Sunday, March 6, 2011

Roaches, Raid, and the Crazy Spidee Dance

Now, I cannot stress enough how much I detest insects and arachnids of any kind. I mean I hate them with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns. I make this statement so y'all will understand the inherent psychological damage that occurred as a result of the incident I'm about to relay to you.

I was still in high school, most likely 9th or 10th grade. If it was any later in my high school career, I would have had a means of escape in the form of my car. So, in a word, I was screwed.

The house in which I grew up was a ranch style home. We used our side door as the main entrance, which opened into a den room. The room right next to the den was the kitchen, and this is where it all went down. My room was at the end of house, and this is where I was coming from when I walked into my worst, unholy insect nightmare. I went into the kitchen to get a snack from the fridge. Innocent enough, right? What could POSSIBLY go wrong? Well I'll tell you.....the biggest cockroach (you can call them palmetto bugs if you want to, that's just another word for BIG FUCKING ROACH!!) I have seen was climbing up the wall. Now, before you get the "ewwww, her house had roaches" thought, remember that I grew up in the south....the DEEP south, and roaches are a fact of life no matter how clean your house is. And my mom was Korean, despite her OCD efforts at maintaining an immaculate home, every time it rained a few roaches would find their way into the house. And when I say immaculate, I mean hermetically sealed. We still had to take our shoes off in my house, part sign of respect, part to keep dirt out. On pain of death did you violate this rule.

Now, back to the roach on the wall. I was paralyzed with abject fear and horror. I am almost pathological when it comes to bugs, of any type. While I was motionless and pondering how I was going to deal with the roach in question, I had an epiphany...Raid! It kills roaches, dead, right? I mean, that's what the ad said, and that would be false advertising if it didn't, so they couldn't lie...or could they? As most people growing up in the '80s/'90s, I watched quite a bit of TV. This is one of the pivotal moments of my life when it was painfully obvious that the TV did, INDEED, freakin' lie.

When I finally peeled myself from my spot on the floor, I slowly made my way to the cabinet with the Raid...all the while thinking how clever I was, and how brave of me to face my fears head on. Bullshit....pure, unadulterated bullshit. I made it to the cabinet and found the can I was looking for...oh sweet, roachy death in a can...the proverbial can of whoop-ass I was about to unleash on the unsuspecting six-legged interloper. I proceeded to spray the living shit out of this bug, and I quite possibly may have shouted something along the lines of, "Ha! Take that!" or I could have just laughed maniacally, my memory is a little fuzzy about anything truly awesome I could have said. My joy was short-lived. In the midst of my spraying spree, the roach actually turned around, looked at me, and, I swear to God, said, "Bitch, please...." Then, it flew at my head. W....T....F?! Really?! I was attacked by a damn roach! What ensued was a lot of ducking, screaming, and what I like to call The Crazy Spidee Dance. The Crazy Spidee Dance is my general reaction to all things buggy, but it originated on a sidewalk when I walked into a web that no one else saw. Oh yeah, it looks as insane as it sounds. And it is my only defense against anything with more than four legs.

What started as a stride forward in my insect emancipation, ended with an even greater phobia of all things creepy and crawly. It is also the reason I hold the archaic belief that it is ALWAYS the man's job to kill the bugs...period.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Mardi Gras and the Napolean Complex

Well, I flicked off a short dude in a bar on Bourbon St. He wasn't short enough to qualify as a "little person", nor would I insult little people by associating this guy with them. My intention was not to insult Shrimpy for his short stature, because, let's face it Asians aren't the tallest people in the world. And despite the fact that I am only 1/2 Korean, I top out at about 5'5"...respectable, but not tall by any means. And y'all need to understand that I was too stone-cold sober to put up with little dude's Napolean complex in a crowded bar while he was insulting my friend. My goals were simple.....insult him, and make him leave the bar.

But let's go back in time a bit to how this weekend started, you know, before I was making obscence hand-gestures to a short man in a bar in New Orleans. Triple-H and I had decided to start our Mardi Gras adventure a little early by heading to The Big Easy (her hometown) on Friday, and making our way back home on Sunday. I kept my son (who I will call Buddy) home from school, and we were meeting two other friends, and their kids, at our hotel on Canal St. We packed our things Friday morning, and were on the road by 9:30 am. One McD's stop and a Starbucks later, and we were well on our way to parade central and all the beads we could catch!

Of course, our trip was going too smoothly. About halfway to New Orleans we encounter the quintessential crappy woman driver. Yeah.....I said it.....crappy WOMAN driver. She's the one that makes the rest of us look bad because she doesn't drive with her eyes open, apparently she uses the Force...and the Force was not strong with this one. She began drifting into my lane, so naturally I laid on the horn. The best part was when she had the nerve to look at me and give me the finger....REALLY?! So, God bless her, Triple-H answered in kind, and to make sure that chick understood, Triple-H managed to wiggle out of her seatbelt far enough to reach her hand into the backseat, over Buddy's head (so he couldn't see it) and continue to give that crazy bitch the finger. Now remember, we haven't even MADE it to New Orleans, yet! Luckily, we had already passed her, and she never caught up with us.

We made it to our hotel by 3 pm-ish, just in time to have our car valet-parked (don't get too excited, we had no choice, AND we had to pay for it), and get ready for our first parade, yay! Friday's parade in uptown was Krewe of Oshun, which was founded in 1996, and named for the Yoruba goddess of love and intimacy. Unfortunately, we were towards the end of the parade route, and weren't feelin' much of the love. They were not throwing very many beads or trinkets, and Buddy was not havin' it. He...was...pissed. But it was also getting late, and we just had a long car ride, so all things considered, he was doing pretty well for a 5-yr old. The worst thing he did was tear up a bit, but he was good to go when he understood that there were three more parades on Saturday.

One of our friends watched the kids that night so the rest of us could go out. Woohoo! Bourbon Street!! Triple-H took us to Famous Door, where an awesome cover band was playing. And the best part? She knew the band! Friday night was fairly uneventful, none of us really had more than a couple drinks and made it back to our room to rest up for the festivities the next day. Yeah, that's how moms Britney Spears, trailer-park drunken episodes for THIS crowd!

Saturday was filled with three parades...the Krewe of Pontchartrain (organized in 1975, and named after Lake Pontchartrain, which forms the northernmost border of New Orleans), the Knights of Sparta (founded in 1952, and an all male Krewe that first paraded in 1981 in Orleans Parish), and the Krewe of Pygmalion (founded in 2000, named for the Greek legend of a Cypress king who sculpts a statue of the sea nymph Galatea, only to fall in love with it). And they did not disappoint.

The kids made it through the first two parades, and everyone was having a great time...until the drunken tourists came out. A group of idiots next to us decided to get sloppy drunk, and heckle the people in the parade. Seriously, grown-ass men heckling kids in a parade, and using obscenities. I didn't feel like dealing with them while my son was with me, so I just told Buddy they said potty-words, and to ignore them. Well, he understood the bit about the potty words, and gave me an ominous look like they were headed to the ninth level of Hades for that infraction. Problem solved....and then the fat, drunk, jerk HAD to heckle the JROTC kids. Now it's time to go bitch-fantastic on him (a term coined by my best friend, Megan).  His couldn't-pass-a-PT-test-with-a-gator-chasin'-him ass actually had the cojones to yell, "Why aren't you out serving my country?" at these kids. Oh....Helllllll....No....You....Din't! That's when I wheeled around to face him and very loudly yelled, "That's because they are fucking cadets, you ass-hole!" Like most people who feel brave enough to shout obscenities at people who can't hear them, when confronted, they reacted quite predictably by over-apologizing for the behavior of their drunk friend. The look I shot them was more than enough to shut them up....I love using the "I'm gonna bust yo ass" mom face on people, they really have no idea what to do when they see it, and they instantly harken back to childhood when THEIR moms gave them that look. It's just best to shut up and stop diggin' your own grave at that point. That happened during the last parade, and then it was time to pack up our stuff and get the kids ready for bed. Our two friends weren't feeling well, so they stayed behind with the kids. I was beginning to lose my voice from all the yelling at the parade (this is important later). But I was feeling okay other than that. So, that meant another night out for me and Triple-H....and the plot thickens....

Again, we went to Famous Door....and it was all going sooooo well.....until the band stopped playing, and the hip-hop guy who entertained the crowd in between sets started to get harassed by Shrimpy. Now Hip-Hop had been pretty nice to us, pulling us on stage, and having a great ole time. But it was time for the band to get back on stage, and he had to get all the people off the stage. THIS is what triggered the drunken vitriol from Shrimpy. First, he starts to call Hip-Hop a douche-bag, I'm not sure why, Shrimpy was not one of the ones being escorted off the stage. This would not be only thing he said that didn't make any sense. After a few more insults, Triple-H turns around to give the guy a dirty look. He responds by saying, "What, is he your friend? Is he your step-son?" Wait a minute, huh? What the hell does that even mean? He made about as much sense as Charlie Sheen on the Today show. Now, I'm giving him a dirty look for yelling at Triple-H. He keeps cussing at us, so we both respond with the one-handed salute, and use our other finger to point him towards the exit. Remember how I lost my voice? Yup, I had been reduced to rude hand-gestures....not my best comeback, but effective. He was clearly too drunk to realize that we were both bigger than he was, but that fact wasn't lost on his girlfriend (who was also taller than Shrimpy, but I digress). She proceeded to drag him out before he did something that was going to get his ass kicked by two chicks in a bar on Bourbon Street. Remember my goals stated at the beginning of this blog? Mission accomplished. Napolean may have been the inspiration for the complex, but Shrimpy took it to the next level. Viva la France!