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Thread: Happy Moth's Day, Debi!

  1. #1
    Inexplicably Undiscovered
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    next door to the lady in the vinegar bottle
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    Happy Moth's Day, Debi!

    It’s been far too long since we’ve heard from the Real Housewife of East Hogwash. Let’s sneak a peek at the Snotenlocker Family to see what’s shaking with Debi and her brood.

    Gee, it’s May already. Time goes by fast, though I can’t say I’ve been having much fun.

    Two weekends ago Brad glued himself to the tv to watch basketball, hockey, baseball, horse racing, and golf, not to mention some stupid boxing match on Pay for View. He clicked the remote so much he blistered his thumb.

    Well, this time the game was going to change. I was determined to yank Brad away from the TV so we could do something together as a family. To be honest with you, I hoped that Brad would’ve come up with the idea himself. Fat chance of that happening. So just like the girl in “Frozen,” I “let it go.”

    But then I saw the The Pennysaver, which had a write-up on this year’s Dandelion Festival to be held right here in East Hogwash. One of the events listed was the “Mother of the Year” contest at the Charley Weaver Memorial Town Park. What caught my eye was the top prize: a complete Kitchen Makeover.

    For me scoring a new kitchen would be like hitting the lottery. I was going to be in it, but only to win it! That’s because I had zero interest in the other prizes, like a free massage at a day spa. Ewww! If I’d wanted someone to touch my body, I never would’ve gotten married.

    I pictured myself standing in a state-of-the-art domestic paradise ruled by Debi Snotenlocker, Mother of the Year! The problem was the rules were strict. I couldn’t nominate myself. Some family member had to do it for me.

    I took matters into my own hands by leaving copies of the entry form all around the house.When I checked on them, they were gone! My heart leapt up –until I saw one of them on the bottom of the gerbil cage and another on the garage floor under a can of motor oil and Brad’s dipstick.

    There was only one thing to do. And that was to ask Milwaukee, my daughter from a previous relationship, to nominate me. She rolled her eyes so much her face looked like a pinball machine. “Really? Mother of the Year? You?”

    “Why not? Don’t you think I’m qualified?”

    “Well, for one thing, commandeering me to do this for you is disingenuous.”

    How about that kid– one lousy semester at DUH and already she’s showing off her fancy vocabulary. I don’t know why she thinks she can major in Communication when nobody can understand a word she’s saying.

    “Tell you what, Milwaukee. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. If you nominate me for this, I’ll nominate you for Dandelion Queen. Same day, same location. Maybe we’ll both win. It’ll be a Snotenlocker sweep.”

    If Milwaukee turned her nose up any higher it would’ve scraped the ceiling. “A beauty contest? How quaintly provincial!”

    “I take it that’s a no, then–“

    “Besides, I’d never win. The judges always give it to somebody with connections, like the Mayor’s niece. All the other contestants get is a chance to be in the Dandelion Queen’s so-called ‘court.’ At best I’d be a mere supernumerary.”

    “Well, even that’s super, right?”

    Meanwhile Trip, Trap, and Trick were pretending to be Tarzan by pounding their little chests, letting out ear-piercing yells, and swinging from the living room drapes like jungle vines. It was such a beautiful day that it seemed a sin to let the triplets play indoors, but the neighbors have a restraining order to keep them out of the yard until Apple invents an iMute button.

    I thought about getting the boys to do something constructive, like making me some Mother’s Day cards. It’s the thought that counts, even though it may be my thought. Last year Trip addressed his envelope upside down, Trap drew me as a dinosaur, and Trick wrote “Happy Moth’s Day.” Either Trick ran out of room, or East Hogwash Elementary School is rotten to the Core Curriculum.

    The art project might’ve kept them quiet for thirty seconds or so, but I’d have to spend two hours cleaning up the sea of wet construction paper, glue, and glitter. (By the way, you may know about the urban legend involving glitter, a wash cloth, and a gynecologist’s appointment. The story was sent to more inboxes than the email from the Nigerian prince. But do not think for a second it originated anywhere around here.)

    Meanwhile, the noise was almost enough to make me use the kind of vocabulary they don’t teach in Milwaukee’s college classrooms, but the kind of words you hear in the East Hogwash Elementary School teachers’ lounge. Naturally Brad was nowhere to be found. He’s never around when you need him, and when you don’t you can’t get rid of him. He should have been a cop.

    Finally, Brad rushed in waving a clipping from The Pennysaver. “Debi! Did you see this? What d’ you say we all go to the Mother’s Day Brunch Buffet at the Whileaway Inn?”

    “Oh, Brad, how sweet of you to remem–“

    “Mom will love it! I’ll call her right now!”

    So early Sunday afternoon we all drove downtown to the Whileaway Inn. We were on time, but Brad’s mother, who was already there, complained that we were late. She also found fault with the seating arrangements and the decor. She said it was too cold, but I don’t know how she could tell the difference between the air conditioning and her icy stares.

    Of course, she had Uncle Toper in tow. I’ve never known my mother-in-law to leave home without him. He’s like an American Express card, except he won’t cover the check.

    “Hey! This is the Whileaway Inn, ain’t it?” Uncle Toper said. “The mimosas are buy one, get one free during Sunday brunch.” Immediately Uncle Toper took advantage of the offer, though I’m sure he’d made a preliminary stop at the Dandelion Wine Tasting table at the festival on the way over. While the rest of us loaded up our plates at the salad, crepes, omelette and carving board stations, Uncle Toper got loaded, period. He had the waiter running ragged keeping him with a fresh supply of mimosas. By the way, the drink gets its name from a flower known as the “sensitive” plant. Now I know why Brad’s mother never touched the stuff.

    With the Snotenlocker family fed to bursting, and Uncle Toper nearly out of his senses, it was time to cover the tab. Brad whipped out his credit card and put it on top of the little leatherette case.

    The waiter returned to our table in less time than it takes me to switch the channels when that commercial with the creepy funeral director comes on. “I’m sorry, Sir, but it’s been declined.”

    “What? I’m not overdue on my payments! I–“

    “The total is over the limit.”

    At this point Brad realized that he’d better take a look at the bill. It was longer than a receipt from CVS. The problem wasn’t the cost of the eight brunches. It was the individual costs of all those mimosas, the word repeated one after another, as if the printer had gone crazy.

    Brad disputed the charges. “I thought mimosas were buy one, get one free on Sundays!”

    “That’s true, Sir. On most Sundays-”

    “See? I told you–“

    “-With the exception of Mother’s Day!”

    Brad looked as if his stomach had sunken down to the balls of his feet. I knew it was time for me to step in. Maybe I wasn’t going to be Mother of the Year, but I could save the day. “Not to worry, Brad. Tell you what. Leave Mom and your uncle here for collateral, and the rest of us will swing by the house and I’ll fetch my household money and settle up.”

    “Gee, Debi, what a lifesaver! Wait. You’re not talking about the cash you hid in the flour canister, are you?”

    “Well, yeah. Hey, how did you know about–“

    “Oh my God, Debi. I already spent it! I used it to pay to watch the big prize fight on Pay-Per-View.” He put his head in his hands.

    “Roll up your schleeves, everybody. Looksh like we’re going to be washing some dishes!” Uncle Toper quipped.

    “We’ll do nothing of the kind.” I said. The triplets had already torn up the joint and were busy improvising a ring toss game involving bagels and a breadstick. Milwaukee said she was moribund with mortification, and Brad’s mother couldn’t stop telling the other customers that all of this was my fault, so I think the Whileaway Inn would just as soon have us exit the premises with the promise to return Monday morning with the payment. That is, if Brad hadn’t tapped our bank balance.

    Still, I would’ve given anything to have seen the look on the clerk’s face at the Cable Company when Brad handed her a bunch of double sawbucks completely covered with white powder. She must’ve thought that Brad was a cocaine dealer, like the guy on “Breaking Bad.”

    And I’m going to have to come up with a new place to stash my dough. It has to be somewhere Brad would never look. I’m thinking of the clothes hamper. It should work. He hasn’t picked up a pair of dirty underwear off the floor in years.

    The Snotenlockers Hop Down the Bunny Trail
    (Scroll down to reply #75)

    Fright Fest

    Debi Talks Turkey
    Last edited by AuntShecky; 05-15-2015 at 04:53 PM. Reason: the first link was wrong

  2. #2
    Maybe YesNo's Avatar
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    The clothes hamper sounds like a better place to hide cash. I wouldn't look there either.

  3. #3
    Registered User DATo's Avatar
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    Mar 2014
    GREAT STORY !!! Best laughs I've had in a long time.

    How about that kid– one lousy semester at DUH and already she’s showing off her fancy vocabulary. I don’t know why she thinks she can major in Communication when nobody can understand a word she’s saying.

    Milwaukee said she was moribund with mortification,


    Very well done Auntie .... loved every word of it !

  4. #4
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    Great fun, Auntie, but I'm afraid the glitter joke passed me by. The rest was top-notch, well the glitter joke probably was too, for people who got it

    Much enjoyed.

    Live and be well - H

  5. #5
    Registered User Wes Corona's Avatar
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    Oct 2015
    50 miles from a place that time forgot
    Late to the party, but I'm glad I bought a ticket. Having fun, reading fun.
    Perhaps it was just an idle view, or the view as seen by an idle mind.

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