What makes Mama worried...

This is meant from a stance of pure, not from-concentrate, love of my mother: Wendy Flowers. If someone hadn't already started the facebook page "Shit my Dad says", I would start one called "Shit my Mother Worries About". I love you, Mom. Stop worrying about me.

One of my facebook friend's accounts were clearly hacked, and when I signed on I had a plethora of stuff advertised from him on my chat, wall, and inbox. Everyone knows the type "Hey, OH MY GOSH, I canNOT believe I am even TELLING you this but I got a new, free penis, and a HUGE Ipod! Click here!" Most people read this and get annoyed, and delete them. Maybe even send their friend a text or message asking them to change their password. My mother, however, saw this written on my wall (okay, minus the penis comment) and my dear Mother threw herself into a state of worry and thought "Oh no, I must contact my daughter immediately. SHE likes Ipods.....SHE likes free stuff....SHE IS GOING TO SELL HERSELF INTO HUMAN TRAFFICKING TO GET THIS FREE IPOD!" I can just see my mother, assuming I would be like "Hey, free shit. Welp here's my social security number, my credit card number, and a free access pass to raping me physically and financially. Now, where's the ipod?"

Here is the jist of the email my mother sent me:

Dear beautiful and perfect daughter than I assume everyone wants to take advantage of,

I posted this live for everyone to read it but decided that it would probably be better just between us so I deleted it. Be careful with that free phone offer - NOTHING IS FREE - it always costs something - like contracts, viruses, etc. I haven't slept in 14 days, because I am laying here worrying about you and your new free 16gb Ipod. I haven't showered, said hi to your Father, or eaten. Please don't fall for this scam. I think, actually, it is Osama Bin Laden, Sadam Hussein, and that odd preacher on TV who puts his hands on people and cures them. All of them working together to take advantage of your sweet nature. Love you!

Mom

Six years ago, my husband at the time and I lived in Moore, and my parents lived in Edmond. I had gone to spend some time with my parents because I was sick, and my mom's cold mom hands always made everything better. My sickness was of a non-sexy gastrointestinal nature.
My mother wanted me to stay overnight, but I had a whiny husband who needed me to come home so I could heat up a pop-tart for him. Here is a script of this awesome evening in 2004:

Mom: PLEASE don't go, Mary. What if you need to use the restroom?!???!!!!??
Diarrheay Mary: Mom, then I will stop at a gas station
Mom: But what if it happens south of 63rd street!!!!??!!!!!?
DM: Mom, there aren't terrorists on 50th. I promise.
Mom: NO NO NO NO NO NO Please.
DM: MOM! I'll be fine, I promise. I promise not to stop at any gas stations with hand painted signs.
Mom: Mary, even 7 elevens and Shells aren't safe on the south side.
Mary: Okay, Mom. Then I'll stop at a 5 star restaurant.
Mom: What if someone's following you!!!??? And I don't think there are any restaurants on the south side. Just gangs and people who want to kill or rape you.
DM: Okay, Mom. Stop worrying. I am sorry. If I had to go, I will just hold it. I am making you a promise that I will not stop at ANY gas station no matter how nice the sign is, or if it's located in Oklahoma's Tijuaniaish districts. None, I will go straight home. Okay? Okay. I love you, give me a hug.
Mom: But if you have to go then you have to go! What are you going to do!??!??
DM: Mom, I will be fine.

DM: Mom, what're you doing?
Mom: I just figured I would cover your seat with trash bags, that way if you have to go, then you can just go!
DM: Let me get this straight....

The thought of me stopping at a well-lit gas station ANYWHERE in the city is so scary to you, that you would prefer me to shit myself in the car that you pay for? What am I gonna tell my husband, who chooses to have sex with me, when I come home covered in feces?

Mom: HONEY! Okay, then just stay here.

DM: Okay, Mom. I'll just poo myself if I need to if it'll make you feel better and calm the hell down. Yep, just cover it with trash bags, that's perfect. Okay, love you too.


There is more of these, however, I did just speak to my Mother and she said "Okay, i'll let you go to sleep." I think if I choose to stay up any longer, it may make her worry that I will get mauled by a wolf tonight in my bed.

It's okay lil scorpion, you've just ruined my life.

I know bits ands pieces of scabby the scorpion's life story has made it to my buddies, but I wanted to have the entire catastrophe in print. So let's start at the beginning, and I promise no details will be spared.

It was a Thursday evening and my kids were fed, bathed, and in their pajamas. They both smelled like good parenting and well-adjustedness. They were both playing on the floor in my room while I frantically folded all the laundry I had thrown on the bed from the dryer. I make a stack for E, a stack for A, a stack of me and husband's loungey/watching VH1 shows/hopefully leading to tearing them off and playing where's the no no clothes, and a stack of clothes that need to be hung up. After I put away all the stacks except for the hanging clothes, because they suck the fun out of my life, I grabbed a stack of hangers off the floor and started inserting hangers in each sleeve. This took some time, so while I did this I talked to my children about the importance of always being calm and cool-headed. You never know when something may take you by surprise, and if you act panicky like a cracked-out schizophrenic 9 year old, then sometimes good decisions are hard to make. They nodded with understanding and went back to playing with their educational toys about Jesus and apples and I grabbed the hangered clothes and travelled to the walk in.

We have 5 bars in the closet for hanging clothes. Here are 4 of them. All 4 of these bars hang clothes that are made for a person with a penis. This leaves me with 1 bar.

I guess we should call it a third of 1 bar. Because husband's ties take up a significant portion of my hanging space. And yes, that's husband's dog sleeping on my Michael Kors shoes. I hope a scorpion crawls into her nose and lays scorpion babies.

Anyways, so you can see how I would be having to cram my clothes into my tiny allotted closet bar, and some of them were sticking out. So, while humming the Sound of Music soundtrack, I pushed the clothes back and smoothed out the newcomers. This is when I turned into a menace to south central.

I felt like my fingertip was the only thing protecting me from Satan in Afghanistan with a 12 foot needle that he just pulled out of the big volcano thing at the end of the Lord of the Rings. I immediately yelled EARMUFFS! to my children (okay that's a lie) and starting screaming obscenities, crying, convulsing, and wanting a twix ice cream bar. I said "WHAT THE FUCKING ASS HAT DEMON WAS THAT?" So I spread the clothes apart, and saw this crawling up my lavender shirt that makes my boobs look like I haven't knocked out a couple of offspring.

This is when things got interesting. My finger no longer belonged to my body. Its pain was too immense and selfishly affecting the rest of my working systems, so I had to disown the finger. Survival mode kicked in, and the finger's gotta go. Before finger goes though, lets go ahead and get that mo fo in a bucket of ice, because, damn. Let's make sure we're screaming, both of the kids are crying, and you're ripping off your clothes without your newly disowned finger, stomping your feet, kicking and wailing yourself around, whirling your hair- which was unfortunate in combination with the newly nakedness- and crying.

K. So E has shit the diaper, but ain't none of us going down on the floor, so she's gonna have to push the rhea against my hip, where she will stay until mommy can get a hold of her life that she thinks is over. By this time, I am sobbing and weeping so hard that I am having an asthma attack. Asthma attack leads me to panic, which leads to this new, fun, rainman kind of dance I started to do in my sports bra and panties. It went something like, step tap, shake out your right ankle, step tap shake out the left, step tap, maybe think about putting on some more clothing because you're scaring the children, step tap, sob, moan throw myself away from any room with carpet and decide the middle of the hallway is best. Randomly I would get spouts of "its on me its on me" and throw Ellis to the wolves while I shook all around and heaved huge sobs in and out.

Little A has taken on the role of the hero. He got his batman sword and tennis shoes on and marched straight back to the closet, where he poked through all my clothes, and then came back with the dramatic news he thought was good but could have gotten his sweet little face crushed :"Can't find him mommy, so don't worry! He's gone! yay! Let's play speedracer..." Then, like Lancelot, he turns slowly with his sword and puts his hand in front of me as though to warn me of my whereabouts in relation to something horribly scary that HE would take care of.

It was this, this sweet little green caterpillar who was here with his bible to represent peace and hope and all oth......

Adrian has annihilated this caterpillar with his sword, fist, shoe, book, hand, mouth, whatever he can to do splatter it as far as possible. It looked like we invented a new form of texturing called caterpillar massacring. Adrian looks proud and says "we got him, mom. You're silly, it wasn't a scorpion, you just got nibbled on by a caterpillar."

By this time, i've escalted. Husband and both parents have been called. Nobody had answered so I'm considering throwing the children in the front yard so they will have a form of safety called "stay the hell away from our crazy naked dancing mama"

Husband calls, he is sending my father over to help until he gets home. He tells me I am acting ridiculous and overreacting, when I really need to be concentrating on keeping my arm above my head so I don't die.

My dad cleans out the closet, can't find anything resembling a scorpion. My mother leaves work and brings me vallium, which made the pants go back on. This was a big step, in my mind scorpions have social events in my pink sweatpants from Forever 21. MY mom is running her fingers through my hair to calm me down and get me to stop step-tapping. She says "They're not aggressive, you just need to stay away" I said "MOM, sob, I WAS HANGING UP CLLLEEEAAAAAANNNN FRIKKIN CLOTHES, how much more aggressive can I get"

Husband comes home and cleans out the closet, I take my third vallium and make him go through the entire closet and floor and bed to make sure that little jackass's family isn't coming back for more of my soul.

Satan's spawn wasn't found for 3 days. I even made him a trap of a wet rag and some of my skin and crushed it into the corner of the closet. He didn't take the bait. I think he found the heaven dome I made for him, stung my skin, drank some water, took a nap, then took off to hide in my bathing suit. Then he and his friends and babies he has laid in sable's nostril all laughed at me.

Inappropriate kegiscations

I am of the idea that vacations are for funness:

I think the recipe for funness is 1/3 cup of fun people, a splash of alcohol, and 186 grams of anorexorizing your life before you go so your stomach is flat.

Some people may look at the, for lack of a better word, man, next to them and think, "I want some romance, someone to look at me in my inappropriate dinner dresses, and to rub oil on my newly anorexiced back. He has a band aid on his zit, and wears joveralls, has too many DUIS to really name, has no redeeming features or characteristics, and doesn't have any dinero. Sometimes, when he gets really mad at me for me being sad when he hit me in the face with a pillow, he breaks up with me. But breaking up makes him sad, and I make him feel BETTER!!!! Yeah...yeah....this is a great idea....let's go ahead and take this lil prince out of the country with me to beautiful Acupulco"

So this female, with her beautiful guns of arms and beautiful exoticness to make anyone wanna do an acapulco cliff dive, takes her (conquest?) to Mexico. They're walking along a street one night after she begged him to stop looking for la pharmacia or el drugdealerio and take her somewhere romantic. She didn't need to be ravished on a cliff, just maybe point to the beach and say something that doesn't involve "bitch" or "money" or ,okay "band-aid", for that matter. I think that would've done her just fine. Mid-whine he interrupts her for a moment only to have a fun little pop into an ACUPULCAN STRIP CLUB (what.I just want to peek at the girls and see what they look like......?) It's a good thing she can find solace and peace in her beautiful Chanel sunglasses, as well as the rosary she brought to be blessed by the local Catholic Priest. She sits outside of La Casa Loca Chica de Nada, holding her beads and praying for a beach bar and a sarong. Shrek gets his glimpse of the senoritas, then escorts her home, romantically pointing out alleys that could be good for catching some peote. (I don't know how to spell peote and I don't know if one "catches" it)

The next morning, they attend a beautiful mass, while my perfect princess is i'm sure impeccably dressed, and her suitor is wearing shorts that are too big, a shirt that is too short, a band aid on his face, and a back pack that is setting too high on his shoulders. In the middle of Agnus Dei, he demands money for a marijuania and pepito sandwich. Okay, maybe just the pepito sandwich. When my lovely asks him to abstain, he crushes her Chanel sunglasses. She sweeps up the chunks and keeps them, and is probably tempted to ask the priest to bless them as well. Our favorite mexican travel companion returns and rubs her shoulders, being loving and slightly churchy. Then they end up yelling at each other and she leaves, her beads will next be blessed by the inappropriate toys they end up laying next to in her romantic getaway-suitcase.

No beach. No tan. No romance. None of her co-kegises. Her highlight of the trip was in the airport in bbbeaaautifull and murderous Mexico City, in a cubicle, for 360 pesos. FHL. Kegis her life choices. Next time Acupulco needs to be with me. The only drug I indulge is sweaty dancing, which I will overdose on EVERY NIGHT while walking around giving anyone back rubs and referring to myself as Maria Flores, doing the thriller dance and moonwalking, and trying to convince any mexican that looks scuzzy that he can "turnnnn your lahf arrrounnnd. yaaa knoooow?"

We love you, friend. May all your inappropriate choices make something better for you than just my blog.

Welcome, Kegis.

Kegis is a word my friend Kelsey’s family came out with. It’s the most wonderful expletive there is, because no one knows it means “look at that ass clown’s hair/shirt/weave/brown teeth/cellulite/braids/job etc”. Because my friends and I were flawless, we felt this word was perfect to yell out loud at people who had something on them we wanted to make fun of, but didn’t want to be mean and whisper behind their back. Example: Kelsey yells “KEGIS!!!!” When we’re at Applebee’s, so we all turn and look at the white girl with the ass-length braids and tight white shorts stained with misfortune, who is racing to the bathroom to roll up her shorts a little more. The Clinesmith family gets total credit for this wonderful word, which has now had the 7 degrees of separation affect, and is known by too many people, some of which we would love to use it on. I, however, take the trophy for using kegis to the face. I like to throw it in conversations with fat naked women in the locker-room at the gym to make Kendal snort. “Hey, did you ladies just kegis the water aerobics?” Sometimes, when intoxicated, and an unattractive lad wanders to our table (which sadly enough never happens anymore because of situations like these) I will ask him if he will buy me a cold kegis. This has been going on for 7 years and never gets old. My friend Taylor started Amanda Kegis. She’s who we refer to when we see a kegis, we can pretend to know her, “Hey, Amanda Kegis, right!?” or we could ask loudly while the waitress tells us about her bowlegged boyfriend and their 3 miniature pinschers, “Yeah, that’s awesome. Hey doesn’t Amanda Kegis work here?” Amanda Kegis now has her own facebook wall and MySpace page, and we use these pages solely to make fun of each other, post embarrassing pictures or videos, or to delete any of those just mentioned that we need other humans not to see. We love to take pictures of kegises. How we do this without getting caught, is we pose in front of the kegis so the kegis whisperer can pretend to take a picture of us, but really shoot the bearded bald man in the Canadian tuxedo talking to one of our hot friends. Kegis is a noun “Lo was a real kegis tonight; she thought the trashcan was her chair”. Kegis is a verb “Kegis you for just kissing the Taco Bell drive thru worker, Mary.” Kegis is an adjective “Kendal’s shirt was seriously kegis; it had musical notes on it”. Kegis is an interjection “Wait, Kelsey, you just puked and rallied? KEGIS” Kegis is an adverb “Then, Carissa kegisly bent over in her dress and we all saw her Disneyworld” If I am going to be a blogger, all my readers will need to know this word and its many uses. It seems like in my previous sentence, that its should be spelled like it’s. If you don’t know why it’s not, then I hope you have some other redeeming qualities, because you’re ugly and stupid.