Saturday, September 4, 2010

Dead Ahead

As you can see, I'm on a death kick here with my subject lines. There is no hidden meaning behind this, you don't need to worry that I'm going to Sam's Club and buying Draino in bulk to mix with my Crystal Light or anything. My entry does, however, have a morbid element to it, as I am writing it to detail exactly how I want things to go down following my death. And you (YOU meaning every single one of you who outlives me) can bet your ass that I'll be haunting the hell out of you if I don't get my way. Damn straight I will.

But I should start at the beginning-- namely, what spurred this blog in the first place. A bad day? A bout of depression? Feelings of inadequacy? Nope, my day was fabulous, I'm not remotely depressed, and we all know that I'm so fucking awesome I that I couldn't be inadequate if I tried. What started it all was The Block Party on the radio station Power 99. Specifically, the Guns N Roses block.

Now I know it's a great big trashy trailer-park livin' redneck cliche', but I DO love some GnR. Those boys can just SPEAK to me. I hear them and I remember making out in a deserted cul-de-sac in my Honda in high school with a boy who was NOT my boyfriend (and who is most likely now in prison). "Patience," "Don't Cry," "Sweet Child of Mine".....I get a little weepy just thinking about them. Dude, I'd do Axel Rose in a heartbeat if he wanted me and I think he's about as nasty and disease infested as a public toilet seat at a a Nickelback concert. Yesterday, on the way home from the gym "November Rain" came on (during a rainstorm, which made it all the more poetic) and I had the opportunity to sing my heart out, much to the horror of my children (especially because it was the LONG, 11-minute or so version--none of that abbreviated shit the radio tries to play so often instead). It was soul-wrenching, and I can't carry a tune to save my life. YOU WOULD HAVE CRIED. (If you don't believe me, I can give you a small list of people to whom I sing to their voicemail on occasion. They will back me up.)

Anyway, today, on my way to the mall to search for end-of-season patio furniture on sale, I had the great fortune to hear the GnR version of "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" for the first time in years. *Everyone pause for a moment, with your hands over your hearts, and try to hear the song in your head. Axel's whining, Slash's guitar......focus, focus......* Yep. That's what I thought. IT BLEW YOUR FUCKING MIND. Mine, too.

On any given day at any given time, my thought processes skitter all over the place. I'm not ADD or anything, I'm just a hardcore multi-tasker, and I can literally think of about fifteen things, fully and completely, with total focus, all the time. Which means that today, while singing along (loudly) to the radio, I was able to link "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" to dead to who I know who has died to when will I die to what do I want to be done with me when I die (I certainly don't want to be donated to science and have some creepy med student defiling my still super-hot dead body in some formaldehyde smelling classroom somewhere--we all know those med students are weird as hell) to HMMMMM.....what DO I want to be done with me when I die?

I always told B that I wanted to be cremated and sprinkled partially in Barnes and Noble, partially in the Nordstrom's show department, but we all know he isn't going to go to the trouble to hit up two different places with my ashes and bone fragments, so I'd better just condense it as best I can.

And then I realized my death dream. I want to be cremated. I want to be dumped in a freezer bag. I want to be driven to the Ocoee River, sitting in the passenger seat of somebody's car, with "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" blaring on the radio, I want to be put in a raft (preferably with MT), and I want to be sprinkled all the way down the river, particularly in the middle section. It's beautiful there, and peaceful and spiritual. It's the closest to Heaven's Door I've ever come.

The EPA and all the other rule-making groups, be damned. This is what I want, and this is what I shall receive. Yes, I will. (Side note: Afterward, I expect all those present to go to the Ocoee Dam Deli and have sweet potato fries, dipped in honey mustard, because that's how I like them best. I also hope that someone from the Ocoee Dam Deli reads this and sends me a certificate for a lifetime supply of sweet potato fries, although now that I think about it, that really isn't that helpful because they are only, like, $2 and I only get in to Tennessee about once a year. Sigh.)

Just dump me in the Ocoee, bitches.

Friday, September 3, 2010

The Undead

FOREWORD: I would like to dedicate this blog to Ro, with whom I was accidentally swapped at birth, albeit twelve years apart, and for whom I will always be ready and willing to make a Princess Bed in order to bring her good cheer. You are likely my biggest blog fan (see pink roses for reference) and I will always love you like my little sis.

So, as you can see, I didn't die. I mean, I wasn't planning to die or trying to die, but I HAVE been AWOL (again) for a while, so I thought perhaps some of you were thinking (hoping) I was dead.

I'm not.

A lot has happened this summer, per the usual. We've been to the beach house twice. I trekked to Tennessee, inherited some dominatrix gear, and rafted the river with my sweet MT. My E moved away, my Ray launched her website, and I got stood up for a drink for the second year in a row by a good friend whom I was really looking forward to seeing. I inherited a plane, yelled at a preschool director, and gave up my hopes of moving to San Diego within the near future. Yeah. That hits the high points. Now you're caught up.

However, none of that was worthy of pulling me out of my blog avoidance and spurring me back into writing mode. It takes something monumental for that--something that entertains me and fulfills me so thoroughly that I can't help but share it with the world via my (incredibly awesome) written words.

Two nights ago, I was finally inspired (and chastised by Ro), to write again. It all started with the trashcan.

You see, Thursday morning is trash pickup. On Wednesday night, I make the rounds through the house--bathrooms, bedrooms, playroom, kitchen, etc.--gathering up everything that needs to go. I bag it up, take the can out of the garage, and walk it to the curb. (Side note: I am proud to announce that this week, the McPhail family produced two small bags of trash. Our recycling can, however, runneth over. We're saving the world, one oatmeal canister at a time.) I usually do this around twilight (I love that word, and not because of the stupid books), when the neighbors are out, sitting on porches and watching kids play, having post-dinner cocktails, tiki torches lit, unwinding as the world twirls by. It's routine. I'm a girl who is all about routine. This is how I roll. Routinely.

This past Trash Day Eve, as I was strolling out to the curb I noticed that the Dad across the street was sitting outside, drinking a beer with his brother-in-law, and watching his toddler play in the driveway. A perfectly normal evening. Except........hmmm......something was not quite right. I looked closer. Toddler was playing with a ride-on car, inherited from Sutt who had outgrown it. As he wandered along, he pushed the car with one hand, and in the other hand he clutched something weird. What was that? Hmmmm.....yes....I think it's..... a bra. Yes, indeed. He was carrying a bra. A largish- D-cup-ish, nude satin bra. Fascinated, I watched as he dragged the bra along the concrete, picking it up from time to time to shove it in his mouth and suck on it a little around his pacifier. It appeared to be a push-up, the kid had a death grip on it, and my curiosity was peaked.

Interested, I did what every normal neighbor would do. I stared for a while, then shouted across the street, "Hey [neighbor]. Did you know [Toddler] has got a bra?"

Neighbor took a swig of his Budweiser and wiped off his mouth. Then he sighed. "Yeah, it's his security blanket. He doesn't have a Blankie, he has a bra. He takes it everywhere."

Silence all around.

Fucking awesome.

When my children were little, they had lots of things to which they were attached. Belly had Bun-Bun (a pink bunny/blanket that Ya put in her NICU bassinet when she was born), Green (a monkey/blanket), Roberta (a pink gorilla from her Papaw), and various other items. Sutt had a stuffed Buzz and Woody, Curious George, and a beagle (stuffed) that he named Power Ranger. They both had pacifiers. Nobody ever had a bra. Or any other kind of lingerie, just to be fair. At least, not to my knowledge.

After a moment of consideration, I yelled back to Neighbor, "You know this doesn't bode well for his teenage years, right?"

Another swig of Bud, "Yep. We're counting on some trouble."

[Toddler] squealed and shook his bra in the air.

I said it before, I'll say it again.

Fucking Awesome.