Nadal? Not at All

My kid is a great tennis player. And I’m a champion tennis spectator. We make a great pair, this mom who loves tennis and loves her kid and the kid who burns through a pair of tennis shoes every three months when he’s training hard.

Well, we make a great pair when he’s playing and I’m watching. Recently, though, I pointed out that I’ve spent the equivalent of a Mercedes on his tennis lessons and that it should merit me a few free lessons from him.

He graciously took me out to the courts and spent a couple of hours working on my game. Finally, he shook his head in frustration and gave me his assessment:

1. My grip is screwed up. For those who don’t play tennis, it means I hold the racquet wrong.
2. My serve is horrible. Mostly, that’s due to the fact that I hold the racquet wrong.
3. I’m not very coachable. In other words, I wasn’t getting what he was trying to teach me.
4. Basically, as a tennis player, I suck.

After his assessment, whatever game I did have was shot. Every time I served, I heard his voice saying, “You’re not holding the racquet the right way.” In fact, I even double faulted an entire game with his voice echoing in my brain.

Every shot, I heard him telling me I was holding the racquet wrong. I got so confused I couldn’t tell the difference between what was my wrong way and what was his right way.

But the new season started yesterday. And I was in the lineup. In fact, I was playing a position higher than I’ve ever played in my life – all with a screwed up grip and a hideous serve. I had to suck it up and get out on that court and just play the best I knew how.

We won.

Granted, I was playing with a really great partner. And granted, she’s the reason we won. But to my credit, I didn’t cause us to lose. In spite of me, we won.

Let me say it again: we won. And it felt great. I walked just a tiny bit taller for the rest of the day. And of course I let my kid know about the win.

Last night, after I brushed my teeth and washed my face, I walked into my closet and pulled my pajamas out of the drawer. I pulled my sweatshirt off and then peeled off my tennis top. And that’s when I noticed that my tennis skirt was on backwards.

Now, I realize that tennis skirts can get all twisted around. But this wasn’t just a tennis skirt. It was one with the compression shorts built into it. I don’t know how, but I wore that sucker backwards all day long and never even noticed.

Did I mention that we won? Even with my screwed up grip and my hideous serve and my backwards skirt?

I’m going to have to wear that skirt backwards for the rest of the season.

Whatever is a Girl to Do?

I almost lost a dachshund. If I hadn’t been wearing my red Baywatch swimsuit the other day when Shirley fell into the pond, she would have drowned.

I was sitting on my back porch enjoying a rare day of sunshine when I heard a strange-sounding “thunk.”

I looked up to see that Shirley was in over her head. And given the fact that her legs are two inches long, she was not going to be able to pull herself out.

Thank God I was there. And thank God I didn’t have to do CPR, because there’s no telling what she’d eaten that day. But God knows I would have done anything to save that little dog because I love her and because I need the great anecdotes she consistently supplies, especially since I’m apparently allowed to only write about my pets.

My kids have already extracted a promise that I will not write about them without first securing permission concerning the subject matter. In fact, my oldest daughter didn’t speak to me for several weeks after the Mt. Rushmorgan entry.

My ex threatened to sue me for writing about him. Since he realized that I’m not liable for pointing out that he makes Alec Baldwin look like Mother Theresa, he’s taken to having the kids beg me not to write about him. So I’ll lay off him for a while but with this warning, one of my favorite quotes (and one he abhors): “If you don’t want it told, don’t do it.” That, by the way, is courtesy of the great modern-day philosopher Jimmy Buffett. We’ll cross our fingers, kids.

I can’t write about my church, either. Come to think of it, I’ve never actually written about my church. Probably because this is not a blog about church. But I won't write about my church because I'm tired of silly people thinking my blog is an appropriate place to vent their frustrations about a place I love.

And according to the blog trolls, I can’t write about my divorce, my faults, addiction, my taste for beer, or Tiger Woods. Or sex. Especially not sex.

Thankfully, one anonymous blog troll was kind enough to tell me what I’m allowed to write about. The person wrote, “Can you shut the heck up and focus on talking about your dogs, a bengal cat or whatever?"

Whatever? I wish someone would tell me the topics included in that category.

So Shirley almost died. I pulled her out, dried her off, and fried her an egg to comfort her. She licked the plate clean, then looked up at me and said, “I need to warn you that if you write about this incident in your little blog, I’m calling my lawyer.”

“Your lawyer? Since when do you have a lawyer?” I asked.

“Since I read your blog the other day on animal rights’ attorneys. I called the real estate attorney who lives down the street. He’s got some time on his hands these days, what with the real estate slowdown, and he said it was only a matter of time before we could slap you with a libel suit.”

She looked around the kitchen. “Before long, I’ll own this house, and you’ll be the maid. And I’ll require two eggs over easy and two slices of toast cut into one-inch cubes every morning.”

“Dammit! What am I going to write about now?” I asked my dog.

She burped and said, “I’d write about 'whatever.' But I wouldn’t piss off that cat. She’s already trying to kill you for calling her a tainted pussy.”

Whatever.

Syphilis, Herpes, and Other Wounds that Fester

References to The Addams Family sitcom happened at least once a week when I was a kid. Given the fact that I have more hair than a yak and wore glasses as a child, I was often called “Cousin Itt.” In fact, if I flipped my hair over my face and put my glasses on, I was a dead ringer for Itt.

I’m not Itt anymore, though. I’m Uncle Fester. Because after I read some of the anonymous comments by my readers, I’m angry enough that I could stick a lightbulb in my mouth and illuminate the inside of an orangutang.

The biggest charge for me is the suggestion that, until I change my behavior and my attitude, I don’t deserve to be loved. It’s funny, but I remember holding each one of my children for the first time and thinking I loved them just because they were mine. Perfectionism – thinking I had to be perfect in order to earn love – caused me considerable heartache. I gave it up, and I like myself a whole lot better now. If anyone else decides to love me, that’s the double stuff in my Oreo.

The same person told me to stop complaining about my divorce and just “tough it,” while expressing sympathy for my brother because he was “betrayed by his brother-in-law.” Let me tell you something: my brother didn’t have to be tested for HIV, herpes, chlamydia, genital warts, syphilis, gonorrhea, hepatitis, crabs, scabies, and the general skank crud because my husband betrayed him. I did. So save your “he was betrayed” sympathy for him; he doesn’t want it.

Another person questions whether or not I’m even a Christian because my “frequent rants” don’t reflect Christ or His command to love our enemies.

My answer is also my favorite line from Mary Poppins: “I never explain anything.” The reason? Because it’s a stupid question.

I understand that because I grew up in a preacher’s family people expect certain things from me. But I’m not a preacher’s kid any longer, and my blog has nothing to do with my brother’s church. Sure, people from the church read it, and that’s wonderful. I welcome all readers regardless of race, creed, color, religion, national origin, sex, or Facebook status. But I’m writing to entertain. Not to enlighten, preach, teach, or be an example. If you’re entertained, I’ve done my job. If you’re pissed, please, please, please leave a comment! I’ll respond after I’ve let it fester a while.

It's All Going to the Dogs

Laverne and Shirley actually brought me the paper Saturday morning.

“Read it! Read it out loud!” they barked, their little tails wagging in anticipation.

“Why the sudden interest in current events?” I asked my dachshunds, thrilled that they actually fetched me the paper. Then I spotted the Wall Street Journal article on animal rights in Switzerland.

Voters in Switzerland would be going to the polls the next day, the article said, to vote on a referendum that would compel every town in the country to provide legal representation for animals.

Switzerland, more commonly known for its cheese and tight-lipped bankers, is also the most pro-animal-rights nation on the planet. For example, prospective dog owners must take a four-hour course before being allowed to purchase a pet. By contrast, new parents in our country don’t get that much instruction before leaving the hospital with their infant.

In addition, “social” Swiss animals – birds, pigs, fish, and yaks, to name a few – cannot be purchased alone. They must be provided a companion. Every a sole needs a soulmate, I guess. And get this: sick fish cannot just be flushed down the toilet. Swiss law dictates they be quickly bashed in the head or placed in a mixture of water and clove oil dissolved in alcohol.

Bella, the kitty cat, piped up: “Send me to Switzerland. I’d love to get away from these stupid dogs, and I could make a nice living taking care of all the sick fish.”

“Here’s something you would like, Bella,” I said to my kitty, “In Switzerland, it is illegal to deprive a pussy of human of human contact for more than 24 hours.”

“Whatever.” Bella jumped on my head and dug her claws in. “That law benefits humans, not cats.”

If the measure passed, the article went on to say, animals in Switzerland would be guaranteed the right to an attorney. And if they could not afford an attorney, one would be provided at the expense of the government.

“The only animal I know that can afford an attorney is Trouble, the Maltese who inherited $12 million when Leona Helmsley died. And I’ll bet that dog has a rich lawyer,” I said.

Laverne and Shirley ignored my snide remarks and howled in joyous support of the referendum.

“What would you two possibly need a lawyer for?” I asked.

The first complaint filed by their attorney, they explained, would be for my failure to provide proper nourishment.

“Your bowls are never empty! How can you say I don’t feed you?”

The key phrase, apparently, is “ proper nourishment.” According to Laverne and Shirley, dachshunds require fried eggs at least every other day to maintain the shine in their coats. Dry kibble is the equivalent of feeding my kids Cocoa Puffs for every meal.

“Okay. I’ll try to do better,” I promised. “Is that all?”

They were just getting started. The shock collars had to go. Air conditioning in the summer would be a new requirement. They needed crushed ice, not cubes, in their water dish on days when the high would be over 80 degrees. But their biggest beef? Recently, our vet recommended that I purchase health insurance for my dogs, citing a dachshund’s propensity for back problems and the age of my dogs. Laverne and Shirley are pissed at my refusal to purchase medical and dental insurance. They’re scared I’ll just put them down and buy a $400 purebred replacement the next day.

I decided to change the subject and went back to the Wall Street Journal. The biggest proponent of the Swiss referendum, according to the article, is a 51-year-old Swiss attorney named Antoine Goetschel, who is the animal rights public defender in Zurich. Last month, he took an amateur angler to court for abusing a 22-pound pike. The fisherman had to fight the fish for ten minutes before reeling it in, and that, according to Goetschel, constituted prolonged fish agony that could be considered cruel.

“I could’ve popped that pike in two minutes,” the 7-pound Bella boasted.

I continued reading. “Goetschel is a vegetarian who has no pets and avoids taking medication because of his opposition to research on lab animals. He became interested in animal rights at the age of 23, when an accident left him unable to speak for 10 days, helping him understand the plight of animals who can't express themselves.”

“I have no use for vegetarians,” Bella sniffed.

“A lawyer who can’t talk is appealing,” I pointed out.

“We need someone like him!” Laverne and Shirley yapped in unison. “A voice insisting on equal rights for all, starting with mandatory health insurance.”

Wait a minute. Lawyers, government, and mandatory health insurance. Where have I heard that before?

Assholes Anonymous

It seems the Fundamentalist Police have a warrant out for my arrest. Anonymous has filed a complaint against me for rebellion, alcohol consumption, cursing, crude references to sexual activity, and trying to destroy 40 years’ worth of ministry. For a complete list of the charges, go to http://graceadams-sandpapers.blogspot.com/2010/02/combatting-assholiness.html

She’s right. I’m rebellious. I haven’t washed my hair in three days, and I left my bed unmade this morning.

As for the boozing and bad language, I plead guilty as charged. In fact, just so everyone knows how bad I am, in the past week I’ve had two beers and a glass of cabernet. I’ve said “ass” six times, “shit” twice, and “hump” four times.

Just so we’re clear, I only said the word “hump.” Since I’m not married, I didn’t actually hump. That could get me stoned.

But trying to destroy 40 years’ worth of ministry? I’m not guilty of that. First of all, I wouldn’t do that. I love the church, and I love my family. Secondly, it’s impossible. Thinking I could single-handedly take down that institution is giving myself way too much credit. I’d have to have an ego bigger than my ass to think I was that important. (Dang. I said “ass” again).

Basically, Anonymous wants me to shut the hell up because, in her words, she’s feeling very protective of my brother, seeing as how he must feel so betrayed over the breakup of MY marriage.

This woman drives a tricycle.

She has, however, graciously offered to drop the charges if I will see a counselor on the other side of town and only write things she considers helpful to humanity.

My counselor in Roswell will happily confirm my presence in her office more than fifty times in the past two years. Good thing I sold my soul for money, or I wouldn’t be able to afford the expensive therapy.

And here’s a helpful hint for humanity, something my therapist has been trying to hammer into my head: Don’t let people like Anonymous stop you from telling the truth. For the first thirty-five years of my life, I tried to live up to the impossible standard of being perfect so that no one would ever say the preacher did a bad job of raising his daughter. Quite frankly, perfectionism doesn’t work for me. I’m human. That’s my truth.

Unfortunately, Anonymous appointed herself the judge and jury in my case. She won’t appreciate my truthfulness. And since I’m so unrepentantly trying to hurt my brother, who she feels the need to protect, I’m screwed.

I hope there’s enough spandex on the planet to cover her tricycle-riding ass.

And I hope they serve beer in hell.

A Pain (or two) in the Neck

Recently, a neighbor took the time to walk across the street and ring my doorbell to inform me that he is unable to sit on his front porch in the afternoon and enjoy a glass of wine because my dachshunds bark too much.

Seriously? It’s been cold enough to freeze the balls off the monkey statue next to my pool (pictured above), and you’re sitting on your front porch with a glass of wine? The only other time we’ve talked, you were putting your garbage in my yard so that the truck would get it on their “return trip” down our street. I’ve got news for you, neighbor: I’ve never seen a garbage man go both ways. I wonder if you're really rowing with both oars.

But being the good neighbor that I am, I have already contacted the Invisible Fence people about purchasing bark collars for my dogs. The reason I haven’t done it sooner is that they already wear the Invisible Fence collars to keep them in the yard, and I didn’t want them to be confused about why they were getting zapped in the neck.

It’s too bad Puppy Tweets aren't available yet.

What are Puppy Tweets? Mattel is getting ready to roll out a product that allows dogs to use Twitter. The special collar is pre-loaded with 500 phrases, and every time the dog moves or barks, the owner receives a new Tweet.

Some of the pre-programmed, generic messages an owner could receive via text are

*I bark because I miss you. There I said it. Now hurry home.
*It’s not the catching of the tail. It’s the chase.
*Can we get some sparkling water for the toilet bowl?

Kind of boring, right? Had Puppy Tweets previously existed, here are some of the messages I would have gotten from my dachshunds:

*I bit the UPS guy. Animal control has been called.
*When am I off quarantine for biting the tax assessor?
*Get us a new bed on your way home. We were bored today and ate it.
*You forgot to feed us so we ate all the pansies in the pots.
*It's 27 degrees outside and the stupid neighbor is on his porch.

My dachshunds already have their regular collars (necessary for displaying the rabies tags in case they bite) and their Invisible Fence boundary collars. If I add a bark collar and a Tweet collar, they’re going to look like the Burmese Pai Dong Long Neck People, the ones known for stretching their women’s necks with brass rings.

So the doggies and I have come up with a solution. We’ll forego the bark collars and wait for Puppy Tweets, provided they promise to only bark when it’s REALLY important for them to send me a message. Acceptable TWEETS are as follows:

*Luverne is trying to eat from the cat’s litter box again.
*UPS guy is here. You have a package! If you want, we’ll go ahead and open it for you.
*The cat told me she is going to kill you in your sleep tonight. Get rid of the cat.
*Your kids are throwing a party. They’re giving us beer to buy our silence. You’d better come quick.
*The dumbass across the street is putting his garbage in our yard again.

Come to think of it, those are pretty much the only things they bark about anyway. And let’s be fair -- their brains are the size of an Everlasting Gobstopper, and that’s what they’ve been programmed to do. They, at least, know that garbage trucks don’t go both ways down the same street.

Steamy Seductions

Okay, I give up. Winter’s won.

I’m not throwing in the towel because it’s the fourth time this winter that I’ve seen significant snow in Georgia. And for all you northerners, the Atlanta definition of “significant snow” is a simultaneous snowflake sighting and a mob at the Publix akin to Black Friday at WalMart.

Neither is my dachshund’s refusal to go outside the reason for my surrender to the season.

The way I know that winter has won? I actually consumed a hot beverage this morning. I risked scalding my tongue to get my insides warm.

It’s like this: I don’t drink coffee. I never developed a taste for it. And why would I sip hot tea when I can gulp Chick-Fil-A unsweetened iced tea? It’s kind of like the old adage that “wine is fine but liquor is quicker.” I drink tea to quench my thirst, and cold goes down faster than hot.

In fact, I’ve estimated that in my lifetime I have consumed enough unsweetened iced tea to float a mid-size cruise ship. My kids have already been instructed that upon my death I wish to be cremated and sprinkled in the drive-thru of Chick-Fil-A.

But here’s the irony: my house has a built-in Miele coffee system, an expensive machine that has a steam nozzle and other features appealing to coffee enthusiasts. I can program it to speak to me in German, Dutch, Portuguese, Spanish, English, Italian, or French. It has a counter that will display the number of cups of coffee or espresso that have been dispensed since it was purchased. It even has a security system that I can set to keep people unfamiliar with the unit from using it.

Even crazier is the fact that I, the one who does not drink coffee, am the one who ordered the machine. And it’s been used exactly six times in seven years. I don’t know how to set the language or the security system, and I haven’t ever gotten the German warning that means it’s time to descale the unit after 100 coffees.

My thinking in purchasing the Miele coffee system was that it could be used to circumvent my then-husband’s serious Starbuck’s addiction. Why not put in our own mocha machine? I thought. That, combined with the fabulous office he had over the garage, the beautiful pool, the home theater, and the fully-equipped home gym, meant he never needed to leave the house.

My plan didn’t work so well. As it turns out, it didn’t matter what was in this home. He liked to get his mochas elsewhere.

A month or so ago, he began texting me in an effort to have me meet with him so that he could present some options for paying the money he owes me. To my mind, there’s only one acceptable option, and that is for him to pay me the money he owes me. But I guess he needed to try. The conversation went something like this:

HIM: Coffee tonight 630 pm

ME: Excuse me?

HIM: Coffee starbucks

ME: I don’t drink coffee.

HIM: I forgot . . . organic water with a twist of lime

(Okay, you did forget. It’s unsweetened tea. And there’s no such thing as organic water)

HIM again: I bring the lime btw

(At this point, I’m grossed out and stop answering his texts, which strangely continue throughout the course of the day)

HIM: ??Yes?

HIM: Ok I will see u then

HIM: Seriously just biz . . . .

HIM: Seriously if u can’t that’s fine just let me know


Needless to say, I didn’t show up at Starbucks that day. And while winter may have won today, it will be a Kalte Tag in der Holle before I ever succumb to his steamy seductions.

That’s German for “cold day in hell.”