Category Archives: Holidays

Brand New Year, brand new Scarp?

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2012 is here, at least that’s what Facebook is telling me.  I’m really trying to look at the New Year differently this time. I normally look at it as another day…where it’s acceptable to get hammered on champagne and stuff your face with cheese and crackers.  This year, I’m forcing myself to adapt the “new year, new life” mantra.  I have to make something happen.  There’s $35.00 in my bank account and $5.00 in my purse.  If you’re doing the math, that’s a grand total of…really fucking poor.The good news is I’m breathing and happy, in spite of my economic situation.  Yeah, that’s right…fuck you, money.  Air is free, and so is a pleasant demeanor.  I didn’t wake up this way, but my boyfriend is awesome and has a way of helping me look on the bright side.  I don’t remember exactly what he said, but he made me laugh.   I was sick to my stomach when I climbed out of bed.  It could have something to do with the the vodka I consumed last night, or the s’mores…but it probably had more to do with the fact that when I worry, I get the shits. For the record, I’m blaming the s’mores.

I’m not sure if this a learned behavior or not.  My mother is a worrier, she can give you 1800 reasons why something is bound to be disastrous, at the drop of a hat.  It’s actually quite an impressive talent, it could be an interesting party trick. This is something I wrestle with, keeping my brain from tallying-up all of the terrible things that could go wrong.  Fear sometimes rules me.  It’s an awful thing.  I have a tendency to internalize all of my concerns, which shuts off the part of my brain that works my mouth.  It’s charming. Parts of my body are involuntarily twitching.  My right eye and right thigh muscle are taking turns.  I wouldn’t mind, but the eye twitch is really distracting.  I’m hoping that no one notices it, but since I just wrote about it…the chances of my spasms going undetected are slim to none.

Also, in the good news department…I have an interview on Tuesday, which I intend to NAIL.  It’s for a Legal Assistant position at a Family Law Office.  It wouldn’t matter if I was interviewing to be the parking attendant at a Waffle House, I have to get this job.  I don’t have a choice.  I’ve always been pretty decent at interviewing, people normally like me.  My resume is impressive,  I’ve done a lot of shit.  It’s not an inflated description of every task I’ve ever been assigned, either. I left out the parts of my work experience that include finding someone stupid enough to accept the donation of a very ugly, out of tune piano and keeping my former employer’s wife from shitting kittens after she called me in a panic to announce “I’m peeing blood”.  I’m not a Urologist.  I’m not sure why she decided that she should share this unfortunate health issue with me, but she did.  She also had panic attacks in elevators and would call me so I could walk her through pressing the button to open the doors.  There is something about me that crazy people find soothing, I wish I could figure out what it is and turn it off.

I sometimes open up the Society Page of my local newspaper and see her smiling at me from the pictures within.  The articles about her tout her charitable contributions, which are commendable.  But, you tend to look at someone in a different light after they greet you at their front door, having a White Zinfandel induced meltdown, in their nightgown at 3 in the afternoon on a Wednesday, with bright red lipstick applied to their teeth.  She’s quoted as “wanting to improve the lives of people less fortunate,” but I know that she really means “I’ve peed blood.  I needed a reason to wear this expensive dress and I like to hear people say nice things about me, because I’m really a miserable wench.”

I hope I don’t make an ass of myself on Tuesday and these people give me a chance.  I also hope they aren’t crazy, social climbers with a propensity for donating large musical instruments.  I think my piano moving days are over.  I’m trying to prepare myself mentally for the Inquisition and think of all they ways I’m employable.  My boyfriend has been trying to help me be more pro-Scarp.  As I was laying in his bed with my stomach trying to escape my body through my abdominal wall, he reminded me that my resume is impressive because I’m impressive.  Pretty nice of him, huh?  He also told me the Giants were playing the Cowboys at 8, and he was hungry…but that’s not the point.  I know that things will fall into place.  They have to, I’m not going to give them any other option.

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Conversations with Santa.

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We were standing in line, behind a screaming bundle of snot dressed to the teeth in red velvet and a bow in her hair that all but eclipsed her face.  The lace and ruffles on her socks probably weighed as much as she did.  Her parents were trying to appease her with baby talk and rattle toys. “Mommy, that baby is hurwting my earws,” my son whispered to me, trying to be discreet.  “Mine too,” I agreed.  But, it wasn’t her screaming that were causing me pain, it was her idiot parents.  They were genuinely befuddled by their little girls’ behavior and were apologizing profusely to anyone that would listen.  “I don’t know why she’s acting like this, I’m sorry,” the mother said over the shrieking.  “No worries, I’ve been there,” I replied.

First-time parents are always apologizing for the very normal things their kids are doing.  I’m sure I did it, too.  It’s annoying.   It wasn’t like they’d dragged her to a Poetry Reading at the trendy coffeehouse, we were standing in a mall waiting to see Santa Claus. If you’re in this line and not accustomed to the shrill sounds of tricycle motors, you’re shit out of luck.  I knew why the kid was screaming like a banshee.  She had a bow size of the Hubble Telescope slapped to the side of her head and was dressed from head to toe in stiff, hot, itchy clothing.  Every five seconds someone was shaking a noise-making apparatus in her face and speaking to her like she was a moron.  I’d be screaming too.

“When is Santa gonna be back from lunch, mommy?” “Soon, buddy.  I hope he skipped the Eggnog and went straight for the Whiskey.”  “What?” “Nothing, I was thinking out loud, pumpkin.” I’ve been making the pilgrimage to the mall to have my son’s picture taken with Santa for the past five years.  I have never arrived at an hour when Santa was not on his lunch or coffee break.  Not only does the bastard steal my glory, he wastes my time.  The man that brought me so much enjoyment as a child is quickly becoming number one on my hit list.

Santa came back from lunch to roaring applause.  It must be good to be him, I never got a standing ovation when I came back to work from a long lunch.  The baby in front of us predictably wailed through her photo session.  “Oh my God! She never acts like this,” her father exclaimed.  I wanted to shove the rattle down his throat and scream “the reason she never does this is because you never dress her up like a doll and hand her to a very hairy stranger, while crowds of people stand around and watch.  What’s wrong with you, you fucking retard?”  I didn’t though, not in front of the fat man. You’d have been proud of me.

My son waited patiently for his turn.  He was determined to make the most of his Santa meet and greet.  With the Toys R Us ad under his arm, he walked over to the bearded elf and introduced himself.  He shook his hand, climbed up on his lap and whipped out the ad.  He had circled some toys he thought were noteworthy.  It always surprises me when he acts like this, this is a child that has peppered pretty much everything he’s said to me for the past six weeks with the words “poop” or “butt”.  I was afraid that Santa was going to ask him what he wanted for Christmas and he was going to reply “Poop poop pee doop”.  Actually, I wasn’t afraid, that would have been hilariously awesome.

The photographer interrupted their business meeting to snap the picture, after this Santa lifted my son off of his lap.  He thought he was done, but my son had a few more speaking points.  “I’m not on the Naughty List, wright?” he asked.  Santa agreed.  “So, you’re sure there will be prwesents?  I just want to make sure I’m on the Good List.  Do you have a copy of the list on you?  I’d like to see it.” my little man wanted proof.  “The list is in the North Pole,” Santa was quick on his feet.  “You can’t get it on your phone?  I saw you on the iPhone commercial.  You asked the lady in the phone to get it for you,” my son was quicker.  “I left my phone in the Sleigh.  It’s charging.”  Santa confessed.  “You should go get it, my Mom never leaves her phone is the car.  She says someone might steal it.”  “I’m sure you’re on the Nice List,”  Santa finally relented.  “See? I told you,” the boy said to me as we walked away.  “Do you want to see the picture?” I asked.  “No, I know what we look like,” he chirped as he bounced through the mall.

It was nearly 11:00 a.m., Christmas morning when my son finally opened his eyes.  I had to wake him.  “Santa came!” I announced.  “Whatever. Can I have some chocolate milk?” he asked as he dismissed me from his room.  He was pretty sure their meeting went well.  Although he did point out that he didn’t get everything on his list.  “I asked him to upgrade my vehicle.  He missed the green trwuck,” he whispered to me after all the presents had been opened.  “If he’d had his phone, he would have been able to snap a picturwe.”  I’m sure Santa will have to sit through a Power Point presentation and sign a contract next year.  I hope he’s prepared.

Remember Ben…and tacos.

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I’ve just read a Yahoo news story about an anonymous women paying off stranger’s layaway accounts at K-Mart in Joplin, Missouri.  It made me burst into tears.  I’m a huge, blubbering mess right now.  I know, I can’t believe it either.  Dammit, this is really going to ruin my image.  Just when my faith in humanity nearly flat-lines; those bastards at Yahoo resuscitate me.  She did not ask for recognition, the only thing she asked was that the recipients honor the life of her recently departed husband.  “Remember Ben,” was the only request.

This article got me thinking, if I actually had the resources…would I do the same?  Two years ago, about this time of year, if you asked me this question, I probably would have given you a not very convincing “sure”.  I had the resources and I can tell you that I did not use them to help anyone else.  It’s not because I’m selfish, I just didn’t realize what I had.  Age and experience has made my exterior harder, but it’s made my insides a creamy, nougaty center.  I feel now, probably too much, for others.  I can’t watch a news blip about a sick child or a family in need without getting emotional. 

The holidays seem to bring out the best and worst in people.  The news is peppered with feel good stories about folks doing the right thing.  Those people need to be commended.  Also, there are stories about soulless fucks stealing from people in need.  Those people need to be punched in the face and set on fire.  I don’t understand the thought process of a thief.  I walk into places all the time and think “wow, it’d be really nice to have things like that,” but I never put these things in my pockets and walk away with them.  What’s wrong with people?  There’s a special place in hell for people that take from children.  If they need gifts so bad, they should’ve contacted the organization they stole from to get on the list of people in need.  This could save them from eternal damnation, it’s so crazy…it just might work.

I was recently getting my taco fix at a local Mexican restaurant.  Taco Tuesday is quickly becoming my favorite day of the week.  As I was at the hot sauce bar, my attention was brought to a table with three people seated at it.  Two men and a woman were stuffing their faces with half-priced tortilla goodness.  They were young-ish, I could tell because they were all dressed up in clothing that makes them look stupid and sitting in a cheap taco place.  They were talking about me, I’m not sure why, I didn’t do anything to them.  My presence was irritating to the women at the table; I know this because she was saying rather loudly, “HER? What’s so great about her?”  She went on to pick apart my appearance.  It’s not a huge place, there weren’t many people in there and everyone could hear what she was saying.  She pointed out the fact that my hair needed to be done and I wasn’t wearing any make-up.  I couldn’t argue with her, I was in need of a root touch-up and…I wasn’t wearing any war paint.  I was also not going to have my picture taken with the Mayor of Tacoburg, and am past the point where I care what people may think about my appearance.  “She’s looks like a dirty hippie,” the young woman said angrily.  In my defense, I don’t look like a dirty hippie. I look like a clean hippie.

It went on for a while; I learned all kinds of things about my appearance that pointed to the fact that I was not as great as her…I need a pedicure, a tan and an eyebrow wax.  I wasn’t offended; she wasn’t saying anything I don’t already know.  “Whatever, Michelle. I just said she was pretty,” one of the young men said.  I thought about walking over to them, patting the young man on the head and thanking him for the compliment.  Then helping her with the list of things that could use improvement.  She missed a couple of things, but I decided that she was just young and insecure. Reminding her that she wasn’t in a soundproof box and not a supermodel, herself, would probably really ruin the night of the young men, if I spoke up.  I wasn’t in the mood to fight; it’s Christmas.  I didn’t want to wind up in a news story.  I could just see the headlines now, “Dirty hippie rearranges face of taco eating moron.” 

The young woman was determined to point out what it was about me that she found unattractive, so much so, that when they left the establishment she forgot her purse.  It was hanging there on the back of the chair she was using when my order was ready; I noticed it on my way out of the door.  The threesome was long gone.  I couldn’t track them down.  I’ve had my purse stolen before; I know how horrible it feels.  Even though she’s spent the last 15 minutes trashing me, I couldn’t help but imagine the panic that was going to set in as soon as she realized she was without her bag.  I put my sack o’tacos down and thought for a minute.  I don’t steal, even when no one is looking…it’s bad for my karma.  Should I open the purse and try to locate her address or should I leave it there and wait for her to realize she’d left it?  What if someone came in after me and stole it? I grabbed a napkin and wrote a note.  It said “Merry Christmas.  The old lady that needs the highlights, pedicure, tan and bath didn’t think she should use your credit cards to achieve your standards of physical perfection, even though she could have. You’re welcome.”  I dropped it in the purse and gave it to the girl standing behind the counter.  “The bitch in the red pants left this,” I said, as I handed over the bag.  The employee, who was standing there the whole time listening to her dissertation about how much I suck, was genuinely surprised by my actions. “I’m a dirty hippie, not a thief,” I laughed as I walked out the door. 

I’m not expecting a medal for my good deed.  For all I know the employees at the food place pillaged the contents of her bag before she retrieved it.  That’s on their conscious, not mine.  The people in Missouri may forget all about Ben and the joy his wife provided on Christmas morning, I won’t.  If I ever am in the position to honor the memory of Ben and any other person that gave without expecting anything in return, I will.  I will also remember the young woman and her unfounded fury.  If we ever meet again, after the holidays are over, I cannot promise that I won’t use her as a piñata.  I don’t think Ben would hold it against me.

What will the neighbors say?

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My son was very talkative before school today, but he’s always chatty.  He was telling me about a new song the mystical, all knowing Ms. Patty had taught in school, asking me if I knew it.  “It goes Pol-wice Polly-wog.  Pol-wice Polly-wog…or somethin’.  It’s a Chwrismas Song,”.   I was scanning the memory banks for some obscure carol that contains the words “police” and “pollywog”.  You see, I have an annoyingly large collection of music lyrics stored in my head.  It doesn’t really matter what the message is, if it’s set to music, my brain absorbs it.  Unless, it’s useful information…if it’s useful, my brain shuts off.  Music lyric retention is my super power.  It’s a blessing and a curse.

My talent would work very much in my favor if I were ever a contestant on Jeopardy! and there was a song lyric category.  I can confidently say, I’d run that shit.  Now, this will probably never happen, because it involves voluntarily signing up to be a contestant on Jeopardy!  This is where my little fantasy ends, because I’m not gonna do that.  If Congress accidentally took a bunch of acid and decided to initiate a game show draft, thereby forcing me take the on-line exam and…let’s say I did make it through the selection process and got on a show that had such a category, you’d be in for quite the treat.  If I could get through the first two steps of this mission and the last part didn’t materialize, I can assure you that I would entertain you with my artfully signed name and dazzle you with my ability to give the wrong answer.  Given the chance I’d like to ask Mr. Trebek why he insists on pronouncing the word Sophomore; “Soph-A-more”?  I wait all year for the High School Tournament, so I can feel like I’m incredibly smart and that condescending, know-it-all, silver haired, prick ruins it by distracting me with his oddly emphasized speech patterns.  Damn Canadians, they’re all the same.

Up until the invention of the smart phone, my phone would ring in the wee hours of the morning; on the other end would be a friend, a very drunk friend.  This friend, who has no concept of time because, as I pointed out…they’re drunk, would say something like “Haaay! Haaay, can you hear me?” as loud bar sounds blare in the background.  “Listen, I’m sitting here trying to figure out what the name of this song is.  You’re the only one I could think of that would know….can you hear it?”  Usually, I couldn’t hear the song, but I had to wait a little while to communicate this, because the friend had removed the phone from their ear and was presumably holding it above their head, thinking they were improving the chances of the music being heard.  Drunk people think that this is the best way to collect the sound waves floating through the air, I’m not sure whether they think their bodies act as a giant antenna or what.  The only thing I was ever able to hear was my friend yelling “Oh my God! I love this friggin’ song!” and the murmur of other people talking over the clinking of glasses.  After the intermission my friend would put the phone back in talk position, I’d say “I couldn’t hear it,” and they would proceed to poorly sing it to me, in all of their slurring glory. After several minutes of being serenaded, as sad as this may sound, I was always able to identify the name of the song.  I was thrilled when someone finally designed a phone app that could do this job for me. I sleep much more soundly. Thank you Shazam, wherever you are.
   
I was trying in earnest to figure out what song my son was talking about when I pulled out of my driveway and almost ran over my neighbor.  This is not something that is abnormal. Although I may not be the world’s best licensed driver, it is she that is to blame for near bumper contact, most of the time.  She’s a strange bird and I have never been one of her favorite people.  I don’t particularly care; I’ve never intentionally done anything to her to make her dislike me. Unless she reads my blog, in that case, she has every reason not to like me, now. 

I’ve mentioned before that I believe she is a certified whack-job.  We’re all weird in some way.  Take me for instance; I do some pretty strange things, sometimes unconsciously.  I’ve been told that my normal expression conveys a message of confusion.  It is not uncommon for a complete stranger to walk up to me in a location I am very familiar with and ask me if I’m lost.  This never happens to anyone else I know, so it qualifies as weird.  I also collect horrifically ugly socks.  Sure, I might be very well coordinated on the outside, but inside my shoes lies a knitted secret.  The uglier the sock, the more inclined I am to wear them.  Right now I’m wearing some lovely red and blue ones that go straight up to my knees and bear the image of cartoon monkeys. How’s that for a visual?

Along with my neighbor’s affinity for walking her dog in her jammies at all hours and talking to herself, she displays a lot of other quirky behavior.  She’s a compulsive gardener, and I don’t mean she likes a well-manicured lawn.  I mean that I have come home at three in the morning to find her laying in her front yard, trimming her grass with scissors by flashlight.  I have also seen her drag out the vacuum cleaner and vacuum her driveway and street out in front of her house.  My parents have lived in this house for almost 20 years, it was apparent she was a little off when we moved in…either she has ramped up the crazy or I am just getting more observant.  She seems to do a good job of hiding her insanity from the other neighbors on the block, but not me…I’m on to her.  

I’ve seen her engaged in many a pleasant conversation with Bob, the neighbor that lives across the street.  I think I’ve had a neighbor named Bob in every location I have called home.  If you don’t have a Bob in your life, I recommend you get one.  They’re aces.  When she talks to him, she looks him in the eye and never makes a bee-line for her front door when she sees him coming.  It makes me wonder, what does Bob have that I don’t?  It’s very strange.  I have never tried to engage this woman in conversation, but still she avoids me like the plague.

Maybe she hates me because she’s always sneaking up on me as I back out of the driveway.  It’s almost like she wants me to put her out of her misery.  My neighborhood came equipped with a sidewalk, you’d think after a few years of being in my blind spot as my reverse lights come on, she’d learn to use it.  Or maybe she hates me because I have been in my backyard and heard her berating her husband from over the fence.  “My mother was right, I should have married Arnie Shenkowitz” seems to be her favorite insult.  Arnie, if you’re out there, I’m sure you’ll be happy to know you dodged a bullet.

Today, she wasn’t walking her dog; she was seated in the road, again with scissors, trimming her grass.  People are not supposed to be in the road, so I’m not sure why she got all bent out of shape when I tried to use her as a speed bump.  I rolled down my window to apologize for not seeing her, but I didn’t really mean it and she didn’t really accept it.  “Ask her, Mommy! Maybe she knows the song!” my son directed from over the seat.  “I don’t think she’s in the mood for Name That Tune, Buddy”. “Why not? You always wisten to music when you mow the lawn”.  “Yes, and I always use the lawn mower when I mow the lawn.  I think she might be Jewish”.  “Does that mean she can’t use lawn mower?”.  “No, it means she might not know the words to a lot of Christmas songs”.  “Oh, why can’t she use a lawn mower?”  I didn’t have an answer for this one  aside from the obvious “She’s off of her meds,” but I didn’t want him to repeat that.  He ended his questioning and started caroling again.  I realized, halfway to school that “Pol-wice Polly-wog” was his rendition of “Feliz Navidad”.  While I appreciate Ms. Patty’s efforts in trying to make my child multi-lingual, I was hoping he’d master English before he went on the bastardize another language.

Santa is watching.

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I hate to admit it, but I’m sitting here listening to Kelly Clarkson…on purpose.  I needed some fluffy, emotionally charged, girl music.  Sometimes it does the trick, lights a fire and reminds me of all the things I already know.  I downloaded Pandora on my phone; on it I programmed all the stations I’d never listen to in public – Kelly Clarkson, Air Supply, Rihanna.  No- Air Supply isn’t fronted by women, but…they could be. It’s not that I think this music is beneath me; I just like to think I’m tough broad and listening to sappy music doesn’t exactly fit the bill.  In the back of my head, I’m warning myself that chick tunes are a gateway to the Lifetime Channel. If I start writing about Meredith Baxter-Birney, cramps, The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants or any other estrogen related topics…I advise you to skip the intervention and shoot me…Ol’ Yeller style.

I’m not sure what’s going on lately.  I seem to be on the receiving end of a whole shit-load of reminders that I’m not doing what I should be doing, what I could be doing and what I’m not doing. Yes, I have more than a few flaws, but they’re part of my charm.  Without them, life would be exceptionally boring and I would have nothing to talk about.  My son is my most vocal critic; he’s at an age where he knows everything. Near as I can figure, this starts at four and continues well into 40.  Yes, I know I am the adult here and it’s likely just a phase, but as much as I consistently correct the behavior, it continues and it’s starting to wear on my self image.  I miss the days when I was the greatest thing since sliced bread.  Now someone that just mastered the skill of wiping his own butt is commenting on my shortfalls.   

All of his mom directed statements start with “Moooooom! You were supposed to…” or “Mooooooooom! Why didn’t you..”.  When he woke up this morning I was supposed to have his chocolate milk ready and his school clothes laid-out.  Well, excuse the hell out of me.  As I trudged through his whining, I thought about teaching him that I am not here to wait on him hand and foot.  Someday, he’s going to have to learn the lesson that any woman he is lucky enough to have in his life is not a mind-reader or perfect and will disappoint him.  I decided to go the alternate route of  “Quit whining. Santa is watching”.  I love this time of year; I get to rule with an iron elf.  I can sing “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake” under my breath and momentarily correct whatever obnoxious behavior is occurring.  I feel sorry for Jewish mothers; not having a score keeping, fat man to hold over their little darling’s heads when they refuse to eat their Matzos.  Sure, guilt is just as effective, but not nearly as musical or entertaining.  I look forward to the excitement on my son’s face, when he discovers the loot that Santa left under the tree Christmas morning.  What I don’t look forward to is running around securing the requested items, tripping over the bounty until the toys break and having to make room for all it.         

This morning, I attempted to get into the shower but decided it was too much effort.  My bathroom, much like the rest of my house is ankle deep in toys, especially the tub portion of this room.  In the very near future I am going to have to sort through all of this shit and donate it to a charity or the dump.  I turned on the shower and attempted to locate a clearing in the tub so that I could shampoo and exfoliate.  I got the water to an acceptable temperature, disrobed and put one foot in, only to be greeted by something resembling a dolphin with a birth defect, under foot. It squeaked at me like Flipper and stabbed me in the arch of my foot, viciously, with its dorsal fin, as if it was shanking me in the yard of a Dolphin Prison. This sent me lurching backwards, jumping on one foot and yelling “God-damn-son-of-a-bitch-that-hurt!!!!”.  Dolphins are supposed to be loving, gentle creatures, aren’t they?  I let the dolphin think it had won the turf war and decided to put off showering until I was in a more reasonable mood. 

Toy manufacturers; if you’re reading this…please explain the sharp, pointy obsession. I spend ginormous amounts of money on toys to entertain my son, why do you only repay me by trying to make me an amputee?   And why must everything have a million little pieces that get lost under the couch 5 minutes after opening the package?  Spider-man is not a crime-fighting hero, he is malicious little fucker that lurks in the shadows waiting for me to step on his web launcher and taunt me with repetitive phrases. These toys shouldn’t come with catch phrases like “retractable mega-gun” or “live action play”.  They should be more accurate and announce fun things like “parent crippling action” or “6 real life drain clogging functions”. 

My son is obsessed with the toy magazines that now arrive in the mail on a daily basis.  He’s sitting on the couch right now with a red marker; circling the items he thinks Santa should consider leaving him in exchange for good behavior, while finishing off the rest of his Halloween candy.  Last night, he was on the phone with his father; the entire conversation was toy centered.  It was pretty obvious that his dad doesn’t know his “Talking Fijit” from his elbow.  I’m not even sure what a Talking Fijit is, but it sounds annoying and expensive.  Thankfully, through eavesdropping, I was informed that it is a girl toy and not required to be wrapped and under our tree.

We haven’t even gotten through Thanksgiving yet and I am already willing Christmas to be over.  I know the holidays are supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year, but in reality, for me…they aren’t.  There’s a lot of pressure, whether it be finding the perfect gift or putting aside anger for a day and not stabbing a member of my extended family with a fork for being a jackass.  The holidays are not about making yourself happy; they’re the days reserved for making someone else happy and wearing stupid sweaters. I will do my best not to go psychotic when I hear “Blue Christmas” for the 800th time or get into an altercation in a mall parking lot, with some asshole wearing reindeer antlers and driving like an idiot.  Sometimes, even I need to be reminded that Santa is watching.

Hurry up…and don’t touch anything.

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“Daddy, I have to pee,” my son announced to his father as we all walked uncomfortably together through the crowded shopping mall. His father and I try to avoid contact with one another at all costs.  The holidays make this exercise difficult, and it’s the time of the year when we have to be slightly mature and less combative.  “Oh,well…um…Mommy will take you,” his father said, volunteering me and reminding me of one more reason why I can’t stand to be in his presence for more than an hour.  He always seems to be around for the glory or a photo-op, but delegates all of the benign, not fun things it takes to raise a child to someone he views as beneath him.

Father of the year has a new girlfriend; his nerves were making him spew out information about her without thought.  I had been listening to a story about Jennifer or Nicole, I can’t remember…but they’re always either named Jennifer or Nicole.  Anyway, what’s-her-face has two young daughters, one of which has Down syndrome.  “Wow, that sounds like a lot of work,” I said, admiring this woman’s patience.  “She doesn’t think so, but I do,” he quipped.  “We were all in the car over the weekend, me and her and the kids.  The three of them were in the backseat, fighting.  The one with Down’s does this grunting thing that drives me nuts, so I put in my headphones and told Jen-Nicole she was in charge of the them, so I could get some peace.” he chortled, obviously proud of himself for taking control of the situation.  “Nice to see you’re still a selfish asshole” I blurted out, not the least bit surprised with his actions.  Not that I care, but I couldn’t see this romance developing much further.  Historically, he’s the only person allowed to have special needs in a relationship, and there is no way in hell a good mother is going to allow her child to be resented for needing attention, special needs or not.  I was hoping this one would work out, for selfish reasons. It’s to my benefit when he has a girlfriend.  He keeps his nose out of my business, pays his child support and actually does fun things with our son, because he’s occupied and trying to impress the naïve, new love interest.

“Let’s go, buddy” I said to my son as I escorted him to the women’s restroom in the Food Court, trying to quell any open signs of animosity.  Even though public restrooms are some of the most foul, disgusting locations on the face of the Earth, I was happy to be able to break away from dysfunctional family bonding time for at least a minute or two.  “And then we’ll come get Daddy?” my son inquired “Yes, we’ll be right back” I said, muscling my way through the crowd.  As we got closer to the door hiding the potties, my nose picked up on the putrid smell of stale urine, “Don’t touch anything!” I whispered to my boy as I opened the door.

On the other side of the door was a scene straight out of a post-apocalyptic, third-world country.  Paper towels and assorted garbage were strewn across the floor and graffiti covered the walls.  I paused and tried to back out, but my son was hopping up and down, holding his boy parts and declaring “I have to go, NOW!”.  I didn’t want to risk an accident on the way to the department store at the end of the corridor, so I took a deep breath and held it.  There were a few unoccupied stalls, I used my foot to open the doors and assess the level of filth.  Why my foot? I don’t really know. I was wearing flip-flops, and my feet were just as exposed as my hands. Germs had as good a chance of entering my circulatory system through the pores in my skin at feet level as they did anywhere else.  Maybe, I subconsciously think my hands are more dignified.  No, I don’t use my feet to eat; but it’s far more likely I’m going to douse my hands with the antibacterial gel I keep in my purse, than I am to seek out a bucket of bleach to rinse the pestilence off of my toes.  Maybe, it’s a primal behavior. Although, I don’t ever remember seeing footage of a mother ape using her feet to inspect a bush, before her baby goes in to squat, when I’ve watched the Discovery Channel.

I picked the stall that was the least disgusting and my son and I went in. “Remember, don’t touch anything” I reminded him and I shimmied his pants down.  “Mommy, what’s that?” he asked, “I don’t know, but don’t touch it,” he wasn’t listening and picked up the flyer that someone left on the back of the john. “What does this say?” he chirped, “It says don’t touch me, I’m full of filthy germs” I replied, as I grabbed the paper out of his hands and threw it in the trash.  “It didn’t say that, Mom”. “Yes it did. Hurry up and pee, so we can get out of here. My eyes are starting to water”.  “Are you crying?” “No, Baby. I’m suffocating. Hurry up!”.  “I’m not a baby, I’m a big boy. See?  Look how I dance!”. “Right, you’re big, but you’ll always be my baby. Now, hurry. Twinkletoes!”

He didn’t hurry; in fact, he took the world’s longest pee.  While I waited, I looked at the floor and tried to figure out what kind of people are capable of doing this much damage to a bathroom.  How does an adult female, who is aware enough of today’s fashions to get herself to a shopping mall and meander amongst the newest clothes, come into a restroom, urinate all over the seat and floor, and not notice? Surely an image conscious broad wouldn’t want people to know she’s a filthy, seat peeing, hag and would clean-up after herself. This is flat-out vile, but it’s a pandemic. Seat pee-ers are everywhere.

Whoever stereotyped woman as being, caring, nurturing creatures…was a man and has never been behind the door of a woman’s restroom. It’s obvious to me that women, when not under the watchful eyes of society, are just as aggressive as their male counterparts; they’re just not as in your face about it.  No, women don’t start wars or pound on their chests and square-off, should someone displease them.  They set a trap and wait for an unsuspecting victim to sit in it. Anyone that cared about her fellow fallopianites would not expect someone to have to use all of the leg muscles above her knees to hover over a seat she had tinkled on; there is nothing caring about this.  You want to know why women take so long in the restroom, fellas? It’s because we have to do a little pre-game stretching, so we don’t injure ourselves while trying to defy gravity.

“All done, Mommy,” my son giggled. “Ok, let’s go wash our hands,” I directed. “No. I don’t want to.  Let’s go get Daddy. I want to show him my new moves”. “Listen, Buddy. You’re lucky I don’t call a Hazmat Crew and have them hose you off. Go wash your hands”. “What’s a Hazbat Crew? Do they have candy?”. “No, they drive a truck and clean up big, yucky messes, Bubba”.  “But, I didn’t make a mess. Wait, are you talking about the finger paint? I’m sorry about that”. “What finger paint? What did you do with the finger paint?”.  “I’m gonna go wash my hands now, Mommy” he deflected, as he made his way to the sink. “Top and bottom, top and bottom. In between, in between. Rub ‘em all together, rub ‘em all together. You’re all clean, you’re all clean” he sang to the tune of “Where is Thumbkin?” as he played with the bubbles and the water coming out of the automated faucet.  He must have picked up this little ditty on one of his children’s shows.  I certainly didn’t write it or teach it to him, it was too nice; I am guilty of re-writing the chorus of a Beastie Boys song to be sung “Fight for your right to potty” during his toilet training days.  Admittedly, that was more for my amusement, than educational purposes.  When he was thoroughly sanitized, we exited the bath-chamber of horrors.  I used my elbow, knees and foot to get the door open and took a great big breath of fresh air.

“How did it go?” his father inquired and he hurriedly ended a call on his cell phone. The expression on his face was one I had seen many, many times and let me know that he had been talking about me to the person on the other end.  “Business call?” I inquired, just because I love to make him uncomfortable. “Uh, no. Just a friend”. “Oh, well…when you call them back, be sure to mention what a wretched bitch I am,” I said out of earshot from our boy.  My son was bouncing around happily, elated that his parents were in 5 feet of each other and there were no lawyers present.  We keep up the appearances of not loathing the existence of one another for the sake of his well-being, but someday, he’s going to figure us out. “Mommy, I’m hungry! And I want a toy, a big, expensive toy, like a Hazbat truck!” he declared. “Oh, well…you’ll have to ask your Daddy about that,” I chuckled, repaying the favor.