The Revenge of the Pansy Fairy

There comes a time in every mother's life when she is both horrified and overwhelmingly proud of the things that come out of her children's mouths.

My 7 year old daughter has suffered years and years of systematic torture from her 13 year old brother. Relentless teasing, tickle torture, spit-wads, ostricization. I even caught him testing out Chinese water torture on her at one point.
Honestly a 7 year old vs. a 13 year old is no match. But for the most part, she's sucked it up and dealt with it, with only the occasional whining, "Moooooommmmyyyyyyy! He's piiiiiiiicking on meeeeeeee....!"

But now, she's finally found a chink in his armor. She's finally found his Achilles heel.

We were decorating our Christmas tree and sorting through the ornaments and my daughter came across a Hallmark ornament that my mom had given her. The box label said, "The Pansy Fairy". My daughter closely inspected the box, sounding out the words, did a double take, mouthing the words silently to herself again. An evil mischievous grin spread slowly across her face. She ran to my son and said, "Hey! I found another one of your ornaments." She hands him the ornament, with her ornery smile and watches as he reads the box in horror.
"That's not mine!" He shrieks in his mid pubescent cracking voice.
"It has to be," she tells him, quite matter-of-factly. "You're the only pansy fairy that I know!" Then turns on her heels and walks away as he sputters and whines in defense of his masculinity in her wake.

I'm observing this little exchange, completely in conflict. I'm horrified that my 7 year old daughter knows what a pansy and fairy are (despite my god awful sailor mouth, I keep it relatively clean around my kids). But the awesomeness of her wit in finding his week spot and twisting the bayonet is a proud moment for a woman whose best and worst quality is her razor sharp wit. The perfect timing of her heel turn. The attitude in her stride as she walks away from him. The perfect subtlety of the immasculinization. This was her coming of age moment. The moment that I knew that she was unequivocally my daughter.

As I gave her the required, "Funny, but wrong" lecture that seems to fit in these types of situations, she did her best to look contrite despite the self-satisfied smirk on her face. I wiped a proud maternal tear from my eye.

<3,
~Jane

The Return of the Laminated Luminated Lawnpeople

Because nothing says "Tis the reason for the season" like a life size plastic light up baby Jesus, I bring you a little slice of my family shame.

The Laminated Luminated Lawn People:

Every year my stepdad breaks out the laminated holy ones in all their tacky light up glory.

The Festival of The Laminated Luminated Lawn People begins promptly at dark on Thanksgiving Eve, where they are unveiled in National Lampoons style fanfare. Plastic Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus (surrounded by plastic sheep, cattle, and donkey) make their first shining appearance nestled inside a plywood lean-to stable with bales of straw and a rickety stick manger. The light up shepherds and wise men (accompanied by their trusty glowing camel) traverse from the far east (the far east side of the yard) following yonder plastic light up star (nailed to the side of the house) inching closer and closer as the Feast of Epiphany arrives. When they complete their journey across the yard, they gaze adoringly at the glowing wonder of plastic Jesus and the illuminated holy brood until the end of January.

This miraculous event occurs every year, all under the watchful eye of the Laminated Luminated Santa who sits perched up on the housetop with his list (apparently he's not gotten the message of plastic Jesus' immunity to sin and is deciding if the little baby will fall under naughty or nice).

My mother said that I can thank her for putting her foot down on this year's proposed upgrade to the Laminated Luminated Lawnpeople. Apparently they now make Inflatable Luminated Lawnpeople for the Nativity. I dunno...doesn't roll off the tongue nearly as well as "Laminated Luminated Lawnpeople".

And it's a wonder that I'm so weird!

Happy Laminated Luminated Holiday Season to all!

Serving You Spam Since 2007

My girlfriend called me up today and said, “Jesus! You’ve only been blogging for a week and you’ve already violated the Terms of Services?! That’s seriously got to be a record for you!”
I made my WTF face and said, “What on earth are you talking about?!” (Only because I was at work. If I weren’t at work I would have actually said WTF. But contrary to popular belief, I do have an internal censor)
“Your blog. The link is blocked and it says you’ve violated the TOS.”
I pulled up the page, and sure enough – I’ve been BANNED!

I’m thinking: She’s right! This is a record for me. Usually it takes at least 2 weeks for me to piss someone off to the point that I’m banned, but I managed to get banned in my first week of blogging. Nice one!

So I log in and guess what, boys and girls? I’ve been reported as a spammer!!!
Now – the irony of my spammer status is not totally lost on me, since only about 10 people even know my blog exists.
I know it’s not high prose or anything, but spam?!

This (see below) is Spam:

I’ve never even eaten Spam, much less dished it out to someone else. Though someone once told me that warm spam and mayonnaise sandwiches were rather tasty.
No thanks! I don’t eat canned meat.
I would certainly never serve up anything to you that I wouldn’t eat myself.
I’m not that kinda girl.

I just want you to know, that my blog is a completely spam-free zone. Completely free of any canned meat. It’s been verified to be certifiably Spam-free by Blogger. I know you were worried.

But now I’ve totally hosed myself by putting spam in my previously spam-free zone. So I guess you could say now I’m a spammer.
Now I’m screwed! G’head, report me!

Well…I suppose if I’m banned again next week, you’ll know that it was the canned Spam that did me in.

<3,
~Jane

I Was Abducted By Aliens and All I Got Was This Lousy Tee Shirt

So I’m feeling a bit nostalgic tonight. I was cleaning out my messy closet and found a box with a ratty old faded black tee shirt with faded, flaked off, silver foil letters that once said, “I was abducted by aliens, anal probed, and mind wiped and all I got was this lousy tee shirt”.

My dad wore that ridiculous tee shirt proudly at least once a week for years, even when it was a tattered mess. He said it was the best gift ever. And I was the sick-o who gave it to him.

The tee shirt was part of a themed birthday gift I bought for him 10 or so years ago. The complete gift package consisted of the shirt, a deed to a city on the moon named “Big Dickville” (my dad’s name was Richard), a map of the moon that showed the exact coordinates of Big Dickville, a UFO conspiracy magazine, and a butt plug. He laughed till tears streamed down his face when he opened it. We both did.

My dad and I didn't have a traditional father/daughter relationship. (Honestly, not much about my childhood was terribly traditional. Explains so much about me.) My parents divorced when I was 7ish. My dad was away a lot with his job. He missed a lot of my childhood. I think picking up the father figure role once a month was a bit awkward for him, and honestly, it really never was his style. He made up for it by being the one person in my life that I could tell anything to without worrying about being judged. He told me later on that he figured he had enough shortcomings in life; it would be hypocritical of him to judge me for mine. It's one of the coolest things anyone has ever said to me - and something I try to remember when I'm feeling overly critical of someone else.

I credit (or blame, depending on how you look at it) my dad for my warped, and slightly wrong sense of humor. He was a crusty old stud rancher with a sick sense of humor. I called him the “Equine Pimp Daddy” or just “Pimp Daddy” for short. Time spent with my dad was usually spent around other crusty old cowboys who were just as sick, or sicker, than my dad. They taught me to play poker. They taught me to swear. They taught me the perfect geometric angle to skip a rock across a pond. They taught me to spit over a fence post. Then they taught me that a real lady never did those things in mixed company. Talk about mixed messages!

Sex ed from my mom consisted of The Talk. The Talk was this: Sex. If you do it, I’ll kill you. (And she really, really meant it.)
Sex ed from my dad consisted of showing me how nasty it was to watch two horses “get it on”, and let me form my own conclusion.
Both methods were fairly effective in their own rights!

I had a little period in college where I was having trouble figuring out what I wanted to be in life. This was about the time my dad had branched out in the horse pimping business to include artificial insemination services. He had bought 2 artificial mare mounting dummies – one big, one small - which I promptly dubbed “Spankmaster” and “Spankmaster, Jr.”. The artificial insemination business was pretty darn lucrative for him. He was shipping horse sperm (Liquid Gold, as he called it) all over the country. So he offered to send me to school to become an artificial inseminator.

I told him, “There’s no way in hell! I couldn’t tell people what I do for a living with a straight face!! Oh yeah, I could call my business “Jane’s House of Equine Spank-a-torium”. What do you do for a living, Jane? I jerk off horses! I don’t think so, Pimp Daddy!”
After he picked himself off the floor and stopped laughing, he looked at me with his patented sardonic smirk and said, “Then git yer head on straight, girly. I’m sick of ya jackin’ off in school. If you wanna jack off in school, then I’ll send ya to school to jack off.”
I picked a major the next day and never bombed a class again.

My dad died a few years ago and I miss him terribly. He wasn’t the best parent in the world, and his methods were a little off kilter, but he was the only person who would tell it like it was. He was my best friend. I sat in my closet, tonight, holding the permanently smelly tattered old UFO tee shirt and smiled.

In honor of my dad (and with the holidays right around the corner), I thought I’d compile a gift guide for the nontraditional father/daughter relationship. (Proven and tested – these are all gifts I have given my dad.)

Gifts for the non-traditional father/daughter relationship:

• The BBQ Gift Package: A BBQ grill, BBQ tools, BBQ sauce (I recommend KC Masterpiece), some seasoning rub, a rubber dead rat, and The Roadkill Cookbook.

• The UFO Enthusiasts Gift Package: A UFO tee shirt, a deed to a city on the moon named “Big Dickville” (it helps if your dad’s name is Richard), a map of the moon that shows the exact coordinates of Big Dickville, a UFO conspiracy magazine, and a butt plug.

• The “Spank-a-torium” Barn Warming Gift Package: A box of latex gloves, K-Y Jelly, a box of extra large condoms, and a custom sign that reads “Big Dick’s Spank-a-torium” (again, it helps if your dad’s name is Richard).

• The Cruise "Bon Voyage" Gift Package (for men who can't swim): A life preserver, a snorkel, a wetsuit, a whistle, and a copy of Titanic.

<3,
~Jane

Ruling The Holidays With An Iron Fist

Being the daughter of a June Cleaver/Martha Stewart/Leona Helmsley clone is a thankless job. The threshold is too high. I've decided that I can't compete. My carpets will never have the permanent vacuum tracks from obsessive-compulsive vacuuming at 5am. My shelves will never pass the random white-glove spot-check. And quite frankly, I hate pearls.

My mother has always been the coordinator of holiday parties. Mostly because she is the most Type-A among her 8 siblings. Her holiday parties have always been perfect. Immaculate centerpieces, my great-grandmother's vintage china, elegant stemware, artfully folded real linen napkins, place cards at each table setting, and a perfectly orchestrated menu (each dish designed to compliment the next). Come party day, it was my brothers' and my jobs to keep our heads low, stay the hell out of the line of fire, and don't fuck anything up.

Each year, she assigns dishes for guests to bring to contribute to the meal, but god help you if you deviate from the plan. I still remember the year that my aunt Joan (the hippie sibling; the pot stirrer; the troublemaker) brought a different dish than the Potatoes Au Gratin my mother had assigned her. My mother was livid! It simply did not compliment the rest of the menu! (*Gasp* The apocalypse might ensue from an uncomplimented menu!)

The following year, my mother assigned my aunt Joan a dish, then sent me to her house with a recipe for the dish, complete with a grocery bag filled with the precise ingredients to make it.
Message sent: Don't fuck with my menu. And if you fuck with my menu, next year you'll be wearing cement shoes.
I had been turned into Guido, the holiday mafia thug.

My mother is an amazing pastry/dessert chef. She actually used to sell her desserts for "spare money". Volumes of them. So many that our kitchen was remodeled to be turned into a more efficient pastry production line, complete with slave labor (my brothers and I). Child labor laws did not exist in my mother's kitchen. We "lovingly" referred to the kitchen as "The Sweatshop".

But her imagination for confections does not extend to normal cooking. It's the one area that the woman has no imagination. Growing up, my friends used to joke about the "5 basic meal plan". My mother had 5 dishes that were recycled over and over and over without fail. No strange herbs. No spice. Nothing weird. Mr. Meat will never touch Mr. Potatoes. No breaking the rules.
I think in my own passive aggressive rebellion, I became (what my husband calls) "The Experimental Chef". I grow my own herbs and use as many of them as creatively as possible. I like to try new things. I rarely use recipes. I rarely measure.
Take THAT, Mom! Oh yeah, I'm a rebel now!

What does this have to do with anything?
Keep your panties on, I'm getting there!

So, as of this last year, I've been officially banned from making the stuffing.

I knew the rules. (Party Rule #109; code c: Official Thanksgiving stuffing should only be "pre-packaged" stuffing mix, made with chicken broth instead of water [to make it fancy]). Yeah I bucked the rule. I gave the rule the finger. I gave the "stuffing equivalent" of flipping my mom the double bird. I made home made stuffing. Not just home made stuffing, I made chipotle cornbread stuffing with craisins, pecans, celery, and fresh herbs.

I'm not sure what I was thinking. I thought it would be fun to step outside the box a little (no pun intended). Thought it might be fun to mix things up a little. But the moment my mom lifted the foil off my proud creation, I knew I had screwed the pooch! I had fucked with the menu!
"What the hell is this?!" she whispered in her squinty eyed glare that my dad dubbed "The Laser Eyes".
Gulp. "Stuffing," I replied in a voice foreign to my own, at least 5 octaves higher than my natural tone.
"Is this homemade stuffing?!" She says this sniffing at it like I had brought a dead rodent and splayed it at her feet.
"Just try it Mom, it's really good!"
She takes a fork and nibbles at it, scrunching her nose like it's the most god forsaken thing she's ever tasted. Then, she shakes her head, giving me the same look of contempt and dissapointment that she gave me when I wrecked her car on my highschool graduation day; the same look I got when I brought home an A in 4th year French on the same report card that I brought home an F in English (she still occasionally reminds me of the absurdity of me acing a foreign language, while bombing my own naturally-spoken language). She grabs a large pot and puts it on to boil, then disappears into the pantry (pausing only to give me one last head shaking eye roll, with a disapproving tsk tsk), emerging with a ginormous box of Stove Top stuffing and an industrial sized can of chicken broth. Then announces to everyone that dinner will be delayed by 15 minutes. I take that as my cue to tuck my tail and duck shamefully out of the kitchen.

As I was leaving that night, she mutters under her breath as she says her goodbyes, "Next year, you're making the salad. You can't screw that up."

The good news? This year my salad passed under the radar. Even the passive aggressive homemade White Balsamic Vinaigrette that I was a little worried about. I'm already plotting my rogue Christmas salad. Goat cheese and caramelized pecans, anyone?
It's not easy being the family rebel.

<3,
~Jane

The Pony-o of Bliss

Listen up, boys...
I'm about to break a cardinal rule of The Sisterhood.
I'm going to tell you what us girls talk about when you're not around.

I don't even know how this conversation began. It was an innocent enough conversation to begin with. There were 3 of us huddled around my computer screen working on a client's project. And out of the blue, my co-worker, Josie, sighs and says, "It's going to be a long night tonight. It's my night to throw in the B.J. pony-o*."
I decide to take the bait. "The B.J. pony-o?" I ask.
"Yeah. Once a month, I throw my hair in a ponytail with a special scrunchy that I only use for this occasion. When my husband sees the scrunchy, he gets his happy face. I call it the Blow Job Pony-o," she says matter of factly.
"Once a month, hmm?" I ask. "Is this a pre-arranged timetable for B.J.'s"
"No, it's just how often I have to do it to keep him off my ass," she says.
"Ugh!" Amy, the other co-worker, says, "I'm Jewish. We don't do that."

So I'm wondering, what makes this THE pony-o to wear exclusively for this sole purpose?
Is this some kind of special pony-o? Is it made with some sort of special fabric? Some sort of sperm resistant material that makes it impervious to backsplash?
I imagine it must be paisley print. Kind of like a sperm camouflage.
And does the very sight of this magic pony-o insight a Pavlovian reaction in her husband? All she has to do is slip on the scrunchy and her husband begins salivating and frothing with pre-B.J. anticipation? Cue the mental bad '70's porn music. Bow chicka wow wow....

FYI, an informal (read: under the radar of management) office poll resulted in the following data:

Religious Denomination vs. Frequency of B.J. Performing Duties

Non-denominational Christian - Once a month
Baptists - I was embarrassed to even ask. Even dancing is a sin! (Footloose, anyone?!)
Catholics - Correlated directly to the number of times a month they go to confession
Agnostics - As often as it takes to get reciprocal "Lower Unit Maintenence"
Jews - Ew! We don't do that!

Gentlemen, I have done the research. You do what you will with this knowledge.

<3,
~Jane


* Glossary of terms:
Pony-o - (n.) Midwest term for anything used to hold one's hair in a ponytail.
Scrunchy - (n.) An elastic pony-o covered with scrunched up fabric.
Lower Unit Maintenence - (n.) The act of going downtown.
OR
Lower Unit Maintenence - (n.) The act of maintaining the playing field (mowing the lawn).

Screw the house - SAVE THE CHICKEN!!!!

Maybe I'm a little bit naive. I've always been a "what you see, is what you get" kinda girl.
I am what I am; I make no excuses for my behavior.
I don't portray myself as a hyper-romanticized, souped up version of Jane.
I am always myself.
I figure it's all going to come out in the wash eventually anyway, so why delay the inevitable.

When I was dating my husband, I had no idea that the uber-polished, Ralph Lauren-wearing, confident, somewhat-slick, guy I'd come to know was really Clark Griswold in a tidy little package.
My first clue came the first year we were married. Christmas time. Christmas lights. I spent the better part of the day at the bottom of the extension ladder, playing happy little elf, feeding the strings of lights up to "Clark". At the end of the day, proud of his work, Clark was ready for The Lighting Ceremony. He piped in some ultra-hip Christmas music from an open window. He opened a bottle of his favorite wine, and ushered me out to the front lawn to the pre-scoped "perfect viewing zone" to watch The Lighting Ceremony.
Then, with great fanfare, standing beside the house with an orange extension cord in one hand, the green xmas light plug dangling down from the gutter, and an enormous shit-eating grin on his face, Clark began counting down from ten.
"10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1..."
Nothing.
"Maybe you've forgotten to plug in the extension cord," I helpfully suggest.
Yes. Yes, that must be it. He checks the connection on the extension cord and tries again.
Nothing.
The shit-eating grin begins to falter.
"You did test the lights, didn't you?" I ask.
The puzzled look on his face tells me that he clearly did not test the lights.
Happy "perfect Christmas moment" Clark has morphed. He becomes "ranting temper tantrum" Clark, complete with an impressive array of artfully strung together curse words (including a few that I'm positive were invented on the spot at that very moment).
3 hours later after testing every individual light on every strand with no luck, Clark stalks into the house, pours himself a glass of Jim Beam (straight up), looks at me with a slightly insane unbalanced wild eyed stare, and says, "Fuck the Christmas lights."
We did not have Christmas lights that year. Nor any other year since we've been married.

The moment that clenched his National Lampoons status for me, though, came a bit later. I call it "The Great Flaming Chicken Incident".
So we decide to have a few friends over to watch football. My husband (whose real name is Tom) loves Buffalo Wild Wings. He decides that he wants to make his own home made version of Buffalo Wild Wings for our friends - it will be cheaper that way.
Our friends arrive and Tom hauls in his ginormous turkey fryer from the garage.
I say, "You're not planning on doing that in the house, are you?"
Oh yes. He fully intends to fry the wings in the kitchen. I promptly point out the very conspicuous warning label on the side of the fryer which states "Do NOT use indoors. Fire hazard."
"It'll be fine," he tells me.
I'm not convinced, but I move on with my hostess duties - refilling drinks, etc.
A few minutes later, one of our friends looks at me in horror, pointing toward the kitchen, and shrieks, "OH MY GOD!!!"
I look over and Tom is standing frozen in the kitchen, his jaw dropped to the floor in horror, as a giant wall of flames is pouring from the fryer pot, climbing up the kitchen wall and up to the ceiling. The fire alarm begins to wail.
I run to the pantry, where I keep the fire extinguisher that my mother gave me as a housewarming gift (along with a completely stocked medicine cabinet - both of which I thought were incredibly strange at the time) and begin spraying down the flames, starting from the ceiling, and working my way down to the pot.
When I reach the pot and begin hosing down the chicken, Tom (who has been frozen in horror this entire time) finally leaps into action, grabbing my arm to stop me and yelling,"No! Not the chicken! Save the chicken!!"
I look at him incredulously and say, "Screw the chicken, I'm saving the house!"
Once the drama was over, he gives me the stink eye and says, "I can't believe you ruined my chicken!"
Seriously. Our house was on fire and he's worried about the freaking chicken!

One might think that your house being on fire might be the end of "The Great Flaming Chicken Incident", but no. There's more.
After the mess has been cleaned up, Tom decides to try frying the chicken again. In the kitchen. Seriously. After putting my foot down, he reluctantly takes it to the front yard.
By this point, our guests have settled back down and we're watching the game again. It's dark outside and Tom is out jacking with his chicken by flashlight. Suddenly, the night lights up with a flash. We look outside to see an enormous mushroom cloud of flame towering above the 100+ year old trees in our front yard, coming from the god damn turkey fryer. I look outside and Tom is nowhere to be found. I'm freaked. I'm sure he's managed to blow himself to kingdom come.
I send out one of the other husbands to look, I'm not sure that I can handle what I'm going to see. After a few minutes, they come inside laughing - Tom intact, save for his singed off eyebrows. He looks at me completely deadpan and says, "I've decided it's cheaper to order the wings from here on out."

Yes. I married Clark Griswold.

God save the chicken.

<3,
~Jane

Take yer shoes off at the door

First off let me say - Welcome!

My name is Jane. Jane Doe. Pleased to meet you.
Take a moment to kick your shoes off and get comfy.

Hopefully you will find a small snippet of entertainment in glimpsing into the reality of my world. I've always been a firm believer that truth is stranger than fiction. And, let's face it friends, I honestly couldn't make this crap up*.

Strap in, sit back, and enjoy the ride. I'm glad to have you along.

<3,
~Jane

*Most of the names changed to protect the guilty