Wedding Tales

I very much enjoy wedding receptions: I get to meet new people while I drink. What’s not to love? Occasionally, a story I overhear has legs and travels with me even after the wine wears off.

This is one.

The speaker: Dimitrius, who is in charge of creating his son Tyler’s design cuts. (Don’t know what a design cut is? Check out the photo. It’s a work of art in a haircut.)

Demitrius: “…so he asks me to carve a new design. He’s a freshman in high school, and he wants to look cool. I’m his dad, so I’m going to do whatever I can to help, right? Well, this time he wants something new: words. I figure I can do that. It’s got to be easier than some of the other designs he’s had me create. He tells me what he wants: Guy Swag. I think, 'These kids with their slang,' and start cutting.

About a half hour later, my daughter asks Tyler, 'What is Guy Swag?' Tyler runs to the bathroom, takes one look in the mirror and screams, 'DAD, what have you done??'

I tell him I gave him the cut he asked for. 'No, no, no! I wanted GOT swag! You know, like the milk commercial: Got milk? Got swag, as in, got a swagger?? Swagger, as in, a cool way to walk. What does Guy Swag even mean?? And it sort of looks like Gay Swag! I won’t be able to go to school!'

I explain to Tyler that this? Right here? Is why he needs to work on his enunciation...."

Weenis Envy

I can admit when I’m wrong. (Softly, under my breath, when I am alone in the shower.) Everyone makes mistakes. True, it’s usually other people who make them, but every once in a great while I err. When those rare slip ups do occur, I am willing to admit my transgression. Thus, I offer you the transcript of my texts to and from my sister-in-law (yes, the one with the drinking problem) documenting my faux pas-- trifling though it may be.


TRISH: You can tell your youngest son that his evil scheme? Worked. Josh was bumped in the arm at McDonald’s Playland and announced (loudly, I might add) that his WEENIS was HOT and TINGLY. When I asked him why on Earth he was calling his funny bone a weenis, he said CASEY told him to call it that at your parents’ on Christmas. Tell Casey that his comeuppance is coming and his days are numbered. When he’s not expecting it – BAM!—return of the weenis!

MICHELLE: Casey says he does not remember ever saying that to Josh.

TRISH: I just BET that’s what he said. I’d say that, too, if I was caught corrupting five year olds by my aunt. Josh says it happened while they were wrestling in Grammy’s bedroom. Ask Casey if that setting rings any bells. Huh? Huh?? Does it Casey, 11 year old corrupter of youth??

MICHELLE: Casey says he would never knowingly lead his young, naive cousin astray. Maybe Josh misinterpreted what Casey said?

TRISH: Riiiiiiight…. Josh misinterpreted “WEENIS.” You know what? I’m not buying it. The weenis cometh…and the weenis says CASEY.

MICHELLE: A weenis is actually the skin on your elbow. I’m not kidding. Google it.

TRISH: Michelle, I think this is called "enabling." You are trying to come to Casey's rescue by creating a fake definition. But you're just ignoring the problem in an effort to bail Casey out. Looking the other way won't help the problem. I know because it's what we do when we see you drink.

MICHELLE: No, really. Casey is in the gifted class, you know. Maybe he was just trying to increase his young cousin’s vocabulary.

TRISH: (still unconvinced. Googling.) Damn. It IS a weenis. Why call the wrinkles on the elbow a weenis? That doesn’t make any sense….

MICHELLE: So, is there anything else you want me to ask Casey about?

TRISH: Yes. Ask him if the wrinkly skin on the scrotum is called the elbeenis. By the way, you're still a lush.

MICHELLE: Whatever lets you sleep at night.

TRISH: Enjoy your wine.

MICHELLE: I always do.

Ugh. If this is what motherhood will continue to be like, I may start drinking, too.

Whirled Peas

I have determined the answer to conflict in the Middle East.



Give them Face Book.



No one will hear from them ever again....

Choose Your Own Adventure

(The following is my first installment of a short story emulating Kurt Vonnegut's style. You get to decide the end. I dedicate this to you, Gary. No chihuahuas in this story, unfortunately. However, I'm working on a chihuahua based piece as we speak!)


If you want to know, then I guess the whole thing started back around 2097 or 98. The U.S. was having a heck of a time of it, what with the sudden change in climate when the moon fell out of orbit. Our lack of rain for the previous half-century used up most of our rivers, and the only sad, little crops to be had struggled along the Mississippi Stream. And even that dried up to its muddy bottom every five years or so, leaving the villages scrounging for whatever food could be found. During those rainless times, some village wells even went dry, which was hard on the very young and the very old.

On the other hand, Africa’s fertile soil had them living high and mighty. You’d think Africa, with all of their prosperity, would have passed some of their leftovers on to us. But they didn’t. Oh, sure, some missionaries came every once in a while with canned food and bottled water in exchange for lectures about the Muslewish Budha’i religion, but there was no consistent help. And if you didn't act interested in their theological discussions, they'd practically rip the bottle of water right out of your mouth. So, we pretty much fended for ourselves while Africa's politicians yawned and gave little sound bites every so often for or against Aid to America, depending which way the wind blew that particular day. In fact, the only African people who consistently discussed our plight were their high school students-- who practiced debate skills by choosing a side for or against American aid and arguing it. I’ve heard that some of those kids used to be real supportive and even wore t-shirts reading “Save the States,” which was nice. Even so, we were still hungry and thirsty all the time, and immigration laws being what they were, we couldn’t up and move. That’s if anyone even had money to travel, which no one did after the Crash of 2059.

Anyway, things were looking pretty bleak. Until Scooter Sniggerwig came up with the E.A.T. 3000.

Sniggerwig was one of those naturally curious people who was always trying new ideas. If it had been a hundred years ago, he probably would have been an ace in school, but as it was there were hardly any schools any more because every hand was needed to drag water from the village wells to try to get something to grow. After all that effort, most of us just sat around in the sweltering heat nursing our hunger and thirst. But Sniggerwig could never sit still, even in the oppressive heat. So, he tinkered with things.

See, Sniggerwig’s village was near one of those old abandoned factories that made cell phones and computers before someone in Africa came up with the Communochip Brain Implant in ‘58, making all those external devices obsolete. The factory had fallen apart and lay there like a gleaming white skeleton under the cruel sun. Sniggerwig putzed around with the old gadgets he found laying around and came up with a slew of inventions, most of which didn’t do much good, to tell you the truth.

Take the Personal Solar Fan, for example. This fan attached to the top of a hat, like a halo. When you were out in the sun, the solar panel on the hat powered up the halo fan, which was supposed to cool you down. The problem was that it only worked in direct sun, and most people found it was easier to just sit in the shade. It was a nice thought, though. And everybody told Sniggerwig he’d given a fine effort, but it would be even nicer if he could invent something that could make water. And so he did.

Lucky for us all, his putzing lead to a device that could break down the chemical properties of ordinary things like dirt and ocean water and reformulate it into any kind of food or drink. All you had to do was describe what you wanted on the little key pad and –bam--it appeared. The very first thing I had was a good old fashioned soda and Chicago hot dog with a salty pickle. I hadn’t had one of those since I was a kid. My stomach cramped up after being hungry for so long, but I got used to eating regularly pretty quick. It wasn’t long before I was scarfing down pierogi and Italian sausage and fruit salad and roast turkey with stuffing. Sniggerwig became an instant hero, I can tell you that.

Within ten years, America was like one of those old pictures of Palm Springs from the 1990’s. There were little oases of flowers and palm trees everywhere. America was back on the map, economically speaking, because we were all busy manufacturing and selling E.A.T. 3000’s to the world. Soon, no one needed African food any more. Even the Africans found it easier to just type in what they wanted and have it pop out fully cooked than to plant, harvest, package, distribute, and cook their own food. Of course, some of the African farm owners didn’t take well to the sudden shift in economy. I heard a couple of those wealthy farmers drove their super fancy hover compressors right into the middle of their crops and let the motor run until the nuclear pack in the trunk overheated and vaporized them. Sad.

Of course, you know what happened next. When you can have everything you want at a moment’s notice, you literally have every-thing-you-want. People started getting lazy and bloated and no one looked good in a swim suit any more, not even the models. The fashion industry was completely beside itself. Not to mention the diabetes and other health related issues. So, everyone appealed to Sniggerwig to invent something to get us out of this fix. And he did. Again.

The E.A.T. 3001 combined the nutritional value and calories of vegetables with any taste you wanted. You could type in ham and eggs with hollandaise sauce, and it would taste just like ham and eggs with hollandaise sauce, but the whole thing had the nutritional value and calories of a head of broccoli. Triple chocolate fudge cake was the equivalent of brussel spouts, which was good because no one ever ate brussel sprouts anyway, and they have lots of important vitamins.

The funny thing was that no one lost weight--even when we ate our ham-and-egg-broccoli and our triple-chocolate-fudge-cake-sprouts. It didn’t make sense. The healthier the food became, the bigger people became….

This is where YOU take over! How should this end?

Mother. Pus. Bucket.

Yesterday many dear friends sent me a viral FB email directing women to type the color of the bra they were wearing into their status in order to bring more awareness to breast cancer.

It's a nice effort, right? But those of you who know me well know that I have a serious problem: SNARKINESS.

So, instead of being a nice person who gamely divulges the hues of her undergarments in vague support of a cause, I became Snarky Trish and quipped, "What will typing a bunch of colors in a status field realistically do to cure breast cancer?? Some college guy is probably sitting in his dorm room right now eating cheap pizza and implementing a multi-phased plan to get women to bare their ta ta's. Phase One: Get women to post the color of their underwear to 'raise awareness of breast cancer.' Phase Two: Once women are comfortable with describing their undergarments, begin the second phase of the diabolical plan-- get women to post PHOTOS of their bras to raise breast cancer awareness. Phase Three: Get women to post photos of them WEARING their bras in support of breast cancer awareness. Well, you won't get me, Dorky College Dude!"

In response, I created a satirical version of the breast cancer awareness email, and here it is:

We are trying to bring awareness to Tourette's Syndrome, a rare neurological disorder characterized by involuntary, spontaneous, and repetitive muscle and verbal tics. In its most extreme form, Tourette's can cause coprolalia (a spontaneous outburst of swear words). To help bring awareness to this disorder, please post a mild profanity in your status. Then, copy and paste this email to your friends. We CAN make people aware of this problem, and we WILL find a cure for Tourette's. Your profanity can help.

Feel free to cut and paste this into your FB email. I'm kind of interested in how long it will take for Tourette's Awareness to go viral, be translated into multiple languages, and become the WHO's next cause du jour.

Still, I want to see Dorky College Dude get his comeuppance. Ideas for how to target him? Post them in the comments section.

Oh, and Dorky College Dude? Too bad you'll never get to Phase Three of your diabolical plan. Because my ta ta's? Are F-A-B-U-L-O-U-S.

The Plea I Meant To Send to You All on Friday.

I'm in trouble.

I have to tell a friend of mine that I can’t go with her to see an 80’s cover band play Saturday night because I made prior plans that I forgot about. (Finally, music I would know all the words to, and I can’t go! Where my old, ripped jean jacket and Bruce Springsteen t-shirt will be in style! Where my white-girl overbite will look chic! Oh, who am I kidding? The overbite will never look chic; it was cool for three hours in mid-1987, and I think I was having my braces tightened at the time.)

The thing is, I hate to disappoint the friend. Sure, I can tell myself that it was only a tentative agreement to see the band because I DID say I needed to check my calendar, which was not with me, but there is one thing wrong with that: I don’t technically have a calendar, and I was joking when I said it. See, I usually tell myself I need to write things down on a calendar…and then I forget and leave it up to my friends and family to call and remind me.

Yeah…I know. I suck.

But you are being judgmental! So there. I suck, and you are condemnatory-- now, can you please let go of your righteousness and climb off your soapbox in order to help me with my crisis?

So, how do I tell the friend?

Maybe she won’t be mad when I tell her that the previous commitment is for a charity event? (Of course, the charity is technically going to my other friend, Lauren, who needs fifteen people to show up at a purse party in order to get a free purse of her choice…. Still, charity is charity, and we shouldn’t judge Lauren-- or her obsession with handbags.)

Plus, I am an integral part of the charity event. (I told Lauren I would not come unless the purse rep brought a wide selection of animal print Dooney and Bourke [inspired] bags, and Lauren went to great lengths to ensure that a significant number of said bags were available and destined for her party.)

Further, I would have called sooner to cancel our tentative plans, but I became caught up in a sticky situation at work that had to be resolved. (I spent a great deal of time eating chocolate at my desk worrying about how to tell the friend I have to cancel.)

Last, I became terribly ill. (With cramps.)

So, you see it simply is not my fault that I can’t go!

(God, at this rate I won’t have any friends left.)

What do I do??

I Guess It's All About Me...Again.

Know who might be petty and judgmental? Me.

I began to question this when I grew introspective after noticing that my Jon and Kate Plus 8 television viewing time was waning. (Know who is obsessively introspective? Me.) (Know who makes global assumptions about her personality based solely on her reaction to reality television? Again, me.)

I used to enjoy the show. The episode when Kate revealed her post-sextuplet belly, reminiscent of layer upon layer of loosely packed, pale pink ground beef? I was there. The episode when they tried to camp out in the backyard with all eight children—and it poured? I was there. The episode when Kate screamed across Toys R Us for Jon to quit playing with the toys, grow up, and help her parent their brood? I was there.

But lately I’ve lost interest.

The new episode teasers don’t even tempt me.

I’ve seen their show available in a time slot in which I am available, and I’ve scrolled right past.

Once, I was mistaken about the day that Burn Notice was on and rejected Jon and Kate to reread a book I’d finished earlier in the week.

I couldn’t help but wonder: Jon and Kate, what happened to us?

That’s when I knew. They lost me when they started bleaching their teeth, getting hair plugs, hiring nannies, taking all expense paid trips to Maui, and considered buying a home on an island inhabited by wild horses.

Would I ever consider doing those things? Sure. (Minus the hair plugs.) But when my reality television stars started living the American Dream, I lost interest. I guess I prefer Jon and Kate to be frazzled and harried, not calm and independently wealthy.

Does this make me petty and judgmental? Maybe.

But it may also be that the American Dream is sort of …well…boring.

I think I’ll tune in again when all of those kids hit their teen years. Five hormonal, adolescent girls living in a house with a menopausal, obsessive-compulsive mother? Now THAT? Is good television.