The Continuous Posting of Conversations I've Had With My Mom

"I was watching something today and I'm going to tell you about it. You can make fun of me on your stupid blog if you want."
Don't mind if I do Mom-io. Don't mind if I do.

I frequently go through Sal's refrigerator when I go home. She tends to forget stuff is in there.
"Can I throw these fuzzy green tortillas and slimy mushrooms away or are you conducting some sort of science experiment?"
Sal, "Science experiment."
"So then it's safe to assume that this is on its way to becoming a fine cheese and is not spoiled milk?"
"You got it, kid!"

Mom, "So, I've decided that I am not going to eat bacon anymore. I saw on Dr. Oz that one of the best ways to a healthy heart is to quit eating bacon."
Me, "I can't remember the last time I even saw you eat bacon."
"Well, I figure it won't be too difficult!"

And one of my favorites,
"If you're not nice, I'm going to use your toothbrush on your dog while you're out of the house!"

The Time My Mother Made Me Eat a Dog Treat

This is a story about the time my mother made me eat a dog treat. Yes, that wonderful Sally O’Malley, who you all love so much, forced me to eat a treat designed specifically for canines. And it is for this reason that if I ever write a book it will not be dedicated to her, because of this episode of child abuse.

It was back during my high school years, back when it was easier and more likely that a child would be abused by their parent. It’s years later when the roles are reversed, and as the parent ages, children are more able to abuse them. I threaten Sal all the time that I will not hesitate to put her in a home the first chance I get. And not one of those ritzy ones, but the old folk homes that make headline news because their residents are getting neglected and abused. Force me to eat a dog treat and you’ll be spending your Golden Years eating cat food. You’ve been warned.

Anyway, I was downstairs in the bedroom and adjoining TV area that was my teenage dungeon during what I like to call my “genius years” (because that is exactly what I thought I was). I was lying on the couch, watching MTV, or some other teenage garbage, avoiding homework and attempting to be as lazy as possible on that rainy afternoon. The greyness of the outdoors made my cement basement area even more dungeonesque, with its ground level windows letting in what little light the rainclouds would allow to shine through them. This all seemed to match so well with my lovely teenage personality (not lovely at all).

Sal had been out running errands that day, and I was perfectly content to have the house to myself. Not that it really mattered, since I had confined myself to the basement TV anyway, but at least I didn’t have my mom constantly trying to talk to me.  When Sally got home she yelled “hi” down the stairs to me. I yelled an unenthusiastic “hey” back up to her, my eyes never wavering from the television. After the commotion of putting all the groceries away subsided, Mom came tromping down the stairs with something in her hands.

“Here, try this.” She said, handing over whatever was in her hand. I glanced up at it, skeptically. It resembled some sort of biscuit/cookie concoction.

“No, thanks.” I responded, eyes going back to the TV.

“Just try it! I just got them at the store.” She continued.

“No, thanks. I don’t want any.”

“Come on! Just try it! They’re really good!”

“MOM. I’m not hungry. I don’t want any.”

“Just take a bite. Come on. They’re good.” She insisted.

Oh, my God. I knew my only option to get her out of my hair was to just take a damn bite.

“Ugh. Fine.” I said, snatching the biscuit out of her hand and taking a small bite out of it. I instantly let it fall out of my mouth and into my other hand. It tasted like flour. Not sweet or cookie-like at all. “Ew. It’s gross.” I said and handed the remains of the cookie and the rejected bite back to her.

“AHAHAHAHAHHAHAA!” Sal cracked up. “It’s a dog treat! HAHAHAHAHA”

I stared at her with my unimpressed teenage eyes. “You’re hilarious.” I stated, rolling my eyes and going back to my MTV. I couldn’t let her win. I would not laugh. I must act annoyed. Through her boisterous giggling, she explained that she had bought them for Steve (our dog) at some all natural dog bakery that had just opened. They were made of flour, molasses, and other natural boring crap which is how she conjured up this “hilarious” prank. I knew the persistent pushing to get me to eat this thing was a bit suspicious. I’ve now explained to her that she really could have played out this practical joke much better than that (although I guarantee I would have had the same reaction).

To this day she still cracks up when I tell this story (to friends, not CPS, although the thought has crossed my mind a time or twelve). And although I am past my teenage years, I still have the same eye-roll-with-a-bored-sigh response. I put a fake cockroach in her bed once, years before the dog treat incident, and she nearly had a heart attack. Now there’s a prank I can laugh at! Alas, I guess the dog treat was payback for me. But that also means that the ball is in my court now…hmmm…

White Girl Problems

Babies are cute. To my dismay, they become more and more adorable in collaboration with this annoying ticking sound that seems to be coming from my uterus.  But is it actually coming from me, or have friends and family somehow strapped a hypothetical time bomb to my back?

When I was younger, I used to tell my mom that I didn’t want any kids. This was partially to remain steadfast to the evil teenager character that I played for so long (I’m my mother’s only child, therefore her only hope for grandchildren), but also because I really didn’t think that I should have children. “I would be a terrible mother! I’m crazy! I would be such an awful mess and drive my children to drink!” I presumed.

Then I realized something; Parents are crazy. It’s pretty much a prerequisite for having children. The fact that I am not a raging alcoholic at this point in my life is truly an accomplishment.

These days, I have so many friends who are getting married and having children, not necessarily in that order, and a butt load of people hounding me about why I’m not in that boat. My mind has been in a vicious tug-o-war with itself, as I am always so adamant to do the opposite of what everyone wants me to do (i.e. get married, have children), but then when I see the little rug rats and they look so peaceful, the rope gets tugged the opposite way.

About a year ago, my brother, who is ten years my junior and still in high school, said to me,

“Hey Sissy, when are you going to settle down and have some kids? I think I’m ready to be an uncle.”

How convenient! You’re ready? Oh good, because this Perfect Man that I have been hiding in my garage has been getting antsy to get out and start our Perfect Family.

My sister, 12 years my junior, has been bugging me since the day I graduated from college about how much she wants to be the flower girl in my wedding. Now that she is almost sixteen, she is still trying to come to terms with the fact that she is probably too old to be a flower girl and will have to settle for bridesmaid, if the day ever comes. I think it would be an awesomely evil joke to make her a middle aged flower girl. That will teach her to pressure her older sister.

Then there is Big Gay Joe, my obviously gay cousin, who has titled himself my wedding planner for this non-existent wedding and reception. Joe also has a checklist of requirements for any potential suitor of mine. “How do you know if you like him yet? I haven’t even met him!” has been heard coming from his big gay mouth after I come back from a date.

On more than one occasion, when we are out in public together and BGJ sees someone who he finds suitably attractive for me, he will grab my arm and exclaim, “This is my cousin! She’s single!” while the poor stranger smiles politely and pretends not to have fully understood what was said, attempting to avoid the incredibly awkward situation.

Joe’s checklist has gotten progressively shorter over the years and now he is finding less and less importance in “Lindsay’s Husband’s Requirements.” Soon there may only be one box with “Is willing to marry Lindsay” next to it, sadly waiting to be checked off.

Of course there is Rita, my crazy, 89 year old grandmother, who is not-so-silently awaiting my non-existent wedding. She wants so badly to be able to attend her favorite grandchild’s nuptials to a (her words) handsome rich man. This woman has at least another ten good years in her, but I just don’t know if that is going to be enough.

My cousin, Dan, got married a little over a year ago. His mother had the rehearsal dinner at her house. I think that about half the people who were invited to the wedding were also at the rehearsal dinner. My family really knows how to indulge in a drink or two (or twelve) and people had to be sent out on multiple beer runs, since the garage refrigerator and multiple ice buckets were emptied quite quickly. I wasn’t drinking, which always makes family functions much more difficult, and involves not only having to smile and nod at the dumb things that a (select few) family members say, but then have to listen to it more than once. I will hear the same thing multiple times that night, and then again the next day because said person won’t remember previously telling me the story. The running joke between me and my cousins is, “Just a thumb!” which is what Rita says every time a refill on her wine is offered. Somehow though, an arthritic thumb equals three normal person thumbs. I am pretty sure that I will be getting horrible arthritis for laughing at this, as karma. 

Out on Aunt Lynn’s patio, smiling politely at Rita while she wobbles with her “thumb” of wine, she asks me, “So, have you met anyone interesting?”

Oh Lord. Doing my best to skirt the question, I respond, “Grandma, everyone I have met is interesting!”

“Oh, you know what I mean!” She says, wanting a different answer from me. Let it be known, Rita is both shocked and appalled that I live with two female roommates and not one of us currently has a boyfriend. I have two gay cousins, and I am afraid that she might be thinking that there may be another gay in the fam. While a lesbian would be a nice addition to my family, unfortunately, my singledom is purely from lack of worthy men, not from closeted gayness (sorry ladies).

The next morning, a sobered up Rita asked me, “So, did you meet anyone interesting last night?”

Realizing that she didn’t remember last night’s conversation, I used the same line and innocently said, “Grandma, everyone I met last night was interesting!” This comment received another smile/glare from good ol’ Rita and I quickly segued into talk of the wedding that was to be taking place that night.

The notion that a wedding is a great place to find a mate is pure crap. A wedding is a gathering of friends and family and I don’t necessarily want these people watching me flirt with boys, nor do I think that many boys will want to flirt with me if they catch a glimpse of me on the dance floor. I can’t dance for the life of me and I sweat more than I care to talk about, so while I might look cleaned up and fancy for a while, that is short lived after the music starts and I flail around, dancing like I’m having a seizure. It’s not pretty.

Getting to Dan and Michelle’s wedding the next afternoon was oh-so-fun, as I was put in charge of getting the two grandmas and an aunt safely to the country club. Luckily it was a short drive, so listening to Rita ask, “Danny has some cute friends, don’t you think?” was through quickly enough, and after I got the old ladies out of my car and safely into the club, I was able to escape to the sanctuary of my teenage brothers and sister. Or so I thought.

The second I walked up to them, Drew informed me, “OK, Sissy. We decided on the drive over here that when Michelle throws the bouquet, the three of us are going to hold everyone else back so you catch it.”

At that point I started scanning the room for an escape route and/or someone, anyone, who I could go talk to who wasn’t going to give me any shit about getting hitched. Nothing. The only person who would of be any help at this point is Dan, who guards me like a protective older brother and mad dogs any boy who even says ‘hi’ to me. But he was the groom, and was obviously too busy with his own wedding to help me avoid the family planning mine.

I find the bouquet toss at weddings to be a horrible and demeaning tradition, second only to the removal and flinging of the garter. Drunken single women fighting over a flower arrangement that is destined to dry up and die within a matter of hours is a bit pathetic. It also draws more attention to the fact that I am single. Why don’t we just go all out and make me wear a sign that says “unemployed” while I am standing out there, just to finish me off? Maybe if it was a sandwich instead of flowers being thrown, I would be more interested.

So when I was sitting on the toilet peeing, with my dress pulled up around my waist and my underwear around my knees and heard the DJ say, “Oooookay! I’m going to need all the single ladies to come on out to the dance floor at this time!” I was quite relieved that I had chosen such an opportune time to use the restroom. But then as I was washing my hands, I heard Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” song slowly fade and the DJ say into the microphone, “So we are missing someone. Sissy. Where is Sissy?” Drew, I am never going to forgive you for this one. My siblings have called me “Sissy” since the moment they could talk, which I've always found endearing. Hearing it over the country club’s sound system calling me out to the group of single women on the dance floor made my unmarried walk of shame all that much worse.

I stood as close to the rear of the pack as I could and held my sister firmly in front of me, blocking the path of the airborne embarrassment bouquet. A special thanks to Michelle, for not throwing it in my direction.

By the way, when my other cousin, Matt, got married seven months later, this same thing happened. I wandered off right before Lori was about to throw the bouquet, but once again I was found and sent to the dance floor to stand among the other singletons.

But back to Dan and Michelle’s wedding. The morning after it there was a brunch for some of the friends and family members before people left town. It was certainly an action packed weekend, but I guess if you are the first of four boys to tie the knot, you get quite the to-do. I wasn’t hung over, as many people were, but I was grumpy from being around certain family members for such an extended amount of time. Once again, I found myself being bombarded by Rita, who once again, asked me, “Sooo, did you talk to anyone interesting last night?”

I am not joking people. She asked me this exact question three times that weekend. So with an exasperated smile, I once again told her, “Yes, I met a lot of interesting people this weekend.” She rolled her eyes and continued drinking her coffee, when my aunt came up to us. “Did you have fun last night, Lindsay?”

“Yes, Auntie Lynn, I did! It was such a beautiful wedding.” I responded.

“Wasn’t it?” She asked. “And did you meet anyone interesting?”

It's Amazing that I'm Still Alive

I love being able to tell people what I am doing at any time of the day, whether they like it or not. It is for this reason that I love Facebook. With Smartphones, you can literally tell people exactly where you are and what you are doing, anytime, anywhere. And I know that most of you people reading this have been on your phone, checking your Facebook, Tweeting something oh-so-profound, or playing Words with Friends while sitting on the toilet. Don’t deny it, maybe you are even reading this from the commode. We’ve all done it. However, I try not to borrow other people’s phones too often.

So this is my tale of the time I Facebooked naked. Intrigued? Don’t be, although I felt that this story needed a certain imagery to accompany it, so yes, there are pictures. And I must say, I do look quite skinny in them. My vegetable and gummy bear diet must be paying off! Here goes…

I woke up around 6:45am from the bustling of the dogs and my mom around the house, but I kept my eyes closed, refusing to actually wake up at such an ungodly hour. Alas, my efforts were foiled when Sally walked into my room, saying, “You know what’s weird Linds? The past few days I have woken up at 5:03 every morning. But this morning I realized that your dog was sitting outside my door quietly whining for me to get up.”

I still had not opened my eyes, and from under the covers I responded, “Hmmph. You know what else is weird? The past few mornings I have woken up at 6:45am from someone walking into my room and starting up a conversation!”   

She laughed and apologized before leaving my room, but by that point, there was no getting back to sleep for me. I let Dave (my dog) get up on the bed and cuddle for awhile before Sally left the house and I finally decided to get up and shower.

Showering at Sal’s house is always much more pleasant in the summer. Since you don’t need the water as hot, you are able to take a longer shower, and since my left foot is (still) in a cast, I need a lot more time to take my unbalanced peg-leg showers than I do when I’m on two feet. So with my iPhone playing loudly in the background, I wobbly, yet successfully cleaned myself under the lukewarm spray.

It was after my shower that trouble ensued. Climbing over the tub wall, I reached for my towel and dried my arms, and then my face. When I pulled the towel away from my glistening cheeks, I noticed a large black spot on my bright green towel. Even without my glasses on, I instantly knew that I was face-to-face with a very large spider. Now, I’m not normally super freaked out by these eight-legged creatures, but that in no way means that I want them in my face. I had been given quite a start, which caused me to scream and throw the towel onto the floor. The spider somehow got knocked onto the bathmat that I was standing on, and was right by my feet, unmoving. I thought that maybe this was a dead spider that I was dealing with, and while I still don’t want it in my face, it was much more manageable if it was just a corpse.

My roommate in San Francisco has a severe fear of spiders. If Katie sees even a speck of one in her room, she doesn’t hesitate to wake me up at 2am to come remove it. I have horrible guilt if I ever kill one, so even on these damn crutches, I have to find a way to trap them in a jar and set them free outside without letting them touch me. It can be quite difficult. Anyway, my first thought after throwing the potentially dead spider onto the ground was, “Oh, my gosh. I have to send Katie a picture. This will totally freak her out!” (Guilt for killing spiders does not equal guilt for scaring roommates).

Laughing evilly to myself while sending the picture to Katie, the beast of a spider suddenly came to life and started racing toward me. The next two seconds of my life are forever engrained in my memory, but in a slow motion replay, over and over and over.

As the newly awakened spider dashed towards me, I screamed (yet again) and jumped back on my one good foot, into a small puddle of water that had dripped off of my hair and body, since I was unable to fully dry myself with my spider-infested towel.  I then slipped, falling backwards, arms flailing, crutch flying, and yanking a towel off it’s hook, all the while thinking that I can’t let my casted foot crash to the ground and hoping that my thick phone case works in not letting my airborne phone break when it hits the ground. It’s times like these that I wish I had my own reality TV show. Or a helmet cam (Christmas is just around the corner people).

After I gracefully landed on the tile floor (not gracefully at all, but my naked fall is awkward enough, so let’s pretend I looked pretty while doing it), I burst into a fit of laughter with the instant replay immediately going through my brain screen while simultaneously hoping that 1) the spider was nowhere near me, and 2) I hadn’t broken any more bones, because at that point, there was nothing that I was going to be able to do about either of those problems. But what I could do was dry my tears of laughter and immediately let my public know what just happened to me, by posting the picture of this huge spider to my Facebook wall. And I did just that.

Hearing my second scream, Thunder Dave had slowly wandered to the open bathroom door and sat staring at me, wondering what the hell was going on. That adorable dog-head-tilt wasn’t doing anything to save me, but it was cute. And I have mixed feelings about the fact that the spider had found a good hiding spot by then, because if Dave had seen it, he would have attacked and eaten it. The downfall is that I never found it and the next couple days at Sal’s house consisted of me in a constant state of fear and suspicion. Where did Spidey go? Is she hiding in the box of Kleenex for when my allergies act up? Maybe laying low near the sink so she can crawl up inside my cast when I’m doing my make-up? Or maybe she made the trek into my bedroom and is hiding under my pillow so she can crawl into my ear one night and lay eggs. Any of these are entirely possible. Maybe I should go back to killing spiders. I’ve been reading far too much about the peaceful ways of Buddha.

For now I will continue to ferociously shake out my bath towel before I use it, even though I’m back in San Francisco. There are still spiders here, and since I never actually found her, I really don’t know if Spidey hitched a ride back to the Bay with me, now do I?

Special thanks to Sally O'Malley for helping me with the pictures for this blog post. I guess that makes up for coming in to wake me up at the crack of dawn, just to chat.

One Step Closer to Nerd Fame

Are you tired of simply reading my words? Never, I know, but now you can HEAR them too! My friends, David and Gavin, have a podcast called Three Pints Deep. I promised them that I would plug them via Facebook when they put out a new episode and that any time I am actually ON the show, I would post the link in my blog. This is obviously an incredibly transparent attempt to guest star on their blog as much as possible, but I do love to hear myself talk!*
I tried to get them to have me become the third host on the podcast, my argument being that they need a female influence to appeal to a wider audience. Not to mention, it's called THREE Pints Deep, not two. They should stick with that lucky number three vibe. Alas, no dice.  
After I got over my initial insult, I posed this newest idea of being a reoccurring guest star, with the offer of posting on FOL. Well, I stick to my word, so here it is. And if you're like me, and just want to hear my part over, and over, and over.... I'm from minutes 5:05-9:35. Just sayin.


Episode 5.5 "Imagine You've Been Kidnapped..."

http://threepintsdeep.podbean.com/ 

*The exception being hearing myself on answering machines and voice mails. I'm convinced there is a conspiracy on these devices to make my voice sound more manly and awkward than it already does in person.

I Keep on Fallin'

I was asked out once by a guy that I met through a friend. I knew it wasn’t going to go far from the beginning, when he asked for my number but followed the question up with some lame poor me comment that made it impossible to back out. Greeeeat.

So the following week, my blonde buxom friend and I met up with him and a friend at the Sparks Farmers Market. Ah, Thursday nights in downtown Sparks. It’s a place where you can find one of the highest concentrations of white trash, underage drunks, and people I went to high school with (who may or may not be in the previous two categories) enjoying the cool, beautiful desert night. I’ve never been sure why they call it a “farmers market,” as I have never seen a piece of fruit or vegetable in a five mile radius, and have been meaning to suggest to the City of Sparks  that they should rename it the “Slutty Farmer’s Daughters Market.” There is however, a very small collection of a taco truck, a corndog stand, a local radio station setup, and a margarita stand, that I must admit, has the best guava margaritas that I have ever tasted. The margarita stand always had a ridiculously long line, and when I would succumb to the 20-30 minute wait, I would usually buy two of these delicious concoctions and have to walk around with a drink in each hand, incognito with the rest of the crowd. Yeah, it was that kind of place.

So Gretchen and I ended up grabbing a beer (no margaritas for us tonight) and sitting outside the local brewery, listening to some crappy local band and watching the severely intoxicated 50-somethings shake it to the live music, when “Alan” and his friend showed up.  If you know me at all, you know that I am not shy. If you have dated me at all, you know I say the most awkward things at the most opportune times.* I can only assume that since I wasn’t really into this “Alan” kid, I wasn’t too nervous and therefore was able to keep my awkward blabber to a minimum. I did, however, mention my clumsiness and grandly showed off my scabby, scarred knees. While the rest of the night was less than exciting, and mostly filled with me talking, Alan still called me the next day to ask if he could take me to dinner.

My philosophy on dating is that anyone who is gutsy enough to ask if they can take me out on a date deserves at least that.** I know that someone can become more appealing the better you get to know them (or more appalling, depending on the person).  So the following night, Alan came to pick me up for dinner. He texted me to let me know that he was just getting to my house, and since I was back living with my mom after college, I yelled “Bye!” and raced out the door to meet him before he had a chance to come up to our house. Later, Sally (aka Mom) would tell me that she didn’t think that he was much of a gentleman, since he didn’t come to the door to get me. I never told her that he would have had I not raced out of the house like a bat out of Hell (shout out- love you Sal!).

He did have time to get out of his truck and halfway around it before I was out of the house, and did open the passenger side door for me. He drove a huge, lifted Chevy truck, and I had to remind myself that I was back in Nevada and this was a very common occurrence. It did not necessarily mean that he was an ultra conservative, cattle roping redneck hick.

Anyway, we ended up going to a little Californiacated Mexican restaurant not too far from my house. He pulled up into a parking space right in front, facing the front door and wall of windows surrounding it. There was also outdoor seating, located on the side of the restaurant that was almost directly in front of the passenger side of Alan’s truck. It was a beautiful summer night, and there were plenty of people sitting outside on the colorfully painted picnic tables enjoying their fish tacos. As Alan killed the engine and got out of the truck, I opened my door and went to slide down from the lifted truck, when I tripped, lost my flip-flop, and proceeded to flip around and fall onto the ground, still somehow holding onto the door handle. My landing was actually pretty sweet. I ended up on my rear end, holding onto the door handle, one bare foot on the ground, the other foot, with shoe, still in the truck. Hence, I was facing the inside of this beast of a vehicle and was staring directly at Alan, who was staring right back at me. The image is burned into my memory, but I really wish I could have photographed the look on his face. His mouth was dropped so far open that he could have caught one of his eyeballs when they popped out of his head. It was priceless. After his brief moment of shock, he asked, “Are you okay?!” 

“I’m fine, I’m fine. This happens to me all the time.” I said, waving it off and trying to regain my composure.  I wasn’t anywhere near as embarrassed as I should have been, and I can only attribute this to what I stated before about not being that into him. If this were a guy that I had had a big crush on, I would have wished that I could melt into the pavement. I can’t imagine how many of the diners sitting in the patio area saw my not-so-graceful tumbling act, but I’m sure I gave someone a good laugh (you’re welcome).

“Oh my God. When you told me you were clumsy, I didn’t actually believe you!” he exclaimed. Note to my readers, I’m not making this up. When I tell you that I am clumsy and uncoordinated, I’m not kidding around. Which is exactly what I told him.

I ended up breaking it off relatively soon after this incident. Not because of the tumble in any way, but because I am pretty sure he was picking out engagement rings after our second date. As a person with commitment issues, this was a problem for me and therefore he had to go. Last I heard, he was engaged to some girl after a, not surprisingly, short courtship. Looking back, I learned that Alan and I have one thing in common; we both fall hard and fast, but in two very different ways.  

*See; every other FOL blog regarding me dating.

**Exceptions to that rule include; men over 50, dudes with a criminal record, guys with swastika tattoos, and women. Although the last one is subject to change depending on how good their health benefits are and if they can apply them to a domestic partnership.

Prime Time

Well, I’ve passed my prime. Technically, I have five months left, but let’s be honest, marriage is not in my immediate future. For those of you out there with a confused cartoon question mark hovering above your head, please refer to my blog from October of 2009, entitled, “Major Deal Breaker.”  In this blog, I explain that my buddy Blair, age 6 at the time, informed me that the ideal time for me to get married is age 27.

Here I am, 27, single, on crutches, and now that I might be able to finally start walking again, the doctor tells me that I am going to have to wear orthopedic Frankenstein shoes. This is not going to be very beneficial in my dating life.

I have plenty of reasons why I am not married at this point in my life. The main one being that I will dismiss any boy who shows any interest in me, for reasons such as;

a.       Bad speller

b.      Poor conversationalist

c.       Too intense

d.      Too good looking, therefore obviously not trustworthy

Leave it to a first grader to put it all in perspective. Who knew that all I really needed to watch out for were these 10 things…