Kathy Gets a Vibrator

Last night, we were all in the kitchen. Lindsay was cooking, Sara was not offering to help, Mom was listening to Bill O’Reilly rant about unpatriotic shrimp (or something. We’re not sure. We’ve gotten pretty good at tuning most of it out), and Dad was telling Lindsay all about the Mongolians, whether she wanted to hear about them or not. Pretty typical week night. Some family friends called, who had just returned from a big trip around the world. Mom and Dad decided that the best idea was to answer on speakerphone (even though we have 2 separate phones so they could each talk on their own headpiece) and have a loud conversation in the kitchen, competing with the TV and kitchen fan for noisiest thing in the room.

Sara: Why in the actual fuck do they have to talk right there? They have a whole house to talk in and they picked the one room that’s already noisy.

Lindsay: Because they’re Mom and Dad. They're getting old and people get weirder as they get older. I don’t know why you continue to expect them to be normal.

Dad: What?

Lindsay: Sara thinks you guys are talking too loudly.

Sara: And you don’t?

Dad: I own everything. I can talk as loud as I want wherever I want.

Sara: Doesn’t make you any less of a butthole.

Later, the subject of cleaning came up. With so many of us in the house, it can get messy very quickly. We all help out in some way or another, but occasionally someone tries to use it as leverage in an argument…and by someone we mean Dad, and by occasionally we mean constantly.

Dad: Who do you think is the one that keeps the house clean?

Lindsay: Certainly not Mom, as much as she’d like to believe otherwise.

Dad: ME! Although your mother does clean. She just does it in spurts. She’ll go a week without doing anything and then clean everything in a day.

Sara: Me too! That’s why I never clean as I go. I like to do it all at once.

Lindsay: Yeah, me too. I'm like someone with Parkinson's running. Once I start I can't stop.

Obviously, after that politically correct comment, we decided it was a good idea to start writing things down.

Sara: Mom’s not going to like this next blog post. She’ll probably yell at us for being terrible daughters and tell everyone how awful we are, as usual.

Lindsay: Mom gets mad at everything. It’s like she has dementia. She just yells at shit for no reason.

Sara: Dude, could you imagine how much it would suck if she actually got dementia?

Lindsay: Wow, way to be a Debbie Downer.

Sara: No, I don’t mean in the actually sad way. I mean for us. Do you have any idea how much louder she would be all the time?

Lindsay: She'd be like Dad asking us the same things over and over again, only angry. 

We’re not entirely sure why degenerative neurological disorders kept coming up, but we’ve agreed that it’s definitely not a good sign. But the most disturbing part of the night, by far, happened at the dinner table.

Mom: So I got a vibrator today.

<Horrified silence>

Dad: <while walking away> Oh my god Kathy…

Sara: That is the worst thing I’ve heard all day.

Lindsay: I heard this already.

Mom: Don’t you want to see it?

Sara: This can’t be happening right now.

Mom: Oh calm down. It’s a special vibrator for my hand; it helps break up the scar tissue. My physical therapist told me I could go to The Love Package* and buy one or just use theirs, so I took theirs.

Jesse: Oh thank God…

Sara: We were eating, WHY would you do that while we’re eating?! That was one of the worst moments of my life.

<Mom laughs all the way back to the computer>
*She meant Lovers, the store formerly known as Lover's Package. Another shining example of Mom's ability to remember names of things. 


For the record, we would love to see our mother go into an adult store and tell the cashier the vibrator she just bought is for her hand.

"Give me your hand and I'll change your life"

The Bowyer women like to think of ourselves as strong, independent, and driven. Depending on whom you ask, they may either agree or suggest a different, ruder word to describe us. But whether you think we’re more like Oprah or a James Bond villain…well to tell you the truth, we don’t really give two shits what you think. Our point is that we don’t exactly have the most normal or romantic of relationships. We don’t have the patience for most of that bullshit.

For example, Mom gave Dad a call in mid-August.

Mom: Is it the 17^th today?

Dad: Yes ma’am!

Mom:...wasn’t our anniversary last week?

Dad: Yes ma’am, I believe it was!

Mom: Hm. Anyways, will you pick up my prescriptions on your way home today?

That’s how they’ve celebrated their anniversary every year for the past 27 years. We know, it’s a beautiful love story. Go ahead and get a tissue, we’ll wait.

You might be thinking that, since they’re still kind of sort of newlyweds, Lindsay and Jesse are at least a little more traditionally romantic. Their favorite way to spend a Friday night is to buy a 12-pack, get in their sweatpants, and play Lego Batman on Xbox.

So…you were wrong.

In fact, Lindsay and Jesse are almost reversed in their roles as husband and wife. Lindsay sent Jesse off to his friend’s bachelor party in Vegas with a wallet full of 1 and 5 dollar bills, because…

Lindsay: What the fuck is the point of going to Vegas if you don’t go to a strip club?

Conversely, Jesse likes to annoy Lindsay by being overly affectionate in public.

Lindsay: Jesse. Stop it. There are people around.

Jesse: If loving you is a crime, then I’m guilty as charged!

Lindsay: Gross.

Sara, the only unattached member of the house (holla back, single ladies!), somehow has the worst reputation for not having the patience for romanticism. The last boy (a.k.a The Biscuit) that Sara brought home received a very warm, comforting greeting:

Mom: So has anyone told you that Sara has no soul?

Sara: *In an angry whisper* Shut. Up. Mother.

The Biscuit: …excuse me?

Sara: Nothing! Now let’s get going, hm?

Later, when they hadn’t heard anything from Sara about good ol’ Biscuit, they asked.

Dad: What happened to that guy you went out with?

Sara: Eh. Not much.

Dad: That lame, huh?

Sara: No, not at all. He was just too nice.

Mom: What do you mean?

Sara: He wouldn’t let me pay for dinner and then tried to hold my hand.

Mom: So…basically he tried to be a gentleman and treat you to a nice date?

Sara: Yes, and it was SO irritating.

This Sunday night, we had our usual family dinner. Barbecued ribs, sweet potatoes, and grilled peaches. Yeah, we know. You’re jealous. We would be too!

Dad (for the 3rd time): Sara, do you want a peach?

Sara and Lindsay: No!

Dad: Jeez...you don't need to be so snotty!

Mom: Well you ask the same thing over and over!

Dad: *pauses * Give me your hand and I'll change your life.

Mom: What?

Dad: I want to kiss your hand!

After a brief scuffle during which there was a lot of yelling and loud noises, Mom offered Dad her hand. He grabbed it and kissed it, but apparently grasped onto the post-op scar on her hand.

Mom: Ouch!

*Lindsay and Sara snicker*

Dad: I was being a romantic!

Later, after we stopped laughing our faces off at Dad’s “I’ll change your life” comment, we wrote down a rough draft of this blog. If we don’t do this, we usually don’t remember the conversations for later. It’s pretty disappointing, actually, how many other hilarious things have gone undocumented. Maybe we shouldn’t drink so much?

Pfft. Like that’s ever going to happen.

So we had Mom read through our rough draft, and she had this to say:

Mom: You know he didn't actually grab my scar. I just said ouch.

Lindsay: Why?

Sara: To be a bitch.

Mom: *nods in agreement.*

And in conclusion but completely unrelated, Mom still can’t manage to get even the most prominent of names correct:

Mom: Well I didn't get to watch Chris Wallace today and I didn't watch Huckabee because he had Justin Beaver's Mom on.

Guest Post by the House Dragon: Pt. 2

We let our Mom write another blog post. We won't tell you where, or edit anything...but she did take some creative license/has a reconstructive memory (Sara: Yeah. She took creative license. More like she slandered me as an ungrateful, lazy drug addict, then promoted mixing opiates and alcohol. But I digress...). She was on pain pills. Also, her idea of taking care of her family is drinking wine and Lindsay cooking dinner.

I wrote a blog post about my family's treatment of me post surgery and the whiny, angry girls didn't post it, enen though they advertised on the blog that it would be next. Now that I'm out of my splint and can actually type using my right hand, it all seems useless to relive the nightmare.

My mother-in-law flew up from Arizona to take care of me and make sure Brock had food to eat, and she was the bright spot. Dolores cheerfully shuttled me to the doctor, the hand therapist, and any other errand I had to do. Dolores helped me shower and dress and do my hand exercises. And...family...take note. She did not sigh. She did not roll her eyes. She did not say "now?" Dolores is my favorite!

I spent a month hiding my pain pills. Everyone wanted me to share. I could barely open a drawer, but I took the pills out of the bottle and put them in a jewelry bag and hid them underneath my hand therapy exercise papers. If I had left the pills in the bottle, they would have been gone!

After about 2 weeks I was strong enough to begin fooling around in the kitchen, however using a knife was a challenge. So Brock cheerfully volunteered to be my sous chef. After 5 minutes of chopping veggies for dinner, Brock said,"this is a lot of work. My hand is tired. How much more of this do I have to do?"
So much for cheerful.
I said, "Honey, this is what I do every time I make dinner."
Brock replied, "Wow, I didn't know."
How does he not notice?!

A side note: Lindsay and Jesse were house-sitting and not around on a regular basis to help out, or Lindsay would have stepped up to the plate. Sara is 22 and too worried about where her next drink is coming from to care...also she was one of the people trying to pilfer my pain pills. I think she has a problem.

I couldn't open a bottle of wine. Neither could anyone else unless I asked 18 times. And then after much eye rolling and "do I have to do it now?", I would get an open bottle of wine. And we all know how important that is. It enhances the pain meds.

Another irritation: I had about 25 stitches in my hand for 14 days. When the stitches were removed the incision in my palm split open and I literally had a hole in my hand, which was quite gross and I became the new circus attraction. When friends, mailman, UPS delivery person, etc. came to the house, my caring and nurturing family would say to the poor person who came over, "Want to see my Mom's/wife's hand? It's really gross! Mom/Kathy, show them your hand!" The person at the house clearly doesn't want to see and I don't want to show, but they keep insisting until I take the dressing off and the person looks at it, and then turns green, turns away, and you can hear their stomach turn in disgust.

I'm so glad the hole in my hand is nearly healed. I can't make a fist yet and will need some more therapy, but I'm cooking dinner, making soups for the winter, and as usual, taking care of my incredibly dysfunctional family. My last hope is that Brock doesn't post the pictures he took of my hand on Facebook.

Nutrition and Prostitution: A Lesson.

Pretty much everybody knows that the Bowyer women are winos. One of Dad's nicknames for my Mom is Rhine-have-a-glass-full. I don't know what the significance of "Rhine" is. Jesse calls me the winocerous. And Sara doesn't have a cute wino nickname because she never buys communal wine and always pinches the wine my Mom and I buy.

<Sara: False. I do not have a wino name because I am NOT a wino. Wine sucks. I only drink it because it's a more paleo alternative to beer and I'm too much of a lazy bastard to go buy more alcohol when it's already available. Once again, we have to wonder whether or not I was switched at the hospital. However, I do have a drinking nickname. It's Jack Daniels...which brings a lot of questions to mind that we don't have the time nor patience to answer here.>

Anyways, Mom and I were discussing how unfulfilling just one glass of wine is.We were talking about her being the designated driver at an upcoming wedding and I told her to come to the reception and have a glass of wine.

Mom: That's not fulfilling. One glass of wine is so disappointing. It's just empty calories. 

Lindsay: And drinking a bottle of wine isn't empty calories?

Mom: No! Because you at least get a buzz out of it, so it's not useless! The calories are worth it!

Lindsay: Oh, that makes sense.

Apparently, our mother also thinks that you will only get a "buzz" from drinking an entire bottle of wine. this is why we buy the double bottles from the bottom shelf. You know what we're talking about.

 Later, some stupid HGTV show was on about realtors in Beverly Hills or somewhere similar with ridiculously rich clientele/homes. Predictably, most of the "realtors" are blonde, barbie-doll, Beverly Hills-type women who may be good businesswomen (doubtful), but are probably better at just being on a reality TV show. . 

Dad: I wonder if any of these girls [realtors] get their legs up in the air for these potential buyers...

Sara: Wow, Dad. Gross.

Dad: What's gross about that?

Sara: Everything!

Dad: So, you wouldn't, if you had the chance to make $250,000 in commission? They're selling multi-million dollar homes!

Lindsay: Dad, that's basically prostitution.

Dad: Dude, $250,000 in one lump sum. You wouldn't?

Sara: It's not "basically" prostitution. It's just prostitution. You throwing in sex for a male buyer to make a sale so you can get the commission cash. It's not suddenly a respectable transaction when it's in the thousands of dollars. 

Dad: Well I learned something, then.

There you go, kids. A lesson in nutrition and how to be a realtor/prostitute tycoon.