Mama Gomez

On Sunday, my brother-in-law was married, signaling the close of an eventful weekend and weeklong visit from my husband’s family.  In order to highlight some of the finer points of this visit, I feel the reader should know some of details that went into the preparation of our home for the arrival of five visitors: I shampooed the carpet, bought new bedding for the guest room, along with new towels and rugs for the guest bathroom, conducted a massive de-cluttering of all rooms, and scoured every forgotten surface of our small home. In the process I also acquired several air deodorizers, including one automatic air smelly sprayer. Plus, under the misinterpreted guidance of my therapist, who told me not to worry about the small things and instead focus on a few small personal touches like flowers, I became obsessed with buying flowers for each room housing a guest (including the bathroom).

Upon arriving the first thing my mother in law wanted to do (after stocking the fridge to max capacity) was clean the bathrooms.  Before anyone could object, she was elbow deep in the toilet using a military-grade cleaner she had stolen from work.  I’ll admit I was slightly taken aback, until I realized that her magic pumice cleaner was erasing decade-old hard water stains within seconds. At that point, I decided to just let Mama Gomez be.  Under her reign: home décor improved 100%, breakfast became a 5 course event, and the backyard became a functional living space. To say my mother-in-law is strong-willed is an understatement. The woman is a force of nature.

I’m not going to lie though, there were some weird moments:

  • As previously mentioned, she popped a zit on my face.
  •  She “accidently” elbowed me during the chicken dance.
  • I found a wine bottle under all the veggies in the crisper.
  • She stepped on my stomach to test if it was “hard.”
  • While discussing undergarments with her sisters, she flashed her thong at the entire room.

This explains why Nick doesn’t bat an eyelash when I wake up and say things like, “I dreamt I was Liz Lemon in Colonial Williamsburg.” He’s used to zany women in his life.


Mama Gomez shows us how it’s done!


What just happened?

My mother-in-law just grabbed my face and popped a zit.

The huge zit that has been festering on my face for two days as a manifestation of stress regarding her (and the rest of the family’s) arrival.

The zit that I kept telling myself no one would notice or care about.

Yup, that zit.

Needless to say, I had to excuse myself from the table.

To the Max!

The in-laws are in town, so things are slightly off-kilter. Not to worry though,  this week’s frenzied activities will culminate in a giant wedding (as most romantic comedies do).

One benefit of having people in town, is getting to see the town through the eyes of  tourist. The first stop on my mother-in-law’s list: Sam’s club.

As we walked in we were greeted by a giant maxi-pad:

Greetings, female shopper!

Turns out this is actually a flotation device :

Maximum flo. . . .tation, that is!

I can’t imagine what type of team oversaw the production of this item without thinking of feminine hygiene. The pitch: It’s quilted,  narrow in the middle, and clearly not long enough to hold an entire human body. Sold!

As one might imagine, my husband had a fun time trying to explain to his mother why I excitedly ran towards the pool display while furiously jotting notes.

Does Not Compute

I was at a birthday celebration the other day and the band “The Pussy Collectors” came up in conversation.  In my mind, the name conjures the image of a vacuum cleaner that indiscriminately picks up all things labeled “pussy”: lady parts, cats, wimps etc.  When I explained this to the guy sitting across from me, he shook his head incredulously and was like,” the filter on that vacuum … No.”  —And that was it, we moved on to another subject.

My brain, however, refuses to move on. I can’t get behind the logic. In what world do disembodied vaginas go unquestioned, yet the type of vacuum filter used for such a scenario becomes a point of contention?


Anyway, here’s a  a link to video of Christopher Walken  reading Where the Wild things Are (possibly an impersonator, but let’s not dwell):   It will make you feel better.

Mojave, mo’ problems. Amirite?

Update: Apart from failing to post here, my days have been bustling with mundane activities. Most recently, I developed a fixation for nineties music videos.  (Life: I am living it!)

Anyway, all the valuable time I poured into this new activity made me realize two things:  1) I have terrible taste in music.  And

2) Holy balls, there are a lot of nineties videos that feature desert landscapes!

Mazzy Star- Fade into You (1994): That sad song with the tambourine.

Rusted Root- Send Me on My Way (1996): The Matilda Pancake Song.

Alanis Morissette-You Oughta Know (1996): Not even angry women listen to this song anymore.

Another weird trend: Free standing doors.

From the aforementioned Rusted Root video.Where does that door lead?

Answer: Nowhere.  Selena, Amor Prohibido (1994)

I wish I had some cool way to tie these ideas together to bring us closer to an explanation for the fuckery that was the nineties, but I can’t seem to come up with a theory that’s conclusive- other than that the entertainers of the nineties all secretly wished to be members of U2.

Exhibit A:  Art from the 1987 Joshua Tree Album.

“You too, can join us.”

I don’t know. Perhaps, I’m reaching. In other news, I think I can bring back high-waisted jeans.