File This One Under “WTF??”

I think I dream most nights, I even wake up remembering vague “shadows” of my dreams a few nights a week, although by the time I stumble to the shower, I’ve forgotten them. Not so last night. I had the most bizarre, twisted, dream EVER, and unfortunately I won’t soon forget it.

We were on a cruise ship, not surprising given my recent vacation. But this was some sort of bizarre special interest cruise. The cruise ship’s nightclub was a smoky, tired looking place that bore a striking resemblence to an old roller rink. At one point, a flash mob broke out into a rendition of Janet Jackson’s old hit “If” (which had a well choreographed video). Halfway through, Miss Jackson herself busted onto the stage and in an angry fit, put a stop to the folks who were “violating her copyright” and then preceded to show them how it was really done.  And not well. Her iconic dance moves looked more like a grand mal seizure. She was booed from the stage.

At some point, you know how dreams are–fragmented and following no real timeline, a group of two rowdy children made a nuisance of themselves on one of the stairways. I firmly demanded that the little hellions take me to their mother. So they marched me downstairs to what had to be the lowest deck on ship…we entered their stateroom where we found their mother in an obvious lesbian tryst.

“Not now kids! I’m trying to find myself!” she said, and as she got up to slam the door in our faces, her breasts looked like two giant bloodshot eyeballs.

As we moved down the hallway on this lower ship deck, a voice came over the loudspeaker announcing that the entertainment and shows were about to begin. Suddenly, hoards of people swarmed the hall, clammering to get into various staterooms. Somehow, I understood that the shows and entertainment were happening inside the various cabins, and so I started peeking in. In the first, a group of emo-looking emaciated people were doing God knows what to each other, all while a  big news camera was rolling. A group of midwestern tourists, looking like they might have just left their Sunday School groups, stood taking pictures and remarking to each other how wonderful the cruise was. I got out of there and went across the hall.

There, Betty White, as Rose Nylan, was joined by a rather embarassed looking Blanche, Dorothy, and Sophia. They were embarassed because Betty had volunteered to demonstrate a line of sex toys that bore her name. There, in front of God and everyone, she dropped her sensible skirt and made a 12 inch dildo disappear. Now before you ask, I hadn’t drank a drop, eaten anything strange, or partaken of any drugs, prescribed or otherwise before going to bed. But, as the emcee of the Betty White sex show announced that her toy would be auctioned off that night in the dining room, I woke up. Thank God.

Mama Needs a Nigerian Prince

With mama just days away from collecting the windfall pittance awarded her by the insurance company for the worthless junk that’s probably just buried under a pile somewhere in her trailer house priceless treasures that once filled her immaculate home, her mind has already turned to how she will spend it.

“I won’t replace ever-thing. Hell, I couldn’t if I wanted to! Some of that stuff was irreplaceable!” Yes, that’s because most people just throw away the prizes from their cereal.

“But I think I’ll look into movin’ the house.”  This is the only good idea she’s had in the past decade. See, mama’s doublewide sits on seven and a half acres of land that, while she has had it for 30 years, doesn’t technically belong to her. In the coal country of West Virginia, traditionally the coal companies have owned large pieces of land that sit atop their mines. 30 years ago, there was a coal mine miles away from mama’s house. Because coal mines spider beneath the ground for miles and miles, technically,  her property sits atop the long-abandoned mine. And she (like my great grandparents who once lived next door) has what might normally be considered a lifetime lease on the property. These arrangements were fairly common 30-50 years ago, but not so much now. In fact, the coal company has little by little sold off their holdings above the mine that mama lives on. A new subdivision has gone up at the extreme edge, two new schools and a business park have eaten up another chunk, soccer fields and a driving range now sit where the slate dump once was. And what was once her neighborhood, filled with old folks who had carefully tended gardens, is now little more than a scattered handful of decaying homes bisected by a newly built highway.

It’s only a matter of time, sitting where she does between two  new schools and a major road, before the coal company finds someone willing to pay a fortune for mama’s acreage and she’ll be tossed off of it. So, I’m 100 percent behind the idea that she moves her home elsewhere, where she will once again have neighbors and not have 7.5 acres to pretend to care for.

Her mind is alive…worrying and fretting about how she will move her “stuff” out of the house so that it can be moved. “It’s gonna take some time!”  Considering it took her two months to write a damn list of what was stolen, boxing up her possessions isn’t a task that she is likely to be able to complete in this lifetime.

“I could have it done in a weekend.” I told her. And I could. A dumpster would need to be rented, but I would make very quick work of turning her 1200 square feet into something presentable.

“I’ve got a problem though.”  And, as anyone who has read a few Mama stories know, her problems are EVERYBODY’S problems.

“I cain’t put that check into my account. Or they’ll take my benefits away.” I’m uncertain of what benefits she gets exactly, but the list is no doubt extensive, and includes, apparently, free phone service and a “pay what you want” plan with the power company. “And I cain’t very well walk around with thousands of dollars in cash.”

“I’m gonna buy a gun though. I already looked at one at the pawn shop. It’s pink with “The Lady’s Gun” engraved on the handle. They only want $400 dollars fer it.” The idea of this woman walking around armed makes my skin crawl. Months from now, the headlines will be alive with stories of water meter readers who met an untimely demise at mama’s house, or she’ll blow her foot off trying to use it as a bottle opener or something.

“I need ya to get on the computer and find out how this insurance moneys gonna affect my benefits. I think I’m gonna need to put it in someone else’s account. Say, maybe me and you’d open an account in both our names?”

“Well it would still have your name on it, I don’t see how that would help anything.”

“I don’t know. I guess it would need to be a bank we got up here and you got down there.”

“There’s no such bank.” I lied. “You should look at someone else who lives locally.”

“I might have to, they’s a lot to think about. But look on your computer for me.”

“Yeah, ok.” The truth is, I don’t know how an insurance settlement affects her benefits and don’t really care. I’m certainly not going to play party to some sort of benefits fraud, nor do I have any desire to hold so much as a joint account at Blockbuster video with mama. So, I lied. At least I think I did.

“The insurance company is required to send notification to the IRS of settlements larger than $5,000, so you won’t be able to hide the money.” I told her. “Just deposit it in your own account and face whatever consequences there are.”

“Maybe it’ll slip through the cracks.” she said, “I mean it is money to repair my home, they cain’t hold that agin me.” And maybe they can’t, I really have no idea. She went on “Maybe I could just put it in your account. If I don’t have the money in my name, they can’t hold it against me.” It all started to sound like one of those Nigerian email scams.

“I don’t think so Mom, I don’t live close enough to be able to access that money for you.”

At that point, someone beeped in on her other (gubment provided) line. And that got me off the hook…for now.

I’m Gonna Need a New Insurance Company

By now, my loyal readers (all three of you) are tired of hearing about Mama’s insurance drama. Nearly four months have passed since hungry burglars tore into Mama’s mobile mansion and made off with a priceless collection of jewelry, Nascar memorabilia, and fruit cocktail. Mama has given herself carpal tunnel syndrome compiling an exhausting list of the treasures taken. Her nerves have been worn to nubs as she struggled for months compiling this list. And, somewhere, I suspect, a poor insurance adjuster has taken medical leave of absence to deal with the post-traumatic stress of having been assigned my mama as a client.

But the end is nigh!

Having had her claim transferred to the “Large Loss Department” Mama reports that a settlement has been reached.

FOR THE FULL LIMITS OF THE DAMN POLICY!!!

That’s right, puppies, Mama says she will be getting a check for the full amount her contents were insured for. I’m betting State Farm calculated it was cheaper to just pay her than to risk losing anymore claims adjusters.

Well, You Asked For It

Well alright. You asked for it. As I hinted in the last post, something more embarassing than Montezuma’s Revenge happened last week. It wasn’t on the cruise, but rather, the night before we left. You know how it goes–you spend the days before a vacation hurrying around making sure you put out all the fires at the office, getting your hair did, your clothes back from the cleaners. It’s little wonder that the actual packing usually doesn’t happen until the very last minute, and such was the case for us.

Halfway through packing, on the night before we flew out, we realized that there were several things we were going to need to pick up before we left. Sunscreen, maybe a book or two to read, that kind of thing. So off we went to the local Wal Mart (which, I’m convinced, is where they get half of those photos from the People of Wal Mart site). We packed up our baskets with lip balm and sunscreen. I made a pass through the healthy foods aisle and picked up a handful of women’s protein bars. (These are not only much much cheaper than other brands, but were specifically recommended by my nutritionist as something to have on hand when my blood sugar tanks–I’ve no idea what makes them women’s–the list of ingredients is the same as any other meal bar.) But they are pink, with little dancing women all over them, and clearly labeled as a nutrional supplement for the fairer sex. Witness:

Several of my friends had recommended the book “Water For Elephants” as a good vacation read, so I picked it up too. It was a great book, and soon to be a movie starring that sparkly boy from the Twilight flicks. The cover of the book features a shot from the film, which makes it look like some dreary romance novel whose pages might outline a heroine who spends her days falling onto a fainting couch and allowing her hands to trace “the rising sex” of her lover. (Who in hell finds such melodrama romantic?).

Doesn’t This Look Like a Romance Novel? Gag!

We also made a swing through the “family planning” section, as I am not too proud to admit that I hoped a Caribbean breeze might make Darling reconsider “waiting for marriage.” As we headed to the front of the store, I remarked that we were most certainly using the self checkouts, as my purchases included “estrogen bars, a romance novel, condoms, and personal lubricant. The clerk will think I’m either a tranny or the personal assistant for some menopausal woman.”
As we were heading out of Wal Mart, we realized that there was nothing at home to eat for dinner that night. Luckily, in the lobby, there is a Subway, so we popped in for a little sammich. Why on Earth we decided to eat it there rather than in the comfort of our own home a mile away is beyond me. We have NEVER eaten IN that Subway before in our lives, even though we frequently get carryout there. But, there we were, perched on a high top table, enjoying our meal, when there was a thud.

 

“What was that?” I said, with a look of utter horror on my face. But I knew what it was. Our purchases had fallen off the barstool in the middle of Subway. I glanced at my feet. The box of condoms (why in hell do they sell them in such large boxes?? It contained a usual quantity, but the size of the box would indicate I was stocking the larders at the Bunny Ranch) lay in full view. Scattered next to it, my stash of Luna bars. My “romance novel” lay a few feet away, face up of course. And still rolling across the Subway? You guessed it:

 

 

 

They really ought to make these bottles square so they don’t roll.

 

I ran after it, grabbing it just inches from the feet  of two old church looking ladies who were enjoying their Italian BMTs and studying my predicament with curious eyes. I tried to scoop everything back in the bag, but of course it was crumpled and half of it fell back out. Darling is doubled over laughing hysterically, drawing even more attention to the situation. I, naturally, was beet red. We weren’t even halfway through our meal, so we couldn’t rush out of there. But the church ladies sure did, armed with a story that no doubt landed my soul on a prayer list somewhere.

Montezuma’s Revenge

One night aboard the ship, I woke up with the sensation of something damp on my back. I reached back and felt a “glop” of something. I wasn’t sure what it was. Had I left my nicotine patch on? Surely that must be it, as I’ve awoken to find myself sweating around them a few times before. I flung whatever the offending item was off of myself, and tossed and turned for a moment before getting up to pee. As I stood there, in the miniscule “head” of our stateroom, I caught my own reflection out of the corner of my eye.

“What the hell??” I thought as I turned and got a better look at the thick, brown, soupy muck that was spattered up my back. It was warm and sticky.  I grabbed a wet washcloth and scrubbed. It didn’t want to come off, but I cleaned myself up best as I could in my groggy state, then crept back into the stateroom.

“Oh no!” the realization hit me…it was probably all over the sheets. I’d have to turn on the light to see, and risk waking Darling. I flipped on the lamp, and folded back the covers, scared of what I might find. It was everywhere. Even the pillows hadn’t been spared the splatter. I gasped and before I could catch  myself shouted “Oh, hell!”

Darling awoke, and with a look of utter horror, shouted “What in hell is that???”

“It’s chocolate!” I said. One of the chocolate candies  the steward left on our pillows had wound up in bed with us–specifically under my ass, where it melted into a gelatinous glob that wound up looking very much like I might have “Poughkeepsied” all over the damn bed.

The next morning, Darling said I simply had to explain what happened to the steward, lest the poor fella think Montezuma’s revenge had befallen our room. So as we headed for breakfast, I tracked down the steward.

“We’re going to need new sheets this morning.” I explained. My face reddened with the realization that there is really no reason for “needing” new sheets that isn’t embarassing. I stammered, trying to recover the situation…

“You see, we got chocolate all  over them.”

“Ahhh…” he lifted his eyebrow in a knowing way, “not to worry! I’ll take care of it for you.”

“It’s just that one of the mints from the pillow ended up in bed with us…” I was beginning to think I should have just let him believe one of us had shit the bed as I desperately tried to make the situation less awkward.

His sly grin indicated he wasn’t believing the innocent truth. “No worries, sir! Go, enjoy yourselves!”

“Um, yes, well…thank you…” I hurried off down the hall.

A Brief Bloggy Break

I’ll be taking a week or so off, honeybadgers. I am some kinda overdue for a vacation, and can think of no place better to be than right here:

Or maybe here:

Or here:

Or here, with an umbrella drink or six:

But I most assuredly will NOT be here:

See y’all when I get back! Somebody watch over mama for me…