When I was a kid, I was just like the Coppertone Girl.
Only red. Very red. My Irish heritage produced day-glow skin that never tans. As a kid, it turned fire-engine red in record time. Regardless, I stayed out all day at the beach, in my bathing suit. Burning.
Like the Coppertone girl, there was one part of my body that did not burn, and I’ve always been glad. Well, until I read this article:
I am sad to say, that I, too, suffer from Butt Burn.
I came about it innocently enough. When we returned from living in Switzerland, we bought a car that had heated seats. I was delighted, since I am always cold. I pushed the button, and happiness reigned. For ten years, I’ve had a toasty tush. I would never think of buying a car without this luxury feature. A seat warmer and satellite radio is all I really require in a car. An engine is helpful, but not essential.
My path to Butt Burn, though, was down a slippery slope.
Two years ago, I started having a sore butt, so I applied Vaseline. Often out of those tiny tubes of Vaseline Lip Therapy that led me towards the pathway to lip balm addiction. I prefer the cherry flavored, although it hardly mattered down there.
When Vaseline fell short of my needs, I tried lidocaine ointment to soothe. Lastly, I tried what every mother knows works to soothe sore bums – Butt Paste.
With Only Natural Ingredients
These products have not helped. In fact, they made it worse. Now, I’m not a chemist, but I think I need to Google the temperature at which Butt Paste burns. Because I’m pretty sure I got very close over the weekend. My seat was smokin’.
I shudder to think: what if I had spontaneously combusted?
The whole issue gives new meaning to some of my favorite phrases:
“Liar, liar, pants on fire”
“Hot Pants”
“Cool Your Jets”
*****
No butts were actually burned in the creation of this post. So butt-burn sympathy is not necessary. Flowers are always welcome, however.
It’s happened in the wake of the tragic death of singer Whitney Houston. Or maybe it happened in the wake of CNN’s 4-day, 24-hour per day marathon coverage of her funeral which included an estimated 5,392,911 renditions of Whitney singing “I Will Always Love You.” Whichever it was, I was delighted to see that our society has truly stepped up to the plate. We are, thanks to Whitney, tackling the demons in our midst.
Starting with the one that has been keeping me up nights for years:
My husband doesn’t know it yet, but by the end of this three-day weekend, he will divorce me. We’ve been married 25-1/2 years. But they will be down the tubes in just a few days.
It’s sad. And it all came about perfectly innocently. Really.
It was a lovely morning, and today as I drove in to work, I was singing along with the radio when the song came on. Desperado, as sung by Linda Ronstadt (not the lesser version done by the Eagles).
It just happened; I couldn’t control myself. It tried, but really, I couldn’t help myself. I sang with abandon. With joy. With knowledge aforethought.
Now, I need to tell you that my soon to be ex-husband is handicapped. We have managed to make a good life together despite this, umm, problem. But it can’t continue.
You see, my husband hears everything. He cannot tune anything out. Not music, not voices, not machinery. I’ve never known anyone else with this particular disability. Whenever a neighbor starts a leaf or snow blower, a power tool, anything, he hears it and is frustrated. When a song he dislikes comes on the radio, when a commercial jingle plays, he hits the mute button faster than a Jeopardy contestantgets the buzzer. John will scream and dive across the room to turn that damn thing off.
Poor John. He’s never found my mute button.
And that, of course is the problem.
You see, I sing. Now, and for the last 25-1/2 years, I have looked over my shoulder before belting out a tune. I try to be considerate. And usually that works out OK for both of us.
Now, you should know that I can sing. Really! Years of chorus and choir, voice lessons, starring roles in musical comedies written by unknowns who, tragically, went on to other careers. I am even a critically acclaimed singer, with the reviews to prove it. Bronzed. One reviewer went so far as to say that I was stylish, although I am pretty sure that he was trying to get into my pants when he wrote the review. Of course, the evidence is circumstantial, based only on the reviewer’s verbal comments to me. Still, I’m sure his judgment wasn’t impaired. Extra blood is known to increase musical appreciation in men. Do I need to produce the medical studies?
Now I have a handicap, too. Unlike my husband, I can tune out anything. Including my own singing. While I’m doing it. I often just don’t notice I’m doing it.
John can deal with my singing sometimes; sometimes I just keep quiet. It’s worked.
Except for one song. Desperado, as sung by Linda Ronstadt (not the lesser version done by the Eagles). You see, it gets stuck in my head. And not even the whole song. Just one verse:
Desperado
Why don’t you come to your senses,
you been out ridin’ fences for so long, now.
Oh, you’re a hard one
But I know that you’ve got your reasons
These things that are pleasing you
Will hurt you some how
That’s all I can ever remember. And that, of course, is the problem.
“Lease, you’re doing it again. Those same lines — from the middle of the song.”
“Yeah, but they’re the best lines,” I respond. (John is never amused by that line, no matter how many times I’ve used it. Or how cute I look while saying it. Silence and pursed lips follow. )
This morning, when the song came on the radio, I forgot. I forgot that I cannot ever listen to that song again. I forgot that hearing it, even once, will result in divorce. I forgot that it might lead to a serious change in my life.
I didn’t change the channel. I didn’t turn off the radio. I did not drive into a tree or a ditch or another car simply to keep myself from hearing my beloved song – the one that my husband hates above all others.
Nope, I belted it out with abandon.
And it’s still there in my head. It wants to come out. In fact, it will come out. Sigh. And I know that my marriage simply cannot stand even one rendition. Sigh. Oh well. What’s 25-1/2 years anyway.
Mrs. Sparkly. Or should it be Ms.?
So it is a damn good thing that Janice at AuroraMorealist gave me the Mrs. Sparkly Award. Because I’m going to need to supplement my income with some singing.
Thanks Janice! For anyone who is unfamiliar with Janice’s blog, check it out. She has heart and talent and gives love with every post.
Tomorrow at my office, I and other members of the “Senior Staff” must present some cost cutting measures for consideration by the President and CEO. I’ve been worrying about this for more than a month. Me, I’m more into spending than cost cutting, and I just didn’t have any really good ideas for how a small business like ours could, well, save money.
But then, to quote John Lennon, “I read the news today, oh boy.” And I know just exactly how we will be saving loads of money. Can you guess how?
We can save sh*tloads of cash on health insurance in the not too distant future. How?
Yup, you guessed it! I’m counting on the Republicans in Congress continuing to be so completely, bafflingly, inexplicably bizarre. I’m betting that the Amendment proposed by Senator Roy Blunt (R-MO) to the Affordable Healthcare Act will become law. You read about it, didn’t you? It would allow any employer to “opt out” of offering insurance coverage to their employees if they object to coverage for religious or moral grounds.
When it becomes law, PRESTO! My company will save a fortune. I am a magician! I will save the company. I will be promoted! I will make big buckaroooooooooooossssss! I will be rewarded! At least I’ll keep my job.
Cue the evil laugh. Mooaahhhhhhhaaaahaaaaaaa.
Now there aren’t many of us at my little company. In fact I think we may all actually be “Senior Staff,” so I will need to present this carefully. Or mumble.
And, well, there aren’t too many health issues to speak of among our 22 employees. The usual flu, cold, allergies. Nothing particularly juicy. Nothing even remotely immoral. Nothing even borderline. Besides, what could we possibly object to on both moral and religious grounds that hasn’t already been taken care of by those busy beavers at the Virginia State Legislature?
Clearly, I had to dig deeper. I had to look to find what everyone has in common. And I figured it out!
We will deny health insurance coverage to anyone who poops.
We will do it on moral AND religious grounds.
Yup, poop. Nobody likes poop – that’s why we flush it away, why we bury it, why we hide behind doors to do it. I’ll save us a fortune in premiums.
As the self-proclaimed new insurance representative of my company, I hereby proclaim:
We oppose poop on moral grounds.
We oppose poop on religious grounds.
(Opposing poop on religious grounds would be easier if only I could remember which religion has the caste system – you know, where only the lowest caste deals with poop. Whatever religion that may be. I’m sure it’s mentioned in the Constitution. (It’s probably somewhere in the 2nd Amendment.)
Soon, my company won’t have to cover anybody; we’ll save a bloomin’ fortune.
But somehow, I will have to figure out how I can get insurance that covers me, because, you see, I have some healthcare issues, and I want to keep MY coverage.
I know!! My coverage can be special; because my poop don’t stink. Just like that of the folks proposing this Amendment. Right?
Sometimes, I find it nearly impossible to shine, and so I just can’t help myself. At those time I feel the need to do something a little odd, a little nutty and a lot stupid.
Apparently, that is just how the Republican-led government of my adopted state, Virginia, feels. Because yesterday they decided that one handgun is, well, just not enough for one person, so they repealed that terrible limit, and now, we Virginians can get all the handguns we deserve. After all, we Virginians have more than one hand, so we need more than one gun.
The limit on guns had been on the law books for 19 years. It was repealed by a group of state senators who got elected by vowing to increase the number of jobs in the state. Silly me, I didn’t realize they meant jobs in hospital emergency rooms and morgues. But hey, jobs is jobs.
But the worst thing about it is I found this out the very day I found my own personal dream firearm:
The Pink Hope 22
Yes, today I learned that the Susan G. Koman foundation was selling “The Pink Hope 22.” They were “Shooting for the Cure.” Well, that news, combined with the news that I could now get a matched pair, well, it really made my day.
But then all hope shattered. Crumbled. Was blown away. You see, apparently the Susan G. Koman foundation was all fired up about guns for quite a while. But not now. These days, they’ve become so damn politically correct, over this whole decision to let poor women get breast cancer, that they are no longer selling what I personally think is the perfect symbol of an organization devoted to protecting health – a pink hand gun.
I’m so bummed, I need a hug.
*****
Apparently, two of my blogging buddies knew this day would be coming. The Island Traveler and Arindam of Being Arindam nominated me for the Hope Unites Globally or HUG Award. Thanks Guys!
I’m not sure that I really qualify for this award, because it is for people (not necessarily blogs) that promote hope, love, peace, equality and unity for all people. Me, I’m mostly in it for the snark.
Nevertheless, I have it proudly on my blog and am passing it on to three folks who have been wonderfully supporting of my writing, even before my days as an Award Winning Blogger …
FiftyFourandAHalf 