Regrettable Me

Whoever says that they can look back on their life and have no regrets is full of shit. These are the people who say things like, "Every decision I've made, good or bad, has made me the person I am today."

Ass biscuits!

I know because I've used this sweepingly generic excuse once or twice in my life but what I was really saying was, "Yeah, I'm an idiot who does lots of dumb shit ... who often makes the same mistakes twice and who doesn't care to talk about it, so kindly shut your face before I get all kinds of stabby."

I have a garden full of Regret and What the Fuck Was I Thinking. Enormous blossoms of regret, like not saying I love you or even goodbye to Seltar the morning he left for work on the day he died. And regret for my monstrous lack of parenting that stretched from 2001 to 2007. That regret grows like ivy, smothering and destroying everything it creeps over if not routinely cut back.

But not all of my regret is so blue. There are also these gems .......

• I regret the day I stumbled across nude pictures of my daughter's 16 year old boyfriend. **Shudder. Gag. Shudder. Repeat**

• I regret my affair with a married man and I regret that it lasted six years. The Karma Police are still in hot pursuit over that one.

• I regret not learning how to swim. I'll blame this on my mother for never sending me to camp.

Dear Whore Mouth,

It is because of you that I cannot swim, nor am I any good at horseshoes and have never learned the art of creating those twine-string-friendship-bracelet-key chain-thingies. My life would totally have been different if you just sent me to camp for one fucking summer!

• I regret going into labor a month early and missing the first ever Lollapalooza. The lineup: Jane's Addiction, Siouxsie, NIN, Rollins Band, Butthole Surfers, Violent Femmes and Fishbone. Ughhhh ..... babies are so selfish!

• I regret watching Desperately Seeking Susan and letting it define my style for the next two years. Seriously, no adult figure in my life could tell me not to go to school dressed entirely in lace? Fuckers.

• I regret that one night stand with the guy with the Irish accent. I in fact regretted it so much, I took half the paint off of his car when I peeled out of his drive way the next morning. Oops.

• I regret not doing any of the things my crazy neighbor in San Francisco accused me of. Like putting voodoo statues in the garden to torment her, spray painting the word Bitch on her car, dragging dead bodies across the floor and especially, my personal favorite, throwing pots of piss at her back door.

• I regret tequila. 'Nough said.

Does This Meat Tenderizer Come With Lubricant?

Pampered Chef ... you guys ever heard of it? It's like Tupperware on steroids. And it's ridiculously expensive, unless you think $13 is reasonable for a spatula.

Maybe you're asking yourself, "How did Miss Spoken find herself at a Pampered Chef party of all places?" I'll tell you. It's because my brother, Puppet Boy, works in retail. He'll talk to anybody about anything. So when this woman walked into his job looking for (insert random item), they naturally got to talking. Thirty minutes later she walked away with (insert random item) in her hand and with one more sucker to add to her rolodex of Pampered Chef hostesses. She claims she didn't know he was gay but come on, he just signed up to host a Pampered Chef party and is so gay he can put a lisp in any word in the English language. Whore Mouth, Legal and I called him late one night just to hear him say "crackers."

*Ring .... Ring .....*

"Hello."

"Hey Will, say crackers and cheese."

*Insert muffled sounds of three grown women giggling*

"Huh? What? Why?"

"Just fucking say it."

"Crackerths and Cheesth."

"Bwahahahaha! Shit, I gotta go. I think Mom just pissed herself."

And so it was that Whore Mouth, Miss Perceived and I found ourselves at his Pampered Chef party. We don't get out much, so it was inevitable that we filled the first hour with drinks and the second hour drinking and cracking vagina jokes and assaulting this poor woman with our tasteless humor.

And we were especially full of the filth that night.

But it was her fault for passing around a meat tenderizer with removable parts. If you say things like "toothed side," "pound your chicken" and "cracking nuts" we have no choice but to ask if this thing comes with a suction cup base and whether or not it's seeing anyone at the moment. Because if you're going to spend almost $30 on a meat tenderizer, shouldn't it tenderize my meat? *wink, wink*

I think Miss Perceived tried to smuggle the meat tenderizer out of the house using just her pelvic floor muscles. She's kind of brilliantly criminal like that.

By the end of the night, I dropped a vodka soaked check on a gravy separator (who doesn't want their gravy separated?) and a pie plate. I also got to feel up Miss Perceived and dust off some old pedophile jokes that had been sitting on my shelf for a few years.

And I'm pretty sure Puppet Boy is the new face of Pampered Chef. Hope that works out better than his attempts at selling Girl Scout cookies on the side of the road in rural Alabama.

Whore Mouth Almost Blows It ... Again

My brother and his wife recently asked me to be the Godmother for their son. My nephew is thirteen years old so I figured I'd go ahead and agree to it. Had he been thirteen months old, I might have said no. Because if something should happen to my brother and his wife, the Godmother is expected to sort of step in and do something, right? Well, my days of dealing with babies are long gone. I always say that you'll know I'm pregnant again because I'll be on the six o'clock news.

This just in ... a clearly unstable woman has reportedly jumped to her death from the Golden Gate Bridge. Early reports indicate the woman, who was wearing nothing but anchor chains and a t-shirt that read "No More Fucking Babies!!!" was seen swilling vodka and babbling something about overactive ovaries before she plunged to her death.

Because I can get pregnant using a man's toothbrush, I'm super cautious. I don't even walk down the baby aisle at Target anymore. Too risky. But thirteen years old, I've handled that age bracket before. Unless his descent into puberty turns him into a hormonally unbalanced and always hungry and unhappy beast. In which case it's off to military school. Hope his parents are okay with that.

My brother began the Godmother conversation by looking at his wife, turning to me and then said, "Sit down. My wife and I have something we want to talk to you about."

Fuck. I didn't do it. I don't know nuthin' about no robbery.

"We want to know if you'll be Junior's Godmother."

Wheeeew.

"Sure. I can do that."

And then of course, Whore Mouth (aka my mom) has to chime in.

"Maybe you should ask her if she believes in God."

*crickets*

My brother looks to his wife. Blink. Looks to me. Blink, blink. Looks to his wife.

"You don't believe in God?"

This is serious business. My brother prides himself on a few things, two of them are being Irish and being Catholic.

"Ummm, well, it's not like I'm a heretic or anything. I more of a spiritual person. It's true, I don't go to church because if there is a God, I'm sure it won't matter to him where I am on Sundays and I like to cook on Sundays. And then there's the whole religion versus science argument, you know?"

I shoot a look to Whore Mouth indicating that she'll be sent to sleep under the stairs tonight. I consider purchasing a large kennel. Maybe visit the local sex shop for a human muzzle.

My brother seems okay with this answer and then tells me that there might be classes I have to take.

What the hell? Since when do Godparents have to take classes? Is there a test? A background check to verify my Catholicism? Are they going to submerge me in water ... if I sink I'm okay and if I float I'm a witch? Will I have to "out" other heathens like that Whore Mouth mother of mine? Because she's the first name I'm giving up.

Jesus Christ, what if they stumble upon my little blog here where I've written about Virgin Mary dildos and other topics sure to cast a doubt as to whether or not I'm fit for the title, Godmother. But shouldn't that be considered nothing more than enthusiasm? Ughh, then there's the picture I posted of a nun in latex wearing a gas mask. That counts as religious art, right? God, what about that hot summer day when that woman (dressed in wool in the middle of a heat wave) confronted me and The Boy and told me that Jesus Christ wouldn't approve of me showing my skin to all of the world like a harlot and that I should save myself for my husband. I politely told the woman that Jesus also probably didn't want me to die from heat stroke and that she could kindly fuck off.

I blame all of this on my mother.

Later in the day, I put my devotion to the Catholic faith on display by showing my brother the large iron cross hanging in my hallway. It's parked right next to some of my personal artwork depicting dancing skeletons, astrological markings and Day of the Dead symbology.

He casts me a weary glance, shakes his Irish Catholic head and walks away, clearly concerned for my soul and maybe doubting this whole Godmother thing.

Whore Mouth is in the kitchen doing whatever it is that Whore Mouths do when I walk up behind her and whisper in her ear, "It's the thumbscrews for you tonight, wench."

Isn't that what any good Catholic would say?