For me, the history of the Windex cleaner means much more than what it’s actually used for. I’ve been cleaning since I was a kid and it all started when my mom handed me a roll of Bounty and the Windex and said, “Go clean the bathroom mirror.”

                Something happens to a girl when she first holds a bottle of Windex; she begins to spray it on places that aren’t even Windex friendly. It makes her perform nonstop cleaning; making her a “Windex Warrior” and Mr. Clean doesn’t stand a chance. Honestly, I’m not here to promote Windex, but let’s face it; it’s quite the universal cleaner. No other cleaner allows you to start in the bathroom and end with cleaning your sneakers.

                When using the great powers of Windex, there are great responsibilities and life lessons to be learned. No other cleaner has greater impact on a person. When touched, it sends a subliminal message from the carrier to the receiver. Here are a few that were taught to me as a kid, all without a word spoken:

• A Windex bottle found in your bedroom means: Clean your room.
• If handed the Windex with a look to kill, it means: You forgot to clean, do it immediately or your ass is grass.
• If the Windex is slammed on the table in front of you or put on your lap, it means: Move your damn ass and help me. I’m tired and I’ve done enough today.
• If the Windex is handed to you before the dinner dishes are cleared, it means: This is a 15 minute warning to hurry up and clean because Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy will be on.

                Every time something had to be cleaned or an emergency spill occurred, my mother’s last famous words were, “Get the Windex.” Then, God forbid the Windex wasn’t put back in its place under the sink; the shit would hit the fan. It would be like a Category 5 hurricane hit. My mom would start screaming, “Where’s my goddamn Windex!”

                Besides hearing, “Get the Windex” all my life, it was the only cleaner I knew of that had the power to make or break relationships. If one follows the rules of the Windex, life is golden. The rules include: using it to clean everything, always putting it back where it belongs, and if it’s running low, be sure to tell the owner.

                If someone disrespects the Windex and the person holding it, it seems like a spell is cast upon this person who clearly doesn’t understand its power.

                A few times, I used the Windex as a weapon by spraying my son with it while he yelled, “You’re a crazy lady!” And I said, “Oh please, you have no idea what crazy is. Next time I’ll get out the fucking bleach and shoot your eye out!” He, of all people, should know not to mess with me because I’m a Windex Warrior!

                Many of my girlfriends grew up with the same Windex morals and values as I did and most of us still live by them today. Many relationships have failed due to the lack of understanding towards the power of the Windex; and, trust me… I’m living proof!

                One evening I decided to hold a dinner party with a few friends. As the night reached its final hour, I figured that I would pull out ole’ faithful, the Windex, to send out a signal that I was tired and ready to call it a night. Two of the couples left after the Windex made its appearance but the last couple remained seated with no reaction. After their continual storytelling, and continuously saying “one more drink,” I stopped putting out the snacks and started to clean again. I got the feeling that these people didn’t have any Windex background. So I tried some cleaning techniques like cleaning the inside of the cabinets and the walls. I even started to wash a window. I put the Windex on the table as a center piece but no one moved. At this point, I was so pissed that I just went about my business as if they weren’t even there. I put my pajama’s on and then came back to the table and began spraying it again only this time, aiming close to their drinks, hoping to make contact. I sat in my chair and even sprayed it in the air thinking maybe it would make them cough, but no such luck! Finally, I got up from my chair and slammed the Windex down on the table next to my husband and said, “Tag, you’re it. I’m going to bed!”

                He saw the look in my eyes, glanced at the time and said, “Wow, it’s late. We better call it a night, I’ve gotta get up soon.” So finally, at 3 am and an empty bottle of Windex, they left. Yup-I probably should have gotten out the bleach, but I was trying to be nice.

                For many, all it takes is the sight of the Windex bottle to understand the hidden message. For others, just hearing the command, “Get the Windex,” triggers them to get up, move their ass, and start cleaning. But for the few who only know Windex as just Windex, well, now you know why we’re not friends.

FAH: Fucking Asshole

1)      He thinks he has brass balls, but he’s chicken shit.

2)      No money, no gas, no problem. He’ll get by with a little help from his friends.

3)      Lives in his own self absorbed world that has a “no time” zone.

4)      Thinks he’s on a reality show.

5)      Always travels up shit’s creek without a paddle because he likes the adventure. And according to him, you only live once.

6)      Lives only for “the now”. Anything that happened fifteen minutes ago is in the past and doesn’t pertain to him.

7)      Lives by the “just say no” motto: No curfew, no rules and no laws.

8)      Experiences manic-depression moments: Monday through Thursday, depressed; Friday through Sunday, manic.

9)      Cause and effect or rational thinking doesn’t exist in his time-space reality.

10)   Suffers from Asshole-itis: An inflammation of the brain that alters common sense thinking as a result of having his head so far up his ass.

BONUS: When asked why he does the things he does, his last famous words are, “I don’t know.”

                FAH Syndrome (Fucking Asshole Syndrome) usually begins around age 15 in most boys. It happens when one part of the brain shuts down and the other part becomes active due to an overload of testosterone. All rational thinking, commonsense, cause and effect processing, language processing, short term and long term memory shuts down, and major behavioral changes occur. Mix all that with peer pressure, and you’ve got yourself a FAH.

                In the beginning, a mother may call the doctor with the chief complaint of, “I feel like I am talking to the wall.” That’s all it takes to set up a complete physical exam. But, here’s an FYI for all you mothers out there: if all the test results come back negative and the only thing the doctor says is “Welcome to the teenage years, good luck, and just pray,” know for sure that you’re dealing with FAH Syndrome and there isn’t a doctor out there who can tell you how to get through it. With FAH Syndrome, all you get is a horse shoe and a set of rosary beads.

                On the day of my son’s diagnosis, I was pissed off at the FAH doctor; I knew damn well I needed more than Seabiscuit’s shoes and blessed rosary beads from the Pope. I needed counsel from the mother of all mothers; Mother Nature. So, I called my girlfriend for help in contacting her. We lit some candles, poured some wine, and got out the Ouija board for an intervention. As soon as our hands touched the Ouija, the message came quickly. Ouija said, “BE STRONG AND KICK HIS ASS.” My girlfriend and I looked at each other, took a sip of our wine, and without even saying a word, knew that Mother Nature had come through; loud and clear. My girlfriend looked at me and said, “Oh yeah, and you better damn well listen, cause it’s not nice to fool with Mother Nature.”

                With that being said, I opened up the archives and took out a “basic training” movie: Mommy Dearest, put a picture of Joan Crawford in my purse for strength, and hung another next to the Sacred Heart of Jesus; which now represented “tough love.”

                FAH Syndrome is one hell of a ride. You do things you don’t want do; say things you don’t want say; and go places you don’t want go. You’ll never have more wine, vodka, and laughs with the girls than during the FAH stages. During my experience, the girls loved when I’d give them a reenactment of how I would kick ass on vodka. It was always a show stopper. See, Mother Nature knows that only women help women so she provided me with unlimited girl’s nights to keep my strength, stamina, and laughter. Yup—Sonny made me a DVD (Double Vodka Diva).

                When times were bad, I resorted to trying to sell him on eBay to the lowest bidder. No one ever put in a bid; only responses of “Good Luck,” and “Just Pray.” Yup—the horse shoe and the rosary beads, once again. Fuck me!

                Yes, FAH Syndrome may make you feel like dying at times, but what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I am now in what you may call a “remission period” of FAH Syndrome. There’s absolutely nothing going on. No movement. No drama, just what I call, “static animation.”

                For now, this is where I regain my strength; though, I do suffer from some of the side effects from FAH Syndrome. Here are a few:

• Every time he talks about himself I look away in a catatonic state. The only way to regain my consciousness is when he hands me a glass of wine and says, “Can you hear me now?”
• My first and last words are “Whatever!” or “I don’t give a damn!”
•  I can no longer pick him up from places where he is waiting outside because I have a sudden urge to drive like a bat out of hell straight towards him. Leaving him screaming, “Do you realize that you almost hit me?!” while I calmly say, “Chill out. Almost doesn’t count.”
• Sometimes at night after 2 am, I will just get out of bed, walk in his bedroom holding a cardboard stick (which is always at my bedside) and hit him three times, then go right back to bed. It’s my friendly reminder that this is just a drill. If this were an emergency, good luck, and just pray; cause’ you may not make it out alive.

                For now, I help my fellow sisters who are just beginning the FAH Syndrome adventure. I can tell if she’s experiencing FAH Syndrome when she starts the conversation with, “Can you tell me what the fuck is going on with my son?! Who the fuck does he think he is and why the fuck is he acting like this?” That’s all I need for a diagnosis. Three fucks and he’s out—He’s got FAH Syndrome.

                No “good luck or just pray” advice from me; just a picture of Jesus Christ, Joan Crawford, and the magic stick. Then, the words of wisdom: “Be strong and kick his ass.”

                Mother Nature must be proud of me because by me listening to her message and passing it on, the world has one less FAH to deal with. Shame on anyone who thinks that being a mother doesn’t have a global effect!!!

1)      “My mother always came first in my life.”

2)      “I gave up my life for you!”

3)      “Why can’t you just pacify me? This is the way I am and I’m not going to change.”

4)      “You’ll mourn my death for three days, and then you’ll just forget about me and get on with your life.”

5)      “You’ll miss me when I die…”

6)      “Why can’t you be more like her? She does everything for her mother.”

7)      “Why didn’t you tell me you were doing that?! Like I always said, ‘If you can’t tell your mother, you must be doing something wrong.’”

8)      “Mothers don’t have to say they’re sorry.”

9)      “I’m your mother! And don’t you ever forget it!”

10)   “Why do you always have to make things so difficult? Why can’t we just get along?!”

                As we all know, there is no greater love than a mother’s love, and no greater guilt than a mother’s guilt; especially the guilt that a mother casts on her daughter.

                For me, something happened one day that made me hit the breaking point. All I ever wanted for myself was liberty and justice; not to be called a bitch just because I pleaded “not guilty.” I just wanted the freedom to be me without carrying the guilt. But, that never worked because I fell into the trap of, “I’m damned if I do and I’m damned if I don’t.” I’m a bitch if I stand up for myself and a miserable bitch if I give into the guilt trips, which always end up holding me hostage on Guilt Trip Island.

                Through the years, the guilt took its toll and gradually started affecting many close people in my life. Just the thought of passing the “guilt torch” to my daughter made me ill. So, I decided that my days of having a lifetime membership to the all inclusive resort on “Guilt Trip Island” where I was born have now expired. I’ve terminated the membership because I’m not guilty, never was guilty, and am done playing the guilt trip head games.

                I did the opposite one day and took a chance on myself: I went against everything I was taught and became brain washed into believing that “the grass isn’t greener on the other side.” I thought, “Well, how am I ever gonna know for sure if I don’t go and see for myself?”

                I left everything behind and swam off of the island with “Wilson.” For me, it was a better choice to become a “motherless bitch” who was happy and owned her freedom. It wasn’t easy at first, but as I kept swimming with Wilson, I found an inner peace and joy that I never experienced before.

                When I hit land, all I kept saying was, “Oh my God, I never saw grass this green in my entire life!” Not long after smelling the fresh green grass, Wilson gave me instructions and said, “Build it, and they will come.” So, that’s what I did with this blog; it’s the sisterhood that’s guilt free!

                “Rescuing one sister off Guilt Trip Island one story at a time.” Vacancy, Cocktails, and Laughter… Come thirsty.

Pass it on!