DO YOU REALLY THINK I WANT TO LOOK AT YOUR STINKY PISS?

When my parents ran their clinic on Whidbey Island, they used to offer free physicals to any high school kids who needed them at the start of the school year. My Dad was the Doctor, Mom the Lab Technician.
This resulted in two absurdly busy weeks at the clinic just before school started each year.

Now, my Dad had been a star athlete in his Canadian high school. So he primarily did this out of love for sports. (He was also the high school football team doctor for the South Whidbey Falcons.)
But of course, these free physicals were available to any teenager who needed them, not just athletes.

One year a pasty Goth kid (the son of a very prominent businessman) came stumbling in. He was wearing his Goth uniform of a leather jacket, black eyeliner, ripped jeans and surly attitude.
No problem. It didn't matter that he wasn't going to be on a sports team.
Like I say, any kid could get a free physical. That was the deal. It was my Dad's gift to the community.
So this Goth kid stumbles in, and my mom gives him a plastic cup to pee in. After all, that's part of the physical.
He goes in the bathroom for a few minutes.
Then he comes out with an empty cup that he shoves back in her face. He glares at her, mumbling, "I'm not gonna do this. I can't. I don't have to pee."

Now, here's the thing. It was 4:30 in the afternoon. My mom had been dealing with annoying teenagers since 9am. She was not about to take anyone's bullshit. So she grabs this Goth kid by the collar of his leather jacket, gets right up into his face and says, "DO YOU REALLY THINK I WANT TO LOOK AT YOUR STINKY PISS? No! I don't! But I do it. You know why? Because this is where I am in this life. And you're here. And here's your plastic cup. Now you get in that damn bathroom...and PISS IN THIS CUP RIGHT NOW."

And I'll tell you what...he did just that.

CHOICE NUGGETS OF WISDOM FROM MOM

Since Christmas is almost here, I'm giving you Peon Confidential readers a lovely gift...
Those of you who know me are aware that my mom is a crazy Finnish woman. She came to North America with 217 bucks in her back pocket, speaking three words of English. Over the years, she's managed to explore both her adopted home and the English language in fascinating ways. This woman doles out advice and opinions with a special flair.
I'm sharing some of her greatest hits with you today:

1. ON GROCERY SHOPPING: I don't understand people who buy those big cans of things in bulk. Why do they do it? A gallon of cling peaches is such a big commitment.

2. ON AIRPLANES: I hate that airplane smell. You know what that smell is? I tell you. People fart on the plane and it goes into the ventilator system and zooms around and around. It has no place to go! It's trapped. The whole flight people are smelling the same fart. So that's what airplane smell is: recycled fart.

3. ON GETTING ME MY FIRST BRA: (Giving my 12-year-old, unicorn t-shirted chest a stern once over) Yeeech. Saara, you've got the little fat man titties. We're getting you a bra.

4. ON SEX: Hey Saara. Come here. Sit down. You know about the penis? You know about the vagina? You know about the penis going into the vagina? Well, don't do it. It is so boring.

5. TO MY FATHER'S FRIEND WHO TRIED TO GET HIM TO INVEST IN A PYRAMID SCHEME: You touch my savings, I slit your throat!

6. TO A WOMAN AT A PARTY WITH EXTREMELY LONG FAKE NAILS: How do you wipe yourself with those things?

7. TO MY FATHER AFTER HE PULLED HER AWAY FROM THE WOMAN WITH EXTREMELY LONG FAKE NAILS: Don't eat that casserole. I think she brought it.

8. ON THE NEIGHBOR: She's a loosey. What? Okay fine. Floozy, Loosey. I don't care what the English word is! She spread her legs for a fat man.

9. ON THE LOCAL SHERIF: He has a herpes. What? No a hair-peez! You know, a wig. Looks like shit too.

10. ON THE SMELL OF A CERTAIN CAFE IN ATLANTA: (Sniffing loudly) This place...This place...it stinks like unwashed vagina.

FASHION NEWSFLASH

I think the time is right to resurrect the 1980's khaki jumpsuit, as modeled by my mom in the above photo. Look how happy that jumpsuit is making her.
Who's with me on this?

THE POLITICS OF LIPSTICK

So-
My mom decided to weigh in on the Sarah Palin lipstick wars.
Naturally, it was in the form of a PHONE MESSAGE. I came home, pushed the button on my answering machine and heard a harsh Finnish accent saying:

"I don't understand why that Palin woman even talked about the lipstick and pit bulls. And now I open the paper and people are talking about pigs with the lipstick and whatever else. Why all this lipstick talk? Because she doesn't even wear good lipstick. It's that kind of boring lipstick for women who are afraid to wear it. You know what I mean Saara? Women with no style wear that boring lipstick."

What I want to know is--why isn't my mom a pundit on CNN?

ROMANCE AND REFRIED BEANS

Happy Cinco De Mayo everyone!

Today's celebration reminds me of an experience I had with my Viking mom at a Mexican restaurant in Atlanta. This was several years ago, so the place may or may not still exist. It was called Jalisco, and was (like most places in Atlanta) ensconced in a strip mall. Worse, it was one of those strip malls where the architects try to fool you into thinking it's actually an "olde" Southern town square. You know what I mean? They slap up some fake gaslamps and a "quaint" clock and hope that people pull in and say,
"Well, isn't this just adorable Tom! A sweet little town square right here off of I-85. What a charming piece of Southern history. And there's a Lens Crafters too!"

Anyway, we were there, enjoying some burritos, when a couple sat down next to us. It was a small restaurant, so when I say next to us, I mean right next to us.
Now, I'd like to add that the food at Jalisco was good, but it was not a particularly attractive or interesting place. There were no flickering candles or delicate flowers or anything remotely romantic about this place. Plus, the smell of fresh tar from the parking lot would waft in every time the door opened.
So, this couple starts looking longingly into each other's eyes. This leads to massaging each other's hands. Then thigh squeezing commences. Then tongues start slurping. Sweet nothings are whispered. Hair is tossed seductively.

Finally my mom decides she's had enough. She bellows in that harsh Finnish accent of hers,

"Enough already! This isn't Casablanca. This is a shitty Mexican restaurant. Just eat your refried beans and go home."

NEW CAREER ASPIRATIONS

Merry Christmas everyone!
I know most people focus on the joy of he holiday season, but it's also a time to think about where you are in life, and how different the reality is from your childhood dreams. (Really, how many of us are astronauts, ballerinas or cowboys? And yet we still trudge to work anyway, our childhood dreams in tatters.) The the dying of one year and the birth of a new one are cause for a lot of introspection...
Which is why when I read that there is a brand new school of higher learning, where I can better my professional prospects, I got excited:

ROVANIEMI, Finland (Reuters) - Customer service, story-telling, nature studies and wilderness survival are essential skills for any elf worthy of the name. Anyone who aspires to a job as a Santa's helper can acquire them at a new Elf Academy in Rovaniemi, 2,600 km (1,600 miles) from the North Pole, which Finland claims as home to the "real" Santa Claus.
Christmas 2007 is in full swing as tourists seek Santa in the Arctic Circle but after the school opens next April, the 2,000 or so "elves" will be able to raise their game.

The competencies an elf needs are vast, says Esa Sakkinen, project coordinator and teacher at the Lapland Vocational College which will be running the academy.They do more than pack the gifts that families pick up at the Christmas market outside "Santa's house" or help answer the 750,000 letters that arrive at his local post office each year.

"An elf needs to know how to make a fire in the snow ... also the local nature and animals, because you never know what the clients or kids are going to ask," he said.

Exams to earn a professional certificate are part of the program, which will be open to all ages. On arrival at the airport, elves dressed in green jackets and red gloves and hat ferry visitors on buses to their destinations through the winter twilight.
After a day driving a snowmobile they may accompany families to a reindeer farm or tell stories of Santa and Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer...


Okay-
I am seriously heading to Elf Academy to get my elf certificate. I am the right height, I'm Finnish and I already have Exotic Dancer certification, so I can add this to my list of achievements. I know you people are scoffing, but when I sell my story to Esquire magazine, and one of the Olsen twins plays me in the movie version, who's gonna be laughing then, huh?

2008 is looking good!

LET THE VAGINA BREATHE

I'd like to thank the person who posted about her "tweenie". If I could, I'd buy you a drink. So consider this a virtual toast to you.
For a while now, I've been asking any women I know if their mothers told them "you have to let the vagina breathe." I am amazed at how widespread this adage is, and how each mom puts her own spin on it:

MY FINNISH MOM: "Saara, don't wear panties to bed. The piiko needs to breathe." (And no, "piiko" isn't actually a Finnish word. No one knows where it came from. But this doesn't stop my mom from using it.)

MY OHIO FRIEND'S MOM: "Honey, you have to air it out. You'll get twat rot."

MY JEWISH FRIEND'S MOM: "Bubbulah, the vagina is like fine wine. It has to breathe."

MY TRINIDADIAN FRIEND'S MOM: "Let a little breeze into your tun tun." (Not sure if I spelled that right.)

MY NEW ORLEANIAN FRIEND'S MOM: "Boo, respect your area and let some air in."

AIR GUITAR CHAMPIONSHIPS

As a Finnish-American, I'm proud to announce that the judges for the 12th Annual Air Guitar World Championships, held in Oulu, Finland, have selected a winner. But no, it wasn't a fellow Finn who won. A Japanese guy had the best moves. Ochi "Dainoji" Yosuke is the reigning champ for the second year in a row. Check out his blazin' hot performance:
OCHI WINS!

Now, according to the organizers, The World Air Guitar Championships were created 12 years ago to promote peace, because you cannot hold a gun while playing air guitar.

These people need to be recognized as the modern-day Ghandis that they are.
When will they win a Nobel Peace prize for their valiant efforts?

That being said, here are my top 5 best air guitar songs:

1. Back in Black by AC/DC
2. She Sells Sanctuary by The Cult
3. Rock n' Roll by Led Zeppelin
4. Girl, You Have No Faith In Medicine by The White Stripes
5. Crosstown Traffic by Jimmy Hendrix

Conversely, here are the top 5 worst air guitar songs:

1. The Theme from "Titanic" by Celine Dion
2. Escape (The Pina Colada Song) by Rupert Holmes
3. Sailing by Christopher Cross
4. Copacabana by Barry Manilow
5. Lost in Love by Air Supply

Please feel free to add your favorites...

PHONE MESSAGES FROM MOM

Last night I came home and there was a message from my mom on the answering machine. Now, I must point out that she habitually leaves weird, random messages. And, despite her obvious Finnish accent, she always states who she is first. As in: "Terve, Aiti-Kaisa here." She must assume that there are hundreds of other 60-year-old Finnish women leaving daily messages on my machine. Messages I've received in the past include:

1.)"You know, that Michael Jackson person...he's really weird."

2.) "All of a sudden, your father won't eat swiss cheese. I don't know why. What's wrong with swiss cheese?"

3.) "I saw on the news that it's raining in New York. Do you have rain boots? Don't be vain about it. I know you like those high heels but there is no reason to ruin good shoes. And everyone knows you're short anyway. You're not fooling anyone."

4.) "I saw that there are bedbugs in New York. Even the fancy apartments have them. I think you should wash your sheets tonight."

5.) "Do you think that John Travolta person wears a wig?"

Anyway, last night I got this:

"Who is this terrible man on the TV that looks like a fat penis? Bald man with a mustache. Telling everyone what to do with their lives and he has a southern accent and looks like a fat penis. I hate him. Why do they let people like this on the TV?"


I don't know. What do you think? Should I give her the number to the Dr. Phil hotline? I'm sure he'd love to hear from her.

MAMA D'S ARTS BORDELLO: SIN WITH A FINN

Mama D's is back and it's dirtier, boozier and sleazier than before. This time we're celebrating St. Urho, the fearless Finn who drove the grasshoppers out of the vineyards that produce the famed [sic] Finnish wine... We've got a hot line-up of performers: David Silverman will spin a tale of restless nights in Prague. Mike Maloney will serve up some foot-stompin' drinking songs. Pete Olson will wax scatalogical. Daniel Figueroa will screen his film "Bike Rider", a Hasselhoff-inspired romp about a man and his crime fighting bicycle. Mama D will impersonate a drunken Bahamian. And Mary Crowley will soothe your soul with her sexy melodies. So on March 15th, come raise a glass and say "kipis" (cheers) to St. Urho and enjoy a fine night of entertainment.

DATE: March 15th, 2007
(This is the Eve of St. Urho's Day, which is the Eve of St. Patrick's Day--by design! We Finns wanted a head start on the boozing.)
TIME: 8:30 pm
PLACE: Jimmy's No. 43 (Backroom)

"THAT TED TOOR-NER"

My first job out of college was as an entry-level Video Journalist at CNN headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia. It sounded pretty exciting at the time. But the salary for this peon position would have been embarrassing in any era, and during the tech boom years of the late 1990's it seemed particularly meager. At $20,000 a year, we "VJ's" hardly lived in the lap of luxury. Instead we lived in the tacky, cookie cutter shantytowns that seemed to spring up on every corner back then. One company built so many crappy apartment complexes that we deemed their slogan,
“Building tomorrow’s ghettos today!”

My mother, a fierce Finnish woman, was convinced that Ted Turner took great satisfaction in our slave wages. In her eyes he was a ruthless, penny-pinching fiend whose sole aim in life was to thwart my happiness. Not only that, but he apparently micro-managed his network to an extreme. Whenever I'd complain about anything at CNN, she'd blame it all on Ted Turner personally.
I'd say,
“The bathrooms on the third floor are always stinky.”

She'd reply,

"That Ted Toor-ner. Not cleaning the toilets," as though he were a shiftless janitor who spent all day telling dirty jokes and ignoring his bowl-scrubbing duties.
I'd say,
“The Brunswick stew in the cafeteria gave me gas."
She'd reply,
"That Ted Toor-ner. Makes his employees fart all night with his food," as though he were in the kitchen stirring the stew himself and tossing in extra onions with gleeful abandon.
I'd say, "I hate working the 7pm-to 4am shift."
She'd reply,
"That Ted Toor-ner. Exploiting you hard-working kids for his own pleasure," as though he were perched in his penthouse apartment at the Omni hotel, rubbing his hands together, watching me enter the CNN Center through a telescope as he cackled,
“Here comes that Dutton girl. Boy do I love to see her on this miserable shift!"

While I didn't necessarily blame Ted Turner for my lot in life, working at CNN was the root cause of my empty wallet. If necessity is the mother of invention, my CNN salary was the mother of desperation. I did anything to save a few bucks.

I treated the salespeople at Macy’s like Moroccan bazaar merchants, haggling five bucks off a dress for a lipstick stain that I had furtively smeared on the sleeve minutes before. I wouldn’t throw out a tube of toothpaste until I’d sliced open the tube and scooped out the gunk smeared on the inside. All my furniture came from K-Mart. I even begged them for the beat up floor models at a discount. I had my TV stand for three weeks before noticing that some uncouth customer had stuck a massive pink wad of Bubble Yum under the shelf.

Obviously, none of my fellow VJ friends were loaded either. Everyone was just barely scraping by. Still, I became indignant when a weather reporter magnanimously bestowed us VJ's with some left-over peanuts from a holiday party that none of us were invited to. Eyeing those three pathetic Ziplock bags of Planters party mix, I was livid. Was this any way to treat your professional colleagues? Scattering meager Christmas crumbs in our script-ripping area? But one by one all my co-workers’ eyes lit up as they exclaimed “Peanuts!” and happily wolfed them down. I realized it was a lost cause.

We were literally working for peanuts.