Chick Parties

I'm not a fan of chick parties.  You know, those parties women invite you to because "It will be fun!"  (Yeah.  Not so much.)  Baby showers, wedding showers, parties where you have the opportunity to buy expensive kitchen gadgets, etc. are just a few of the many chick parties I've been a part of over the years. 

A girlfriend of mine once invited me to a Pampered Chef (PC) party that her sister was hosting. She knew that sort of thing was not my bag, but she urged me to come so that there would be a good turnout for her sister's first time promoting those products.  I reluctantly agreed.  (I'm nothing if not a good friend!)

In case you aren't familiar with PC "parties" (I find that they use that term far too loosely), they are gatherings where someone shows you how to use all kinds of neat kitchen gadgets and cookware then gives you the opportunity to purchase the items.  Typically, women gather to see the products and eat snacks prepared by using the products.

I didn't know most of the women there, but soon everyone was seated in the living room.  The hostess asked us to go around the room and introduce ourselves.  (But wait.... There's more!) Then, we were asked to share our personal experiences with PC products.  Shit.

I looked at my friend and she gave me one of those, "Sorry!" looks that only a good friend who has just screwed up your evening can give you.

When it got around to me, I was about to say, "My name is Kris.  I'm an alcoholic and I'm at the wrong meeting," then politely excuse myself.  But, my friend stared me down, visually begging me to play nice.  Shit.

It was soon clear that I was the only person in attendance taking this event so lightly.  These ladies were hard core.  Apparently, to many of them, a PC party was part rave and part revival.  A couple of hours outside the house and rolling in the joy of elite cookery was da bomb.  I was afraid they were going to ask me to drink some magic Kool-Aid before the evening was over.

I will never forget one chick who told her story....

"Hi!  My name is Betty Sue," (not her real name because while I will never forget her, I can't remember her name for shit) "and I LOVE Pampered Chef products!!!"

Damnmit Betty Sue....  You're killing me! 

"I love, love, LOVE the apple peeler!  It is the BEST!  Oh my goodness!  I use it ALL. THE. TIME."  Betty Sue's exuberance for all things PC was like nothing I have ever seen.  I honestly thought she was going to orgasm while extolling the virtues of that apple peeler.   "It removes the entire peel in ONE STRIP!"  Holy shit! Anyone got a cigarette for Betty Sue???

I'd never seen anyone so excited about an apple peeler.  I wanted to ask, "How many damn apples do you have to peel at your house Betty Sue???"  I wondered if perhaps "apple peeler" was a euphemism for a more personal "gadget." 

Hell, by the time she was finished, I was wondering how I'd made it so many years without a $50 apple peeler.  If it provided me the same satisfaction Betty Sue got from it, damn, I was ready to buy a couple of them.

Thankfully, I snapped out of the trance in time to escape this "party" with only a few, less expensive gadgets.  However useful, I can honestly say that none of them have inspired any type of out-of-body-orgasmic-experience even close to what Betty Sue described.

Sometimes when the Hubs is traveling, I think that maybe I should've bought that apple peeler.... 

Nice Catch

My sister, Nice, her husband, "Jeir" and two kids stayed with Hubs and I over the weekend.  Our niece "Drama" is about to turn five and our nephew "Roo" is eight months old.  (I have given them aliases since I will one day rely on them to sneak contraband into the nursing home for me.) 

After dinner, it was bath time for the kiddos.  I talked to Nice while she ran water into the tub and got Roo undressed.  Lawd, that boy is a chunky monkey.  (It's too bad that chubby legs and fat feet become unattractive as we get older.) Not being able to offer anything to the process, I decided to go downstairs and leave Nice to it.

I made it less than five steps before Nice shrieked, "Oh no!  No!  No!"

I dashed back into the bathroom.  "What happened?!?! What's wrong??!"

Nice was holding a soaped, slippery Roo out of the water with his little bum facing us. 

She yelled, "He's pooping!!!!"

Sure enough, those southernmost cheeks were squeezing out a nugget.

I yelled, "Oh no!  What can I do?  What can I do?!??!"

Nice yells back, "I don't know!!!"

Things kind of happened in slow motion from here....

I had immediate access to a red Solo cup (don't judge) so I lurched forward, thrust the cup under that little butt and caught that turdle before it hit the water.

There was a pause, then Nice and I began laughing so hard I nearly peed my pants!

Hubs and bro-in-law wanted to know what the hell was going on.  We explained and the first thing Hubs asks is, "Why didn't you just hold him over the toilet?"

Well. Shit.  I didn't even think of that.  (Hubs --  The Voice of Reason)

I've had a lot of things in a red Solo cup, but THAT was a first!

Super Power

What if we could choose a super power?  Let's say it's a given that we'd all like to prevent horrible things from happening and heal the sick, so I'm taking those off the table.  The beauty of fantasizing is that we don't have to be altruistic and sensible.  Sometimes it's fun to be selfish and quirky.

My super power wouldn't be flying, spinning webs, or blowing shit up with my mind.  My super power would be much more versatile.  It would mutate to fit a situation.  Let me explain....

Just the other night I was in a Greek restaurant where a very lovely young woman entertained patrons by belly dancing.  Even I have to admit that her bosom was magnificent.  No doubt those babies had a lot to do with the amount of cash that was tucked in her costume. 

Hubs and I both noticed this old dude scoping her out, even walking across the restaurant to take her picture while she danced at another table.  Later, she kindly posed with him for a picture. What does he do?  He pats her on the ass -- twice!  Creeper.  Then, he doesn't even tip her!  The dancer left the room immediately after the picture was taken.

Without hesitation, I would have used my Karma Accelerator Super Power on that dirty old asshat.  KAPOW!  He would have choked on some moussaka then shit his pants.  No one would be the wiser as to how it all happened. 

Pretty super, huh? My Karma Accelerator Super Power would no doubt keep me busy, especially while driving.

In a long line of traffic waiting to get off the exit ramp....  Everyone has gotten over in the right lane and is patiently waiting their turn.  But wait, who's that?  Oh, yeah.  That douchebag who always speeds right past everyone then clogs everything up trying to break in line.  Oh. No. He. Didn't. 

Instead of flipping him off, I glare and fire my Karma Accelerator.  KAPOW!

His fancy ride instantly transports to the side of the road. Every switch turns on, yodeling blares from the radio and all of the driver's clothes disappear.  Each time he tries to turn anything off or use his cell phone he receives an electrical shock to his nuts.

What about people who are chronically rude?  It's like they get their rocks off ruining other people's day.  A lot of these folks are especially prone to "shoot the messenger."  For example, when the pharmacy clerk must tell a customer that a prescription is not covered by their insurance.  I've seen women and men totally unload on a person who was very politely giving them information that they had absolutely no control over.

I'd zap that mellow harshing fucktard with my Karma Accelerator.  KAPOW!  Suddenly, McRudy would only be able to talk like a baby in a tiny little voice and every third sentence would be, "I love you."

"Me not know what you talkie 'bout. You makie me mad. I wuv oo."  That would take the starch out of his or her drawers and lighten the mood for everyone else.

Now THAT would be SUPER!

Diva Demands

Remember back-in-the-day when Van Halen put tour riders in our vocabulary with their demand for a bowl of M&M's with no brown ones?  Well, that seems quite reasonable by today's standards. (Just FYI... A rider is the list of requests that a performer has when making an appearance at a particular venue.)

Lady Gaga's rider includes a mannequin with puffy, pink pubic hair. (Pretty basic, really.)  Mariah Carey reportedly demanded 20 white kittens and 100 doves before a show. (She obviously has "people" to clean up after all that.)

Most recently I've read that Beyoncé will only drink her 69.8-degree alkaline water through $900 titanium drinking straws.  Then, when she has to pee, only red toilet paper will do. (Am I the only one who reads that and thinks, "Ick"?)

Wow.

I guess I am a much more practical kind of gal because I think it would be FABULOUS to have someone fold the clothes immediately after the dryer stops.  I cannot fathom this diva level of pretentiousness.

But, I will try.

When I become a diva...*insert twinkly dream sequence*...my demands will include....

• Bon Jovi music exclusively as I prepare for an appearance -- sung softly into my ear by Jon Bon Jovi as he gives me a massage

• My entourage shall include a sniper to fire warning shots over the heads of approaching Kardashians, clowns, people over the age of five wearing Crocs and Jehovah's Witnesses.

• Tito's Brand Vodka -- NO EXCEPTIONS! -- perfectly chilled by ice retrieved from the bowels of an Antarctican glacier

• Monkeys are forbidden.  (Seriously.  I will totally lose my shit if there are monkeys.)

• Assortment of Someecards framed and hanging against a black fabric backdrop.  Topics should include vodka, stupid people and profanity.

• A photograph of Grumpy Cat smiling

• A basket of warm, crisp (but not so crisp that it breaks when slightly bent) bacon

• Lay's potato chips, original, not baked and ONLY those folded over ones that are the crunchiest

• My delicates must be washed with the tears of Tibetan monks and gently scrubbed against Joe Maganiello's abs. (I'll wash my face the same way -- minus the tears.)

• A pillow stuffed with down from the endangered Hawaiian Coot

• A chunk of the Camel Donga meteorite to serve as a paperweight

 Hey, that wasn't so hard!  Adaptability is a gift.