Archive for July, 2011

OK, first, can I talk about Monday night’s Sox game?? My friend Poppy generously gave us four tickets, 13 rows behind the DUGOUT for Christ’s sakes, and LORD, I will never be able to stomach sitting in the cheap seats again.

It was so great to actually be able to see the game, and it was a great game indeed, with the Sox taking Detroit down 6 to 3, and even a couple of home runs from AJ Pierzynski and my future husband (once he leaves his current wife) Paulie Konerko.

The J-Man had a blast, and even though I had to pay $7.25 for my lone beer, I didn’t have to spend very much cash, because neither J or I are eating much these days.

Did I mention that the J-Man has lost eleven pounds over the summer? I’m so proud of my kid. He’s growing taller, too, so his once-sizable spare tire is almost gone.

So, vacation. We drove the two hours to Indiana Beach in separate cars, my stepdad taking my sister and the two-year old, and my mom schlepping me, the seven-year-old, the five-year-old, and the J-Man.

People, I was in the crazy car. These kids knew every word to every song on the radio, and they sang LOUDLY. So did my mother. Since I am not a pop/rap aficionado, I was a bit out of my element, but the odd song came on that I did know, and I have to admit that I joined in the fracas.

We arrived to find a rather neat little three-bedroom cottage that was reasonably clean and close to the boardwalk. This is where the kids began to get batshit hyper. This is also where my main problem with the vacation began.

It was HOT. Not wussy little eighty-degree hot, but I’m-gonna-fucking-kill-you-dead ninety-nine-degree hot.

It was so hot that I saw a cluster of dead camels on the boardwalk.

I don’t do well with the heat in general. I’m not supposed to be out in the sun thank to my seizure meds and I already tend to pass out, so anything over ninety presents a huge gamble for me.

The first full day we were there we went to the beach. I coated myself liberally in waterproof, sweatproof SPF 100 and sat under an umbrella for eighty percent of the day, coming out only to ride the Lazy river for a bit and play in the sand with the baby. I still got burned.

You have to be one white-assed motherfucker to get burned with SPF 100, let me tell you. Even my kid, who is half Cuban and normally sports a lovely summer tan, got fried.

The heat didn’t abate during the evening when we went on the rides, either. Just stepping out of the air-conditioned cottage for a second was enough to make one break into a heavy sweat, and by the time we purchased our ride wristbands, we were all sticky and gross.

Now the J-Man is generally a wuss when it comes to rides. He won’t go on anything scary. He won’t go on anything that goes up high, or any roller coasters. I, however, am a ride junkie, and the scarier and higher and bigger the better. I love roller coasters with a passion, and if they go upside down, more power to them.

I figured I’d be alone in this, until the wee seven-year-old piped up, “I wanna go on the roller coasters.”

I figured she’d bail at the last minute, but I said, “I’ll go with you.”

People, this child had some brass balls. She went on all the roller coasters multiple times, sat in the front row, hands up, and barely even screamed. I was so impressed that I couldn’t believe it. The J-Man was so impressed (and a little shamed, I think) that the next day, he sucked it up and went on the big roller coaster, twice, screaming all the way.

One thing that we all agreed upon was that the haunted house was out. I will not go in any haunted house, no matter what, world without end, amen. I don’t like people reaching out and grabbing me, and I don’t like things touching my feet. I don’t like anything that requires a “chicken exit”, and I would not go near anything that would actually refund your money if you made it all the way through without pissing yourself/chickening out. Call me a big baby, I don’t care. Haunted houses are for crazy people.

My stepdad was actually pretty cool during this trip. He did yell at the kids quite a bit, but everyone was yelling at the kids quite a bit. If those kids heard “Sit down,” “Be quiet,” “Eat your food,” or “Go upstairs and play,” once, they heard it a hundred times. My sister, short on patience to begin with, was actually slapping kids upside the head by the last day.

It was interesting to notice people’s reactions to our racially mixed family. When you have three small black kids calling out “Grandma!” and “Grandpa!” to two very white adults, people take notice. I also noticed a lot of staring when I was playing with the baby on the beach. The “resort” (and I use that word VERY loosely) was highly populated by people of the redneck persuasion, and we got more than a few dirty looks and headturns.

I will admit that I wanted to start fucking with people.

“Oh my GOD, my baby turned BLACK!!!”

That probably wouldn’t have been nice.

In this area, a racially mixed family is so common that no one blinks an eye, but I guess down in Farmville, it’s an anomaly.

The heat index was 115 at one point, so I chose to forego the family activities and stay in the cottage and rest. This is when I found out why one doesn’t go out in the sun while on seizure medication, or at least I think this is why.

I was stricken by an attack of explosive diarrhea so bad that I really can’t even describe it, and you’re all probably glad that I can’t.

Let’s just say that I drank half a bottle of Immodium that day and leave it at that.

All in all, I had a pretty good time, in spite of the evil shits; and the kids had a blast. I just wish it could have been twenty degrees cooler.

In other news, I am no longer dating Guy I Am Dating. I know this is a huge surprise, as I go through men the way most people change the litter box. I did, however, meet a very nice guy on Saturday. He’s a Special Ed teacher, which of course is right up my alley, as I am a Special Person.

I kid.

Anyway, he seems extremely nice, he’s divorced, two kids which he’s taken to Florida this week, tall, good-looking.

We shall see.

I just wish they had a Judge of Character app for my phone.

Happy Wednesday.

Sounds like a stripper name, doesn’t it? Except it would be spelled “Summer Rayne”.

Anyway, the morning started out unreasonably hot and humid as I sat on the side porch smoking and watching the squirrels play tag, when all of a sudden one huge dark cloud covered the entire sky and it began to spit down rain.

I quickly ran inside and began my rain ritual, which is to grab towels and stuff them along the perimeter of my bathroom floor; since not doing so causes animals to march two by two into the basement and nobody wants to have to deal with camel shit.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped. It was a drive-by raining, if you will, and now I can see the last few drops dripping off of the orange tiger lilies outside the window.

I love little weather anomalies like that.

So recently, I fell off of the motherfucking treadmill. I didn’t pass out or have a seizure or anything, I just misstepped and fell right on my knees, and of course I didn’t have the little safety string clipped to my clothing so the motherfucker kept on going, ripping the skin right off of my knees and legs. Finally I was able to reach the idiot string and pull it, and my nightmare ended.

There was actual visible skin on the treadmill, people. It was seriously gross.

So now I look like a kindergartner, sporting these giant band-aids all over my knees and legs, and a few days ago the motherfuckers got infected, probably from treadmill germs, and green shit was involved (I spare no gross detail), and now I am pouring peroxide on those damn wounds like five times a day and using more Neosporin than anyone has a right to.

So let me just say this: Be careful on the treadmill. Especially if you’re uncoordinated like me.

I’m just lucky I didn’t skin my whole face off or something. And you can bet I clip that safety string to my clothes Every Fucking Day now.

So, there was that.

In other, decidedly less disgusting news, we have talked my father into coming and feeding the cats, hamster, and fish while we are on vacation next week.

To say I have trepidations about this arrangement would be an understatement. My father is not what you would call an animal person, and our animals are what you would call people animals. The cats and even the hamster like to be petted, and even the fish will swim to the front of the tank when people approach.

We live with some attention whores.

I wonder where they get that from.

Anyway, I think my dad thinks he’s just going to walk in, throw down some chow, scoop the poop, and boogie on out of here; and that, dear friends, will not be the case, for he will have four cats attached to his calves and a fat hamster in his hand.

My father, the stoic animal-ignorer, is going to have to dole out a little lovin’.

I’m still nervous about this vacation in general. I think my stepdad’s going to be a stressed-out maniac in the car with all the damned kids and a downright crabby grouch in the cottage with all the damned kids, thereby dampening our spirits (I love how a couple of you in the previous entry suggested I drink copious amounts of liquor, and John, pain pills are always good, but I can’t necessarily share…). He seems to have gained a modicum of interest in the trip, even checking out the website for the place, so maybe I’m just being paranoid. I hope so. I just know that historically, he doesn’t mix well with small children.

But then, neither do I.

I kid. I love those crazy kids like fire.

Lastly, I am without my iPod, Lamont Sanford, since I left him at Guy-I’m-Dating’s house over a week ago. Agony! Despair!

I sleep with Lamont every night, so this has been a difficult week. I can’t sleep very well without my tuneage, for Lamont doth soothe the savage beast that is my insomnia.

Guy-I’m-Dating lives sorta far, so we see each other only on weekends, and we didn’t this weekend, so no Lamont.

After another week of this, my eye bags are going to be hanging down to my bloody and bruised knees.

Happy Monday.

Wow, I disappear from the internet for a while, and everyone assumes I am dead. I appreciate your e-mails, calls, comments, and texts, but in the words of Pearl Jam, “I…oh…I…I’m still alive!”

To be honest, I just haven’t been online. I realize that this may come as a shock, as most of you probably were under the impression that I had a mouse surgically implanted into my hand. (I do, but I can turn it off with my pinky finger.)

It’s been relatively busy in the Trance house. The J-Man has been tearing in and out of doors, helping the kids in the cul-de-sac blow up the neighborhood with firecrackers, and making good use of the kid down the street’s pool; and B the cute geeky math tutor is coming twice per week to get him up to speed on all things algebraic.

I have been haunting the local bar, working out like a freak, and planning the family vacation that is approaching all too rapidly.

So here’s the deal with this vacation: We are renting a cottage at Indiana Beach (if you live in the Midwest, you’ve seen the commercials, which boast, “There’s more than corn in Indiana!” I disagree.), which is a couple hours away. This small cottage is going to house me, my mom, the J-Man, my stepdad, my sister, and all three of her children.

Scariest vacation EVER. For one thing, my stepdad hates children and cannot be in close proximity to them for more than fifteen minutes without yelling. For another thing, did I mention that this cottage was small? It is.

I’ve been going to Indiana Beach since I was a kid, and it’s kind of a good time for a kid. There is a beach (shocker) and rides and waterslides and a particularly scary haunted house and a big old boat to ride on and lots of junk food like elephant ears and chocolate-covered frozen bananas with nuts (mmmmmm) and an arcade, so I think the kids and myself and my sister are going to lose our damn minds, but I think that my mom and my stepdad are going to be crabby and tired and therefore big old Debbie Downers.

We shall see. My goal is to force this chickenshit J-Man onto a rollercoaster. This sounds cruel, but I just know that if he ever actually got on one, he’d love it, it’s just taking that first scary step.

I’m not above using duct tape, people.

I missed a large part of July fourth’s festivities, which included a parade and a festival due to a Very Icky Stomach, but I rallied in time to blow shit up in the driveway.

And isn’t that what it’s all about? Celebrating our independence by blowing shit up?

If you’ve been reading this page for any length of time, you know how I feel about fireworks. Stupid, expensive, dangerous, dumb-ass waste of cash.

Still, I have this thirteen-year old who LOVES to blow shit up, and when he looked at me with huge brown eyes and said, “Seventy-five percent off today,” I relented. So we bought some stupid fireworks, pretty benign stuff like the cones that shower pretty sparks and the little spinny ones and some smoke bombs (I was very firm – nothing that simply goes BOOM), and I let him light them with one of those long butane lighters as long as he wore his glasses and ran like hell after the wick was lit.

He did run like hell. I think he has a pretty healthy fear of the things thanks to my near-constant You Will Lose An Eye or Blow Your Arm Off speeches.

Let’s see, what else is new. I’m dating someone, and I’m not telling you all a thing. La di da di da.

More next time.

Happy Tuesday.