Saturday, September 29, 2012

At Least I Wasn't Commando

Well, I really outdid myself today.

If you're from Poland, Ohio, you can stop reading now.  You either saw my misfortune, or you already have heard the folklore that surrounds my misfortune.

Anyway, you know that tie at the waistband of sweatpants?  Admittedly, I'm not a sweatpants kinda girl, so I always thought the tie was merely decorative.


It turns out that the tie is a necessity that holds up your pants.  Who knew?

I saw that the tie was missing when I decided to wear the sweatpants to Emerson's soccer game, but I didn't care because my shirt was just long enough to cover the waistband, so the missing ornamentation of the tie would be undetectable.

Oh, how we live and learn!

I drove to the soccer game still in my state of blissful ignorance. 

Then we had to get out of the car and walk down the LOOOONG, one-way road to the soccer fields.  The lightbulb started flickering in my head.

I noticed the extra fabric in my crotch area at about the same time I felt the wind on my lower back. 

I had my Diet Pepsi in one hand, so that left only one hand to deal with the impending indecent exposure.  I grabbed the pants at one hip with my free hand, but I was walking, so that movement caused the pants to fall down around the other hip.

I was limping like I was just getting used to a new leg prosthesis, which is what must have caught Emerson's attention.  She looked at me and screamed,  "Mom, everyone in all the cars behind us can see your underwear!"

I turned to look at the horror, and there were, indeed, cars behind us as far as the eye could see.  Of course.

Finally, with Emerson crying from embarrassment, we made it to her field and she started her game.  I put down my Diet Pepsi and stood there, like a crazy lady, holding up my pants.

I did a pretty good job for awhile, but damn my kid for being good at soccer!  She was on offense and the ball was right in front of her.  She was kicking it like a madwoman down the field, and I started screaming.

And then it happened.

I cheered and let go of my pants.

I stood there in horror as everyone at an eight year-old's soccer game watched my pants fall to my knees.  Literally.

Thank God my underwear was from Victoria's Secret. 

Unfortunately, they were thongs.

Friday, September 28, 2012

Greek Life

So, when last we spoke nearly a year ago, I had died.

Allow me to catch you up on my life since then:  I accepted a new job, blah, blah, blah, I resigned from said new job.  Trust me, there is sooooo much contained in the "blah, blah, blah," that I could--and would--tell you about, but Danny would kill me. 

That means I'm a stay-at-home-mom again, and I totally suck at it, just like I knew I would.  Add sahm-ing to my list of non-talents.  There's no glitter-glue around here, not one piece of macaroni has been glued on anything, and the number of nature walks/picnics we've enjoyed?  Zero.

Somehow, I've managed to keep everyone alive, though.  Delaney is easy because she's at college; Emerson learned how to work the microwave; and Danny has become quite familiar with the Burger King drive-thru. 

My mother is still living at the nursing home, and every once in awhile I get a phone call informing me that she's making out with another Resident.  She's on the clock, though.  There is absolutely nothing physically wrong with her, so her demise is nowhere in sight.  Normally, that would be a good thing.  However, my father is getting out of prison in 4-1/2 years, and I'm not living with both of them again.  I tried that once, and it resulted in my marrying at 18 to get away from them.

Unfortunately, if I have to live with both of them again, someone's getting a pillow over the face.  I've actually thought this out:  My father, even at 81, could, I'm sure, overpower me; so, it looks like my mother will have to be the one to go.  Sorry, Mom, but you kind of deserve it for making me wear shoes with alligators on them on the first day of fourth grade.

So, what, you may ask, do I do all day? 

Nothing.  Abso-freakin-lutely nothing.  Except Facebook.  I need rehab for that one.

In fact, when Danny left this morning, he looked at me sitting on the couch and holding the computer, and said,  "What are you going to do today?"

I eyed up the couch and the computer and said,  "You're pretty much looking at it."

He then informed me, in his best supportive husband voice,  "Well, just so you know, this place is starting to look like a frat house."

That's encouraging to me:  better a frat house than a crack house anyday.

Friday, November 18, 2011

My Obituary

Melissa Dawn Dinsio-Miller died today from the funk that had been in her lungs since May, and the thought of getting a seven year-old ready for school simply overwhelmed her.

Melissa was born on August 23, 1968 in Youngstown, Ohio, to Amil and Linda Mulligan-Dinsio.  She was their favorite child, which was really great during the younger years of Melissa's life because her parents never made her do anything.  Unfortunately, though, being the favorite child came back to bite Melissa in the arse because she ended up taking care of her mother with Alzheimer's.  Of course, Melissa died only ten days after putting her mother in a nursing home.  That is the kind of luck she always had.

Surviving Melissa is her husband, Danny Dinsio-Miller, whom Melissa repeatedly married.  She just couldn't quit.  It was the weirdest thing.

Also surviving Melissa are her two daughters, Delaney and Emerson.  Delaney is a freshman in college and is quite wrapped up in her own life there.  She has always been a wonderful daughter, and will attend her mother's funeral if a sorority event does not conflict with it.  But Melissa would understand, because Delaney gets fined if she misses sorority events, and that's just a ridiculous rule.

Emerson is devastated at the loss of her mother, but she will get over it.  Soon, she will be calling another woman "Mom" and Melissa will become a vague memory.  Melissa will be okay with that, too, because that's just the way she rolled.  Melissa was really kind of cool that way.

Melissa is also survived by her sisters, Deborah and Amie.  They were surprised at Melissa's death because everyone just assumed Debbie would die first.  She was the oldest and the sickest, so it really should have been her.

Miraculously, Melissa earned a B.S.Ed. and a J.D.  She rarely attended the classes or bought the books for them.  The only way she got through law school is by becoming close friends with the three smartest people in the class.  Later in her life, Melissa became a Licensed Nursing Home Administrator, which was her true calling in life.  Too bad she didn't work at it very long, but, hey, that's just the way the mop flops (as her mother was fond of saying).

Overall, Melissa's life was kind of boring. She hated to travel and she had no bucket list.  None.  Pathetic, really.

Melissa's casket will be closed because Amie will look at her face and determine that Melissa should've had Juvederm and Botox injections, and no one should really see her face in its present condition.

Melissa's mother will not be attending the funeral because it will be too annoying for everyone to say every thirty seconds, "Melissa.  Your daughter.  She's the one in the box."  Her father will not attend the funeral either because he is in prison in New York, and the authorities will not transport inmates across state lines for funerals.  Even for those of their favorite children. 

Despite how boring Melissa's life was, she enjoyed it.  She loved her family and friends, and she saw the humor in everything.  She was also addicted to Facebook, and someone really should have staged an intervention for that problem.

Melissa is not upset about her death at all.  She was a Mormon, and had absolutely no doubt about what is on the other side of the veil.  Currently, she is enjoying a beautiful reunion with family and friends who passed before her.

Interment will be in Jacksonville City Cemetery in Jacksonville, Alabama, even though she hates her cemetery plot.  It is right up against the fence of a stranger's backyard.  But that's what you get when you send your glass-eyed cousin, Grady, to find you a cemetery plot.  Lesson learned.

Melissa's death is senseless, really.  The whole thing could have been avoided if today were Saturday and she didn't have to get a seven year-old ready for school.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Trust Me

Just some things for you to think about:

1.  When you are stopped for a DUI, DWI, OVI, or whatever your state calls it, try not to literally sh*t yourself while doing the field sobriety tests.  When the officer looks down and sees the contents of your colon (nice alliteration) running out of your pants and onto your shoes, it's a pretty safe bet that you'll be arrested.  But that's not your only problem.  The officers then fight over who has to put your smelly, poop-covered body into whose cruiser.  That makes them hate you.  Then, when you go to court for your DUI, you get labeled "Poopy Pants" and no one wants to listen to the half-assed defense I have to come up with for someone who sh*t his pants.  And that makes me hate you.

2.  Do NOT urinate in the backseat of the cruiser.  Admittedly, urine is slightly better than poop, but TRUST ME, when you get to court, no one will know your name; you simply will be referred to as "The Assh*le Who Pissed Himself."  That does not make my job any easier and, again, that makes me hate you.

3.  Look, we all know Troopers look gay in their hats.  They know they look gay in their hats.  Gay-looking Trooper hats are just a part of life that we have to accept.  So, when you tell the Trooper that his hat looks gay, you strike a quite unpleasant chord in him because, as I said, HE ALREADY KNOWS HE LOOKS GAY.  You, my friend, are going to jail, drunk or not.

4.  A cruiser is NEVER the appropriate place to masturbate, especially if you are unattractive.  'Nuff said there.

5.  Do not tell the officer that you are going to beat his *ss.  Really.  You smell like a brewery, you can't stand up straight and you have bodily waste on your clothes.  You're no match for the guy with the taser and the Glock who is wearing clean clothes and is sober enough to stand on one foot.  And, of course, you will become someone that I hate.  And you will do alot more jail time than the significantly smarter drunk that didn't threaten the cop.  It's a simple concept, really.

With that, I hope I've helped to make your next DUI traffic stop go more smoothly.

Friday, September 30, 2011

More From Court

I think that some things go without saying, but apparently I am wrong.  So listen up, folks:

If a man chokes you to the point that you defecate and then he takes it and smears it all over your body, you don't have to stay with him because he has cable.  EVERYONE has cable.  Certainly, you can find someone that won't smear poop all over your body in exchange for the privilege of watching his HBO.  And, for the love of all that is holy, DO NOT tell the police that his cable is the reason you stay with him.  Comments like that just end up on blogs like this one.

Fyi--POLICE CARS ARE WIRED FOR SOUND.  If you are ever in the backseat of a cruiser, DO NOT say anything like, "I told you to put the drugs up your p*ssy!"  And NEVER say, "Tell them you got the drugs from a drug dealer--some other drug dealer, not me."  You pretty much have no defense at that point.

When you beat your girlfriend/wife and you appear for court, DO NOT yell at her, for EVERYONE in the court to hear, that she better change or story or you will f*ck her up.  Again, you have made sure that you have no defense.

And this may come as a shock to you, but your public defender is a REAL attorney.  You don't get out of your last two periods of high school to go to your job as a public defender.  You actually have to have an undergraduate degree AND go to law school, AND pass the bar exam to be a public defender.  When you tell your public defender that you want a REAL attorney, you accomplish two things:  you confirm that you are, in fact, a moron; and you make your public defender secretly wish that you get the death penalty for shoplifting.

Now that we have all that straight, carry on with your day, hopefully a little more informed.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

More Of What I Learned In Court

I like to keep you all informed, just in case you ever wind up in court or, worse yet, the slammer.  So this is what I learned this week while carrying out my duties as a public defender:

If a drunken brawl breaks out at your house on your birthday, try to refrain from throwing your birthday cake, candles and all, at the police car that responds to your neighbors' request to quiet down the trash that lives next door to them.  And then don't get mad when you're charged with disorderly conduct, idiot.

Do not EVER write in a police report that you only let your boyfriend/pimp have a certain type of sex with you on New Year's Eve and the Fourth of July.  That is WAY TMI, and, trust me, the police report will get passed around to everyone who walks into the courthouse.  Aside from that, it's just not very classy, even for a prostitute.

No matter how angry you are, do not smear your own feces on the wall of the holding cell.  You are the one that has to stay in it and admire your artwork.  Moron.

Try really hard not to scream "F*** you!" over and over again at the judge, prosecutor, bailiff, secretary, and anyone else in the courtroom.  You can be held in contempt of court for a long time.  Then again, if you're in court on bank robbery charges, contempt of court is probably the least of your worries.

Finally, on a personal note, tell your public defender that you bathed IN THE TOILET that morning BEFORE she shakes your hand!
Thank you so much for all my sweet birthday cards!  I felt so loved!

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Payless Is Great

Can you actually hack up a lung?  I've heard that expression, but I never saw it happen, or met anyone to whom it has happened.  If it is possible to hack up a lung, BE WARNED: I THINK MINE IS COMING WITHIN THE NEXT 24 HOURS. I would advise you not to stand in front of me, especially in your good clothes.

Even if you choose not to heed my warning, I promise, I'll find you a great pair of shoes that match lung.

So, I'm still sick. The doctor said I have asthma, bronchitis (Danny didn't think I would really tell the doctor that I've been using eleven year-old Biaxin to treat it), and pan sinusitis.  I figured I had all those diseases and disorders; I mean any hypochondriac worth her weight in salt has all that diagnosed before she walks into the doctor's office. 

But listen to this shiznit:  HE THINKS I MAY HAVE A HEART CONDITION!!!!   That kind of information can send a hypochondriac to an early grave.  Okay, I have to write the obligatory letters to my children, husband, parents and sisters.  I have to clean my house (not happening, but it feels like I have to at least write it), choose my funeral, get a mani/pedi, and have my hair styled and colored.  I also have to find bone marrow donors.    

The most important thing I need to do is write a post to my Internet family letting them know how much I love them.

Sheesh.  Is someone with a heart condition supposed to work that hard?

The doctor interrupted my mental-list-making by explaining that he thinks I might have mitral valve prolapse, which is relatively benign in females, and that it is regurgitating my blood in the heart.  (Yes, I do have  blood, and sometimes it's even warm.)

So I did the only reasonable thing:  I called my sister and cried because I know she has mitral valve prolapse, for which she is medicated. 

As usual she was quite supportive about the matter.

She said, "Dumb ass, you already know you have mitral valve prolapse."

"Huh, what do you mean?"

"Yes, you ass!  You got tested after I did and I remember your results so clearly because when I heard them, I thought, 'Can't I have a single effin' thing this bitch doesn't have also.' "

Well, I have some shopping for lung-colored shoes to do.  Do you prefer Payless or Nordstrom?  (Please say Payless, please say Payless, please say Payless......)