Shedding..

Much like a dog, I’ve been shedding. Pounds, husbands….pretty much everything close enough to annoy me. Fortunately, I leave behind no visible evidence. You won’t find a chunk of my ass on the sofa (unless I happen to be sitting there) or random appendages belonging to the man formally known as “husband” scattered about. I’m a closet shedder. 34 pounds and 9 years. Just like that. I think that makes me a procrastinating ball dropper. I like balls. I hang on to things longer than I should. Except balls. They tend to shrink if you hold on to them too long. I’m just repeating what the slutty girls tell me. I still own a Shawn Cassidy drum set. Don’t judge. If I need to bang something …it comes in handy. Gotta give El Conjeo a breather every now and again. Besides I’m tired of switching batteries between the remote and the rabbit. I’m not into cross training. One thing I’ll never shed….Mother. I’m back from a visit and she didn’t disappoint.

Let’s start with my flight. Up at 2:30am bcs I’m too cheap to pay for a ticket at a civilized hour. I arrived at the airport wearing half my luggage to avoid paying another $400 in baggage fees. They didn’t weigh my bag. Merry Fuckin Christmas. I had to perform a cheap rendition of “Striptease” to get everything back into the suitcase. Not one tip. Fuckers. Bet they wished they would have weighed it. Or me as it were. And you know…who gives a flyin fuck? If I take 2 bags that weigh 100 lbs or 1 bag that weighs a 100 lbs…. what’s the difference? I freely admit to failing math. However, the numbers don’t add up. Until you add in a $50 fee. Makes perfect sense. Commie bastards. Why not fly Southwest you ask? The Land that Time Forgot isn’t currently a part of their flight schedule. So I fly US Air and do my best to protect my back side from too much penetration. Moving right along…

6:00am. Stripped, stripped searched and trying to take a nap before my flight took off. I was in REM 25 when I heard the following “Go get your treat boy.” I was dreaming about shagging Brad Pitt at the time. The voice/smell combination wasn’t creating the visual I’d imagined.  Easily explained by the large German Sheppard climbing over my seat! Not the kind of meat I had in mind. Can a sister catch a a break? The short answer is no. My canine suitor proceeded to try and snag some strange from everyone in the waiting area. Whore. Seems no one had a “treat” for him. Really? If your ass is dumb enough to bring drugs to an airport, the dog should be allowed to have sex with you until you bark! Back to napping. Not so much. We should have been in the boarding phase. I’m a clock watcher. I know these things. Precisely 30 minutes til take off = boarding. The non-flying, minimum wage, not hot enough to be a flying waitress person announced there was an issue. Drugs on the plane? Where’s Fido? Nope. 1st Mate was a no-show. No shit. It’s Christmas. He’s clearly passed out, drunk on egg-nog and sparing all of us a dip in the drink. I for one, was grateful. Much like when they ask if anyone would be willing to give up their seat in exchange for free airfare anywhere in the continental US, I offered up my 1st Mate services for a round trip ticket to Hawaii. No takers. How hard could it be? All that fucker does is give the weather, treat the flying waitress like a bartender, sleep and let you know when you’re 20 minutes out so you can sit with your seat straight up , annoyed whilst you circle your destination endlessly under the cover of a “traffic jam.” Not hard at all.

At what point was the following statement suppose to invoke feelings of comfort….”Don’t worry. We have a back-up 1st Mate waiting downstairs.” Great. A temp. The unemployable 1st Mate who has so much ambition he failed to become a real pilot, enjoys hanging out in baggage claim swapping stories with TSA, and praying a real 1st Mate no shows. I’d rather the dog have filled in. He seemed to have some trouble with his goesintas. You know…3 goes inta 6 two times. Those. Except the more import ones, as it were. When the plane “goesinta” the sky it’s making its ascent. When the plane falls out of the sky it’s making it’s descent. Even Google knows that. Dumb ass kept mixing them up. Let us all be thankful the real pilot stuck to a 3 drink minimum and got us in safely. 30 minutes late safely. Perhaps why my not so fat ass was doing an OJ across the tarmac to catch a plane of crunchy people before they left without me. The Granola crowd wasn’t amused by my challenges. I decided it would be more advantageous to tell them about the benefits of scrapple in relation to the green house effect. They didn’t speak scrapple. Whatever. They hated me bcs I was hot. I get that alot.

When I finally made my “descent” into the land that time forgot, I realized it was about to be on. You’ll recall my last visit. Mother said, (and I quote) “You don’t look that bad.” Words to slit your wrists by. If 34 pounds didn’t translate into a compliment I vowed to hook her up with the temp. I’m not sure Mother is so skilled with the goesintas either. She delivered. Over delivered. Clearly remembering her sins of late. “Wow. I almost didn’t recognize you.” Loosely translated, I fear, it meant… it’s about time you started looking like one of us instead of something on Nat Geo. I’m OK with that. I am the only redhead. Who knows where I originated. One of the perks of losing weight is knowing people who haven’t seen you in a while will be staring at you when you think you aren’t looking. I have eyes in the back of my head. I’m a SIF. Gotta watch out for my fries. Never know when you’ll need to slap a bitch. For the 1st time in my life I heard the following “She has no ass.” Um…yeah. I always have ass. I don’t get much but I always have alot. Mental note…start long term care plan for parents immediately if not sooner. Check.

In order to properly answer questions such as “Where is your husband” I went straight to the liquor store. 6 bottles of wine and a 6 pack later, I had what I needed. I invited my 86 year old Grandmother to spend the night. She likes her wine. Now I know who to blame for that. Still unsure about the red hair however. Anyway, Grams and I got all smacked up Christmas Eve. What? She’s 86, she can’t drive and I’m quite sure she’s in love with my ex. She literally sent me an email (after Mother informed her I was divorcing) and said the following “If you don’t want him I’ll take him.” If I thought it was that easy I would have called UPS. Not so much. So wine…good. Mother was not as cooperative as Granny. Made me watch Hallmark & Lifetime Christmas movies all weekend. Seriously? Not only does she believe in Santa, she actually believes my Dad may one day sweep her off her feet like Mark Harmon does to those social climbing whores in the movies. Let’s be clear. My Dad isn’t sweeping anything off it’s feet unless it’s a 5cent return or a not so used bungee cord on the side of the road. Mary Nell aint got a hope in hell. Unless I get him drunk. I like him too much to let him go down like that.

Grandma woke up on Christmas morning to Mimosas with her favorite drinking partner! Screw Santa! What did he ever bring me that didn’t break or end up at a garage sale? The Shawn Cassidy drum set as it were. Besides that he’s useless. Eats my cookies and only comes around once a year. Typical. Grandma didn’t know what a Mimosa was. Does it really matter at 86? You can’t feel your feet. Drink up! Mother was mortified. Whatever. I fed her cheap donuts and champagne. Made her life. Mother likes to yell when talking to Grandma. She has a hearing aide. She can hear you Mother. She pretends not to so as to know when you are talking behind her back. Never trust an old lady with a blank stare and a smile. Never. She didn’t ask me…not even one time…where the ex was. Good Gram. Unlike the pizza guy who interrogated me for an hour whilst I was ordering a Stromboli. Really? Are we close? No, no we aren’t. I went with…he had to work. I didn’t want to bring scandal to the town while in the midst of binge eating. I thought word would have gotten out. Not so much. It’s tradition for Mother to put tons of candy in my Dad’s Christmas stocking. Yes, he still has one of those.  He complains about the saturated fat and proceeds to eat every bit of it. Classic. I know this bcs he and I downed a box of gummy bears in one sitting. And his personal garbage is filled to the brim with Russell Stover wrappers. It’s OK Dad…get in touch with your inner fatty. She’s squishy and lovely. You’ll get more action from her than Mom. Promise.

In typical fashion, Mother had planned my arrival, itinerary whilst in town and my demise all before the plane landed. She wakes up planning. If she ever does something spontaneous I may shit myself. My Dad just wants to know when he’s going to get sex again. I advised him to check Outlook…or maybe Facebook.  Dad was all upset about the hydrofracking going on in the area. Too bad they couldn’t hydrofrack farts…my family would be rich. I’ve never heard more gas come out of a dozen people in all my life. Even Grandma. But it’s funny when she does it bcs she doesn’t know she does it. Always happens when she stands up. It’s her turbo boost off the couch. Of course we all laugh at her like we’re 12. It’s funny. Mother has a hard time when I leave. She starts in about 48 hours out. Has to calculate what time we need to leave for the airport, if we’ll have time to grab a bite on the way, how much she already misses me and so on. Dad delivered some good scoop on Mom prior to my departure. I honestly thought her SIF hoarding days were over. Appears not. He told me to look in the cupboard in the dining room. There I would find the remnants of a 2lb bag of mint M&M’s and some peppermint patties. They are her favorite. Not to be shared with the common folk. We got the re-gifted Russell Stover BOGO candy. When I called her on it she said, “I wasn’t hiding it. It’s out there in the dish. ” She was right. There sat 3 M&M’s and a peppermint patty. Awe…it must be Christmas.

The flight home was uneventful. Everyone who needed to, showed up. Including me. Mother wanted me to stay for New Years. As much as I wanted to hang at the VFW, drink cheap beer and mix it up on the jukebox…I opted for home and wrist slitting. Why did I get married on New Years? Why did I get married? Why was there a “Happy Anniversary” card from Grandma waiting in the mailbox? I can’t be sure I have the answers to these questions. I bought myself a hot dress and kissed no one at the stroke of midnight. Clearly I didn’t drink enough. My New Years Resolution? To find the exact amount of alcohol it takes to make me not eat and get laid. It’s all very scientific.