Beware of Twastikas!

Given all the rancor I aroused by suggesting that Tiger Woods probably won’t change and that Elin should go ahead and cut her losses, I’ve been biting my lip and sitting on my hands since news broke about Sandra Bullock’s marriage troubles.

I can’t stand it any longer.

Jesse James, Bullock’s husband (who, incidentally, claims to be distantly related to the wild west outlaw), seemed like a good guy and a loving husband. Sandy acted like she adored him, and she even gave up on trying to have children of her own so that she could raise his.

They may have given that acting Oscar to the wrong member of the family. He, obviously, wasn't what his wife believed him to be.

Apparently, the mistress, a tattooed hoochie mama named Michelle "Bombshell" Mcgee who files her fingernails into sharp points, has a Nazi tattoo near her private parts.

A swastika tattooed on her twat? Is she sinister, stupid, or just partial to weinerschnitzel?

Although Mr. Monster Garage has been checking under the wrong hood, I could understand if Sandra Bullock didn't tear up her family over one affair. After all, I couldn’t see divorcing my husband when I found out about his first affair. We’d been married for fourteen years and had three children. And if my husband’s story was to be believed, the girl knew he was a millionaire, and she threw herself at him.

Apparently, the same thing happened to Jesse James. Given the fact that Michelle Mcgee sold her story to InTouch Magazine for $30,000, I had to wonder if she had set her sights on him, this woman with the words “Prayerful Sinner” tattooed across her forehead and he was too stupid to see her for what she was.

To all the “Michelles” of the world: stop trying to steal husbands and break up marriages. Seriously, go get your own asshole. Because do you honestly believe he won’t ever in a million years cheat on you? You’re that special? Really?

And here’s a tip for the stupid men (or women) who believe that your sweet young thing is really in love with you: when your IQ reaches 72, SELL!

But today, another “Michelle” came forward. Brigitte Daguerre claims to have had an affair with Jesse James. And she’s number three.

Here’s my advice: divorce him, Sandra. Do it quickly. There’s no vaccine for stupid, so this serial cheater will cheat on you again. Anyway, weren’t you the one who said that if you’d been Elin Woods, you wouldn’t have stopped with the golf club? You would have gotten the baseball bat out?

And for those who want to bring up some ridiculous bullshit about forgiveness, I'd like to remind you of the old saying, “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me”?

Or how about the bumper sticker that simply reads, “Fergit, Hell!”

But I do think it would be fun if someone tattooed “Big F*&%ing Deal” across her titties and made a play for Joe Biden.

The Tao of Riding in Cabs

Please tell me I’m not special. I’d hate to think that I’m the only person in the world who has terrible luck with New York cab drivers.

Last fall, during the trip to deliver my daughter to her dorm at NYU, I got into a verbal altercation with a cabbie complicated by the fact that his verbiage was, simply put, NOT English.

My ire started when he refused to help us load the six massive suitcases filled with my daughter’s belongings into his trunk. Thankfully, the hotel valet came to our aid.

Once in the car, I said, “We’re going to 75 Third Avenue, at the corner of Third and Eleventh.” We were at 57th street, and I know enough about New York to know that the street numbers get higher as you go north. In other words, number-75 anything is closer to the south end of Manhattan.

The man turned north.

“Excuse me,” I said, “shouldn’t we be heading south?”

“You say sebennty-fife. I go sebennty-fife street.”

“No, I said 75 Third Avenue. Not 75th street. I told you it’s at the corner of Third and Eleventh.”

An argument ensued, but it wasn’t over what I’d said. The man was arguing with me over whether or not 75 Third Avenue was actually at the corner of Third and Eleventh. He insisted it wasn’t possible.

I finally said, “Just humor me, and take us to Third and Eleventh. Forget the 75.”

The man grumbled in Farsi, I think, for the remainder of the ride. Then, when we arrived, he actually stopped the car and pointed across the two-way, four-lane street we were on and said, “Sebennty-fife across street.”

“Yes, I see it. And you’re going to take us over there, since we have six suitcases in the trunk,” I said. “And once we get there, you’re going to help us unload the six suitcases, or NO TIP FOR YOU!”

Yesterday, my girls and I found ourselves once again the unlucky passengers of a crazy New York City cab driver. He was driving like a hamster on heroin while on the phone describing the noise his car was making. “Dit-dit-dit-dit-dit-dit, it goes,” he was saying when the car in front of us stopped abruptly. Our distracted driver slammed on the brakes, and my head slammed into the seat in front of me.

My most bizarre cab driver experience, though, actually happened in Las Vegas. My friend, Fran, and I landed at McCarran International Airport and waited in the perpetually long cab line. When it was our turn, a nice looking fifty-something man wearing cowboy boots, a belt buckle the size of the Hoover Dam, and a bolero took our bags, tipped his Stetson, and said, “Good evening, ladies. Where to?”

A pleasant, English-speaking gentleman who drove safely? We took this man to be the equivalent of winning the taxicab MegaMillions.

Traffic was bad on the Strip, but we enjoyed a pleasant conversation with our driver. It took twenty minutes to go two miles, and by the time we finally pulled into the Aladdin, we had exactly ten minutes until our dinner reservations at Tao, which was more than a ten-minute walk from our hotel. We got out of the cab, and I handed the valet a $20 bill and said, “We have dinner reservations at Tao in ten minutes. Can you hold our bags until we get back?”

“Of course, ma’am,” he said. I looked over to see that no one was waiting for a cab, and then I said to our cab driver, “Is it okay if we just stay with you?”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” he said, quite emphatically.

Now, I understand the rule about waiting in line for a cab. But there was no line. Puzzled, I looked at the valet for help. “Aw, come on, dude,” the valet intervened. “These ladies just need to go to Tao.”

The cab driver hesitated, and then he relented. We jumped back into his car, and he turned right out of the Aladdin and onto the Strip. And that was when he looked into the rearview mirror and said, “Could you tell from my response that I’m married?”

“Huh?” Fran and I looked at one another, wondering what he was getting at.

He quickly explained: “When you asked if you could stay with me, I thought you meant you wanted to STAY with me. I said 'No' because I'm married.”

The old cowboy thought we were propositioning him.

Even in Vegas, I can't get lucky with a cab driver.

Praying (and Playing) for Forgiveness

Some of my readers, all of whom wish to remain Anonymous, have recently pointed out that they believe I’m severely lacking in the forgiveness department.

They could be right.

My kid made it to the finals in a tennis tournament yesterday. I can’t resist bragging just a bit because he’s fourteen, and he was playing in the 16-year-old division. So it’s kind of cool that he made it to the finals, right?

It was cool until his 16-year-old opponent, who’s ranked 10th in the state, made some really bad calls. He cheated my kid!

I wanted to pull a Tonya Harding on him with my kid’s racquet. But that would have ruined an expensive racquet.

What’s the kid doing still playing 16s anyway? He’s ranked tenth in the state and probably should move on up to 18s if he’s hoping for a college scholarship.

I thought about sneaking out to the parking lot and slashing his fat father’s tires. The only problem was figuring out which beige suburban with the “I Love Tennis” bumper sticker belonged to fatty.

I mean, seriously? You’re sitting there with a Bluetooth device in your ear conducting business while your son is cheating a kid nearly two years younger than he is, and you’re proud?

You’re disgusting, your kid is disgusting, and I know a juco coach in Skankbutt, South Dakota, who would be very interested in recruiting him.

I'd also be willing to bet a can of ProPenn hard court balls that the balls you're playing with have lost their bounce.

But I’ve got to forgive. Move on. Let it go. Thank your son for the valuable lesson he taught my kid yesterday.

While I’m not quite at the level of enlightenment that would allow me to do what Jesus would do, I can muster the largesse to do as the bumper sticker on my golfcart asks: “What would Jimmy Buffett do?”

I’m pretty sure Jimmy would pray for him. Or maybe slide a roofing nail under the tire of that Suburban.

Forgive me, Lord.

Maybe Nadal After All

As it turns out, my kid, the great tennis player, is also an amazing writer. Below is an essay he wrote for English class, reprinted with his permission, of course. I've added a couple of editorial comments (in parentheses) for clarification.

Growing up under a sick (disgustingly good, for anyone over 15) athlete puts a lot of expectations on you. Everyone thinks you’re the next version of him. I’m sure Michael Jordan’s boys live in a dark shadow. Some rebel against the idea, and some take it as a challenge. Which is exactly what I did with tennis. It wasn’t planned; I just fell into it.

My mom played tennis in our country club and decided to take me to a clinic. I started playing on a monthly basis, which turned into a weekly basis and, finally, daily. As I progressed, people told me about a place where could really improve. This is where I met Murphy.

I walked up to the court where a teenager was playing better than anyone I had ever seen up close. Murphy was his coach; I instantly asked Murphy to help me.

He was more like a friend then a coach, and my game improved rapidly. Before I knew it, I lived in cheap hotels and was in a new state every weekend (playing tournaments) and out of school at twelve every day. Leaving school early was the coolest thing that had ever happened to me.

Or so I thought.

My best friends became just friends and my friends became just people in the hallway. I wasn’t up-to-date with the latest fashion unless it had to do with a tennis racquet. I had joined the Murphy Payne Witness Protection Program.

After a year, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to put tennis to the side and have more time for friends.

A year has passed, and I’ve led an extremely social lifestyle. I go to school full time and hate it. And as I sit wandering where I would be if I hadn’t quit, I remember what Murphy used to say: “Do you know how many friends I have that I knew in high school?”

I always said no because his point was obvious. He wanted to show me that friends didn’t matter.

Friends do matter, right? They’re the ones who pick you up when you fall. Your brother from another mother. But will I know them ten years from now? Will I still be hanging out with them on weekends?

Of course not. I have big plans for myself. Which makes me think: am I going to be a professional friend?

So as I sit in class realizing how productive the past year could have been, I find myself daydreaming of winning a title. If I had to choose, I’d rather know my buddies on the professional tennis tour than my old high school pals.

I raise my hand to go to the restroom. Not because I need too, but so I can text Murphy.


Mom's note: As much as I would like to think I'm the "sick" athlete/parent, I'm pretty sure he wasn't referring to me. See my last post for an explanation.

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.