Growing up, my dad was a joker, and so my sense of humor comes from him. One of the things he taught us is how to laugh at the unlaughable. I'm not going to tell you how we "look for the sunnyside" or any of that kind of crap. What we do is laugh at ourselves, and try not to take things too seriously.

When everything was happening last spring, it was really hard to find a way to laugh at any of it. Brain trauma is serious, and spending weeks not knowing if every day when the phone rang it would be the news that my sister died, was horrible. (There were other things adding to the horrible, but that's for a different day.)

So when my sister woke up, and was going to be released to do rehabilitation in our home town, it was time to start laughing. And getting her to laugh.

The first thing I did, before she was released from the hospital in Pittsburgh, was to draw smiley faces on her toes. I had "threatened" to draw on her earlier, and I meant to make good on that.

Also, she's diabetic, so drawing on her feet would drive my mother bananas.

Everyone at the hospital, and then the nursing home she was released to, knew about the faces on her toes. (Sharpies are good for A LOT of things!!!) Since she couldn't do much for herself those first few weeks, it was inevitable that the Gator would discover what I'd done.

One day, the Gator called and she did her usual "So what's new" bit, and I told her that a rainbow pack of Sharpies was on sale at Staples. At that point, she called me an asshole, and told me that if I didn't behave, she'd have me strip-searched every time I went to visit my sister.

I couldn't stop laughing.

She had been up to visit my sister, and noticed the "black" on her toes. Since my sister is diabetic, my mother's first thought was gangrene (or worse) and so, as she tried to get a better look, my sister kept her legs moving around. When my mom finally caught a foot, and got a look, she asked, "Just when did your sister do this?"

I don't know why the Gator immediately thought of me.

The Jury Is Still Out

About a week ago, the Gator called me and began telling me about how she received a letter from the courthouse telling her she is on a jury. FOR A MURDER TRIAL. She's getting excused, of course. She can't be bothered with that (channeling her mother much?) "stuff."

In her defense, she is still dealing with a lot of "stuff," (short list: my grandmother-her mother-died in May, shortly after my sister was released to rehab from a hospital in Pittsburgh, PA, after suffering a brain trauma-an ongoing thing; another family member was diagnosed with cancer and is undergoing treatments) along with the fact that she's old enough to be excused on her age alone. All that aside, IT'S A MURDER TRIAL! And she's not going. And I had to hear all the reasons, several times over. For many minutes.

I'm certainly not going to be the one to argue with her. I'm not stupid.

I have to tell you, it's a MURDER TRIAL! And she was just randomly chosen, and notified by letter, without any further process!

This past spring, I was summoned for jury selection, so I do have the teeniest bit of experience with how jury selection occurs, I asked her several times about how she was chosen, about when she was at jury selection, and mostly being answered that it's a MURDER TRIAL! I asked her how many days this trial would take. She tells me "One day. But even so blah blah"

Finally, she got the letter and read it to me. Much like the long-ago days of listening to her reading the daily newspaper to me, it was an enlightening experience:

There was no mention of a MURDER TRIAL at all. It was a summons to JURY SELECTION, not for her to serve on the jury for a MURDER TRIAL. She had to read the letter, sentence by sentence, before she understood that whether or not there is a MURDER TRIAL, she is NOT actually on a jury (yet.)

She's still getting excused, but the jury's still out on several charges:  can she read for context? Does she understand how the process works? To what degree is she batshit crazy?

Classic

The AC in the Gator's car isn't working properly. It doesn't get cold enough--or rather, it gets slightly cool, but not really cold.

She took it to the dealer, who checked and re-checked...nope. Nothing's wrong, there's nothing to fix. "Sorry that the little light didn't come on for you, it light up just fine for us."

Finally, the guys at the shop got it to work.

They showed her how to actually push the button in, instead of just tap it. (and, I'm sure, they added a mental "DUH" after her name in their appointment book.)

This 'Splains A LOT

Saturday, the Howler went off to Chuck E Cheese with Bonk & his Mom. I worked all dayumed day, and so did My Sweetie, so it was great--free babysitting.

I scurried out of work to be home and save Bonk's Mom from the hell-that-can-be-the-Howler, and she wasn't at her house. She wasn't at my house. She weren't nowheres I could see her. (Bonk & the Howler weren't here, neither.)

So, I called her. She didn't answer her phone, which I was hoping meant that she was driving, on the way home (ol' Chuck's place is about 1.5 hours from here--I'm not sure, because I have never once, in my *cough cough* years, set foot in one of those demon holes.) I called her house, too, just-in-case.

She called back about 20 minutes later. They were just getting in the car at that point. Stopping at Dunkin' Donuts (sure, makes sense: 2 spawn in the car, sugar 'em up for the trip home) and they'd be home as soon as they'd be home.

While awaiting the homecoming, the Gator called. She asked if the Howler enjoyed her day. I said yes. She asked what time the Howler got home, I said "she's not home yet."

"So, how do you know she enjoyed it?"

"cuz she said she did when I talked to Bonk's mom"

"what? how? if they're not home yet?"

"I talked to Bonk's Mom on her cellphone." (mind-blowing concept, that.)

"Oh. Did you talk to Bonk's Mom on her cellphone?"

"Yes. I talked to Bonk's Mom on her cellphone."

"Did she say how soon they'd be home, then?"

"They're on the road as we speak. They'll be home in about an hour or so."

"So, they'll be home in about an hour or so?"

"Yes, they'll be home in about an hour or so."

The rest of the conversation went on like this for several more minutes. I know it wasn't that conversation psych shit that they teach you to be sure the other person knows you're listening...the Gator weren't listening. She was testing me to be sure I was listening to her--and to be sure I wasn't lying to her about anything.

Kill me now.

Fa La La La La...

There's a reason I hate the holidays. And most of it involves my mother, and her controlling perfectionism. That gets totally swollen and out-of-control starting about....today.

She went to visit my sister last week. She left on Wednesday. On Thursday, I had a 3 hour conversation with her that was mostly her telling me how to do things that didn't involve or effect her anyway. Friday and Saturday, My Sweetie had a 30-45 minute conversation with her each day. On Sunday, the day before she came home, I had a 65 minute conversation with her about....everything we'd already discussed, nothing important, and a repeat of her narrow, rigid, and pissy attitudes and opinions. Yeah, baby.

She got home on Monday. I talked to her for 30 minutes upon her arrival...about all the same shit we'd talked about on Thursday and Sunday. It was like a Reader's Digest Condensed version of the same-old controlling behavior.

Didn't talk to her yesterday, but today, the drain backed up. Luckily, it was small and caught early. But My Sweetie wasn't home to take care of it, and I had crap I had to run around town to get down that absolutely had to be done this morning...because school was letting out an hour early for the holiday break.

She was informed, and off she went to church. Fine.

She showed back up, in time to call Roto-Rooter. He's able to come today, but that means she's crawled right up my ass. If I try to do anything, I'm either going to get told HOW to do it, HOW to do it BETTER, or have to justify doing it at all. Loudly. She's hard of hearing--remarkably enough, her hearing loss is directly proportional to how much control she does NOT have at that moment. (and when that's not an issue, she's deafer if your nerves are jangling from having been subjected to biting your tongue off to keep from bitch-slapping her)

Today, after the drain was cleared, but before My Sweetie got home, and before the Roto-Rooter dude was packed up and paid, she first informed me that the guy (yea, she was THAT specific during this conversation) that died on Monday wasn't a "real Jew." She knows this, because the obit said he died Monday, and there was a viewing, and he wasn't buried IMMEDIATELY.

This, of course, also prompted her to inform me that one of my sister's friends is a "real Jew" and therefore it not only makes my mother (by proxy, apparently) an expert on modern Jewish traditions, it also means that any person who claims to be Jewish but doesn't do EXACTLY as this woman does (or as my mother supposes she does--I mean, she's seen the 10 Commandments starring Charlton Heston, too) is not a "real Jew."

The hell of it is this: Somehow, in her informing me of all her glorious (and OMG flawed) knowledge of Jewish tradition and law, she also began informing me of the sexual orientation status of several people we both know. As if she hasn't A) already informed me of this information at least 2x a year for the last 10 years; and B) I didn't already know well before she began informing me. (I want to add here that if she doesn't like you--and by "you" I mean 99.9% of the population--it means Man=GAY; Woman=WHOOO-ER. She's very much hung up on everyone else's sex life.)

Anyway, what it comes down to is simple: I am not HER, so there's absolutely no way I can ever talk out my ass the way she does.

Clash of the Titans

So, you want the Easter Egg story? Wooo boy. You're a brave one.

We're now up to March, 2002. The Howler, as she became known, had arrived on Monday. It's now Thursday evening, and on top of being exhausted, we're also excited--it's EASTER! Yay! And we may have finally gotten the baby girl's days and nights unmixed...so there may actually be sleep in our near future (at least, sleep in shifts.)

The Gator, if you hadn't noticed, is a control freak. Queen of the Control Freaks. And she has, due to prior Christmas rants, and limited, though varied contact with my Sweetie, become convinced that HE is easy going enough to allow her to steam roll over him (and me, by proxy.)

Ahhhh. She has not yet noticed that the winds have shifted. Let's watch as the Gator gets her wake up call from the Clue Phone:

Thursday afternoon, Holy Week, 2002. Mumple kitchen. Eggs for coloring on Friday are boiling. The phone rings, and big shocker, it's the Gator. "Whatcha doin'?"

My Sweetie tells her, "Boiling the eggs so we can color them tomorrow."

Apparently, this is the wrong answer. And having had similar conversations with the Gator before, I can honestly tell you, without having heard it myself, how this went.

Gator: WHAT?! You can't do that!

My Sweetie: Yes. My mom has ALWAYS boiled them the day before. They color better when they're cold.

Gator: They don't color AT ALL when they're cold. You've ruined them.

My Sweetie: My mom's always colored just fine, so why don't we wait and see?

Gator: You've RUINED Easter for the Boy! *sob* *cough* *shriek of pain* You ruined the eggs I bought, and you've RUINED Easter. (yes, the Gator not only over reacts, she does a really mean rendition of Confessions of a Drama Queen)

My Sweetie: It even says in the instructions on the color kit box to boil them, cool them, and dry them. "Cool completely" it says.

Gator: The HELL IT DOES! YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING! EVER! You hate me, you hate the Boy... *slams phone down*

My Sweetie, because it's still early yet, calls her back. She answers: YOU'VE RUINED IT! I SPENT $3 ON THOSE EGGS AND YOU'VE RUINED THEM!

My Sweetie responds: Really? Why don't we wait and see?

Gator (realizing she's already losing this battle, 'cuz her opponent hasn't even squeaked a sqwak yet): Fine. Just fine. You've ruined everything anyway. The Boy LOVES coloring eggs, and you two assholes have ruined his fun!

My Sweetie: How? We're coloring the eggs tomorrow. On Friday. Tomorrow.

Gator: The Boy dearly LOVES coloring eggs. Every part of it! And by doing this today, you've taken away HIS FAVORITE PART!

My Sweetie: Uhm, What?!

Gator: You've done his favorite part of coloring the eggs without him! You two assholes ruined HIS Easter, and MINE!

My Sweetie: You want me to believe that the Boy's favorite part of Easter is watching the eggs boil? Are you serious?

Gator: YES! YES! Yes, you asshole.

My Sweetie: Do you even hear yourself speaking? Watching water boil is one of his favorite things? I find that hard to believe.

Gator: That's because, what? Well, you've ruined MY EGGS. I paid for those eggs and there's no way they'll be edible now. GARBAGE! That's all they are.

My Sweetie proceeds to blow that little "inedible" theory out of the water, by telling her that unless she eats the shells, the eggs will be juuuuuuuuuuuuust fine.

Gator shrieks more insanity. Finally, My Sweetie loses his temper. He tells her HE will throw out the eggs, and go buy more. Then it will be HIS eggs that she won't be eating. She tried to convince him to "wait and see" and he said, NO, he wouldn't want to take the chance on an egg that was boiled on Thursday, colored on Friday, and eaten on Saturday or Sunday poisoning someone. They're garbage, so OUT OUT OUT they will go.

Then he proceeds to do just exactly that. He also informs the Boy that he will be WATCHING EGGS BOIL in the morning, and he'd be better giggling like a loon when he does it. And if he doesn't like it, he can take it up with his grandmother.

The moral of the story: Pick an irrational arguement with My Sweetie, and he will best you at it. The bonus moral of the story: Even almost 9 years later, the Toad does NOT appreciate it when you call him to the kitchen to watch water boil. (yeah, we still do that sometimes.)

He's a Keeper

And here's why:

First, the back story.

My mother desperately loves Christmas. She wants everything "perfect"...and of course, this is impossible. Because she tried too hard, I grew to loathe Christmas. Okay, loathe is probably overboard, because there are parts of it that I love. But in general? I hate it. I don't care. Let me have the parts I like, and screw the rest.

My mother, in 1999, saw those gawd-awful spiral trees and bought one. For the Toad. (of course, way back when, he was "the Boy") If you don't know what they are, they are basically a cheapass piece of curvy plastic that is suspended, ala fishing line, from a cheapass pole. The Boy couldn't have cared less whether or not we owned, let alone put up that fucking tree. You'd have thought it was the 2nd coming the way she talked about it.

Flash forward to 2000. Shortly after we started dating, it was the Christmas season. That meant decorating...and that we had to put out the lighted spiral tree she bought for the Boy. She had called and asked if we put it out--and he had no clue what she was talking about. But that wasn't hint enough for her. Of course not.

One Sunday night early in the Christmas season, my brother suddenly appeared at My Sweetie's house. We were getting ready for supper at My Sweetie's house, and the Boy was blissfully unaware, zoned on a video game. My Sweetie--the guy whom my mother had yet to formally meet. Did I say we were at his house?

Anyway, my brother shows up, to warn us that the Gator is on the warpath. Now, by "warpath" I mean, she was looking for a fight, and by God, she's going to have one. And she chose her favorite target--me. Over her favorite subject--the Toad. The issue of the minute was that spiral tree.

She had driven past my house, and there, brightly lit, was every other outdoor decoration we owned...except that tree. Unfortunately, it was freezing rain, and that tree had, in it's cheapass way, decided to blow a bulb and not light. Or whatever.

The Gator shows up at My Sweetie's house--remember? The guy she's never met. And she bursts into his home, and proceeds to rant and rave, spitting and frothing at the mouth. Like a lunatic.

Over the fucking tree.

She accuses me of leaving the Boy at our house, in the dark (never mind that at 11-almost 12 years old he's certainly old enough to turn on a light by himself) and then she begins about the fucking tree.

At some point, she had me by the shirt, near my collar. Basically by the throat, spewing all sorts of enraged, insane accusations.

I pry her fists from my shirt, and she begins to calm down. My Sweetie is going about getting supper actually on the table, and at some point, the Boy becomes unzoned and says, "Hi Grammy. When did you get here?" That may have been what calmed her down.

Supper is on the table, and, in an effort to not appear totally certifiable, she introduces herself to My Sweetie, with a slam on me.

God love him, he simply said, "Nice to meet you, I guess."

After supper (she's gone by now) we head up to my house so that My Sweetie, the Keeper, can try to fix the fucking tree. First, he tries, out in the freezing rain no less, to figure out which bulb is burned out. When his fingers are close to shattering from the cold, he drags the fucking tree inside. It's the fuse. He changes the fuse, lights the tree, sets it back up outside...

And likes me anyway! And he stays. And he comes back. And he still likes me! And I see as much, if not more of him. And he still likes me! And he laughs at how insane my mother is.

Even my sister, who always takes the Gator's side, upon hearing the story of the Fucking Tree, remarks, "You're not gonna let this one get away, are you?"

Yeppers. He's a Keeper. Wait 'til I tell you about the Easter Eggs.

It's Time for ... Family Feud

Grrr Argh.

And this will be the RD Condensed version: my brother is a very self-centered person. He is currently in the habit of borrowing my Sweetie & my (step) Dad's tools and keeping them for upwards of a year. There are things he borrowed at the beginning of his "little" project--and at least one none-too-cheap item is currently unaccounted for.

His MO is that he will call me (or the Gator) and ask if he can borrow something. (No lie, a few weeks ago, The Crown Prince called me and wanted me to go into my attic and look through the stuff he's still storing here for an I-don't-know-whatsis. When I told him to c'mon over and look, he suggested that my Sweetie do it when he got home from work...and when I insisted that he come over whenever he wanted and help himself to looking through his stuff for the whatsis, he said, "It's not that important.") Gator always says, "Of course, your Majesty" and I usually say, "I'll give him the message and we'll let you know." The Crown Prince ALWAYS gets his way, one way or another.

Currently, though, the menfolk in the family (My Sweetie and My S.Dad) are working on getting the other 1/2 of the duplex ready to be rented to new and hopefully improved tenants. The C.P. spent a few hours "painting."

After spending upwards of 3 hours in the same building as S.Dad, the C.P. leaves (and of course, the job is unfinished! Why on earth would anyone expect him to actually FINISH what he started?!) and waits patiently until I get home from work to call and ask me to go tell S.Dad that he's borrowing this one thingybob.

I ask him a legitimate question: "What if he needs that tonight for what he's working on?"

The C.P. calls me a "smartass" and hangs up. Hasn't really spoken to me since. (Yes, devastating, I'm sure.) The Gator promptly takes up his cause: I am assinine, and she will continue to bitch at S.Dad and My Sweetie, until one, or the other, agrees.

So far, neither has agreed. And she won't mention it to me. I talked to my sister last night--the Waffle. She usually sides with my mother, on all things, simply because she'd rather pick her own fights with me, but partly because she'd honestly rather fight with me than with the Gator.

Waffle actually agreed with me...and even reminded me how The C.P. got his name.

The Shaft

Here's another one for the "I didn't need to know that file:"

After the Howler was born, my Sweetie and I had to decide what to do about birth control. We did a two year stint of raincoats and prayer. Finally, something had to give, and my Sweetie, God Bless Him, gave himself up.

He got snipped. And I got to hear the "OOPS" stories of everyone else's snippage stories. "She got pregnant before it finally took" and "It didn't take, and he didn't get the 'shootin' blanks' test..." blah blah blah.

For the record, he got snipped; we continued with the raincoats and prayer BC methods UNTIL he got the "shootin' blanks" okie-dokie.

My mother, on the other hand, before the surgery (but after the initial appointment with the surgeon) and immediately following the surgery, was like a woman obsessed with my husband's privates.

It was bizarre.

She called me repeatedly to tell me that he simply must shave "the shaft, because, you know, it's hairy too." Not that she'd ever SEEN his shaft, but, because, you know, it must be.

Anyway, after about two or three of these calls, I was annoyed, and more than a little disturbed by the fact that my mother was spending so much of her free time thinking about, you know, my Sweetie's shaft.

I remained skeeved, but only said "And you know this because you, yourself, have had so many vasectomies?" She told me to not be "smart."

A few days after the surgery, my brother called and informed me that my mother, God love her, invited my sister-in-law to lunch. I figured he was just trying to bore me, but, no, I'm not that lucky.

Turns out that Mom realized I wasn't listening, so she turned to her "bonus daughter" (a very polite woman who definitely did NOT want to hear, or think, about my Sweetie's shaft) and my poor unsuspecting sister-in-law happily agreed to have lunch with Mom.

Apparently Mom spent lunchtime going into great detail about the snippage. Including using her gestures to get the point across. My sister-in-law spent the time in unbelieving silence. She's trying to eat, and her mother-in-law is giving her a blow-by-blow rendition of snippage, from the first shave stroke all the was through to the details of where the stitches are. Mom is great for using hand gestures for emphasis, too.

There are now two of us skeeved by what my mother is spending her time thinking about.

Weeks later, I'm in the car with Mom, and she starts on the subject of shaving shafts again.

So I responded with, "Mom, how many blow jobs have you given that you needed to spit out hair afterwards?"

She almost wrecked the car.

Then, "You're vulgar."

"YOU are the one spending so much time and energy thinking about my Sweetie's shaft."



It's now 4 years later, and I can effectively get Mom to leave the room by making ANY number of references to male private parts. I also don't have to listen to her "jokes" about my sex life, and if she forgets, I simply say the most "vulgar" thing that comes to mind--and I get an immediate change-of-subject. This is a highly valued skill in my tribe.

It's highly amusing to my brother and sister, and I get a high-five from my brother's wife every time.

I Really Mean It

Kill me.

Phone rings. (God help me) it's the Gator.

She's on a rip roaring search for a fight (and she's gonna get one, if she's not careful.)

G: Is your Sweetie around?

M: Yes. He's outside.

G: Give him a message for me, will ya?

M: Ohhhhhhh-Kay.

G: These improvements on the garage are not all tax write-offs, you know. Neither property has a garage with it. Thanks. *click*

WTF does that mean? And, which properties, exactly? This a freaking DUPLEX. It's ONE lot, unfortunately with two houses on it. They've been working on the garage for 4 months--and NOW she says this?

Oh, yeah. I'm gonna need bail money.

Kill Me. Kill Me RIGHT. NOW.

Yet again, I'm on vacation...and in Hell.

Why am I in Hell? I am apparently not doing enough (read: everything that needs done) to see to it that the 19-year-old Toad begins college classes next week. How it works out to be MY responsibility is anyone's guess.

No. Really. I want to hear others' guesses on how it is the mother's job to do everything annoying and inconveniencing the Toad doesn't want to do?

Lately, I'm getting this crap from two fronts: my mother, of course (because only she really truly sincerely loves him) and my aunt (who is, just now, totally insane.)

Neither of these women seems to understand these basic facts:

For years now, I have been unable to motivate, threaten into motivation, cajole, coerce, demand, pout (not that I actually pout, mind you, but apparently, I'm supposed to), guilt, or otherwise force the Toad into having some ambition and work ethic.

Nevermind that for longer than the years of unmotivated unmodifiable behavior, my mother has been undermining my decisions, my goals, and my ability to threaten, etc., the Toad. She's encouraged him to lie to me...and is majorly pissed off since he's now using that particular avoidance mechanism on her.

My aunt, on the other hand, thinks that I should call (or go) to his workplace and "talk with his manager yourself about them working around his class schedule."

Is it just me or are these people beyond "lost touch with reality"? Am I the crazy one to think that when I announced, four years ago, that I cannot and will not make myself physically (or mentally) ill in order to give THEM what they demand from the Toad (read: if he won't do it, I should for him)?

And now, on top of this insanity, it's my job to figure out how to get extra 15% off coupons for this aunt. Who can't drive. Who seems to live and die for the $1.00 she'll save on a clearanced blouse for a 5 year old next week.

I'm not making this up. I saw her Monday night, when she called and demanded that I bring her up the used and void coupon of that day to her. RIGHT. NOW.

At that time I informed her that we would be leaving on Tuesday, and we'd be home on Thursday. She called yesterday, an hour and a half after we got home, and wanted to know if I got those coupons yet. She wanted me to get online RIGHT. NOW. to get them.

She called this morning, at 10am, to ask if I had them yet. She wanted me to get online RIGHT. NOW. and get them.

I'm about to blow up at the woman, recuperating from surgery or not. I'm about to tell her that I think it's stealing to print off more than one coupon after taking that stupid survey. I want to tell her that I'd rather *gasp* pay full price for everything I ever buy again rather than listen to her incessant demands for more coupons that will save her, at most, $5 per purchase--purchases that aren't for her, and aren't needed, not by me, not by the dozen other people she's buying them for.

Oh, and with the price of gas (even if it is under $4/gal locally right now) is costing her every blessed penny she's saving with these coupons.

I want to call her up and tell her I'll bring her my unusable receipt and she can fold it three corners and stuff it...RIGHT. NOW.

It's What's For Dinner

And no, I do not mean beef.

Tonight, I came one step closer to becoming my mother.

My mother, for years, we joked, would set things on fire on the stove top. Not food--tea kettles, burner covers, Tupperware, tea towels. The smoke alarm would go off warning us that we would have yet another episode to add to the chronicles of Things Mom Set On Fire.

In my time, I've managed to scorch a tea kettle and ONE burner cover.

Tonight, I beat even my mother's knack for destroying by stove top--I turned on the wrong burner and managed to damage the large glass frying pan lid. The lid wasn't lit up yet, so it wasn't as bad as it could be--but the burner was, and it somehow warped the drip pan and the burner. The glass lid now has a chunk out of it--where the heat was highest at the rim, it cracked, and when it cooled enough to be in the touchable range, a chunk of the glass came out.

There are also visible and nearly invisible cracks (leave it to Mr. Auto Glass Installer to find the nearly invisible ones.)

So, I am now well on my way to becoming my mother. Kevin has already taken to calling me from his cellphone at Time-to-Start-Dinner and asking me to look and tell him if there's anything inside the oven, or on the stove top...and to tell him whether or not the correct burners are on.

Pray for me.

Oh Dear God!

You'd think that we had been gone for a month! Since we got home at 5:30pm, the phone has rung almost constantly...and, of course, not a blessed one of the callers can be TO THE POINT.

My mother, in Baltimore MD, called TWICE to tell me the same thing. She apparently, at some point over the past 3 days left a message for the Toad, explaining that, "It's now 5:30 pm in Baltimore." For the record, Maryland and Pennsylvania are in the SAME TIME ZONE. Unless there's some sort of Twilight Time Zoning thing going on, if it's 5:30pm in Baltimore, there's a 100% chance it's 5:30pm here, too.

My brother can't seem to understand that anyone is on a schedule that is different from his. It's currently 8pm--Bathtime for the Howler--and I'm on the phone listening to him explain, in intimate detail, step-by-step, how he needs to remove his stove and refridgerator tomorrow. It took him three minutes to get around to asking if my Sweetie would be able to come over and help him.

I realize that I can be slow on the uptake, but asking if my husband may be available for heavy-lifting and moving duty isn't brain surgery. You dial the phone, you ask if my husband is here, when I say "no" leave a message--including what you want. It's not hard.

Oh, sorry. I forgot that this is the same guy who called me every day for 2 months at exactly 8:30am, M-F, as I'm trying to get the Howler out the door and to school. No matter how many times I said, "I'm heading out the door to get the Howler to school!" he called the next day at the same time. Finally, after weeks of this, he exclaimed, "Oh! I did not know that."

Because of this kind of stupidity, I am now going to have a fight with the Howler over whether or not she's getting upstairs for the shower.

Stupid is as Stupid Does

My mother, the Gator, can be critical of me and my haphazard approach to getting things done. I am, to quote my Sweetie, "The Queen of Pullit Outcher Azz." (And I wear that particular tiara with pride.)

But, my mother is just as haphazard as I am--if not moreso sometimes.

Take her family reunion, for example.

The woman wants me to "toss together" a flyer or something to send out to remind her people of the dates, and what's going on during those dates. She tells me "it's the same place as last year." (In all honesty, most of 'em just bleed together for me, so I can't remember last year's from not last year's.)

I throw together this flyer doohicky for her--having it ready today, to appease some arbitrary deadline that only she knows about.

She makes minor changes: the most glaring of which is that it is not "where it was last year." Now, I was careful to ONLY use information she gave me (remember, she's critical) and I didn't get cute or even humorous. She hates humorous.

I sit down to make the corrections and I realize that while she "proofread" and wasn't overly critical (I'm sure that will come later), she did NOT bring me the address list nor the postcards she wants me to enclose. I don't have envelopes, either.

I do, however, have stamps.

I call her, and the best part of this whole fiasco is that she doesn't even have the addresses. Someone else does.

I absolutely hate this about her. (My sister has a tendancy to do this also.) Don't give me 50% of what I need to do what you insist I must...and I know she's going to be pissed off at me later because it didn't get done the way, and on the schedule, she wanted.

But, of course, I'll still be hearing about how I screw things up by waiting til the "last minute."

Help!

I'm on the phone and she won't shut up!

A ten minute conversation about the cucumber she just bought is better than a 30 minute story about Squirrel Bait and Loser Boy, BUT it's still more than I care to know--

Bird Stuffed

and in oven. Smells good.

The stuffing, at the very least, should be interesting. My mom's recipe uses one or two eggs (depending on whether you're making a *batch* or a *mountain*) and MIL's doesn't.

My Sweetie and I had this conversation:

Sweetie: Whatcha doin?

Mumple: Getting eggs out to make the stuffing.

S: There are no eggs in stuffing.

M: Yes, there is.

S: Nyuh uh.

M: Anh huh.

S: Nyuh uh.

M: Anh huh.

S: Nyuh uh.

M: Anh huh.

S: Nyuh uh.

M: Anh huh.

S: Nyuh uh.

M: Anh huh.

S: Nyuh uh.

M: Anh huh. I'll call my mother.

S: Whose stuffing is better?

M: I'll call your mother.

So, call MIL I did.

Don't get me wrong--I love stuffing, and I love my mother's stuffing. BUT in a few cases, I have to concede that MIL's recipes are better than my mother's (or mine, for that matter). And neither my mother or I are slouches when it comes to cooking.

So, turkey will be served at 3pm. Pie at 3:05pm.

First Day Bitch

First, I have to say that this morning was nice. I didn't cry (okay, a few tears, but no real sobbing or anything). And I spent a quiet morning just hanging out at home, and then off to lunch with the Toad, than back home, then out to pick up the last of my china (I have my teacups!), then off to pick up the Howler.

I went up to my mother's and the first words out of her mouth were "you better get going". Let me say that the first time the school calls me at work to tell me no one came for the Howler on my mother's watch, I'll sautee her ass with Purina SeasonAll and feed it to the cats.

I'll also tell you that if my mother thinks I don't know todays menu after having 3 freaking conversations with HER about it, AND after just hearing the Howler recite it, I may have to slap her more stupid than she's currently being.

Next, I have to say that if she EVER opens up the take home folder and mixes up papers again, I'll probably be arrested for assault and battery. I already know how this is going to go--my mother will REMOVE the papers that are supposed to be returned, fill them out wrong to "help" then forget to even tell me about dammed things, then tell everyone she can how irresponsible I am.

I have to add that her constant bitching at/about my step dad is at my limit. She begins as soon as he walks in the door. Then the Howler, of course, gets into a pisser of a mood and then my mother yells at everyone. Except the Toad (aka Precious Pup). It's disgusting, and if it doesn't end, my mother will find herself NOT watching the Howler after school, unless an absolute emergency.

Finally, I have to say, (and stop reading if you don't like my *french*) I don't give a flying fuck what the jackass down the street is doing/does/will do/claims he will not do with is Kindergarten daughter. The girls aren't in the same class, and that, my friends, is all I need to know.

Actually, I'm sick to death of listening to my mother yap on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on...INFINITY about this fuckwit. I don't know him, I've slapped eyes on the idiot ONCE and that was the back of his head, and I DO NOT CARE!

Yes, folks, I've discovered where my stress from this school year is going to come from--and it isn't the school, as previously feared.

Now, if you're leaving comments, please leave a dollar figure you're willing to put up for bail/my legal defense fund...because I'm seriously going to beat her more senseless than she already is.

More Annoying Things I Could Do Without:

Because one Top Ten List is never enough!

10. My mother on cough meds that make her (more) loopy.

9. Cat hair.

8. Migraines.

7. Strep.

6. 18 year olds.

5. My mother loopy for any reason.

4. Anyone who thinks I could make this stuff up.

3. Ovaries.

2. Cold weather.

1. People at McDonald's who take 10 minutes to decide what to order. (It's freaking McDonald's, for Pete's sake! A heart attack in a paper wrapper! Order already!)

Annoying Things I Could Live Without:

10) Repeated visits and phone calls from my mother

9) The neighbor's child who has, shall we say, an interesting upbringing (we're starting to suspect that Mom isn't so much allergic to *spiders* as she is tired and hungover from *stomping spiders*).

8) Delivery fees from the pizza place down the street. If I wasn't so lazy, I'd save a whole dollar.

7) The backache I've had for the last 3 days.

6) Repeated phone calls and visits from my mother on my day off.

5) Cold to freezing temps in April.

4) Insomnia.

3) Howler whines.

2) Cat hair all over.

1) Repeated phone calls and visits from my mother on my day off.

blah blah blah

Is there something about me that screams "Please call me repeatedly and tell me the same stories"?

Seriously.

And, it's either genetic, or a virus. My brother now has it too.

My mother called and tells me a story from my brother's life--one that was relayed TO her BY him. Okay. It was funny. Not gut-busting funny, but funny.

Then, an hour after she told me, he calls and says, "Did mom tell you" and tells me THE EXACT SAME STORY, as if somehow, hearing it directly from HIM would make it funnier.

It didn't.

I do have to admit that he did have a new ending for it, an updated one, but it STILL wasn't THAT funny. And it certainly wasn't funny enough that it should be repeated, in toto.

One of these days, my eyes really are going to get stuck up in my head when they roll.