The Big Juan

It was late on a Saturday evening, and I was in my bathroom getting ready for a shower, when my seventeen year old son, Darren, who had been out with friends all day, started pounding on the door while hollering, Mom! Mom! I opened the bathroom door to find him doubled over, holding his stomach, and saying that he didn't feel very well, at all. He wanted to know if I had anything that he could take for his stomach, because it hurt so badly. I'm like, well, what happened?! What's going on??!!

WHAT. DID. YOU. DO???!!!

Oh, he proceeded to tell me, that he just got back from the Mexican restaurant the Hacienda, where moments before, he had finished eating their four pound burrito, the Big Juan, for a free t-shirt, and his picture on their wall. What, I said? You ate four pounds of food?? His nod, complete with the grimaced look on his face, told me that he was telling the truth. Now he was in utter misery, and was muttering something about when his receipt blew off of the table, at the restaurant, he could barely bend over to pick it up.
 He began to moan, and asked me what he could do, since now he was feeling so sick. The only thing I could think of, for immediate relief, was for him to expel it-- and not in my clean toilet either, seeing as I was having a house full of company the next day. So, outside he went, and came back in just minutes later, feeling all better. Then he told me that as soon as he got outside, it all came up, splattered everywhere, even on his shoes, and before coming back into the house, had taken out his cell phone and captured the precious moment. "This is what 4 pounds of burrito vomit looks like," he said. GAG me with a spoon! Only our Darren would have thought to do that.
 He may have conquered the Big Juan while at the Hacienda, however, once home, the Big Juan conquered him. I asked him later if it was worth it, and he said, "Heck yeah, I got my picture on the wall, didn't I?" My husband and I couldn't be more proud.

Easter Dinner 2011

Easter is my holiday to have the big family dinner. My mom takes the Christmas holiday, and my older sister is stuck with having us at Thanksgiving (that holiday is a little on the boring side, if you ask me). And my little sister...well, the running joke is, she'll bring the bag of chips. 
When we all come together, it adds up to twenty-one bodies. Three couldn't make it, so I was down to feeding eighteen family members. Still, that's a lot of people, and not one of us is a dainty eater, so that meant that a lot of food needed to be made.
 Funny thing is, I do not enjoy cooking. I avoid it at almost all costs. As a matter of fact, while we were building our house, the only reason I even put in a kitchen, was because of my husband. He said that it would be good for the re-sale value. Oh, whatever.
Since I only do the bfd (big family dinner) once a year, I have the "Go big, or go home" kind of an attitude. It takes me weeks of planning and stocking up on supplies. I even decorate. And each year I host my own version of Dirty Bingo, which means that, over the course of months, I begin purchasing a plethora of doo-dads and what-nots that will serve as the Bingo prizes. In all actuality, as soon as the  New Year holiday is past, I commence planning the bfd.
There are several things I worry about when hosting a dinner. A myriad of concerns crowd my cranium. For example; will all of the hot food be ready at the same time? Would there be anything I needed at the last minute, that I forgot to buy? Will anyone find a hair in the green bean casserole? That my friend, would be the worst thing to have happen. When I find a hair in my food, ugh, I am done eating. Especially if it is already in my mouth when I discover it. BLEEECK! And that is why, when I am preparing any type of edibles, my hair is slicked back and secured with headbands, bobby pins, and a good shellacking of hairspray. And let me go on record as saying, the Amish-do is one hairstyle that I cannot rock.
This year, Easter was celebrated on April 24th, and the bfd came off without a hitch, thanks to my weeks of anal preparations, with Dirty Bingo being the highlight of the afternoon. I had a total of 38 wrapped Bingo prizes piled high onto the center of my table, and trust me when I say, there wasn't one trinket that anyone couldn't have lived without. The collection included things like candy, gum, mints, soaps, air-fresheners, hot pads, note pads, cheap sunglasses, body wash, squirt guns, bouncy balls, key chains and other small worthless baubles.
Anyway, about an hour after we finished eating, I heard my uncle ask my adorably wacky, seventy-eight year old aunt if she was ready to go home. She responded, "Not yet, we're about to play Bingo!"  This was the 4th annual Easter Bingo extravaganza, and people were looking forward to it. I smiled to myself at the tradition I had created.
Everyone clustered back around to the table, and my eight year old niece passed out the cards and the little round markers. As I began calling out the  numbers, I noticed that my aunt was having trouble reading her card. I was already aware that she was having some vision problems, but had no idea as to what extent. She would look to my uncle, who was busy keeping up with his own card, and then look down at her card, never placing any markers upon it. Soon, I observed, that she had just given up trying. However, before I knew it, I heard her holler BINGO! And it continued through out the entire game. Most of the time she was busy chatting, not even looking down at her card, and still, she managed to keep getting Bingo's! My husband, who had yet to call out a single Bingo, glanced my aunt's way to inspect her ever growing booty pile. The how-in-the-heck look on his face was priceless.  My aunt wasn't about to let a little eye-sight trouble ruin her fun. How I loved her for that!
When it comes to the bfd, I do have a way of making a mountain out of a mole-hill, but all of the hard work I put in is nothing, compared to the blessings I have received from spending time with family. That was my thought as I watched my aunt shuffle towards the door, her trove of treasures swinging from a Wal-mart bag that was looped around one of the handlebars of her walker. May the bubblewand and slide-whistle bring her much enjoyment.

Fool Me Once....

Like most teenage girls, I would spend a lot of my time pouring through all kinds of fashion magazines, and could never help myself from noticing the numerous cosmetic ads, and how incredibly perfect the women looked. Their faces were flawless. No uneven skin tones, not a pimple, not a wrinkle, not an eye brow, or even an eye lash out of place. (How was I supposed to know that there was such a thing called air-brushing?)
Of course, that is exactly how I wanted my own face to look, and the only thing stopping me was the right make-up, right? The first thing I decided to buy, with money I earned from my summer job as a car-hop, at a drive-in rootbeer stand, was some foundation. Yes, that is where I would need to start to get "The Look".
Once at the drug store, I saw that there were many brands, choices and color-tones. After reading over several boxes, I made a decision, and went to the check-out to pay. Three dollars and eighty-eight cents?! Back then, when my tips didn't add up to much more than that in a single day, the amount seemed to be highway robbery. Still, I surmised, that it was all going to be worth it. I parted with my cash, and hurried home with my creamy beige treasure. 
Once home, I bolted to the bathroom to apply the magical liquid that was going to transform my skin into that of a porcelain skinned cover-girl. Using my wedding-ring finger ('cause all women know that's the one you use) I carefully dabbed on the make-up exactly as shown in the illustrations, and then, in a swirling circular motion, smoothed it all out onto my skin-- again, just like the instructions said to do.
 As I took a step back from the mirror to admire my handy work, I can remember thinking--Houston, we have a problem! The face staring back at me not only didn't have the results I was hoping for, but actually accentuated my flaws. My nose became noticeably spotted with pinhead sized dimples where I had a teensy-weensy blackhead problem, and instead of covering up my acne and making it all disappear, the make-up made the red bumps look all crusty and raised. I had been duped.
Fast forward thirty years. Now, the face staring back at me in the mirror is no longer dotted with pimples, but instead, creased with wrinkles just like any other women my age. Take Nicole Kidman, for example--uhhh, okay, so that's not a good comparison. How about just like a gently used leather hand bag. Yes, that comparison will do just fine. Anyway, what did I buy last month at Wal-mart, after carefully reading and researching all of my options? I bought anti-wrinkle serum. On the elegantly-shaped slender bottle it said: "You may experience a slight tingling, burning, or tightness during use." After about the third day, that's pretty much what I was feeling. Ooooo, I thought, this is the sign that it really is working! I was so happy. 
Four weeks later, and I am still waiting for some sort of noticeable result, besides the irritated, blotchy red skin--probably due to the ingredient of Alpha-Hydroxy A-C-I-D !  And let me tell you, this stuff wasn't cheap. The tiny rectangular package set me back twenty-six dollars! That's highway robbery, I'm thinking.
I am still with wrinkles, older, and evidently none the wiser. Duped again.

The Window into Other People's World

Let's face it, some people are just more fabulous than others. That's why  facebook was invented--TO POINT THAT FACT OUT TO ME!! (when I use all caps in bold, that's me yelling) For some people, Facebook is simply an extension of their already impressive, jam-packed social lives. It is a place where they can show everyone how amazing it is to be them, while making me feel like I am the one who is on outside looking in. Hey, kinda like high school all over again! Yay.
I have several female Facebook "friends" (the males don't seem to be so braggy) who have a ridiculous amount of friends, hip posts complete with funny banter and mega amounts of comments underneath, and pictures splattered all over my newsfeed of them, and all of their attractive peeps, having a blast at gatherings that I wasn't invited to. And I just know that their friends are all executives in some high-powered office, they all Zoomba, drink wine with their dinner, and have purses that match their shoes. In other words, they are the happening people. In other words, so not like me.
My worst night mare used to be about a serial killer breaking in, or big hairy spiders. But now, it's what if I post something on Facebook and no one makes a comment underneath? Or even a like? Ohh man, wake me up now!   

Secret Wishes

I came from a hard working middle-classed family. My father worked in a factory, and my mother was a waitress. Together, they tried hard to keep ahead of the bills and payments, and raise three daughters. To say that we were strapped for cash was truly an understatement. As a child, I sensed our fragile financial situation even though my parents did a great job of keeping their burdens to themselves, and letting us kids be kids. I do not remember asking for things, but I do remember secretly wanting things. 
There were three must-have's on my "want" list, that my childhood was void of. The first being an Easy-Bake Oven. Ohhhh, how I longed for one of those. The commercials made me feel like I was missing out on all of the fun, and because we couldn't afford a lot of junk food, to be able to bake my own tasty treats, any time I wanted, would have been a dream come true. I can still see, in the commercial, of what had to be the face of the luckiest girl in the world, peering wide-eyed into the oven, watching the cake bake right before her eyes.
The second item was a bicycle and not just any bicycle, either. Nope, the only bicycle that would have made my heart burst with sheer and utter joy was the kind that had the banana seat. That's right, one seat in the shape of its name-sake. The cool part was, the long shaped seat would have allowed an extra passenger to sit right behind me. I would envision me, and my very best friend in all of the universe, peddling wildly, up and down the hills of the corn-field lined county roads, that made up my world.
The last item was a knitted, Winter stocking hat. Again, not just any stocking hat. I already had a few of the ordinary ones-- the kind that fit tightly over my head with the little pom-pon directly on top-- in our coat closet at home. No, this hat was the ultimate in stocking hats. It seemed to be 3 feet long, and when you wore it on your head, the pom-pon bounced enthusiastically all the way down by your tail bone. Why, you could just about nearly sit on it! The girls on the playground who were lucky enough to own one, would whirl it all around as they played. But the most shining moment for this wondrous hat would be when it was flying straight out as a classmate would be pumping back and forth on one of the high-flying swings (nothing like the sissy swings on playgrounds of today) that we had at our elementary school. Had life gone the way of my wishes, just think of what I would have looked like wearing my hat, while riding my awesome bike, hurrying home, to do a little baking...a jubilant day-dream to be sure. 

Eyes Wide Open

When I was in Junior High, I was about as uncool as an adolescent could get. (Now I must interject here, and tell you that my dad had his his own unique way of describing things. Let's just say he had a way with adjectives, and I think that here he would have used the word bASS-ackwards.) Anyway, one of my many problems; at 5'9" the boys were knee-high to me, along with some of the girls, and even a few teachers. Because of my long legs, pants were difficult to find. When I did find some that went past my ankles, my mom would just buy two of the exact same style, right off the bat. End of looking. My mom worked full-time as a waitress to help my dad make ends meet-- all while raising three daughters. There was only one thing that she had even less of than money, and that was time. 
So, to start off the 8th grade, my school wardrobe consisted of the two pair of jeans, and several tops. I never even thought to complain about anything we had, or didn't have, while growing up. I would wear one pair one day, and the other pair the next, switching every other day. But one day, a boy came up to me, and asked me why I wore the same pair of jeans to school EVERY-SINGLE-DAY! I was mortified. My lack of wardrobe had never bothered me before, but suddenly I felt very exposed. Up to that point, I wasn't aware of the have's and the have not's, nor the difference it made. Isn't that weird? It was an Ah-ha moment, and at the time I didn't even realize that I had any pride, until someone had to go and step on it.
The good thing about that was, I was so unaffected, and blissfully unaware, up until THAT moment. Now a days kids are caught up in the drama of trying to fit in, being cool and popular, as early as the first grade--possibly even kindergarten! 
What a dork I must have been. But my eyes had been opened, and there was no going back--EVER.
It was just the beginning....

Something that REALLY bugs me.

Okay, there is something that really bugs me, and I'm just going to get it out of the way, here and now, up front, at the beginning. I absolutely, positively, do not like it when people think that they have the right to correct other people's grammar/spelling/punctuation/whatever. Now that we're a people of facebook, tweeters and blog writers, busily emptying out our skulls, there is plenty of opportunity for the uppity folks out there to WOW us with their spectacular knowledge of the the English language. In my opinion, what they are doing, is attempting to make themselves appear superior. Do they really think that the people they correct would actually feel grateful for their unselfish act of helpfulness? Why, who doesn't love public humiliation, right?
 I was not an English major. When I write, I figure that if you can understand what I am saying, then we are communicating. Isn't that what language is all about? Communication? Will anyone miss the point if I say "I layed the baby on the bed", instead of "I laid the baby on the bed"? I think not.
Now, that said, if I am writing, and accidentally mistype the word vagina in place of, say, the word foot-- for example: "As I was browsing through my favorite shoe store, I happened to spy an awesome pair of flops. So, I grabbed them off the shelf, and stuck my vagina in one to make sure they fit." -- well then please, by all means, call me out on it, because that would just sound silly.