Casa D'Pants, Episode III

I winked out of here for approximately 25 minutes or so. You may not have even noticed. If you did, you might have just thought I had been busy with small, real-life, mundane things, like maybe answering the ringing telephone or, even doing laundry or dishes; you know, normal, household chores that everybody does.

You would be wrong.

Friends, I just spent the last 15 minutes locked in my own bathroom, with no way of freeing myself, and completely at the mercy of a three-year old and some smart ass teenagers. Why?

Because I'm just fucking lucky that way.

Oh, it started out innocently enough; a simple jaunt to void my bladder. It turned into HELL quite quickly, and simply because of one of the little Casa D'Pants quirks I've come to insist are "charming" and "quaint." I'm adding "dangerous to the cardio-pulminary system," as well.

The lock mechanism, a small button, is, for whatever reason, on the outside of the master bathroom door. Hence, it is possible to lock someone in the bathroom, who is then at your other-side-of-the-door mercy. You can't lock the door yourself for privacy; only for sadistic glee. It's something I knew about, and may or may not have employed to... perhaps... freak an FOW or two out with. And I've always intended to mention it to my handyman extraordinaire, John.

But I kept forgetting.

When, like a dumbass, I foolishly believed I deserved to be able to pee alone and without someone else's child staring at me, I shut the door behind me. I immediately heard, "Auntie JOY! Where did you go?!" Followed by the happy, scampering footsteps of one 3 Year Old charge for the day.

"I'm in the potty, Hon! Give me a second!" I trilled out. It bears mention here that I am a notoriously slow pee-er. I have peeing envy in restrooms all the time. Other women pee like rockets. I pee like a soap box derby racer on a level street. Even if I try to force myself to pee faster, it's nothing more than embarrassing. So I definitely knew that I was there for the duration. 3 Year Old, however, got kind of impatient and in her desire to actually see me, she accidentally depressed the button that locks the door. I heard it, pretty loudly; a sickening Click! that made me want to do a little more than urinate.

"AUNTIE JOOOOOOY!!!" I heard from outside my now prison. I immediately knew she was wandering into my bedroom... with its white comforter and selection of nail polishes on the dresser. Actually, the comforter is only completely white on one side, courtesy of 3 Year Old and those same nail polishes.

I panicked a little more. I finished all pertinent tasks and pressed my face against the door as possible.

"Honey! Honey! HONEY! Come back!" I yelled.
"I coming," I heard.
"Honey, turn the knob for Auntie Joy."
[various sounds of doorknob rattling, but not turning.]

"I can't, Auntie Joy. My hand don't work."
"Okay, Honey. Calm down [this was said more for me, than her, but...]. Go downstairs and bang on [Either Kids'] door. Tell them their mommy needs them. Okay?"
"Ooo-kay!"

Then I listened to the silence of her not walking away.

"Baby?" I called out.
"Yes?"
I dropped to my knees and peered through the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor. I saw her legs as she sat, leaning against the vanity outside of the door. I audibly groaned and said a bunch of not-quite-three-year-old friendly words.

Loudly.

"Pleas go get one of the kids, okay? It's really important."

This time, I heard her tottle off... and then I heard her in the living room, singing along with Nick Jr. I started to sweat a little more. I damned myself for not bringing my cell phone in with me. Then I laughed aloud at myself because, really -- why would I have done such a thing? Then I realized that both FOWs have a habit of sleeping into the wee hours of the afternoon and I faced the very real possibility that I could be trapped in my bathroom for hours. I started to sniffle, imaging the destruction that a three year old can wreak in a mere 30 minutes of unsupervised play and then multiplying that exponentially.

That's when I realized, I could either sit there and cry about stuff or I could get busy thinking of a way out.

There is a window in my bathroom. It's only slightly larger than an industrial-sized box of Potato Buds (Don't ask. Please.) It's also TWO freakin' stories from the ground, and I think we've determined I am not graceful. So, climbing out was checked off of the list.

Three minutes of fruitlessly rattling the door proved, well... fruitless. It did, however, return the 3 year old to her sentry position near the door.

"Auntie Joy! Auntie Joy! Auntie Joy! Are you okay?"
"No, Sweetie. I'm actually not. Could you please go wake up [Children's names]?"
"Okay."

This time, I actually heard her make it beyond the living room, happily singing the Franklin song the whole way down both sets of stairs. I heard what I think was her trying to knock on the doors. Apparently, her "hand don't work" for that, either. And I knew, with an accute certainty, that if she couldn't turn this knob, she couldn't turn those knobs, either.

So I had myself a Brat-fest, the likes of which I haven't had since I was about six. I stomped my feet and I pounded my fists on the floor. I screamed in frustration (because, really -- time passes very slowly in a locked-from-the-wrong-side bathroom.) And while I was freaking out, my dog started freaking out. Yes -- the same dog who elicits a string of cuss words from me because he barks when the doorbell or the phone rings and I threaten to kill him because it pisses me off so much.

In this instance, however, all I can say is, "Praise JESUS on high!" Skeletor thought someone was knocking on the door and that is not allowed to happen on his watch. Bless his little walnut-sized brain! I felt the faint stirring of hope in my heart. And sure enough, the dog's barking revived FOW #2 who woke up just long enough to walk over to her brother's room, throw open the door and growl, "The goddamned dog is going nuts. DO SOMETHING!"

I heard all of that, along with the sound of her door closing. But hope is a dangerous drug for me; I, in Brokeback Mountain Style, just can't quit it. I heard FOW #1's footsteps on the first set of stairs.

I heard him ask 3 Year Old, "Where's Auntie Joy, hon?"
I heard 3 Year Old respond, "I don't know."

I renewed my stomping frenzy. The dog barked louder. Then, at long last, there was a knock on the door.

"Mom?"
"FOW #1! Thank God! 3 Year Old locked me in here! Turn the knob and get me the hell out of here!"
"Uh... hang on a second."

WHAT?! "Hang on a second?!" What the fuck?! Did he not understand?

"No, wait, FOW#1! You have to..." The words died in my throat as I listened to his retreat.

Seconds later, I heard both brother and sister, Fruits of my Womb, giggling outside of the door. Then, the taunting began.

"So, Mom. How much will you pay me to let you out?" I'd said this to FOW #2 a week before.
"Yeah -- it's pretty small in there, isn't it?" Damn me and my big mouth when talking to FOW #1.

After a few more minutes of torture, in which the 3 Year Old parrotted whatever her two older conspirators said, "Mercy" and "Kindness" returned to Casa D' Pants and I was released. I breathed in the sweet, sweet air of Freedom and promised myself two things: I will never pee without my cell phone again, and John is going to fix that damned knob tonight, and I will hold his child hostage until he does.

Even if she has a follow up doctor visit for her Scarlet Fever and vven if it means I'm late for Friday Masses at The Tavernacle... which I sorely need.

Suddenly Jesus Loves Me -- And I HATE It!

As I begin this, it is a little after 6 AM on a Monday morning. My favorite weatherman, Lying Shit, promised me yesterday that I'd enjoy sunny skies with highs today in the 40s. Sometime, in the middle of the night, he changed his mind (not unlike a couple of former boyfriends of mine,) and now I can't hope for better than highs in the 20s. He hurriedly tacked on the half-hearted possibility of maybe making it into the low 30s but, to continue with the allusion to people I've formerly misplaced trust with, he didn't seem sincere. He was definitely shifty about it, like he knew he was lying and he knew I knew he was lying and he didn't want me to carefully cut an entire closet of his suits into tiny little pieces while he was out of town. And I would totally do that, because I take cheating on me and weather promises very seriously.

Does any of that qualify as a, "bad day?" Probably not; but I am at a disadvantage here. I usually -- hell, immediately -- type up all my bad days as they happen, as though I am keeping my own, personal Journal of Dumb Assery (that I let Gather-at-Large read.) I haven't had what qualifies as a "bad" day in a week or so. I've had crappy little incidents, but nothing I can spectacularly exploit for the humor of it and I've milked all of my former fuck-ups for all they were worth. What to do?

The thing about finding the "Funny" in the Really Not Funny, is that you have to be careful how you pull it off, lest you end up looking like an insensitive asshole. Worse, still, some things that are "bad" are just inherently Not Funny (depending on the degree of them,) no matter how hard you try to find some amusement in them. Take, for instance, Fire.

Fire can be funny, but only in certain circumstances. If someone's house burns to the ground and they lose everything they own, well... that is definitely not funny. And trying to make it funny will only serve to get the State extremely interested in how you spend your free time. But, let's say, for instance, that my barbeque grill explodes because I, as a dumbass, decide to open up the gas vents, take a phone call and ten minutes later, press the igniter switches, thereby necessitating the penciling in of an Ethel Merman-esque right eyebrow... that I can work with. If my toaster were to suddenly burst into flames, and I had a mad-cap, Keystone Kops adventure extinguishing it, I could make you laugh about that -- unless the resulting blaze burned my entire kitchen down. Then we're back to the tenet, "Fire is not funny," no matter how much I humiliated myself. As in nature, there are certain laws of comedy you have to respect. Roasting marshmallows on the crackling, glowing corpse of a blind orphan? NOT FUNNY. Setting, say... those FreeCreditReport.Com guys on fire? As far as I'm concerned, that's gold and you should milk that for all it's worth.

But since minor "celebrities" haven't spontaneously combusted at my house this morning, I am still looking for something bad in my day to exploit. Currently, I got nothin', and that makes me sad. I am, generally speaking, one of the unluckiest people you will ever meet and whether it's falling down my own stairs or some jackass fertilizing my front yard, I can usually turn my unfortunate lot in life on its ear and make you laugh at me. I even went so far as to leave my house yesterday, hoping to that a piano would fall on me in the middle of the Hen House or somebody might say something desperately retarded to me. No dice. One of those "Sample Hucksters" that you find at the end of the aisle did foist a "fish taco" on me, and I foolishly believed things were looking up. Sadly, it was surprisingly tasty (although it was served on a Tostito Scoop -- which was weird -- and a strange aftertaste lingered on my breath that the cat found intriguing,) and I was once again robbed of my chance to turn a Meh Molehill into a Ha-Ha Mountain.

I was also hoping to hit pay dirt yesterday when I discovered the neighborhood children having what I will claim was a Scientology Meeting under my deck (even thugh it was nothing of the sort, but I'm reaching here, people. Work with me!) I yelled at them, in my best Spinster-In-Training Tone of Voice, "Hey, you kids! Get outta my yard!" and... they did. Immediately. The little bastards even apologized. There's no funny in that! Like "fire," polite and contrite children are a humor suck.

When my doorbell "donged" (it's missing it's "ding.") ten minutes later and I realized there was a parent at my front door, I got excited again. Surely, there would be an Idiot Exchange between us. But no! Once again, a polite apology was offered, accepted and we parted, cordially. I don't see us hanging out at block parties or getting drunk together so, all in all, it was a whole lotta nothing... again.

I suppose I could invent something to tickle you. I could make something up, press the barriers of Ridiculous and make you laugh, but I don't think I'd be very good at that and I think you would suspect I was lying to you. It's lamentable, really; the one time I need the FOWs to pull a stunt, or some jackass to fuck with me -- I get bupkis. Even my trips to Wal-Mart have been surprisingly low-key, lately. How is that fair and what am I doing wrong, I wonder? Sadly, I do not know, so I can't fix it.

The best "bad" I've had today was waking up at 5:45 AM. Birds aren't even awake at 5:45 AM. You know why?! Because birds have the sense God gave a goose... or, uh, something like that. But there I was, in The Den of Mayhem and Apathy (A/K/A: My Bedroom,) staring forlornly at the ceiling, thinking about how quiet things have been and having to pee. Since my bladder is no George Carlin, there's nothing really to tell. In spite of my advanced years, I don't have any sorts of conditions that would lend themselves to humor; I neither "leak," nor do I "gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now." Everything in that general vicinity is, as far as I know, functioning as it should be. Should my day go to pieces in a funny sort of way, I'll be sure to let you know, but for now, just know that everything is fine.

Damn it.

Casa D'Pants, That Which is Believed to be Episode VI

I do not fall asleep easily but, instead, channel surf for an hour or two, in order attain a point of "Sufficiently Sleepy Enough" to doze off. This is mostly because I am poor and I'm in a state of near constant panic, the only creature I can find to share my bed is a sociopathic Maine Coon Cat, and my across the street neighbor is dating a bass player who likes to rock out, but ONLY after 10:30 PM. As an aside, he has done more to divide this neighborhood than small, Hindi children with Zippos and Entitlement Complexes. Make no mistake - no one in the neighborhood is actually excited by or desirous of these impromptu, Cat-With-A-Paw-Stuck-In-A-Waffle-Iron Concerts (dude sings, too.) No, we're mostly divided on how best to express our displeasure. See, the girl part of the equation is actually a good neighbor. She shovels our snowy sidewalks for us, sometimes, and passes out banana bread... just because she made "extra."

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have never had even a tiny SCRAP of "extra" baked goods anything. I honestly believed she was either trying to poison me or slip me a Roofie the first time she showed up on my doorstep. But that shit smelled good, so I made my peace with Jesus and ate it, anyway. Since I'm not dead and I don't remember being violated - even in a dream-like fashion - I guess she's harmless.]

There's been some debate at the mailbox. It's been unilaterally agreed upon that we don't, necessarily, want to burn her house down (we're saving that for the parents of the aforementioned children, who only speak English when they aren't being bitched out about their progeny,) but we wouldn't mind kidnapping her boyfriend. And THIS is where the division is most apparent; My camp and I think he should be jammed in a sack (because we're colloquial, like that,) and then dropped off somewhere in rural Missouri, wearing ladies' panties and some lipstick. The opposing camp thinks he should be out-right, straight-up, de-handed.

Which just seems kind of - I don't know - permanent to me.

That's not my point; that's neither here nor there. I'm merely trying to set a stage to tell you about last night. Last night, while my bedroom windows were thrumming, and I was waiting for Two and a Half Men to come on (Charlie Sheen is one delicious hunk of man-meat, and the fact that he's kinky only adds to his allure,) I decided to abandon the local news and switch over to The Food Network. Unwrapped was on - you know; the one with Marc "Nickelodeon's Double Dare" Summers, where he uncovers manufacturing "secrets" (but not really,) to various foodstuffs? This is not my favorite show on The Food Network (that would be, Chopped,) but for the five minutes I had to kill, and since I could only hear about every three words spoken, I figured it would do.

I have NO idea what the actual theme of the episode was, but I'm going to guess "Sugar Coma," because he was wrapping up a segment on cookies with the faces of Oscar nominees captured forever (well, at least until you eat them,) via paper made out of sugar. Did anybody else know about this stuff?! PAPER made out of SUGAR?! Amazing! I started thinking about all the practical uses I could find for paper made out of sugar but, again -- that's not the point.

The point is, right after Marc clued me in to edible paper that would probably be awesome dissolved in some Mountain Dew, he took me to a Nestles' Bon Bon factory somewhere in California and introduced me to a - dig THIS! - "Bon Bon Specialist."

Seriously!

I don't know about the rest of you, but "Bon Bon Specialist" was NEVER an option on any of those standardized tests that I took back when dinosaurs roamed the molten surface of the earth and I was in school. I always scored into, "Frustrated & Angry Sales Person" or "Janitorial Staff." I was also encouraged to look into spelunking as a hobby, as well, but that's probably because I was never shy about admitting to my love of small, dark places suitable for hiding.

But, think about it: a Bon Bon Specialist! That would have been right up my alley, because I can eat chocolate covered balls of ice cream whether Judge Judy is on or not. I can get almost Seussian thinking about it.

I could eat them on a dare! I could eat them in a chair!*

Sadly, Otis-Lennon and their damned profiling denied me that all those years ago! Why, cruel Fate?!

WHY?!

It got me thinking, Well, what else could I have been that The Universe saw fit to fuck me out of?! Are there other cool jobs out there that nobody bothered to tell me about? Could I have been a wildly successful Nap Tester in a couch factory?! Official Ugly American in France?! I'd actually DO those jobs, and I'd do them really well. I doubt I'd gold-brick or slack off and I know I wouldn't invent bouts of explosive, bloody diarrhea and/or "Female Issues" once a month to avoid staff meetings.

Instead of being an impoverished, angry unemployed chick in Kansas, IF there had been some full disclosure back in the mid-80s, I might well have been the preeminent expert on Jacuzzis or Peanut M&Ms. But, noooo! Because of some vast conspiracy, the highlight of my day is hoping to catch a King of Queens rerun I haven't seen fifteen times before, while some ass from Payola, Mother-Fucking Kansas murders "Smoke on the Water" at a volume that makes my dog's eyes water.

Where is the justice in that, I ask you?! If these things had been properly disclosed to me, maybe I wouldn't be well on my way to adopting 17 more cats or adding, "Mean Old Lady" to my last name when I sign checks.

Life ain't fair.

* -- Further testament to why I don't write poetry.

More Pants Letters

Dear Taco Bell:

Good day. I just wanted to drop you a note and let you know about my most recent experience with your products and services. I have lots of observations to share and questions to ask, so let's jump right in, shall we?

I have just finished enjoying my two Baja Chalupas, sans the promised pepper jack sauce. The only reason I even get anything called, "Baja" on your menu is for the luscious spicy warmth that is that sauce. That was pretty much a huge disappointment. At least I'm no longer hungry. I won't be, for at least another 30 minutes or so, since your products are not so much "food" as they are "packing material." I do appreciate your help in leveling out my blood sugar, though.

Additionally, and I hate to nitpick, but what the hell, Taco Bell? How do you mistake something called a "Carmel Apple Empanada" for "Cheesy Tater Tots"? If I wanted a deep-fried diabetic coma, I would have ordered one. Man, that was disgusting! All gooey and weirdly textured. I admit to having a sensitive gag-reflex aggravated by the textures of certain foods, but those empanadas were Sweet JESUS Unholy. When you market tested them, did you have difficulty finding an adequate number of participants who had damaged their taste buds in unfortunate industrial accidents that involved licking a hot-press line? Did you merely round up the local hobos around your corporate headquarters? Was the focus group comprised mainly of members of The Hemlock Society? I'm really curious as to how those things ended up on your menu. Nasty -- those things are nas-tee! I may never get the taste of the plastic tasting apple swimming in chemically-enhanced "caramel" sauce out of my mouth.

And I really just wanted my Cheesy Fucking Tater Tots. Those are crispy, greasy, golden goodness and they work so well with the Chalupas. It's a marriage of Yum, and I get very sad when a wedding is called off; especially when I was so looking forward to it.

I realize it is probably difficult to get people who want to work at the Ken-Taco-Hut here in Kansas. I understand that it's not necessarily a glamorous or well paying job. However, every time I visit your establishment (whether dine-in, drive-thru or carry out,) it's a culinary crapshoot. I will say, it does keep me on my toes. Will I get anything even vaguely similar to what I ordered? Is there anything here that can be improved by a drowning in Fire Sauce? How do "tater tots" fit into Mexican cuisine, anyway?

So, there you have it, Taco Bell. I'd threaten to never darken your door again, but you know me and my drinking habits. Often, you're the only place open by the time that I've finished punishing my liver for its mere existence. Well, there's IHOP, but that involves a lot more pomp and circumstance than I can often summon up at 2 AM.

Sincerely,

Joy M. Cranky-Pants, Disgruntled and Defeated Consumer

________________________

Dear Target Corporation:

I am not one of those people who insists on tarting your stores up by pronouncing them in a pseudo-French way. That is an honor and a privilege I save for JC Penney, but no matter. I'm just trying to illustrate that I am not one of those wack-jobs. I wanted to let you know about my most recent shopping experience at one of your locations in Kansas. I think you'll find it most informative.

Let me begin by saying that I appreciate the convenience and proximity of your Super-Target to me. I also delight that I can buy tampons at the same place I have my passport picture taken, and then can pick up some ridiculously cheap Spaghetti-Os and a purse. Genius! You also do something I admire almost too much when you mark your merchandise down for clearance: you use these bright, flourescent red tags that draw my eye in quicker than I can say, "royalty check," and I end up buying things I had no idea I even needed. But I'm sure, someday, that I will have occassion to wear a pair of not-quite-beige boots with four-inch heels and a zebra pattern on the top cuff that are really a half-size too small to be comfortable. I will invent an occassion if necessary because, for $4.98, they were too good of a bargain to pass up.

Last week, when my daughter and I realized we were running low on both socks and Oreos, we decided to visit your fine store. Oh, we were having jolly fun trying on hats when we couldn't help but notice the new spring line of tramp earrings. We didn't have an issue so much with the size of said earrings; we were just a tad disconcerted by the shininess of them. And the presence of fruit. Was this a trend we should be aware of? We raced over to magazines and checked both Seventeen and Cosmopolitian. We could find no mention of enormous strawberries-as-fashion in either one. We would have checked Vogue, but as Stanley, the helpful employee we flagged down explained, "If it's not there, we don't have it." I think hiring Stanley was probably one of the smarter moves your company ever made; he's a credit to his little red smock.

So, in closing, I just thought I'd tell you, "Good Job, Target-with-a-hard-G." You truly have it all -- from frozen seafood products to Halo:III. I appreciate letting you have an obscene amount of my money. Keep up the good work.

Sincerely,

Joy M. Cranky-Pants, Satisfied Customer

________________________

Dear Kansas City Star:

You are a fine newspaper. I know this, because your constant emails and masthead remind me of this. I am a former subscriber, only because Ghalik, my former paperboy, developed an odd little idiosyncrasy of hiding my newspaper on my patio. I had a couple of issues with this, namely why he thought it was perfectly acceptable to crawl over the wall surrounding my patio in order to play this little game of his. I think we've been over this, and I see no reason to rehash the incident, but I would like to remind you that I am the same Joy M. Cranky-Pants that once left your Delivery Department an hysterical voicemail explaining why I found it creepy and probably actionable that one of your employees was inviting himself onto my porch every morning at 6:45 AM. I was truly grateful that we got all of that cleared up -- especially as it explained the sudden appearance of half-smoked cigars in my outdoor ashtray, and I no longer worried that I was being stalked by Columbo.

The reason for my letter to you today is just as touchy. According to the regulations governing telemarketing, because you and I have a "former relationship," you can call me and attempt to re-establish our "relationship." I understand that and while I'm not "okay" with it, I'm okay with it. However -- and that is, indeed, a loaded "however" -- I'd just like to say this:

I've begged.

I've pleaded.

I've threatened.

This is my last ditch effort to get you to please put me on your "Do Not Call" List.

I honestly don't get it. Do you think I'm kidding when I tell you I do not want to re-subscribe? Do you think I'm playing hard to get? Being coquette-ish? Or, do you think you'll just wear me down, sort of like how my date kept bringing up sex on Prom night, hoping I'd put out? Is the bitter and acrid taste of my rejection too much for you to bear, thus your refusal to take "no" for an answer?

Really, harrassment is never an answer or an effective means of getting your way. Calling me faithfully, daily, at 2:30 PM and 6:15 PM will get you no where. My mind is made up. We aren't good for each other, and this sort of whiny pestering only works for really adorable four year olds. Even then, it rarely works with me. I'm hard-ass that way.

Wouldn't it be better to just be civil to each other? Couldn't we just say, "Hey, we tried but it didn't work out" and let it go at that? You know, you do your thing, I'll do mine. No contact between us, a "cooling off period" of sorts. We'll be civil if we happen to run into each other. We might even wistfully think of what might have been. But, for now, could you please just leave me alone?

Sincerely,

Joy M. Cranky-Pants, Literate Yet Lying ABout It.

Casa D'Pants, Episode I

Like the Brave Little Tailor before me, I have done battle with many and emerged victorious. Unlike the Brave Little Tailor (a sincere pussy, in my book,) who only fought flies stuck in jelly, I had to stare down the barrel of a generic can of RAID and engage in some hand-to-hand combat with some of nature's most vile and nasty creatures: wasps. I am, of course, referring to the insects and not the White Anglo-Saxon Protestants, a distinction I feel needs to be made, given the bright and shiny area of the country in which I live.

A few weeks earlier, we received erroneous information that we had a wasps' nest growing 'neath our rather lovely deck, here at Casa D'Pants. Upon investigation, the only thing we found beneath the deck was a rather large and intricately crafted cardinal's nest (sans cardinal and thank you for that, Jesus, at the time we looked at it.) We were confused as to why there was no buzzing mud nest of stinging agony to be found, but chalked it up to... um, whatever. I think it might have been dinner time, and we were hungry. We forget and ignore lots of stuff when we're hungry.

On Thursday night, FOW #1 had BFF of FOW #1 over for a marathon session of XBox 360 and whatever else it is that 17 year old boys do when they aren't slaying zombies or assassinating peasants and serfs. One of those "other activities" is something called, "I'll Kick Your Ass." The rules are pretty simple, and if it hadn't been for the dreadful outcome, I probably wouldn't have encouraged anyone to stop playing it.

Basically, in the game of, "I'll Kick Your Ass," two 17 year old boys who, laid end to end, are better than twelve feet tall, get sticks. These "sticks" could be brooms. They could be a half-ass rotted Louisville Slugger BFF of FOW #1 found under the porch whilst searching for the imaginary wasp nest down there. Whatever -- just so it's wooden and stick-like, that's all that is required.

Once the sticks are procured, there's a shout of, "I will KICK YOUR ASS!" and each boy circles the other. The end goal, as near as I can tell is to whale on your friend as much as possible. In doing this, two distinct things are accomplished: You learn how much pain your friend can withstand, and you learn how much pain your friend can dish out.

Now, before you go "tsking" about, "What kind of mother lets her child engage in this kind of activity?" Let me cut you off at the pass.

ME, ME! I am the crazy, overly permissive mother tha lets her kid and his friends beat the living snot out of each other in the back yard. They aren't on drugs, they wouldn't hurt each other for real for money and it's actually pretty funny to watch. So, suck it up and deal with it, because "I'll Kick Your Ass" is not the point of this article; the wasps are.

BFF of FOW#1 came flying into the kitchen a scant five minutes into, "I'll Kick Your Ass" Thursday night, as close to tears as a hard-ass 17 year old boy with a rotting Louisville Slugger and a Rep can be without actually crying. While blindly swinging at FOW #1, he'd jarred the deck and suddenly he was in a cloud of darkeness and pain. After helping him clean himself up, I went out to investigate.

My preliminary findings were not awesome, Friends. There was, indeed, a wasps' nest, and it was between two pieces of lattice and way up in the tippy-top of the corner of the frame holding said lattice... on the same side as the steps. Hey -- I'm The Pants! You were expecting this to be easy or simple somehow?

I sized this situation up. Because of a run-in I experienced eight years ago with some yellow jackets, I know some stuff when it comes to our stinging friends. One, the little fuckers will hurt you without regret or remorse. Two, you don't want to aproach a hive or a nest until after the sun has pretty much set. There's no High Noon in fighting stinging insects, there's no Wyatt Earp/O.K Corral call out, and that disturbs me, too. As an almost middle-aged, and definitely myopic woman, my vision isn't so hot. Heavenly shades of night may fall at twilight time, but I kept imaging me falling... down the steps... as I was dived-bombed by wasp squadrons of agony.

I needed a plan. And a giganto, industrial-sized can of Melt-a-Wasp & Hornet Killer, which is something you can easily pick up at your local Wal-Mart. Since I hate Wal-Mart more than life itself, this was the first snag I ran into. Now, you can buy a can of toxic and lethal to wasps chemicals at your local grocery store, but it's mad expensive. Or, maybe, I'm mad-cheap. Let's call this a "Six of One, A Half Dozen" Conundrum and embrace my brilliance, for as much as I hate The Wal-Mart, my sister inversely loves it there. I think I'm a foundling for many reasons, but this little factoid is some of my strongest supporting proof.

My sister agreed that she would pop by the Wal-Mart on her way out of her office. I visibly relaxed, thinking the nightmare would be over before it could even begin in earnest, but -- again! I am The Pants. Nothing ever goes easily for me.

Well, my sister "forgot" to go to Wal-Mart which is, again, further testament to my idea that I am adopted. If Wal-Mart was anywhere on my radar, you can be Goddamned sure it would be as likely to slip my mind as forgetting I was scheduled for an execution or a pap smear. But, I digress... she forgot, so I simply mended this teeny little hole in my plan thusly: No one, and I mean no one, was allowed anywhere near the sliding door to the deck. The dog was not allowed to lie near there and watch for other dogs to -- gasp! -- leave their homes and perhaps pee in their own yards. The cat was not permitted to sit and wait with bloodlust for the cardinal. The kids were not so much as to LOOK at the sliding door, lest they give off psychic vibrations that would anger and arouse the wasps into some sort of stinging frenzy.

This plan worked really, really well Thursday night. Friday morning, however, it was once again proven that we all have the attention spans of Minute Rice and I took the dog out onto the deck, down the steps and into the yard for his morning toilette. My daughter stood, leaning on the railing of the deck, telling me about her plans for the evening.

And then I made a horrible miscalculation of epic proportions. The frisbee that the boys had been playing with prior to the rousing match of "I'll Kick Your Ass," was resting forlornly on the lawn. So, I yelled, "Heads' UP!" and tossed it in the general direction of my daughter, except...

My daughter is a lovely young woman. She is very nimble, very lithe and 13 years of ballet, jazz, tap and gymnastics have made her athletic, as well as graceful. I am the spaz. Know that as well as you know your own name. My daughter = grace. Me? Not so much.

I am the spaz who threw a frisbee directly at a wasps' nest, and when they swarmed out, they went for the first warm body available; in this case, my daughter.

FOW #2 shrieked, did some fancy-schmancy ballet leap that allowed her to cover the three feet of distance between her and the door in less time than I could realize what exactly was happening. I heard the door slam... and the unmistakeable click of being locked out of the house. And it still took me a second to put it all together:

I was locked out.

With angry wasps.

And a tranq'ed yorkshire terrier with a bruised trachea who also has a horrific, terrifying history with yellow jackets so buzzing insects freak his shit to pieces.

In my bare feet.

And boxer shorts.

The dog and I decided to play possum, and stand as still as possible. It seemed to work because, while one or two zoomed angrily past us, none of the wasps paid us any attention. We then wandered into the front yard, looking dazed and frightened and rang the doorbell. No one answered. We rang again.


Nothing. We could hear some sort of commotion on the other side of the door, but for all intents and purposes, we were as welcome on that doorstep as if we were handing out Watchtowers. Of course, it was around this time that most of the neighbors with real work-jobs decided to leave, so I spent a lot of time alternately waving half-heartedly and doing my best Mumbling Crazy Person impression, gesturing wildly and trying to convey that I don't dress like this to leave the house normally. Finally, after 97% of the neighbors had checked me out in my neon green, striped boxers and my "Grab a Heiney!" shirt (complete with realistic butt,) FOW #1 opened the door.

FOW #2 sat on the couch, looking sad and miserable. She also appeared to have had a Grade A, extra large egg surgically implanted in her forehead... right underneath what looked to be a Third Eye. And while all of that is interesting, the most egaging part of the whole scene was how, despite being clearly in pain, she was able to completely ass-ream my sister on the telephone about getting Melt-A-Wasp over here and getting it over here now.

Further proof my sister and I may not share blood: She dropped everything and delivered.

Now, I could lie to you and tell you that I forgot to spray the nest last night. I could utterly bullshit you into believing that it was raining and I was unable to do battle. The truth is, though, I was too scared and terrified to actually pull the trigger, as it were. I kept imagining an angry swarm coming out and me, my panic, my tumbling ass over appetite down the stairs... breaking my neck, my legs, my spine. I saw me in the Wal-Mart, handing out stickers and drooling on myself. That is not the life I want for myself, so I chickened out. There; I admit it.

And I caught a ton of grief from every living creature in this house -- both skin children and both fur children found a myriad of ways to express their displeasure at being banned from the door to the deck. So tonight was D-day, and FOW #1 even volunteered to go outside with me while I upped my kill count.

I positioned myself on the second step, and aimed. I pushed the trigger. Nothing.

I glanced at FOW #1, and he nodded encouragement at me. I took a deep breath and noticed the children who live next door were all standing, stock still in their yard, watching me.

I aimed again and pressed down. A stream of killer chemical feebly squirted forth as though the can had an en enlarged prostate. Two wasp sentries (I assume,) came out to investigate.

I, as promised, panicked. And my panic embarrassed and saved me, in equal measure. First, my panic gave me just enough of a shot of adrenaline that I was then able to firmly depress the trigger mechanism on the can. Along with what really was not superhuman strength, was a string of cusswords, "motherfuckers" being prominent among them.

I saturated the nest. I shot escaping insects out of the air. I, in effect, super-soaked my deck with something that probably could take the paint off of a space shuttle, but I didn't care. I was a squirting, swearing machine and three-quarters of the way through the can, I stopped and declared my victory, standing amongst the crunchy corpses littering my deck. And that's when I heard this, the following exchange from next door:

5 Year Old Boy: Mooo-ooom! The new neighbor lady's neat! She's killing stuff! It's like a movie out here!

Mom [from inside the house, but obviously approaching the door]: Really? What kind of movie? [Laughter]

5 Year Old Boy: You know, the kind that you and dad watch after we go to bed... she said, "Motherf --"

He never got to finish. The next stage direction would look something like this:

[Child disappears; Door slams.]

So, three weeks into living here and I am already the sharp-dressed, foul-mouthed, neighborhood murderess. I was actually sort of trying to fit in, too. Maybe I can explain at next week's block party; I'm taking nachos.

With jalapenos.

A Pants-Letter That Will Not Be Sent

Dear Jolly Green Giant:

Hey, how are things down in the valley? Is Sprout doing okay? Good! Good to hear it... Now that we've got the pleasantries out of the way, would you like to explain just what the fuck kind of sick joke those "Green Bites" are? Seriously, you and me need to have a little "Come To Jesus" Talk, Jolly -- I can call you that, right? I don't care -- you owe me, big-time, green man, and I'm not just talking about the $3.97 you schystered me out of at the Price Chopper earlier. No -- this is a blood debt, as far as I'm concerned.

You know, when I saw the shiny bag nestled in with the rest of the frozen vegetables, I got a strange electric thrill. I just knew it was something different, something a little more exotic than "yellow corn with butter sauce," which, I hate to be overly negative, is also not some of your best work.

"Green Bites!" I thought to myself. "What are these?!"

The bag promises that they are broccoli & cheese in breading. As a person that relishes the thought of entire, delightful meals comprised of nothing more than what can be purchased at bowling alley snack bars, I can assure you that the marriage of that trinity can be extremely tasty -- if carefully executed. "Execution" does, indeed, come to mind, having now sampled your product -- but in this case, I just want a cigarette and a blindfold. Maybe a Mariachi band -- that's how deeply scarred I am at this point.

Seriously -- I need to know this: HOW do you fuck up broccoli?! I love broccoli -- it's tasty, green goodness. I believe that the inherent pureness of broccoli's good-for-me-flavor is enough to trump the bad of breading and deep frying it with some cheese-like substances.

I almost want to run a straight razor down my tongue in hopes of ridding my mouth of this FUNK that the Green Bites left there. These are HORRIBLE -- there isn't an adjective that adequately conveys my feelings of loss, disappointment and disgust.

I expected more from you, Green Giant. I really, really did.

Sincerely,

Joy M. Cranky-Pants, Pissed off & Now ILL consumer

I Hate People

Last Monday, I gave you all an amazing glimpse into the bat-shit crazy way my mind works. But you'd be selling me short if you were to believe that my irrationality is limited to just fears, you know. I have a lot of irrational hatreds, too.

I hate people who can't drive, which is to say: everybody except for me. And I may have given the erroneous impression whilst Drunkenly Gathering the other night that I only hate people who drive Escalades. That is not the case. I am an equal opportunity hater. I despise people in rusted out Camrys as much as I loathe people in shiny, new, Eddie Bauer Edition, Ford F150s. Really wanna piss me off? Show me a PT Cruiser; I'll go apoplectic almost immediately. Smart Cars make me foam at the mouth.

But honestly, it's not the vehicles themselves; it's the people driving them. I've been saying this for years, and I really mean it: I hate people. I hate ALL people. People suck. Whether they're driving or hosting The View, I abhor them. The problem I run into most often is that people are everywhere. You can't swing a stolen femur without smacking one of them upside the head -- nor should you try NOT to hit people upside the head. If you're going to go to all of the trouble of stealing a human leg bone and swing it, you should aim to win, I think. But don't try hitting me upside the head with a femur, because I will Kick. Your. Ass.

Really -- I'm not kidding. I'm a scrapper. You can't loathe other humans the way that I do without being able to back it up.

I can't really come up with a System of Quantification to determine if this segment of the population pisses me off more than that one, so just assume that I'm an equal opportunity Hater and I get enraged in equal measures by the following Top Four Categories of Society's Most Abhor-able:

People afflicted with Obviousity Syndrome

I really hate people who insist on telling me shit I already know and shit that anybody who is over the age of three and has at least half of a functioning brain also knows. These are the people who, in the middle of a full tilt boogie thunderstorm, will inform you, helpfully, that it's raining -- outside.

These folks, generally, are also afflicted with some odd syndrome which leads them to believe that they were the first people to experience everything and thus, they will -- as a gift to society -- share their super-secret knowledge with you, whether it's about child-rearing, enjoying a successful career or human nature. You know what? Save it. I've been alive for 40 years, and I wasn't living in a yurt on the tundra, Asshole. Your kid isn't doing anything my kids or anyone else's kids haven't done. I don't give two fucks about your job and I doubt you're going to have any special insight into why people suck as much as they do that I haven't come up with on my own. So, shut up and save me the aggravation of having to smile politely and the effort of having to appear as though I care about anything beyond setting you on fire.

People Who Ask Me Dumb Questions

There's this new thing that's been happening when I check out at the grocery store lately, wherein the cashier will ask me if I "found everything" I was looking for. If I hadn't, would I be checking out? And, for the sake of argument, let's say I didn't. Are we going to hold up a line while one of us runs to fetch it? Without the whole episode ending in angry tears and bail bondsmen? I frequently cruise the aisles of my local Price Chopper looking for $20 bills that people might have dropped and free samples. I rarely find either of those things, but I'm not about to get into that with Doug, the mainstreamed clerk who is as hard of hearing as he is tortoise-like (both in appearance and velocity.)

And don't ask me how I am -- ever. You don't really care, and you know it. Hell, I am me and I don't care how I am. I don't give a shit how you are, either.

People Who Are Clueless To Bar Etiquette

There is an honor among drunks, you know. You don't take someone's seat, you don't take someone's last cigarette and you DO NOT make an empty beer bottle "dance" in an effort to get a bartender's attention. It shocks and amazes me hw many people just don't get it -- that we alcoholics, like any other society, have a system of rules in place so that pandemonium doesn't break out. Being pulled into a bar fight also takes us away from our drinks, and none of us want that. That's not to say we won't jump in, mind you, but all other opportunities for fun have to be exhausted first.

You also shouldn't be walking "through" a pool game (Really -- how likely would you be to do that if it were a game of darts?! Wait. I think I already know the answer to that,) and you shouldn't be the jack ass who insists on rooting against the team that everyone else is rooting for. The jukebox is NOT your iPod, and trust me when I tell you that a bunch of drunks in Kansas are NOT going to react favorably to an hour and a half of Rap. Also, it would be really helpful if you adopt the whole "Good Child" Mentality when you come into my local gin joint: Speak only when spoken to; look with your eyes, not your hands; and keep your god damned fingers out of your nose -- nobody wants to see that.

Everybody Who Isn't Either Me, My Direct Descendent Or A Friend Of Mine

Which means the rest of you -- I hate you.

(Edited to Prove I Can Count)