Squeak’s Squeals

I had a dream… a bizarre, disturbing, gothic-circus-freak type dream… about the guys from work, my kids and my mom… and I NEED to share it.  Let me start by setting some real-world visuals for you…

Bull is our resident tech.  He is a very large man, standing roughly 6′4″ and pushing 300 lbs.  He is very religious, very crude and vulgar and always dressed in khakis and a polo shirt.

Batman is my fellow code monkey.  He is tall and lanky with a Robert Downey, Jr.-style moptop and glasses.  He perpetually dresses in black from head to toe and I have yet to see him wear a shirt that wasn’t printed with a gray skull.

My mother is 4′11″ with glasses, artheritis, red hair and a nasty temper.

My daughters (note there are only TWO) are 4′6″ and 4′10″ and weigh 80 lbs. apiece.

Yesterday, I pulled myself out of bed, stumbled down the stairs, made a pot of Folgers 1/2 Caff coffee and nuked up a bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with Splenda Brown Sugar Blend (yes, Neanderthal’s heart attack has freaked me out… my kitchen looks like it was attacked by a health food store… my kids are gonna hate me).  But apparently, 1/2 Caff doesn’t work… two hours later, I was taking a nap.  And as I napped, I dreamed…

Bull, Batman and I decided to take a trip to the mall, accompanied by Batman’s friend - a midget dressed like a pilgrim.  Batman wore his standard head-to-toe black ensemble with his Jon Bon Jovi a la 1984 sunglasses.  Bull started out wearing his standard khakis and a gray polo with the company logo embroidered on the left side of the chest.

We entered the mall and went separate directions… I went one way, Bull went another way and Batman and Midget went somewhere else.

I finished my shopping rather quickly and exited the mall via some rear entrance.

As I walked through the door, immediately to my left stood my mother, holding aloft - with one arm - my younger daughter JellyBean (who was inside a blue mesh laundry bag).  JB was sobbing hysterically and the bridge of her nose was gashed open and bleeding.

“What happened?” I asked my suddenly super human strong mother.

“Knife fight.” She replied.

“Who won?” I asked.

“That one.” She said, pointing at a carbon copy twin of JellyBean laying in the grass, sound asleep, still holding the dagger which had sliced JB’s nose.  Roo lay sleeping in the grass not far away.

“Cool,” was my response as I walked past the four of them and proceeded on my way.

As I walked toward the front of the mall, Bull came into view… but no longer donning his trademark khakis and polo.  His eyes were madeup to resemble Mimi from the Drew Carey Show.  On his head, he wore a tropical headwrap…. on his chest, a matching belly shirt - the combination of the two makes me think of the Chiquita Banana girl.  Below the waist however, he modeled a white leather sequined thong and gold stilettos…. and he was prancing quite proudly, asking, “So what do you think of the new skivvies?”

Batman and the midget pilgrim were sitting against the front wall of the building.  Midget was silent, apparently just there for moral support and WTF factor.  Batman was sucking on an empty pair of black stockings.

For some unknown reason, this whole scenario seemed perfectly normal… like something that would happen to anyone, any day of the week.  So I walked back to the rear entrance of the mall, stripped off my clothes to reveal a bathing suit and went swimming since the entire mall was now filled with chlorinated water.

And that, kids, is why health food is BAD and should NEVER be consumed prior to napping.

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Generally speaking, I try to avoid discussing politics here at the ol’ blog, but in my advancing age, I’ve become compelled to start forcing my opinions on others as well.  Please bear in mind, any flaming comments will be declared spam and my mad little Akismet baby will never let you post again.  Anyway… on with it!

Today, I would like you all to bow your heads and observe a moment of silence in memory of the die-hard, tie-dye clad, poetry-writing, wannabe hippie, liberal who once lived within me (back in my college days, when I thought it cool that the President was getting his strange).  For, this morning, I am publicly confessing that come November, my vote shall be cast for the McCain/Palin ticket.*

“But why, Squeaky, why!?” I hear you cry through your sobbing, looking at me with those giant, tear-filled, anime eyes.  “Do you really feel that John McCain can effectively lead this great nation?”

No, my children.  I think John McCain is an embalmed corpse being kept alive by some radioactive, intergalactic technology emitted by Dick Cheney’s brainwaves.

“Then, why, Squeaky!?” I hear you plead.

Because I think Sarah Palin is a member of the Alaskan Eskimo Society of Gubernatorial Ninjas.  I think this woman kicks some serious ass.  And I’d be willing to bet if she accidentally shoots someone in the face on a drunken hunting trip, they won’t live to joke about it.

Honestly, any woman who can survive five pregnancies, five deliveries, a household with five children, run an entire state AND thrive in the barren wasteland that is Alaska, can certainly accomplish as much on a bad day as the ol’ Dick-n-Bush have accomplished, in a combined effort, in the last eight years.

A comment was made to me earlier this week… something to the effect of ‘Do we really want a menopausal woman with her finger on a button that could annihilate half the globe?’  My answer: Hell, yes!  What’s more frightening than a middle-aged woman having a hot flash on a bad hair day with baby vomit on her clothing, standing on a bear skin rug she shot, skinned and tanned herself?  Catch her on the wrong day and some little, previously unheard of country suddenly disappears from the face of the planet as a warning to the others to keep their asses in line.  Besides which, the woman JUST had a baby.  She’s not menopausal yet.

“But, Squeaky, do you agree with her viewpoints on the issues?” I hear you inquire.

No, young Jedi, aside from her opinions on the death penalty, I do not agree with her stance on much else.

“Then why, Squeaky?” You ask again.  And put away those anime eyes.  They’re getting annoying.

Because she has opinions.  That’s it.  Simple as that.  This woman actually has hard and fast opinions.  There seems to be no one behind her, pulling a string, with a hand in her ass, or floating above her in a spaceship telling her what to say and when to say it.  She very simply states exactly what she believes.

Example:

Is she pro-choice or pro-life?  Pro-life.  Even if her own child will ride a short bus.  Abortion is not an option.  She states it.  And she lives it.  And I respect that.  Even if I dont’ agree with it.

“But, Squeaky,” I hear you say, “what about the feminists who think she should stay home with her children?”

HAHAHAHAHA!  My dear, gentle readers, these people are not feminists at all!  These are poor, misguided souls who aren’t sure who they are or what they believe.  “Women should not have to stay in the home and take care of the children!  Women should be able to venture out of the kitchen and into the workforce!  Having children should not hinder a woman’s right to grow and develop and become who and what she wants to be!  Women can do whatever a man can do!”….. but apparently ONLY if that woman is a liberal.  What a crock of bullshit.  Anyone subscribing to this philosophy and calling themselves a feminist, is nothing more than a hypocrite.

“But what’s wrong with Barrack Obama?” I hear you whisper among yourselves.

He is the devil, my sweet babies, nothing more than Lucifer himself.

And is it just me, or does Governor Palin look an awful lot like Detective Benson?

*This statement is subject to change at a moment’s notice anytime between now and November.

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Have you ever sat at home - wide awake at 6 o’clock on a Saturday morning - and felt the itch?  The fierce internal need to go out and do something childish and stupid?  It’s like an urge for a mini midlife crisis (or in my case, since I refuse to count myself among the mid-aged, a mini PRE-midlife crisis).

I went through this a few years back - before meeting the Neanderthal - while facing the impending damnation that is and/or was my 30th birthday (oh, vile, evil day of despair - I still wear black to mourn the loss of my youth).  Anyway, it manifested itself as a serial dating binge - it was something insane, like 30 dates with 25 men in three months.  Then the Neanderthal popped into my life and it all stopped.

But the itch has returned.  The need to do something completely, utterly stupid is slowly taking over any conscious attempt to subdue the desire.  And, no, I don’t mean that I am desiring to date 25 more men (puhleez!  Once is enough, people!  Honestly, how many men can one woman tolerate before she snaps?).  What I mean is I just want to do something reckless and stupid like I would have done ten years ago - perhaps spending a weekend in an alcoholic stupor (one weekend is all it would take… my body simply can’t process that crap like it used to), or maybe grabbing the girlfriends for an improptu road trip with no map, no plan and no destination (ah, the good ol’ days), maybe a costume party in an outfit no one should actually wear in public (last time this happened, the GFs and I went as a pimp ‘n hoes…. holy cleavage, Batman!  I was so proud of my alabaster orbs).

Regardless, my point here is that there is a fire burning deep in the darkest recesses of my bowels and slowly working its way through the rest of my body where I will be overcome by the craving, the thirst - nay, the insatiable hunger - to spend a weekend living free and wild (and probably half naked).  Well, here’s hoping when I finally succumb to my fevered lust for immaturity that it is (1) blog-worthy and (2) without police intervention.  w00t!

The girls go wild at humor-blogs.com.

I live in the suburbs. I am not a suburb kind of gal. I may be a little bit country, but a little bit suburban, I am not.

I am perfectly comfortable in a little podunk, backwoods, inbred, redneck town, but I now reside in the ritziest, most upscale suburb in this part of Pennsylvania. I’m not here because I make a lot of money. I’m not here because I want people to think I make a lot of money. I am here because the schools are excellent, the house is gorgeous and the rent fell inside my price range. However, I get the feeling that I am nothing more than that weird, creepy neighbor no one talks about. Call me Lady Voldemort.

Maybe it’s my incessant need to wear my Bert and Ernie lounge pants in public. Maybe it’s the rusty, little, 275,000+ mile, back-firing beast of a Subaru parked in the driveway. Maybe it’s because my kids sing Weird Al tunes as loudly as their little lungs will allow. Maybe it’s because I like to sit on the back porch in my underwear and smoke cigarettes at 5am. It’s probably a combination of all of the above, coupled with seeing my hideous (translation: cheap and/or free) furniture when I moved in, indicating that I obviously am not wealthy and therefore not worthy of their company.

Seriously, my house is gorgeous. My furniture is awful. I have one of those eclectic collections of slightly-better-than-a-college-dorm furnishings (complete with milk crate book shelves). My couch is black velvet with pink and blue swirls. My coffee table isn’t a coffee table at all, it’s a night stand turned sideways. My dining room table cost five dollars at an auction five years ago - the chairs were ten bucks at a yard sale. But they are comfy and they are mine. Though some days I wonder if I should try to spruce things up a bit.. you know, maybe bring myself up to speed with my station in life. You know… start skipping the garage sales and hitting the thrift stores instead….

And I know the reaction people have when I tell them I’m a nerd. Believe me when I tell you the average Suzy Homemaker stay-at-home mom looks at you like a freak and never speaks to you again. Case in point: The kids started back to school this week. One of the bus stop moms introduced herself and we started talking. We hit it off quite well for being total strangers. This went on for a couple days… then she asked me what I do for a living, “I’m a web developer for an IT company across town,” I said. “Oh,” she replied. And she has not spoken to me since. In fact, she started standing on the opposite side of the street… like I’m carrying the plague. “Don’t stand next to that new girl…. you’ll catch the dweeb!”

Don’t feel sorry for me, dear readers, for I love being the odd man out. I like to do things - especially in a neighborhood full of snobs - just to drive them insane:

I let my kids hang a metallic, dollar store happy birthday banner in the front window… and I left it there… just for the hell of it.

I take my trash out while wearing a plaid bathrobe and platform shoes.

Sometimes, I close all the curtains and pull all the shades, then turn the lights on and off as fast as I can for two or three minutes.

I play “I am the Walrus” (the Jim Carrey version) over and over again during my 5am smoking sessions… in my undies… on the back porch.

I draw faces on the kids’ kick balls and make them talk in funny voices.

Yup. I know how to keep myself entertained… and it gives the gossip mongers something to talk about. I’ll stick with my nerdy, dorky buddies. They’re the best kind anyway… I just feel bad for my kids (in a strange sort of way)… they will forever be the girls with the REALLY creepy mom.

The loonies live at humor-blogs.com.