Invasion

So Captain Nutty is here (that's my mother for the uninitiated).

I will try to keep you updated as to the various lunacy that ensues.

Oh...and important note...the POD has broken her hand by falling off a horse. And by broke, I mean BROKE. Surgery with plates, pins and screws (Oh my!) to follow on Thursday.

Am going shopping with the Captain today as the POD needs school clothes (i.e. 6 plain black t-shirts from Target and two new pairs of jeans).

Poop.

P.S. This entry brought to you by the fine makers of Yellowtail Shiraz-Cabernet mix red wine. Such a fine product helped me endure the Captain on not one, but TWO vodka tonics (not to count the endless supply of DEA controlled narcotics that course through her body at any given time). Gox loves you, you lovely Yellowtail bastards.

Header? Who Needs a Stinking Header?

Clearly I have not figured out what happened to my header but if you're here, you know this is Floyd's Tailgate. Poop.

Anyhooooo, things are chumming along swimmingly. Same shit, different year.

Let's see....what haven't I told you....

Oh! The POD gave our house key away to some runaway kid that needed a place to stay. I shit you not. She knew the kid for about 24 hours and decided that he was fine to come stay at our house. She's an excellent judge of character - witness Krystal with K, the latin lesbian gang banger the POD loved or the pot smoking juvenile enemy number 1 that she allowed into the rents' house who stole my mother's wedding ring. Yeah. Her judgment is top notch.

Captain Nutty is coming to visit. Contain your excitement, everyone! Just settle the hell down!

Frankly, the only things that really make these visits tolerable is her purchasing power. I know - super shallow - but the truth's a bitch. POD needs school clothes and I need every product currently sold by Sephora. Course Captain Nutty called crying and saying she has no money. So I'm thinking a well-timed return phone call saying "no money, no visity" is in order.

If you hear a high pitch wailing, you'll know that's my mother doing her best dying cat impression.

Other than that...same old, same old. Anybody still there? Anything going on with you? Do you know how I recover my masthead thingie?

So Where Was I?

Hi. My name is Floyd. And I'm a slack ass blogger.

Hi Floyd!

It's been 2 1/2 months or so since my last blog. And I'm a blogaholic.

Bah.

Anyhooooo......

All's right with the world. Well. Except for the following.


1. The POD is going to visit Martha's Vineyard. with her buddy. She asked me exactly where that was and I responded "New England".

Her response? "I DON'T HAVE A PASSPORT!"

American education at its best.

2. At Target this morning, I purchased some underwear (yes, I bought some underwear at Target....suck it). And they were normal underwear....nice....not up-thE-butt, wild print, screw me panties.

So checkout lady goes, "YOU KNOW! I don't usually say this....buuuuut.....(inner warning bells now going off in Floyd's head).....I really like to wear thongs! You should try them! They are soooo comfortable!"

Now, Ms. SharesTooMuchForTargetCheckoutLady is a big boned gal. I'm no small potato but she's got at least 100 lbs on me. I smile and nod politely - cause really what the fuck else do you do?

And just when I thought it couldn't get more awkward...

Ms. CrossEyedSoICan'tSeeHowUncomforableMyCustomerIs says, "You know how it is! Us BIG gals gotta stick together! We like to feel sexy too, right?"

Um. Yeah.

Discuss my underwear and then call me fat. Great marketing. And seriously, lady? I realize I got a few extra pounds on me but I've also lost a few recently and was feeling pretty good this Sunday morning but thanks for bringing me into your fat folds. And by the way? All fat people are not created equal. I'm still hotter than you - thong or no thong.

You missing link whore.

3. I'm taking the POD to Universal Studios this week. Captain Nutty and the Consort are paying for our trip in honor of my birthday (which was last week - bah.). To commemorate the occasion, Captain Nutty sent me a little gift to go along with it. She sent me a bottle of Beautiful perfume lotion....which is nice. BUT I haven't worn that perfume in about 20 years. One wonders why she just didn't break out the Love's Baby Soft while she was at it.

OH! And she also included a card. But not a birthday card. A thank you card. Yeah. I don't get it either.


Anyhooooo.....glad to be back will try to be better but bah. You know how I am.

P.S. What the hell happened to my title/masthead thingie? Dammit.

Another Point of Order

Are you freaking kidding me? Pony boy goes on to torment another week?

Someone's gots some 'splaining to do.

And for that matter, why the hell is Gwen Stefani performing in a body suit and tie?

Good gox. Time to hit the tequilla in the middle of the week.

I guess we all knew it would come to this.

Point of Order

If any of you vote for that pony tressed freak Sanjaya, you are dead to me.

Do you hear me?

Dead.

To.

Me.

Consider yourself forewarned.

Goodnight, Sweet Girl

Well, I think I've been here before. Today, I had to put my dog Stella down. For those of you who were around last year (like there's anyone still reading - bah), you may remember that I had to put my Ben to sleep last year. Well, good old Stella managed to hang around and keep me company for an entire year longer.

Stella and I didn’t have as long together as Ben and I did. When I lived in Chicago, I got involved with a lab rescue group and began fostering labs. I went through about 35 labs (give or take) – some of them were fantastic dogs…..and some of them made me want to make little lab fur slippers out of them.

And then, there was Stella. Stella came into rescue at about 12 years of age. She had been running around south Illinois as a stray for at least a year before the local vet’s office could corral her. I picked her up and pretty quickly thereafter decided that she was the only foster that I just HAD to adopt. She had scars all over her. We don’t really know from what but it was clear she’d had a rough road and I decided she needed me.

When she came into my house, she was known to be a “breast cancer survivor” and probably only had a little while longer to live. So I figured I would provide a nice, safe home for her passing. I was all warm and fuzzy from my magnanimous gesture as I saved yet another “poor” dog.

Well, bah. Stella was from the hood and she wasn’t down with that. She came into the house and immediately scared the ever-loving shit out of Ben. She took no crap from nobody. She taught the cat that he was a lower life form and let Ben know that his penis didn’t impress her (and considering the whole neuter issue, she wasn’t far wrong). She’d seen tough times and living in suburbia wasn’t it. She was top canine and the house better come to accept it.

She insisted on sleeping on the bed with me and Ben. So, of course, I had to get a king size. She and Ben would sleep on either side of me and end up stretching the covers so tight that I couldn’t move. God forbid, they ever tough each other and sleep on the same side. I was uncomfortable but the two of them provided a lovely snoring, chainsaw chorus.

A few weeks after I adopted Stella, I was at a Pet Fair with Stella and the lab rescue’s booth was right next to a pet psychic. (Yes, I know – pet psychic – but it was cool and it was free – so bah on you). Ms. Pet Psychic did a little reading on Stella and asked if there was anything I wanted to know. I asked her to Stella to stop chasing the cat. Stella responded that she “thought she was doing pretty good since she hadn’t eaten him yet”.

That cracked me up. Still does frankly.

She loved tennis balls but was too good to chase them for you. You threw it once; she caught it and then proceeded to shred the crap out of it in 5 minutes flat. The only ball that could stand her destructive tendencies was a soccer ball. She would carry soccer balls around with her everywhere – each of them in various states of decomposition. Ben hated the fact that she would dare destroy a perfectly good ball but if she could have formed the one finger salute with her paw and flicked him off, she would have.

Eventually, she and Ben became friends. She mourned quite a bit when he died. Somehow, that made me feel better to know she missed him too. The POD and I focused all our attention on her, hoping to make her a just a bit happier. In turn, she kept us jumping as well. Over the past few months, she trained me to get up and get her treat anytime she wanted it. I kid you not. She would whine and paw at me until I got up to let her out. Well, she wouldn’t need to go out and since I was “standing by the treats anyway”, I might as well give her one. It took me a while to figure out that her entire intention was simply to manipulate me to the treat jar. Well played, biyatch, well played.

My little “going to peacefully die in my do-gooder home within a few months” baby lasted for an entire 4 years with me. She developed a body that closely resembled an ottoman and banged her food dish if I was ever a little too late with breakfast. She developed a cough which quickly became accompanied with a trumpet that blew out of her ass each and every time she hacked. It was both deadly and deadly funny.
She was probably around 16 years old which is freaking ancient for a lab. When Ben died, I asked her to not to leave me for a while. I told her I couldn’t lose them both in one year. Well, my sweet girl kept her promise and lasted one more year and one month.

And for that, I will always be grateful. Good night, baby girl.

Peace Be With You

So guess what I did on New Years Eve? Go on, guess!

Did you say "marry two of your best friends"? Then you're right!

I am pleased to announce that Cowboy Dan and Dutch were joined in holy matrimony by your's truly.

That's right, you heathens, I am now an official minister of the Universal Life Church & Monastery (both a church AND a monastery!). It was free to be indoctrinated but I paid the extra $30 for the parking pass and plastic badge.

This of course means that THIS:



Was married to THAT:



By THIS:




I'm also avialable for funerals, baptisms and "love unions". Fees include a case of a beer and a ride home. I'm just saying.

Sunday Smells

A couple of issues I'm pondering this gray Sunday morning:

1. What is the absolute time limit for when you have to get out of your pajamas on a Sunday? Does it change your opinion if it's a rainy, overcast Sunday? Does it change your opinion if you know I don't wear underwear with my pajamas?

2. If you end up working all day Saturday and Sunday, does that make working on Monday optional? If you are own boss and you give yourself Monday off, does that make you a slack-ass? Does being a slack-ass shock absolutely anyone that knows you?

3. If you POD is going on a 4 day ski trip, is it wrong to simulataneously look forward to it and dread it cause you know you're going to sleep with the lights and tv on? (Note to readers: found out my house is haunted over the holidays...I shit you not....really....HAUNTED....more later)

4. If your best friend, Fat Baby's Mamma, has a new baby and scares the shit out of you by having a difficult labor and birth, do you still have to send her a baby gift? Cause really, is it fair that just because she has managed to reproduce, she has the right to make your heart stop and begin to worry about what you say at funerals? (And yes, I know I'm overreacting but that's the way my brain works)

All in all, the most important part of this Sunday is to say "Welcome to world, Baby Girl!". And yes, I know your name is Saylor but I will be calling you Fat Betty. And just wait to you hear the stories I have to tell you about your mamma. Your Aunt Kitty and I are already planning on getting you drunk on your 18th birthday. Rock on, DaLisa! You are much loved ( but if you ever scare your Aunt Floyd like that again, she will beat your ass....I'm just saying).

Mistletoe, MistleHO

It appears that there have been some sort of holidays since I last blogged. Well, bah. I owe you some updating.

Shall we begin?

The POD and I survived Christmas. We drove to Tennessee where I was upgraded to a twin bed in bedroom shared with my mother, Captain Nutty, and the POD. THAT i s an upgrade, you ask? Well, yes, gentle reader, it is an upgrade because for the last 15 years, I have been on a fold-out cot in a bedroom with Captain Nutty and the Consort. And for the record, fatty don't do deal without a firm set of boxspring underneath her girth. I'm just saying.

The day after Christmas, we all journeyed to the mountains of North Carolina where my aunt lives. My aunt is the sister of Captain Nutty and is just barely a macadamia nut short of a nutty title herself. There we celebrated 25 wonderful years of marriage for Captain Nutty and the Consort.

Now here's where it gets to be a "Floyd Family Moment". Let's harken back a few months to when the Captain and her Consort were last in town. During that trip, they dragged me to see Harvey, the family jeweler. (Yes, we have a family jeweler and no, I have no idea why). I was forced to sit there (incredibly hung over, I might add) and listen to a conversation about designing a new ring for my mother. The Consort wanted one large diamond with 24 diamonds set around it (you know, for the 25 years of "marital bliss"). Of course, at this point, I'm trying not to upchuck the gallon of Jaigermeister I had partaken of at the race the night before. But even so, I was in awe of the irony of me being unable to provide hot water for their visit since I didn't pay the gas bill and them designing some "equal to the gross national product of Malaysia" ring while in the same breath telling me they have no money to support the POD right now.

Oh wait. It gets better.

So I sit through this farce without hacking up on the jeweler's little glass cases. Time goes by. On the night of the anniversary, the Consort makes a GRAND show of giving the ring to my mother. He presents her a big box, which holds smaller and smaller boxes until she gets down to a ring size box. (Sidenote: does this little bigger box ruse really fool anyone anymore? Have it really open up to nothing but air! Now THAT would be a surprise.)

Still not to the good part. Bear with me. Trying to get there.

So Captain opens up her ring box and acts.......surprised! And I quote, "Oh Consort, I can't believe you did this! What a surprise!"

That's right. She pretended she didn't know a thing about it . She acted like we all didn't know she was in on it. She acted like her "two steps above food stamps" daughter wasn't sitting right the hell there as she told Family Jeweler that the 24 diamonds should not be merely chips.

AND THEN! With all sincerity and incredulity, she goes to the Consort, "Did Harvey do this?"

At that point, I had a coronary and passed out in the spaghetti. I'm still removing pieces of parmessan from my nostrils.

Bah.

Well, many more exciting holiday memories to share with you. Stay tuned cause I got me some surprises regarding New Years! I'll give you a hint....it involves a wedding.....and NO, not mine.

Conversational Worry

So driving down the street with POD when this little gem of an exchange occurs:

POD: "OOOO! Look a Hooters with a drive-thru!"

Me: "Ummmm....POD.....that's not a Hooters. That's a Hardee's."

POD: "oh."

I don't know which is more disturbing. The fact that she gets excited at the idea of Hooters or that fact that she can't identify the fast food paragon that is Hardees.

Probably a toss up.

Equally disturbing but on another level entirely. I'm in a gas station in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere but somewhere in SOUUUUTH Georgia (don't ask). This particular convenience store doesn't really rank up there with the nicer, newer stations but it's well lit thus I'm there.

I go in for a Diet Mountain Dew (you get your caffeine your way, I'll get mine my way) and overhear this little tidbit:

Granny looking nicely dressed lady wandering in store: "Do you have eggnog?"

Meth addicted store clerk: "No....not this time year."

Again, not sure what bothers me more. What this grandma is doing looking for eggnog at a shit hole at 1:00 am or the fact that the store clerk seems to think eggnog is the appropriate drink for Easter.

I'm just saying.

Fa La La La, La La La La

I have a love/hate relationship with Christmas music, as I'm sure most everyone with eardrums does. As a public service announcement, I thought it best to inform you of what holiday tunage is absolutely cringe-worthy in the Floyd world.

1. Feliz Navidad. I'm all for blind guys singing (except for Stevie….really don’t like Stevie….but I’m all about Ray Charles). I got nothing against Jose Feliciano. But this latin fiesta makes me want to claw my eyes out with a taco chip.

2. Anything sung by Karen Carpenter. Her voice makes me think of harvest gold kitchen appliances and bad macramé. Every time I hear one of her songs, I eat a cookie out of sympathy for her whole "I didn't eat so I died" thing. Thus, technically, I can blame any and all holiday weight gain on Karen Carpenter. Poor taste? Sure. Plausible deniability of my own responsibility for my ass size? Absolutely.

3. Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer. For the love of all that's holy, it's a novelty song. Let it go, people, let it go.

4. Any classic sung by a skank. I don't need "hell to the no" Whitney Crack Whore Houston singing to me about the Christ child. I don't need Madonna purring her version of Santa Baby. Hey, you Angelina-Wanna-Be, we got it when you sang "Material Girl"! You like money! You like shiny things (not unlike raccoon)! Color me clued in! Now, shut the hell up.

5. George Michael's crappy Last Christmas ditty. This one in particular makes me vomit. If you recall, "last Christmas he gave you his heart"...this Christmas he gave you his bizness in a men's loo in some London public park. And seriously, all the more power to him. I mean if that's your idea of a rocking good time, knock yourself out but I really can't associate you much with the whole "celebration of the birth of the messiah" thing anymore. Wham that, George.

Now. All of that being said, I feel compelled to include Floyd's most treasured holiday tunes so that you can be in awe of my highbrowed musical taste. And for the record, I'm only going to include the funs and not the ones like Holy Night which makes me cry each and every time I hear it (Shut up. I have a soft side. And I’m going to Heaven. While y’all burn in hell.)

1. You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch. Stink, stank, stunk. Nuff sed.

2. Those Peanuts kids singing "Christmas Time is Here". Makes me throw my head back and sing like Snoopy howls.

3. Santa Baby by Eartha Kitt - I just like to hear her say "plat-ti-num mine". (kiss my ass, Madonna)

4. All I Want for Christmas is You by Mariah Carey (okay - so there is ONE exception to the skank rule).

5. I Want A Hippopotamus for Christmas. Cracks my inner child up, each and every time.

6. The Chipmunks Christmas Song. Now, this is how a novelty song is done, you damn Grandma killers.

7. The Wrap Song by the Waitresses. My inner 80s child rocks out to this one.

8. U2's version of Baby Please Come Home. U2 could sing the ABC's and I'd probably by a version of it.

9. Heat Miser/Snow Miser song. If you don't love this, then you're dead to me. DEAD.

10. Elvis' Blue Christmas. I just like to sing along to the "wooooowooooo's".

And in the words of Burle Ives, "Merry Damn Christmas".

We Could So Hang Out

I'm a Good Morning America girl. You can stick your Today show. Katie Couric made my teeth hurt and frankly, even though she's gone, the after taste is too sacharine for me. I like to have my morning Diet Coke with Diane Sawyer and Robin Roberts.It's how I roll.

This brings me to this fine morning (which isn't really fine at all as it is raining and the lights on my Christmas tree mysteriously shorted out).

Robin Roberts was at the White House for a lovely tour of the Christmas decorations (bet their freaking lights didn't short out - my taxes at work and all).

Robin was joined live by the lovely first lady, Laura Bush. Now, I don't delve into politics here too much (and yes, I hear you all going "hell, you don't delve into anything lately!" - bite me)but I love the first lady. She's Texan. She's nice. She's got a backbone of steel. She's got a kickin accent and rocks a pantsuit like no other. She calls her husband "Bushy" and that right there is hysterical.

And now I love her even more.

She's giving Robin (and ME!) the grand tour of the first crib and brings us to the red room. She explains it's one of her favorite rooms because it's so festive during the holidays.

She then does her best Vanna White impression and points to the lovely portrait over the fireplace.

And goes as follows, "This is the lovely portrait of Angelica Huston over the mantel.".

Ummmm.....Angelica Huston? Daugher of acclaimed director John Huston? Oscar winner for Prizzi's Honor, Huston?

Wow. Didn't know she was so popular with the political set.

Mrs. Bush later rolls into saying it was Angelica Van Buren but frankly, I find Angelica Huston much more interesting.

Rock the vote, sister friend!

Firmly Committed to Non-committance

Still here. Still love you. Promise I will try to write more tomorrow.

But for now. For the love of all that's holy. Please go watch the new game show with Willaim Shatner.

There is dancing. There is a red vest. There is a contestant that is so fabulously flaming that Liberace is rolling his eyes in disgust.

My kind of show.

Help Me Out, Allanis

Is it ironic to be sitting on the tiolet doing your "business" and reading a cookbook at the same time?

Just wonderin.

Talla-SUCK-dega

In 2004, I went to the race at Talladega and was all happy with Cowboy Dan like this.





In 2004, I went to Talladega and met Elvis.




In 2005, I added a jaunty chapeau.






In 2005, I asked that Elvis keep his shirt on.




In 2006, I'm sitting my fat ass at home while Elvis pines for me.

Dammit.

Any Takers?

So I've been a little stressed. Nothing new about that really. And not "overwhelming, pull the covers over my head and pray for the Apocalypse" stress but more the "would it be wrong to have wine at 9 am?" stress.

You need an example, you say?

Well, okay.

I was brushing my teeth this morning because despite my predilection for Nascar, I have a full mouth of teeth.

Well, so I'm brushing away. And all is good.

Something happens. I don't really know what. It wasn't traumatic, it was just an impulse or something.

Result? I bit down on my toothbrush.

I bit down on my toothbrush HARD.

And well, I broke my toothbrush.

That's right, I lockjawed on that fine Oral B apparatus and broke it. Broke it into a couple of pieces. With my teeth.

So, that begs the question.....

Who wants a blowjob?

So Where Was I?

Oh, I know where I was...CURSING BLOGGER AFTER I LOST AN ENTIRE POST!!!! ARRRGH.

In an effort to be more regular (without resorting to fiber therapy), I've decided I'm going to try to throw in some shorter posts to counteract my longer rants. That way maybe I can post a little more often.

Of course, after making this decision, I stored up about 4 shorter issues and didn't post them. Oh well. Best laid plans.

1. A call to all ladies. The spandex bicycle short should never be worn anytime your posterior is not actually on a bicycle seat. Never. Ever. And especially not in line at the post office. Especially not in line at the post office with your oversized baseball jersey (which calls for another post all its own) and white sandals. Especially not in line at the post office with your two squalling brats. I was really torn at first. I didn't know whether to give you a little hug and say, "hang in there, sister!" or give you a bitch slap upside the head. But then your darling little tot stuck her tongue out at me and when I made a face back at her, she started squalling. Loudly. And you did nothing to quell such squalling (notice - I take absolutely no responsibility for such episode). Therefore, consider yourself mentally bitch slapped upside the back of your head.

2. Dear teenage houseguest. You are here because I really would like the POD to make new friends at her new school. You appeared like a good candidate. However, when I tell you that we will be cooking out hamburgers and hot dogs and you respond "can we get Wendy's?", you tend to set my teeth on edge. When you then proceed to preheat the oven as you help yourself to a frozen pizza, you have woken the beast. Side note - you are 15, I shouldn't have to use the phrase, "we don't rough house inside" at all. Go home and whine to your parents that you've been bitch slapped.

3. Note to client. I do realize that you have not been privy to my previous rants on proper attire for the courtroom. However, that is no excuse. Let me make this as clear as possible. We are going into court to put forth a legal position that has no basis in the law AT ALL. We need the judge to either like you or pity you and frankly, I don't care which it is. When needing the favorable light of others, you do not wear your jorts (jeans + shorts = jorts) to court. I could go into how you probaly shouldn't wear jorts anywhere but that is probably for another rant. The mind reels when it realizes you have been waiting for this court date for an entire year so on your big morning you pulled out your nicest pressed shorts and best gold chain - brings whole new meaning to "dressed to impress". I'll be billing you extra - consider yourself bitch slapped. And I don't care if that knocks you out of your wheelchair or not.

Well, I feel like I have righted some wrongs. Carry on.

And I Didn't Have To Go Through Labor

The POD is readjusting to civilian life. School has started and we are settling back into a routine. She is still the same child that I sent away to camp but there is a subtle improvement. She has matured some over the summer, which is welcome relief. However, she still wants to watch every episode of Hannah Montana on the Disney channel. What can I say? She’s a contradiction in terms.

However, this brings us to my role in her life. I offer the following for you perusal.

A sister feeds you mini-pizza for a nutritious well-balanced dinner.

A mother holds your hair while you puke up said pizza a few hours later.

A sister flees the area upon realizing the toilet is now clogged with vomit and a stench unlike any she has known before.

A mother rolls up her pajama pants and mops the smelliest mess ever produce from the bathroom floor while mentally cussing the plumbing in the shit hole house (ummm…. a mother might not use the phrase “shit hole” but it was warranted in this particular situation).

A sister packs a kid off to bed with a “Gee, I hope you feel better”.

A mother tucks said kid into her own bed and then sleeps on the 2 square inches of the king size bed that the child has not commandeered in the middle of the night.

A sister fetches Krispy Kremes for breakfast as requested by semi-recovered child this morning.

A mother makes dry toast and prays it stays down said kid’s gullet.

My point?

I WANT A FUCKING MOTHER’S DAY CARD, PEOPLE! A MOTHER’S DAY CARD! AND IT NEEDS TO BE HALLMARK! AND OVERSIZED! ONE OF THOSE $5.00 CARDS WITH FLOWERS ON THE FRONT AND MUSHY WORDS INSIDE!

A bunch of flowers wouldn’t kill you either.

I’m just saying.

I Went To The Woods And Thoreau Was A Whack Job

Hail to all! I have returned from the woods with nary a tick bite uponst my body! Yes, it's true - the POD has returned from her sojourn to the woods (otherwise known as her "no choice about it expulsion to 72 days in wilderness therapy camp").

Of course, in order to spring her from her Grizzly Adams hell the fam-damily had to join in for some outdoorsy fun. But perhaps I get ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning of my tour of the seven circles of hell (are there seven? or nine? I’m sooo not that literary).

As you may or may not recall, I took POD to camp just after Memorial Day. It was not good. It was not fun. It was similar to taking old Fido out a country road and dropping him off to die.

I then endured weekly conference calls with the POD’s therapist and my ‘rents. Therapist was okey-dokey. My ‘rents asked such pertinent questions like “Is her skin breaking out? Does she need acne medicine? Is she losing weight?”

Those might seem like normal concerns for a camp dweller but the POD wasn’t really in “camp”. Camp in this case is a euphemism for “living in the woods with one set of clothes, only showering 5 times in 72 days, carrying a 40 pound backpack on long hikes, sleeping under a piece of plastic every night, eating nothing but beans and rice and making your own fires with two rocks” camp. So one hopes that you can now appreciate the sheer idiocy of parental concern for the POD’s weight loss or the random zit.

Needless to say, summer was filled with much teeth gnashing on my part. But need for root canal aside, summer drew to a close. The ‘rents arrived a couple of Saturdays ago for us to prep for the trek to North Carolina to fetch my campfire girl home. And thus it began.

On Saturday, Captain Nutty (my mother) had more than her usual two grey goose and tonics and ventured into the land of the three-drink party.

On Sunday, Captain Nutty repeated word-for-word every single, solitary story she had told me under the three drink spell the night before.

On Sunday, Captain Nutty got mad at me when she asked “Did I tell you….?” And I responded, “yes, yes you did….you told me last night….you told me ten minutes ago….perhaps it’s time to adjust your meds.”

On Sunday night, we arrive at some Bed & Breakfast a mile away from the POD’s base camp. I spend my time avoiding the granola-crunching, “guess what mystery juice I made” owner hippy of the converted 1972 house he’s charging $120 night for my resting pleasure .

On Monday, we join about 20 other parents who kids are being sprung from wilderness hell for a “parenting seminar”.

On Monday, I spend my day shushing Captain Nutty for blithering on and on like Oprah on crack (and for the record, she really doesn’t like to be shushed).

On Monday, I try not to be embarrassed by the fact that everything the Consort (my stepfather) says sounds like it came right out of a motivational poster that hangs right next to the “Hang in there, Kitty!” print in some middle management dweeb’s office.

On Tuesday, I had to hike. Hike up a very big hill. And it was hot. Like Africa hot. And the hill was big. Like steep. And big. Did I mention the big?

On Tuesday, I spotted the POD! Gave her big, huge hug. And then kindly pulled away as the over powering smell of an unwashed communing-with-nature body swooned the senses. I mean WOW. Wish y’all had smell-o-vision wow. Like I’ve washed her clothes 3 times and they still smell wow.

On Tuesday, I watched the POD start a campfire with sticks and two stones.

On Tuesday, I made a mental note to purchase more fire extinguishers for home use.

On Tuesday, I slept on the ground. Under a piece of plastic. With bugs. With snakes. With things that wanted to crawl across my face in the middle of the night.

On Tuesday, I felt every single minute of my 36 years. I felt all those minutes in my lower back. In my midnight delirium, I sang praises to the gods of Holiday Inn and Marriott.

On Wednesday, I did not complain one single time about lower back pain as I feared the POD might turn on me with feral eyes and scream “72 DAYS!! 72 DAYS!!!”.

On Wednesday, I brought the POD home and we learned more of our ‘rents plans to enjoy “happy happy family fun time’.

On Wednesday, the POD and I began the countdown as to when the ‘rents would leave.

On Thursday, I longed for the sweet release of alcohol.

On Friday, I longed for the sweet release of drugs.

On Saturday, I longed for the sweet release of death.

On Sunday, the ‘rents left for parts northward.

On Sunday, the POD and I assumed our usual positions on the couch and played Pokeman on our Gameboys. ALL. DAY. LONG.

And all was right with the world once again.

Purging Purgatory

Dear Fellow Bathroom Dweller,

Let me start by conveying to you exactly how important bathroom time is to me. I have needs. I have issues. I realize that ours is a shared lavatory in an office building. I respect that this is not my personal space. I acknowledge your right to use such facilities for your own personal pottying needs.

However, you and I both know that there are very few females on this floor. As such, I have developed a sort of personal interest in our two-stall domain. I always use the second stall. You know this. First stalls creep me out as they are too close to the door of said restroom which puts me in fear of being discovered with my pants around my ankles and my cellulite bulging over toilet seat for the world to ogle. (Clearly this is not an issue for you but for my therapist but you see my point)
I like our bathroom even though the soap dispenser does not work. Thoughtfully, the Korean ladies who clean such space have provided a lovely soap dispenser for our hygienic necessities. I don't even mind that they provided Clean N'Clear facial soap for us to wash our hands with as their hearts were surely in the right place.

What do I mind? I mind you puking all over my toilet. Since they are so few us, it either had to be you or one of your little rug rats that you have dragged to work with you simply praying for the day school starts back up. I sympathize. I truly do.

We all feel the need to regurgitate our lunch from time to time. Someone who eats as much McDonald's as I do certainly understands a little post-lunch spewing. What I don't understand is how you managed to leave my favorite stall and not wipe down the toilet seat. Notice I don't even point out the backsplash you left on the wall (that would be rude of me). Even the homeless guy around the corner who I saw combing his girlfriend’s hair for fleas would look at the toilet and go “no thanks – a little too nasty for me”.

Do you not see the sign posted on the mirror by management that reads "if you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie"? I was massively offended by management thinking they had to request professionals to do such obligatory maintenance but NOW I see their point.

I can maybe get past all of the things. I am an adult. Of course, I am an adult that drinks an average of 8 diet cokes throughout any given day so I must get past such issues or explode.

But do you know what I can't get past?

Going into the first stall to find you had somehow managed to puke all over that toilet as well.

I hope your kid pukes in your shoes.

Much love,

Floyd