by Perez, Nina
"I don't care," said equally competitive Kali. She was in the zone.
So, we're playing for awhile and I'm winning, much to the disgust of my husband and child.
"Mommy is cheating," declared Donny after one particularly brutal round.
"You can't cheat at this!" I responded.
"I bet you could figure out a way." I was almost offended.
Halfway through the game I was struck with really bad gas. I don't know if it was the sage, the pork chops, the parmesan, or the rice. I gave my family a warning and let one out. The funniest thing happened though. I was sitting Indian-style on the sofa and instead of going down, the fart went up! Like through the crack of my ass and out the top of my PJ bottoms. It felt so funny that I started to giggle, and the more I laughed, the more I farted.
My family looked at me as if I'd suddenly grown two heads.
"What's so funny?"
"It's...it's...it's...c-c-coming out...the back," I said breathlessly.
"It's coming out the back?" Donny asked, his forehead wrinkled in confusion.
"Of course it is!” said Kali. "Where else would a toot come from?"
Then they both exploded in laughter, and I was too busy laughing and farting that it took me a full minute to explain myself.
Ah, good times.
Gambling
May 23, 2007
My love of BINGO has gone to a whole new level. I am now addicted to these scratch-off BINGO cards you get from the gas station. Sometimes, when Donny comes home from work he has a few of the $2 cards for me where you can play four cards of BINGO at once. It's like he's bought me diamonds. I don't know whether to blow him, or cook for him, or both!
Monday night, he gave me three cards and I won a free card and $15. Kali came into the room while I was scratching away.
"Ooooh, can I do one?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because they're mine."
Turns out Donny had to run back out for something we needed for dinner and while he was gone he got more BINGO cards. Kali beamed as he tossed her one. I was only vaguely aware that we were allowing our child to gamble.
This morning, as we prepared to meet the school bus for the final time till August, I asked Kali if she wanted ice cream money and then realized I didn't have any cash on me.
"Where are the two dollars my friend Bertha gave you?"
"Oh, Daddy used that to buy my BINGO card."
Ok, I wasn't sure it was kosher to let my 8-year-old do a scratch-off card, but I'm pretty sure it's wrong to make her pay for it as well.
My Left Eye
May 24, 2007
"Mommy, look what I'm doing with my left eye."
"Uh huh."
"You didn't even look."
"Yes, I did."
"You barely looked... at my right eye. Mommy, this is my left eye."
"Girl, I know which is your left eye. I made your left eye."
Skinned Knees
May 29, 2007
I am a knee snob.
Actually, I am a snob about several things knees being just one of them.
I am a nice person. I don't hold the things I'm snobby about against people. But I notice. And I suppose I judge. And sometimes I guess it would be fair to say I mock. What things are you snobby about, Nina? Glad you asked.
Well, for one, short people. Don't get me wrong: Some of my best friends are short people. Hell, my bestest friend is what some might call short. I don't treat short people any differently. They are completely welcome in my home and are treated with the utmost respect. I've even had sex with a short guy. Or three.
But when I'm in the presence of short people, which is quite often 'cause I'm tall, I notice. And I judge. Quietly. In my head. I think, "Wow, it must suck to be that short." And when short people, particularly women, stand next to me and do that thing where they stand on their tippy-toes and say, "I feel so short next to you," I think, "Yeah, sucks to be you," even as, out loud, I do that thing that all tall girls do. You know, we roll our eyes and shake our heads, "Oh, please. It's not all that."
And then we bore you with tales of the burden of being tall, of being teased as a girl, not being able to find jeans long enough, and having nicknames like Olive Oil and Beanpole growing up, blah, blah, blah, the usual tall girl bullshit, which really amounts to nothing because everyone knows that little girls who are tall and teased grow up to be 18-year-old women who are tall and no matter where you're from, that's hot.
Let's see, what else? Oh, public transportation. I'm a public transportation snob. That stems from having to take it most of my life because I had no choice. So, now when I'm in my car and I pass people waiting at a bus stop, I feel bad for them. It doesn't matter if the person is waiting for the bus ‘cause their Expedition is in the shop. In my mind, waiting for the bus brings back memories of waiting, and then standing the whole ride because the bus is full, and turning up your walkman so you can't hear the guys behind you trying to hit on you, and trying to make your body as small as possible as the pervs squeeze by and accidentally on purpose rub against you. So yeah, I pretty much turn my nose up at having to take a train or a bus ever again.
And finally, I'm a knee snob. I think women should have nice knees. Notice I didn't say pretty. Cause, knees are knees. Well, except for those unfortunate few who have knees that resemble wrinkly, shaved vaginas. That's not cute. But for the most part, a knee is a knee is a knee. Except when they're scarred. Then they're a mess. And I judge. And I mock. Quietly, but still.
I didn't always have knee issues. In fact, I didn't pay my knees much attention at all growing up. When I was young, about ten or so, I had a crush on this little white boy down the block named David. And David used to hang out with my cousin Joey. One day, we were playing in the vacant lot next to our house. (Hey, it was Brooklyn. Don't judge me!) Anyway, we were playing and I fell and hit my knee on a pipe. I realize now it could have been worse. Like a dirty syringe. Anyhepatitis, I hit my knee and it hurt like hell, but I wanted to seem tough in front of David so I ignored the pain.
That is, until a short while later when I looked down and realized that my whole left gray corduroy-clad leg was covered in blood. So much so that the pant leg was sticking to me and was no longer gray, but rather a sickly shade of burgundy. The wound was cleaned to reveal a nice dime-sized hole. I spent the night in pain with my knee elevated by pillows.
Note to self: Call mother at completion of this blog and confront her with the possible drug and/or alcohol addiction by her and my stepfather. What were they thinking?
By the time anyone thought to take me to the hospital the next day, I was told that stitches would have been necessary but the statute of limitations had passed. To this day, I have a dime-sized scar on my left knee.
And I never cared until the day my father told me about a bachelor party he attended. I was in my late teens, maybe early 20's, I forget. Anyway, he had gone to a bachelor party a few days prior and was telling me about going to Scores, a NYC strip club. He was describing how pretty the strippers were, and how perfect their bodies were, and in doing so said the sentence that caused my current knee snobbery, "....I mean, these women didn't even look as if they'd ever skinned their knees as children."
And so it began. I became obsessed with making sure my knees didn't look raggedy. I remember being particularly peeved with an ex after a rigorous night of sex on the floor when I discovered rug burns on both knees! Note that I didn't give a damn about a similar burn on my lower back. You know, where the tramp stamp goes.
I realized this past weekend that my knee snobbery has started to affect my mothering skills. Kali fell off of her scooter last weekend and skinned both knees - the right one really badly. As I cleaned it off and started to apply Neosporin she had a fit. She was scared that the cream would hurt.
"No, it won't hurt. I'll be gentle. It will help you not have a scar later. And trust me; you don't want to grow up to have scarred knees." I was only marginally a
ware that I was quite possibly instilling the same knee snobbery/complex in my child.
Yes, "take care of your knees" has earned a place alongside other motherly sage advice like making sure you're wearing clean underwear in case you get hit by a bus and have to go to the hospital. Although, even though I've never been hit by a bus, I would assume that should it happen, and I survived, the condition of my panty crotch would be at the very bottom of my list of concerns.
Tonight, after a week of playing, baths, and basically being an 8-year-old kid, I noticed that every time the injury would start to develop a scab it wouldn't last long. Before bed I practically had to hold Kali down to apply more Neosporin and attach another band-aid.
"Mommy, it's fine!"
"Well, I just want to be sure."
"Nina, it's fine," seconded Donny.
"Why do you keep rubbing that stuff on there anyway?"
I sighed and replied, "Because, you don't want to have scars on your knees. Trust me. When you are eighteen, and tall, with legs that go on forever, and you walk into a room with a pretty skirt and cute shoes and everyone is looking at you, you'll thank me."
I gave it a generous rub of Neosporin, slapped a band-aid on it, and sent her little butt to bed.
"Just wait till we have a son. He's going to have all kinds of scrapes and bruises and you won't be able to Neosporin them all."
"That's what you think."
You may all think I'm crazy as you read this. I don't care. But I bet almost every woman that is reading this will have taken a moment to check out her knees. And the next time you see another woman in a skirt sans panty hose (I mean, really, do they even still make panty hose?) you will look at her knees. And you will judge. And maybe even mock.
Quietly, but still.
Colder Than a Witch’s… Well, You Know
June 19, 2007
For the past few months the temperature in my house has been a major issue. I'm not sure when it all began, but my earliest recollection would have to be February of this year when my friends Lacey and Brett came to visit. They complained that the guest bedroom on the second floor was really hot. Of course, my first thought was that maybe Lacey was going through the change, and the temperature upstairs was fine. Then I remembered she's like a month younger than me so that probably wasn't it.
When my Mom was here recently, everyone complained that it was still really warm in the house. I was always able to come up with an excuse like, "Well, we just finished cooking and the oven was on," or my personal favorite, "It's too many negroes in here. My house ain’t used to having this many people in it and you know black attracts heat." Plus, it’s possible my Mom really is going through the change.
But for the past few weeks I've been unable to ignore that my house is not as cool as it should be when the A.C units are on. Downstairs isn't as bad as upstairs. When you hit the second floor landing you can immediately feel the difference. It’s stifling and this with the second floor thermostat set to 68 degrees. For the past week or so, Kali and I have been sleeping downstairs on the sofa and loveseat because it's so much cooler.
So, finally I asked Donny what he thought it could be. We didn't want to even think about how much it would cost to fix two AC units and were praying it was something small. Donny just kind of shrugged. Then for some bizarre reason I asked, "Could it be that the filters need to be changed?" This is bizarre because I know diddlely-squat about air conditioning units and I must have heard about filters on some TV show or something. Either way the question seemed logical to me.
"It shouldn't be."
That's what he said. Now, what do you take that to mean? That Donny has recently changed the filters, right? No matter what recent is, his answer basically said that no matter when he did it, the change occurred within a reasonable amount of time that our lackluster air conditioning should have nothing to do with dirty filters. Right?
The next day I'm on the phone with my Dad and we're trying to figure out what the problem could be. He said that he seriously doubted that the units were malfunctioning because what would be the odds that two units (one for each floor) would go at the same time? And then he asked me about the filters and I told him that Donny said that couldn't be it because he'd changed them recently.
"When?" asked my Dad.
"I don't know." And then I told him Donny's exact words and in the silence that followed I knew we were both thinking the same thing: The filters needed to be changed. Why? My husband has an uncanny ability to relay false information. That is not to be confused with lying. Donny is a horrible liar. He can come in from being in the garage and I'll ask....
"Were you smoking?"
"No," he replies as the single syllable provokes a perfect smoke ring that smells accusingly of Marlboro Reds.
No, it's not that he's lying when he says things like, "It shouldn't be the air filters." It's just that in Donny's mind, what may seem normal and logical to you and I gets all gobbled up. For instance...
Donny and I can watch the local news one night: "A local man caused quite a scare on the streets of Cartersville today. Simon Jeffries was driving northbound on Old Highway 78 when his 1992 Toyota Camry went out of control. It was 15 terrifying minutes as Mr. Jeffries tried to get the car under control just barely avoiding any major accidents. Fulton County police deputies were alerted to the runaway vehicle by several 9-1-1 calls from frantic motorists. With the help of the officers, Mr. Jefferies was able to stop the car safely on the side of a secluded road. Thankfully, no one was injured."
The very next day Donny will be on the phone relaying the story to someone else: "This guy was driving this big black semi on I85 and like had a heart attack or something. Anyway, he lost control of the truck...I think it was carrying gasoline, dynamite, and matches. The cops had to shoot out the tires to get it to stop. Four people were killed."
Huh?
When Donny came home from work the day of the conversation with my Dad, I brought up the subject of the air conditioning again. He asked me if I'd programmed them correctly. I assured him that I had. The upstairs thermostat was never set to heat or cool the second floor during times when no one would be up there to appreciate it. Like, Monday thru Friday during the day when we are all at school and work. Then I asked him the question I was dreading.
"Donny, when was the last time you changed the air filters?"
"It's been about... (pausing, lips pinched, eyes looking heavenward in recollection)… three years."
"Ago?"
"Yeah."
"2004 three years ago?"
He nods.
"Donny, if you don't take your ass to Wal-Mart right now..."
While he's at Wal-Mart I call my Dad and voice my frustration. Who does that? Who thinks three years was not long enough to cause an AC problem? Don't get me wrong. It's not like I was really upset with him. Like fight-worthy upset. Just annoyed. The air conditioning thing isn't really that big of a deal. It's just that I tell him all the time that I hate feeling like I have to get second opinions or verify the things he tells me. I should trust that when he says he has handled something, he has. It's my pet peeve with him.
You should all be pleased to know that after he replaced the filters and each floor took a turn having the units turned completely off for several hours to melt any backed up ice, my house is freezing cold. Seriously. Last night we were upstairs watching The Shield and after awhile my teeth were chattering and my nose was running.
"Oh my God! It's freezing in here!" I exclaimed as I dove under the comforter, "Turn the AC off!"
"Woman, you are impossible to please."
This is true.
Action Figures
June 20, 2007
As I tried to watch a Dateline I'd TiVo'd about a serial killer in Italy called, The Monster of Florence, I could hear Kali making explosion noises and squealing. From what I could gather, someone was trying to bust through a force field of some sort. She wasn’t playing with actual toys, just her hands.
"I'm playing Action Figures."
She waggled her fingers at me as evidence.
"Well, keep it down," I said as I rewound the TiVo to hear what I'd missed.
"Why? Daddy's all the way upstairs sleeping and you're not going to bed any time soon." She had a point. She continued in an excited and creepy voice, "Besides, I'm playing Action Figures and action is loud."
She had another point.
Weird Associations
August 7, 2007
I make Donny laugh a lot more than he makes me laugh. That's not a diss to him. It's just fact: I'm funnier than he is. When he does make me laugh, though, he's so happy about it that he usually milks whatever he said or did till it's bone dry; hence, no longer funny.
Yesterday was my first full day on the Sparkpeople weight loss plan. It’s very similar to Weight Watchers except it's free and their tracking tools are just amazing. I signed up on Sunday night after I'd already worked out for the day. When I read that following their program I'd only be required to work out on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I was tempted to not work out yesterday (Monday) because I’d already worked out the day before.
By the time the guilt of not doing it rolled around it was 10pm and I was ready for bed. I managed to pull on sweats and a t-shirt and then plopped on the couch eyeing the elliptical machine with open hostility. I felt tired, weak, and plain ole grumpy. When I noticed Donny heading upstairs to change his clothes, I asked, "Hey, can you bring me down a pair of socks? I forgot to grab some."
