Voodoo Dolls and Teenagers

I started painting a loooong time ago when by boys were toddlers.  I faux finished beautiful custom homes during the construction boom.  I have been making and doing since I was a teenager.  I stopped for a while when my kids were small because I couldn’t find time to wear a decent outfit  much less paint.  As their pre-teen years approached I felt my morph to the garage some since I wasn’t afraid to leave them in the house alone.  I was wrong, of course, as evidenced by my coming in one day to my 12-year-old, with a can of hair spray, a straw and a lighter (making a flame thrower like the one he saw on Youtube.)  I yelled at him for wasting my good hairspray and went on about my business.

Over time, my tweens became teens and I was glad to have my painting as I rose on the weekend and the man and boys slept until 2:00 p.m.  I enjoyed my radio and the outside and found my company in Annie Sloan, Martha Stewart and some gal with the last name Behr.    My boys used to make fun of my hobby saying that shabby chic was stupid and they hated the old furniture in the garage.  They shamed me for my hoard at every turn.  When people came to pick something up they’d scowl off waiting for a grilled cheese and wonder how anyone would like the things I painted.  I made voodoo dolls of them and made their butts itch and shaved off an eyebrow.

Funny how the jeers stopped when we took the first vacation we had in 16 years, last year, because of my painting, my peace, the thing that sets me free.

I’m full-on in the throes of raising two high-school boys.  Painting and crafting still takes me to my happy place in so many ways.  I hope you have found your happy-place as well.

Here are some things I’ve done in the last few:

dressernight standombreharlequin Drexel dresser

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Cupcakes and The Women Who Lurve Them

cupcake

This week had a theme…  CuPcAkEs!!    It started with a friend and I trying a new cupcake place in town (we are medical reps and we do a lot of goodie-giving so a new cupcake place sounded like a good thing to check out…for work…of course.)  We went.  The cakes were MEH but the icing was FAB! (Is it gross to order a pound of icing?  Okay, then a pound of icing, please.)

Fast forward to today.  That same friend and I are having lunch and discussing a  promotional item we could make from an idea on Pinterest  involving  cupcakes in a mason jar. (I know, who wouldn’t want to get an afternoon goodie with all THAT happiness in a toteable jar?!)  My friend told me at lunch that she had lab tests done this morning.  One of which was an A1C test, which if you don’t know, is a test for glucose (Diabetes).  My friend was offended that her doctor prescribed this test.  OFFENDED.  My friend is a nurse and ate cupcakes all week (and pasta, with me, right before a lab test) and was offended.  I said, “You are offended?”  She said, “Yes”.  I laughed and told her to throw her arm up on the table and I squeezed around the cupcakeyness of it and said, “Really, bitch…you’re offended?”  We laughed and laughed.  My friend told me that her doctor was super healthy and had offered to have my friend stay with her at her house for a month to embrace the healthy lifestyle and train with her and her  super-healthy husband.

I immediately tuned out my friend with a mental image of her hiding in the guestroom closet cranking out shameful looking and tasting cupcakes from an Easy Bake Oven hidden skillfully in the back of the closet.  I pictured my friend going batshit crazy when the sad little light bulb that actually does the cooking in the Easy Bake Oven poops out.  I can just see her busting through the shuttered closet doors like the Incredible Hulk looking for that good icing, or a mason jar full of cupcakes or even one of those Ho-Ho-Ring-Ding things.

I promised my friend that if she got bad news from her test and had to adopt a new lifestyle, and forced to wave goodbye to chocolate covered yum-yums that I would join her.  It’s what you do with friends.  That, and offer shovels and plastic sheeting and alibi assistance when needed…

That’s a Lovely Set of Pomelos Ya Got There!

 

I needed to go to the farmers market today so I recruited my friend Tams who has a food blog and she was willing to go with me.  Upon arrival, right out of the cage we saw two old people unloading their electric scooters and sporting twin “I love Jesus” baseball caps, which struck me as odd that they didn’t smile or greet us when we said hello.  (Probably spent all their love on Jesus and had none left for regular people).  Right away we were captivated by what looked like the biggest-ass grapefruits we had ever seen!  We asked what they were and unexcitedly we were told they were Pomelos.  They taste sweet and just a tad like a grapefruit, we bought two.  Tams, a foodie, was there to take pics for her blog “Flip Flop Foodie” and she asked the gal, “What do you do with them?” (as in, share some creative culinary uses for this magical citrus delight!)   The vendor looked at her like, “wtf do you THINK you do with it!  You can cram it up your ass for all I care!”  On to the booth where they sell the tiny little crinkle knit shiny tops that could fit folded into a matchbox.  Down the produce aisle, a vendor quizzed Tams about where her bag was for the Pomelos (like she had stolen them), she quickly found me and bummed a bag off the sock lady booth.  At the sock booth we were hacking around taking pics of the pomelos.  (Tammy made a lovely set of knockers for herself and we spoofed the Twilight apple shot)  The sock booth man became very interested in the Pomelos that he must see 100 times a day and asked us about them..after seeing us take boob shots with them I was afraid he was going to try to buy us a funnel cake and ask for a hummer.  I do love the sock booth…you can get like 100 pair of “real” Nike socks  for two bucks and this is valuable to me because my younguns go through them like Kleenex.

We stopped at the god-awful-gawdy “miracle” comb both that had the smallest mannequin head ever, made with real  hair weave, when the clerk was all up in our business like we were going to steal them.  I really was there to crack on them but the clerk killed my erection for making fun of them since she was almost glued to my ass.  Last stop was the tweezer, dental instrument, scissor man booth where all of Polk’s dental do-it-yourselfer’s  get the goods.   I asked the man about uses for a 12” bent tweezer and he told me:  Motor cycle part grabber, aquarium cleaner and pasta tester.. c’mon dude…we both know they are for meth cooking and  for bootleg organ harvesting.  The afternoon produced 2 pomellos, 2 pics, a sack of strawberries and some cherry tomatoes which I sat on in the car.

Good times.

Once Urine, Twice You’re Out

For more than a dozen years my office has been in the “Historic” (homeless) district filled with quaint shoppes, brick -paved streets and the dude on the bike with urine.  The first time I met him was 10 years ago.  I had just got out of the car and  was burdened with a purse, briefcase and a box of files and teetering on cute but unsmart shoes in the metered parking lot downtown.  Briskly and much like a ninja this grown-ass man on a kids bike scrambled up to me like a crackhead tornado and he said, “Hey ladyladylady, give me all your money or I am gonna throw all this pee on you!”  In his free hand  was a cup of yellow liquid with a rubberbanded  tin foil for a lid. I dropped everything and gave him all my cash…and I mean every red cent..and it was all the money I had to my name for a week (and I had small children to feed…does that make it worse?  Good!  Because that’s how it was!)  He left and I picked up all of my thrown belongings and walked to my office with my heart racing and aching that he had taken all the money I had, even though it was not a large amount.

Pitiful, huh?

Fast forward to April of this year after I had been called into the office to hear that our doors were closing that day.  I left in the sunlight wondering what I was going to do.  Up rolls this guy on the bike (probably a different guy by now but the same scam).  “Hey ladyheyladyladylady!” he screamed, ushering me to attention. “Give me what you got for money right now or I am gonna throw this pee all over you!”  I threw everything down except my purse and I rared my head back and just belted out, “HHHHEEEEEEEEEELLLLPPPPPP!”  It was so loud that I think I burped in the process and it sounded like a lion’s roar!  His face was priceless.  He was afraid.  I said, “Bring it, BITCH!  Let’s go!  What cha got!?!?”  I was a crazy woman! I even think I was trying to pull off one of those Fred Sanford fancy footwork boxing deals..I dunno, I was in a zone. (Mind you, this was 100 feet from the police station).   My would-be assailant scooted off faster than Moody’s goose.  I gathered my things from the pavement and walked bravely to my car, feeling fearless and amused.  I knew I would be okay.

P.S.  The photo is not my actual would-be assailant, I think it’s of of them Walberg boys.

What a Heiffer will do for Weigh-In Day

effie

Today was my 1 week weigh-in day at Weight Watchers. I joined last week with a friend (her idea). I showed up for weigh in (she did not). In my planning of how to make the most of this day I wore the lightest clothes I could find. For good measure I put on a brand new pair of compression (torture drawers) panties that go clear up to my bra. I used the word compression lightly. What I really meant to say is that they were so hard to get on that I felt the fat surge up to my eyelids. I was so mad because those people (Walmart) must have mis-sized those jokers and put a small pair onto that hanger and sold them to me! Over them I wore some light weighed goucho-sorta-deal that forgot to land at my waist and spent the whole day north at the bra-line too. I prayed that I would make it through the day without dying because I know the paramedics would have a big time taking pictures of me for their Facebook pages with all of my clothes resting at my bra and them not being able to get it off of me without cutting them and having to do rock, paper, scissors to see would have the duty of cutting them and run the risk of a slingshot effect of my flubber.

Those panties are mean. Sinister. The whole reason why I bought them was to use as bathing suit bottoms under my new bathing suit top (tent). I decided that I would rather wear cowboy chaps to the beach (and nothing else) than to have to spend a day in the hot sun and sand with those unrelenting scratchy-ass britches! I did “save” them however, for when I am lighter. (That’s unless they get outlawed or the rapture comes before my “lighter” days happen)

You must be wondering about my weigh-in? I stepped right up there, took off my sweater, earrings, shoes, necklace, and rings. The weigh in lady looked at me like she didn’t trust that I wasn’t gonna get buck-ass-nekked. They didn’t kick me out. I get to come back next week and give them $13.

Lizard in the Bed

lizard

It happened.
Our dog, who loves to chase lizards has run one of those damned things into my bedroom. I considered moving or setting the house on fire but I decided to take an antihistamine and go dead to bed instead hoping that the meds would put me into an anti-reptile sensory coma. No such luck. I inspected every corner of my bed an pillows, no sign of that green bastard. I looked around the room for any sign of that Geico-looking-son-of-a-gun. Nothing. I sealed my ass up in that bed and was so tucked in that I was collecting condensation under the sheets. Sleep came.
2:00 a.m.. I bolted up with the strangest tickle on my décolletage. I started flappin’ and slappin’ my chest and undercarriage so hard that I literally snatched a knot on myself. I flung every stitch of clothes off and sprinted through the house screaming “Oh GOD! It’s Got Me!” The dog, awoken at his post in the family room, thought I was a chubby naked intruder in the dark and bit me right on the ass. The bite broke my run and I remembered that the wall made a “splat” as my first round of titty-slaps sent Mr. Lizard into space.
Beat up, bitten and unclothed I went back to my room to see if I could find him. He was gone. I decided I’d spend the next few nights on the couch and wait for him to be eaten by the dog. They deserve each other.

WILD PIG OBITUARY

PIG

One of the biggest treats I allow myself is a day trip to the beach. I get up early and start the road trip at 7:00 a.m. which puts me at my favorite beach spot at 8:30. I take the back roads, through the phosphate mines and small farming towns of central Florida. I can drive 20 miles at a clip and never see another car. The roads are two-laned and are insulated by tall pine trees. Deer and wild hogs are rumored to be abundant in this desolate alleyway to my nirvana, but I choose to travel this path in order to eliminate the interstates with their texters and screamers and Hummer-limosines full of people getting-it-on all the way to a BUCS game. (One Sunday I carried an SUV full of teenaged boys to the beach who had the delight of watching 4 40-year-old couples having a massive BANG in the back of a Hummer limo with poor tinting.)

At any rate, I often go alone to the beach, to think, to float, to enjoy the solace of silence. But fear creeps in on my trip and I envision a wild hog skipping accross the two lanes while I hum along in my tiny car at 80 MPH, clip him (or see him and swerve) and flip my car and die because of a pig. I would be mortified of my OBIT:

“Dana Mercaldi of Lakeland passed away yesterday during a selfish ride to the beach …alone…with a car packed full of sweet tea and cheese popcorn. Mrs. Mercaldi unskillfully flipped her VW on SR 674 as a pig crossed the road. The deceased will be laid to rest in her “Miraclesuit” bathing suit since it was so tight the mortician couldn’t even get it off of her.”

Topless Tuesday at the Thrift

toplessI am late for everything.  I have two teen sons, a full time job (I call it my “Big girl job”), the Vintage Warehouse space and have a full load at USF.  So what that means is that when I am somewhere…somewhere else is a sufferin’.  I have to work extra hard at everything to get it done and that includes scoring my good junk and antiques to paint.  And before you get your thong in a wad, I am not all about painting great-Aunt-Gerties prized Berkey and Gay buffet that has been in the family 3 generations.  I am about getting a half sanded buffet that Jolene is selling for her crack habit.  (I am kidding about the crack but it’s funny to say so I do).  I haul these half sanded junkerz in and they roll back out like they have had Botoxx and a full-on ass-lift.  So, I see it as a service to it.

At any rate…   I rolled up to one of my face honey holes (I can’t tell you where or I’ll have to take you out) and on the step were these tops…a bikini, a ragged out bra and a push up bra.  Panic came over me as I feared it was Topless Tuesday at the honey hole and here I was knocking these A and B cups straight out of the game.  A tingle rushed up as I knew that if this were a contest for a discont that I WAS GONNA WIN!.  I quickened my step, rushed the door to see every heiffer in there with a shirt on.  Dang… I had missed it again… me and my full schedule.

Underwear Waist Bands

I am ashamed about how ‘home grown” I am. Today a lady came to look at a car I have for sale while I was sweating away in the garage over an old bookcase. We got to chatting and I told her that my Daddy spent his life having his retired underwear used as dust rags in our home all stained with Old English. We chatted a bit about our dogs as well and I shared that I had owned a dog once that ate the waist bands to ALL of the family’s underwear while we were out on a Saturday excursion once and how I had to go to the Walmart with underwear pinned into my jeans with safety pins to stock up on new drawers for the entire family.

I am glad, however, that I get to select my own underwear at this stage of the game.  I remember some of the underwear I got as a kid.  My mom would go to the flea market and buy (in bulk) underwear from the textile mills of North Carolina that I now understand were seconds.  Seconds, meaning there was SOMETHING wrong with them!  I grew into my teen years thinking that one of my ass cheeks was freakishly bigger than the other and that painful (front) wedgies were normal.  (I assume now that I was kissed by serendepity by getting undies with not enough crotch fabric.)  Imagine my delight when I wore my first undies that were proportionate and didnt have cartoon characters on them with grotesquely smeared images.

I wonder about my sanity. I now have to face that my country-ass oversharing must be a cry for help.