You Can’t Drink All Day if You Don’t Start in the Morning (2 page)

My idea? Ditch Human Growth and Changes and show the
OTH
episode where Nathan had a suspicious discharge. Or maybe that was Brooke. No, it was Rachel. Whatever—you’d be scared straight.

I signed my traumatized Princess out for the day and drove straight home.

I tucked her into bed, gave her a mug of tomato soup with a big crouton in the center, popped in the
Cinderella III
DVD, and promised her that she would never have to see a video about testicles again.

When he got home from work, duh-hubby, naturally, was thrilled to hear that sex education class had made his daughter sick. Men are so predictable.

One thing was for sure. Neither Soph nor the unfortunate little boy who had fainted during the sex-ed video (the little boy whom my husband likes to call “my future son-in-law”) would get perfect attendance awards. Not that she was ever in any danger of it.

Back in the assembly, watching the idiot parents fist-bumping and high-fiving was making
me
sick.

I was grateful that I didn’t have to go to school with measles, like my friend did all those years ago.

The very word “measles” just scares the shit out of me every time I hear it. I had measles when I was six and remember it being a round-the-clock “itchy and scratchy” show. Plus, it gives you rabbit eyes and the virus means you can contaminate unborn babies and make them come out with extra noses or, worse, as Republicans.

“I can’t believe what I went through to get that stupid pin,” she said. “My parents were assholes.”

OK, that was actually me that said that last part.

Giant, self-absorbed a-holes. Hey! You know where most
of the kids with perfect attendance pins are these days? Me neither!

Harvard doesn’t give a shit, I’m guessing. Think about it; you have an award for simply showing up where you were supposed to.

I just read about a Michigan teenager’s parents who gave her a new car for having never missed a day of school from kindergarten through senior year. The family told reporters that she made it every day even “despite colds.”

Who’d have thought it? Colds in Michigan!

I hear they’re spread by being
sneezed on
by sick people who come to school just so they can get a stinkin’ Pontiac. And all the edamame in the world isn’t going to make you feel better.

Some people swear by chicken soup for a cold but my mama’s vegetable-beef soup works best for me and mine.

My friend Susan uses this basic recipe but substitutes 93 percent lean ground beef for the beef stew. Susan is a true friend, arriving with a gallon of soup, a bottle of wine that she bought at an actual wine store, and a box of Sam’s Club frozen chocolate éclairs on my doorstep one evening when she heard I was feeling puny. She so rocks.

• 2 pounds (more or less) beef stew
  
• 1 onion, chopped
  
• 2 ribs celery, sliced
  
• 2 tablespoons olive oil
  
• 6 cups beef broth
  
• 1 or 2 potatoes, cut into chunks
  
• 3 carrots, sliced
  
• 5 cups water
  
• 1 medium can tomato sauce
  
• 2 cans tomatoes
  
• 3 teaspoons salt
  
• 1 (10-ounce) bag
  each
  frozen lima beans, corn, cut green beans, and (optional) okra
  

In large pot, saute beef stew with onion and celery in 2 tablespoons olive oil until beef is browned; drain off nearly all the fat, but leave a little in the pot for flavor. Remove beef, onion, and celery from pot and set aside. Pour broth into the same pot and cook potatoes and carrots a few minutes in the broth until they’re softened. Return the beef, onion, and celery to the pot along with water, tomato sauce, tomatoes, salt, and frozen veggies. Simmer for at least a couple of hours; longer is better. In the last 20 minutes, you can throw in some uncooked rice or noodles if you want it to be even heartier. Serve with hot cornbread or saltine crackers if you’re pinched for time and drained of energy.

In this corner (of Walmart), ladies and gentlemen, a buxom, scantily clad, and heavily made-up Bratz doll complete with poutsome red lips, F-me heels, and tons of “Oh, no you did-unt” attitude.

In this corner (again, of Walmart), ladies and gentlemen, the Prince of Peace himself, the comforter of the poor, lame, and disenfranchised, complete with simple wheat-colored tunic, kind eyes, and gentle demeanor. Yes, folks, it’s the Jesus doll!

And here’s the kicker! He’s a poseable action figure! And why must we always use exclamation marks when we talk about action figures?!

One2Believe’s line of biblical action figures includes plenty of familiar faces, although I was a little sad to see there
was no tiny tax collector sitting in a tree. I love me some Zaccheus!

Of course, where there are action figures, there are action sets to accompany them and give them depth. So it is actually possible to buy a Moses and the Ten Plagues action kit that comes complete with poseable Moses, stern-looking Pharaoh, and “a bush covered with locusts.”

I’m guessing the marketing folks had a real challenge on their hands with that Ten Plagues idea. How exactly do you pitch that product? “Hey, kids! Collect a new pox every week!”

(Little Jimmy, disgustedly: “Criminy! They’re out of oozing boils, Mom; I’m going to have to get more frogs falling out of the sky. . . .”)

Of course, these days you gotta hold a kid’s interest with more than a few smelly store-bought sores. That’s why these poseable action dolls talk!

If you press the button on the Moses action figure, he’ll bark, “Ye shall not commit adultery!” along with a host of other buzzkill commandments. (Did the Bratz doll just look downward in shame?)

But first: “Ye”?

I totally get that these toys are designed to create one “teachable moment” after another, but they might want to make the dialog a little easier for kids to relate to: “For reals, get outta my grill, Goliath!”

The voice of the Jesus action figure seems all wrong to
me, too. He sounds way too old and angry for someone in his thirties. If this Jesus said, “Let the children come to me, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” they’d just start shrieking and run to their mommies.

Fortunately, scary-talking Jesus comes with “a unique stop-and-start button” that allows you to pause him, mid-Bible verse, and do something else, say letting the accompanying three-inch-tall lions lick their chops over the frightened Daniel action figure.

Now don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against faith-based toys, but these just seem a little too violent. In the promotional materials, Samson and Goliath are shown frozen in a gruesome choke hold, eyes bulging. Gimme that old-time religion, the kind that doesn’t involve strangulation.

With toys like this, it’s only a matter of time before you hear one Sunday School kid say to his buddy, “My Goliath can kick your Samson’s ass!”

Poseable Samson, at just over a foot tall, is the largest Bible action figure. Grotesquely muscular and wearing a post-Delilah modified bob, he comes with a backstory that reminds kids that he “killed a lion with his bare hands, slew thirty men in one night without weapons, and defeated an army of a thousand using only the jawbone of an ass (sold separately).”

You get the distinct feeling that the kindly cucumber “Larry” from the Bible-based “Veggie Tales” series would end
up sliced thin and smeared with cream cheese on white bread if he hung around this snarling Goliath too long. Still, I award bonus points for the use of the word “slew.”

Shelf space being what it is, there’s no telling who Jesus is going to be hanging with in Walmart. Let’s hope it’s not the new Black Canary Barbie, who is clad in a suitable-for-S&M black vinyl jacket, high-heeled boots, fishnet panty hose, and nothing else.

On the other hand, Jesus was forever befriending loose women, so I guess that would be OK. Picture the inevitable action kit: angry mob (stones sold separately) would have to back away with Jesus in the house.

And it will take nothing short of divine intervention to help shelfmate Ken, long-suffering beau of Barbie.

Not long ago, Ken was given a Mattel “makeover” to try to win his woman back from Blaine, Barbie’s vacant-eyed surfer-dude boyfriend.

The makeover was meant to make Ken look more “slick and urban.” Speaking through a humanoid working at Mattel, Ken said, “My new look will be very
now.
It will reflect my personality and change with my mood on any given day.”

Dude. This is almost as bad as saying “Ye.” If you’re going to try to reclaim Barbie, you better act fast, am I right, JC?

And he’ll probably never have a shot at Black Canary Barbie, who’s based on the DC Comics hottie. She’s taken to hanging around with another DC superhero, Firestar,
whose breasts appear to get bigger as her superpowers engage.

Isn’t that
fabulous?!
I’d give anything for my breasts to get bigger when I did something really well. It wouldn’t have to be something like shooting star-shaped fireballs straight out of my nipples, although that is wicked cool. But just something more age-appropriate. Like, every time I pull a particularly delicious tuna casserole from the oven, wham-o!

“Oh, these! I get them every time I truly excel at something. Please stand back. I have a praline cheesecake coming in a moment.”

Black Canary Barbie looks like the real thing, although Mattel chose to omit her most awesome feature, the “canary cry,” a high-powered sonic scream that has the ability to shatter objects and completely incapacitate those around her.

Just like Céline Dion.

Listen up, Ken. Barbie’s hot for Blaine, a guy who kills time by picking his toe jam with a coconut husk. If you really want to win her back—and with nearly five decades in the relationship, I don’t blame you for trying—you’re going to have to man-up.

Ken’s handlers say that he’s undergone some plastic surgery to resculpt his face. OK, this is so not a good way to start manning up. In fact, it may be the worst start since Michael Jackson decided to wear a military uniform.

If Ken is determined to win Barbie back, it may mean retreating back into the dream house closet, so to speak.

Ken’s going to need fewer stylists and more Russell Crowe—the bad boy Russell Crowe who throws phones at innocent hotel employees, not the doting celebrity dad who has, it’s official, had his kid surgically grafted to his shoulders. We haven’t been this sick of a parent pose since Madonna wore her adopted Malawian orphan bouncing on her hip like a Birkin bag with eyes.

Ken needs to show Barbie that he’s willing to take some risks, and I don’t mean trying pear-scented maximizing shampoo instead of the usual melon or forcing himself to stop using the word “product” in any conversation about his shaving needs.

Perhaps he could steal Barbie’s convertible and run over a few dozen paparazzi. Ken has a lot to learn about image. Angelina Jolie is twice the man he is; then again, so is Dakota Fanning.

Speaking through Mattel, a forlorn Ken has said he’ll do anything it takes to win Barbie back. Ick. I can smell the desperation from here. Or maybe that’s his Clinique Happy for Men. Either way,
très
unattractive!

If he really wants to win back the vapid vixen, and I have to admit that sometimes I can’t imagine why, Ken will need to play hard to get, stop groveling and, trust me, torch those silver lamé chaps he fancies when he’s pretending to be Nutcracker Ken.

You think Blaine would wear silver chaps?

Let’s ask him.

Oops, too late. It’s nine
A.M.
and he’s already passed out in the sand after smokin’ his third bowl.

I know what the crew back on the toy shelf is thinking and I hear you: Where’s the jawbone of an ass when you really need one? This guy needs slewing.

Southern children are just naturally tougher. And if you don’t believe me, consider the way my friend Sara used to get to school in the morning. Her grandmother, Miss Edna-Earle, drove a big old Pontiac whose rear passenger-side door would swing open every time she’d make a hard right turn.

Every morning, Sara assumed the position, gathered her books and, as Miss Edna-Earle made her sweeping right turn into the school yard, the back door would fly open and Sara would fall out, landing neatly at the front door. She’d pick herself up, dust off her books, and holler, “Bye, Grandmaw!”

Miss Edna-Earle would then turn a hard left out of the school driveway, the door would slam shut, and she’d toot the horn three times for I Love You.

Southern kids are used to that sort of eccentricity.

Quirky drivers thrive in the South. Growing up in a very small Southern town, we knew that of all the grown-ups we knew, Miss Lou was the most dangerous driver.

She drove a big black Cadillac and was notorious for knocking the doors off cars at the precise moment that you’d be settled behind the steering wheel and reaching for the door handle to shut it.

Truth was, if you were fool enough to park in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot in Wallace, North Carolina, circa 1975, there was a roughly 85 percent chance that your car door would be knocked right off its hinges by Miss Lou before you could shut it and be on your way. She came out of nowhere sometimes, reminding us of that truck in
Duel
that tortured Dennis Weaver or, worse, Stephen King’s maniacal Christine.

People in Wallace would just nod understandingly as we drove along, our legs and bodies exposed to the elements until we could get the door put back on at the body shop on the outskirts of town.

The police always gave Miss Lou a ticket, of course, but she was unrepentant, for the most part. That door had gotten in her way. People really ought to be more careful. One time, a Yankee moved to town and, after losing his first car door to Miss Lou, he petitioned the police chief to take her license.

“Well, I can’t do that,” the chief said. “How would she get around town? She’s ’bout six ax handles across so it’s highly
unlikely that she’s going to just walk anywhere she wants to go, now isn’t it?”