Monthly Archives: June 2012

Say It! Say It! Say It!

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I have said this before, but it bears repeating…

Sometimes I just can’t control my own ornery.

I try (some days I try harder than others) to act civilized and “normal,” but there are times when I just let it all hang out simply because it feels good.  Plus, it makes me feel closer to (Ma) Kettle.  That’s my mom’s mom who died from cancer two years ago.  She was the Queen of Letting Your Freak Run Around Unchecked and Unfiltered.  Admittedly, she could be totally embarrassing in public but that woman was fun and funny as hell.  And I sure do miss her.

“If you don’t like it, you can go shit in your hat!”

Anyway, I was at my home away from home the grocery store last week stocking up on items I buy in bulk that don’t fit in the cart during regular orders (10 or so cases of flavored seltzer water, a mega-pack of toilet paper and paper towels, 2-for-1 bottles of vitamins, multiple giant bottles of wine… essentials for the apocalypse).  I packed my cart to the brim and I headed to the checkout.  Being the frequent flyer that I am at this store (back in college a dive bar called Cavanaugh’s was my Cheers, now-a-days the ghetto Kroger is where everybody knows my name… sigh), someone scrambled to open a lane just for me.

I actually did not recognize the clerk who was giving me the red carpet treatment.  He was definitely new.  But he ran his lane with mad skill and had me through in a jiffy.  As I was whipping out my credit card and preparing to swipe it he told me to hold up, as his register was spitting stuff out like it was a married Jewish girl.

“Ooooh!  You got a lot of coupons today,” said the newbie.

“Oh yeah?  Anything I can use right now?”  I asked, unimpressed unless there was.

He examined the paper strip with feigned intensity.  “Mmmmm… I don’t really know you (as he looks back at all the wine and TP) but you seem like you would probably buy Lunchables.  And you’re a girl, so you can definitely use this last one for… you know.”

Insulted by his insinuation yet intrigued by his phrasing, I push back.  “I know what?”

I look at the coupon that I now presume is covered in anthrax because this guy won’t even touch it with his bare hands.  It is a coupon for tampons.  Harmless, little cotton tampons.  And just the thought of them is freaking this guy out.  My ornery is just begging to come out and play.

“Tampons,”  I say boldly.  “Can’t you even say the word?  Tampons, tampons, tampons.”  My voice is getting louder.  Several nearby heads turn in the direction of our lane.  “It is 2012.  You are a grown-ass man.  You have got to be kidding me,” I whisper-yell.

“Shhhhhhhhhhh!  You don’t have to say it!” he whisper-whispers back at me as his face turns the color of a baboon’s butt.  “Stop saying that word!”

I figure that I have embarrassed him just enough to retaliate for the pre-packaged-kids’-lunch-box-product comment, but I insist on adding one more thing.  “So you’re single, right?  (He glares back at me but I see from his reaction that I am correct)  Well, you will never get a real, live girlfriend if you can’t even say the word ‘tampon’ out loud.  So here’s your homework for today… when you get done your shift you’re gonna get in your car and drive home.  I want you to say the word ‘tampon’ over and over and over for the entire trip.  Tampon, tampon, tampon, tampon.  It will be good for you.”

I then go out into the parking lot and unload my cart full of goodies.  During my own car ride home I proceed to chant not only “tampon, tampon, tampon” but also “penis, penis, penis” and “vagina, vagina, vagina” for good measure.  I like to keep my reflexes sharp, you know.

When I got home I unloaded the car and went upstairs to take a shower before I started making dinner.  Ironically enough, it was then that I realized that Aunt Flo had come for her annoying monthly visit.  And guess what was missing from my bathroom cabinet?

I wish this post was in color so I could end it with a big red period.  More than that, I wish I had used that stupid coupon.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

More Than Words

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

It was August of 1991 and I had just driven myself in my awesome Honda CRX down I-95/ 695 around Baltimore and then Westward, Ho along the I-68 into Morgantown, West Virginia.  I had spent the past three years rebelling against my strict parents by pissing away the $16,000 a year they were spending on my private college education.  I think during my final semester I was registered for three classes totaling 9 hours and I got a C, a D and an F on my report card.  Stellar work, genius.  But I sure had fun!

Actually, I did not have that much fun.  I was lost and trying to figure out who I wanted to be.  And I had no freaking idea how to do that.

I transferred to a different, much less expensive college that accepted such impressive transfer grades (fortunately I had a decent high school transcript), and hunkered down to actually get a tertiary education.

Now, I do not know if any of you remember West Virginia University and/ or it’s reputation in the early 1990’s.  Suffice it to say that the town was just beginning to come down off the high it brought to an entire state with superstar quarterbacks (and Heisman Trophy candidates) Jeff Hostetler and Major Harris.  There were endless stories of burning couches being a staple at the end of all-night or, more commonly, all-weekend block parties on Sunnyside.  The rumors and urban legends ran wild and almost every one involved raucous partying and drinking and almost unbelievable stories of ridiculous behavior.  I may have even attended one or two events that were remnants of the good ol’ days in my first days and weeks in Morgantown, but the locals lamented that it just wasn’t quite the same.  Many reckoned it never would be again.

Fortunately for me that was true, at least during my time there.  I needed to focus on studying for and passing my classes, not partying like it was 1999 (which was still cool because it wasn’t yet).  But I still found time to attend football games just down the stadium access road that meandered past my apartment.  I was earning a liberal arts degree – not training to be a nun – for goodness’ sake.

On one such Saturday (September 14, 1991, to be exact) South Carolina was playing at West Virginia.  My roommate and I held a small pre-game gathering in our apartment and then we eased on down the road with our friends to watch some football.  The way that WVU tailgating worked back then was pretty standard… there were rows upon rows of cars and trucks and trailers and tents set up with varying degrees of food and drink awesomeness for the enjoyment of the masses.  Fans would make our way down the access road and stop whenever we saw someone we knew to exchange pleasantries, meet new friends and partake in said food and drink.  It was under these magical conditions that I met Sheepdog.

He and his friends were running a keg about halfway to the stadium.  My friend knew him from high school days so we stopped and said hello.  Sheepdog smiled and offered me a solo cup and then he introduced me to his redheaded girlfriend.  My friends and I moved on.  WVU won that game 21 – 16.

A few days later I was taking a shower in my apartment and I walked out of the bathroom, through the common living area that lead to my bedroom.  I was honestly quite surprised to find Sheepdog sitting on my couch.  I was wearing nothing but a towel, which was surprising to no one.  He claimed to be there to “reconnect” with my roommate’s boyfriend, but I was no dummy.  I put on my best jean shorts and fluffed up my Jersey hair as big as it would go and we all went out to a bar called The Underground.

Immediately after that, the redheaded girlfriend got her walking papers.  Being emotionally immature (and chronologically immature… I was only 20 years old), I kept trying to push him out of my life.  But, damn if that boy was not tenacious.  We did the most logical thing and got engaged a few months later.

Our parents were actually supportive of the union (especially since I didn’t seem so lost anymore), as long as we waited to get married until after we had graduated from college.  Our WVU Graduation was in May.  We got married one month later, on Saturday, June 19, 1993.  We were both twenty-two years old.  And I wasn’t even pregnant.

Our wedding was a super fancy fairy tale. The horse even had a bag to catch his poop.

Today marks our nineteenth wedding anniversary.  I write that with such pride and joy that I almost want to use smiley emoticons.  But not really because they are so stupid.

There were times that we almost didn’t make it.  There was even a time before we had Kids D and E, when we had decided that divorce was the right option for us and Sheepdog planned to look for an apartment just after the holidays.  Then we had the most relaxed, fun Thanksgiving and Christmas break with the girls and with each other and we decided we were even dumber than our decision and we needed to fight to make our marriage work.  So we went to more counseling and we learned how to communicate better and listen better and how to just be better to each other.  We worked hard but we were also very lucky.

We are lucky to have found each other and lucky to have so many fundamentals in common.  We are lucky that we are both so very stubborn.  We are lucky that we are yin to each other’s yang and our parts fit together well.  And we are so lucky that we still like each other after all these years.  At least most of the time.

Cheers! to the most awesome wedding song ever. And to this timeless headpiece.

But the thing that I feel luckiest about is the wedding song that we selected to dance our first dance together as man and wife.  While our contemporaries were swaying to Real Love by Mary J. Blige, Can’t Help Falling In Love by UB40, and Nuthin’ But A “G” Thang by Dr. Dre, we chose a quirky little love ballad by the heavy metal band, Extreme, called More Than Words.

Family and friends, and even the emcee/ deejay during the ceremony, made fun of our choice.  I guess they wanted us to pick something more mainstream, like Knockin’ Da Boots by H-Town.  But we went our own weird way with it and – like our marriage –  it has stood the test of time.  More Than Words has become a kind of a classic.  I hear it all the time while I am out running errands, in elevators, in doctor’s offices, in the grocery store.  Every time I stop what I am doing to bust out the best lyrics of the song… “Hold me close don’t EV-AH let me go!”  And every time it reminds me that I am a very, very lucky girl.

Happy 19th Anniversary, Sheepdog. xo

Safe (Whew!)

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

This is my fair warning to you all… Kid A has gotten her driver’s license.

Against all odds (and by “odds” I mean the fact that she usually drives ten to twenty m.p.h. below the posted speed limit and she hit every. single. one. of the cones during the parallel parking portion of the road test), my first-born now holds a Class D Provisional License from the State of Georgia.  I am frightened.

I have already reconciled the fact that learning how to drive and getting a license is a necessary right of passage for any human being who wants or needs to get anywhere in life.  I know this because I spent a lot of time considering which major cities she could possibly live in that employed practical and accessible mass transit options.  Then she wouldn’t ever have to drive.  Yay!  Problem solved.  And despite Sheepdog setting a really great example of how you can get almost anywhere using two wheels plus public transportation, Kid A was not having it.

I have also reconciled the fact that (even though it may be my deepest, darkest wish) I can not control everything.  My children will grow up.  They will fall down.  They will succeed a little and fail a little.  And some, if not all of them, will get into accidents while driving.  Shiver.  Here’s to hoping for fender benders and nothing worse.

Girl drivers rule! Marcia sure wasn’t the one who hit the cone and broke the egg. Enjoy your omelette, Greg!

The day of Kid A’s driving exam was looming and I was still struggling with the fact that she could be legally behind the wheel very soon.  She was continuing to improve but her driving skills were spotty at best.  She would have really good days and then she would cut off four people in under a mile.  She was super confident from all of her practicing, while I sat helpless in the passenger seat.  By this point I had gotten my gasps and sighs under control because they just made her more nervous.  I know this because she mentioned it once or twice (or 3,077 times).  So now at least my silent clenching muscles were getting a really great workout.

It was decided that it would be best for everyone involved that Sheepdog take her to the Department of Driver Services on the day of her scheduled exam.  It was also decided that she would be solely responsible for gathering the required paperwork for said exam.  She had been practicing for months and was taking the road test in my mom’s car (a nice and safe 4-door sedan) because she couldn’t drive a manual transmission (Sheepdog’s car) and she was very uncomfortable driving the XL SUV that we use to cart around the whole family plus luggage on trips.

So it is the day of the test and Kid A and Sheepdog head out of the house as the rest of us yell, “Luck!”  But after several minutes they are both back inside the house, scrambling and worried.  During a last-minute paperwork review it was determined that the insurance card for my mom’s car had expired two days prior.  The premium was paid in full, yet the DDS would accept nothing less than current proof of insurance, which we did not have.  I proudly refrained from calling Kid A a dumb ass for not realizing this sooner, although I thought it really loudly in my head.  I also thought that it was the universe’s way of telling her that she wasn’t ready to get her license and I breathed a sigh of relief that she would not be driving alone, at least for a little while longer.

But, no!  In a bold move, Kid A said “Stick it!” to my universe theory.  She was stubborn and proud and confident and determined to get her license on this day.  She climbed behind the wheel of all 222.4 inches of our Yukon XL (which she had only driven once more than a year prior, swearing never to wrangle that beast again) and headed out to take her test.

I wasn’t even a little surprised when I got the call from Sheepdog that she passed.  She is a very safe driver and she continues to get better every time she goes out to practice.  And she showed us that she can handle pressure with grace and style by the way she stepped up and drove a completely unfamiliar monster vehicle (c’mon… it’s almost a bus for all intents and purposes).  I mean, she should have earned her commercial driver’s license after passing in that thing.

It has been several weeks since the test.  She even has her own car now.  It is much more reasonably sized and very safe (with something like 72 airbags inside, to make her mother feel better).  She has improved exponentially since she started driving alone, so I feel a little better about letting go of control.

But not totally… she still has to text me when she gets where she is going.  So now I anxiously await the “Safe” message from both Sheepdog (after he rides his bike into work) and Kid A every time I look at my phone.  I see those words and I unclench, at least until the next time.  Baby steps, folks.  I’m a work in progress.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…