Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Tires on Capital H(im)

I had a lot of trouble finding myself in high school. I had urges to be completely batshit crazy, but liked my Mom and Dad so I had no reason to. I never really had to get grounded. My parents could tell me they were "disappointed" in me and I would melt into a devilchild puddle and ground myself from using the faucet in the bathtub. (If you don't get that, don't ask)

I went through a lot of stages. I tried to rebel my freshmen year when my parents wouldn't let me date or ride in cars with teenagers. But my rebellion was pretty pitiful. It mostly involved dramatically rolling around on the floor and occasionally staying on AOL longer than I was allowed to. Not that the fellas were lining up outside my door, anyways. When I was finally allowed to date, sophomore year, I came bursting out of my house with my arms in the air ready for whoever would have me. The only person there was the 50 year old man in a Notre Dame jacket we had twice caught staring in my window. I tried to get him to be my boyfriend, but he took off running and covering his face like he always does.

That year I went through my judgmental christian phase. I told on a friend in my youth group for drinking. I told on another friend for going out to lunch. I told one of my friend's mom's that her boyfriend was mean to her. I told one of my other friend's moms where she had escaped to so she could call the cops and have her picked up when she was grounded.  It has been 14 years since I sucked this bad but these friends STILL bring up how much they hated my virtues in 1999.

I have never told anyone this, that's how much I like being liked. You will all hate me. This is by far the lamest thing anyone has ever done.

When I went to my youth group studies, we always had to bring our bible. We were all provided with the teenage bible. (There's an insert in the middle that says "Why the bible says I shouldn't have oral sex" and "Why the bible says I should abstain from the reefer"). Even when I was a finger-pointing and penis-avoiding judgmental christian I still didn't read my bible like I was supposed to. I started noticing the really good kids at church had bibles that were beat up. I needed to catch up.

I ran over my bible with my car. I promise. Then I put sticky notes all throughout pages and bent them and smeared them with dirty hands so they looked worn-out from all my solo prayer sessions. I got a highlighter and went through and highlighted random things. I bent pages and tore a few of them out, then stuffed them back in with tape. Then I put it on the back porch to let the sun beat it up a little bit more.

This is the WORST part. After I did all this, I intentionally went and found my brother. At 11 months older than me, he was also in the youth group and therefore valid competition for the "who has the biggest Jesus-loving muscle" competition.

Mary: Your bible sure is in tip-top form, you obviously haven't been reading it very much.

Matthew: I read my bible all the time, I just take care of my stuff.

Mary: My bible is so torn up because I study the shit out of it.

Matthew: I mean, mine has highlights and stuff but....why are we talking about this?

Mary: (produces bible and shoves in Matthew's not-as-christian face)

Matthew: Are those tire marks?

Monday, June 27, 2011

Pants on Fire

I'm reading "Lies that Chelsea Handler Told me". In case you can't tell by the way I write, I kind of want to be her. Minus a few wrinkles, drug usages, and sexual partners (clearly). It inspired me to tell all about the lies I've been told and believed by my husband, Mat.

Some have purpose, others are merely because he can. He often forgets he has told me this lie. Sometimes, he doesn't even realize I actually believed him.

"The Cheerleader"

This was after we had been together for under a year. I am a jealous heathen who needs self-esteem injections.

Mat: Carly was the one who brought me the paperwork on it, so I wasn't sure who to ask.

Mary: Who is Carly?

Mat: At the dealership. I've told you about her haven't I?

Mary: Um. No.

Mat: She just works for us part-time. She goes to OU. She's a cheerleader there.

Mary: What department does she work in and why was she bringing you paperwork?

Mat: Oh she's always in my office just hanging out. hahaha. It's weird. I don't know what she like, ACTUALLY does, since most of the time she's just hanging out with me.

Mary: Oh. Is she still currently a cheerleader, or was she a cheerleader in like, 1965?

Mat: No, I think she's 19. Really young. Hasn't had any kids or anything yet so everything is still really high and tight, you know.

Mary: (starting to bleed out of my ears and turn my snot into hot red smoke)

Mary: (pretending to be extraordinarily interested in cleaning the trash can)

Mary: (telling myself that if I fly into a jealous rage, he ain't neva gonna put a ring on it)

Mary: (stares at non-cheerleaderish thighs and thinks about going for a run)

Mat: Yeah she's ALWAYS in my office.

Mary: Does she do filing or greet people or something?

Mat: No, she's usually still in her cheerleading outfit so it's not appropriate for customers to see her. So she just stays in my office and talks to me.

Mary: Why the hell would they pay some fat ugly cheerleader with acne to shoot the breeze with you?

Mat: hahahahaha Mary, stop acting silly. She's neither fat nor ugly nor blemish-ridden. She's awesome! You'd love her.

Mary: Okay, well I am going to go pretend to do something so I don't scratch your eyeballs out like a feral incestuous cat.

It's three months later at the company Christmas party. I spent upwards of 9 hours getting ready for this occasion, as Carly was about to get some 26 year old Mary Brown with too much lip gloss on all up in her stupid co-ed face.

I've been there for 2 hours and have seen no cheerleaderish exotic teenager.

Mary: Where's this home wrecker attention-whore, Carly?

Mat: Carly? She's not an attention-whore, that's not nice. What the hell she's like the sweetest lady in the world.

Mary: Don't call her a lady. She's a cheerleader and you're going to leave me for her because I can't jump very high and I hate exercise.

Mat: Oh yeah. hahahahahahahahahahaha. I was lying. You should've seen your face. You were boiling! That's her over there. She's in her sixties and collects poodles. I can't believe you believed me! I was being ridiculous!

Mary: I've been doing 400 squats a day and eating nothing but sticks dipped in splenda to compete with a poodle-enthusiast!????

"The Goat"

After Mat and I started dating, we would play golf together on Sundays with his brother. Afterward, we would eat our faces off. Usually, dirty Mexican food at a place called Ricky's. I would always get something toddlerish, like a quesadilla or an enchilada. Mat and his brother would get something called "Guiso Especiale". It was meat diced with onions and cilantro, topped with an egg and sliced avocados.

Mary: That stuff looks so good, what is it?

Mat: Guiso. It's Spanish for baby goat.

Mary: You're eating baby goat? Ug. I'd rather eat homeless toenails.

Mat: No, it sounds gross but it's actually really good. Please try it.

Mary takes a bite.

Mary: Oh my god. That is sooooo good. I want to rub it on my face.

Mat: I told you!

3 months later at Ricky's.

Waiter: Hola, Mr. Mat friend. You are very hungry yes?

Mat: I'm regular hungry. I'll have the shrimp fajitas.

Mat's brother: I'll try the best Mexican tacos.

Waiter: Si, and for you Mrs. Mat?

Mary: Ummm. I want the baby goat. I can't remember what it's called.

(hands my menu to the waiter and takes a drink of my tea)

Waiter: I will help you miss friend.

(sends over an English speaking person)

Waiter with lighter skin: Hi, what is it that you would like?

Mary: The diced up baby goat. But can I have it with some tortillas?

Waiter: We don't have goat.

Mary: Ummmm, hang on. The Guiso Especiale?

Mat and Brother: (laughing hard and kicking each other)

Mat and Brother: (both hugging me)

Mat: Baby, it's not really goat. I was just teasing you. It's just beef. I had no idea you still thought that.

Mary: Well then eff all of you. and YOU. ALL YOU PEOPLE WHO WORK HERE, TOO. I hope you all get canker sores. Tu tienes dieciseis en mi boca de no simpatico!

Waiter: We have sixteen not nice in your mouth?

"The Website"

Mat: There's this video you need to watch on youtube. It's so funny. I sent you a link at work.

Mary: Oh, I can't watch it at work because they have youtube blocked. I'll watch it when I get home.

Mat: Oh, there's another website you can pull it up on called Gooliga. It's like youtube but for google. It's the latest "thing".

Mary: Oh okay. What's it called again?

Mat: Voogle.

Mary: Oh okay.

One hour later at work I am searching all over the internet for this website. I ask my tellers. They have no idea what site I'm talking about. I have a customer who is tech-savvy come in. He says there's no such thing. I keep searching for it and eventually call Mat on speaker.

Mary: Hey, me and Chloe are here searching for this website you were telling me about this morning. How do you spell it?


Mary: Would it be on the google homepage? Was it googlideo or something?

Mat:...........(finally gasps for breath) HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH Are you serious????

Mary: What?

Mat: I just pulled that out of my ass. I completely made it up and didn't think you were even paying attention!

Mary: Oh okay. So what is the website you were talking about then?

Mat: ....................

"The Bike Nazi"

It was a beautiful day in Oklahoma, which is saying a lot since we only have 5 beautiful days a year. This was a time before Ellis was (accidentally) created. I would let Adrian ride his bike in the street in front of our house while I sat on the porch and read, facebook-stalked, or tried to look like I was gardening for the other neighbor Moms I compete with.

Adrian asked if he could ride his bike so I put on a push up bra and went and sat on the porch. When Adrian went to retrieve his bike from the garage, he could not find it. I looked all around the house and it was gone. It had been stolen. His tears were shouting cuss words at me. I called Daddy.

Mary: Hey, do you have any idea where Adrian's bike might be? We can't find it.

Mat: Nope, the last time I saw it was Monday night and it was left in the driveway.

Mary: No, we've played with it since then. I think it may have gotten stolen.

Mat: That's why he needs to always put his bike back where it belongs or that kind of stuff happens.

Mary: yeah yeah blah blah. See you when you get off.

(gathers 4 year old Adrian into a love ball and hugs him)

Mary: We are going to do whatever it takes, honey. We will find that bike. Let's start with the neighbors.

We go to six different adjacent neighbor's houses, asking the parents and the children if anyone has seen it. No little ugly kid is going to steal my adorable kid's bike without me finding him and giving his face a grass stain in front of his neglectful parents.

My attractive and non-thieving child

Mary: All right this isn't working but don't give up hope, okay? We are going to find your bike no matter what. I don't care if I have to quit my job.

We didn't have a printer so we drove to my parent's house and made a flyer on the computer. Then we drove back to our house, stopping once for sympathetic snow cones. Once we got home and started hanging the flyers, someone stopped us and said as part of the HOA rules we had to have them approved by a board member.

We went home and got on the computer to look up the board member's addresses. We walked to the President's house. His wife said he wasn't home and told us to go to the Secretary's house because he worked from home. When we got there, his wife said he was next door and invited Adrian and I in. She gave us some horrible lemonade and I awkwardly pet her ugly whippet until he came back.

We pitched our story and he said we could only hang up one sign in the front of the neighborhood in the glass case. He got the key and walked us up there so we could hang the sign.

After 2 hours, finally defeated, Adrian and I walked home.

My friend Kelsey had found out Adrian was sad his bike had gotten stolen. She brought him some candy and jokes to cheer him up.

Kelsey: You know, I bet Mat will surprise him with a new bike.

Mary: That's what I am hoping for. He's so devastated. Oh there's the garage door now. He's home.

Mat: Adrian come here! I hear you got your bike stolen. I want to show you something.

(pulls bike out of the back of his SUV that looks exactly like the bike that was stolen)

(I get tears in my eyes at this man's sweetness and thoughtfulness)

Adrian: A new bike! Thank you Daddy!

Mat: Nope, it's not new. I STOLE YOUR BIKE. Now you know how it would feel if you really did leave your bike in the driveway and it got stolen. If I hadn't noticed it in the driveway, it would've been stolen. Okay?

Adrian: Um. Okay.

Kelsey: All righty. Well on that note, and the fact that I can feel Mary's blood pressure rise above lethal levels, I am going to leave you two alone.

Friday, June 24, 2011

By George, you're awful.

My personality had to develop out of necessity.

When I was 3-5, I had a serious bowl cut. When I was 6-11 I had an afro. When I was 5-11 I had a smile so unfortunate and crooked, a kid in my tao-kwon-doe class didn't think "buck-teeth" was quite accurate enough so he convinced everyone to call me "butt-teeth". It was so cute the way he used a pun like that!

I also went through an "I'm huge and I don't know it" stage. This was age 22-25, when I would relish in the attention ANYONE was willing to give me. Including a homeless man or a cat. Even though homeless men will often stab you and cats make my face itch.

I was going to get one of my pretty friends that still don't realize smoking is disgusting a pack of cigarettes from the machine at Baker St Pub one night in 2005. I pulled the lever to dispense the wrinkle/cancer-makers and 2 packs fell out. So I pulled the other levers and the cigarette packs started flying out. I knew this was my chance to get some amazing attention so I cleaned out the machine and went around table to table throwing free cigarettes at people, telling them jokes, and moonwalking.

I was officially a superhero. I'll call myself Super Cig: the coolest and sweatiest girl at the bar. I fell in love with myself that night.

I wanted some non-asexual love though, so these free cigarettes better start working.

A man we will call George came up to me and told me he loved my smile and I was his dream girl. I had already given him his free pack of Camel Lights, so what was his motivation? I said something flirty and sly like, "Do you have any cookies?". He loved him some Mary. He followed me around like an orangutan for the rest of the night. He wasn't my type at all, but I didn't have much to work with so I gave him my phone number.

He called me the next morning. We had absolutely nothing to talk about. Pretty much, I would ask him questions and he would talk about himself and celebrities for 20 minutes. Whenever I got him on the phone, I would have to have something to read, food to eat, a trashy reality show to watch on TV, and a Rubik's cube.

He lived in Las Vegas, but was from Oklahoma City. He was a solid 6....maybe 5.75. He had a good job in Vegas, and he came home once a month. Not that any of that really mattered. The only thing that I cared about was that he would pick up the phone and call me and tell me I was pretty. His compliments were really back-handed, and most of the time I felt like we were in a SNL skit.

"I've had the underwear models, and I would rather just have someone like you."

"Looks aren't everything! I'd rather have someone who is bigger and won't cheat on me or leave me. I like you."

"You're my new type. Seriously. You look like a Lane Bryant model. I am all about it."

"If we start dating you better not change. Seriously, I like Nicole Richie better when she was fat."

(It reminds me of when my friend Kelsey and I have a back-handed compliment war. I said "Your hair looks clean today!" and she came back with "You're really good at not being fat anymore". Best. Worst Compliment. Ever.)

I'd kind of grimace and bite my lip and pretend this shit made me feel good. I had a trip planned to Vegas  with four of my friends, and I wanted to have a boyfriend to rub in their faces while we were there. He also worked for a promotions company, so he told me he could get us all VIP at some amazing places. This was a total red flag of douchebaggery, but I was blinded by the attention.

We would be in Vegas for 5 nights, and I promised him I would stay with him for one of those nights. It was a promise I would not keep.

When we got to Vegas, we were pissy. We'd missed our flight from Dallas and had to each purchase a one-way ticket. I had gotten a ticket in Texas for driving through a median and being an Oklahoman. Once we got to my parent's condo, took a bubble bath,  and had a pillow fight, we were jonesing for some sushi. George had already called 27 times and I was starting to regret our planned rendezvous. He frequently said things like, "You need to go to 'insert lame one-syllable too expensive restaurant here' because that's where Sahari Goolesh, 4th runner up on Bravo's Bad Girls Club, had her birthday party."

I called George to let him know where we were going to eat sushi, and he said he would meet us there by driving his '97 Eclipse (That was a cheap shot, Mary). While we're walking across the street, he honked at us and I could tell the girls were not feeling him. I also wished he wasn't coming to crash our vagina and sushi party, but what could I do? He was going to be stuck to my ass non-stop. I was going to have to do some damage-control and be a little bit stand offish so perhaps he would back off.

He walked up and met everyone and then told me I was beautiful. Then he did this:

It was 6 o clock, in front of my friends, and it was the first we had seen each other in person since the night I stupidly gave Giant Tongue Monster free cigarettes. It was like my face was on fire and he was trying to save my life. Keeping my mouth closed did not deter him, he instead just spit up my nostrils.

Once I got a shamwow and cleaned myself off, we sat down to eat sushi. My friends were all kicking me under the table, their way of promising to throw poker chips at my face for bringing this ass-monkey around.

George: Here in Vegas, people don't order sushi for themselves. We order it as a table. It's much easier.

Maggie: Well, we don't want to do it that way since we're going to have separate checks.

George: Oh my. You guys sure are from Oklahoma. Trust me. I saw Paris Hilton's mom at a Tapas restaurant. I know how the cool people do it, okay?

Mary: Oh this is fun! Maggie, don't be silly, we'll let George help us order.

George: We'll have 4 samurai rolls, 4 california rolls, 2 electric eel rolls, and the roll Khloe Kardashian gets when she comes here.

Taylor: Can I get some nigiri smoked salmon as well, please?

George: I guess that's okay. You'll just eat less sushi I guess, than the rest of us. I'll allow that. Oh, Greer, are you going to get drinks?

Greer: uhhh, I was going to get myself a drink.

George: Here in Vegas, when you go get a drink, you get EVERYONE at the table drinks. That's just how it's done here. So I'll have a amaretto sour and Mary will have a vodka sprite. Right, sexy? (tries to turn his tongue into a water sprinkler on my face again) (I turn my head and pretend Taylor has just said something hilarious)

Maggie: (she's not having this shit) I've been to Vegas 16 times and we have never done that. Everyone can just get their own drinks. I am not even drinking with dinner so Greer, or anybody for that matter, doesn't need to buy me a drink.

We stuff our faces with sushi and awkward conversation.

The bill comes.

George: Okay, so everyone just throw down as much as they can contribute. The bill, here in Las Vegas, where I live, is $180.

We each throw about $30 down on the table, except Greer, who only ate a piece of lettuce drizzled with vinegar. (Keep in mind. George ate and drank the most. If it hadn't been for him, our bill would've been more like $60)

George: What the hell? Am I going to get stuck paying the bill? That's not right, we're a lot more laid back than that here in Las Vegas. Does nobody have any more money?

He puts a 20 on the table.

I, hating awkward situations more than not being able to pay my bills, throw down another 50. I'm trying to find a 10 dollar bill out of the money pile to take back, but George interrupts me with curiosity about what I am doing.

Mary: I'm looking for a 10.

George: No, here in Vegas we tip well. We need to leave at least 40 dollars, so just leave it.

Mary: Oh. um. all right.

We decide we want to go to Barbary Coast. I have told everyone it is my favorite place to gamble because it is cheap and not busy. I try to hint to Cheap-ass that this is a girl's trip and he better go on home. I'm not very good at hinting, though.

George: We all need to pile in my Eclipse.

Taylor: No, we want to walk.

George: That's cute. No one walks here. You'll look like a tourist.

Greer: I look hot and I want to walk and see people. I've never been here before.

Taylor: I want to walk too! I want to walk past the dancing waters! 

Maggie: Don't say "No one walks here". You don't know what you're talking about.

George pulls me to the side.

George: I'm seriously too embarrassed to walk, okay? Tell your friends. They're so rude.

Mary: They just want to walk. It's only 8 and we're not in any hurry. Why don't you go practice with your horrible metal band and we'll meet up later okay? And by later, I mean never. Because you're awful.

George: Fine, I'll go. But I am driving. Are you seriously going to make me drive by myself?

Mary: My friends need me. I have....all their my....pockets....errr....

We make the 10 minute walk up the strip towards the Barbary Coast. I don't know how we managed to do any walking with the large amount of George-bashing we were doing.

He had already used his connections to get us VIP free access to an amazing club at the top of Mandalay Bay. We had all been looking forward to it. Was it worth it? Could we suffer through this Asshat's company to get free entry and liquor? We decided yes, we would have to.

I'm still kind of unsure what George does, but I know liquor companies pay him to go out. They give him free liquor and he has to take pictures of hot girls drinking this liquor. Then he writes up a synopsis of the evening and sends it to someone. It's pretty much the most mindless douchebag job in the history of men. 

We are on our way to the Foundation Room, and we were ecstatic! We had our own VIP section, with full bottle service and couches AND we didn't have to pay the 50 dollar cover to get in! I had managed to blow George off successfully for the last 3 nights and now I was ready to suffer through him so I could feel like a celebrity.

He meets us in the Mandalay Bay casino, and sits down at a penny slot by the bar. He yells at the bartender for a drink and when the bartender brings it and says, "That will be $8.25" George says, "Hey shut up man. I'm gambling. See? Comp it." I was mortified. The bartender demands payment, so George GIVES HIM THE DRINK BACK.

George: So guys, since we get to bypass the line I need you guys to give me money to tip the door guy. I need to tip him at least a couple hundred.

Mary, Greer, Taylor, Maggie: ..........................................................................

George: I shouldn't have to use my money! This is my job!

Mary: Your job doesn't allow for that? How do you usually pay it? We'd rather just wait in line.

George: We are NOT waiting in line. You're getting a free night and you can't chip in any money?

Greer bashfully hands him a 5. I muster up a 10. Maggie and Taylor aren't having this.

George is annoyed, but we continue on. We bypass the line of 14 people and George does an over-exaggerated handshake to the door guy and gives him no tip. I hate George. We get to go in an elevator to the top of Mandalay Bay and we're all giddy and giggling.

This place was amazing. It had the most beautiful view and we saw some D-list celebrities. George was able to get us a free bottle of Vodka, so we were drinking Vodka-Red Bulls like it was our job. We pretty much never stayed in the VIP section George had provided us. That is because George was an awful human being whose voice was somehow nasal, monotone, deep, mentally-challenged, and douchetastic all at the same time.  Which would have been fine except he used this voice to frequently say things, and we just wanted him to stop.

George: I'm getting paid. Getting paid to just here. I'm getting paid thousands of dollars to just sit here and drink.

Mary: What? Yeah, I like sharks too!

George: Getting paid so much money right now. So much money. Just to sit here. Did you see that line when we came in? I don't wait in lines. I'm getting paid.

Mary: Tiger sharks ARE the best. They can swim in fresh water!

2 hours later it was more like this:

George: Whyyyyyyyy isn't anyyyyyone in my VIP? Whyyyyyy? Waaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh.

Mary: Because there's a huge balcony, they smoke, and the 3rd runner up from Top Chef is out there and Taylor is trying to hit it.

George: wahhhhhh. I did ALLLLLLL this stuffffff for youuuuu guysssss and whiiiinnnnnneeee whiiinnnnneeee whiiiiiinnnnneeee whiiiiiinnnneee.

Maggie: Ug. SHUT UP. Are you seriously upset that we aren't sitting on the couches? People go to bars to meet people and dance and walk around.



Taylor: Um, we're getting kicked out because Greer is sleeping on the floor.


Mary: Oh, darn. Sorry George we gotta go. I'll call you later.

George: NO! I'll come with you. Here, stick this bottle of Makers Mark in your purse.

Mary: ummmm okay?


In the elevator, I have to come clean and tell George that I would rather sleep with 7 geriatric lepers that were covered in marmite than ever get anywhere close to anything that could possibly even be in the realm of his bed. He has tears in his eyes and mutters things about us using him and I just pat his shoulder and remind him he's getting paid for this. A lot.

I accidentally stole his bottle of Makers. I had Maggie answer my phone when he kept repeatedly calling and throwing temper tantrums over the phone. I assured him I would leave it at the front desk of the hotel I was staying at. After he repeatedly used cuss words, which everyone KNOWS I am adamantly against, I stopped in the middle of the casino.

Mary: Hi! Do you like Makers Mark?

Man in cowboy hat: Yes.....I do!

Mary: Enjoy! In the name of George.

New boys that loved Maggie!

Thursday, June 23, 2011

I Wish Everyone Loved Me

Customer: Hi, I'd like my account balance please.

Mary: Did I just hear a cock a doodle doo? Was that a real rooster?

Customer: ummm yes, why?

Mary: I'VE NEVER HEARD A REAL ROOSTER BEFORE! That was amazing! Can you make it do it again?

Customer: Are you being serious?

Mary: I didn't know they actually sound just like they do on toys. Can you make it do it again?
(her husband is laughing in the background. he says "it's not like I can poke it with a stick")

Customer: He'll do it again in a second. We live in the country so we have lots of chickens.

Mary: And roosters? That's so cool.

Customer: Well....a rooster is a chicken. A male chicken.

Mary: (googling very quickly)

Mary: A rooster is a male chicken, of course. It's also known as a cock, I think. Cock. 

Customer: Did you hear that one?

Mary OH MY GOSH. YES I DID. I love that cock.

Customer: Okay, well that's nice. Can I get my balance?

Mary: I JUST HEARD HIM AGAIN! Is he like, in your bedroom with you?

Customer: My password is 067542

Mary: $748.52

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Kiss me, I'm Irish and haven't brushed my teeth!

I have always been smart enough to pick friends with parents with money. Money that likes to be spent on me. I also have been smart enough to not get arrested or get a tattoo on my face, so said rich friend's parents will take me on vacations I have rightfully earned.

I got to stay at a lake house every summer with Kendal while we were growing up. Her family also took me skiing and when I shattered the rented house's window with my ski boot, I didn't shatter my chances of continued spoiling. Through adulthood I continue to take advantage of their Mexico condo as often as possible.

Me at Kendal's parent's condo. I'm 142 weeks preggo here, so don't be a hater

Greer's parents gave me 6th row tickets to the OKC Thunders playoff game a few weeks ago.

Thunder up!

 Last week they paid for me to eat a lavish lunch at their country club. (I ordered extra so I'd have leftovers. I deserved it for trying to convince their daughter to not get any more tattoos). The best thing they've ever done for me is to take me where no teen-who-has-not-yet-sown-her-wild-oats should ever go.

Ireland, matey!

Is matey pirate or Irish talk?

It was my senior year of high school, 2001.  I was a good catholic girl who did not drink alcohol and though I frequently thought about sex, if someone suggested it I would tell their parents and spike my own drink with Ortho-Tri-Cyclen. But in Ireland, it's not considered immoral to get plastered every minute of the day. It's not frowned upon to bring a hot Guinness to church.  It's also not considered rude to be a 17 year old American with blond hair, grunge-free teeth, and a friend who has the same attributes.

Notice the circled Irish people. No wonder we were super-models in the green land.

 We were with a large church group from Texas and drove a giant tour bus all over the southern part of the country. (Apparently, Northern Ireland, including Belfast, is full of haters). By the time we flew to Manchester, took a bus to Wales, rode on a ferry to Dublin, and drove our new tour bus to our hotel we were hungry enough to eat a goat with hoof and mouth disease.* We sat down to our first Irish meal. It was a plate full of tomatoes, tomato juice, beans, bean juice, unknown breakfast meat, unknown breakfast meat juice, over-easy eggs and the amniotic chicken fluid that comes along, with a side of brown soda bread and constipation. This was all mixed together on one plate and put in front of us with Irish pride. The only thing Greer consumes is salsa, Now and Laters, and push-ups, so she was also less than impressed with this cultured breakfast. We both mourned the loss of  bagels and apples and decided to sleep instead of eat.

We "ate" at this weird Irish place

Most of the trip was dedicated to (insert something besides eating here) instead of eating. I think the only way we kept from having swollen Ethiopian bellies and flies on our eyes was vegetable soup and soda bread. Vegetable soup in Ireland, even in fancy restaurants, was 142 different kinds of vegetables, cooked then pureed and poured into a bowl. We would take the tasteless brown soda bread and use it to penetrate the mush with trepidation, then cover the new creation with salt and swallow it with vodka and a laxative.

We were beginning to regret coming on this exciting trip after the first 24 hours of flying, driving, boating, churching, and anorexicating. We were in the hotel after dinner on our first day when a man named Peter asked us to come to the hotel bar with him because we were pretty and smelled good. Peter was interesting. He looked like Adrien Brody but had Harry Potter glasses and converse. I think he was "cool" but I really don't know. He loved Greer. They had a conversation that went something like this:

Peter: You're pretty, I like your hair and teeth, and I tell you a joke.
Greer: What'd you say?
Peter: HAHA. The horse. The ball. The cat.
Greer: um. What?
Peter: I once threw a ball at the air, and it went up so high, it never came down no.
Peter: HAHA.
Greer: Is that the joke? I don't get it. I like you.

Obviously in Ireland they speak English, but we never understood a damn word they said.** I think that's why Peter kept SAYING the word HA in succession to make it sound like a laugh, then made fun of us by dumbing down his language into short nouns that made sentence fragments. This kind of behavior was intriguing to Greer, as she's always been into guys that are incoherent and mentally-disturbed. And drunk. She spent the rest of the 14-day trip whining about wanting to go back to Dublin and find Peter so he could talk about the horse and the cat.

Peter told us if we were bored we should go to a pub close by and he would come with us. I think that's what he said. I had never been drunk before, much less been to a bar. I also was used to consuming upwards of 3000 calories a day that didn't show on my 17 year old ass. Therefore, the 43 calories I had eaten of vegetables would make for a fun evening of first-time drunking myself.

We're 17! and drinking! (Look at the bartender)(This is what everyone in Ireland looked like)

The pub was shaped like a castle and within walking distance. I didn't know how to order a drink so I found someone with clean teeth and assuming she was an American asked what I should drink for my first time. She suggested a warm Guiness. She clearly did not understand that I said "I'm 17 and have never drank before", and instead thought I had said "I'm a 60 year old Irish man who is already wasted and wants something that tastes like battery acid and assholes." Once we realized Guinness was not for me, I ordered a Malibu and Coke and Greer got a schmirnoff ice. (I know that's spelled wrong, that is how we said it because we were 17 and not at all awesome).

Malibu and Coke tasted like summer with a sun tan. I was in. I drank almost 3 before I was ready to go somewhere and eat some food. Greer had had 2 schmirnoff ices and since she weighs 94 lbs was also ready for pretty much anything. We wanted Dennys french fries and ranch dressing and ketchup. We wanted this so bad that we drunkenly convinced ourselves we could get it. Peter and another clean teeth girl walked us back to our hotel, where Greer inappropriately gave him a hug and an "I loooove you Petey".

The hotel restaurant was closed, they said we could only order room service. We were about to stumble to our rooms when someone called our names and we noticed the rest of the church group, including Greer's parents and our youth pastors in the lobby. Greer's dad asked where we'd been and never having been one to lie I said we'd been out dranking at the pub, yo. Greer sat down and leaned her head against a light pole and Greer's dad asked if I was feeling okay. I gave him and the bellboy a hug, then laughed really hard and told my youth pastor I was needing some french fries up in my mouth. Greer's mom walked us to our room, where we used the phone to long-distance call our boyfriends back home at a whopping 92 cents a minute. (Thanks Jack, sorry about that!) After we'd had our boyfriend-fill, we set to the task of getting us some french fries. This is how that went.

Room Service: Ay yes matey, may the lucka the irish be with you, what may you be liking this evening schmaedddy schmeddity doo.
Mary: Hi honey boo, I don't know what you just said but we need some fries, really soon.
Room: ay we have fries yes schmeddity schmoo
RS: ay you don't need ketchup with fries no? no no no.
Mary: Hey don't be a hater, we're Americans and we like ketchup. Do you have ranch dressing?
RS: ay no we don't have that no. Would you fancy some tomato juice then lad?
Mary: Tomato juice, what? NO. I want french fries. Ketchup. If you bring me a bowl of pureed vegetables I will throw a diseased goat at you.
RS: ay lad. but surely you don't want ketchup really?
RS: ay yes ma'am we'll have it right there.

Less than one minute later, they left a silver tray outside our door and when we uncovered it there was one small bag of Lay's barbecue potato chips and a silver ramekin full of vinegar and tomatoes. Apparently fries are not the same thing in Ireland as they are in Oklahoma. And apparently they hand make their ketchup upon request, with vinegar, tomato juice, and the broken food-dreams of 2 drunken 17-year olds.

Greer on a castle. It wasn't really in 1994.

The rest of the trip was amazing, and I will definitely go back to Ireland. We figured out we could buy salt n vinegar chips and candy instead of eating at restaurants, even though we eventually got used to veggie puree and brown soda bread. We went to so many fun pubs and go so much Irish attention, I'm still coasting off that self-esteem 10 years later. The drinking made the fact that our bus was 5 inches wider than the road and constantly tipping off the green mountain into the ocean bearable.

I think Greer still considers Peter, the 30 year old Dublin man with an emo Cosby sweater, the one that got away.

This was the Cranberrie's lead singer's house. I know!? Why would we go anywhere else, right!?

Me at a glass factory. Being a hot teenager. sigh.

Greer. Castle. Grafitti.

My most lady-like stance at the Blarney castle.
 *Hoof and mouth disease was rampant when we were there. Everywhere we went had giant disinfectant pads you had to soak your shoes in. We would be driving along the Irish countryside and we would see a group of goats and one with a green letter painted on it. I felt like all the Irish people also looked like they had hoof and mouth disease, and I frequently wanted to paint them green and give them some astringent and colgate.
**One night I was in a pub dancing by myself when an irish goat-man came up to me and say he loved my "tit". I was appalled and told him he needed to go to Belfast with the rest of the haters. He said it a few more times and then pointed to his grungy mouth, very confused. He was telling me I had beautiful teeth and I thought he was complimenting my teenage rack.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Car accidents and death are so cute!

I can admit my faults openly.

I am a gentle little butterfly when it comes to most things. I always give money to crackheads holding cardboard signs. I feel sorry for babies in public without pants. When someone has a low credit score, I hold hands and cry with them. I once licked a cafeteria floor from one side to the other for a 7 year-old with cancer. I'm pretty much a disciple of Mother Theresa.

But if Mother Theresa was driving beside me and tried to go faster than me, I would take my baby out of her car seat and throw her out of the driver's side window to hit Mother Theresa in the face and cause her to crash.

Then once she had obliterated her vehicle, hopefully against against something hard and non-pliable, I would find her body in the rubble and pour a rotten drink from my floorboard on her exposed esophagus. Then I would make both of my children say at least 3 bad things about her and 2 of them would have to include curse words. Then we would get back in the car and go home and draw pictures of how much we hate her and what a stupid driver she is.
I hope I've made the point that I have serious road issues. It's not even road rage, because the only time I get violent and rabid is when someone tries to pass me. I always let people go ahead of me when they're trying to get over to turn, or when they're stuck trying to get out of a parking lot. I never get annoyed with traffic. But when an ugly mother trucker thinks they deserve to go past me it makes me froth at the mouth.
Driving home from dinner at my wonderful in-laws, Adrian and I are talking about how great our life is and how attractive we both are when suddenly I notice a black sedan racing to pass me. The lane that this diseased excuse for a motorist was using to try to pass me ended in approximately 50 feet. I'm not very good measuremently-speaking though, so that may not be accurate. When I speed up to ensure they don't cut me off this asshat wants more! Sir, do you realize I will catapult my 6 year-old at your lungs?
I swerve into oncoming traffic rather than let the transportation-challenged individual cause me to slow down. I then swerve back in front him and cause him to slam on his brakes, and hopefully diarrhea himself a little. It is at this moment I notice my new enemy is driving a Mercedes. My husband works at a Mercedes dealership and I immediately know this is one of his superiors as I try to hide my face and find somewhere to turn. Oh shit, Oh shit, Oh shit.
"Mama don't say cuss words. Hey! There's Daddy!"
I realize this isn't Husband's boss. This is Husband. Husband tried to cut me off. Husband is laughing in my rear view mirror. Husband thinks this incident is whimsical and humorous. Husband is about to get his upper thigh lacerated by my rabies mouth. And NOT in a fun way.
He then suffers through my frothy wrath.
He promises that tomorrow he will "make it up to me".

The next day we are driving home from dinner and Adrian scolds Daddy on how he shouldn't cut Mama off in his car because it made him scared and sad when Mama bit the heads off all of our fish. Husband tells Adrian he will do whatever it takes to make me stop raging. Adrian asks what Daddy can do to make me stop being satanic and I decide he needs to drive home with the windows down, shirtless.

Husband is driving in the middle of upper-class Edmond at 6 o'clock in the evening, with 2 children and a wanna-be trophy wife, in a 2011 Mercedes-Benz with a naked upper-body. It was definitely the most inappropriate and cruel  making-up-to since Tiger Woods allowed Elin to smash his skull with a 9-iron. Adrian was laughing so hard he was completely silent. When he did finally speak he said, "Oh Daddy look, that pretty girl in that car is staring at your muscles!"

And that is when Husband's punishment ended.

Monday, June 13, 2011

10 things I promise never to blog about

In honor of the clickable button "Next Blog", where it will take you to a random blog I decided to make you a few promises, in hopes you would spread the word of my blog and make me famous so I can buy liposuction and a trampoline.

1. Fashion-

Don't get me wrong, I love fashion blogs. I like to read them and then rub the monitor on my body to try to get some of my frumpiness off. My favorite is this one. She is so fabulous she makes you want to give your children to Russia and do nothing but stalk attractive people on Facebook all day. If I wrote a fashion blog and inspired people, you would all look like moms trying not to look like moms, but trying to distract the fact you still look like a mom with cleavage. So. You're welcome.

2. How to-

I will never tell anyone how to do something. I'm pretty awful at most things. I will, perhaps, write blogs on how to not do something. So far I have come up with: How not to pay a traffic ticket in another state and therefore be permanently unable to drive in a southerly direction, How not to fix a camera, How not to do the HCG diet, How not to graduate from college, How not to accidentally send sexually-explicit text messages to business customers, and How not to use profanity.

3. Recipes-

I don't know how to properly write the difference between tablespoon and teaspoon, and those words are just annoying to write all the way out. Sorry boutcha. Target has prepared food that you can put in the oven and pretend you made by hand so your husband will feel obligated to give it up.

4. Product Reviews

I don't pay attention to when things are awesome or not. Most of the time I buy the most expensive version of whatever I'm seeking, then put it in a cupboard where I forget about it until it expires, starts smelling, or explodes. Except cookies.

5. Fitness

When husband gets up at 4:30 AM to go to the gym, I wish to torture him upon an open flame like a baby pig. Then I get jealous of his shoulders so I do my Shake Weight for 45 seconds. Then I get tired and eat some cheese and take a bath. Also, when my pants don't fit- I cuss at them and wear them anyways.

6. Health

I may only eat 1500 calories a day but they're all in cookies and gas station hot dogs. Then I feel like I am going to pass out at about 6:30. Sometimes I think my heart stops beating while I am sleeping and that's not real fun. I tell myself I will eat a chicken breast tomorrow. But then when tomorrow comes I want a chocolate-covered rice cake and a pack of starbursts that are all red and pink instead.

7. Religion

I did a post once where I pretended to be all-knowing about religiousness. I thought it was funny and ironic, but I had to take it down once I got pink eye. I figured that was my warning.

8. Money

I think having money is better than not having money. I like spending it instead of saving it. I stole 20 dollars from my child's piggy bank to pay the babysitter. Once, when I got mad at my Dad, I ripped up the money he had brought me home from Saudi Arabia. My very first paycheck I got from Blimpie Subs was cashed and then dropped somewhere in the parking lot of Jamba Juice. I had worked 2:30-5, three days a week, for absolutely nothing.

9. Poetry

I found a poem I wrote, very angrily, when I was 18. It was unfortunate and I spelled the word your wrong in 2 different sentences. I also wrote the line "altered, adjusted, reconstructed" three different times like it was the central theme of my poem. I think I thought I was sitting in the corner of a coffee shop, listening to bands no one heard of, with thumb holes in my sweater, forgetting that I love sunshine and my parents.

10. Contests

I promise I won't ever give away a $10 gift card to Long John Silvers if you follow my blog. You should be giving me some delicious fried shrimp for writing to you. I also won't ever disguise a contest as a fun guise to actually get your email address and then spam the shit out of you.

I think writing about nonsense all the time is the way to get famous and be a sugar mama.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Her doesn't cook.

Adrian's Kindergarten class made a book for their mothers for Mother's Day. They each picked their mom's favorite recipe, dictated them, and put them in a recipe book. They then took a picture with a chef's hat and answered the question, "Why do you love your mom?" These answers were posted in a speech bubble on the picture for all the moms I am competing with to see.

This is when you, as a mother, have the chance to show all the other mothers how much you are really outperforming them. When I heard of this, I knew I was about to kick all those trophy moms in the thorax.

I wonder what Adrian will say about me in his speech bubble? "I love my mom because she dances and paints with me"? "I love my mom because she still looks like she's a teenager"? "I love my mom because she sings prettier than all your moms and everyone on the Disney Channel"?

I wonder what Adrian will say his favorite recipe of mine is! Maybe the time I made him a cookie sandwich with homemade M&M cookies when he stood up for his sister at school? Or my spaghetti, he loves my spaghetti. Nope, I bet it will be my chicken tettrazini or garlic bread! He loves my garlic bread more than Ninja Turtles and Jesus.

Um. This is what I got. This is what all the other moms got to see. Frozen waffles? Really, Adrian. Why don't you just call DHS right now and they can come take you away from your "nice" Mom who kicks ass at using a toaster. Nice? What about all the stuff you tell me about how I'm prettier and younger than the other moms? Put that shit in print! And, why the face? You look like you're on Valium and friends with the Unabomber.

I suppose it could've been worse.

At least this girl is telling the world her mom can boil some water. One could even deduce that the white sauce is homemade. Maybe she even wears stilettos and a figure-flattering apron while she makes her special sauce of white. However, the only thing she contributes to her daughter's life besides fettuccine alfredo is Daddy's paycheck. Which, in my mind, she's a hot and sexy size 0 trophy wife in a tight apron, means she contributes nothing to that paycheck other than arm candy. I win.

I know. I know. (Really, Mrs. S? Thought a grammatical correction for the foreign kid was too much censorship?)

In a completely unrelated subject, I curled my hair for the first time yesterday since 1992. I was feeling like a mangy weimereiner and I wanted some volume. I thought it looked cute. I walked with a little extra spark in my step. When I picked Adrian up from school he looks at me like I look like this

Instead of this

My eyes will kill you!

and says....."hahahahahahahahaha, I like it Mama. Was today crazy hair day at your work?"

I'm "nice". 

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

It's my Birthday, though.

My birthday was on a Thursday night and no amount of offspring was going to keep me from putting on a dress and going out to get some attention.

Husband did not want to come because he "wanted to spend time with the kids" and "finish hanging up the laundry". I'm sorry he makes all your husbands look as good as Tiger Woods. The man works 164 hours a week and when he gets home he says, "I'll hang up the clean clothes, I know you think there are terrorist scorpions playing in them."

Click here to know my scorpion hell.

Husband is a saint.

Son is a christian. A big one.

Whenever I put him to sleep at night, he always wants me to say a prayer. I keep the prayer as generic as I can because being insincere makes me want to punch myself in the throat. It usually goes something along the lines of this:

"Dear Jesus or God. Please keep everyone we like happy. Please let me and everyone I like not have nightmares about fireballs or people I like not being safe or happy."

Then Adrian chimes in something he's been thinking about:

"and please let my Mama not say another cuss word."

(His guinea pig that has emotional issues bit me while I was giving him water. If that doesn't deserve an Oh Shit, then I don't know anything that does.)

other examples of his prayer endings:

"...and please let us give that homeless man our house"

"...and please let Mama remember to buy batteries and gogurt tomorrow"

"...and please when I ask for something that you promise to give it to me. Like money or being a super-hero"

"...and please let Daddy not slap Mama on the butt again. ever."

"...and please let my sister not bitch-slap other kids at school tomorrow" (I may have embellished this one)

The night of my birthday was his most heart-felt and honest prayer he had ever articulated.

I had on a little black dress and was leaving the house with too much lipstick, bright pink 24 inch shoes, and told Husband I wouldn't be home until 11. I gave the both the kids a hug and thanked Husband for being super-Dad.

After I left, and Husband was putting Adrian to bed, he gave his even more awkward version of a prayer than mine:

"Dear Father God. Thank you for giving us things that make us happy. Thank you for oreos. Please let everyone stay in bed and not pee the sheets or have bad dreams. Amen."

"Wait, Daddy. I need to pray for Mama.........................................


...........Please let Mama not meet any boys tonight that are cuter than Daddy."

Then he gives Husband a reassuring pat as to say "There ya go. I feel your pain, buddy."

Husband says "Um.....Amen...?"

"Because, God, if she meets boys that are cuter than Daddy then maybe someday she will have another son and then he would be my step-brother. Me and Daddy don't want me to have a step-brother. Amen"

"Well. I guess that's a damn good prayer, Son"

"And please let Daddy not say damn."


Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Everything hates me.

Ellis got new sidewalk chalk for her birthday, so her and Adrian were aching last night to get outside and use it. They each had their little hands full of chalk as I opened the back door to let them onto our back porch.

This is when I screamed like a pre-pubescent gay boy, slammed the door shut, immediately ripped off my shirt and started running my hands through my hair in a painful motion, slapping at my neck and punching the air.

There was a wasp. I am afraid of wasps. I'm afraid of anything with a needle ass that wants to puncture my skin, naturally. Wasps however, are in their own ballpark of debilitating and clothes-ripping-off fear.

Take whatever it is you are afraid of, multiply times 10, and I would rather have that many of whatever you're afraid of in my mouth than be alone in an enclosed area with a wasp. I am being 100% literal when I say I would rather have 10 snakes in my mouth than have a wasp in my house. Or yard. Or life.

I'd like to go over all the times I have been stung by these little Antichrists.

1. 1990, 7 years old. Before this, I had no fear of stinging Lucifers. I didn't even notice them. We had just won a soccer game, I was doing a sandwich with my dad and drinking a Hi-C orange juice box when I felt a dainty little tickle on my finger. I glanced down just in time to see a black and yellow gangsta wasp, plundering my finger with no remorse, in a selfish attempt to get to my sugary drink I had rightfully earned with my 2 goals. I started yelping and throwing my finger around, dropped my prized liquid, and sat down on the ground and cried. I was crying for my future. From now on, it would be completely tarnished by a condemnation of fear of this new-found enemy.

2. 1995, 12 years old. I was hard at work at middle school softball practice, in which I rocked the B team like you wouldn't believe. My coach asked me to carry a cooler full of water down to the dugout in hopes that the heavy lifting might improve my pitching muscles.

I carried it across the football field and had to stop and use my inhaler a few times. By the time I finally reached the inside of the dugout, my arms were so tired that I had to use the last tiny bit of strength in my limbs to lift it onto the bench and slam it down. I leaned over to catch my breath when I noticed a Saddam Hussein cloud of black wasps. I noticed them because I had just set a 530 pound cooler on top of their home and they were going to take it out on my sweaty face. I took off running, unfortunately not fast enough which is probably why I was not on the "A" team. I could feel them in my shirt and and in my ears. The first one bore into my back and brought my to my knees. I treated it like an elementary fire drill and stopped, dropped, and rolled. There was one stuck in my sock that got me 2 or 3 times as I kept stop, drop, and rolling over him. One took a stab at my neck and another on the upper arm. I was wailing like a maimed hyena in labor. By the time it was over, I accepted defeat. I bowed in respect as I passed the wasp nest on my way to the nurse's office.

3. 1999, 16 years old. My parents spoiled me rotten and provided me with a 1985 Toyota Camry with 200k miles. My dad paid $550 for this boyfriend-magnet, and it showed with its many fails. The air-conditioner went out every other weekend. You could start the car without a key using any object including your finger or a strong directed breath. Because my air-conditioner was broken, I had to leave the windows down. My friends would move my car without telling me. Oh how funny they were as they drove off in their BMW's and Celicas! One day, it got moved out by the baseball fields and after trekking across the parking lot and covered in sweaty misfortune I plopped down in my seat and took off driving, hoping the wind in my open windows would dry off the sweat so that I could get a man.

As I'm driving with my windows down, I feel a tickle on the back of my neck. "Don't freak out Mar Bear...", I tell myself. I was attempting to not let my fear of vespines consume my existence. Then I felt wings flapping in my short hair and a subtle buzz against the seat belt. I was at a stoplight and jumped out of my car with it still in drive, and took off sprinting down the median, bending over and slapping my face and neck. I had barely gotten out of the car when the wasp laughed at me and put his devil needle in my neck. A nice man stopped to comfort me, get Candita the Camry from out of the middle of the intersection, and make sure the Prince of Darkness was no longer in my car. He asked if I wanted to go to the nearby Denny's so I could put a tea bag on the sting. I didn't really think this was a proper time for him to be trying to get some of this, so I drove off.

4. 2000, 17 years old. I had sprained my ankle doing something awesome like singing or tap-dancing and was on crutches for a few weeks. I was leaving school and walking out to my I'll-never-get-laid-mobile when I was suddenly accosted by a giant, angry, republican hornet. I had on my backpack and was carrying my purse and my guitar case. I was also carrying an illogical and impossible phobia, 10 years in the making. This phobia caused me to once again attempt what I like to call the "Swat and sprint". Swat and sprint is hard when you're broken and walking-device-infused. I fell onto a curb and was pierced in the very arm that I was using as my swat tool. I think I actually stung myself. When it landed on me I slammed my other hand into its stupid body, which caused the stinger to go into my skin. Then I flung it onto the curb and watched it die while I tried to find hydrocodone in my purse.

5. 2010, 27 years old. There is absolutely nothing interesting or funny about this incident. I was simply coming out of McDonald's about to eat my feelings and got stung on the knuckle. I just kind of sat there in shock that I wasn't even allotted the attempt to do a swat and sprint. Wasps use trickery and stealth to ruin your world.

While these are in chronological order, I would like to finish with the tale of 1991 because it contains a strong moral of the story.

I had been stung the previous year at my soccer game and my fear of this creatures was thriving strong. I was playing by myself in the backyard one day, unsupervised, when I noticed a nest of assholes in the corner of the fence. Then I noticed a few were flying around me and I took off sprinting and swatting. I was about to run inside when I noticed one of the wasps that was pursuing me had gotten stuck in a huge spider web. I slowly turned about and picked up the rusty sharp knife that was lying on the back porch of our 3-children home. I held it in front of me, and shaking, went to watch the spider kill the wasp up close. I got up the spider web and saw the wasp writing and shaking and twisting, trying to free itself. I began to feel sorry for my enemy. He obviously wasn't such a bad little guy. Maybe he was trying to get free so he could go get a snow cone. I know how that felt, I wanted my mom to wake up and take me to get a damn snow cone.  I took the knife and poked around my new friend, muttering words of truce and peace. I finally freed him and as he tugged away from the sticky string,  he ripped up the white flag and pincushioned my wrist.