I stood out on my cousin's back porch from about one o'clock in the morning until three, drinking Miller High Life and staring at the spot where I last saw my uncle and kissed him goodbye before I headed home to New York. There I stood alone, wondering how this could have happened. I saw him two months ago. His newest grandson is just six weeks old. My five cousins are young, ranging in age from 13 to 26. They still need their dad. How could something so small take down such a large force?
The day before was a Wednesday. I was sleeping and in my dreams I heard my cell phone vibrating across the room. It went off over and over. Finally I realized the phone was ringing in real life and I got out of my bed and took my cell off the charger. I flipped it open and saw that I had nine missed calls. One from my aunt and eight from my sister. My heart sunk. I thought something had happened to my 80-year-old grandmother. I called my sister back. To my surprise and horror, the bad news was about my mom's little brother, my Uncle Brian. She said he was in the hospital with a blood infection from a cut on his leg. He was in critical condition and not responding to medicine. My aunt and my grandma were already on the road to Pennsylvania where my cousins were waiting for them at the hospital.
I immediately sent a text all of my cousins asking them what was going on. I was waiting for a response, telling me that they message had been warped and that he was on antibiotics and he'd be just fine. I figured I'd go out there over the weekend and bring him a six-pack of some exotic beer and we'd sneak drinking it in the hospital room when the nurses weren't looking. No one answered me. After 45 minutes of gut-wrenching anxiety I sent a text message to my oldest cousin's husband asking him if everything was alright. He sent me a message back saying that his wife would call me in a little bit. I took that two ways. First, I thought everything was okay and they were in no rush to call me back. Then I thought, what if everything isn't okay, what if they can't call me because he's going downhill. I almost threw up.
Finally about four hours after the first notification, my cousin called me. I ran outside to talk to her, away from my daughter, who talks through all my phone conversations. I said, "What's going on? Is everything okay?" She said, calmly and matter-of-factly, "They admitted him at four o'clock this morning. There was a cut on his leg that got infected and it got into his blood. They put him on the respirator. There was nothing else they could do, Jeri, he's gone." It seemed like minutes until I could breathe again to ask her to repeat herself, but in reality, the words came right away. I thought I heard her wrong. She said, "He died, Jer." Then she started to cry. I said, "Oh my god, Meg, I'm so sorry. How could this happen?" She said, "I don't know."
The doctors wanted to talk to her, so she said she'd call me in a little bit. I went into my house holding back the tears and walked upstairs to my older sister's house. When she saw me the color drained out of her face. She said, "What happened? What's wrong?" I have no poker face and I never cry. If I well up, you know something bad has happened. I told her that our uncle had passed away. She covered her mouth and her eyes started to water and said the same thing I had said minutes earlier, "How did this happen?". She ran to tell her husband and I called our younger sister. I caught her just in time, she was about to leave for school. She went into hysterics immediately. I told her to come to our house. Then I called my dad at work. He couldn't believe it, he didn't even know my uncle had gone into the hospital that morning. He said he'd be right over. My sister and I had to go up to our mom's job to tell her. I felt like military officers walking up to a widow's house and bombarding her with bad news. She knew something was wrong when she saw the two of us standing outside her classroom door. She cried as soon as, if not before, the words came out of Kathy's mouth. She was going to finish up at work an meet us at our house. As we all sat in the living room, we wondered the same question over and over. How could something like this kill him?
My Uncle Brian, who was also my godfather, was larger than life in personality, size and heart. He stood six feet and four inches tall with a football player's build. He was taller than his kindergarten teacher and was taller than my mom by the time she was eight and he was five. He was a prankster and tortured his sisters with his shenanigans. He was athletic and popular. Uncle Brian was captain of the football, baseball and basketball teams in high school. He started dating his future wife when they were around 16 or 17 years old. They married and had five children, four girls and one boy. They moved their family from Long Island to Pennsylvania in 1991. Although far away from the rest of our close-knit family in miles, our bonds were never broken. We visited them and they visited us and all of us kids looked forward to the gatherings every time. As a matter of fact, I consider my cousins to be like more sisters and a brother and five of my best friends.
Shortly after I learned to drive and got a car I started taking random trips out to see them, more often than my parents knew about. Sometimes I would go for the day, other times I'd stay for a while. When all my cousins were at work or school, my uncle and I would sit around and hang out. He'd bring out these crazy beers that no one had ever heard of and we'd sample them all. He'd play Jimmy Buffett for me on his guitar. He would tell me jokes, most of them awful, but we'd laugh hysterically anyway. It's those times I look back on now and wished I had held on to a little longer. He lived every moment of his life to the fullest and never took anything too seriously. I like to think I inherited that trait from him as well as his affinity for anything with Hawaiian print. He was always wearing a Hawaiian shirt. He had a special nickname for each of his kids as well as my sisters, our other cousin and me. He and my aunt called me "Jeri Pins". My aunt put her arm around me at the viewing while I stood in front of him and said, "He loved you. You were his Jeri Pins." That was the only time I couldn't keep it together. He always treated me more like another daughter and less like a niece and that meant so much to me. I only wish I could have told him that.
It will be three weeks tomorrow since he passed away. Our family is still reeling. No one can understand why this had to happen. He was only 53. I seem to be stuck somewhere in shock/sadness/anger, although the shock is now slowly fading. Now I'm either upset or pissed. Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe when I think about him. I feel like our family got cheated out of another 30 years with the greatest father/son/brother/uncle/grandfather/great-uncle I've ever known. My heart is broken, selfishly for me, but it's shattered for my cousins. It seriously hurts me to see them like this. I want to help them and fix this, but I can't. There is nothing anyone can do. I feel helpless. I can't even help myself through this, there's no way I can help anyone else. I have him with me always, in my heart and also in the urn necklace my cousins got for me.
Funny side story about him, a few months ago he was here visiting. We were all at my grandma's house. I was leaving with more crap than I showed up with, as usual, because my Grammy loves to send me home with stuff. He grabbed the bags and walked me and my daughter out to my car. I kissed him goodbye and told my kid to give Uncle Brian a hug and a kiss goodbye. She kissed him and said, "Bye, Uncle Friend." Uncle Bri and I laughed and he said, "Uncle Friend, I like that, I'll keep it." and I laughed harder and told him, "Uncle Friend sounds creepy!" and I continued in a creepy old man voice, "Hey little kiddies, I'm Uncle Friend, want to come home with me?" He cracked up and told me he didn't care if it sounded creepy he thought it was cute that my 2-year-old made it up. Thinking back on it now, my daughter was right. That's who he was, my uncle and my friend.
True to the way he lived his life in love and laughter, he had a smirk on his face at his wake. That is so him. Smiling as always and loving everything. Nothing in life should be taken too seriously because life can sometimes be taken far before we expect it to be. You should never be unhappy with your life and love your family and friends like today is your last day.
I love you forever, Uncle Bri! Thanks for the memories!
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
It's Personal
A few nights ago the best show on cable TV, Red Eye, showed a clip of video personal ads that had to be from the 80's or the South, either way, it was a good time. It got me thinking though. What would *I* say if I had to "sell myself". This is what I came up with:
JP: WF, 5'7", chubby, blonde hair, green eyes. Sarcastic, cynical, cranky, insomniac. Slightly witty. Geeky nerd. Technologically moronic. Fag hag. Narcissistic for average-looking. Long legs, no torso, big head. Agnostic, awkward, stubborn Irish/Scottish/German/English. Libertarian; Liberals/Democrats need not respond.
Seeing it in print, I don't seem like much of a catch. It scares me to think about what kind of guy would answer this. Yikes!
JP: WF, 5'7", chubby, blonde hair, green eyes. Sarcastic, cynical, cranky, insomniac. Slightly witty. Geeky nerd. Technologically moronic. Fag hag. Narcissistic for average-looking. Long legs, no torso, big head. Agnostic, awkward, stubborn Irish/Scottish/German/English. Libertarian; Liberals/Democrats need not respond.
Seeing it in print, I don't seem like much of a catch. It scares me to think about what kind of guy would answer this. Yikes!
Free Falling
I was quite the lush back in my early 20's, as I'm sure has been realized if you've read any of my other entries. I was in the volunteer fire department for a short time back then until I moved out of district. If you know anything about volunteer fire departments, especially on Long Island, you know they love to party. Not to mention, they throw some of the best parties ever. The holiday party and the annual installation dinner are the highlights of the year. This story starts at the holiday party one cold December night and ends the next day in the ER, as usual.
The catering hall that we were having our party at was serving the 'mini Buds' instead of the normal 12oz bottles. I think the minis were like 8.5oz or something close to that. I called them beer shots. That night I drank enough of them to build myself a nice 3-D pyramid with the empties. Someone counted around 30, give or take a few. Needless to say, I was pretty inebriated. Also going on at the hall in another room was a sweet 16 party. I convinced a few of the drunk wives to crash the birthday party with me. I walked in, ate some one's food and was video taped wishing the birthday girl a happy sweet 16.
Our party ended and I somehow wound up at the firehouse. Oh no, I take that back. There was an after party at a bar first. My car and car keys were MIA, so like I said, *somehow* I ended up back at the firehouse eventually with a few other guys. I don't remember what we were doing while we were there supposedly sobering up, but I remember a few of us getting in trouble. It might have had something to do with drunk munchies and raiding the walk-in fridge, maybe.
The next thing I know, we're being yelled at by our company lieutenant in his office. The other two guys run out of the room, so I follow them. Lt. is right behind me and all of us are laughing. We run down the office hallways, through the lounge (over the couches), and out into the truck room. Then I follow the morons up the step into the cab of one of the trucks, through it and out the other side. I need to point out quickly that I'm still dressed up from the party. Skirt, high heels, the whole shebang. When I opened up the other door I turned around to see where Lt. was. He wasn't behind me anymore. While I was looking around I jumped down onto the step and went to jump to the floor. Unbeknown to me, the heel of my shoe was stuck in the grate. I dropped 3 feet down to the floor landing directly on my left kneecap and twisted my ankle in the process. Without a blink I got back up laughing harder and ran out back and smoked a cigarette behind the storage building. Not long after the sun started to rise and I really wanted my bed. Like I mentioned before, my car was missing. I called my little sister at 6 or 7 in the morning and begged her to come get me. She picked me up and brought me home and I fell fast asleep in my bed.
My dad woke me up sometime in the afternoon, inquiring the whereabouts of my car. I got up to get my phone and immediately fell to the floor. Confused and thinking I was still drunk, I tried to get up and fell again. I managed to get myself sitting on the edge of my bed and I looked down at my legs. My left knee and ankle looked like the belonged to a 500 pound man. My leg was like 5 times it's normal size. I tried really hard to think about how this had happened. I didn't remember right away that I fell off the fire truck. My dad again asked me not to divulge to the ER staff that I was tanked when I did this. I say "again" because this was not the first or last time I ended a night of drinking, shenanigans and debauchery with a trip to the hospital.
First I have to call around to the other department members to find my car. My ex-boyfriend(who was not my boyfriend at the time) and his sister had taken it to their house when I wasn't paying attention. They were nice enough to bring it over. I get to the ER (BTW, no one in my family ever comes with me. I always have to drive myself.) and I wait forever for a damn x-ray. In the end I had chipped the top of my kneecap (to this day you can feel the chipped piece floating on top of my kneecap). Also, I sprained my ankle so bad that I was told I would have been better off breaking it. Comforting. I had to wear an air cast for almost three months. That really sucked.
The moral of the story: It wasn't a good party unless I ended up in the ER. Judging y my injuries, this party was AWESOME!
The catering hall that we were having our party at was serving the 'mini Buds' instead of the normal 12oz bottles. I think the minis were like 8.5oz or something close to that. I called them beer shots. That night I drank enough of them to build myself a nice 3-D pyramid with the empties. Someone counted around 30, give or take a few. Needless to say, I was pretty inebriated. Also going on at the hall in another room was a sweet 16 party. I convinced a few of the drunk wives to crash the birthday party with me. I walked in, ate some one's food and was video taped wishing the birthday girl a happy sweet 16.
Our party ended and I somehow wound up at the firehouse. Oh no, I take that back. There was an after party at a bar first. My car and car keys were MIA, so like I said, *somehow* I ended up back at the firehouse eventually with a few other guys. I don't remember what we were doing while we were there supposedly sobering up, but I remember a few of us getting in trouble. It might have had something to do with drunk munchies and raiding the walk-in fridge, maybe.
The next thing I know, we're being yelled at by our company lieutenant in his office. The other two guys run out of the room, so I follow them. Lt. is right behind me and all of us are laughing. We run down the office hallways, through the lounge (over the couches), and out into the truck room. Then I follow the morons up the step into the cab of one of the trucks, through it and out the other side. I need to point out quickly that I'm still dressed up from the party. Skirt, high heels, the whole shebang. When I opened up the other door I turned around to see where Lt. was. He wasn't behind me anymore. While I was looking around I jumped down onto the step and went to jump to the floor. Unbeknown to me, the heel of my shoe was stuck in the grate. I dropped 3 feet down to the floor landing directly on my left kneecap and twisted my ankle in the process. Without a blink I got back up laughing harder and ran out back and smoked a cigarette behind the storage building. Not long after the sun started to rise and I really wanted my bed. Like I mentioned before, my car was missing. I called my little sister at 6 or 7 in the morning and begged her to come get me. She picked me up and brought me home and I fell fast asleep in my bed.
My dad woke me up sometime in the afternoon, inquiring the whereabouts of my car. I got up to get my phone and immediately fell to the floor. Confused and thinking I was still drunk, I tried to get up and fell again. I managed to get myself sitting on the edge of my bed and I looked down at my legs. My left knee and ankle looked like the belonged to a 500 pound man. My leg was like 5 times it's normal size. I tried really hard to think about how this had happened. I didn't remember right away that I fell off the fire truck. My dad again asked me not to divulge to the ER staff that I was tanked when I did this. I say "again" because this was not the first or last time I ended a night of drinking, shenanigans and debauchery with a trip to the hospital.
First I have to call around to the other department members to find my car. My ex-boyfriend(who was not my boyfriend at the time) and his sister had taken it to their house when I wasn't paying attention. They were nice enough to bring it over. I get to the ER (BTW, no one in my family ever comes with me. I always have to drive myself.) and I wait forever for a damn x-ray. In the end I had chipped the top of my kneecap (to this day you can feel the chipped piece floating on top of my kneecap). Also, I sprained my ankle so bad that I was told I would have been better off breaking it. Comforting. I had to wear an air cast for almost three months. That really sucked.
The moral of the story: It wasn't a good party unless I ended up in the ER. Judging y my injuries, this party was AWESOME!
Raising the Bar: A Love Story
I used to live at the bar, one in particular, Mr. Beery's. It's a dive. Back when I was 17 I started frequenting this hole-in-the-wall. When I turned 21 I had to tell everyone it was my 25th birthday. Before 2004 this was a place for sad old people and bikers. Over the years they've been booking "better" bands and hiring younger bartenders and now it's geared toward emo dweebs. Just thought I'd give you a little background. You're welcome.
I think this story takes place around 2003-ish. My bar years are mushing together these days. There's this crazy lady named D-Rock, who to this day, is still there every night. She's probably in her 50's but she looks to be about 100 years old. She has a raspy voice, dresses in leather and calls all the younger regulars her "grandbabies". Her nephew, Jimmy, came to the bar one night to see her. He was decent looking and seemed fairly normal for someone related to D. He starts talking to me and buys me a drink (the way to my heart). At some point in the night he says, "Would you go out with me?". I thought a date would be nice since I had only been on one up until this point in my life, so I said yes. He immediately starts telling everyone who will listen that I'm his "girlfriend". Oh, I'm sorry. I thought we were out of junior high school. Silly of me to confuse "asking someone out" with "going out with someone".
At this point I realize that he must be just as nuts as his aunt. I'm not going to lie, I was a little disappointed that I was not going to wined and dined. However, I did think this was hysterical. I decided to play along, don't judge.
The next night I meet him up at Beery's (BTW, I refused to give him my number). He brings me flowers. I'm not really a big flower person, especially not in a bar. Especially not THIS bar, especially not from him. He tells me that some woman wants to kick my ass because she's in love with him. She must be a prize. He then mentions that she's at Beery's too and points her out. HO-LEE-CRAP. Sitting at the end of the bar is this woman big enough to eclipse the sun. She looked like Mimi from The Drew Carey Show, only with brown hair. She was as wide as she was tall and had on what can only be described as 'clown makeup' she was also wearing what had to be a moo-moo, no joke. This whole situation was becoming more and more comical by the minute.
Jimmy is a hanger. I hate being leaned on and clung to. Unless I actually like the person, then it's okay in moderation. Now he was staring to get on my nerves. I had to shake him off me and force him to sit a seat away. Mimi-Twin had been staring a hole through me the whole night, looking at me like I'm a picnic lunch. Then it happens. Jimmy says we should get married. Wow. This must be every girl's dream. Laughing, I say yes. I put out my hand for a ring. He obviously doesn't know how to propose because he holds my hand instead. Then he starts to lean in to kiss me. I've never in my life eaten snacks off the bar, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I reached over an grabbed pretzels and shoved them in my mouth. I finish chewing and asked him where my ring is. He informed me that he doesn't have money for a ring. I asked him how he was going to afford a wedding and any children I might bear for him. His answer: "We're in love. Everything else will work out". I spit out my drink.
Although hysterical, I thought I should take a day off from the madness. Plus, I'm pretty sure Large Marge wanted to swallow me whole. Someone at the bar gave my "fiance" my number. No one would admit to it for fear of being killed by me. Jimbo called me over and over from a payphone. I didn't answer. Things started to add up. He had no phone and no car. I didn't know his last name and he proposed with no intention of buying me some bling, all within a few days time. He had serial killer written all over him.
The next night, after a day of 900 phone calls from various payphones, I met him at the bar. I tried ignoring him, but it wasn't working. I acted like a bitch, I yelled at him and flirted with anyone who walked by. He looked sad and defeated, which made me almost feel bad for a split second until I remembered that he's certifiable. Then he said something snarky to me so I yelled for all of Mr. Beery's to hear, "How can you treat me like this? I thought you loved me! I can't marry such a douche! The wedding is off!" I was going to throw the engagement ring at him, but there was none. He ruined my attempt at being over dramatic.
Big Bertha smiled at the end of the bar. I hadn't noticed earlier that she was missing a tooth or two. Cringe. He left with her that night. A few weeks later I heard they were engaged. He must have wanted to take his time with her and not rush like he did with me. They deserve each other. I hope they spawn a whole army of ugly, crazy children, just for fun. Maybe those kids will grow up and repeat the lunatic cycle of life, that is, if their mother doesn't mistake them for Bonbons and accidentally eat them.
Good times.
I think this story takes place around 2003-ish. My bar years are mushing together these days. There's this crazy lady named D-Rock, who to this day, is still there every night. She's probably in her 50's but she looks to be about 100 years old. She has a raspy voice, dresses in leather and calls all the younger regulars her "grandbabies". Her nephew, Jimmy, came to the bar one night to see her. He was decent looking and seemed fairly normal for someone related to D. He starts talking to me and buys me a drink (the way to my heart). At some point in the night he says, "Would you go out with me?". I thought a date would be nice since I had only been on one up until this point in my life, so I said yes. He immediately starts telling everyone who will listen that I'm his "girlfriend". Oh, I'm sorry. I thought we were out of junior high school. Silly of me to confuse "asking someone out" with "going out with someone".
At this point I realize that he must be just as nuts as his aunt. I'm not going to lie, I was a little disappointed that I was not going to wined and dined. However, I did think this was hysterical. I decided to play along, don't judge.
The next night I meet him up at Beery's (BTW, I refused to give him my number). He brings me flowers. I'm not really a big flower person, especially not in a bar. Especially not THIS bar, especially not from him. He tells me that some woman wants to kick my ass because she's in love with him. She must be a prize. He then mentions that she's at Beery's too and points her out. HO-LEE-CRAP. Sitting at the end of the bar is this woman big enough to eclipse the sun. She looked like Mimi from The Drew Carey Show, only with brown hair. She was as wide as she was tall and had on what can only be described as 'clown makeup' she was also wearing what had to be a moo-moo, no joke. This whole situation was becoming more and more comical by the minute.
Jimmy is a hanger. I hate being leaned on and clung to. Unless I actually like the person, then it's okay in moderation. Now he was staring to get on my nerves. I had to shake him off me and force him to sit a seat away. Mimi-Twin had been staring a hole through me the whole night, looking at me like I'm a picnic lunch. Then it happens. Jimmy says we should get married. Wow. This must be every girl's dream. Laughing, I say yes. I put out my hand for a ring. He obviously doesn't know how to propose because he holds my hand instead. Then he starts to lean in to kiss me. I've never in my life eaten snacks off the bar, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I reached over an grabbed pretzels and shoved them in my mouth. I finish chewing and asked him where my ring is. He informed me that he doesn't have money for a ring. I asked him how he was going to afford a wedding and any children I might bear for him. His answer: "We're in love. Everything else will work out". I spit out my drink.
Although hysterical, I thought I should take a day off from the madness. Plus, I'm pretty sure Large Marge wanted to swallow me whole. Someone at the bar gave my "fiance" my number. No one would admit to it for fear of being killed by me. Jimbo called me over and over from a payphone. I didn't answer. Things started to add up. He had no phone and no car. I didn't know his last name and he proposed with no intention of buying me some bling, all within a few days time. He had serial killer written all over him.
The next night, after a day of 900 phone calls from various payphones, I met him at the bar. I tried ignoring him, but it wasn't working. I acted like a bitch, I yelled at him and flirted with anyone who walked by. He looked sad and defeated, which made me almost feel bad for a split second until I remembered that he's certifiable. Then he said something snarky to me so I yelled for all of Mr. Beery's to hear, "How can you treat me like this? I thought you loved me! I can't marry such a douche! The wedding is off!" I was going to throw the engagement ring at him, but there was none. He ruined my attempt at being over dramatic.
Big Bertha smiled at the end of the bar. I hadn't noticed earlier that she was missing a tooth or two. Cringe. He left with her that night. A few weeks later I heard they were engaged. He must have wanted to take his time with her and not rush like he did with me. They deserve each other. I hope they spawn a whole army of ugly, crazy children, just for fun. Maybe those kids will grow up and repeat the lunatic cycle of life, that is, if their mother doesn't mistake them for Bonbons and accidentally eat them.
Good times.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Chicka-Chicka-Bow-Bow
It's extremely hard to embarrass me. This may be one of the only times in my life that I actually felt it.
When I was like 18 or 19 years old, me, my gay husband and my BFF were out driving around. We stopped at 7-11 to get coffee. We got back in the car and were just sitting in the parking lot. One of them, I don't remember who had the brilliant idea, thought it would be funny for me to buy a Play Girl magazine. The only reason it was funny was because you actually had to ask the old man at the register for it. Of course I thought this was a great idea. So I did it. The old man didn't think it was quite as funny as we did. We looked through the mag and all it's awfulness. It was so bad it was comical and we seriously wondered who would buy and read this crap regularly.
Anyhow, we drove around and hung out for a while and then we all went home. I took the PG into my house so I could show my younger sister and we could have a laugh together. Which we did. I didn't know what to do with the magazine since I lived with my parents. I was scared to throw it out for fear that they might see it in the garbage. So I did what any normal moron would do and I put it under my mattress. Being me, I forgot about it. For years.
One fine day I stumble into the house, drunk. (First I have to explain the way my bed was for this to make more sense. I had these BIG formica bunk beds. It had drawers on the whole left side and under the bottom bunk. The bed was in the corner of my room against two walls, so you can imagine why I called the bottom bed "the coffin". I hope this helps with the rest of the story.) So I fall into the house and up to my room. I get to the top of the stairs and my dad yells up to me that he and my mom had to go into my room earlier to find our cat who liked to hide under the bottom bunk. (The only way to get under the bed is between the wall and the bed. He used to slip between and sit behind the bottom drawers.) Our cat was old, but usually if you called him, he'd come right out. He didn't. They thought he died under there and took my mattress and the wood support under it off the frame. Don't worry, the cat was fine but it was at this moment I realized that the Play Girl magazine was under my mattress. I was going to throw up. My parents didn't mention it, they just complained that my room was a mess. I ran into my room and lifted the mattress. The magazine was gone. GONE. They had to have seen it since it's no longer where I'd left it. To this day, they probably think I'm a pervert.
Eventually I was able to look at my parents again. Fast forward another few years when my boyfriend and I were taking apart this monstrosity of a bed to make way for a more adult bed (being at this point I'm now like 23 years old). I take off the mattress and lift up the wood support and what to my wondering eyes should appear? That fricking magazine! My parents must have thought they were being slick and put it back in the wrong spot! They had it between the wood and the drawers! Then I had to explain this to my boyfriend because now he thought I was some sort of perv.
Next time, if there is one, I'm just going to throw it in the garbage. Or not buy one at all. It's funny at the time, but in the end, I guess it's still pretty funny.
When I was like 18 or 19 years old, me, my gay husband and my BFF were out driving around. We stopped at 7-11 to get coffee. We got back in the car and were just sitting in the parking lot. One of them, I don't remember who had the brilliant idea, thought it would be funny for me to buy a Play Girl magazine. The only reason it was funny was because you actually had to ask the old man at the register for it. Of course I thought this was a great idea. So I did it. The old man didn't think it was quite as funny as we did. We looked through the mag and all it's awfulness. It was so bad it was comical and we seriously wondered who would buy and read this crap regularly.
Anyhow, we drove around and hung out for a while and then we all went home. I took the PG into my house so I could show my younger sister and we could have a laugh together. Which we did. I didn't know what to do with the magazine since I lived with my parents. I was scared to throw it out for fear that they might see it in the garbage. So I did what any normal moron would do and I put it under my mattress. Being me, I forgot about it. For years.
One fine day I stumble into the house, drunk. (First I have to explain the way my bed was for this to make more sense. I had these BIG formica bunk beds. It had drawers on the whole left side and under the bottom bunk. The bed was in the corner of my room against two walls, so you can imagine why I called the bottom bed "the coffin". I hope this helps with the rest of the story.) So I fall into the house and up to my room. I get to the top of the stairs and my dad yells up to me that he and my mom had to go into my room earlier to find our cat who liked to hide under the bottom bunk. (The only way to get under the bed is between the wall and the bed. He used to slip between and sit behind the bottom drawers.) Our cat was old, but usually if you called him, he'd come right out. He didn't. They thought he died under there and took my mattress and the wood support under it off the frame. Don't worry, the cat was fine but it was at this moment I realized that the Play Girl magazine was under my mattress. I was going to throw up. My parents didn't mention it, they just complained that my room was a mess. I ran into my room and lifted the mattress. The magazine was gone. GONE. They had to have seen it since it's no longer where I'd left it. To this day, they probably think I'm a pervert.
Eventually I was able to look at my parents again. Fast forward another few years when my boyfriend and I were taking apart this monstrosity of a bed to make way for a more adult bed (being at this point I'm now like 23 years old). I take off the mattress and lift up the wood support and what to my wondering eyes should appear? That fricking magazine! My parents must have thought they were being slick and put it back in the wrong spot! They had it between the wood and the drawers! Then I had to explain this to my boyfriend because now he thought I was some sort of perv.
Next time, if there is one, I'm just going to throw it in the garbage. Or not buy one at all. It's funny at the time, but in the end, I guess it's still pretty funny.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Wimpy Wimps Who Are Wimpy
Where did all these wimpy people comes from? When did we become such a pampered, prissy, whiny, easily offended society? What happened to the America that doesn't take shit from anyone? Where have all the cowboys gone? (Okay, well I just wanted to say that.) Aren't we still the greatest nation in all the world? Yes! Yes we are! Can we start acting like it? I sure as hell hope so!
There's a growing trend and it's getting worse every year. It starts like this: "I'm offended by....". Fill in the blank. Fill it in with anything ridiculous. Sure, some things can be taken the wrong way, but lately it seem to be trendy to be offended by everything. I almost feel left out since most things don't bother me. Maybe people should try harder to offend me.
I think everyone needs to take the pole out of their arses. Unless, of course, you like that sort of thing and in that case, I hope I didn't offend you....not. Yes, I said it. I was going to say, "psych!" but I restrained myself. Lucky you. Anycrap, back to the matter at hand: Wimps.
Wimp- –noun
1. a weak, ineffectual, timid person.
Not only are the majority of adults in the US wimps, but they are raising wimpy offspring. Little kids are whiny brats because they are being sheltered by these nutso lulus. They may as well be in a big old bubble. Helmets, knee pads, elbow pads, soft foam under the playground, stop signs on buses, EVERYTHING IS GOSH DARN CHILDPROOF! What's next? Ass pads for when they get their butts kicked at school? How are kids supposed to know if something is dangerous? This is why these kids grow up into jerky teenagers. I never wore a helmet, or any kind of body protection. I played on rocks, sand and broken beer bottles. I ACTUALLY had to look both ways before crossing the street once I'd exited the bus. Survival of the fittest, I say. I survived my childhood without all the buffers. I had even been shocked by an electrical outlet on more than one occasion because I didn't have those fancy outlet covers. Here I am, alive and well.... well, I'm alive.
Also, I've noticed that parents are quick to do work for their kids. Homework, school projects, selling crap, etc. My parents never did any of that for me. If I asked what a word meant, my dad handed me a dictionary. If I had cookies to sell, my mom didn't take the sign-up sheet to her job, I had to go door to door and do it my damn self. Oh, but they aren't allowed to do that anymore. And everyone gets a flipping prize. Stop rewarding mediocrity! How are these devil spawn supposed to understand the satisfaction of achieving a goal on their own? Everyone is so concerned with kid's "self esteem" but what these morons don't realize is that they are setting the children up for disappointment later on when they are unleashed into the real world. No one in the real world cares about your self worth.
Here is some unsolicited advice for parents: Cut the umbilical cord... pay attention now.... At. Birth. Stop hovering over your kids their whole life. Also, giving them a good smack on the ass every once in a while isn't child abuse, it's discipline. You're not supposed to be their friend. You're supposed to be their parent. Now stop it before I give you a time out.
Even the TV shows aimed at the young are making them prissy. Someone is always whining or throwing a fit and the other characters are like, "Oh no! What's the matter? What can *I* do to make you feel better about *you*?" Bullshit. It's one thing to raise a caring kid, it's quite another to raise one into a doormat. Other kids will pick that up immediately and use it to their advantage. They should be able to stand up for themselves and be somewhat self sufficient when they enter school. Unless, you don't mind being called to the school once a day to wipe their ass or their tears, or both. Have you ever seen "Bedazzled" with Brendan Fraser? You know when he's that overly sensitive guy serenading his girlfriend and crying at the sunset? That's how I imagine these people.
This same holds true for the grown ups, or "grown ups" as I like to call them. Stop being soft! Stand up! Grow a fricking backbone already! And for Bob's sake, stop taking everything so seriously, you're making us normal people look bad.
There's a growing trend and it's getting worse every year. It starts like this: "I'm offended by....". Fill in the blank. Fill it in with anything ridiculous. Sure, some things can be taken the wrong way, but lately it seem to be trendy to be offended by everything. I almost feel left out since most things don't bother me. Maybe people should try harder to offend me.
I think everyone needs to take the pole out of their arses. Unless, of course, you like that sort of thing and in that case, I hope I didn't offend you....not. Yes, I said it. I was going to say, "psych!" but I restrained myself. Lucky you. Anycrap, back to the matter at hand: Wimps.
Wimp- –noun
1. a weak, ineffectual, timid person.
Not only are the majority of adults in the US wimps, but they are raising wimpy offspring. Little kids are whiny brats because they are being sheltered by these nutso lulus. They may as well be in a big old bubble. Helmets, knee pads, elbow pads, soft foam under the playground, stop signs on buses, EVERYTHING IS GOSH DARN CHILDPROOF! What's next? Ass pads for when they get their butts kicked at school? How are kids supposed to know if something is dangerous? This is why these kids grow up into jerky teenagers. I never wore a helmet, or any kind of body protection. I played on rocks, sand and broken beer bottles. I ACTUALLY had to look both ways before crossing the street once I'd exited the bus. Survival of the fittest, I say. I survived my childhood without all the buffers. I had even been shocked by an electrical outlet on more than one occasion because I didn't have those fancy outlet covers. Here I am, alive and well.... well, I'm alive.
Also, I've noticed that parents are quick to do work for their kids. Homework, school projects, selling crap, etc. My parents never did any of that for me. If I asked what a word meant, my dad handed me a dictionary. If I had cookies to sell, my mom didn't take the sign-up sheet to her job, I had to go door to door and do it my damn self. Oh, but they aren't allowed to do that anymore. And everyone gets a flipping prize. Stop rewarding mediocrity! How are these devil spawn supposed to understand the satisfaction of achieving a goal on their own? Everyone is so concerned with kid's "self esteem" but what these morons don't realize is that they are setting the children up for disappointment later on when they are unleashed into the real world. No one in the real world cares about your self worth.
Here is some unsolicited advice for parents: Cut the umbilical cord... pay attention now.... At. Birth. Stop hovering over your kids their whole life. Also, giving them a good smack on the ass every once in a while isn't child abuse, it's discipline. You're not supposed to be their friend. You're supposed to be their parent. Now stop it before I give you a time out.
Even the TV shows aimed at the young are making them prissy. Someone is always whining or throwing a fit and the other characters are like, "Oh no! What's the matter? What can *I* do to make you feel better about *you*?" Bullshit. It's one thing to raise a caring kid, it's quite another to raise one into a doormat. Other kids will pick that up immediately and use it to their advantage. They should be able to stand up for themselves and be somewhat self sufficient when they enter school. Unless, you don't mind being called to the school once a day to wipe their ass or their tears, or both. Have you ever seen "Bedazzled" with Brendan Fraser? You know when he's that overly sensitive guy serenading his girlfriend and crying at the sunset? That's how I imagine these people.
This same holds true for the grown ups, or "grown ups" as I like to call them. Stop being soft! Stand up! Grow a fricking backbone already! And for Bob's sake, stop taking everything so seriously, you're making us normal people look bad.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Patriot Day
I don't get serious very often. I don't think life should be taken seriously at all. However, this is one of a handful of topics that I don't take lightly.
A few days from now our great nation will remember those who lost their lives during the September 11th attacks. It's been eight years, yet to some it seems like yesterday. Still to others, unfortunately, it's almost like it never happened. I think a lot of people forgot what happened that day, which is a travesty in itself. Not only should every American remember 9-11-01, they should remember how they felt when they heard the news or watched the scene unfold and also how they felt in the days and weeks that followed.
I remember as a kid, my parents talking about the assassination of JFK. They could recall every detail of that day. I never understood the significance of this until 9-11, although, I could slightly relate when Princess Diana died.
That day is etched in my memory forever, as it should be. Every minute is burned into my brain. The day seemed longer than usual. I was watching the news when the first plane hit and I stared as the chaos unfolded. I could see smoke from the main road by my house that heads west. I watched building 7 fall through binoculars on the side on Ocean Parkway. My boyfriend at the time was a volunteer firefighter. My dad worked across the street from the UN building and my best friend was living and going to school in Manhattan.
I couldn't get in touch with my dad or my friend for a while, but I finally did. My boyfriend and other volunteers were called in to cover the city firehouses while their men and women were at ground zero. Some of our volunteer firefighters were also city firefighters. I didn't hear from him all day. I sat at the firehouse from around 11pm until he finally came back after one o'clock in the morning. That's when he told me two of our volunteers (who were also career firefighters, one of which was the Chief of our department) were missing at the World Trade Center.
I don't remember sleeping that night. Not that I sleep usually, but especially not that night. When the morning came it felt surreal, almost like a bad dream. One of our volunteers had come home, but not our chief, he was still missing.
Why has our country forgotten? Collectively, do we have the memory span of goldfish? How could the patriotism and love of country that emerged in the days after have dissipated so quickly? How will the newer generations of Americans understand the reality and magnitude of "Patriot Day" if they are only reading a few paragraphs about it in a textbook? I'm waiting for the day my daughter is old enough to grasp the depth of what happened. Not to sound mean, but I hope she feels how I felt, she may even cry and maybe she should.
It's sad that only once year Americans remember. We should remember every day. We should remember those who lost their lives at the hands of terrorists. We should also think about the men and women who put their lives on the line for us and our freedom every day, as well as and especially, the men and women who have made the ultimate sacrifice for our country. We should ALWAYS feel a sense of dignity and pride for our nation, no matter what political party you belong to, if you do at all. Our pledge of Allegiance and National Anthem should be recited loud and clear, regardless of your religious affiliation, or lack there of.
Even if you lived thousands of miles from NYC that day, you felt it. Even if you didn't personally know anyone who was killed, you still felt a loss. It's THAT feeling that made you sad for your fellow Americans, scared of what might come next and proud of the way we all pulled together.
We are AMERICANS first and foremost and with all the (democrat/republican/liberal/conservative) bickering; THIS should be the one thing that unites us… more than once a year.
I know I'll never forget as long as I live, even if I tried. I'll certainly never forget our Chief, Lt. K. 288 Hazmat. He and so many others gave their lives in an effort to save as many others as they could. Chief's body was eventually found in the command center of the South Tower. It was November 30, 2001, to be exact. There was a video that was shown on TV a few weeks after the attacks. He was on it. It showed him walking into the tower with his crew. He never walked back out.
Final thought: ‘Patriot Day’ should be every day.
A few days from now our great nation will remember those who lost their lives during the September 11th attacks. It's been eight years, yet to some it seems like yesterday. Still to others, unfortunately, it's almost like it never happened. I think a lot of people forgot what happened that day, which is a travesty in itself. Not only should every American remember 9-11-01, they should remember how they felt when they heard the news or watched the scene unfold and also how they felt in the days and weeks that followed.
I remember as a kid, my parents talking about the assassination of JFK. They could recall every detail of that day. I never understood the significance of this until 9-11, although, I could slightly relate when Princess Diana died.
That day is etched in my memory forever, as it should be. Every minute is burned into my brain. The day seemed longer than usual. I was watching the news when the first plane hit and I stared as the chaos unfolded. I could see smoke from the main road by my house that heads west. I watched building 7 fall through binoculars on the side on Ocean Parkway. My boyfriend at the time was a volunteer firefighter. My dad worked across the street from the UN building and my best friend was living and going to school in Manhattan.
I couldn't get in touch with my dad or my friend for a while, but I finally did. My boyfriend and other volunteers were called in to cover the city firehouses while their men and women were at ground zero. Some of our volunteer firefighters were also city firefighters. I didn't hear from him all day. I sat at the firehouse from around 11pm until he finally came back after one o'clock in the morning. That's when he told me two of our volunteers (who were also career firefighters, one of which was the Chief of our department) were missing at the World Trade Center.
I don't remember sleeping that night. Not that I sleep usually, but especially not that night. When the morning came it felt surreal, almost like a bad dream. One of our volunteers had come home, but not our chief, he was still missing.
Why has our country forgotten? Collectively, do we have the memory span of goldfish? How could the patriotism and love of country that emerged in the days after have dissipated so quickly? How will the newer generations of Americans understand the reality and magnitude of "Patriot Day" if they are only reading a few paragraphs about it in a textbook? I'm waiting for the day my daughter is old enough to grasp the depth of what happened. Not to sound mean, but I hope she feels how I felt, she may even cry and maybe she should.
It's sad that only once year Americans remember. We should remember every day. We should remember those who lost their lives at the hands of terrorists. We should also think about the men and women who put their lives on the line for us and our freedom every day, as well as and especially, the men and women who have made the ultimate sacrifice for our country. We should ALWAYS feel a sense of dignity and pride for our nation, no matter what political party you belong to, if you do at all. Our pledge of Allegiance and National Anthem should be recited loud and clear, regardless of your religious affiliation, or lack there of.
Even if you lived thousands of miles from NYC that day, you felt it. Even if you didn't personally know anyone who was killed, you still felt a loss. It's THAT feeling that made you sad for your fellow Americans, scared of what might come next and proud of the way we all pulled together.
We are AMERICANS first and foremost and with all the (democrat/republican/liberal/conservative) bickering; THIS should be the one thing that unites us… more than once a year.
I know I'll never forget as long as I live, even if I tried. I'll certainly never forget our Chief, Lt. K. 288 Hazmat. He and so many others gave their lives in an effort to save as many others as they could. Chief's body was eventually found in the command center of the South Tower. It was November 30, 2001, to be exact. There was a video that was shown on TV a few weeks after the attacks. He was on it. It showed him walking into the tower with his crew. He never walked back out.
Final thought: ‘Patriot Day’ should be every day.
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