Monday, July 23, 2007

Demon Possession in Publix

My husband and I are grocery shopping at Publix (only the best grocery store in the free world) today and happen upon a scene I've witnessed time and time again throughout my life, yet I've still failed to become desensitized to it. It was demon possession.

There's a family in the frozen food section- a pregnant mom, a dad, and a demon dressed as a 4-year-old girl. I have no idea what made the demon blow its cover, but suddenly and for know apparent reason, the demon begins screaming, perhaps in an effort to wake the dead. So Dad picks up Demon and attempts to place Demon in shopping cart cleverly disguised as racecar, which I believe is supposed to keep demons at bay while in grocery stores.

Demon isn't having it. Feet begin flailing. Pregnant Mom decides to try exorcising Demon by picking it up. Demon throws head back and releases the most unholy cry it can muster and begins kicking legs profusely, disregarding pregnant mom's watermelon belly.

Pregnant Mom drops Demon like hot potato and Demon cranks it up another notch. Face down in the floor, Demon is now spitting and pounding her fists on the floor, right in front of the frozen peas. Demon wallows around and rolls onto back, spit flying.

Heads begin to turn. I stop my cart in its tracks. I have to walk by Demon, but stop to ask myself if I can get past without taking a whack at her. I decide to make another loop through the produce section to put some space between Demon and me.

And then I happen upon a glorious sight. I witness Cute Produce Boy, who can't be more than 20 years old, look at Demon, smirk and shake his head. Our eyes meet and as quickly as I think it, Produce Boy says it: "If that were me, my mom would have me in the bathroom by now, pants down, wearing my butt out."

I laugh.

His mom and my mom obviously came from the same parenting school. No, my mom must've missed the last couple of weeks. Because I'm thinking if I'd become demon-possessed like that in a grocery store or any public place, she wouldn't have waited 'til she got to the bathroom. My back porch would have been painted red right there in the aisle.

My mom didn't play. She would tell the Super Nanny to kiss her butt if she ever passed her on the street because my mom never believed in her young 'uns experiencing "time out" or sitting in the "naughty chair" when they were bad.

My mom would tan your hide. And if you whined and cried about nonsense, she would offer to give you something to cry about.

And don't run from her when you've done wrong because she could throw things - laundry hampers, shoes, spatulas, etc.- that could reach clean around corners and still hit you.

Come to think of it, I don't remember being demon-possessed in public, and I'm sure it's because my mom scared the hell out of the demon each time it hinted at making an appearance.

If it Quacks Like a Duck, it Doesn't Mean it's a Duck

May 17, 2007

Call up the firing squad, because this is sure to make some people angry. But I've had just about enough of former Largo, Fla. City Manager Steve "Call Me Susan Ashley" Stanton and the way some members of the media have so definitively embraced his quest for femininity.

You can read about Stanton's recent trip to Washington in the May 17 edition of The Ledger. This article also explains Stanton's situation. In a nutshell, Stanton is a man who at age 48, has decided he now wants to be a woman.

Oh, if life were that simple.

Stanton "spent her day wearing a tomato red sweater tank and black slacks with a lace sash," the article stated.

He has suddenly earned the moniker she simply by putting on some make-up and wearing girl clothes.

When I was 6, I decided I wanted to be a horse. Well, guess what? A couple of hours of whinnying, eating my pony's sweet feed and walking on all fours did not make me a horse. Changing your name to Susan and wearing a tomato red tank top does not make a man a woman.

So why the sudden lovefest among some members of the media with the idea of calling Steve Stanton "she?"

I'm not here to debate the nuances of "gender reassignment" and "transgenders" in society. I won't argue that it's absurd to fire him from a job he did well, simply because he has traded in his pin-striped suits for charcoal gray skirts and patent leather pumps.

I simply don't understand how Steve Stanton wakes up on a Tuesday and he's a man, then wakes up on a Wednesday and he's a woman, and the media are referring to him as such. It's just not that easy.

My mom cooked beef heart once, smothered it in sauce and called it barbecue. One bite into that rubberized mess and my family knew it wasn't barbecue.

I can put a tutu on my dog, but that does not make him a ballerina. Slap a Harley Davidson sticker on my on my butt and dress me in chrome, but that doesn't make me a motorcycle. And I'm sorry, Steve, you can wear your tomato red tank and lace sash, but that does not make you a woman.

However, to help you in your journey, I am willing to donate my Anastasia Brow Kit to you. Every "woman" to-be deserves bangin' eyebrows.

Note: Lorrie has taped leaves to her body and is standing in a beautifully painted Italian ceramic urn. She has asked that she hereafter be referred to as a potted plant.