Something for Stephanie to Laugh At

I didn't go to work today. I had an OCD moment while I was getting ready for work. I simply had to stand on a stool and clean the uptake vent in my bathroom. Why? Who knows. I just have these cleaning moments when all else must take a backseat to include bleeding kids, something on fire in the kitchen, my bus coming to pick me up for work, fire alarms, etc. This was one of those 'urgent' moments when the vent HAD TO BE CLEANED RIGHT NOW! Something in the vein of "No more wire hangers......ever!"

In all my maturity and wisdom, I thought it would be quite alright to stand on my toddler's little step stool and pull out the vent, rinse off and replace. Easy enough, yes? No.

Spent about 5 hours this morning in the ER. I fell backwards ON MY BACK onto the side of the rub. NOTE: I just had lumbar decompression and fusion surgery in August. Anyway, good news is that all is fine; no slippage of any of the pins/rods in my back, no additional herniations, no trauma to my kidneys, colon, lunhs, blah blah. Bad news is that I'm sore as hell and bruised up like I've been in a bad biker bar fight.

Too bad Steph isn't here to be amused at my bruising. Sounds sadistic, which she's not. But as long as I'm okay and badly bruised - it's a good day in Toad's life! :)

Fatima-in-pain

The Two-Headed,um, I mean Red-headed Sister

Good night Irene. I should have had brothers and sons. They're not petty. At ALL. (Unless they're gay and then it's okay). So, when my evil twin, Skippy, (that's my sister, and no she's not even a twin) read the lovely diatribe I wrote about my girls, do I get a "Oh! That was just beautiful?" or "It brought tears to my eyes," or "What a wonderful thing to put in writing about your daughters?" Hell no. It was "Well? Where's my tribute?" Oy vey. It's all about me, me, me. We're kind of alike in that way. No brother would have even read Fatima, let alone asked for his own story.

So, bear with me as I stroll down memory lane. Unlike many only children who would like to stay that way, I was unusual - surprise, surprise. I wanted to be normal, and normal families had tons of kids, especially all my Catholic friends. And all I wanted was ONE lousy sibling. Just one! Do ya think you could just spit out one, God? For the love of God (no pun intended). And then finally. I was 10 years going on 38 when she was born and I immediately nick-named her Bookie. No idea why. My first impression was that she looked like an American flag. White skin, blue eyes and red hair. What the hell? I loved her immediately, but I kinda wanted a mini-me; brown eyes, light brown hair and light brown skin; tans up pretty well; tall. Oh well, that lasted about a day or two until I figured out that just wasn't gonna happen. And then all the relatives kept on and on and on about the red hair - like they'd never fucking seen red hair before!!! Did they go on and on about my baldness and then the tufts of mousy brown hair I managed to grown when I was finally two? I think not. But I don't remember - I'm just going to assume they didn't.

Our mother never was, nor has she ever been even slightly hippie-ish or an earth mother, but for some torturistic reason she insisted on using cloth diapers for Bookie - even tho the plastic ones where out then. Why? I guess she thought I'd love washing out baby shit in the toilet, over and over to the point of puking and swearing I'd never ever have rugrats - or at least if I accidentally had kids, I'd give them a lot of cheese and bananas and then they'd never shit.

Bookie was fun, and more importantly a good sport because me and my father played innumerable tricks and pranks on her. We put life-sized tarantulas in her dollhouse, threw blankets over her head when the poor little thing was trying to learn how to walk and then howl when she'd walk into a wall. Nowadays, I think they call that child abuse, but I think we're well past the statute of limitations on that. We'd let her watch "Fantasy Island" which scared the be-Jesus out of her every Friday night. I would always make the big mistake of laughing at her and making fun of her, so mom would then let Bookie sleep with me. Thanks mom. I also tricked her into getting me things I was too lazy to get myself (no wonder I'm lazy), Mom made me take her EVERYWHERE I went so that made it a little trickier to score, uh, unmentionables when you're 16 and you're toting your 6 year old sister with you. My friends thought it was hysterical. I did not. There was the one time she so innocently wanted to see the high school I went to. So I took her. And locked her in my locker. OMG. If anyone did that to one of my kids, they would get their asses kicked pronto, but I don't really remember that fact getting back to mom and dad, so I'm sure I either had to bribe or threaten Bookie. It's amazing now that she'll even walk into an elevator - you should have heard her scream in that locker.

In addition to all the silly pranks, she was my little buddy. My parents let me watch her a lot - in fact, I think a little too much as dad was climbing up the corporate ladder. We were only 10 years apart, but let's face it, a 14 year old doesn't exactly know what to do in a crisis situation. However, we both made it through, like most of us did. We hung out and even with a 10 year age difference, we kept each other company. Me telling her the clothes that matched her babydolls, and her telling me the clothes that matched me! We watched cartoons and I made her watch I Love Lucy and Gilligan's Island even tho she hated them. She'd ask stupid questions, like "if the professor can do this or that, then why can't they get off the island?" I believe she was 5 or 6. So for punishment for her steadfast logic at everything, I used to let her stand up in my car and hang out the sun-roof! Oh, my. I almost faint with "what could have happened if we were in an accident" daydreams.

Time marched on - she played soccer, was a child prodigy, read 24 hours a day, always made straight A's, knew about shit at 13 that I still can't even pronounce, went to MANY years of college - in fact I think she has 3 or 4 degrees of some sort and is now an attorney. She also happens to be married to a hunk, although I can't really think of him like that, because, well, it's just not right. She has a sharp, quick wit - not to outdo mine - but it's not bad all things considered. And, she's beautiful. Her hair turned into a strawberry blond, she still has fair skin, and light cerulean eyes with dark edges - the kind most girls dream of having.

I'd like to take just some of the credit away from our "Fairly Odd Parents" and hope that some of Bookie turned out the way she did just partly because of yours truly. Enveryone needs at least one bad influence in their life.

And my sentiments toward her are the same as our daddy's would be if he was still alive to say: "I'm very proud of you kiddo."

Bookie - I love you.........even tho you still have that damn red hair.

Sister Fatima

Skinny Bitches

I hate skinny bitches. Never have liked them. Never. And I'm not talking about the ones who really eat right and exercise and lift weights in order to have their disgustingly in-shape, hard bodies. Those women must be admired and commended. Hard work should always have value. I still don't like them, but I admire the time and effort they put into their health.

I'm talking about the skinny bitches who eat junkfood constantly and only exercise when they're walking from their front door to their car, and still only weigh 110 pounds and wear a size 1 or 3.

And the things they say send me righ through the fucking roof:

• I forgot to eat lunch.........(WTF? I never forget to eat. Ever)
• Oh, I eat a LOT. I just don't seem to ever gain any weight. Giggle. Giggle. (No, you don't. You throw it all up later, you skinny bitch. What? Do we all look stupid to you?)
• I was so busy, I didn't have time to eat (There's ALWAYS time to eat. Reschedule that meeting with your attorney or your tax advisor, but for God's sake, at least get to a drive-thru and eat and then go to your meeting with ketchup on your blouse.)
• Oh, I just stay so busy all the time. I guess that's why I don't ever gain weight (I usually go into a homicidal rage here and must walk away. Right..........like the rest of the world just sits at home in a closet all day. Like we don't have jobs and kids and shopping and soccer and ballet and yoga and meetings and walking the dog and errands and house cleaning and business trips - only YOU do, and therefore that deems you so busy as to weigh only 100 pounds!)
• No cake for me; I'm trying to lose that last 5 pounds. (What last 5 pounds? You only weigh 105 pounds - what part of your body are you trying to lose? Your eyeballs? Then you'll be happy?)

Stupid, stupid, stupid, unappreciative bitches.

Well, at least I'm not bitter!

Peace!

Fatima