Answers, I Got Answers

The lovely Dear Frannie just gave me something I've been trying to get for over 7 years now. (No, not THAT.) (Perv.) Using her amazing psychologist/poledancer training, she has actually provided the answers to the FAQ In My House. Yay, Frannie! Your $2.00 co-pay's in the mail.

1. Who left these on the floor?
The incontinent cat.

2. Why is it so quiet up there?
Pure evil has no sound.

3. Is that where your shoes are supposed to go?
Is this a math problem?

4. What did I just tell you two seconds ago?
That you needed tequila, an axe and a little alone time.

5. Where do you think you're going with that glue stick?
Like you said before, hell.

6. Good God, which one of you was just in the bathroom?
Daddy.

7. Why am I the only person in this family who knows where the dishwasher is located?
Because if you didn't live with us, we'd be happy eating kibble off the floor.

8. What am I? Your frickin' maid?
No, maids get paid.

9. Does anyone know if that brown stuff on the wall is chocolate?
I can tell you definitively that it is NOT chocolate.

10. Do you think toilet paper grows on trees?
I'm not sure because I haven't actually used toilet paper in 2 1/2 months.

11. Don't you think you've watched quite enough Sponge Bob for one day?
No because I'm trying to see if the hours of constant flashing will induce one of those cool Japanese cartoon seizures I've been reading so much about.

12. Is that how a big boy acts?
Not clear, but dad just did the same thing in the garage with no clothes on.

13. Do I look like I thought that was funny?
No, you look old and mean and tired. But you did look funny in that yearbook picture you showed us once.

14. WHAT did you just say? Who taught you that word? Was it Uncle Paul?
I said "yeast vaginitis" because that lady on TV has it, along with itching, burning, soreness, and pain during intercourse and urination. Why, does Uncle Paul have that, too?

15. How many times do I have to tell you that scratches up the floor?
What scratches up the floor? This? Or THIS?

16. Are you trying to drive me crazy?
Yes.

17. Why are you not eating your broccoli?
It's green.

18. Would you like to try another answer?
Sure. Because broccoli sucks. How's that one?

19. Hold on--can't you see that mommy's busy e-mailing Larry King right now?
But I thought you told us we had to be nice to old people.

20. Who told you that I was hiding out in the closet? Was it daddy?
No, I heard your muffled sobs from downstairs.

21. Is something burning?
Only the things I lit on fire.

Red Team Beats Yellow Team in First-Grade Basketball

DAVY CROCKETT ELEMENTARY - Tommy Johnson has sometimes struggled this season while learning to play the game of basketball, but it sure didn't look that way on Saturday.

Johnson scored a record-setting 4 points as his team, the Super Awesome Pokemon Red Raiders (aka the Red Team), possibly defeated the Super Cool Jedi Fighting Warriors (aka the Yellow team). "I know we're not supposed to keep score," said Tommy's mother Laurie. "But I'm pretty sure we kicked their little asses. Oh, can I say 'asses'? Maybe I should just say 'booties'? Whatever it is, I just want to say that the Yellow Team can suck it! Boo-yah!"

A boisterous crowd of 30, mostly parents and younger siblings, packed the gym/cafeteria and watched as Johnson, a 4 foot-high 7 year-old, nearly doubled the team's shooting percentage. The 2 baskets he made, out of 101 attempts, showed a record improvement in actually getting the ball within 10 feet of the hoop.

"I think the first shot he made bounced off my head and then went right into the basket," said Red Team power forward Danny Smithson. "He's such a lucky duck!"

Tommy has also excelled this season at what his coach Mark Wilson calls "the loose ball scramble". "He's always the first player to start the dogpile," said Wilson. "Whenever the ball's up for grabs, he'll fight like hell for it. Even against one of his own teammates. Now that's hustle, man."

Coach Wilson then went on to talk about the Red Team's overall improvement. "Once they stopped picking up the basketball and running down the court with it," Wilson reported, "I knew the next steps would be to work on dribbling the ball on the floor, not on their own feet and to hopefully stop giving each other wedgies during practice."

There were two major turning points in Saturday's game that led to the Red Team's triumph. The first came when the Yellow Team's star player, Ethan Reed, got a fast break and dribbled the ball into the hallway so he could get a drink and go to the Boy's restroom. "I had to go number two," said Reed. "I really couldn't hold it any longer and if I had an accident, my mommy would have been really mad. Now just leave me alone, OK? I'M NOT A BABY!"

The second turning point came when the Yellow Team's point guard, Liam McPhail, skipped off the court to go sit in his daddy's lap, thereby giving the Red Team a huge advantage and allowing Tommy to score his second basket of the game.

"It was so awesome!" yelled Tommy. "The ball bounced off the wall, then off the other wall, then off the referee's head and then wiggled around the top of the hoop for a few minutes and then it went straight into the basket! And it still counted!"

The Red Team's next match-up will be against the formidable Superhero Hulk Monster Trucks (aka the Green Team) next Saturday after the Boy Scout's Bike Rodeo. "I hear the Greenies have a husky 8 year-old on the team," said Coach Wilson. "But I'm not worried. If my guys remember to dribble the ball with their eyes open and go potty before the game, we'll be just fine."

Or, as future junior college basketball star Tommy Johnson put it, "Yeah, whatever. As long as we get pretzels and juiceboxes after the game, I don't really care what happens. Can I go now?"

Best of luck, Red Team. You're going to need it.

FAQ In My House

1. Who left these on the floor?

2. Why is it so quiet up there?

3. Is that where your shoes are supposed to go?

4. What did I just tell you two seconds ago?

5. Where do you think you're going with that glue stick?

6. Good God, which one of you was just in the bathroom?

7. Why am I the only person in this family who knows where the dishwasher is located?

8. What am I? Your frickin' maid?

9. Does anyone know if that brown stuff on the wall is chocolate?

10. Do you think toilet paper grows on trees? What's that? Oh, so you're a smart guy now?

11. Don't you think you've watched quite enough Sponge Bob for one day?

12. Is that how a big boy acts?

13. Do I look like I thought that was funny?

13. WHAT did you just say? Who taught you that word? Was it Uncle Pat?

14. How many times do I have to tell you that scratches up the floor?

15. Are you trying to drive me crazy?

16. Why are you not eating your broccoli?

17. Would you like to try another answer?

18. Hold on--can't you see that mommy's busy e-mailing Larry King right now?

19. Who told you that I was hiding out in the closet? Was it daddy?

20. Is something burning?




And for hilarious advice to all of your pressing life questions, please be sure to check out my friend Frannie's new advice website Dear Frannie. She's just like Dear Abby--after a few cigarettes and martinis.

An Important Safety Tip

If you happen to find yourself in your kitchen at 6:30 a.m. one morning, feeling not so hot because your horrendous cedar allergies have made your throat feel like you just shotgunned an entire tub of pick-up-stix and bobby pins, but also because the night before when you were supposed to meet your friend at the movies--right after your annual bikini wax (which, btw, was made even more torturous, if that's even possible, because the prisonguard-ish waxer wouldn't shut up about how she really wishes she could become a real vampire)--you actually didn't meet your friend at the movies because, as it turns out, said friend went to THE WRONG MALL, meaning that instead of shoving popcorn into your piehole and staring at a wrinkly Brad Pitt for two hours, you had to skulk around a deserted Ross Dress For Less looking at irregular sweaters and mangy throw pillows until your screwy friend finally showed up in her badass Honda minivan and suggested you go drink some beer at the new, loud neighborhood bar that, for some reason, serves steak and baked potatoes in the parking lot and only plays songs by Grand Funk Railroad, which, of course, is awesome, no question about that, because they're an American Band, after all, but now, this morning, all of that late-night awesomeness seems to have led to a big throbbing headache right in your, um, head that has you reaching desperately for some refreshing, hot coffee from the automatic coffee maker that your husband gave you for your birthday, in addition to a kick-ass electric wine bottle opener (which was really the much better gift, who are we kidding), but then, after pouring your coffee into your prized Santa Anita Racetrack mug, you blurrily reach into the fridge and blindly grab for your carton of Silk creamer, which you just love because it's low-fat and also because it doesn't make you feel like you've been kicked in the intestines like that other evil creamer-who-shall-remain-nameless does and then you very shakily pour a big bunch of that Silk creamer into your waiting coffee, raise it to your eager lips and take a HUGE sip of it and...well, supposing all of that happens to you some morning, please, please be sure that what you're actually pouring into your coffee is this:


And the reason I say this is because, and this is the big news, wait for it...there just might be something in your fridge that just so happens to be the EXACT SHAPE AND SIZE of your yummy Silk creamer, but, in fact, it isn't creamer at all, and may actually be something yellow and slimy and stinky that tastes like chickens and death. Something like, say, this:


Yep. I did. But if this public service announcement can prevent just one, ONE person from making the same nasty mistake, then it was almost, but not really, worth it. Now I'm going into the bathroom to wash out my mouth with Clorox and scotch. And maybe a torch. Let's stay safe out there, OK?

My Domestic Agenda

For the past two months, my parents have been zooming around in their little, red sedan on some sort of “Oh, Screw It, We’re Retired” road trip. And now, after crisscrossing the country and visiting every tourist attraction from North Dakota to New Orleans, they’re here. In Austin. At my house. For three weeks.

Dear God.

Because while I love my parents dearly, I’m freaked out big time that they’re staying in my home. Not because they’re demanding guests or anything like that. They’re not at all. In fact, besides their bizarre devotion to “According to Jim” and Cheez-Its, they’re great to have around. No, the real reason I’m a nervous wreck is because I want them to finally see that, at age 40, I’m fully capable of running a household. All by myself.

My lack of domestic ability has been the big family joke for most of my life. Every time I’ve moved into a new house or apartment, my parents’ favorite thing to do is to ask whether my new stove is gas or electric, then laugh their heads off when I don’t know the answer. (Once, I didn’t even know where the stove was.) My mother patiently taught me all of the household things she herself did so effortlessly, but for some reason, it didn’t take. I tried sewing and pinned my garment to the floor. I tried craft making and maimed myself with a pipe cleaner. I tried making smoothies and forgot to put the lid on the blender. And of course, my cooking is so disastrous that it’s already sent me to the emergency room. Twice.

Basically, I’m Susie Homemaker with a head injury.

That’s why, when my parents said they were visiting, I decided it was time to turn over a new leaf. Time to get my shit together and embrace my inner housefrau. After all, how hard could this homemaking crap be? I’m smart. I’m educated. I’m not usually that drunk during the day. And so began my intense campaign of wiping, scrubbing and organizing absolutely everything in our four-bedroom house. After five days, I was exhausted and my hands looked like they belonged to an arthritic, 80 year-old cannery worker. But my house, my house was immaculate. Not even a crack CSI team with a boatload of black lights could have found a single, lousy fingerprint. I was ready.

My parents arrived and everything was going well. They seemed impressed with the new management and even complimented me on my matching towels and the non-expired milk in the fridge. But it wasn’t long before my mom asked me, somewhat dubiously, if I had an ironing board she could use. Now, of course, if my husband ever had the balls to ask me to iron one of his shirts, I’d be laughing too hard to throw the dry cleaning coupons at him, but I'd prepared for this moment. “Why, of course I have an ironing board!” I happily chirped, and skipped over to the broom closet where I pulled out my newly purchased ironing board with a flourish. “I keep it right here, so I can get to it easily when I need to press my cloth napkins!” Then I casually leaned over and, with one finger, whipped the sucker open just like I was one of the aging showcase models on The Price is Right. "Ta-da!"

My mom looked at the ironing board and seemed a little surprised. And, I think, a little proud, too. Like maybe her daughter wasn’t going to burn the house down after all. I smiled smugly and made a mental note to check out Craigslist later, just in case Martha Stewart was hiring slightly chubby household experts in our area.

Then suddenly, Jack bombed into the room, took one look at the ironing board and yelled at the top of his lungs, “WHAT THE HECK’S THAT THING, MOMMY?”

I glanced sideways at my mom and chuckled nervously. “Oh, come on, silly! That’s the ironing board! You know that!”

He walked up and gingerly touched it, then quickly pulled back his hand and screamed,“No, I’ve NEVER seen THAT thing before!”

My mom was now covering her mouth with her hands and it looked like her entire body had begun to shake, but I tried my best to ignore her. “Sure you have, Jack!” I persisted. “You know mommy uses this when she irons out the wrinkles in your clothes!”

He looked down at his khaki pants. “But I thought you said that wrinkles make our clothes more interesting and that if we have a problem with it, mister, we can just go stand in the bathroom when daddy’s taking a shower or something.”

Raising my voice so I could be heard over the little squeaks that were now coming out of my mom, I gave him a stern look and said, “No, I didn’t Jack. Do...you...understand?”

“OK, whatever, lady,” he muttered, then walked out of the room shaking his head like somebody who's desperately counting the days until he turns 18.

“Sorry about that, mom!” I said, as she dabbed frantically at her eyes. “I don’t know WHY he said that. But you know how whacko 5 year-olds are! I mean, he still thinks chickens can talk! Now, would you like some spray starch or would you prefer to use just plain water? Personally, I find that starch works much better on permanent press, but…”

And then 7 year-old Sam ran into the room, stopped dead in his tracks and, pointing at my brand-new, shiny ironing board, screamed, “Wow! What’s THAT thing? A surfboard on legs? Did Grandma bring it here? Can I RIDE on it?” And at that moment, as I watched my belly-laughing mom gasp for air, I realized that I'm probably never going to become a domestic goddess. Or a domestic wenchess. Or even someone who actually keeps vegetables in their vegetable crisper. So that's why I've decided to turn in my featherduster and just go ahead and buy another fire extinguisher, already. I think it's for the best.

But, just for the record, I'm pretty sure my stove is electric.

My 2009 New Year Resolutions

1. I will stop telling my husband that the reason I have to drink a glass of wine every night is because "I'm under a lot of pressure from the PTA".

2. I will apologize to my neighbor for 1) signing her up for Rosie O'Donnell's e-mail subscriber list and 2) telling her that I only did it because she reminds me so much of Rosie when she was in that Flinstones movie.

3. I will finally see what my gym looks like from the inside.

4. I will no longer approach pregnant women in public and helpfully suggest that they name their unborn baby "Apollonia 6".*

5. I shall embrace vacuuming as an art form.

6. I will plan meals in advance so that I don't find myself in the kitchen at 5 p.m. trying to make my family's dinner out of two bottles of grape Pedialyte and a half-empty bag of Meow Mix (aka The Purple Pussy Casserole).*

7. I will finally learn how to swim.

8. I will quit telling everyone that I'm listening to cool bands like My Morning Jacket on my iPod when what I'm really listening to is Barry Manilow: Live! and loving every whitebread, lame-ass second of it. Yeah, that's right. I said BARRY. Cause Barry writes the songs that make the whole world sing. What the hell has that Lil Wayne ever done that makes the whole world sing? Uh-huh. That's right. Didn't think so.

9. Instead of getting angry when an obnoxious solicitor calls, this year I will instead hand the phone to 5 year-old Jack and tell him that the guy on the other end really wants to hear all about his favorite Pokemon characters. In explicit detail.

10. I will make a valid effort to stop sending drunk e-mails to Larry King each night with the subject line: For The Love Of God, Pleeze Do The Earth A Favor And Just QUIT Already, You 200 Year-Old Suspender-Wearin' Hack!! We Laydeez Needz Us Some Eye Candeee ASAP!!!!

11. I will explain to husband that it really embarrasses me when he tells people that my favorite movie of all time is Tori Spelling's "Mother, May I Sleep With Danger?" when it's really "Big Momma's House: 2". I mean, come on. That shit's hi-larious, man.

12. I will wear matching socks. (At least once a week.)*

13. I will help 7 year-old Sam understand that his new year's resolution can't be to "Be more awesome".

And perhaps the most challenging one of all:

14. This year I'm going to really,really try my best to stop writing blog posts while whacked out on generic Benadryl.*


(*Already broken.)