momsaidwhat

The heart of America beats with the blood, sweat, and tears of the long haul trucker.  My super spouse, Jeff, drove a truck for a number of years, saw every inch of this great nation, and has routinely schooled me in the rigors of this often thankless occupation. 

I understand the impact that imposing or increasing tolls on interstates has on the tiny towns that make up the fabric of the U.S.  I know intimately of the deadlines, the sleep deprivation, the weeks alone rolling down endless highways through the night.  I get it.  I get it.

Truckers move America.  They drive our economy.  They get us all our stuff.  For this, I love them very, very much.  I just wish they didn’t have to deliver our beloved stuffs in the middle of Downtown Pittsburgh in the heart of rush hour traffic.  It just doesn’t work for me

Though I’m not currently serving in any professional capacity that might allow me to write policy of any kind; today, from behind the steering wheel of my Camry and in between strings of expletives, I wrote policy.

NO 18-WHEELERS ALLOWED IN PITTSBURGH PROPER BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8-9:30 A.M. AND 4-6 P.M.  FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE SUSPENSION OF LICENSE AND PUBLIC SHAMING BY ALL WHOSE MORNING YOU WRECKED UP IN YOUR HASTE. 

Some might argue that as a dutiful employee I should give myself a little extra time to allow for such unforeseen morning obstacles.  I would counter your argument by saying that I did give myself a bit of breathing space this fine Monday morn, but sweet little Jeffrey quite literally took a dump all over my cushion. 

Thus I have to turn my ire at some unsuspecting victim, for as any self-respecting mom would argue—my child’s poop doesn’t stink.  Today, it’s you, Billy Big Rigger.  Did you really think you could swing that tight, right hand turn without snarling three lanes of traffic?  For the fifteen minutes I bore witness to your masculine driving prowess, I thought I was watching the scene in Austin Powers where he does the endless 3-point turn in the narrow hallway.  Pittsburgh streets are much more suited to a horse and buggy than your rig, sir.

For the love of Jeff and the truckers of America, I’ll let you slide with a warning, Billy Big Rigger.  But, don’t let me catch you ’round these parts no more, or your ass is mine.  I’m writing policy.

It’s Friday and I bet, like me, you all have made or are currently in the midst of making a weekend plan for you and yours.  Jeff and I have come to consensus on the weekend’s Plan A, and inclement weather backup Plan B.   I’m feeling pretty fired up and ready to get cracking on either A) stealing away on a bike trip and planting in the yard, or B) painting the kitchen.  As it turns out, I’m pulling hard for option A.

My parents, the Captain and Mr. Wonderful, have been hammering out their outline of weekend fun and frivolity as well.  Those two crazy kids are going to have their bloodwork done together tomorrow morning, complete with a 12-hour fast.

They know how to party.

Make you want to rethink your plans?  I’m thinking scrap the bike ride and go straight to painting the kitchen; lest I be shown up by my hard-living, walk-on-the-wild-side lovin’ parents.  I’m sure they’ll hold hands or neck on the table like the old days.

Eww.

Whatever you do this weekend, I hope you love it.  I mean that.  I thank each of you for supporting me by reading my work and giving me feedback.  It’s been a great week. The Captain told me I’m getting long-winded, and she is the boss of me, so….

THE END

See you on Monday,

Molly

rikalovesit.blogspot.com

I’ve decided to refocus my writing back to the well from which it came, and that is with the divine, maternal, tactless wisdom of my mom, the Captain.  And not that it can ever repay her for “carrying me for nine LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOng months.,” but I figure its wise for the sake of my place on the offspring totem pole to pay homage to her royal wisdom at least once a week.

I’m calling this feature on my site, “What Would the Captain Say?” this week I’m just letting my beloved readers know the Captain’s stance on when is it appropriate for a young girl to start wearing makeup.

This is a no brainer.  The Captain would answer unequivocally, “Threaten them that if they ever leave your house looking like a painted up hooker, or even dare to think about puiting makeup on in the girls’ bathroom behind your back; you will come into their classroom with a washcloth and wash the makeup off their face in class, in front of all of their friends.”

I never did.  In the deepest, darkest corners of my pre-teen soul, I knew that there was an outside chance she just might.  The horror of entertaining the thought of such maternal humiliation kept me far away from the blue eyeliner being circulated in the bathroom during homeroom.

For girls blossoming into womanhood and their mothers, this is a rite of passage riddled with pre-teen angst and the slamming of doors.  I don’t know that there’s a woman among us who doesn’t remember the war waged with mom over cosmetics and their proper application.  The Captain was the clear winner in the Battle of Revlon in our house.  I remember it going down something like this…

One sticky summer day, I walked in complete stealth mode to the drugstore whose back lot bordered my childhood home; allowance money stuck to my sweaty palm and visions of slutted-up supermodels dancing in my head.  The bell rings as I push open the front door of DiStephano’s Pharmacy.  I beeline to the makeup aisle as if on autopilot, having staked out the colorful cosmetic Candyland for months now.

At age 12 and on the precipice of teenage status, I wasn’t aiming for the full Monty.  I knew that blue eyeliner and a neon pink shade of blush (or rouge as my Aunt Dot –God rest her soul) would call it) were way out of my league.  I was just asking for a little touch of color on my pouty lips.  Surely the Captain couldn’t find fault in innocent, little lipstick?

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight. 

Here’s where my juvenile thought process and my feeble plan of attack came unglued, opening the door for the Captain to crush my high fashion hopes in one fell swoop.  My color choices clearly reflected my juvenile teenage tastes; I was, after all, just a wee, boob-less child lost in the Crayola Big Box-with-built-in- sharpener, wandering unattended in the forbidden Land of Revlon.

I saddled up to the cosmetics counter with the swagger of a veteran runway model, never letting on in my put upon, mature demeanor that this was my first rodeo.  I reached into the fishbowl pre-teen priced  lipsticks that sat on the counter to the cash register, and picked out a foursome of colors appropriate only for Cyndi Lauper or Boy George.

Pink.  Coral.  Blue and Green.

Yes, please!

I should have maybe stopped at pink, but clearly I didn’t have a lick of sense in my body.  I remember my hesitation and showing The Captain my new purchases.  I started with pink–she shot my ass right down.  Revealing the blue and green certainly didn’t stem the bloodshed.

For the next eternity I was subjected to my mom’s lengthy oration on why she would never let her any daughter of hers walk out of the house all “slutted up.”  She made it clear that my choice of cosmetics and their age appropriate, and tasteful application were a direct testament to the community’s perception of her as a fit mother.  The Captain made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that if I so much as thought about painting my face like a two-bit hussy, she would have no choice but to caste me forever in shame among my peers.

Point taken.

The War of Revlon and me fate were sealed when my brother appeared from the bathroom with my new blue lipstick all over his face, “Look.  Papa Smurf.”  The jackass broke out in a terrible rash that cost the Captain a healthy fee and a heaping pile of disgust to clear up.  Needless to say I never got to wear that blue shade of lipstick.  Damn.

I don’t know if anyone else does this, or will admit to doing it in a public forum, but I run entire conversations with people before I ever come face to face with them.  People I know, and people I’ve never met.

For example, If I’m arguing with someone, I like to practice my side of things before the main event, so as not to get caught off guard by any scenario that might be thrown my way.  I guess, in that way, it’s kind of like kissing your pillow, or imitating a movie star in the bathroom mirror—without the pillow or the mirror.  Just me and my thoughts and my imaginary friends.

I’ve done this little, pre-game role play activity for as long as I can remember, and though I’d be fearful of an official diagnosis from the mental health community, I’ve just chocked this up to a vivid imagination and;  well, the fact that I just appreciate good conversation with myself and with others…if they’re willing.  When conversation is a necessary for survival as it is for me, you kind of need to be constantly looking for a fresh pair of ears.

I also think that this pseudo-schizophrenia will ultimately pay off for me one day.  When Oprah calls, I’m going to be cool as a cucumber.  Oprah and I have chatted on many occasions in my mental fairytale land about any one of a myriad of projects I’ve been working on over the years.

(FYI:  When you finally meet Oprah, you can just talk about “projects” in a very general way.  Oprah knows your work is far too private and personal of a process to reveal in such a public forum.)

I’ll tell you that Oprah has never made me cry when she brings up my emotional past.   We usually just cut to commercial laughing and telling inside jokes, just like when Julia Roberts comes on the show.  In fact, Oprah and I get so comfortable together, just like her and Gayle King; that I get to turn the tables on her.  Imagine that–me interviewing Oprah Winfrey. 

Oprah cried when I flipped the script and put her on the hot seat.  I asked her about her childhood and what she would say to that little girl rural Mississippi and she says, “I’d ask her if I made her proud.”  She cried; so I cried to.

I guess I lied when I said Oprah didn’t make me cry. We sat there on the couch together and just cried it out like a couple of sisters.

Just me and Oprah.

We end with a good girlfriend laugh, I ask her to teach her next life class on how the average, American woman can keep it spicy like her and Stedman.  Just like her and Maria Shriver would do.

I’m ready Oprah, just give me the call.  Got my dress picked out and everything.

Shoes.

Accessories.

I’m ready.

Last week I introduced “Taking Back Tuesdays” on momsaidwhat.  Some people save whales or those ridiculously cute baby seals some heartless, Arctic bastard is always clubbing to death (might as well step on a kitten or two while they’re at it); I save Tuesday, the cockroach of the week.

Today poses a significant challenge in my grassroots effort to shine up the appearance of hum drum Tuesday.  Today in the United States of America is a little holiday we like to call Tax Day.  While it is unfortunate that Uncle Sam doesn’t give us the courtesy of a day off to recover from him bending us over, I will not be deterred.

I will not be negative.

I will not give “THE MAN” any additional satisfaction over the 30-odd-percent of my income he currently pilfers from my paystub.

Not today.

I’ve decided to stick it to THE MAN by having a good laugh out loud all by myself, right here at my desk on company time.  He can’t take that from me.  It’s a free country…minus the 30-odd-percent tithe.

I’m laughing out loud today, Uncle Sam, because my parents are getting older and funnier with each passing day, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.

My parents, The Captain and Mr. Wonderful, just celebrated their 39^th wedding anniversary, and as the old standard joke goes, they’ve “never talked divorce.  Murder, but not divorce.” Ba-dump-bump ching.

The Captain celebrated the day by posting the following cheese to her Facebook page for all the world to see—except for Mr. Wonderful.  No “FacePage” for him, thanks.  (Again, I would like to thank my sister-in-law Audrey for linking The Captain up with the masses.  It’s like watching a child run with scissors in slow motion.  It is because of you, Audrey that this type of BS makes its way around the internet).  Anyway, enjoy:

It’s sickening AND it’s unreasonable.  There is no way in hell The Captain would ever let Mr. Wonderful out of the house in all white.  He would come home with an itemized list of everything he had eaten or drank that day, as memorialized in the stains on his shirt and pants.  If this were an actual photo of my parents, my dad would be dressed in all brown or all black.

Mr. Wonderful, well not to be outdone, decided to pay tribute to his lady love in an equally romantic and touching way.  He just can’t remember how.  Two days after their anniversary and he has completely forgotten what the hell they did to celebrate!

I kid you not, and this is the beauty of aging parents, Mr. Wonderful is either:

1. Expressing the beginning states of dementia or;
2. Has finally mastered, after 39 years of marriage, tuning out The Captain entirely or;
3. Has officially lost the ability to take care of himself or his affairs.

I know that it isn’t dementia (A), because he distinctly remembers the burger he ate on Friday at the Elrama Tavern (red meat is at a premium on The Captain’s menu.  She cooks heart healthy meals, thank you very much), and the Michael Jackson Immortal show they went to on Sunday.   But Saturday’s anniversary celebration, well that’s all a blur.  Ain’t love grand?

I’m also confident that “B” can be ruled out.  As I am personally learning, the key to healthy relationship does rely, to some extent, on the ability to tune out your spouse; though it is never acceptable to admit to doing so in any way, shape, or form.

That leaves me with “C,” clearly the best choice of the three.  I know that Mr. Wonderful didn’t make the anniversary plans, The Captain did; thus excusing him from all responsibility in the planning process.  Definitely C.  I can also guarantee that The Captain dressed him for their anniversary date, dressed him in all black like Johnny Cash.

Congratulations, Mom and Dad, for showing us kids how it’s done.  Here’s hoping for many more years of wedded bliss and a livetime together without criminal charges.

And thank you for helping me stick it to the Man, because I’m “Taking Back Tuesday” with a big laugh-out-loud on you.

photo courtesty of http://miamidish.net/2008/07/08/miami-dish-loves-bacon/

 My mom is Florence Nightengale on methamphetamines.

My dad, Mr. Wonderful, just did a brief stint in the hospital for a little unexpected maintenance on his ticker.  From what his doctor highlighted on his custom diagram of death, Mr. Wonderful is real lucky.  He dodged a bullet, but he will never dodge my mother.

The woman we call “the Captain” just ain’t having any premature death out of him.  She’s got plenty of honey-do lists in the can, and he better not think about shuffling on into the afterlife without her permission—or by her own doing.

The Captain and I always check in first thing in the morning.  She’s up and full tilt by 4 A.M., we chat around 6:15.

She asks me if Jeffrey slept through the night.  I laugh, and change the subject. 

 She spends the next fifteen minutes itemizing the most unbelievable list of completed errands and tasks.  I can’t do in a week what the Captain does between the God-awful hours of four and six.   If I didn’t know her better, I’d blame hardcore street narcotics. 

This week, due to Mr. Wonderful’s health crisis, the Captain is on overdrive cooking heart healthy meals.  Yesterday she dazzled him with a culinary carousel of flavor in the form of “the other white meat.”  Mr. Wonderful prefers his swine in the form of bacon, laying atop lard fried eggs, poised on a bed of jelly, peanut butter AND butter.   

 You can imagine the Captain’s sweet taste of victory when her cholesterol-loving mate complimented her pork in a fanfare of praise, “Well, it doesn’t taste like cardboard.”

Yesssssssssssssssssssssssss.

This morning she fired out a couple dozen fat free banana nut muffins, killing the fat by subbing applesauce for oil.  A moister muffin has never be known, Mr. Wonderful is going to sing her praises.  I just hope their rekindled culinary union doesn’t lead to sex; that makes me puke in my mouth a little.

 Three times was plenty, mom and dad.  Three healthy kids, call it a night. 

I’m just hoping that the Captain can sustain her latest obsession, and that Mr.  Wonderful can climb out of his lunch meat fantasy long enough to see her heart healthy cooking as the labor of love that it is.  As I said, she’s not letting him die on her watch anytime soon, unless she takes him out of the game.

 I figure, when she’s had enough of him, she’ll throw a little antifreeze in his heart smart lentil soup.  He might survive that attempt; how he hates her lentil soup.

He’d probably get past the poison in any of the dishes the Captain peppers with flax seed. 

He’d survive death by salsa.  He’s dodged that bullet in the past.

I’d say parents have a love/hate relationship with low-fat cooking.  My mom loves to be the food boss of him; my dad hates to admit that coronary plaque is his kryptonite.  We’re all just hoping the diagram of death helps him say bye-bye bacon, hello-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o broiled rubber chicken on a whole wheat wrap.  He better pretend to like whatever she puts on his plate and compliment her accordingly. 

He may have dodged the widow maker, but he’ll never survive the Captain.

Because I am of the belief that all attempts at change and personal growth begin first thing Monday morning, I’ll be kicking off my New Year’s resolutions promptly in the A.M.  Since I am guilty of creating a laundry list of uber-lofty, unattainable, stringent, and outright ridiculous resolutions that I quickly shelf; this year I’m going with a kinder, simpler list of three:

1.  Write every day for one hour

2.  Take care of my body, mind, and soul

3.  Cherish and make the most of every moment I have on this planet.  Put the past to sleep and let the future reveal itself on its own terms.

May all of you have the healthiest and happiest New Year in 2012.  Be better to yourselves than you’ve ever been.  This is OUR year to make this world a kinder place to be.