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It’s My Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To… (Pics)

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So, it goes like this . . .

There we were getting ready for our annual holiday ornament party. Friends had up from orange County and from various parts of southern California. My parents were here helping along with a couple that come up from Long Beach to help us run the bar and make our celebration terrific. My husband has known them for many years, and they are from the same parts of Pennsylvania.

So I climb in the shower, and I’m doing all my normal things. Which one of my friends would call the PTA.

What is the PTA?

Well somebody might think that PTA means Parent Teacher Association. And, they might be right if there were from Alabama, and NOT in the shower.

Hmmm… The PTA.

And, like I said I was in the shower doing my normal things, which included the PTA…

Puss, Tits and Ass.

Well, let’s be real… everything does need to be cleaned, right?

I have to look, smell and feel absolutely divine for my guests that are coming for the annual Christmas party… so everything gets washed including the PTA.

So, I climb out of the shower and I’m towelling off…

I am calm, because downstairs I know that everything is in place.

The Bar.

The Buffet.

The vegetable crudite display and the candles in the chandeliers were lit.

24 Christmas Trees dangling beautiful ornaments from around the globe …

Yes, now the number had grown to 24 trees. I can’t help it. They just look so beautiful… I can’t stop buying them.

It looked like a gigantic Winter Wonderland inside my house…

Sans the snow…

And, of course, no mittens or galoshes…

79 degree California weather with palm trees outside.

A giant California Winter wonderland, okay?

We Californians have got to do it our own way… I just throw a little “Alabama” in on the side from time to time — with a Y’all here, and a Y’all there! But, you understand that I do have some of the California affectations absorbed by now, and so… well, I don’t really do anything “small.”

So, yeah, I’ve got 24 Christmas trees running up my electricity bill. It’s beautiful, dang it. So get over it.

Yes, now there I am. Unusally calm with the impending knowledge that very shortly my home was going to be alive with about 80 other minds… and the fact that I was going to have to be witty, charming, and beautiful… Well, hell… I should have been freaking out.

Don’t worry…

My calm didn’t last for long.

The help was busy prepping the hot food and everything was on schedule.

So, there I was… still damp, with my PTA’s still tingling.

I had just begun to shimmy into my beaded dress because I wanted to do all my makeup and hair after I finally got my dress on.

It’s a fabulous dress, but I don’t know why I always buy such complicated clothing. Once again, not a “step in” dress… an “over the head” dress with straps going this way and that.

Just a fricking pain in the butt to get this dress on.

Holy crap, what a mess.

I am standing there contemplating just wearing the stinking thing as a partial top since it was strangulating to get the dress on over my head and wet showered hair. One arm in, one breast out.

No problem. Throw on a skirt and my left tit will be the hit of the party.

Right.

So, I finally get the frigging thing on.

Slide it down over my hips.

Thank God it still fits.

I’ve been eating my weight in turkey, brownies, fudge and cheesecake for the past two weeks. So, my ass is about the size of Oklahoma right now.

Thank God for the proverbial black dress…

… that stretches….

A silent “yay” for  the creation of Spandex.

Bless this inventor, this Sultan of Elasticity. I will always display their label of honor on my expanding derriere…  

So, I finally get this beautiful, god-forsaken, beaded strappy dress over my head with final authority, and slick it down the side of me.

Finally.

I need a frigging drink just to get this dress on.

Relax. Relax.

“Honey, can you get my a green apple martini from the bar?”

Yes, relax.

Help is on the way…

No sooner to I get the dress on… zipped up… looking in the mirror I turn left, and turn right… and of course, curse the size of my butt…

When all hell breaks loose. The fire alarm starts to go off at my house. It’s a loud blaring bell that is completely destructive to all your senses.

BANG, BANG, BANG.

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG.

WTF?

Aaaaaaaah! I am running down the stairs with a trail of obscenities still stabbing the air behind me. Shoeless, and bra-less. Boobs bouncing, and wet hair flopping.

80-some people are coming to laugh and schmooze in less than an hour. WHAT THE HELL AM I GOING TO DO? TELL THEM THE NOISE IS SANTA COMING…

AND COMING…

I NEED THAT ALARM OFF. PRONTO.

“What the hell is going on?” I scream.

I then begin pounding the number buttons on the alarm pad.

Pressing. Jabbing. Cursing. Screaming. But, the alarm keeps screeching.

7 minutes of this was enough to drive me out of my f-ing mind. “We’ve gone to all this trouble for this party, I need for you (the alarm) to shut the hell up! (:?sdt% qvio4$ — More obscenities) “

I was screaming so many bad words, that I ran out of them and had to make some new ones up.

I finally pressed a series of numbers that seem to work…

Aaaaah. Sigh of relief…

Well, it worked for 10 ten seconds, and then:

BANG, BANG, BANG.

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG.

HOLY CRAP!

I have this vision of all these firetrucks pulling up elbowing my guests, “Excuse me Ma’am, but we’ve got a fire in this house to attend to.”

“A FIRE?” And, then of course my guests run screaming for their lives.

Nice.

Yeah, that’s the type of celebration I wanted to have that night. Right.

Fun. Fun. Fun.

Right.

Another 6 minutes of ear-piercing stressing-inducing mind-numbing noise enveloped my house. What the heck am I going to do?

Where is my alarm company?

“Ding-dong.” 

BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM. Pounding on the door right next to where I was standing cursing and banging the alarm codes. I could feel the vibrations of the knocking.

I’m thinking, holy crap, the firetrucks are here and I am going to get a humongous bill from the City for a false fire alarm.

Shit.

I open the door, “Is everything alright here, ma’am? We got a signal at the station.”

It was a man from the alarm company dressed in a Kevlar vest and carrying a “piece.”

My eyes widen.

Double holy crap.

“Well, this alarm thing won’t go off, and in a matter of minutes I am going to be hosting a holiday party. I can’t have this thing going off! We’re supposed to be singing god-damn christmas carols! Help! I need help, man! I need this thing to stop to improve my stinking mood. I’m supposed to having fun, and I am NOT having any fun here, Sunshine.”

We finally got it to stop. “I can’t guarantee that it won’t start-up again,” he said.

Holy guaca-crapping-christmas-colored-mole.

“Well, that is the point when I will rip the freaking alarm out of the wall, sir.”

He looks at my husband. A knowing nod passes between them.

This must be male code for “and you have to live with this, huh?”

“Smile for the camera. You’re now part of this night,” I said.

So, I in barefeet and he in his kevlar, had just settled down the long alarm for a nap.

And, what to my wandering eyes should appear, but 80 familiar faces carrying ornamental reindeer.

Where up in the past the alarm rose such a clatter, and now it all behind us, it didn’t seem to matter.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and stopped all the ringing and turned with a jerk.

Laying his hand upon the side of his Glock, I thought for a moment he was going to whip out his …

Identification.

You guys are so naughty… I just love it!

And, giving a nod, out the door he did flee, this house of freakouts and terminal glee.

He sprang to his patrol car, gave a loud call, “Have a great party, my dear! Oh, Belle of the Ball!”

But, I heard him exclaim as he drove away faster, “If is goes off again, I know a man that’s good in repairing wall plaster!”

The party was a great success… and, the alarm did NOT go off again.

Thank you, jeeze Louise.

We drank, and we schmoozed, and some carols we did sing.

But, the alarm stayed silent, not nearly a ring!

Here are some pics from the party!

The vegetable crudite buffet and us!

Me giggling

Me and the chicks

4 of the 24 trees

Before the party

More holiday cheer

Beginning the Ham Session

Belt it, baby!

Lou and my book

Me and my man

More cheer

My daughter and her friend

Open your eyes, man!

Our Saviour

Smile for the camera!

The Boy

What the hell am I doing?

Yay! Sing it!

Yeah Baby!

xoxo

Be well,

Belle

Writer's Digest Award Winner - S. Belle Karper  A 78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award WinnerBookmark and Share

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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Continued Adventures of Super-Belle! Vacation Voo-Doo…The Dreaded Timeshare Presentation – Part A

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

Okay.

Here am sitting in the beautiful California mountains, on a blissful mountain side. Three and half hours it took me to drive up here. 3 and a half Goddamn beautiful hours.

We check in on Saturday, into a two-bedroom timeshare unit. I get out of the car. Stretch my legs, which the backs are now dimpled with the upholstered impression of polka-dot imprints from the stupid seat insert. Nice. I gotta get rid of that thing. It’s really not comfortable, and makes my hot-pant-legs look less than “hot.”

I look at the grounds of the resort.

Nice.

Huh, huh. Yes, these are adequate surroundings in which I will be able to embarrass my two young off-spring. The construction looks flimsy enough for everyone to be able to hear my screechings.

So, “Yes, everybody,” I decree, “This will do fine.”

It was 100 miles of my kids comparing fart jokes, my daughter’s eye-rolling to every comment I say (between each text, ya know. Can’t be bothered, right?), the air-conditioner not working due to a lizard that decided use my A/C hose for a hide-a-den, and my forced-straight-ahead-stare, because I woke up with a “crick” in my neck from forgetting to detach my Bluetooth while it charged before I fell asleep last night. (BTW, what the frick is a “crick?” I am from the south, so y’all will have to forgive me.)

So, life is not quite as magical as it might seem on beautiful facia of La-la-land.

So, when the going gets tough, yes, the tough go out of town. And, yes, I made that up.

It was 3.5 hours of bumper cars on the spaghetti network of freeways, getting me out of the fan-fricking-tastic wonderland. Yeah. Like I am going to miss any of this 101 Freeway confestation.

We drive up the winding road. People honking each time we make a left turn, because every time I turn left I go over the center line. Crap that Bluetooth, and it’s Goddamn charging chord. You’d think that by now, the “crick” in my neck would have lessened, however if you ask anyone going downhill from the mountain on this bright and beautiful day – well, their horns work just fine since my head won’t turn left.

So, long as we don’t stop, I don’t think they’ll be able to turn around quickly enough to catch up with us…

We carry on.

Finally, we all got up the hill with only minor incident. My kids inform me that EVEN (as in, addition to) a pair of geriatrics, each only about a 100 years old, were also giving us (me) the middle finger with anguished enthusiam. Thank you very much grandma for showing some God-dang restraint in your stinking personal expression of yourself. My children are at a fricking impressionable age, and your stupid finger-flipping didn’t help too g-d-crapping much while I am trying to demonstrate to them to some respect for their Goddamn elders. Thanks a whole hell of a lot…assholes.

UGH. I digress.

I have checked in, and upon check-in, after verifying that the haggard woman that is standing in front of them is actually the perky chick pictured on the front of my credit card, they have decided to ask me for my driver’s license. Now, since I accurately match the beauty of my Department of Motor Vehicles picture they decide to swipe the old Mastercard and let me pay for this luxurious timeshare experience that we, as a family, are about to embark on.

I’m tired and on my period, man. Don’t mess with me. Give me the keys to the room and no one gets hurt.

Now that they have gotten the approval code, and have questioned my signature…. And, by the way, everybody questions my signature. EVERYBODY. Albertsons supermarket, The Coffee Bean and friggin’ Tea Leaf, and even my real estate agent who handles the rental of my parent’s house forced me to re-signed documents because prospective tenants were scared off by my signature. Hello-o? This is LA. How can you be scared by anything, especially a stinking signature? She mentions in a whisper that she is mailing back the check for the cleaning lady that prepped my parents’ house for rental viewing “The Check-n-Steal check cashing place near Juanilla’s house won’t cash the check. They think it’s fake.”

“But, it’s MY signature!”

“I know, I even showed Juanilla the rental documents that you signed. She’s not convinced. Please, send her a new check with a different signature.”

“With a different signature?” WITH A DIFFERENT SIGNATURE? “Hello, the bank won’t cash it ‘with a different signature.’”

“I know, I know. What can I do? The check place doesn’t believe it.”

“Have them call my bank. They’ll tell them that it’s a real signature.” I can’t believe that a checking cashing place – granted, the pillar of societal morals and impeccable ethical standards, that cashes all kinds of checks from possibly questionable sources, now decides that mine is undeniably a fake…

“I tried that. They want a new check with a different signature.” What kind of a business are these people running here?

So, needless to say, the check in question is sitting on my desk. Along with the envelope that it came in, and there it will sit until “I” get a new signature. Which will be … let me think here …. Never.

I digress. Again.

So, yes, after the “hotel” has checked every ID I have to confirm my seemingly outrageous signature, including my frequent buyers card for the Mobile Buzz-n-Wash-n-Fluff for my dog, they have agreed to hand me some hotel keys. It’s about sticking time. However, they have efficiently diverted me over to the “activities director” in order to obtain my parking pass.

No activities director, no parking pass.

So, I shuffle my numb 3.5-hour sedated butt over to the activities desk so that I can register our SUV and finally check-in to the unit so I can place semi-lame derriere into the couch and watch some freaking TV. That’s why I drove all the way up here, right? To nag my kids and watch television. Evidently I can’t do that well enough at home, that I have to come up to mountains and share my blastings with people from around the globe in the midst of a calm hillside with tiny white yarrow flowers dotting the paths and rocks, and inhale the green effervescent misting of allergenic pollen spores.

Where’s my frigging Allegra, man?

So, I finally get the parking pass from the tenacious talons of the activities commandant, however she does not relinquish it without the covert mention of the possibility of me attending a timeshare presentation. “And, you get entered in the $100 drawing if you go on the weekend!”

What?

What did you just say? Do my ears decieve me? Timeshare presentation? Did she really just say that? Or was it just the dread lingering in the back of my crowded head? Were one of my voices whispering it — just to scare me?

I look at her.  She looks at me. “$50 dollar gift card.”

So, she DID say it.  She said IT. Those words…timeshare presentation.  I don’t even have the balls to type it in capital letters…

…Yay….

 

TO BE CONTINUED…. TO CONTINUE TO THE NEXT PART OF THE STORY CLICK HERE TO Check out NEW–Adventures of Super-Belle! Part Deux — Vacation Submission into Acceptance

So, you come back, now. Ya’ hear?

Be well Dahhhhlings,

Belle

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book
& the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
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S. Belle Karper -- Author & Speaker

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