The next day, I was back at the Senior Center, playing the bingo and winning yet another flashlight. Prizes weren’t as good as when we’d first started going and it was either the flashlight or a can of Del Monte fruit cocktail—no sugar added, so really, what the hell was the point?
Although winning was fun, it wasn’t the highlight of the day. No, no. That came when I returned our bingo cards back to a plastic box and the sweet old man collecting the cards looked up at me from his wheelchair and grinned.
“You know somethin’?” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “You look just like Meg Ryan!”
“Thanks!” I said, practically curtseying and wondering if it would sound braggy if I told him that lately I’d been getting more Marg Helgenberger.
“Don’t get too excited,” muttered his lady friend. “He’s legally blind, you know.”
Oh, snap! I wasn’t sure if she was doing the circle-and-spray over her man or if she was just being real with me, but I admired her either way.
Besides, I should’ve figured he was vision impaired when I noticed he always played on a special card the size of a yoga mat.
Still, it was a sweet thing for him to say and I treasured it. Almost as much as my two flashlights.
A VERY NICE CHICKEN SALAD, I PROMISE!
3–4 cups cooked chicken, cubed
1 cup chopped celery
1 tablespoon minced onion
1 can sliced water chestnuts
1 small jar pimientos
1 cup chopped fresh mushrooms
1 cup mayonnaise (Duke’s, if possible)
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 teaspoon lemon pepper
Topping:
½ cup slivered almonds
1½ cups Pepperidge Farm CornBread Stuffing mix
Mix everything together in a big bowl and pour into a greased casserole dish. Add almonds to stuffing mix and toss around a bit. Pour on top of chicken salad and bake for about 30 minutes at 350 degrees, covered.
Note: This fabulous chicken salad comes from my friend Mabel Halterman, who knows her way around the Senior Center and used to live across the street from me. Mabel was one of ten children and she learned how to cook when she was just a sprout growing up in rural Sampson County, North Carolina. She said to remind y’all that this chicken salad is good hot or cold. Serve it with some fresh snap beans and sliced tomatoes in the summer.
8
Airlines Serving Up One Hot Mess
Flight attendant: “Good morning, everyone, and welcome aboard OneHotMess Airlines! We hope you’ll enjoy your flight today. In the meantime, those of you who opted for the additional thirty-dollar surcharge for seats with thirty-eight inches of pitch, please relax and enjoy your flight. For the rest of you, well, may God have mercy on your souls.”
Pilot: “Yes, good morning from the flight deck. This is your captain speaking and I want to welcome you aboard. It looks as if we’ll enjoy a beautiful flight with clear skies and stunning views. As we approach the Grand Canyon, those of you who opted for window seats at an additional five dollars will be allowed to see it. The rest of you must pinky-swear promise to close your eyes or risk the additional ten-dollar late “sign-up-and-see” fee. Sneak peekers risk having their retinas removed by the beefy undercover air marshal presently sitting in seat 4A. Do not mess with him. He once made Steven Seagal cry like a wussy little girl. Really. He did.
“Here at OneHotMess, we not only charge for every checked bag, we also charge $25 for each purse, murse, briefcase, laptop, iPod, and any other portable electronic device you may have brought on board. Additionally, if you are seated in an exit row, you will not only be asked to read the special instructions but also to help push the beverage cart up the aisle as needed. We know that you didn’t volunteer for that row because you give a shit about being helpful in a crash, but that you do like the extra six inches of leg room, so don’t get all haughty.
“If you are found to be acting haughty anyway, you will be assessed an additional $50 surcharge for ‘being kind of an asshole’ on the flight. Also, if you are traveling pregnant, or ‘TP,’ as we say in the industry, please be advised that you will be assessed a fee for smuggling a second passenger on board. At OneHotMess, we do not condone seat-sharing and you will be charged accordingly if you have a recognizable bump. If, upon inspection, we determine that you are not actually pregnant but are, rather, just another victim of too many Applebee’s sizzling blond brownies or a cirrhotic liver, we will cheerfully apologize while at the same time inform you that your extra weight will result in the same fee as if it were a carry-on bag. You also will not be offered any of the delicious snacks that are customarily offered to our thinner passengers. They are saving fuel; you are not.”
Flight attendant: “Ladies and gentlemen, if you are traveling with small children, please make sure that you have purchased an oxygen mask for them as well. Here at OneHotMess Airlines we recognize that children can be incredibly annoying in general and particularly so on an airplane, and we believe that a lack of oxygen exacerbates this. In a moment, Trixie, the world’s oldest flight attendant, will shuffle her tired ass up the aisle and collect your oxygen-mask money. Please note that the mask itself is rented for $15. The tubing through which said oxygen moves is an additional $15. We suggest that you rent both pieces because they are useless by themselves and will only lead your entire Orlando-based flight crew to double over laughing as you try to gasp air through a mask attached to, well, nothing.”
“Furthermore, at this time, Trixie will be selling seat belts for 75¢ but, please note, in the event of turbulence, that rate will be adjusted to $35.”
Passenger: “May I have an airsick bag? All these add-on fees have made me a bit queasy.”
Flight attendant: “I’m so sorry. Airsick bags are no longer on board because our suddenly-enviro-conscious CEO has decided that they are made of paper and paper comes from trees and therefore, we have stopped providing them so we can go green! Rather like your face. Hmmmm. Here! Use my purse.”
Passenger: “Oh, I couldn’t . . .”
Flight attendant: “Sure you could! Everybody does!”
Passenger: “So that going green thing must be why there is no in-flight magazine?”
Flight attendant: “And they said you looked dumber than a box of hammers when you boarded. You’re right!”
Passenger: “But what about the SkyMall? How will I be able to order the putting green that doubles as a cappuccino maker?”
Flight attendant: “Sir, from now on, you will have to buy your overpriced, weird crap from late-night infomercials just like everybody else.”
Pilot: “Ladies and gentlemen, from the flight deck, I’d like you all to look out on the right side of the airplane and wave to our special OneHotMess Airline priority platinum passengers who have chosen to avoid the dreaded ‘free’ middle seat by simply strapping themselves to the wing. Give ’em a wave, everyone! My wife is out there right now. Hang on, Love Dump. . . . We’re expecting some gnarly tailwinds today. Folks, at OneHotMess Airlines, we don’t have so-called buddy passes for friends and family because, well, that shit costs money. So whenever our friends and family hit us up for discounted or free airfare, we just strap their cheap asses to the wings and most of them arrive alive. Frostbitten, hypothermic, and barely breathing, but alive!
“Ladies and gentlemen, in a moment flight attendants will be dimming the cabin lights so that you will be unable to read any book or magazine you may have brought aboard. Flight attendants will be coming through the cabin with an assortment of barely used blankets and pillows for those of you who would like a nice snooze during our flight.”
Passenger: “OK, I’d like a blanket and pillow, please.”
Flight attendant: “Certainly! That will be $40.”
Passenger: “Whaaa?”
Flight attendant: “We no longer loan these; you must buy them.”
Passenger: “Buy them? What am I going to do with a blanket and pillow on
ce I get off the airplane?”
Flight attendant: “Are you familiar with the phrase, ‘Daddy, what’d you bring me’?”
Passenger: “Well, of course, but this isn’t exactly a Webkinz. All this price gouging is nuts! Next thing you know, you’ll be charging me to complain!”
Flight attendant: “We so didn’t think of that. Thanks! And have a great flight to Vegas!”
Passenger: “But I’m going to Seattle!”
Flight attendant: “You big silly! That’s way farther. Here at OneHotMess Airlines, we tell you where to go!”
Passenger: “Right back at you. . . .”
Flight attendant: “Was that a threat? Was it? Don’t make me call you-know-who in 4A. He will kick your priority gold ass all over this airplane, do you hear me?”
Passenger: “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Flight attendant: “Say please.”
Passenger: “What?”
Flight attendant: “Did I stutter?”
Passenger: “Please. I need to go to the bathroom. Does that cost extra, too?”
Pilot: “Ladies and gentlemen, from the flight deck, I forgot to mention earlier that we have installed pay toilets. You will need $1.87 cents in exact change for each visit to the lavatory. It’s a really annoying amount, we know, but it cuts down on the number of trips. Here at OneHotMess Airlines, we’re sick of you always jumping up and trying to go to the bathroom just as the beverage service begins. Sit your ass down and wait. You should have gone before you boarded.”
Flight attendant: “Ladies and gentlemen, in just a few minutes we will be coming through the cabin with a complimentary beverage service and light snacks. And by ‘light’ I mean ‘imaginary.’ ”
Trixie: “Y’all, this is Trixie and I just want to say that we understand that the airlines aren’t like they used to be and that flying isn’t the pleasurable experience it once was. But it’s no picnic for us, either.
“Maybe you read about those two skanks that got escorted off a plane after creating a ruckus on a flight last year. These two little swamp sluts said they were mistreated because they were prettier than the other people on the plane.
“I know what you’re thinking. It’s always the same old story. Unattractive people always get all the breaks, and if there’s one segment of our population that’s consistently mistreated and abused, it’s the fabulous-looking eighteen-year-old girl.
“Passengers, I’ve dealt with a lot of creeps on the job, but these two? The worst. Dumb and Dumber whined as soon as they got on board a full plane. They wanted water. I mean before takeoff, while the middle-aged bald guy with eczema was still trying to stuff his crappy Sports Illustrated duffel into the overhead bin.
“These coach-class bitches cussed everybody out and said the only reason they got picked on was because they were better looking than everybody else on the plane.
“They behaved so bad that when Daddy Day Care came on, people actually watched it just to drown ’em out.
“So, as you can see, while we know that the airline industry has made some missteps, it’s no picnic working with y’all, either, with your nonstop complaints: ‘I can’t breathe!’ ‘This cabin isn’t pressurized!’ ‘There’s spooge on my pillow!’ ”
Pilot: “Whoa, Trixie, that’s enough. Passengers, I’m sorry about that little outburst. Sometimes Trix gets a little confused when she takes too many Xanax. I’ve done the same thing dozens of times. In fact, I just took a handful of those bastards a few minutes ago ’cause there was a guy who looked a lot like Samuel L. Jackson getting on board with a box with holes punched in it and I started to freak out a little. But now, I’m mellow. And I’m just gonna take a little nap now. . . . This bird can practically fly itself anyway. Thank God, ’cause I really need some shut-eye. Crap, Trixie, get me another pillow.”
9
Gladys Kravitz Would’ve Loved Her Some Facebook
I guess I should’ve paid more attention when the Princess and her little friend asked if they could create a Facebook page for me.
“Sure,” I said, completely distracted by watching the new next-door neighbors move in that day. They were young. I’m talking practically embryonic. I couldn’t imagine how they could even lift all those heavy boxes with those little armbuds of theirs.
“So it’s OK?” Soph asked. “We can put you on Facebook?” She was upstairs and, rather than walk the eight steps to the landing, she was screaming. I screamed back: “Yeah, sure, whatever!” and went back to my perch at the front window.
Oh, gawd. They were standing on the sidewalk in front of the house kissing. I couldn’t tell them to get a room because, in point of fact, they’d just gotten about twelve of ’em.
“Mommie, what’s your star sign?” Again with the shouting.
“OK, honey, Mommie is doing some very important research right now, so why don’t you just fill out the Face-a-ma-call-it and let me know when it’s done, OK?”
“OK,” she and her pal said in unison. Then they both giggled for a long time, but I wasn’t sure why.
From my living room couch, I chewed on a Slim Jim and watched the embryonic new neighbor couple continue to work, toting box after box into their new home—the home beside the crazy lady who watches their every move while eating salted beef ears.
Every so often, the he-neighbor would step aside so she could take her box inside. So cute. What’s this? They just dropped boxes and hugged. This move is going to take for-frikkin-ever. I would need more jerky, that much was certain.
After an hour of this I was beginning to get bored, but rather than actually check on my daughter and her friend as they launched my lumpy ass into cyberspace, I decided to take a break and read the magazine beside me on the couch. Great. Oprah’s started a new diet where she lives off nothing but flaxseed tea and cardboard toilet paper rolls. I threw the magazine onto the floor and went back to spying.
I felt a little like Gladys Kravitz, the chinless, nasally, nosy neighbor in the old Bewitched episodes.
These new neighbors, with their youth and their still slightly webbed hands, didn’t know from Gladys Kravitz. If I even laughingly compared myself to her when I finally showed up at their door with my famous “welcome to the neighborhood, now I dare you to ever take a normal dump again” eight-cheese casserole, they’d think it was perhaps Lenny’s mother, but even that was a stretch.
“Mommie, what would you say are your special interests?”
“At this moment, spying on our new neighbors,” I hollered back.
“Got it!” they said in unison.
“No! I was just kidding. Don’t put that!”
I wasn’t sure how Facebook was going to look but it was buying me time. As long as Soph and her friend stayed busy with that, they wouldn’t be asking me what they could do and I wouldn’t have to launch into my “When I was your age, we made our own drugs—er—fun” speech.
Holy God, was that a couch from This End Up? I needed binoculars.
More hugs, another kiss and, now, him lifting her off her feet and looking up at her while she placed her hands on his shoulders and looked down at him. Where had I seen this before? Ah, yes! The movie poster for The Notebook. Crappy book, decent movie—am I right?
Things were suspiciously quiet upstairs, but I didn’t care. They were happy, I was happy and, God knows, the Notebookers were happy.
I was sure he was telling her that she was the most beautiful woman in the world as he wiped a bead of sweat (dew!) from her sweet, young face, barely missing her ear gills.
And that made me think of Diane Lane, who has acted in plenty of Notebooky movies herself and who must have it written into her movie contracts that her leading man must say, at least once, “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”
No, really. Watch for it. It’s practically a drinking game. I’m sure Richard Gere even wonders about it. In Nights in Rodanthe, I think he just said, “You are the most beautiful, ah, blech, blech, blech!”
; The Notebookers continued to move in an assortment of furniture and appliances, pausing for little love pecks every few boxes. As they huffed a stackable washer-dryer onto a hand truck, I waited for her to scream, “Asswipe! Why are you too cheap to hire somebody to do this? I’m gonna bust an ovary over here,” as I had done during that exact same scene years ago.
But, no. They just cheered each other on. I gave ’em two years tops.
“Mommie! We finished your page!” I heard, and so I decided to take a look. The moving show was getting boring, even with wine, and I really needed to check on the girls.
But the adorable new couple next door rang the doorbell right about then, cheerfully wanting to borrow a screwdriver and introduce themselves, and I got distracted from Facebook. In fact, I didn’t think about it again for about a week.
That’s when I got my first request by an old friend to be allowed into my Facebook world, where our friendship would be viewed by others and become an exceedingly shallow brand of friendship given to four-word sentences and the passing back and forth of lots of something called “lil green patches.”
Anyway, I let him in with a quick cut-and-paste, and then a few more crept in. What did it matter? But one day, a “friend” commented rather inappropriately about my marital status.
I finally took the time to actually look at my Facebook home page, and there it was.
Under “special interests and hobbies” was one word: men!
I summoned the Princess to the office where my computer lives and, apparently, flirts scandalously with near strangers when I’m not downloading even more constipatory casserole recipes from cooks.com.
“What is this?” I shrieked. “My special interests are men?! Won’t Daddy be surprised to see that? What do you have to say for yourself, little missy?”
Sophie hung her head, but not for long.
You Can’t Drink All Day if You Don’t Start in the Morning Page 5
