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The Best Worst Man

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The Kid has already married four people.

No, my child isn’t on a matrimonial race to beat Zsa Zsa Gabor and her nine marriages.  A few years ago, The Kid got ordained to perform weddings for some close friends.  Yesterday was wedding number two.

Because of social distancing, the wedding was held online.  Petey and I offered to help out with a trial run, to make sure the sound and lighting were okay.  Once the soundcheck was completed, we stayed on our video chat and well, chatted—about weddings.

Our poor child has heard enough about our own nuptials that it could probably be recited like the Gettysburg address, Mark Antony’s speech in Julius Ceasar, or the list of actors who portrayed the Doctor, in chronological order.  So we talked about weddings we’d attended.

Or more accurately, weddings in which Petey has served as best man.

It’s only been two,  but they both went so badly that it was enough to seal his reputation as the very worst of wedlock curses.  After the second marriage made the Titanic look like the Good Ship Lollypop, word got around.

Thirty-eight years have passed since he’s been asked to stand up for a groom.

The first time Petey was the “best man”, his friend, Shelby was the groom in question.  The night before the nuptials, a post-rehearsal dinner/drink-a-thon was held.  Petey had a shift as an orderly, so he couldn’t make it.  The bridegroom’s little brother, who was about fourteen or fifteen, was in attendance.

Petey’s absence was probably for the best.

The next day they were all there, standing at the altar, waiting for the blushing bride.  Shelby’s kid brother, one of the groomsmen, was standing next to Petey.  The teenager smelled so strongly of alcohol, Petey almost got a contact drunk.  Suddenly, the kid stiffened, and his eyes lost their focus. 

Shelby’s brother passed slam out.  He dropped onto the church’s carpet as suddenly and completely as if he were a tree that had been chopped down.

He was fine, just doing what most drunken teenagers tend to do—sleeping it off.

The second wedding that Petey served as best man, was for our friend, Wayne, or as everyone in Elizabeth City knew him, Pig. 

Pig was marrying a girl in my class.  It was a rebound relationship for Pig, and a bid for independence for Linda, his betrothed.  Chrissy Teigen and Pat Roberts would have been a more compatible match.  Heck, the Queen of England and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson would have been better marriage prospects.

Petey was driving Pig to the wedding.  To this day he doesn’t know whether it was an accident, or a bid to rescue his friend, but instead of pulling into the church parking lot, he kept driving, toward the Outer Banks and freedom.  The guests in the lot were a sea of wide eyes and open mouths as the boys drove right past.

Unfortunately, the groom looked up and alerted Petey that they were off-course.  The wedding took place as planned.

Shelby’s marriage eventually ended when the bride realized that it was putting a real crimp in her very active dating life.

Pig and Linda realized just what a horrible idea their marriage was the first morning they woke up as man and wife.  They limped along for a year or so before they finally put their wedded bliss out of its misery.

I think it’s possible The Kid doesn’t carry the wedding curse gene.  Both marriages, the two-year-old one and the one my child performed yesterday are still rock solid.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Occupancy: Possession for Use

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Before I was married, I lived in ten different houses in five different cities, towns, and military bases.

In the almost thirty-seven years since, I’ve lived in three homes in two cities. 

Before leaving for college, The kid lived in one home, in the same bedroom, with the same slightly creepy, Victorian doll wallpaper.

Since then our child has lived on both coasts and from New England to North Carolina in nine separate domiciles.  The many addresses were mandated by school, internships, and jobs.  The Kid has had the same apartment now for five years.  And I’ll bet there will only be two more addresses; a purchased home, and the old folks’ home.

My child hates change.  And loves nesting.

When Petey and I were married, we decided to buy a used mobile home. 

They saw us coming.  We were innocent children with good credit.

We purchased a used 12 X 60 trailer for $19,000.  Today a used 12 X 60 sells for around $20,000.  But that salesman had us convinced that we were getting a deal he couldn’t get for his own mother.

This was during a devastating recession so we paid the horrifying going rate of 14% interest. 

Our trailer park, Stevenson’s, was located in Symond’s Creek.  Which was a semi-suburb of Nixonton, a demi-suburb of Elizabeth City.  It was basically the back-est of beyond; mainly farms and really, not much else.

Our lot was the lower right, bordered on two sides with cornfields.

We lived twenty-three miles from the “mall” in E. City.  It took thirty minutes to get to town if you didn’t get stuck in a traffic jam involving a couple of tractors, a school bus, and a ninety-year-old farmer making his monthly trip to town.

Before we had the trailer moved to our lot at Stevenson’s, we had to hire a guy to perform a health department mandated, “perc test”.  It consists of drilling or digging a hole, filling it with water and timing how long it takes to drain out. 

A seemingly simple test, but for an unspeakable reason that has to do with a terrifying tank, buried deep in the ground nearby.

Our dirt passed its dirt-based SAT, and we scheduled delivery of our love shack.

The day our honeymoon cottage on wheels was delivered we were both so excited.  Even Petey, who is such a stoic he wouldn’t rush out of a burning building was mildly enthusiastic.

 The front door had been left unlocked.

We realized it because the door was wide open, and there was an odd little boy who eerily resembled Pugsley Addams standing in our living room.

Petey was kind of amused, but I was completely crushed.

I had had a vision for this day.  Petey would carry me up the flimsy aluminum steps, I would unlock our very own front door, and he would carry me over the threshold.  I can’t stress strongly enough how fortunate his musculoskeletal system was that day.  When we got hitched there was an awful lot of me.  Realistically, there would have been multiple broken bones and concussions for us both.

Rather than a honeymoon in a corner room (with a fireplace) at the Williamsburg Inn, we would have been long-term residents of Albemarle Hospital’s intensive care unit.

We diplomatically kicked the kid out, despite his protestations of, “It’s okay! My mom won’t mind if I eat supper here!”.

As we toured our new home and talked about the future, I happened to glance out the window to our front yard.

And out there was Pugsley with an absolutely blank expression.  But he was slowly rubbing his pudgy, grubby little hands together. 

Just like a miniature Bond villain.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Snakey Snakes

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Back when Fayetteville Street in Raleigh was closed to car traffic, one Saturday a friend and I went to the NC Natural History Museum.  We parked near one end of Fayetteville St. and had to walk to the other end, to the old site of the museum, the Agriculture Building.

These days, the street is busy, vibrant, and hip, with sushi joints, TV studios, and cocktail lounges.  Back then, it was Monday-Friday offices, furniture stores, and a lot of vacant buildings with boarded-up windows.  It was a Chanel suit at a bait shop—ignored and unappreciated.  

Honestly, the street was so deserted, it was kinda creepy.  It felt post-apocalyptic. 

At the museum, we wandered around looking at dioramas, stuffed animals, and rocks.

I turned a corner when it happened.

I was suddenly looking into the eyes of a gigantic, very alive, giant Burmese python.

The actual snake from the incident.

At that moment, the only thing in the world was a massive serpent so close to me we could have slow-danced.  I felt as if I had been transformed to the thinnest of glass, liable to shatter at the softest breeze.  I wanted to run, scream, and throw the darn thing out the window all at the same time.  But I couldn’t do any of those things.

Because you see, Gentle Reader, I am phobic.  I was frozen and speechless.  My friend, Angel, lived up to her name that day.  She gave the snake handler the dirtiest of looks, and while angrily muttering about “snake ambushes”, guided me away.

That was the end of our day.  I spent the rest of the day shuddering, feeling like I was about to upchuck, and needing a shower.

On the drive home, Angel didn’t ask me if I was phobic, it was sadly all too obvious.  She asked me if I knew how I became that way.

I told her I had no idea, that I had been that way as long as I could remember. 

Years, later, when telling a story that happened when I was four or five, I realized that this was probably the origin story of my abject terror of serpents of any stripe or type.

One day, while living in Mobile, my big brother Homer and I were in the backyard playing ball.  I muffed a catch and the ball went into the shoulder-high (to a kindergartener) weeds behind our yard.

I ran into the thicket and reached down for the ball.  And froze.  Homer yelled to get the ball but I couldn’t. 

The ball had landed right next to what seemed to me, an enormous, coiled, viper.  I whisper-shouted, “Snake!”.  Homer ordered me to freeze and ran to get Dad.  I froze.

After what seemed like days, Dad and Homer came running up.  Dad had a shovel that he used to dispatch the snake, which turned out to be of the garter variety.

Even this little bastard almost takes my breath away.

But it terrified me.  And an episode that occurred not long after the discovery of fire was burned, forever, upon my soul.  I can still remember every detail of the day.  I can smell the dried grass and see the sunlight flash off the shiny shovel as it came down.  And I can feel the mindless, primal fear.

I was also left with one more thing.  When I get frightened, I neither fight, nor flight.

I freeze.  My ability to move, as well as the power of speech, desert me.  I hate it.

So, when the zombies show up, get behind me.

You’ll have plenty of time for escape.  ‘Cause I’ll be standing there in suspended animation, like an all-you-eat debbie buffet.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Quarantine Shame

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“How many likes did you get in the quarantine, Grandma?”

If you had to pick a time period in which to be quarantined, now is actually a pretty convenient time.

With high-speed internet access, computers, and smartphones, you can contact almost anyone on the planet.  With the plethora and variety of companies that deliver to your front door, it’s much easier to not leave the house.

Just this week, I finished The Kid’s birthday shopping, got a new trashcan for my station wagon, and had a doctor’s appointment.  The Kid played bar trivia, had a beer with old friends, played a board game, and met with co-workers.

All without leaving the house, or having anyone over.

But in the true spirit of yin and yang, there’s also a dark side to that wifi.  I’m talking about those camera-ready folks who are masters of social media.  The kind of folks who post photos of perfectly lit rainbow avocado toast captioned, “Breakfast on the run.”, pics of themselves standing in front of a Greek sunset captioned, “Blessed”, and a perfect Princess birthday party captioned, “Threw it together this morning.”

Under normal circumstances, this crowd is mildly irritating.

But during quarantine, when even the most stable personalities are operating with some level of anxiety and depression, those people make me feel like a complete, glow in the dark loser.

Some guy named Thomas Cervetti who lives in Malaysia “was bored during quarantine”.  So he and his equally bored family decided to gather up all the bath towels in the house and make an elaborate stop action surfing movie.  It looks like the love child of Peter Gabriel’s 1986 Sledge Hammer video and the classic surf movie, Endless Summer.

Truthfully, it’s a creative, adorable, and highly entertaining diversion.

Using only bath towels.

Here’s my fancy quarantine plan for our bath towels at Chez Matthews: getting them out of the washer and into the dryer before they get moldy.

A couple spent an entire day making a rodent-sized art museum for their pet gerbils.  Smaller than playing cards, there were “Vincent van Gogh” canvasses, a furry little “Mona Lisa”, and some pretty impressive impressionist paintings.

Again, adorable.  Especially the photos of the gerbils standing around them, looking like art critics.  All they need are tiny little glasses of cheap, warm Champagne.

I’ve been artistically serving our dinner on matching plates and coordinating my hair elastics with my sweatshirt.

Actually, I haven’t put a whole lot of effort into the ponytail holder thing.  Tonight the tie I have in is an entirely different shade of blue than my shirt.

Someone else designed and sewed a bunch of felt dolls.  That may sound mundane, but these dolls look exactly like every single member of her entire extended family.  Now she has the cutest soft, fuzzy family facsimiles to share her quarantine with. 

When I try to sew a button back onto something, I usually end up needing a quick trip to urgent care and seven or eight stitches.

One family has a small door that leads to a space under the stairs that’s used as a dog house for their gorgeous Golden Doodle, Rusty.  They decided to spend some of their quarantine time going all canine curb appeal on it.  They put in a tiny leaded glass front door, vintage-style mailbox, a porch light sconce that looks like it’s straight from Pottery Barn, and a faux window with attached window box full of blooms.  There is a painted, weathered sign with his address: 7878 Doodle Drive.

And I’m sitting here covered in Crowley fur and dog slobber feeling about as creative as a mimeograph machine.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

The Texas Millionaire

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She had the posture and demeanor of a whipped dog—submissive yet hopeful.  Her facial expression was usually a small, apologetic smile.  She was an average size woman, yet seemed to be under the impression that she took up too much space, so her hands stayed clasped and arms tight against her body.  Her steps might be quick or slow, but always so light she seemed almost to float.

Mona lived her life under the constant, paralyzing fear of offending—anyone.

When I worked at the hospital lab in Elizabeth City, it was staffed mainly by women.  It was a kind of a slightly dysfunctional sisterhood.  There were occasional squabbles, but we all had each others’ backs.  You mess with one person from the lab, you messed with all of us.

Mona was hired at the lab, and because of her sweet self-effacing personality, everyone liked her.  She was cheerful, quick to volunteer help, and very kind.

She had three kids between the ages of twelve and six.  They were very shy, polite, and always had one eye on their mom.  Mother and children were an uber tight unit 

But somehow, without knowing why, we felt sorry for her.

When the lab Christmas party rolled around, we understood.

Her husband was awful.

He was a bully.  He was a strutting peacock of a bully.  The kind of bully who assumed that everyone was as twisted and small as he was.

He took delight in humiliating his wife.  He barked orders at her, made her wait on his every whim, and blamed and belittled her if everything was not perfect.  He’d then gesture to the person he was standing near, and say something like, “Can you believe how stupid she is?  She’s lucky I put up with it.”

Of course, we were all appalled at this jerk.

After the party, we all had an extra measure of affection for Mona and felt very protective of her.  But deep down we all wondered how and why she stayed with this absolute horror of a human.  We daydreamed about what we would do and say if we were in her position.

One day Mona came into work with a different look in her eye.  She was excited.  And maybe a little happy?

At Elizabeth City’s tiny little mall, she’d met a very nice man who was in town on business.  He was from Texas and had already gone back home.

He promised to write to her. 

And he did.  And told her he was a Texas oil millionaire.  And later, he’d fallen in love with her, and wanted her and the kids to move to Texas.

Of course, the women in the lab were 100% convinced that this guy, for whatever reason, was stringing her along, and probably lived in the basement of a mobile home.

Even I, who is usually very trusting to the point of pathological gullibility was certain this guy was the baddest of bad news.

Then he sent her four plane tickets so that she and the three kids could come out to Texas for a visit.  We were all petrified he would cook and eat a couple of them and sell the rest into human trafficking.

She came home with pictures of her and the kids enjoying what looked like South Fork ranch.  Turns out the guy was a legit, well-known and beloved Texas millionaire.  She moved out west and when her divorce was final, married her prince.

Her first foray into romance was a bust.  But despite the fears of us all, Mona got her fairy tale and her happily ever after.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Gimme Shelter (In Place)

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10:00 AM-Go outside to walk the dog.  Spot a neighbor out in his yard.  Very excited to see a fresh face.  Begin waving vigorously.

10:02 AM-Wave so vigorously I fall off the porch.

10:10 AM-Disinfect and bandage abrasion on arm.  Also, left shoe missing.

10:15 AM-Walk the dog.  While walking, yellow pollen makes throat scratchy.  Notice an ever-larger circle of social distancing after each cough.  One woman grabs child, picks up dog and trots in the opposite direction.

11:00-11:20 AM-Eat potato chips.

11:20-11:30 AM-Eat M&M’s.

12:01 PM-Eat lunch.

12:35 PM-Decide to take care of my skin during confinement.  Enjoy a facial slathering on every expensive skin product I own, along with the much more expensive samples I’ve received.

1:15 PM-Think about writing, vacuuming or organizing closet.  Decide to organize closet.  Once upstairs, change mind and take a nap.

1:27 PM-Product encrusted face keeps sliding off pillow, making sleep impossible,

1:31 PM-Wash approximately thirty-eight dollars worth of lotions and unguents from face.

3:40 PM-Once awake, lay on bed and consider various topics for columns.  Drift off again.

4:15 PM-Awake again, take a look at the inside of the closet to plan organization.  Envision a finished closet that has been so amazingly ordered it resembles an Ikea-designed storage system, using only what is already owned.

4:16 PM-Change mind and go downstairs.

4:17 PM-Have a snack of potato chips and M&M’s.

4:30 PM-Petey leaves the room.  Hide remote control to hopefully bring to end a constantly changing montage of thirty-five-year-old college basketball games interspersed with bits of the Grace Jones Mad Max movie, a Gene Hackman suspense movie from the eighties, and I Still Know What You Did Last Summer.

4:41 PM-Petey finds the remote.

4:45-6:00 PM-Look for rain boots on Amazon.

6:15 PM-Take the dog for a walk.

6:40 PM-Stop at fenced playground for Crowley to get a chance to run around off-leash.  It’s dusk, so take the opportunity to swing on the swings.  Swing as high as possible for an exhilarating ten minutes, only stopping when I notice curious neighbors study the swinging spectacle through their upstairs windows.

6:53 PM-Head for home.

See, it’s a thing…kind of.

7:10 PM-Try to decide for dinner.  Have settled on two choices-a balsamic dressed salad of mixed greens, shaved red onion, Chapel Hill Creamery’s farmer’s cheese, toasted pecans, and dried fruits.  Or half a bottle of coffee liqueur dumped on a freezer-burned Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich.  Then I have to decide what to make for Petey.

8:30 PM-Alphabetize jams and jellies in refrigerator.  Am surprised to learn marionberry is one word so will place under “m” rather than by last name of “b”.  Dicey moment occurs when having trouble deciding whether to categorize Ikea-purchased jam under “L” for lingonberry or “S” for sylt lingon, its Swedish-language name.

9:30 PM-Do a load of towels, and a load of clothing, which consists entirely of fuzzy socks, sweats, and pajamas.

10:45 PM-Play six hands of double solitaire with Petey.  As usual, he denies cheating, but wins five out of the six.

11:35-12:55 PM- Look for rain boots on Amazon.

1:05 PM-Read issue of the UK version of Cosmopolitan magazine.  Now have in-depth knowledge of British drugstore lipstick.  Am informed of the dangers of counterfeit alcohol in Southeast Asia vacation destinations.  Know the going rates of Scottish gigolos and how to hire one as an escort to an Edinburgh wedding, and where to purchase a hat for said festivities.

2:15 AM-Have a snack of Oreos dunked in the remaining half bottle of coffee liqueur.

3:00 AM-Watch ten-year-old videos of sheepdog trials in New Zealand.  Now have a true understanding of what bored really is.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Who Knew It’d be hot in August, in North Carolina, in a metal-clad mobile home, with no shade, no under skirting, and no AC, in August?

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Did I mention it was August?

Looking back, all I can say is that we were young, dumb, and in love.

It’s the only explanation for willingly moving into a 12X60 corrugated aluminum box without an air conditioner. 

After our honeymoon (to Busch Gardens—more on that in another dispatch), we officially moved in.

Not our love shack, but similar.

And a day or two after that the question on both our lips was, “What were we thinking?”. 

It was awful. 

But the worst part was knowing that there was no relief to this muggy hell until the fall.

I stuck it out as long as I could and longer than most would.  But after a few weeks with the knowledge that it would be months before I would be cool and comfortable, I was done.  I informed my groom I was going to my parent’s house, and would happily return when we had an air conditioner.

He knew I was serious.  I ultimately never spent a night away, because after I told him of my plans, we went out and bought a small window unit.

We put it in our bedroom.  Whenever we came home, we’d make a beeline for our bedroom, shedding our clothes as we ran.  There, in our birthday suits, we’d turn it on, crank it to high, and lay on the bed; sweaty, but grateful for the cool.

Then one day, Petey’s mom bought us a second, larger AC at a garage sale.  It was pretty; made in the art deco style, fashioned of cellulose in a lovely shade of celadon green.  Since it was a more powerful unit, we decided to put it in the main area of the house and install it in the kitchen window.

Since we didn’t yet own a ladder, we did the installation from inside the trailer.

I imagine, Gentle Reader, that you’ve guessed where I’m going with this tale.

We were just about done—it only needed a few minute adjustments when it happened.  It fell outside through the window to the ground, some seven feet below.

We ran outside to inventory the wreckage.  It seemed to be salvageable, with mainly casing damage.  Petey grabbed it while I gathered up AC shards.  We agreed that the machine was not gonna die—not today, and not on our watch.

We set the unit and its pieces on the kitchen floor, broke out the super glue, and got to work.

It was hot work; after a while, we stripped down to our underwear and the sweat was still dripping off us.  It was like doing a jigsaw puzzle on the sun.  After what seemed like decades, we ran out of both glue and broken pieces.  We carefully put it in the window, secured it, and turned it on.

It worked!

But it wasn’t exactly up to factory specs.  Its cooling capacity was somewhat diminished.  And it made sounds.

At low, it groaned like a chorus of septuagenarians getting up from Lazy Boy Recliners in unison.  On the medium setting, it acquired the squeal of a tween at a Taylor Swift concert.  And on the rare occasion we set it to high, it rattled like the breathing of a squad of consumptive Victorian heroines.

The AC’s did their job.  And soon the weather cooled and the units were put into storage for the winter.

Then, in December, Elizabeth City experienced the coldest stretch in many years.  And Petey and I could be found chasing around town for some space heaters to keep us alive.

Did I mention young, dumb, and in love?

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

The Girl With The Street In Her Face

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Another second-grader in a pretty blue dress.

I was wearing one of my very favorite dresses in my second-grade photo.  It was a light-gauge knit in a combination of navy blue and what back then was called harvest gold.

My hair was cut in a shag.  My mom’s best friend, Mizz Judy cut it in a perfect replica of TV mom Carol Brady.  For those not familiar with the style, it was short and layered in the front, and long and flipped up in the back.

It wasn’t quite a mullet (business in the front, party in the back).  It was more “funny business in the front and PTA mom in the back. 

The photo from the tenth grade is a self-portrait (OMG-it was a selfie. Yuck!).  I’m wearing jeans, a huge gray fisherman’s sweater, and standing in front of the mirror in our guest bathroom.      

I’m taking the shot with my Konika TC camera, which hides most of my face. 

I was the very chic-est combination of Avedon and Diane Arbus.

The two pictures have something very odd in common.

The face that was wearing the shag haircut was one large, weeping scab.  Almost all of the skin had been abraded and was in the process of healing. 

In the later photo, if you look closely around the camera, it too is more scab than skin.  It looked like it had been on the wrong end of an electric belt sander.

Not me; but I was so traumatized by the incidents, just looking this gives me a jolt in the pit of my stomach. I literally got nauseous looking for an image to put here.

In both cases the culprit was asphalt.

One weekend when I was in high school, a friend, Billy Winston came over for a visit on his new motorcycle.  I asked him if I could go for a ride.  After a short lesson, he sent me on my way. 

I wanted to speed up.  Billy told me to get into second gear.

Unfortunately, he neglected to tell me that you shouldn’t accelerate and shift gears at the same time.

Yeah, it didn’t look anywhere near as cool.

Because if you do those two things at the same time, you begin performing a stunt referred to as, “popping wheelies”. 

The motorcycle and I parted ways.

I was fully clothed, but it looked a lot more like this.

I landed face down on the street, and the bike was on its side.  It had a few scratches, but my face was a mess.  Dad scooped me up and we headed to the emergency room.

Back a few years at Central Elementary, our gym teacher had a new game for us called Brownies & Fairies.  At some point in the game, the two teams face off and run at each other like the blue guys versus the British in Braveheart.

I was face down on the black top, but I’m pretty sure this is a photo of the actual event…

The very first step I took, I tripped and face-planted onto our black-topped playground.  I was then trampled by thirty-five second-graders.  It was like a cheese grater.  The majority of the skin on my mug was left on the asphalt.

The elementary school nurse washed my face and painted it with mercurochrome, a disinfectant which left me with a rosy-orange stain all over my kisser.  She then called Mom to come collect me.

At the ER after my motorcycle wreck, I was immediately given a tetanus shot.  Then the nurse entered with a basin of soapy water and a stack of gauze.  She explained that hundreds of tiny bits of asphalt were stuck in my wounds.  If each and every piece wasn’t scrubbed out, they would remain, as little black bumps all over my face—forever.

See what happens when the asphalt isn’t removed?

I’d just been flung onto the street, face first and given that most painful of inoculations; the tetanus.  I hurt.

But in my fifteen years on the planet, I had never experienced pain like I felt when she scrubbed my scraped and oozing kisser.

And it was all because of that darn asphalt.

It’s a death trap, I tells ya!

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

An Absurd (But Ingenious) Proposal

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So, I was watching Star Trek The Next Generation the other day.  Student Wesley Crusher came home to the Enterprise D on a break from Starfleet Academy.

He and the android, Data are discussing the social life of the academy.  Data asks if they still hold the Sadie Hawkins dance.  Wesley answers that yes, it’s still a tradition.

 A couple of things here.

Sadie Hawkins dance or day is inspired by a Lil’ Abner comic strip story about the father of the ugliest girl in Dogpatch trying to find a husband for her, so he organizes a race in which Sadie chases a pack of bachelors and gets to marry whomever she catches.  The term evolved into events where a woman was allowed to ask a man for a dance, a date, or on Leap Day especially, his hand in marriage.

That’s me, in high school. Already so very over the patriarchy.

How very thoughtful, allowing women an isolated opportunity to have a say in her own destiny.  But as someone old enough to have participated in Sadie Hawkins dances, the whole thing was seen as a joke; where menfolk pretended to let silly females have the power for something as low stakes as a school dance.

And the Star Trek thing?  This episode took place around 2368.  I’m sure, Gentle Reader, you can guess my thoughts about that.

A woman runs the Borg, but they still have a Sadie Hawkins dance? Sheesh.

But this anachronistic social convention brings me to my point and proposal (not of the marriage sort).

Leap Day, the February 29th that falls only once every four years, has long been considered an “extra”.  A day that falls outside normality. 

My proposal is to lean into the “otherness” that is Leap Day.  So, on February 29th, nothing counts.

This is NOT what I’m proposing.

When I told The Kid about my big idea, it gave my child pause.  Right away, what came to mind was The Purge, the movie where one day a year, everything is legal.  Rob a bank, steal a car, kill your annoying neighbor and burn down their house?  Yes, yes, and that’s kinda dark, but yes.

That is absolutely NOT what I am suggesting.  Think of this as more of a “Purge Light®”.

Not today, John Q Law.

The most serious laws my scenario would allow breaking are sixteen items in the express lane, taking the last doughnut without asking, and a little light jaywalking.

But the gist is that the folly of humans is not counted against them.

Calories?  Not on Leap Day.  Put away the healthy, no-fun food.

Have yourself some cotton candy and gin for breakfast.  Eat a stick of butter like a particularly buttery Snickers bar.  Polish off an entire jar of Goober Grape.  Eat a bucket of potato salad.  Have frosting for lunch!  Drink Hollandaise sauce out of a mug.  Eat your weight in caramel-cloaked toasted marshmallow frozen yogurt for dinner.

It doesn’t matter, because on this day, this magical day, no matter what goes into your mouth, every fork-full transforms into whole grains, veggies, and legumes.

Go shopping.  There are no price tags or credit limits on this day.  Buy all the shoes.  Go to a bookstore and purchase every book and magazine that catch your eye.  Start a cashmere collection.  You want diamond earbobs?  Buy yourself some darned diamond earbobs.  Buy so many new clothes that you have to have them delivered on a flatbed.

But be sure you get this wonderful Bacchanal of misbehavior completely finished by midnight.  Because come March 1, your actions once again have consequences.

But on this day, this special day that only comes every 1460 days, live your life like a giant drunken toddler who’s been given the car keys and a fake ID.

What do you think?

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Really, Really Dumb Stuff

/ momsequitur / Leave a comment

“Some people are like slinkies.  They’re not really good for anything.  But they make you smile when you push them down the stairs.”—Jack Handey (*Disclaimer-I in no way, advocate pushing anyone, at any time, down any stairs.)

Years ago, Saturday Night Live used to have a segment called, “Deep Thoughts”.  They were quotes written and then read by comedian Jack Handey.  They were deep, in that you were usually still thinking about them the next day and nursing a slight headache.

I leave those deep, painful thoughts to Mr. Handey.

Today I am addressing the most shallow of thoughts.  Or, in other words, really, really dumb stuff.  Thoughts, statements, decisions, and headlines.  Misbegotten notions which make you grateful that as a child you didn’t repeatedly have escapades which resulted in head injuries, like someone we may know who writes the weekly column you’re currently reading.

So here, in no particular order, are some exceedingly shallow thoughts.

From a commercial for what we used to call books on tape, a young woman says they’re, “Like night school for adults”. 

Okay, I’m not a morning person.  Never have been, probably never will be.  Getting up bright and early to get The Kid fed, organized, and off to school hurt.  Every single day.  I used to joke that I wished they held elementary and middle school at night. 

But.They.Don’t.

So, night school for adults is just night school. I’m afraid it will take more than listening to Bette Midler reading ‘Tuesdays with Morrie’ for that woman to be smart enough to come in out of the rain.

The other day I was in my local Food Lion at about 2:00 on a Sunday afternoon.  They were slammed with people coming from church and picking up Sunday dinner, people who were buying their groceries for the week, and mental midgets like me, who forgot about the crush at supermarkets on Sunday afternoon.

I had like three items, so with hope in my heart, I got into the express lane.  I was about sixth in line.

But, hey, ‘express’, am I right?  I’d be out in five minutes.

The couple that were at the head of the line seemed to be there for a bit. 

Then another bit.

Then a further bit.  I glared at the slowpokes, figuring they were paying with pennies, or maybe had gone way over the 15 or less rule.

But then I realized what the hold up actually was.  The checker.  He is a very, very sweet man, but about 138 years old, and slow-moving.  He is so slow, he would make a sloth say, “Just let me do it!”.  Each customer encounter took almost ten minutes.  I thought I was going to need a haircut before I got to the head of the line.

I’m no grocery store expert, but doesn’t ‘express’ imply some level of, if not speed at least efficiency?  It had stopped being the ‘express’ and become the ‘ironic’ register.

From Gwyneth Paltrow’s lifestyle and medical quackery website: “GP (that would be founder Gwyneth) was really craving some clean dim sum, so she thought of using cabbage leaves as wrappers instead of wheat- or grain-based dough. Now we’re obsessed with this clean dumpling hack.”

You go, Gwyneth.

Once you remove the pasta wrapper and substitute cabbage leaves, it stops being a dumpling and becomes stuffed cabbage.

Just saying.    

From an email link to an online article: “Does Your Zodiac Sign Affect How Much Sleep You Need? This Expert Says Yes”.

You know what, Gentle Reader?  I got nothing.  I can’t think of anything to say to make that ridiculous twaddle funnier or any more preposterous.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.