Ten Organizing Tips for the Busy Stay-at-Home Mom

Ten Organizing Tips for the Busy Stay-at-Home Mom

In this day and age of the two-person-income family, it is hard to believe there are still women in this debt-ridden society of ours who refuse to contribute to the welfare of their families and the tax base of their country. They stubbornly cling to the old ways and continue on with the misguided belief that they are somehow privileged characters who don’t have to do any real work. They insist on remaining "homemakers" to keep up a “good home” and ensure their children are “properly raised”, something a grandmother or maid could easily do in their stead.

It is with great pride and my firm belief that I am always right that I direct this ad campaign at those pigheaded souls performing the frivolous tasks of being supported by a hard-working husband, never having to leave the house unless it is for the self-gratification of driving the kids to and from school, soccer practice, tap and ballet, etc., or taking in the luxury of the cathedral that is the local supermarket, where they meet up with other obstinate housewives to exchange recipes and catch up on neighborhood gossip.

Nay, I come not to bury Caesar, but to praise my own self-righteousness and offer the following sage advice and accompanying sales pitch with these ten organizing tips for the busy stay-at-home mom:

1) Blue #2 pencil, 25 cents. From the blind man who accosts you every morning by leaning on your car door and refusing to move until you buy one or makes you turn slowly in a circle for him while he makes strip-tease cymbal noises by hissing through his pyorrhea-laden yap.  He’s been out to get you ever since you spotted him writing down license plate numbers in his own little organizer. By now you probably have hundreds of these useful, can’t-live-without, organization tools.  Which brings us to…

2) Fake Keyboard Storage Center, $10.95.  Put all of your Blue #2 pencils in this clever home storage component, along with any other mother’s little helpers you may want to keep hidden from hubby and the kids. The ingenious “password” style keyboard combination lock ensures that only you have access to the contents of this most precious of organization problem-solvers.

3) Home-Style Police Blotter, $20.  Keep a record of all your 911 calls and acts of vigilantism at a mere arm’s length with your own handy home-style police blotter. Pre-printed entry-types include description of rapist, time of death, cause of death and whether or not perpetrator was truly blind. Blotter also contains clear plastic “windows” for your digitally printed photos of the crime scene.

4) Old No. 7, $19.99.  This magical elixir has medicinal qualities that far outshine any standard, over-the-counter medication you may find at your local CVS Pharmacy or neighborhood drug store.  Sold in many sizes, the model here is often referred to as a “fifth” and has been used by generations of stay-at-home moms to help organize their families’ schedules and to get them through even the most heart-wrenching of soap opera tragedies.

5) Heart-Shaped Pewter Flask, $37.98.  For those hectic days of grocery shopping, taking the kids to and from school, and to relieve the stress of the anticipation of your weekly Wednesday night beating by your husband and his poker buddies, what better way to stay organized than by carrying some of your cure-all Old No. 7 with you in this beautiful heart-shaped pewter flask. Thick enough to stop a .22-caliber bullet, many busy moms carry it in a breast pocket over their own hearts as a sign of their love and affection for their families.

6) Colt Anaconda .44 Magnum, $2,250.  For those Wednesday poker nights when hubby and pals get a little too rambunctious, this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world and could blow your head clean off.  Just ask hub and the boys a question: Do you feel lucky?  Well, do ya, punks?

7) Slimline Husband-Hole Filler, $63.99.  For those long lonely nights when hubby is working late or out at the gentlemen’s club with The Boys, this Slimline Husband-Hole Filler is just what the doctor ordered for that sometimes-difficult task of getting your thoughts organized.  Curl up in front of the fire with a nice anatomically correct body pillow and a glass of Old No. 7 on the rocks and let your fingers do the walking.  (Apple sold separately.)

8) BFF, priceless.  To truly become organized there is no shame in asking a friend for help.  “Another set of eyes” is sometimes all that is needed to pick up some new ideas and fresh pointers here and there.  Invite a neighbor or an old friend over for drinks.  Break out the Slimline (see #7 above) and wile away the hours just relaxing and doing “girl stuff”.

9) EZ Doze Night Shirt, $49.99.  When hubby gets home from his long night out and finds you entertaining the J.V football team, he may be apt to tuck you into bed for a long uninterrupted night of sleep with this EZ Doze Night Shirt.  One size fits all.

10) Budget-Priced Eternal Rest Organizer, $14.99.  What better place to get all your organizing done than in absolute solitude and utter peace and quiet.  When you catch hubby with the 14-year-old babysitter and life just drags you down, take a fistful of your mother’s little helpers from your Fake Keyboard Storage Center and down an entire “fifth” of Old No. 7 to set your nerves rigidly still.  A more restful peace you will never enjoy. The kids will entertain themselves for hours on end in your absence, coloring, drawing pictures of Daddy and his new girlfriend, and scribbling graffiti on your place of eternal rest and damnation. 

Reasons for Killing a Cat

Reasons for Killing a Cat

Best reason for killing a cat - pure jealousy.

There are literally thousands of good reasons for killing a cat and I'm sure I'll come up with at least 2 or 300. But right now for some reason I can't think of another one.

I'll get back to you....

Alcoholic Quiz

Alcoholic Quiz

Are you an alcoholic?

Comedian Mitch Hedburg once said:

Alcoholism is a disease, but it’s the only one you can get yelled at for having.

“Goddamn it, Otto, you’re an alcoholic!”

“Goddamn it, Otto, you have lupus!”

One of those two doesn't sound right.

So is alcoholism a disease or is it just something I like to do and can quit any time I want to – I just don’t want to?

Recently my probation officer made me take a questionnaire to determine whether or not I was an alcoholic. Below are the questions along with my answers.

It was a pop quiz, so I didn't get a chance to study. Still, I think I did pretty well.  Feel free to take the quiz yourself for positive self-worth reinforcement.

Q: Do you lose time from work due to drinking?

A: Only when I call in sick.

Q: Is drinking making your home life unhappy?

A: Drinking IS my home life. (So to answer your question, no.)

Q: Do you drink alone?

A: Only when I’m by myself.

Q: Do you drink because you are shy with other people?

A: What other people? (see previous question/answer)

Q: Is drinking affecting your reputation?

A: Fuck ‘em, they’re all a bunch of tee-totaling assholes anyway.

Q: Have you ever felt remorse after drinking?

A: Once, when I spilled a pitcher of Bud right after Last Call.

Q: Have you had financial difficulties as a result of drinking?

A: Not since Happy Hour was extended from 3 till 8 pm.

Q: Do you turn to inferior companions and environments when drinking?

A: No, my companions and environments are inferior even when I'm sober.

Q: Does your drinking make you careless of your family's welfare?

A: No, I only spend half of the welfare on drinking. I buy booze with the other half. Whatever’s leftover all goes toward taking care of my family.

Q: Has your ambition decreased since drinking?

A: Who gives a shit?

Q: Do you crave a drink at a definite time daily?

A: No, it happens at different times.

Q: Do you want a drink the next morning?

A: Rarely, but I have one whether I want it or not.

Q: Does drinking cause you to have difficulty in sleeping?

A: No, it causes difficulty in waking.

Q: Has your efficiency decreased since drinking?

A: Only in the sense that it has gone down. Otherwise, no.

Q: Is drinking jeopardizing your job or business?

A: Define “jeopardizing”.

Q: Do you drink to escape from worries or trouble?

A: No, I go to the bar to escape from worries or trouble. Once I’m safely inside, I might have a few beers just to get through the next 12 to 14 hours.

Q: Have you ever had a loss of memory as a result of drinking?

A: I don’t remember. Besides, this is a stupid question. If you don’t remember something, how can you tell if you forgot it?  Hey you know what? How about you go fuck yourself? How about that?

Q: Has your physician ever treated you for drinking?

A: Yes, he made me read about the evils of drinking, so I gave up reading.*

Q: Do you drink to build up your self-confidence?

A: Why do you have to ask so many goddamn questions?

Q: Have you ever been to a hospital or institution on account of drinking?

A: Does a police station count as an “institution”?

Q: Do you often want to continue drinking after your friends say they’ve had enough?

A: Why should I stop drinking just because they’re on their knees vomiting in the bathtub?

Q: When you’re sober, do you sometimes regret things you did or said while drinking?

A: I avoid those regrets by also avoiding sobriety.

Q: When drinking with other people, do you try to have a few extra drinks when others
won’t know about it?

A: Again – what other people!?

Q: Do you try to avoid family or close friends while you are drinking?

A: No, they try to avoid ME, but I always find ‘em anyway.

Q: Do you sometimes have the “shakes” in the morning and find that it helps to have a
“little” drink, tranquilizer or medication of some kind?  

A: Yes, but that “little” drink, tranquilizer or medication never seems to help.

Q: Have you ever gone to anyone for help about your drinking?

A: Shit, only like EVERY night when I gotta tell the old lady to go get me a beer.

Q: Do you drink heavily when you are disappointed, under pressure or have had a quarrel
with someone?

A: No, I still drink normally when I am disappointed, under pressure or have had a quarrel
with someone.

Q: Can you handle more alcohol now than when you first started to drink?

A: By “first started” do you mean since 6am this morning or back when I was 12?

Q: Do you sometimes feel uncomfortable if alcohol is not available?

A: No, I ALWAYS feel uncomfortable if alcohol is not available.

Q: Have any of your blood relatives ever had a problem with alcohol? 

A: Yes – my paternal grandfather, who lived to be 109, drank himself to death.



* (with a nod to the late, great Henny Youngman)

Biting as a Form of Corporal Punishment

Biting as a Form of Corporal Punishment

This picture has nothing to with the subject of this article

The current trend in child discipline in United States culture (with the exception of Mississippi which still uses food as punishment) seems to be to abandon spanking in favor of other methods of corporal punishment, most notably biting.

When I was a kid back in the ‘60s, we got beat on a daily basis whether we needed it or not.

In the morning my mother used to poke, prod and whack us with a wire rug-beater to get us out of the house and off to school, even on weekends and during summer when there was no school.

At night the old man would come home from a long day at the docks (and the bar) and would usually have his belt in hand ready to go before he even came through the door.

There were nine of us kids and even though all of us were in bed by then, he’d still make the rounds to both bedrooms and just flail away blindly in the dark till his arm gave out and he collapsed on the floor. Sometimes you got hit, sometimes he missed and you didn’t. More often than not, you got hit.

Over time we became inured to the beatings. My mother sensed this and it was she who thought up the idea of biting us instead of using the rug beater or the belt.

Well once that biting business started you never saw nine kids move so fast in your life, whether it was getting ready for school or church, or just tending to chores and dressing rabbits.

It was a terrible thing to be bitten like that by your own mother, but I must say it worked wonders and I recommend it even today as a way to get unruly children in line. I don’t care if they’re eighteen years old or 18 months old. I bit my own kids and they in turn now bite theirs.

So go ahead and bite ‘em. Trust me, it works.

I refer you to the book by Dr. Ida Bittem* of the University of New Hampshire, one of the world's leading experts in family violence, including the biting of children. Her year 2012 book compares commonly held beliefs about biting with the results of carefully made studies about the positive effects of biting.

This is a book aimed at the general public. Customer ratings at both Barnes & Noble and Amazon.com are five stars out of five.

* Dr. Ida Bittem, "Biting the Devil Out of Them: Corporal Punishment for American Children," Transaction Publishers, (2nd edition; 2012)

Relations With Marsupials Differ From Mammals

Relations With Marsupials Differ From Mammals

Doing it with a mammal - piece of cake

Banging a mammal – pretty simple stuff, right?  Not so with their Australian brethren, the marsupial. 

Take some of the following advice I received in an email from my pal, Joey (as translated by me from Complex Australian).

One must use caution when doing it with a marsupial.  I know you may be tempted at times to have at a wombat or a cute little koala, but a wombat is a vicious little bastard and even if you do manage to achieve penetration its posterior is made up mostly of cartilage, so the very possible occurrence of losing your manhood to the creature’s vice-grip clacker cannot be underestimated.

And while it is true that the koala is cute and sexually provocative and the scent of eucalyptus leaves on their breath and in their stool is a siren song to the lusty blokes of outback sheep stations, it is not a bear, as some think, at least not the North American bears you are used to fucking.  

If you've got a hankering for kangaroo tang, here’s some first-hand info that will save you a lot a time and pain: Surprisingly, they’re fierce as hell and protect their double-vaginas the way an apostate from Hell protects the Ant-Christ, so you’re better off going after a wallaby which looks enough like a kangaroo to satisfy your sexual appetite, yet are small enough to wrest to the ground without a lot of exertion on your part.  You may also want to try a wallaroo to satisfy your thirst for macropod pussy, as they, too, look very much like a kangaroo, yet are smaller and therefore more manageable.

As with any marsupial, the importance of foreplay cannot be over-emphasized

And speaking of that marsupial double vagina, avoid it at all costs.  They are guarded on either side by two red-cheeked dunnarts that climb up in there at a very early age and live out their lives within the womb of the kangaroo and wallaby alike, and only speak when spoken to. The problem is, one always lies and one always tells the truth and I never could figure out that riddle so your best bet is to avoid the vaginas totally and take the animal in the cloaca as any Aussie worth his damper already knows. And of course it goes without saying, the importance of foreplay with marsupials cannot be over emphasized.

And lastly, this final word of advice: Your best chance to have a naughty with a marsupial without a great struggle and expense of energy is to pounce on the animal about 30 minutes before sparrow fart.  That’s fair dinkum, so don’t chuck a wobbly, mate.  Get yourself full up to dolly’s wax with a brekkie of rasher and cackle berries beforehand, crack a fat and everything will be Sir Garnet, ya bludger.  Do as I say, me cobber, and she’ll be apples. You’ll be waltzing matilda in that hot cloaca and then Bob’s your uncle you’ll be done and back at the billabong before arvo.  Ridgy-didge!

Whether or Not to Wether – A Chilling Goat Story

Whether or Not to Wether – A Chilling Goat Story

e·las·tra·tion    [ih-las-trey-shuh n]

noun

1. bloodless method of male castration commonly used for livestock by banding the scrotum or tail until it drops off.

2. method of castration favored for its simplicity, low cost, and minimal training requirements. (Translation: Any toothless inbred can do it.)

As a joke, I once bought a goat for a friend of mine. When I got to the farm somewhere down in Anne Arundel County, the place was loaded with them.

I picked one out, but I guess the woman and the old stripper-looking guy could tell by my look of "Why do their scrotums appear to be hanging from a Christmas ornament hook?" that an explanation was in order.

"Oh, we always wether the males that we sell," she said.

"Wether?” I asked, instinctively clutching at my crotch.

"Yeah, we wether 'em," she said. "Keep wrappin' rubber bands around them ersters till they 'ventually just fall off."

“Doesn’t that .... hurt?” I asked, taking a slight step backwards.

“Well it sure beats the hell outta biting ‘em off like we used to!” she said, nodding towards Old Stripper-Looking Guy.

Horrified, I grabbed one and started running as fast as I could out through the pasture; running everywhere, nowhere; sort of my own "Silence of the Goats" nightmare.

Throughout my mad dash the screaming was non-stop. Finally I stumbled and fell to the ground, dropped the rubber band, and still, I could not stop screaming.

"Iffin you still want one, that'll be 40 bucks," she said, amazingly standing right beside me. "But I'll be needin' that rubber band back."

So I paid the 40, took my (female) goat, and gave it to my friend who immediately shot it, because that's what he liked to do -- shoot goats.

Anyway, that was the first time I'd ever heard the word "wether" used other than in idle conversation.

Nope, they're not Granny Smith Cheerios folks. If only....

Snakes on a Desert Plain

Snakes on a Desert Plain

I have a friend who is scared to death of snakes, as is the case with lots of folks.  A few weeks ago she was out in her yard doing a little landscaping and recoiled in horror as a she watched a black snake slither under her front porch.  End of landscaping session; start of frantic phone rant session.

“I hate snakes!  I hate snakes!” she shrieked into the phone for five minutes. Then she lifted the receiver and called me.

“I hate snakes!” she screamed again. “I hate ‘em!”

“What happened, did you see a snake or something?” I asked.

“Fuck you! I just saw a big-ass snake crawl under my porch!”

“That was just my pet snake, Reggie,” I reassured her. “Come on!  Show a little backbone will ya?”

Feeling confident that I had satisfactorily comforted her after hearing her final words of, “Can you PLEASE come over here and – ” <click> I hung up.

I have a few snake stories of my own. But most of them are of the "you-had-to-be-there" variety and also of the "dull" variety (no deaths), so I'll only relay a couple dozen of the good ones to you. Here’s one:

When I was in the Air Force stationed at godforsaken Edwards AFB in the Mojave Desert, I saw quite a few rattle snakes. Most of the rattlers I saw were sidewinders, which are very creepy and harder to run from than you might imagine.

I was once put on a week-long detail where about 50 of us were loaded into trucks and traveled about 30 or 40 miles out to a 1920s-era wooden shack in the middle of the Mojave to decontaminate a bombing range. The bombing range was to be converted into a parachute drop and it seems the Air Force didn't want any poor, unsuspecting paratroopers to land on any shrapnel or unexploded ordinance, so they sent our sorry asses out there to step on and remove as much shrapnel and unexploded ordinance as we could.

Anyway, the snakes -- they were everywhere!  Along with tarantulas and scorpions and all kinds of other indigenous wildlife personnel I'd never seen before. Between the various assortments of venom and the hidden, unspent ammo, I was pretty sure I was gonna die.

Well somehow, for some reason, somebody caught a sidewinder and managed put it into a burlap sack. A couple other wing nuts caught two scorpions and put them in a wooden-framed wire cage.  They were placed in the back of a pickup truck for safe keeping.

When we got back to the shack after a long day of bombing range decontamination, it was decided by mob rule that the scorpions needed company, so the cage lid was lifted and the contents of the burlap sack were emptied into it.

What transpired after that rivaled anything ever seen in "Them!" – the rattle snake and the scorpions, mano a mano. The snake coiling and striking and the scorpions grabbing the snake with their claws and stinging it endlessly with their barbed, poisonous tails. It was a hell of a sight. I’m talking PTSD stuff.

Then King Kong showed up in all his full stop-motion-animation glory, ate the snake and both scorpions, then made off with the pretty blonde screaming jeep driver. We never saw her again.

So my advice to all of you is to get out there and crawl under that deck or front porch on your belly with a flashlight and a burlap bag and show a little backbone, will ya?

Brave, PTSD-inducing scorpions "showing a little backbone"

The Hustler

The Hustler

I read "The Hustler" over about a 3-day period this week at work.  The boss was on vacation and there wasn't shit to do anyway. Hardly ever is.  Anyway, that's about the 3rd or 4th time I've read it.  There are some big differences between the book and the movie, as is usually the case, the main one here being that <spoiler alert> Sarah doesn't die.

I skimmed over it again today with a pen and pad beside me.  I did my best Evelyn Wood speed reading job on it because I wanted to see how many times the word "hustle" and all its derivatives appeared.  The book has 214 pages and some form of the word "hustle" appears 72 times.  So that averages out to about, what, once every...?  Hey you're the math genius, you tell me.  On page 160 it appears 4 times: hustle; hustling; hustlers; hustled. 

Now your job is to explain why. 

My daughter came into the room today and asked me why I was reading with a pad and pen next to me. When I told her I was counting how many times the word "hustle" appeared in the novel she said, "You have no life."  I told her to shut the hell up and go hustle us up some grub.  I actually meant to say go rustle us up some grub, but I'm sure you can see how I made that small slip.

I once read something about the inordinate number of times the word "green" appears in the book, "Deliverance," but I can't remember how many or why that was. Or how many times Ned Beatty acted like a sow instead of a boar in that one scene.  Or why the thing about a shark, it's got lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eyes. . . .

Maybe I'll run that down tomorrow.

This scene not in movie -- but should be

Aaron Neville and John Boy Moles

Aaron Neville and John Boy Moles

I wish to hell Aaron Neville and John Boy Walton would take a hint and do something about those unsightly moles on their faces. 

You mean to tell me there's not some kind of laser procedure that would eradicate these evil epidermis splotches? These melanoma-inducing, woolly mammoth freckles; these rotted conjoined fetus covers; these La Brea tar pit-looking voluminous liver spots.

What, they can't make a trip to CVS and pick up some gauze bandages and some vanishing cream?  Makeup?  White-Out?  Paint?

I think I read somewhere – possibly in Variety or maybe the Bluefield Daily Telegraph – that John Boy finally succumbed to his deformity last summer at the age of 55.  It got to where the whole left side of his face looked like a giant tick about to pop and he began to look like he could be Batman's latest nemesis.

And that latitudinous lentigo above Aaron Neville's right eye – why, you could hide the Lindbergh baby under that thing.  You may have noticed Mr. Neville hasn't performed before any live audiences lately or even made any public appearances.  That's because his "thing" didn't expand the way John Boy's did; it extended outward and now very much resembles a Black Rat Snake trying to bore its way into a totem pole.

Perhaps, Dear Reader, you could assist with this tragedy before Mr. Neville's appendage reaches the ground lest he, too, suffers the fate of our beloved John Boy and the many unfortunates afflicted with this same malady. 

Walk-up Robbery

Walk-up Robbery

Typical Baltimore "perp" demonstrating proper walk-up robbery technique

A buddy of mine from down DC way read something in the Washington Post the other day about a brazen walk-up daytime robbery at an outdoor DC café.  He seemed a bit stunned by it all – especially the “at gunpoint” part – and thought enough of our friendship to advise/warn me to “get ready” because this type of thing will probably be coming to Baltimore soon.

Bitch, please.

Baltimore invented the brazen walk-up robbery.  Regardless of the fact that we have no outdoor cafés (brazen walk-ups being the principal reason for that dearth), in Charm City anybody can simply walk into an establishment, be it a bar, restaurant, bus station or perhaps even your home via the marble steps of your squalid rowhouse, and relieve you of your belongings without so much as laying a finger on their gun. They merely lift the front of their T-shirt a few inches, exposing their "chrome" and the deed is done quite simply, with an almost routine elegance about it.

And take note: "belongings" are not necessarily just money.  Could be anything – your watch, your shoes, your coat, your underwear (true story for another time) – any damn thing you have on you.

I can remember a time back in winter of ‘84, I was taking a lovely young lady out to dinner in Baltimore City.  She was looking fine, clad in her stylish, mid-80s rabbit fur jacket and above-the-knee black skirt with matching fuck-me pumps (yes they were also black and above the knee, so not exactly "pumps" I suppose).  I, being the style-conscious fashion plate that I was and still am, was nattily attired in my green, satin-finished USAF flight jacket, faded blue jeans and white Converse high-tops. We were out on the town.

It was a cold winter's night in the city, about 5:30pm and already very dark.  I didn't have any cash to tip the homeless so we had to stop at an ATM along the way.  In Baltimore this is known as "being a fucking idiot." This was somewhere over on the west side, another mistake.  My girl is standing there shivering with cold and, unbeknownst to me, also a little fear because at the time she was witnessing something that I wasn't.

As the money comes out of the ATM slot I hear what she is seeing.  And then, from behind, a man's voice, speaking lowly:

"I'll take that."

I turn slowly, yet coolly, to face the "perp" as we like to call them in B-more. (Actually we prefer using several other terms we have at our disposal, but for this story "perp", regardless of its inadequacy, will suffice.)

I continue to put the money into my wallet, then the wallet into my back pocket…

Now, I will mention again that this was in the mid-80s, back when I was in my late-20s and was still – in my mind – an invincible bad-ass.  I just stood there staring at the guy.  The gentleman robber took exception to this and gave me a look of stunned disbelief.  He was being "dissed", you see; a fairly common term back then, but one that is listed as "archaic" in today's Urban Dictionary, lest you felt the need to look it up.

                                 

Anyway, he stares at me and reiterates.

"I said I'll take that."

I spread my arms a little and say, "So take it."

No gun was shown. It was implied using unconvincing hand gestures, menacing glares, and just really poor, unacceptable body language. I wasn't buying it.  Some other words were spoken, but I can't remember them exactly.  Quite a few "muthafuckers" on his part; me saying some stupid shit like, "You said you were gonna take, so take it.  I'm not gonna just GIVE it to you."  I was daring him to take the money.

I do recall hearing whimpering sounds coming from the general direction of the rabbit fur, but not much else.  Finally something spooked the fucker and he ran off.

We continued on to the restaurant – the Owl Bar if I’m not mistaken – but my date had seemingly lost her appetite and apparently any desire for eye contact or conversation with me.  She had quite a few drinks and just kind of stared into her glass while I performed a monologue about the gaudy décor, openly questioned the gender of the bartender, and Christ why are there so many gay men in here?  I tried to lighten the mood with a Caddyshack-esque comment about jockey whip-marks on the steak being eaten at the table next to ours, but it was of no use.  She was inconsolable – nearly catatonic – the sniveling little twat.

So I drank my usual ten to twelve beers and we left without looking at a menu or each other.  Never saw her again.  This was only our second actual “date”, but I had already fucked her a couple of times in the weeks prior, so all ended well.  Actually couldn’t have planned it any better if I tried.

Pet Sematary and the Banshee Wail

Pet Sematary and the Banshee Wail

Several year ago I was dating a girl who had an extreme fear of horror movies and the number 666 (yeah, she was nuts). I think she had a bad experience after watching "The Omen" or something. Afterwards she apparently suffered from nightmares, night-terrors, oily discharge and a touch of PTSD.

Anyway, one night I somehow talked her into watching Pet Sematary as long as I promised not to “do anything to scare the shit out of me!"  So I said okay. But at no time did I use the word "promise".

I don't know if you've seen it, but there's a pretty creepy cat in that movie. Well this girl I was dating also had a cat.  (I'm setting the stage here, but you already know this because you are all writers and are up on such things.)

So we're well into the movie and the cat and many other things in it are creeping her out. Plus, at my insistence, we're watching it with the lights out, reinforced, of course, by my "promise".

At one point she has to go to the bathroom and actually makes me walk her there (for real).  So I hit pause on the DVD player, walk her to the bathroom and immediately go back to the living room, pick up her cat and hide alongside the doorway.

She comes out of the bathroom, whispering, "Where are you? Where are you!?"  

I don't answer.

She tip-toes to the living room doorway extremely on edge at which point I seize my opportunity as her protector and benefactor and shove her cat in her face while doing my best and loudest "RREEEEERRRRR!!" crazy cat imitation.

Well she screamed. She screamed so loud -- and LONG -- it scared the ever-lovin' shit out of me, too. There were white lightning bolts of electricity shooting through my eyes. My hair vibrated. I thought I was having a seizure. I wished someone would shove a handkerchief in my mouth so I wouldn't bite off my tongue.

It goes without saying the cat went ape-shit. He was flying all over the house, climbing up curtains, wooden bannisters, crashing into furniture and windows. I’m pretty sure at one point I saw him run across the ceiling. What he was saying, of course, was, "Get me the fuck outta here!" 

Just as with an earthquake, it's not so much the jolt of it that does the most damage, but the duration of that jolt. And so it is with the Banshee Wail.  Imagine somebody screaming for 10 seconds. Seriously, imagine a scream and then count off 10 seconds. It was horrifying. And, I must say, rather amusing (after the fact, of course).  Amusingly horrifying. Horrifyingly amusing. You decide.

I think we broke up after that, at least that's what they told me in the ICU when I came to three days later. Least ways, I never saw her again.

But I’ve seen the cat many times: in my nightmares, in my night terrors, and sometimes even in my oily discharge.