The Great Void: Part II

So I think at this point we're all quit familiar with the antics of Lisa's mother, "Dot". If not, please read the previous posts. Go ahead...I've got time.


All caught up? Good.


Like many of you, I found the "treasures" from the depths of Dot's storage units to be, for lack of any better term, fascinating. You can imagine my excitement when Lisa told me that she had picked out something "special" that I might be interested in.

A photo of my reaction if I was an adorable black kid.

What could this magical item be? Given the vast array of items that Dot decided were worth saving, I wouldn't have been surprised to receive a box filled with the remains of Jimmy Hoffa . . .or a used spork.

Play along with me. If someone said they had a gift for you from someone's storage bin, what would you be hoping for? Here's a short list of items that she COULD have saved for me:

A rare coin collection

A baseball card worth $1,000,000

A boarding pass from the Titanic (it's possible).

Okay, these examples might be a tad unrealistic. However, they would be awesome and I wouldn't be entirely surprised if Dot had them stashed away at the bottom of a box containing crumpled up newspaper and a cup filled with mystery bones.

This isn't the first time someone has claimed to have something "interesting" for me that they found in their storage. In no particular order, a list of "normal" storage items that I've been given:

A photo of me from 3rd grade. Adorable, no?

My great-grandmother's silver. There's no telling how many drunken Joneses have eaten with this stuff. 

My sleeping bag circa 1988.  Apparently, it's "vintage" now. Buy your own here.

Lisa, take note. Anything like the previous items would be FANTASTIC! I would be incredibly happy receiving any of these. 

See? That's me being happy with a storage gift.

So what could this mystery item be? I just kept thinking to myself, "PLEASE let it be the cobra/mongoose statue."

Who could forget this little gem? Seriously, Lisa. Put it up for auction. I'd get into a bidding war with someone for it.

Alas, it wasn't meant to be. The cobra/mongoose (which I affectionately refer to as 'Rikki Tikki Nightmare') still isn't gracing a table in my home . . .yet.

But imagine my relief when Lisa handed me this:

Thank you, Jesus. At least it wasn't the 30-year-old vibrating C-ring. A wave of relief rushed over me. Reading about the abyss that is Dot's storage unit had me contemplating all sorts of strange and disturbing things that Lisa could present me with. A book on painting? Not too bad. Then I opened it...

A reenactment of my reaction...

to this:

Son of a...

Yes, dear ones, that is an actual photo of Dot's colon (for those of you who thought I made up that whole colonoscopy thing). I should probably get it framed. It'll be the world's best/worst dirty Santa present.

Lisa and Kari, be advised that I will be taking recommendations for retaliation. Although, I'm almost certain that cleaning out your mom's storage units is revenge enough.

In the mean time, here's a random photo of a cow, because the last thing you see on this post shouldn't be the insides of a middle aged woman's rectum. 

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Sh*t I Found in My Mom's Storage Unit

When Jewel and I started this blog, we really didn't set out with the idea of writing almost exclusively about my mom.  And I promise that one of these days, we'll move on.  But the topic is just so rich, and as Jewel said, "blogs about your mom just write themselves."

My mom (along with the rest of us) used to live in a ramshackle house that was seemingly held together with Scotch tape and undeserved hope.  That being said, it was a pretty big house.  Big enough for her and all her eccentricities.  But life being what it is for a thug out on the streets, Mom had to move out of the big house about 10 years ago.She is and always has been on a very fixed income, and to most people, having to move into their cars or a two room apartment would signal, "Hey...maybe it's time to downsize all this crap I've accumulated over the last 50 years."  But my mom is not most people.  Thus, she moved all her...we'll call them "treasures" into two storage units that together have more space than her entire apartment.

And she's kept it all there.

For a decade.

Recently, Sister and I decided that we needed to take a more hands-on approach to managing Mom's affairs.  And one of the first orders of business was cleaning out those storage units.  After all, many most of these things she keeps because she has some beautiful delusion that Sister and I will want it someday.  And how long could cleaning these things out take?

How cute.

The first day, we spent about three or four hours.  We got through about a third of one storage unit.  We had to stop when dark started closing in, and we were starting to get scared of what lay in the rest of the boxes.  I can't remember everything we threw out that day, but I distinctly remember an old McDonald's styrofoam cup with little bones in it.  I didn't ask questions.

That day we filled up an entire truck bed with stuff to take to the dump.  Praise be to God (and possibly the voodoo bones), Mom was a willing participant didn't throw herself into convulsions when we started trashing stuff.

Last week, Sister, Husband, Bro-in-Law, Mom, and I all went back out there with ideas that we'd finish that first storage unit and hopefully start on the second one...

Again...how cute.

We almost made it this time, but six hours, a lot of muttering and cussing under my breath, and again the fear of what might crawl out of the boxes after the sun went down made us call it quits before we got to the last wall of boxes.  This time, however, I did have the forethought to bring along my camera.  Please know that this is an entirely random but representative sample.  But after about two hours, the sheen wore off and there was a lot less funny and photo-snapping and a lot more sighing and "Seriously?  WTF Mom? "And so without further ado, I present to you...

Sh*t I Found in My Mom's Storage Unit

Lots and lots and friggin' lots of these.  Because who doesn't keep 30 year old canceled checks?  

You'd hope that there would be some organization to the madness.  But this is how Mom's mind works--glue sticks, an empty glitter shaker, a razor that's probably been banned now, a steak knife, a broken paint brush, a curling iron.
And a bag of hair.  Standard.

What precious, fragile treasure is hidden at the bottom of this large box of crumpled newspapers?

More newspaper.  One of many, many boxes filled with...nothing.  (Mental illness is super fun!)

Yes, it is.  No, I didn't ask.  We trashed them, and I'm still trying
to find the right hypnotist to block this from my memory.

You don't know what this is either?  It's a mystery, but clearly worth paying to store for 10 years.

Gah!  I totally should have cashed these in back in 1989!

Sigh.

In Mom's defense, I could see how this would be totally useful.  I would love to carry this around on a 

daily basis and just pull it out of my pocketbook and say, "You know what? You're dumber than...this!"

Don't even act like your mom doesn't keep dozens of return envelopes from Publishers Clearing House.
It's like a thing with the Boomers these days.

Son found these darts and then found an awesome use for them.

A plastic, disposable laundry detergent scoop. I never really know where to find these.

Mom looks happy to have found this large box of treasures.  What could be inside...

Oh look!  Enough Happy Meal toys to keep a small village in China in business for a month!  Yippee!  

Way to contribute to the global economy, Mom.  Way.to.go.

 

 A 15 gallon bucket with bleach and chemicals that have been sitting in it for a decade? Awesome.

Bro-in-Law looking quite fetching in this...umm...

 A stick? A root used with the McDonald's bones?  

The club she used to beat her first children to death with?  

The world may never know... 

Again.  Just don't ask.

For the next time I'm cruising around in my '77 Cutlass Supreme. 

Oh, well here's something a little more up-to-date...d'oh!

And now for the pièce de résistance...

Yes, it's a real stuffed cobra with a real stuffed mongoose.  And it actually sat in a place of honor in our living room (the top of the faux oak entertainment center) for the entirety of my childhood.  For some reason, I never thought to give them names.  But seeing as how this did not make it into the trash heap (yes, it's still safely tucked away in the storage unit), I'm taking suggestions.  Because one day, this will be mine.  

...so back off, Kari.

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What it takes to scare me

Two buttoned-up white guys, a female prosecutor, a black guy named Whitey, and a lesbian walk into a biker party...

And it was slightly terrifying.  Unless there is broccoli involved, I'm not one who unnerves easily.  But there was once this day that had me thinking, "Holy hell...what did I get myself into."  This is that story.

For those who don't know, I've been doing improv comedy for the better part of a decade.  It doesn't fit with the unforgiving ADA or the evil stepmother motif I usually drape myself in, but I like keeping people on their toes.

Me at work.

Me at rest.

I've done my improv at a few different locations, but for the past two years, I've been working with a small group called Ooops! Comedy Improv out of Greenville. (I'll pause for a moment while you go find us on Facebook and like our page.........................................................done?  Okay good.)  During the same time I've been working with Ooops!, I've also known this little girl who has undergone a lot of medical issues in her three years.  So when I saw a benefit being hosted for her and that they were looking for entertainment options, I thought, "Yes! A chance to raise money for this little girl and get the Ooops! name out there?  Win-win.  And I get karmic points.  Triple win for the win, so...umm, quadruple win?  

I cognitively knew that the event was being hosted by a biker group.  But my fellow Ooopsers are a diverse group and can accommodate anything and anyone.  That's what improv does, right?  Plus, my dad's a biker. I've grown up around Harleys and biker dudes my whole life.  I've gone to Bike Week in Myrtle Beach a half dozen times, and I'm no worse for wear.  How bad could it be...

The missing part of the equation that I didn't have before answering that question was: where is this event going to be held?  The Shriners' Club?  The Moose Lodge?  The Piggly Wiggly parking lot?  Any of those venues would have been easy to transform into a barrel-o-laughs.  But what I found out too late was that the event was going to be held at the motorcycle clubhouse.  And only when we showed up did we learn that not only was the event hosted by bikers...they comprised the entire audience.  And they had been drinking.  A lot.  Possibly moonshine.  Or axle grease mixed with absinthe.  I wouldn't know.

Let's set the scene.  Our "stage" was the flatbed of a tractor trailer.  The egress of which was a ladder with a rung or two missing.  It was approximately seven degrees past the heat of hell, and we were the only ones not wearing leather.  While waiting to perform, I walked inside to use the restroom.  I heard an unfamiliar whir, and peek my head around the corner.  People were lined up to get tattooed.  It was loud and rowdy and...well, it was a biker party.  I don't really need to go too much farther for you to get a pretty accurate mental picture.

My fellow Ooopsers were looking at me with a expression that I can only describe as "Seriously.W.T.F.Lisa?"  The five of us hoped the crowd would settle a bit once we got into the act.  And that might have been a logical thought...if improv weren't so inherently interactive.  See, the kind of improv we do requires suggestions from the audience.  We get things like "porcupine" and "Justin Bieber" and "menopause."  If the crowd is feeling frisky, we might get "gynecologist" or "condom."  That is in our normal show.  This was not a normal show.

From the moment we got on stage and explained that we needed them to yell out things to us...well, whatever word you just thought, we got it.  And that other one too.  And then there were the requests to show various parts of our anatomy, dance, take it off, shake, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.  We realized very quickly that it was going downhill-er fast.  And yet we pressed on.  Keeping to our scheduled game list, we asked for volunteers.

Note.  If you find yourself performing for drunken bikers, do not ask for volunteers.  Ever.  I just saved you probably thousands of dollars in therapy.  Send me a Christmas card.

Thankfully, they mostly kept their hands to themselves with me, but one of my fellow performers had to physically stop a woman who was actively taking off his belt.  And then they started throwing stuff.  Not tomatoes...that would have made sense.  And been less deadly.  They started throwing beer at the stage.  Not empty beer cans.  Or even open, half-full beer cans.  Unopened, full beer cans kept flying up to (and by) the "stage."  I keep telling myself that they were throwing it up to the guy who was attempting to fellate my head, but I'm not sure.  After the fact, a couple of the Ooopsers told me that there had definitely been a spear thrown too.  No, not a knife.  Not a stick.  A spear.  I either didn't want to see it or I've blocked it from memory.

Sometime very shortly after this picture was snapped, we decided that it was really time to cut our losses and run.  We ended our set about 30 minutes early, but no one had been maimed.  So we considered it a win.  

In all seriousness, they were there for a good cause and did raise a lot of money.  And they were good-natured and friendly...very, very friendly.  And still.  I can't help the nervous twitches I have when I hear a Fat Boy go by.

Me after performing for bikers.

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"Let Me Tell You About My Butt"

(Warning: Contents of this post may be unsuitable for some readers.)

I used to wonder if people thought I was a good listener. It's a talent that most of us take for granted until we ourselves are in need of someone with that particular skill. Years ago, I decided that I wanted to be the type of person that others felt comfortable talking to about....well....anything. And this, ladies and gentleman, is just one of the many terrible decisions I've made that will be addressed on this blog. Let me explain.

Now, don't get me wrong, people. I still enjoy listening to my friends discuss the endless array of nonsense that they have to deal with in their daily lives. Lord knows it's only fair considering how much I vent to them about the varying degrees of crazy I encounter every day (each of which will probably get their own posts eventually). Unfortunately, some of my closest friends are the ones who expose me to a whole different kind of crazy. Case in point, Lisa's mom.

I'm not sure what the circumstances were that led to me being cornered in Lisa's sister's (we'll call her "K") home.  I want to say that I was there taking maternity photos...while K was in labor.
---SIDE NOTE: Ladies, don't procrastinate when it comes to stuff like this. Having to wait in between contractions to take photos isn't fun for anyone involved. Especially outside in February.---

Whatever the reason for my being there, I was obviously unaware of the danger lurking nearby. After being abandoned in what I now realize was a sacrificial offering by K, her mom made her way to the living room. This wasn't my first encounter with the destroyer of tastebuds (Dot), but it was one of my first one-on-one experiences. One would expect normal conversation to ensue. "How have you been? Are you enjoying work? How's the family? Blah, blah, blah....." No amount of social ettiquette training could prepare you for the conversation that happened next.

"So, have I told you about my colonoscopy?"

The answer is always "Yes." Whether it's true or not, say "Yes!" Trust me. God will forgive you for this particular lie.

Unfortunately, I am a moron. I should have said, "Why, yes! Yes, you did! It was really interesting. What do you think of the weather we've been having?" But instead I said, "Umm...no....no, you haven't. And I would prefer to keep it that way." Alright, fine...I didn't say that last part. Oh, how I wish I had.

It's at this point you may be saying to yourself, "Sure, it's a weird subject to take up with someone you barely know, but how long could it possibly take?".......47 minutes. That's right. 47 minutes. Go watch an episode of The Walking Dead on Netflix. I'll wait. ...... That's still not as long as I spent listening about the inner workings of Dot's anus. I'm not certain, but that could be longer than it takes to actually get a colonoscopy.

I should have been nominated for an Oscar for the performance I gave portraying the character, "Person Who Seems Interested in Hearing About a Tube up Your Butt." While discussing polyps and hemorroids, I was all...

But in my mind....

I won't go into details, mainly because I've tried to block them out. But when Dot finished her story, I wished her luck on her next colonoscopy (which I'm sure I'll hear about) and then I went home to try to erase the horrible visual images that had been etched into my brain. While this may not have the same life-long effects as giving a 6 week old Gatorade instead of formula, it was still pretty scarring. But it was over....or so I thought.

Two years ago, I started dating a wonderful guy named...well, until he gives me permission to embarrass him publicly (more than I already do), we'll call him "Jennings." Jennings happens to have one of the most adorable grandmothers in the history of grandmothers. I'm going to call her Abi for "Aunt Bee Incarnate". Seriously, folks...she's precious. All the traits that you expect in a good, southern grandma with just enough snark to make it interesting.

Well, being the holiday season, I emailed Abi to inquire as to what she and her Paul Newman look-a-like hubby would like for Christmas. I also asked if she could send me the lists for any other people that she happened to have gathered. This is what I received:

I immediately sent a message to Jennings and said, "Have you heard about your grandmother's colonoscopy? Because I have."

"Ummm.....what?" he replied.

"Yeah...I know the location of Abi's hemorrhoids. What is it about me that screams, 'I'm completely comfortable hearing about your butt probe'?"

He now owes me an awkward family encounter. So at least I've got that going for me.

At this point, some of you may be thinking that I'm heartless. Not the case. I'm soulless, but that's not the same thing. And it's not that I don't want to hear the good results of your tests. I think it is great to find out someone DOESN'T have cancer. I just could do without some of the intimate details. I'm a visual person. When someone starts mapping out plot points for polyps and hemorrhoids, I start forming a mental picture. The mental image I form may or may not be worse than how the situation is in reality. I don't want to find out. But do you really want me picturing what your rectum looks like? REALLY?

When I said I wanted people to be comfortable discussing things with me, this is not at all what I intended. However, if you want me to go from picturing Francis Bavier every time I see you to this...

....then by all means, please tell me about your colonoscopy.

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My tastebuds are probably radioactive.

I get a lot of flack for being a picky eater.  But then, picky probably isn't the right term...the right term is I'm-like-a-toddler-who-will-only-eat-chicken-nuggets-and-fries-and-bread.  White bread only.  Rather than list individual foods that I won't eat, I list categories.

• Fruit.  Yes, all of them.  No, not even bananas.  Or watermelon.  Or grapes.  Stop.  And yes for this, tomato counts as a fruit.
• Any leafy vegetables.  Salads are out.
• Anything that comes out of the water.
• Nuts.
• Peppers.

There are more, but you get the point.  Basically, if it's healthy for me, I'm not eating it.  And if it's not beige or somewhere in the tan color family, it's highly suspicious.  I tolerate green beans and other legumey things, but that's only so I can eat 10 peas at supper and feel like it offsets eating BBQ Pringles for lunch.

I've been this way for as long as I can remember, and I've had different theories over the years.  Maybe it's a texture thing (yes, I know the texture of all those things are different, thankyouverymuch).  Maybe it's the fact that when I was growing up, the only options for supper were Hamburger Helper or bologna and Duke's mayonnaise sandwiches.  Maybe I'm a super taster...which, my friends, is true.

A normal taster has about 15 taste buds in this space.  A supertaster has anything over 30.  As you can see, I have 35.  Yes, I dyed my tongue and took a picture of my taste buds.  People just don't believe you when you tell them you have an "exceptional tongue."  They always want to test it out.  Sigh.  But the proof is in the pudding.  Which is something that I do enjoy, by the way...but not tapioca.  I've never even tried tapioca pudding, but it sounds vaguely nutty, so I've figured I'd better stay clear.

So I'm a supertaster.  I haven't figured out if this means I should be qualified as being an X-Man or I should be given special rights under the Americans With Disabilities Act.  Probably both.

Even knowing the supertaster part of the equation, there was always something else...just out of reach.  Like the memory of a dream.  Something in my past that would explain why the smell of bell peppers makes me heave.  I had come to terms with the fact that I would probably never know and would go to my deathbed wondering why I couldn't enjoy the simple pleasure of a cordial cherry (the kind with chocolate, not the pleasure of meeting a friendly cherry...I have a dysfunctional relationship with food, but I'm not that screwed up, y'all).  I was resigned to never really knowing why I am so picky.

And then my mom unintentionally solved the mystery for me.  As my mother is wont to do, two weeks ago, she heaved a bunch of completely pointless, illogical, confusing, and slightly deranged information at me.  Only this time, it was information about myself.  Sort of.  She had saved paperwork from my childhood and lugged it around through at least 10 different moves (and by moves, I mean evictions).

Here is the point where you are supposed to think, "Aww, that's so sweet...what a devoted mom" because you're picturing report cards and Thanksgiving turkeys with my handprint as the turkey's body and feathers.  But now is when I tell you that included in this box 'o crap were cancelled checks to IGA and a now defunct telephone company.  About 300 cancelled checks as a matter of fact.  From 1980.  Along with that part of my inheritance were coupons for products that don't exist anymore, a receipt for clothing I put on layaway in the '90s, and a club membership card of my dad's to a place known only as "The Annex."  And now rather than picture my mom like some idyllic woman out of a pre-Roseanne sitcom, you should be justifiably seeing her in her more representative form...

And rightfully so.

So amongst all the 25-year-old-lost-baby-teeth and pieces-of-string-I-once-played-with, I found the answer to why I can't eat like a person who is potty-trained.  Although my mom might be is positively obsessive, sometimes that can come in handy.  Like when you're lying awake at night and can't remember how many times you went to the grocery store during the third week in October in 1981.  When you need to know those things, my mom is your man.  Fortunately for me, she also kept a notebook detailing my infantile activities.  No, not a baby book.  That would be...what's the word?  Normal.  She recorded every time I slept, napped, peed, pooped, and ate.  "Oh, but Lisa...lots of first time moms do that.  No biggie."  My mom did this nearly every hour.  For.a.year.  

When I first opened this notebook, I just sighed and shook my head.  I started to close it, but then something caught my eye.  There in my mom's overly fanciful handwriting was the word "Gatorade."  WTF?  Gatorade?  Why in holy hell was I drinking Gatorade before my first birthday?  Were there toddler Iron Man competitions in the early '80s that I was training for?  Were my parents putting me in a sauna for hours on end?  Why were they feeding my little, roly poly, nubby baby body stuff that was formulated for college athletes?

And was this "Gatorade" entry I glimpsed an isolated incident?  Maybe Momma ran out of Pedialyte one night or something.  Surely that must be it.  But no.  Entry after entry after entry of Gatorade.  Back to June 8, 1979.  I was not six weeks old.

Actual, intended recipients:

Actual six weeks old baby:

And not only was I regularly getting Gatorade, my mom replaced half my formula with it.  The fact that it's awesomely loaded with artificial sugars and possibly formaldehyde was obviously of no concern to my mom.  It must've been the it drink of the moment, and so it was good enough for me.  By my six-month check-up, I'd had over a thousand ounces of Gatorade pumped into my little Herculean body.  At that same check up, the doctor told my mom that I was a:  

...and is it any wonder?

And so I'm declaring this mystery over.  Quite obviously, my taste buds were cauterized by almost 70 pounds of Gatorade rushing by them before I could even sit up on my own.  So neener-neener to all those people who swore I'd just looooove the apples in their apple pie.  I have a chronic SPI (Seventies Parenting Injury), and there's no cure for it.  So just leave me alone!  I don't want your meatloaf, and I don't need your pity!  I'll be over here with my peanut butter sandwich and chocolate--the only things that register as "not battery acid" to my poor, abused taste buds.

Me in training.  Don't be fooled;
the blanket is solid lead.

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