Wednesday, September 28, 2011

The real reason for the downfall of civilization

While quietly folding disheveled piles of shirts, my peace was shattered by two boys throwing a football and dodging between the racks of women's clothing, knocking things around and yelling.  They looked a bit young to be there by themselves so I scanned the area for a woman who might be their mother.  I saw only one woman, her back to the boys, staring mesmerized at a wall full of jeans.  I glared at the back of her head until she turned around, psychically willing her to do her job as a mother.

I'd been doing it all night for other people's kids and I was sick of it. 

Please, don't make calls on the store's telephone... didn't your mother teach you not to touch things that aren't yours?!

Please, don't throw the hats on the floor and then stomp on them... we're still hoping to be able to sell them.

Please, don't clomp up and down the shoe aisles in women's high heels that you've ripped the tags off of and you're obviously not going to buy since you are a five year old boy.

All these happened with the mothers just yards away but completely oblivious or simply not caring about teaching their children proper conduct in a public place.  I'm not talking about perfectly behaved little automatons but simply teaching them some basic skills for functioning in society!

This particular mother finally turned around and our eyes met. I gave her my best glare. She slowly turned and addressed her brats. Finally a mother was stepping up and doing her job! "Boys, remember what I told you. Only underhand."

I give up.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Religious regurgitation and a sedation vacation

I had a rare Sunday off and I was at a loss at what to do with myself.  I would have loved a pedicure but the nail salons are closed.  My favorite places to eat are also closed on Sunday. So I spent my morning playing Zuma and staring out the window at the church across the street. That in itself was rather entertaining.

Oh, look, Mouthlissa is wearing the same skirt she's worn for the past five years! Same boots too.

And there's the bishop's wife. She's let her hair grow out again. Not a good look.

That's old Bro. Whozits and his new wife. Woof!

(Yes, I was slightly catty but no one heard but my dogs and they agreed with me.)

From reading the monthly newsletter I know that Sis. X is now in this calling and Bro. Y  is now in that calling. Same people, just shuffled around to fill the spaces. Regurgitated among the callings.

It reminds me of my high school friends that I've reconnected with on Facebook. Some of them still live in that same small town thirty years later! I can't even imagine it.  They've lived their entire lives in a place with very limited choices in jobs, friends, activities, housing, scenery...

Oh, wait.  That sounds an awful lot like a ward. Friends limited to those in the boundaries. Activities limited to church socials and meetings. And the same ugly, upholstered walls of the church building. Week after week. Month after month. Year after year. New faces move in and become familiar as they are tossed into the endleess regurgitation with the others. Just as I feel pity for my old friends I feel a sort of pity for the narrow life of the ward members.

On a completely different yet strangely related tangent, I went out with my ho girls Friday night for the first time in ages. Eating, bitching and enough booze to make us forget the tough week and relax.  A mini vacation with sedation. Better than any relief society meeting I've ever attended. Just what I needed to get me ready to face another week.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Loin girding for dummies

Lately I have been waking up every damn morning with lines from that stupid hymn going through my brain.

"Gird up your loins,
Fresh courage take..."

Over and over.

Yes, the days have been exhausting and sometimes tough to get through. But I've always HATED this hymn and especially these particular lines. I mean, how do you gird your loins? Because, frankly, I can think of way more fun-sounding things to do with my loins than girding. (Though my loins currently have cobwebs and are feeling a bit desperate.) But I suppose this is just my Molly Mormon subconscious' way of telling me to pull up my big girl panties and deal.

So each morning after I roll my ass out of bed and grab some coffee, I pick from my plethora of pretty panties, find a matching bra, and march into my day, my loins girded with silky fabric and lace (and sometimes bows). Because if a girl's got to gird, she may as well gird with gusto.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Faarting for real

I've been thinking of getting a Google + account for awhile but was too damn lazy (and addicted to Zuma on Facebook).  But things have come to a head lately. I find I never post because of all my TBM friends and family.  It is impossible to BE myself because I'm constantly censoring myself.  So to become more real, I'm going to Google using a pseudonym. Yes, I'm going fake to become more real.  So if you want to be my friend on Google +, just look for Ivanna Faart. I'll be farting for real this time around.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Everything you wanted to know about Master Baiting but were afraid to ask

So I've got another guest post at White and Delightsome. If you give enough of a shit to follow poor Molly's saga, here are the links to her story in order:

Pt. 1 Be Oral
Pt. 2 Crouching Lawnmower, Heaving Bosoms
Pt. 3 Charles' Little Chocolate Factory
Pt. 4 Molly"s Dirty Little Secret

And if you haven't read this blog at all, you are really missing out. Those women are fucking geniuses.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

If Voldemort had won...

The past few days my brain has been in a whirl trying to figure out a situation and getting nowhere.  I wasn't going to blog about it but maybe it will help me distill it down to something manageable. So here goes.

The dementor has turned into Voldemort and I no longer need a patronus, I need a fucking Harry Potter to defeat him her. Forget all the mumbo jumbo of doctors, therapists, Medicaid, Medicare and private insurance. What it comes down to is this: Why would any daughter want to put her mother in a level 2 nursing facility (with hospice care!) over living with a daughter who WANTS her and can financially and physically care for her far better than any facility?  The therapists agree living with family is doable and preferable to living in a facility. It seems like a cut-and-dried case. But not if you're Voldemort.

Voldmort is fighting this tooth and nail.  And since Voldemort has financial power of attorney, she can do whatever the hell she wants and no one can stop her. She has control issues and always has. It is why I cut her out of my life for so many years.  But to sacrifice the quality of your mother's life just because you can't and won't give up control is sick in so many ways. But she'll be sitting pretty in the celestial kingdom because she pays tithing, goes to the temple and projects a facade of pious humility and love.

I need a really big drink now. Damn you to the hell you deserve, Voldemort.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

If corduroy pants rub together in the forest with no one to hear, do they make a sound?

I've heard that corduroy pants are "in".  If that's the case, then why am I the old one scritching through the day?  I'd forgotten how noisy cords were.  If you want to walk quietly in them, you have to bow your legs slightly like you've just gotten off your horse after a long ride through the prairie. You'd think technology would have advanced enough by now to make noiseless corduroys!

I didn't buy these pants to be in style. I bought because they were LONG! I've never been able to be picky when it comes to buying pants.  If I pull on a pair in a store and they cover my ankles I buy them!  Who cares what they make my ass look like! And in the rare instance I find a pair that actually DRAG ON THE GROUND I snap them up faster than a dog on a jerky treat.  For decades I've been air drying my pants (especially jeans) because even the slightest shrinkage will cause them to look like the proverbial flood pants. I've even been reduced to stretching them while wet for extra lengthage.

When I found these cords with a 38" inseam for $8 I grabbed them in two colors.  I throw them in the dryer with abandon and they still DRAG ON THE GROUND! (Forgive all the caps, I'm just so excited.) Now I just have to figure out how to walk gracefully in them without warning the world I'm coming. Because, you know, the height and red hair are probably enough.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

My patronus is a cold germ

Why couldn't my patronus be something cool like a unicorn or a hypogriff? But it still did it's job of protecting me from evil. 

The morning of the sister's meeting in my mother's room at the care center found me so congested and obviously contagious that I begged off.  If I'd gone they probably would have stopped me at the front desk and thoroughly sprayed me with sanitizer before tossing me outside. 

But I had to work that night because in retail they don't care how sick you are as long as you're mobile.  I went all around the store straightening the clothes while clutching a wad of soggy tissues in one hand and popping cough drops in my mouth.  I apologize to anyone I infected and I'm sure there are many. I got my daughter sick just days before her singing audition for the school play.  I shared my germs with a friend visiting from out of town. (Since it was a rare visit we decided the risk of contagion was worth it.) I think the only person in contact with me that didn't catch it was my husband.  Yeah, that would have been like immaculate conception. *snort*

I'm still secreting massive amounts of phlegm at an alarming rate. If I could find a market for the stuff I could quit work and just milk my head. It sounds more pleasant than working retail during the holiday season.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

A hairrible situation

I went to get my regularly scheduled haircut yesterday only to be met with this sign hanging about the hair washing sink:

Ladies, Sept. 28th will be the last day I will be cutting hair.

What?! I felt like I'd been hit with a wrecking ball.  This woman (I'll call her Susan to protect my anonymity) hasn't just cut my hair for the past 10 years, she's walked me through some of the most difficult times of my life. All while I sat in her chair every six weeks.

I first went to Susan on a vague recommendation from an acquaintance.  I was finally ready to whack off my long, thick, shapeless mom hair. I walked into her little basement shop and said, "Cut it all off!"  And without hesitation she did.  There must have been several pounds of hair laying on her floor when she was done.  No one else has touched my hair since that day.  She's taken me through short-and-sassy to growing-it-out-again.  And everything in between.

When my daughter's trichotillomania progressed beyond her eyebrows and lashes and she'd managed to make bald patches on her head (in spite off all the therapy and medication and tears) Susan was there with a cute haircut and a headband to disguise the damage. Her daughter has severe OCD and anxiety and she understood and did not pass judgment, just gave quiet support.  She rejoiced with us a few years later as she cut off my daughter's waist-length hair to donate to Locks of Love. Susan knew the miracle it had taken for my daughter to go from a patchy, balding head to a beautiful, thick mane of  hair.  Enough hair to share.

Susan heard my fears that my son was gay.  She quietly noticed my change of underwear and my changing attitudes that evolved along with the color of my hair. No awkwardness, no judgment, just a listening ear and a new haircut. I left her with a large tip, a hug and a huge chunk of my life.  I might find someone new to cut my hair, but no one will be able to fill her place in my life.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Food fetishes

I've got another blog post over at White and Delightsome. I have to admit that it was inspired by a dream I had some time ago about a doughnut.  A very, very special doughnut. Yeah.  I love doughnuts.  I love sugar.  I love carbs of all types and I thought I'd never be able to live without them.  However, it has been at least 10 weeks since any of those have touched my lips.  The closest I get is a little Nutella mixed with natural peanut butter and smeared on a banana. ( Oh, God.  I think that might inspire a phallic-symbolled dream.)

I've battled high cholesterol the past few years and haven't had much luck in lowering it.  But this past week I was tested and I had dropped it almost 100 points!  AND I had raised my good cholesterol as well.  My doctor commented that I had obviously changed something in my diet and that my skin looked glowing and healthy. Since it obviously wasn't a pregnancy glow (thank the lovely surgeon who took all that out) I attribute it to all the food I'm eating INSTEAD of carbs.  Nuts, vegetables and fruits and a little meat. Oh, and hummus. And peanut butter.

So if I'm smart, and have enough self control, this is the way I will eat from now on.  My body runs well on this kind of fuel and feels great.  So I'm going to dream and write about my carbs and then grab me some nuts. Raw and unsalted.

Friday, September 2, 2011

Why I hate kids

Let me make it clear that I like some kids.  I have four and I think they're awesome.  I have friends with kids and I think their kids are damn cute.  It's those hordes of strange kids that surround me at work every single day that drive me insane.  I'm exposed to more kids while working retail than if I were working at a day care.  So here are the top reasons I hate those kids:

1) They have no sense of personal space.  They walk where they want to and stand where they want to and don't even notice any other body that might be in their way.  As I was swiping my credit card at the checkout one day, I almost whacked a kid in the head, he was standing so close.  His mom was standing about six feet back but he was nestled right up to me. I could smell his hair. My own kids don't even stand that close to me.

Then there was the little girl who came out of nowhere and ran full speed into my legs as I was just STANDING THERE.  Over six feet of full-bodied glory and she didn't even see me.  Since I was about 10 times her body mass she pinballed off my thighs, into a rack of jewelry and onto the floor. It didn't hurt me a bit.  It was like being rear-ended by a gnat. But it took that collision to finally get her mother off her damn cell phone for a minute to notice what her child was doing.

2)They make noise.  Constantly.  I was working in the shoe aisles for about fifteen minutes and the entire time a little girl was singing, "cha cha cha" and pulling at awkward places on her leotard.  Her mother was so used to it that she was completely zoned out. I had to walk away before I lost it and shouted, "Just shut the fuck up for one minute, you annoying little bastard!"  Her mother might have finally come out of her Xanax stupor and gotten mad at me.

3) They have high, piping voices that, when combined with 50 other kids high, piping voices, creates a dissonance that could deafen a dog.  Or give a crabby woman a headache. Which it does each and every day.

I could go on and on but I sound like enough of a bitch as it is.  It's time for me to buck up, get dressed and face the unwashed mass of short humanity.  And their parents.