The Reincarnation of Shelley Winters

Earlier this evening I was standing out on the deck enjoying fresh spring air inhaled through a cigarette while The Mister was inside the kitchen preparing his dinner. I was way too busy smoking and drinking vodka to help him. Anyway, we were carrying on a conversation through the screen door, and he was telling me about one of his son's latest academic achievements. My husband, who is about ten years older than I, has two sons from a previous marriage. They are a couple of fantastic young men, and even though I've had virtually nothing to do with their upbringing I will be quick to take absolute and total credit for all of their accomplishments. I can take credit I don't deserve like it's my job. All the glory, none of the work. So convenient!

This evening we were discussing his older son, who will be turning 18 in a couple months. Eventually the conversation turned to some of the more practical matters that all parents have to contend with.

"What do you want to do? You should have some input here. You're his stepmother."

"Um, nuh-uh."

"What do you mean, 'nuh-uh'?"

"I don't think I'm really his stepmother."

"I'm his father. You're my wife. I believe that makes you his stepmother."

"He's almost 18! I'm too young, hot, and vivacious to be the stepmother to someone that age. Right? I'm young and vivacious. And hot!"

The Mister then took his dinner and left the kitchen, calling out over his shoulder that yes indeed, I was young and vivacious. I could have done without the chuckling and the snorting, but one step at a time.

Right at that moment I caught a glimpse of myself in a window. I had a drink in my hand, a lit cigarette in my mouth, and a lopsided ponytail on the top of my head. The muumuu I was wearing further enhanced the beauty. The only thing missing was a smattering of pink foam haircurlers and a can of Colt 45.

I ran over to the door and shrieked, "I'm hot, too! Don't forget the HOT, dammit!"

I'm sure he won't make that mistake again.

Why Polite People Don't Invite My Friends and Me to Parties

"Do you think Rogaine works everywhere?"

"What do you mean 'everywhere?' Like, in Nebraska?"

"No, bitch. All over the body. You know, like on ball hair."

"Uh, I don't know."

"If it doesn't, I'm going to invent a drug that does. And I'm going to call it Scrogaine."

I Will Help You Become a Professional Gambler Like Me

Last week a dude at work asked if I'd be interested in participating in the March Madness Bracket Spectacular he was organizing. I was skeptical at first, but once he said that money would be involved I practically choked on my tongue in my rush to tell him that hell yeah I wanted in on this action, bitch.

I've mentioned before that I'm convinced professional gambling is my calling in life, and this NCAA nonsense is right up my alley: no skill or knowledge required. It was like a gift sent from heaven, all wrapped up in angel kisses, unicorn love, and $10's and $20's.

Earlier this evening I gathered all the necessary materials (paper, pen, cocktail) and examined the matchups. The universe was sending me any number of signs regarding whom to select, and because I am full of love for you people I will share some of my knowledge so that you too can be a master prognosticator. You will probably want to take notes.

- Belmont University: Belmont is my alma mater, so one might think this would be a no-brainer. Well, it would be if they were playing Miss Clara's School for the Blind, but since they're facing Georgetown that changes the complexion a bit. We all know that I'm pretty stupid, but I'm not that stupid, so obviously the smart money is on Georgetown. I predict this will be an extremely close game, however. Until tipoff, and then all bets are off.

- Kansas: My dad is from Kansas City, so this would appear to be another sign. But when I think of Kansas all that comes to mind is a bunch of pasty white crackers with spindly little legs throwing basketballs granny-style at the hoop, so they are out of contention.

- Wisconsin: This is the native land of Mother Sparkles, but for our purposes today it's like Kansas except more white and spindly. With cheese.

- UCLA: I was born at UCLA hospital, so how could this not be an obvious selection? Here's how: Until those bastards erect a monument designating that hospital a National Treasure as my birth site they'll get no love from me. You're hearing it here first: they won't make it past round one. Also, they can go blow themselves.

- Duke: Ever since my pretend boyfriend Christian Laettner left, they're dead to me. Count them out.

- Winthrop: That sounds like the name of some dick who would wear an ascot. No way.

- Oral Roberts University: The name says it all. It's a shame for the players, because they've worked hard for this. But that's the risk you run when you attend a college founded by a giant assmonkey. I'm pretty sure God is sick of Oral's "If I don't get four million dollars by Tuesday I'm gonna die!" bullshit. We all know that The Almighty spends the majority of his time dictating the outcomes of various athletic contests, so this does not bode well. Expect them to exit early.

- Gonzaga: Now this one I like. I don't know what a Gonzaga is, but it sounds like a variety of Himalayan mountain goat, and you can't go wrong there. Mountain goats are pretty awesome. They will go far.

So, there you go. The next time I write I'll be buried in the mountain of cash I'm going to win, but don't be hating on me. I have a gift from above.

Free to a Good Home: One Seriously Pissed Messiah

A little over ten years ago I accepted a job transfer from Nashville to The Shithole of the American South. You may have heard it referred to as Birmingham, Alabama. Anyway, moving expenses were included in my relocation package, which meant that I got to sit around in my underwear sipping mimosas while a couple poor unsuspecting bastards boxed all my crap up, drove it to B'ham, and lugged it up three flights of stairs in the Alabama heat.

Once I emerged from my drunken haze and began the arduous process of unpacking, I quickly realized that I had far too much stuff for my cute new apartment. Several boxes -- many unopened -- were unceremoniously stuffed into closets and storage sheds so that I could forget about them and spend the rest of my precious leisure time laying around drinking more mimosas and watching Judge Judy.

I met my husband during my tenure in Birmingham, and after a few years we were able to escape that shitheap of a city and make a break for Nashville. Unfortunately for us I had to quit my job in order to leave, and that meant that we were going to have to move all our crap ourselves. In order to pack up, The Mister had to unpack some of the previously stowed boxes. He uttered some words about "packrat" and "I cannot believe you still have this shit," but I was too busy thumbing through my special commemorative Duran Duran issue of Rolling Stone and trying on my pink and green argyle socks to pay much attention to what he was babbling about.

At one point he pulled a framed Jesus picture out of the rubble. Since I am decidedly areligious he found this strange and asked if I wanted to keep the picture. I took one look at it and told him that it wasn't mine and didn't know where it came from.

"How did it get here?"

"I don't know. I swear I've never seen it before."

"Was it your Grandma's? Maybe your mom put it in with your stuff or something."

"Grandma had lots of Jesus pictures, but that definitely wasn't one of them. Look at it! He's sneering and frowning and pissed off. This isn't a loving, forgiving Jesus. This is a I Cannot Believe You Assholes Crucified Me! Jesus. I would have remembered seeing this. This is NOT mine."

We decided that the picture must have been mistakenly placed with my possessions by the company that moved me down to Alabama, so Cranky Jesus was placed in the Garbage Pile along with the shoebox full of notes from junior high and pink pleather shoes that I last wore in seventh grade.

After arriving in Nashville and unpacking, a horrifying discovery was made: The Scary Jesus picture.

"Did you take this out of the garbage pile?"

"Hell no I didn't. I don't want that. It disturbs me."

"It was in the trash pile. We don't have anything else that was in that pile, so how do we still have this?"

"I have no idea, but put that fucker in a closet. It'll give me nightmares."

A couple years later we moved again, and once more we put Angry Jesus into the trash pile. Predictably, when we unpacked in the new house there he was again.

"I don't know why you want to keep this picture."

"I don't! I hate it and I thought we threw it away."

"Well someone wants us to have it. We've thrown it out twice. It keeps coming back. It's like Michael Myers or some shit."

So here I sit in our house, preparing to move again. I know that somewhere down in the basement Scary Jesus is lurking in a corner, waiting to be thrown into the trash pile so that he can escape again and freak us out some more.

I don't know why Pissed Off Jesus follows us everywhere. Maybe somebody somewhere is trying to send us a message. Unfortunately for us I'm pretty sure that message involves the words "burn" and "in everlasting hell."