We saw The Justice League and the Legion of Doom. Bananas in Pajamas, Oompa Loompas.

Legion of Doom, picking up some cash at the ATM

Of course, the bloom was off the rose, slightly, when I saw, from our flat window, Batman peel off his foam-sculpted uni-tard to pee in a doorway of the restaurant across the street. Bleh. Underneath that unitard he was pale, hairy and pimply. It was a sight I didn’t need to see. I just wish I had a picture!!

Upon our last visit, I VOWED to get some good pictures of The Revelers of Newcastle. So I did. Well, actually, I told them I was a photographer for a US publication and wanted to take their picture. Not a SINGLE person questioned me as to what magazine I was with or when they would be published or anything. haha. I have, since, been told, that this was “something a creepy dude would do.” I thought about it…. and, well, I guess I’m a creepy dude.

Here they are, The Revelers of The Newk:

I look normal, but I’m about to fall down.  And I’m not wearing underwear.

Wheeeee!  We forgot to wear pants!!

4 different gals, who all shop at the same store.

Real Housewife of Newk Jersey

Screw salad, we NEED Chicken!!!

A lovely tranny, in a baby-doll nightie, out for a stroll

Someone stole my clothes!!!!

It ain’t a party without Da Ali G

He’s dressed in long pants, a shirt and a hoodie.  She isn’t.

Kebab time

Chick in the background…

wearing THESE

Finally!  A girl dressed for the weather!!

I love a good sash

They’re GREAAAAAAT!

Real mean wear pink.  The question is, which one is a man?

Doesn’t this make you want to rush right out and book a flight to The Newk?!?!?  Yeah, it does.  BTW, Ladies, all of your “going out” clothes should fit in your wallet.

Everybody does it.

Poop is not a widely accepted discussion topic. Doodie, crap, fecal matter, shit… stool. It makes people roll their eyes and make faces. It makes stomachs churn and is generally considered to be an immature topic of conversation. Luckily, for you, I am very immature. I am here to report, sometimes poop is serious. In these cases, it would be referred to as “stool.” This is what a Doctor would call it.

But for the purposes of this blog, let’s refer to it as “doing your business.”

I do not, as a general rule, “do my business” at work. Most women don’t.

Men, however, have NO problem doing “their business” at work. It’s almost like a sport for them. They announce it and bring reading material.

The “doing of one’s business” at work, sometimes, cannot be helped. In the case of illness, pesto or some tainted clam chowder, it may be unavoidable.

At my first job, a small promo agency, we worked in a “house” type building. There were two single bathrooms. They were like a ½ bath you would find in ones’ home.

Even though there was privacy, in that, you didn’t have to “do your business” in a room with other people, as one would in a multi-stall type situation, there was a difficulty with “hang time” of said “business.” And due to the floor plan, it wasn’t easy to blame the “hang time” on a previous user.

In fact, one time, one of my co-workers clogged the toilet, flushed and ran, and the whole shebang overflowed and came through the lights into the dental office on the floor below ours.

Bet you didn’t plan on getting THAT with you cleaning, Mr. Feinstein. Swish annnnnd spit.

You know the feeling, don’t deny that you do. You flush. The water rises. And rises. You grab the plunger, if available. And rises. You panic. Suddenly, sweet relief washes over you as the material clogging the toilet, miraculously, changes mass, admits defeat and hi-tails it down the pipe. Well, this time it didn’t. And there wasn’t a plunger available.

There was an older lady, named Patty, who worked with us. And by older, she was, probably, in her 50’s- but everyone else at the company was SUPER young- the managing partners were only in their late 30’s, so she seemed much older to us. She has since passed away, god rest her soul, she was “The Dorm Mother” corralling this gang of “kids.”

The company grew larger, and we outgrew our little office house and we moved into an grown-up office building. Gone were the single bathrooms. We now had STALLS, which is a whole different dynamic. While one always considers “the hang time” issue, in a stall situation, you can totally blame it on someone else. By the same token, in a stall situation, one must consider the actual ACT, and the sounds associated with the act.

Back to “Men.” They have no shame. My old boss, Jimmy, used to tuck his NY Post under his arm and proudly announce that he would be “back in a few minutes.” This was code for “I am going to drop a deuce.”

Going to drop the kids off at the pool

He would return, sans “Post,” and get on with his day. Sometimes, rarely, he would announce a return trip. “I need a RW!” (a re-wipe) and again, he would march down the hall to take care of business. I know the RW is gross to think about, but it IS a reality, granted, I am not sure why I needed to know about it.

Consider if every man, in a 200 person office building takes reading material with them to the can.

That is a LOT of reading material- it’s like a smelly, ransacked Hudson News. And there are no magazine racks, or at least I’m assuming there are no racks or baskets to organize the reading material. Apparently, at one point, things got out of hand in there.

The Mens Room at my office

Poor Patty sent an email to all of the men in our office instructing them to either dispose of, or remove their reading material, or to keep things organized in the crapper.

As an aside, we, at one point, had a trans-sexual (male to female) in the building. This was the mid-90’s, in Connecticut. It was not a sight one sees every day. Also, this poor man was on his way to being a very unfortunate looking woman.

These two look good next to what we had on our hands

Not to mention that it was completely awkward to see her in the bathroom daily. But that’s a whole other story…

At another job, we had a single bathroom in our wing, used by both men and women. An inside, windowless room, shared by 7 people. In that case, one used prayer and a ridiculous amount of air freshener.

Seriously.  Heed his warning.

I ate a lot of cheese that year so I wouldn’t be forced to “do my business” at work. But let me tell you, it was an eye opener. Or an “eye water-er” in some cases.

It was at this job that a proper English gentleman (not my husband) introduced me to a website called “ratemypoo.com.” Where you can post photographs of your “business” and have people rate it. Sort of like Yelp for the toilet. I have no idea if it is still inexistence and frankly I am too afraid to check. And I wouldn’t recommend you do either, it, truly, is disgusting.

My current company moved buildings about a year ago. In our old building, we had a combo situation. One single bathroom, and a Multiple Stall restroom. I used to refer to the single bathroom as my “F.O.S.” or Fortress of Solitude.

In fact, sometimes, I would just go into the FOS as an escape. If I was having a tough day and needed to relax for a second. I would head into the FOS. Some people had the nerve to “do their business” in my FOS and it could be brutal. Some of the people I work with should, seriously, consider changing their diets. Brutalis Maximus.

Although, the building had this same set-up on each floor, so it things were particularly pressing or you had a feeling that it could be an “episode” you could just go to another floor. Let THEM deal with it.

In our current building, we have a stall set up. No singles. No hiding. No solitude.

On the second floor of the office, some of the ladies have brought in MANY air fresheners and sprays. It is smell overload in there. In fact, all of those mixed fragrances might be worse than the smell they are attempting to cover.

I, however, am on the third floor. Our bathroom is bare bones. No flowery fresheners. Just one can of industrial “cinnamon scented” spray, labeled for “offensive odors.”

I like to call it “Cinna-sh*ts.” Because it really doesn’t negate the smell, it just mixes with the cinnamon. Cinnabon it is not. More like “CinnaBOMB”

Nope.  Not even close.

Last week, on Wednesday, I was sick. Like, really sick. I thought it was ramifications from the “Rodeo Burger” I had for lunch in our cafeteria.

Giddy up

The following evening (after everything below transpired) I was in the ER with severe abdominal pain and was diagnosed with an intestinal infection.

Oh. The Humanity.

Let’s just say, things in the Southern Hemisphere weren’t, exactly, within my control. I found myself with some “urgent business” to take care of and had to use the stalls. It was not my choice, it, truly, was something that could not be helped. I remind you: I was sick.

(BTW, I googled “Intestinal Infection” to see if I could get a funny picture to post. I do NOT recommend it.)

I lurked around the bathroom. I slipped inside. Success. It was empty. 4 stalls, no waiting. I sequestered myself in the “Handicapped” stall. I felt that this situation could handicap me if I didn’t tend to it immediately, thus I felt my choice was appropriate. I remind you: I was sick.

In the stall, things happened very rapidly. I did a few “courtesy flushes,” but then I heard it. Someone came in. The problem is, I wasn’t even close to closing this “business deal.” I remind you: I was sick. My plan was, I’ll just “wait it out.” However, another person came in. Then another. I soon realized, “waiting it out” was NOT going to be an option.

I continued to provide the maximum amount of “courtesy” I could, but I’m not going to lie to you- this “business” was of greater magnitude than the average courtesy flush could support- ODOR-wise.

Although, I must say, I covered the “audio portion” quite successfully.

Nice job with the audio, Krimu!!

Friendly reminder: I was sick.

I quickly changed my game plan. 3 stalls full, me being in the fourth, if I timed it correctly, I could wrap up my “business meeting, “ exit, wash my hands and scurry.

Ok, I thought, that’s what I’ll do. I threw in a little prayer to Jesus, Buddha, Satan- whoever would listen, to let me get out unscathed.

In the midst of all of my prayer, I didn’t hear the door open again. As I exited my stall, and this lovely lady named Claudette, strolled, unsuspectingly, right into my stall.

It was like a kitten running into traffic. Dropping a guinea pig in a vitamix. A baby bird flying into a jet engine.

Noooooooo!!!!

Poor Claudette. She is one of the sweetest people EVER and I just gassed her. I was torn. On one hand, everybody does it. On the other hand, not everyone does what I just did. I remind you: I WAS SICK.

Do I say something?

Do I remain silent? I felt like Jean Valjean. Or, maybe, more accurately, JOHN ValJohn.

Will she know? Sh*t. What am I delusional? Of course she will know. I just sealed a business deal in there- and it was of epic, Trump-Sized proportions. I WAS SICK.

I felt TERRIBLE. But I said nothing and left. (I did, quickly, wash my hands.) I was sick.

An hour later, I attended a team meeting and as it was nearing its end, I didn’t feel right. The Rodeo had started again…and this time they called in the bucking broncos. I remind you: I was sick.

I made a mad dash to the restroom- the one on the second floor, with all of the air fresheners. PERFECT. Did I explain? I was sick.

Well… maybe not so. Please see the IM below.

I returned to my desk and IM’d my friend, Meetu. We have been known to talk about this type of thing, so I wanted to get her advice.

Kristin / [3:06 PM]:
hi
i’ve had some issues today
Meetu [3:08 PM]:
what happened
Kristin [3:08 PM]:
they are butt related
Meetu [3:08 PM]:
lol
Kristin [3:08 PM]:
well I had an episode
3rd floor
Meetu [3:09 PM]:
good- keep it up there
Kristin [3:09 PM]:
covered the actual incident fairly well, I think. Maybe.
Meetu [3:09 PM]:
u stole our big red spray can?
Kristin 3:09 PM]:
but then I exited the stall and poor Claudette walked in there after me
I was like…Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Meetu [3:09 PM]:
lol
Kristin [3:10 PM]:
i can’t be responsible for collateral damage
Meetu [3:10 PM]:
she got a wiff of ur noxious fumes up her nose
Kristin [3:10 PM]:
so then in the Team mtg… i felt something brewing
so I, quickly, got out of the meeting and ran into the bathroom on the second floor
and freaking Jill is in there, puttering around
Meetu [3:11 PM]:
lol
Kristin [3:11 PM]:
and she left and then there was a NON-STOP stream of people
it was like grand central station
Meetu [3:11 PM]:
i hate it when that happens
Kristin [3:12 PM]:
it was not good. then Samantha came in and was, like, lingering. giving herself a home facial, a spa pedicure and botox- lingering. LINGERING.
Meetu / [3:13 PM]:
i hate it when ppl lounge in the bathroom
get in and out
Kristin [3:13 PM]:
so…
there could be some fallout, just be forewarned
Meetu [3:14 PM]:
dont u think enough fell out of ur butt already?
theres MORE????
Kristin [3:14 PM]:
there could be
I think that Rodeo Burger from the cafeteria yesterday did it…
there’s a rodeo going on in my small intestine

The Next Morning:
I was feeling really badly. I was in severe pain, but I STILL was attributing it to the “Rodeo Burger.” Meetu IM’d me to have lunch with her. It was pizza day, and it’s so delicious from our work café. I don’t know what they do, but I do NOT miss Pizza Day. My intestines could be on the OUTSIDE of my body and my arms could have fallen off from leprosy and I would still go to Pizza Day. Meetu and I planned a romantic date in the cafeteria. She IM’d me an emoticon of a bouquet of flowers to signify we were having a “date.” This is the IM that followed.

Kristin [11:19 AM]:
oh, i thought you were trying to make this place smell better
poor Claudette
I haven’t seen her since
Meetu / [11:19 AM]:
lol
u think she survived
Kristin / [11:19 AM]:
i don’t know
i’m worried
Meetu / [11:20 AM]:
i dont think u can report her missing until at least 48 hours
Kristin / [11:20 AM]:
oh. right.

A few hours later:
Kristin [1:22 PM]:
oh no
Meetu [1:22 PM]:
wat happened
Kristin / [1:22 PM]:
try to find Claudette on IM
Meetu / [1:23 PM]:
shes not there?
Kristin / [1:23 PM]:
look for her, she’s been offline for 21 hours
I THINK I KILLED CLAUDETTE
Meetu /BDF LGA [1:24 PM]:
Lol

Thankfully, a few hours later, I saw Claudette using the photocopier. I would have felt REALLY badly if I had killed Claudette.

As I said, later that evening I went to the Emergency Room due to my “business.” Both finished and unfinished. I WAS SICK. (Just reminding you.)

One must bear in mind two thoughts.
1) Everybody poops.
2) Better OUT than IN

P.S. I was sick.  Seriously.

I thought I would share this sign as a helpful reminder:

Substantiate THIS

I am an idiot. Repeatedly.

The company I work for provides many wonderful benefits. (I’m not being sarcastic or facetious about this, I am very grateful to have a job and to have one with benefits. I recognize I am lucky.) One of the benefits is a Flexible Spending Account (FSA), which allows employees to put aside pre-tax dollars to pay for qualified medical or childcare expenses. The company holding my FSA even provided me with a secure VISA®-branded prepaid card, to which the FSA Holding Company electronically applies eligible FSA expense reimbursements. Sounds good, right?

Yeahhhhhhhh

The dollars are deducted from your paycheck and sent to Satan and he holds the dollars hostage until you spin straw into gold or cough-up your first born. Unfortunately, I am not skilled with a spindle and don’t have children, so I have been cast into the 10th Circle of Hell, forced to watch Nicholas Cage movies… dubbed in German…for eternity.

Nicholas Cage macht die schlechtesten Filme der Welt

I have, voluntarily, signed up for this for 5 years. Hence, I am an idiot.

Ok, as usual, I have exaggerated. What actually happens, the company which holds my FSA (let’s call them Lucifer’sMinions,Inc.), holds my pre-tax dollars, and when you swipe your debit card at the doctor or pharmacy, Lucifer “pays” your doctor or pharmacy with your pre-tax dollars. When we first were offered this benefit, we were told, occasionally- OCCASIONALLY- we would have to send Lucifer justification for the expense. When that happens you have to send Lucifer my receipts to justify their releasing the funds. So you have prove to Satan the you have spent YOUR money appropriately. The required proof is a receipt (and not just a credit card receipt) with details, sent to Lucifer via Fax. And if you don’t prove it or they do not accept your proof or don’t receive your proof. Your claim is denied. And if Lucifer has already paid the claim (via the debit card) you have to reimburse Lucifer.

CEO, Lucifer’s Minions

If you google Lucifer’s Minions, Inc.- or actually, the REAL name of the company- you will see TONS of complaints about their processes and customer service, or disservice, as the case may be. I decided to read a few to see if I was the only one who wanted to plunge a knife in my chest every time I have to deal with them. It turns out, I’m NOT the only one who has problems.

The complaints have a few common themes. Repeated requests for substantiation, even though the client has already submitted the required paperwork. Non-confirmation of faxed receipts. Horrible customer service. Website is useless.

Shockingly, I, myself, have had a few- merely, a FEW, issues with Lucifer’s Minions, Inc. Firstly, I am asked to send in justification for EVERY single charge. Blackrock Dental Group? They can’t verify that this is a legitimate dental office. Retina Specialists of Connecticut? Probably not a REAL Retina Specialist. Dr. Tubes, Urologist- probably just a dummy operation. Ok, Dr. Tubes does sound fake…

Listen, I understand there is a ton of fraud out there. So ok, the first time I swipe my card at “Black Rock Dental,” I will need to send in a justification. But every, single, flippin’ time?

My filing system

There are also a lot of other annoying things for example, if you don’t send your receipts in VIA FAX in a timely manner, they cut off your card. Even if you DO send the receipts to Lucifer in a timely manner, they will cut off your card for any number of infractions.

Black Rock Dental seems to be a major issue with Lucifer. He constantly requires additional documentation from them. We had, at one point, established that Lucifier likes to see the word “co-pay” on any receipt. However, sometimes, even that is not enough. In 2011, our card was cut off for several months over a dental receipt, I sent the receipt to them numerous times, but they either didn’t receive it via their cutting edge technology of THE FAX MACHINE, or they didn’t accept the receipt as valid.

Fax receptical

In fact, our debit card has not worked since February 2012 due to, we were told, a missing Black Rock Dental receipt of Tony’s. I asked Tony to retrieve a more detailed receipt, oh, I don’t know, 700 times. But he did not. Meanwhile, we have been paying out of pocket, hundreds and hundreds of dollars for co-pays, treatments, prescriptions, meth, etc.

Finally, a few weeks ago, I decided to surrender. I waved the white flag. Lucifer could win this one- I would reimburse them the $63.49 we charged at Black Rock Dental in October 2011.

Color me French

I knew there was a special form one had to use to re-pay Lucifer, because I had to use it once before. I had to obtain said form, so I ventured onto the Lucifer’s Minions, Inc, website. I assure you, it is an exercise in futility. Nailing water to a tree is easier than navigating Lucifer’s website.

Even if you, miraculously, remember your password, Lucifer will, repeatedly, tell you it is incorrect, and then suspend your account for 24 hours. I learned this lesson the hard way, more than once, so now I keep the password (case and, apparently, MOOD sensitive) in a very secret and safe location. Even though I use the CORRECT password, I still have to use the “lost password” button. Lucifer is supposed to send you and email with your password, but it, literally, never comes. So, now I just change my password every time.

My password or the key to launch a nuclear war

Once on the website, you encounter broken links, links that never load. When you click on “forms” it tells you what form you need for what action, but no way to actually GET the form.

So… I have to do what I dread more than getting weighed at the doctor… I had to call Lucifer’s 800#. 1-800-666-HELL.
Thank you for calling Lucifer’s Minions, Inc. For English Press 1, Para oir esta mensaje en Espanol, pulse dos, “Чтобы услышать это сообщение на русском, нажмите три.” Once you get to your specific language, you are given multiple options, but none of them are anything you would ever choose.

For Pitchforks Press 1
For Forked Tail Repair Press 2
For Hitler’s HaHa Hut Press 3
For Account Balance Press 4
For Horn Sharpening Press 5
For Eternal Damnation Press 666

No option for “forms” or even to SPEAK TO A HUMAN. I proceeded to try all of the tricks. I babbled. I asked for Customer Service in various tones, and languages, and just screamed “Hellllllllllllllllllllllp,” I pressed 0. I pressed 0 a few times, and then I heard the phrase that makes me want to punch someone in the throat “I see you are having trouble… goodbye.” YOU KNOW I’M HAVING TROUBLE!!! THANKS FOR ABANDONING ME, YOU B*TCH!

Ok, so now I am steaming. Not quite boiling, but simmering. I call back. And of course, I was so blinded with rage, I have no recollection of HOW I did this, but I actually got a human being on the phone. Or at least she CLAIMED to be a human being. She said her name was Bonnie and she sounded American. And not non-American pretending to be American American.

Here we have, folks, The Bonnie Situation.

Look, you have to appreciate this Bonnie situation

I, immediately, told “Bonnie” that I was completely frustrated with Lucifer and all of his Minions, because every time I have any interaction with Lucifer or his Minions, it is frustrating, exasperating and infuriating.

Bonnie: I understand.

I explained the situation – and how I was SURRENDERING to Lucifer because they beat me, I’m tired of fighting for my OWN MONEY. I need the form to submit my $63.49 to reimburse Lucifer for The Black Rock Dental bill, from October 2011, that was unsubstantiated, despite the fact that I submitted my receipts 3 times. My card has been suspended since February…

Bonnie: Ok, let me check.

…
…
…Your call is very important to us, please stay on the line and someone will be with you shortly.
…
…
… Your call is very important to us, please stay on the line and someone will be with you shortly.
…
…
… Your call is very important to us, please stay on the line and someone will be with you shortly.
…
Bonnnie: Oh. Ok.

Me: Yes?

Bonnie: I see your card is suspended. But not because of a Black Rock Dental charge.

Me: It isn’t? Oh. That is the charge all of the communication from Lucifer is referring to?

Bonnie: Nope.

Me: So… what is the problem?

Bonnie: Your card is suspended due to four charges from 2008.

Me: WHAT?

Bonnie: Your card is suspended due to four charges from 2008.

Me: I did hear you, but I do not understand what you mean.

Bonnie: Your card is suspended due to four charges from 2008.

Me: I don’t really know what that means.

Bonnie: There are 4 charges made in 2008. We have suspended your card due to non-receipt of substantiation.

Me: Ok. What year is it now?

Bonnie: 2012

Me: And the charges are from what year?

Bonnie: 2008

Me: 2008? As in 4 years ago?

Bonnie: That’s right.

Me: Ok, so let me make sure I understand this.
The card worked in 2009.
The card worked in 2010.
The card worked in 2011.
And the card worked for 2 months in 2012. Until Lucifer told me it was suspending my card for a $63.49 charge that was unsubstantiated- despite my sending in substantiation 3 times.

Bonnie: That’s right.

Me: Does that sound a little crazy to you?

Bonnie: Your card is suspended due to four charges from 2008.

Me: How can my card work for 3 years AFTER these four charges?

Bonnie: Lucifer and his Minions performed an audit on your account and uncovered these four charges that were paid but never substantiated.

Me: I was never informed of the audit OR the findings. How is that possible?

Bonnie: I don’t know, but your card is suspended due to four charges from 2008.

Me: Let me ask you a question. As a human being, do you NOT think it’s a little insane?

Bonnie: Your card is suspended due to four charges from 2008.

Me: We’ve covered that, but can you answer my question? As a human being, do you NOT think it’s a little insane?

Bonnie: Your card is suspended due to…

Me: Bonnie! I got it- please answer my question. As a human being, do you NOT think it’s a little insane?

Bonnie: Your card is …

Me: BONNIE. Ohhhhh, I understand.. You can’t offer your personal opinion.

Bonnie: I can.

Me: You can? Ok, I’ll ask you again- as a human being, do you NOT think it’s a little insane?

Bonnie: No. I don’t. I don’t think it’s insane at all.

Me: Bonnie. We have just established that you are NOT HUMAN.

Can you tell me the date of service and the amounts of these four charges?

Bonnie: Ok. They are all Cigna Tele-Drug, 12/30/08 $20, 12/24/08 $80, 11/13/08 $60 11/12/08 $60

Me: That is odd because I keep pretty meticulous track of prescriptions, especially the ones I order through the mail.

Bonnie: May I put you on hold for 2 to 3 minutes?

Me: Sure! I’m already burning with rage and fury, 3 more minutes can ONLY help that situation.

I had to throw in a picture of The Clooney, just so I can calm down

HOLD Muzak… Your call is very important to us, please stay on the line and someone will be with you shortly…Build Me Up, Buttercup…Girl from Ipanema…Hound Dog … Your call is very important to us, please stay on the line and someone will be with you shortly….You’re So Vain…Just a Gigolo… Your call is very important to us, please stay on the line and someone will be with you shortly. Yup, longer than 3 minutes.

This is, literally, a picture of my 2008 & 2009 FSA files (note…I don’t even have kids, these are records for TWO people)

As I’m holding, I dig into my file. This is the files for 2008 & 2009. Miraculously, I find the charges in question… and then it all comes flooding back to me like a horrific, PTSD flashback… attached to the four receipts, I find 6 fax confirmations. 6. SIX. 6!!!! All transmitted successfully. The faxes are dated: 12/31/08, 1/12/09, 2/4/09, 2/15/09, 3/21/09 and finally 6/30/09. Attached to the 6/30/09 transmission is a note in BIG BOLD BLACK LETTERS, it says “This is the 6th (SIXTH) time I have faxed these receipts. Please, please, I beg you, my card has been suspended for 4 months. Please unblock my card. I’m begging here…” There are also 2 dates and two names written (which means I must have, also, called them twice) 2/15/09- Michael and 6/30/09- Bonnie.

BONNIE?!?!!? BONNIE!!!!! Ok, granted there could be more than one Bonnie. But, it’s not like Caitlyn or Lauren where there is 7,000,000 of them. Bonnie is not the most common name, at present. Freakin’ Bonnie.

Oh… I’m wooled. Steam actually could be coming out of my ears. I’m rehearsing the verbal sh*t-kicking I am going to give Bonnie when she gets back on the phone. Bonnie is going to wish she was never born. Bonnie is going to RUE the day she tangled with me. Bonnie is going to reduced to a puddle of sobbing snot and tissues.

Bonnie: Miss Moore?

Me: Yes.

Bonnie: Your card is reactivated.

Me: Excuse me?

Bonnie: Your card is reactivated.

Me: How?

Bonnie: I reactivated it.

Well. I did ask.

Me: But what about the outstanding, supposedly UNSUBSTANTIATED charges?

Bonnie: I referred to your file and it appears you sent in the substantiating paperwork 3 times.

Me: Oh, only 3? I have proof of 6.

Bonnie: So your card is now working. Would you like a Reference # for this conversation?

Me: You betcha.

Bonnie: Sure. 8675309. Thank you and have a nice day.

Wait! Where is my justifiable temper tantrum? Do I not get to hear Bonnie BEG for mercy? Where is my pound of flesh?!?!

It turns out “pound of flesh” is not covered under my current plan. I’ll need to get a receipt and fax it in.

Addendum: I had to go to the ER last week, and I swiped my FSA for the $100 co-pay. I was STILL IN THE ER when I received an email, on my phone, requesting “substantiation.”  Jerks.

We are family, Part 2: Sybil Servant

SYBIL AND HER FRIENDS (Sybil is the one in the middle, I think.)

We’re the Three Best Friends
That Anyone Could Have
And We’ll Never ever ever ever
Leave Each other

So back at the insane asylum aka MY LIFE… Sybil would like to go back into NYC.

On Tuesday, Saint Tony said he would take her, god bless him. Sybil couldn’t go alone- she’s never make it back out. This is the same woman who has gotten on the wrong airplane… twice. Tony had planned to take her to the Museum of Natural History. I told him that if he was looking to LOSE her, he should find a science fiction museum and hope they would be taking inventory.

But, alas, Sybil wanted to go on another boat trip- this time: The Circle Line. Tony told her to pack her cement shoes.

Prior to the boat trip, Tony planned to take Sybil to Canal Street or “Cane- Al” Street as Sybil called it. The vendors on Canal Street LOVED Sybil, as one would expect.

Cane -AL Street

They love people who touch everything, and then drop everything and then buy things and then 20 minutes later try to return everything because they find it cheaper down the street. Sybil is now blackballed from Canal Street. Much like when the police or FBI come around, when Sybil is spotted, all of the garage doors start slamming. This is a feat that is exceptionally difficult to achieve. Even Sticky-Fingers Lohan is welcomed on Canal Street.

The real draw of Canal Street for Tony is its proximity to Chinatown and Little Italy and the food that comes along with that. Tony was looking forward to going to our favorite Malaysian restaurant or having Dim Sum or something yummy in Little Italy. They went to the Malaysian restaurant and Sybil gave him this:

They went by a few Italian restaurants on Mulberry… and Tony got this:

They ate at Burger King. In Chinatown. BURGER KING IN CHINATOWN. She should be deported for this action alone.

Tony was completely tortured. He loves a good meal and is always open to new things. He, like I, do not understand why you would travel to a foreign country and not be willing to TRY something different. If she wanted crappy food, she should have stayed in England. (Don’t get your knickers in a knot- there is SOME good food in England, but where Tony is from, the bulk of the food is canned or “boil in a bag,” or overdone meat with some type of starch or bland cream sauce.)

They proceeded to go to the Circle Line, Tony bought a nice, giant, soft pretzel.

He gave Sybil a piece. She put it in her mouth and spat it out. It was “disgusting.”

A SOFT PRETZEL disgusts Sybil. By the way, a soft pretzel is my kryptonite. It, literally, takes every ounce of willpower for me to walk past an Auntie Anne’s or a Pretzel Time and NOT stop.

Sybil wants to have her picture taken everywhere. But she is incapable of standing still and smiling. She’s constantly looking around and fidgeting. She is NEVER actually looking at the camera.

God only knows what the pictures will look like- the guys at the photoshop will have a good laugh. Yes, she uses a film camera. Actually, disposable cameras. Welcome to the 80’s Sybil.

Sybil wasn’t knocked overboard so to exact his revenge, Tony made Sybil walk to Grand Central from The Circle Line Pier. It’s 10 blocks, but Sybil was exhausted and bragging about how she walked 10 blocks.

On their way home, Tony stopped and picked up Indian Food. Sybil totally eats curry (National Food of the UK). So she ate what she wanted and was going to “save the rest for me breakfast.” So she did.

She put the place on the edge of the counter with a PAPER TOWEL covering it.

I’m considering this a 4th attempt on the life of my canine children.

Ohhhhh Aunt Sybil… my belly…

At the Indian Restaurant, she picked up this:

I’d like to order 1 ba She g of gross, please?

won’t eat a soft pretzel, but THIS looks appealing to her. (I threw it in the garbage 15 seconds after she went home. I should have MAILED it to her)

Wednesday was doomsday. The one day I took off from work to spend with Sybil. Tony and I planned to take her into New York City to see a Broadway Show. Our plan was to go to the TKTS booth and get some half price tickets. We spoke to Sybil prior to see what show she might like to see. Sybil loves ABBA, so we thought she might want to see Mama Mia. Nope. Because she doesn’t know what it’s about. I try to explain, but like everything else, it’s impossible. We land on Mary Poppins- Sybil’s choice.

We dropped Tony off to get in the TKTS line while Sybil and I went to park the car. Because the TKTS line can get pretty long, they have barricades set up, like at an amusement park, so the line zigzags back and forth.

The barricades are metal stands and they are connected with strips of fabric- like seatbelt material. The fabric strips clip into the metal stands.

We found Tony in the line, we had to duck under the barricade. So Sybil goes first and stands up in the middle of her “duck”, so the fabric strip comes detached from the metal stand. Because the fabric bands have a tension mechanism in them, when you unhook them, they snap back and wind up quickly. The fabric band snaps back, wildly, hitting people in its wake and finally ends its reign of terror about 50 feet down the line.

Oh f*ck! So there is a BIG African American Body Guard Type dude who controls the line… and as I’m walking along the line apologizing. “I’m sorry, my sister in law is clueless and mentally deranged.” “I’m sorry about the 2 inch laceration to your face, my sister in law is from another planet” “I’m sorry, she only has two days to live, she is our ‘Make a Wish’ kid…” the guard looks angrier and angrier. As I’m trying to fix the barricade, he said to me, under his breath “Every family has one.”

She has 2 wishes: Go see a Broadway Show and to be elected President of the USA

When I get back in line with Tony and Sybil, having personally apologized to every person in the line, Sybil asks “What did you do?”

I married your brother, pet. I married your brother.

Sybil also told me that day that Tony is no longer HER Brother, he’s MY husband. I was like OK- does that mean I can never see you again?

So after we get the tickets and are walking away from the booth. And Sybil turns the tickets over. (The backside of the ticket is just tiny print- legal mumbo jumbo.) I ask Sybil what she is looking for? “Well I was wondering if it tells what the show is about on the tickets?” (Like it would on the back cover of a book.)

I said “No, it doesn’t.”

“Well how do you know what it’s about?” Sybil asked.

“It’s Mary Poppins, Sybil. Do you not know what Mary Poppins is about”

“Yeah, I thought it might be different.” Sybil said

In the current Broadway version, Mary is a Vampire Hunter and Bert is the leader of a biker gang. Jane is a child prostitute and Michael is a meth dealer. The song “Spoonful of Sugar” has a whole new meaning.

We stroll away from the TKTS booth, dodging traffic, making sure Sybil isn’t getting run over by a taxi and Sybil decides she wants to go to the “Hershey’s Store.” We made it through the store, pretty much, without incident. Although, Sybil insisted that there were no prices on anything (every item was very clearly marked).

We decided to walk over to 9th Avenue to have lunch. If you aren’t aware, 9th Avenue in the 40’s is rich with restaurants. Italian, Thai, Cajun, Greek- there are tons of places to eat, and I’ve never had a bad meal on 9th Avenue. (Although, I noticed that Rin’s and my favorite place, Basilica, has closed. RIP Home of Hot Italian Waiters.)

We stopped to look at several menus, and at every one we got “the face.”

Italian? Ew.

Spanish? Yuck.

Thai? No way.

Brazilian? Not happening.

“We are in the greatest city in the world and you won’t try any of the food.”

“You do not have enough Fish and Chip shops here.” replied Sybil.

On mine, hold the lemon.  But can I have extra newspaper ink?

“Really? You can’t find anything to eat on this menu?” We were standing in front of an Italian restaurant. Their menu had, literally, dozens of options.

“I’ll have that! hahahahahahaha” Sybil points to a salad topped with freshly grated parmesan cheese. What is so funny?

Parmesan cheese?  REVOLTING

Sybil hates cheese. She walks away, laughing hysterically, and won’t even look at anything else on the menu.

Parmesan cheese!??!! INCONCEIVABLE!!

Finally we happen upon an Irish pub. Oh good- terrible food, right up Sybil’s pathetically unadventurous alley. “Look Sybil,” Tony said “they have pies!”

Sybil said “I don’t eat pies.”

“Yes you do.” Tony said “You eat them frozen. In the little foil tins?.”

“Nope.” Sybil insisted, giving us, again “the face”

“I don’t eat pies. And I will not allow you to BULLY me into eating anything I don’t want to eat.” (Note; I’m pretty sure I’ve witnessed her eating a pie on more than one occasion.)

Finally, Sybil relented to eating at the Irish Pub because I pointed out they had Fish and Chips on the menu. I walked up, pulled the door… it is locked. They are closed. Ugh. Nooooooo! Noooooo!

There was another restaurant nearby that appeared to have terrible food, so we ate there. Sybil ordered “double-decker sliders” cooked well done. Tony and I ordered booze. Sybil’s shoe leather on a bun arrived and she happily ground the first slider into mush and ate it. The second double slider was pulled apart- bun discarded (which is something I do regularly)- Sybil picked up the meat patty with her fork and ate it, bite by bite off of the fork like a corn dog.

Does anyone have Emily Post on speed-dial?

A hamburger is not a food on a stick!! Again, there was a knife sitting right next to her dish. Why does she not use a knife? Thank God no one was sitting near us. Tony assures me, as children, they were taught manners, but I don’t believe it. I’ve seen children, who were raised by wolves, with better table manners.

An Early Family Photo

We proceeded to the theater and our seats were pretty high up in the balcony and Sybil was terrified getting to her seat. She was grabbing onto strangers, eeking in terror. At intermission, she managed to make her way to the lobby and ordered some M&Ms and some popcorn. When the attendant gave her the bill, she took 5 minutes getting her money our despite the growing line behind her.

If this English chick would finish her transaction, we might be able to get some water before Act 2

She sat during the second act, messing with the plastic popcorn bag. I was ready for someone to SHHH her, but they didn’t (probably because we were surrounded by parents and kids. And they were SINGING ALONG to all of the songs. As you can imagine, I felt like I was in the 10th Circle of Hell.). When we got up to leave the theater, there as so much popcorn on the floor- I wonder if any of it hit her mouth.

Hmmm, I seem to have missed my mouth.  Several hundred times.

Once we left the theater, we headed to Union Square to go through the Green Market. We stopped at Starbucks and I asked Sybil what she wanted. She insisted on ordering for herself. This should be good. She tried to strike up a conversation with the cashier and the barista. Keep in mind, there were, easily 20 people behind her in line. She advised them of all of the ways they can improve things at Starbucks. And by improve, she means to make them operate the way they do in the UK and make everything TEA.

We sat in Union Square, surrounded by “interesting types.”

Performers in UnderRoos with bras on their heads, hare krishnas, people dressed from head to toe in tin foil. But what Sybil found most fascinating were the squirrels. She chased them around trying to take their picture. Which made the park visitors stare at Sybil, as if she had a bra on her head.  In fairness, the squirrels in Union Square are something special…

We had dinner plans with our friend, Jimmy. We were going to a Jewish Restaurant in Tribeca. We knew, full well, this would be a major problem for Sybil as she’s a HUGE anti-semite…just kidding, she isn’t. At all.   Duh! It was the FOOD that was going to be a problem because they don’t serve fish and chips or hamburger briquettes.  We knew we were going to have to force it on her because we weren’t about to tell Jimmy he had to eat at Burger King.

The only reason we exposed Jimmy to Sybil is because he’s a GREAT guy. He’s southern and loves a good laugh, plus we warned him ahead of time that sharing a meal with Tony’s sister might get him on “”Ripley’s Believe it or Not.” Jimmy can talk to anyone- and although I’m not, entirely, sure he wouldn’t judge us by Sybil, I knew he and I could laugh about the dinner later.

Oh and Sybil did NOT disappoint.

We got the menu.

My immediate reaction: Yummmmo. Secondary reactions: F*CK! What is Sybil going to eat. Jimmy, Tony and I had absolutely no problem picking a meal… Sybil not so much. She didn’t want any of it. I suggested the lamb? (She doesn’t like fish- big f*cking shock, right? She doesn’t eat duck and the steak, both dishes had “things” with it that she wouldn’t eat- onions and horseradish.)

Ok, ok, Sybil would order the lamb. I prayed she didn’t notice that it came with cabbage and green garlic. She didn’t. Tony ordered the Trout, Jimmy ordered a short rib (not on the menu above) and I ordered the Kreplach. We also got an order of potato pancakes for the table.

But, make no mistake, there was no caviar on top.  That would have been game-over

The potato pancake went over fine.

But then, the lamb came. It was beautiful. I don’t even EAT lamb and it looked delicious.

It was pink and cooked perfectly. This perfect plate was placed in front of Sybil and she made “the face.”

And then she said, loudly, “I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE COOKED?!?!?!”

And oh, what happened next- even I couldn’t predict.  Sybil picked up the lamb chop and eat it with her hands.

Sybil, the petite flower

I was mortified. I mean, it’s not like we were in the middle of a crowded restaurant or anything…

I know you are going to be bowled over by this, Sybil hated her meal. And she was downright crabby about it.

Jimmy decided to make some conversation. “So, Sybil, who is your favorite hero from British history?”

Sybil contemplated this for a moment… “Nicholas Cage” she replied

Try again as he’s not British…and he’s NICHOLAS CAGE.

“Einstein.” was Sybil’s second guess.

Yeah, he wasn’t British either.

Ok, next subject. “How has your stay been, Sybil? Have you had a good time?” Jimmy asked.

“ish.” Sybil said.

“ish?” asked Jimmy

“I’ve had an okay-ish time.” Sybil said flatly.

Well, it’s understandable really. I mean, her only brother took a week off from his very busy job to shlepp her around New York City, battling tourists, the heat, crowds, eating terrible food and getting balls for suggesting anything new. We spent hundreds of dollars entertaining her, making sure we planned nice dinners, subjected our friends to her bullsh*t and nonsense only to have her say she’s had an “okay-ish” time.

I was done. Stick a fork in me. Or better yet, stick the fork in her.
We, later, found out that she was pissed off that we FORCED HER to get the lamb and she didn’t like it. So she acted like a two year old and pouted.

I hated my dinner.  And they forced me to order it and then tied me to the chair and made me eat it. 

On our way back to the car, Sybil wanted to have her picture taken in front of a Broadway Theatre. Ok. Which one? It doesn’t matter. Ok, how about this one? Sybil poses, next to a giant dumpster, pointing up to the sign. The name of the show? “Enemy of the People.” Well, yeah, that’s appropriate. Unfortunately that picture of her is on one of her disposable cameras.

But we only had 1 more day. 24 more mere hours to survive.

Thursday arrived and I felt compelled to send an apology to Jimmy:

At home, Tony asked Sybil if she was all packed?

“No.” Sybil replied.

“Why not? Your flight is in a few hours.” Tony said.

“No it isn’t. My flight is tomorrow.” Sybil said.

What?! WHAT?!?!?! Tony, wisely, demanded to see her plane ticket. Tony was correct, her flight was Thursday evening.

So, Sybil got all packed up and I rode to the airport with them. When Tony unloaded her suitcase from the back, I noticed the fancy luggage tag she had on her bag:

When we got into the Terminal, we had to do self-check-in at a kiosk. It might as well have been a nuclear reactor as Sybil couldn’t make heads or tails of how to use it. Tony tried, but was having a problem getting Sybil’s passport to swipe at the kiosk. He gave up, we were going to have to wait in line for some personal help. I was like “Hell no! We are getting this to work… STAT.”

I managed to get her passport scanned and we had to select her seat. I said “Sybil, do you want a window seat?”

Sybil said “Well, it doesn’t need to be a window seat. But I don’t want an aisle or the middle.”

So I selected a lovely seat for Sybil in the landing gear.

We managed to check Sybil’s ghetto suitcase, and got her in the line for security. We waited until she got through security and then we ran like hell and jumped for joy!

Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty we are free at last!!!