Category Archives: Adventures with Dear Sweet Mama

Saor Alba

Full Disclosure:  I am, on my Poor Ol’ Dad’s side, a bloody Jacobite — as Scarlett O’Hara said, “run out of Scotland with Bonnie Prince Charlie…”

Of course you KNOW I’m watching “Outlander” — #1, I’m a huge history nerd and #2, I read the books back when they came out (and am reading them again).

Leaving aside my personal name for the series: “Everyone in the Known World Wants to Fuck Jamie Fraser” (if you’ve read the books, you get it, and if not… well, I give you this:)

Lord, that lad is FOINE!

Lord, that lad is FOINE!

… so at least you’ll understand why I gladly count myself among the “Everyone” — GREAT casting, by the way!

But anyhoo, I can’t help but find it hysterically coincidental that this series came out just as Scotland is voting on independence.  So, Dear Sweet Mama being just as much a geek as I am, we found ourselves transfixed as all get out at the idea.  So we got to talking about it at the Bob Evans.

What?  Where do YOU discuss global politics?

So far, we’ve been able to discern 3 major points of contention in the matter – these being what the rest of the world (i.e., not Scotland) seems to think ought to matter:

  1. WHO GETS ENGLAND’S NUKES???  Um, England does.  They’re England’s nukes.  But they WILL need to be makin’ an arrangement about the back rent…
  2. WHAT KIND OF MONEY WILL THEY HAVE?  I’d guess whatever money they want, euros, pounds, whatever.  Although I do have to come down as strongly against going back to the Live Pig Currency Standard.
  3. THE DEBT??? WHAT PORTION OF BRITAIN’S DEBT SHOULD SCOTLAND HAVE TO TAKE ON???  This one I’m quite clear on.  NONE.  That debt was paid at (and after) Blar Chuil Lodair.

So, for what it’s worth, I say saor Alba.  And while we’re at it, tabhair Eire ar ais go dti na hEireann.  And am ddim Cymru, if they like.  The time has come.

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Bar Lessons – Stone Pony Edition

Last Friday, Dear Sweet Mama and I ventured to the legendary Stone Pony to see one of her favorite bands, Black 47.  And Bar Lessons ensued.

STONE. PONY. BITCHES.

STONE. PONY. BITCHES.

1.  These kids today, they don’t dance, they don’t even sway… they just stand.

2.  Drunk white chickies don’t know from an Irish jig.

3.  When you do a jig in their general direction, they become frightened.

4.  The lead singer of Black 47 may in fact be a leprechaun (he’s SO WEE!)

5.  Whoever it was that reviewed the Pony online and raved about the food was VERY. FUCKING. DRUNK.

6.  DSM is hilarious when hammered (of course, this is not news).

7.  There are jobs out there worse than mine – one of them is Bathroom Attendant at the Pony.

8.  Even while asleep in the car on the way home, Hoody will still keep her finger on the station scan button and play DJ.

9.  3 hours of sleep looks like PLENTY from the front side.  From the back side, not so much.

10.  Last night’s eyeliner looks like hammered fuck at work the next day.

 

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My (Not So) Inner Beavis

As y’all should know by now, my sense of humor pretty much stopped maturing at around age 12.  Age 12 for a boy, in fact.  So I present:

THINGS THAT MADE ME GIGGLE LAST WEEK

1.  This:

Post-it® Super Sticky 4in. x 6in. Bangkok Color Notes, 3 Pads/Pack

Yes, those are Post-It notes that say “Bangkok.”  And yes, just reading the word “Bangkok” was enough to make me snort inappropriately at Staples and say, “Huh huh… Bangkok.”

I also may or may not have spent the rest of the day singing “West End Girls” in my head.

2.  Then this happened:

Dear Sweet Mama:  I’m hot, turn the furnace down.

Hoody Hoo:  To what?  It’s on 72, so 70?

DSM:  How about 69?

HH:  Huh huh…

DSM:  Go to your room.

3. And finally, this:

unnamed

First off, “Beavers… huh, huh…”  And secondly, mine personally is sometimes a nuisance, but I’m told it’s often a boon to others, so go figure.  Eye of the beholder, and all that.

And also?  BEAVERS.

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Dear Sweet Mama Gets All Motherf*cker

Those of you who have been reading me for awhile have probably built up a picture in your head of my Dear Sweet Mama — sweet, Southern and smartassed, slightly dingbatty (I was gonna put “dingy” but that sounds like my Mama is a little bit grimy like a chimney sweep)  at times but overall very Zen and laid-back.  Kinda like The Dude in a dress, if she ever wore dresses.

But there is another side to DSM, a side that is just as real, though not as brightly lit… A DAAAARK SIIIIIDE….

As the people at our local DMV (ok, they call it the MVA here, but whatevs) found out today.

SCENE:  The Counter at the DMV/MVA/Place Where They Do Car Stuff

Hoody and Dear Sweet Mama are transferring the title of the car from DSM’s name to Hoody’s name (‘just wait, there’s a whole big story behind THAT, as well — later post).  DSM is also trying to get a Handicapped placard since she will no longer have Handicapped plates.

DSM:  So how do I get a placard?

Clerk (poor, poor clerk):  You just have to fill out the application and get it authorized by your doctor.

DSM:  But I just did that to get the plate.  Do I have to do it again?

Clerk (who really should have called in sick today):  Well, do you have the note from your doctor’s prescription pad?

DSM:  I had to turn that in to get the plates.

Clerk (who should have studied harder in college so as not to have to work at the DMV):  Ummm…

DSM:  That’s just not right.

In DSM’s defense, that’s NOT right, but you must recognize that DSM was getting progressively LOUDER with every sentence, to the point where the Supervisor had to weigh in:

Supervisor (who will shortly wish she’d gone on lunch):  Now now now…

Hoody:  Mama, chill… (as y’all know, there is a deputy stationed at the DMV to keep order, and Hoody tries not to get aslant of the law, ever since the Unfortunate Incident — no, I’m not talking about the DUI, I’m talking about this.)

DSM:  Okay, okay, but that’s bullshit… mutter mutter mutter.

Clerk (who clearly doesn’t know who she’s dealing with):  I don’t make the rules, ma’am, I just have to follow them.

OH NO SHE DIDN’T

So Hoody had to talk DSM off the Motherfucker Ledge AGAIN, all because Clerk couldn’t shut the fuck up.

Upshot of all this is, DSM COULD have gotten a placard, since Supervisor was able to look up her records, but actually COULD NOT because she already has one.  And in NJ, you can either have a plate and a placard or just one placard.  Because fuck you, that’s why.  And no, even this didn’t help:

DSM:  Well, in New York we could have a placard for each car…

HH:  C’mon, Mama.

And they managed to get out of the office without getting arrested.  The End.

PS:  DSM says if I’m going to tell y’all this story, I also have to share her latest harebrained scheme brilliant idea.  She wants to put an ad on Craigslist offering to share pairs of shoes with a person who only has one leg — by posing as someone who ALSO only has one leg, but on the other side.  Like:  “ISO woman with missing left leg to share shoes with woman with missing right leg, size 7 and a half.  Please see attached for picture of missing leg.”

PPS:  Yes, you read that right.  “Please see attached for picture of MISSING leg.”

PPPS:  And yes, in case you were wondering, this IS why I’m like this.

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Who’s “The Boss?”

It’s a bird!  It’s a plane!  No, it’s better!

IT’S AN ADVENTURE WITH DEAR SWEET MAMA!!!

SCENE:  A Local Restaurant Where We Are Usually the Only Customers.  You Will Soon See Why This Is a Good Thing.

PLAYERS:  Hoody Hoo and Dear Sweet Mama (With A Special Cameo by A Waitress)

(Hoody Hoo and Dear Sweet Mama are having lunch.  A strange “thwup-thwup-thwup” sound begins to resound throughout the dining area)

Hoody Hoo:  What the fuck is that?

Dear Sweet Mama:  I think it’s the heater.

HH:  Jesus, I feel like I’m in Vietnam in here.

DSM:  What?… Oh, like in “MASH?”

(Note to readers:  “MASH” was set in Korea.  DSM’s Daddy (my Dear Sweet Gramps) was IN Korea, so you’d think she’d know that…)

HH:  No, like in “Goodnight, Saigon.”  You know, (singing) “They heard the hum of our motors, they counted the rotors…”

DSM:  Oh, The Concubine saw that on Broadway.

HH: …. OHMYGAWD.  No, “Goodnight, Saigon.”  Not “MISS Saigon,” you dumbass.

Break while Hoody leans over out of her chair and puts her hands on the floor while laughing uncontrollably, all the while sputtering “I’m not laughing AT you, I’m laughing WITH you,” even though DSM isn’t laughing… but A Waitress certainly is as she passes by and pronounces that we are “so much fun.”

DSM:  Well, doesn’t it sound like it should be in it?

HH:  “Goodnight, Saigon.”  Billy Joel.  You know, Billy Joel?

DSM:  Oh, I don’t like Billy Joel.

HH:  You used to play his records all the time when I was little!

(Note again:  Yes, when Hoody was little, she and DSM listened to their music on records.  Unless we were in the car, in which case it was on 8-track.)

DSM:  I did?  I don’t think I did.  If I did, it was only because it was on my dance aerobics music.

HH:  “Allentown?”  “Allentown” was on your dance aerobics music??? (singing again) “And we’re living here in Allentown, and they’re closing all the factories down…”

DSM:  Oh, yeah, I like that.

HH:  “Tell Her About It?”  “We Didn’t Start the Fire?”  “In the River of the Night?”

DSM:  Those are some of my favorite songs!

HH:  THOSE ARE BILLY JOEL SONGS.  “Piano Man?”

DSM:  No, I don’t like that one, I get morose.

(Note yet again:  This is just one of many songs that makes Hoody and DSM morose.  See also “Downeaster Alexa”” and “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”)

(‘Nother note:  “Downeaster Alexa!”  BILLY. FUCKIN’. JOEL.)

HH:  Okay, but I think we can safely say you like Billy Joel.  Maybe you didn’t know who he was.

DSM:  Maybe.

HH:  I think you may have thought he was Bruce Springsteen.

DSM:  Maybe.  But don’t say I don’t like Bruce Springsteen, we’re in New Jersey!

HH:  How can you not like Billy Joel, though?  He was married to Christie Brinkley!

DSM:  Not anymore, though.

HH:  No, not anymore.

DSM:  She probably figured out he wasn’t Bruce Springsteen.

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Lowe’s Cares (No, Really!)

So yesterday, Dear Sweet Mama and I went foraging for Christmas decoration-type things, and we wound up at Lowe’s.  And no sooner do we walk in than one of the sales clerks PISSES. HOODY. OFF.

See, DSM was returning something at the returning-something counter, so I was cart-wrangling.  But when I went to push the cart past the returning-something counter into the store itself, the girl snaps, “Ma’am, you can’t go through there!”

To which I reply, “Well, where do you suggest I go?”  (I know, completely laid myself open, right?  I’ll tell HER where to go!)

And she proceeds to make me go BACK OUTSIDE and around to the main doors to enter with my evil cart.  And Hoody don’t play that.  Plus, bitch MA’AMed me.

So I tweeted this:

“Great, first #HomeDepot acts like assholes, now #Lowes is getting attitude – customer service, motherfuckers!”

Forgive me, I don’t know how to post the actual tweet (pretty not techie, ‘member?).  But that’s not the important part — THIS is:

LOWE’S. TWEETED. BACK.

From @LowesCares – “We’re sry about the cs u rcvd.  Give us opp 2 address.  Send dtails, ur contact info & store loc 2 CareTW@lowes.com.”

Which I have farmed out to DSM, who is much better at getting free shit than I am.  But STILL, yo!  I post an angry tweet, and they respond!  A tweet in which I said “motherfuckers,” no less!

Bravo, Lowe’s.  I hereby dub thee The Official Home Improvement Superstore of Hoody’s Hooligans, LLC.

AND THEN THIS HAPPENED…

HH:  “Fuckin’ Bones.  They ruined my Hodgins-fix with one of my least favorite midgets.” (yeah, yeah, I know, don’t say midget…)(and yes, I love me some Hodgins…)

DSM:  “Which one?”

HH:  “This one:”

MV5BMjA1MjQ3MTQ3MF5BMl5BanBnXkFyZXN1bWU@._V1_

Yes, I used my phone to look up which actor it was that I didn’t like on the ages-old Bones rerun I was watching.  Turns out, his name is Danny Woodburn and I’m sure he’s a very nice man, there’s just something about him that makes me not trust him.  But Mama likes him, and took me to task for my unreasoning hatred.  So all is well.

Still didn’t need him fucking up my Hodgins-fix, though.  Way to cock-block, Danny.

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Twilight Zone

So, here’s the Mike Sorrentino, Hooligans:

SCENE:  INT.: HOODY’S ROOM, EVENING:

Dear Sweet Mama:  Hey, Hoody, could you get my clothes out of the dryer?

Hoody:  Sure, no problem.  Are they dry now?

DSM:  Yeah.

INT.:  LAUNDRY ROOM,  LATER:

Hoody is folding clothes.  DSM walks by.

DSM:  You don’t have to fold them!

HH:  Of course I do, that’s part of “getting them out of the dryer.”  It’s no biggie.

<MOMENTS LATER>

The Concubine walks past the door, sees Hoody folding clothes.

TC:  I had things in there!

HH:  Yeah, I know, I was just folding –

TC:  Are they dry?  Okay.

The Concubine then proceeds to gather up the clothes Hoody has not yet folded, and storm off into her bedroom.

WHA WHA WHAAAAAAAAT?

Seriously, bitch?  I’m not allowed to FOLD YOUR CLOTHES??? Get the fuck over yourself, hon.  It’s called doing you a favor.  And don’t look now, I also switched your wet clothes from the washer to the dryer.  Yeah, I’m such a cunt like that.

Okay, kids:  Discuss.

 

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