Now that it’s over and I stand back to survey the damage, I realize it’s really not all that bad. I’m a bit overdrawn, hiding my car from the repo man, and the left side of my face is feeling a little slack from all the self medicating...but hey! The kid has a well stocked playroom and I’ve got enough ham in the refrigerator to feed an army of elves. Or just me. I like ham.
Christmas Eve day I did what I said I wouldn’t. I went shopping. My mom had to work so she gave me her debit card, a list of groceries needed to make that night’s fare, and strict instructions to go to the devil’s playground where I could get the most bang for her buck: Wal-Mart.
I hate Wal-Mart, but it’s a necessary evil in these parts. Where else can you get a shopping cart full of chips, dip, rubber soled bedroom slippers, a new hairdryer, and a pack of condoms all in one go? It’s also the stomping ground for the badly dressed. Every time I set foot in there I make sure I look like I walked off a Kenneth Cole runway lest someone decide to put my picture on that terribly funny website: http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/.
It was packed so full you could barely move. I threw the kid in the cargo area and elbowed my way through the aisles, searching for this and that. I was scanning the baking aisle for red food coloring, growing more and more frustrated. For the love of gawd, who wants a red velvet cake anyway! Then I saw one lone box stuck amongst the sprinkles and squeezable tubes of icing. As I strode toward it, arm out, a blonde bimbo in a faux leather and fur coat snatched it up.
Loudly growling and stomping my foot wasn’t very mature behavior, but it felt pretty satisfying at the time. The blond turned around, her red lipstick smeared over her top lip in an effort to add fullness, looked at me and said, “Oh, did you want this?”
“I need that”, I replied.
“Well, let’s see if we can find some more.”
She grabbed my hand and started towing me up the aisle. I glanced over my shoulder at the cart to tell the kid I wasn’t going away because she gets weird about things like that, but she was obliviously having a jug of buttermilk make out with a loaf of bread. The bimbo did indeed find the actual shelf of food coloring at the end of the aisle. She triumphantly handed me one, practically bowed and said, “Merry Christmas”, like she was Santa fucking Claus and had just handed me world peace in a bottle. I hate when strange people are nice when I’m in a mood to be rude.
I grumbled a thank you and hurried back to the kid, who in my absence had managed to pile eight bags of brown sugar in the cart. “Don’t touch anything”, I said sternly as I transferred them back to the shelf. “I didn’t do it”, she replied all wide eyed and innocent.
“Santa doesn’t bring presents to liars.” She promptly burst into tears, making a racket that caused the whole of Wal-Mart to turn around and look. Thankfully my sister arrived to take her away so I could finish what I started. As she carried my snotty child away in her arms, she looked over my sister’s shoulder and stuck her tongue out at me. You win some, you lose some.
After a few more thankfully quiet errands, I headed home. As soon as I walked in the door I was greeted with screams and a blur of red and white. The kid was running hell bent for leather through the kitchen in her underwear and my sister was behind her, brandishing a hairbrush and a pair of tights. I threw my things on the table, went to my room, and locked the door.
Pulling off clothes as I went, I walked to the closet, dug through my secret drawer, and pulled out a small bottle of Jack Daniels and a pill box. My emergency stash, used only for family gatherings and kid induced headaches. I took a Xanax, followed it with two healthy swallows of JD, and then lay on the floor in my underwear to wait. After about half an hour and two more swallows, I was ready to take on my father’s family.
My papa’s Filipino girlfriend is a notoriously bad gift giver. Throughout the night you could go from one huddle of people to another and the conversation was of the same vein.
“She gave me a ceramic yard angel. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”
“Well she gave me a Hawaiian shirt in a 3X. Do I look like a 3X to you?!” (Actually, you do.)
“I got a framed photo of a pink flower.” (My cousin’s boyfriend)
Then they turned to me. “What did she get you?”
All smiles and sucking my liquor through a straw I replied, “Forty bucks and a sweatshirt. Ha!”
The envy was obvious. The motive was not. She dislikes me more than most of them so I was at a loss to understand why she’d given me a decent gift. Fear is about the only thing I could come up with. Maybe she was afraid I’d cut her. I can be pretty menacing when I’m around family...keeps them at a distance. I’m the cranky and rude, yet darkly funny relative. It could be worse. I could be the pushover or the medical moaner.
Anyway, there’s always one present that gets all the attention. Last year it was a $600 karaoke system that papa gave to his girlfriend. (Thankfully she won’t use it when I’m around anymore after a slightly awkward and drunken version of “I touch myself” in front of her church friends. I should really try karaoke in public...)
This year it was the interactive robot dinosaur papa gave to the kid. It walks, attacks, and makes over 100 noises. Even I was impressed with it. Everyone was crowding around, waiting on a turn with the remote. Somehow my cousin’s 3 year old brat got her sticky paws on it and we couldn’t get it back for about 20 minutes. Finally I intervened.
“Hey kid, give me that.”
“It’s mine”, she shrieked.
“Actually”, I said as I reached out my arm, “its Hannah’s, which means it’s mine by default. Hand it over.”
“Mine! Mine!” She started to back away, the look of a rabid dog on her face.
I picked up a stray pompom from the floor and waved it to the left. “Swish, swish, swish. Look!”
Momentarily distracted, she turned her attention to the pompom, allowing me to snatch the remote away with my right hand. She immediately began to wail while I danced gleefully away. Children love me.
By the time we got home with our booty it was around 9 and the kid was running on empty. I stuck her in the bed and she immediately passed out. My sister and I sat out the stuff from Santa Claus and soon followed suit. We had to be up early in order to open up presents before The Grandmother and the rest of my mom’s family arrived.
I was up and smiling at 6:30. I put on my new pink plaid bathrobe, started the coffee, and went to wake everyone but the kid. We were all situated in the living room with steaming cups when she came stumbling in, rubbing her eyes at 7. I took pictures of her awed expression as she looked over her new art desk and plethora of supplies that I’ll be sure to regret later.
We began to pass out presents. My mother, sister, Ray, and I all sat ours aside in a pile to be opened after the kid made her way through her enormous stack.
Everything was great until she opened the last present. She wanted more. “Dear gawd”, I thought, “I’ve raised a greedy little shit. No, no. It’s mom’s fault.” I allowed her to help open my presents to keep her happy. Sigh. The duty of a parent is never done.
I have to say, I got quite the haul this year. Even if my car does get repossessed and my cell phone gets turned off, rest assured, I will still be well dressed.
After a frenzy of cleaning, my sister and I decided that we were going to stay in our pajamas all day. And much to everyone’s disapproval, we did.
The Grandmother arrived with my Aunt D, Uncle B, and Aunt C in tow. My uncle stationed himself on the couch with his mandolin. That’s right, mandolin.
A harried Aunt D immediately approached me and said, “What have you got to drink around here?” I knew she didn’t mean soda, so I pulled a half empty bottle of rum out of the cabinet and mixed her a drink. Not an hour later I was walking through the kitchen and saw her emptying the last of my wine into a Solo cup.
“What are you doing?”
“I found this in the fridge.”
I sighed. I’d been saving that for later. No wine, no rum, and only one serving of Jack left in my hidden bottle.
After dinner I was sitting on the couch next to The Grandmother when she suggested my uncle play his mandolin. So he started a rousing rendition of “Dead skunk in the middle of the road” which sent Ray into a fit of laughter and my Aunt D to the bedroom to lie down. I got it all on video.
Later, when my drunken Aunt decided to emerge for a snack, the neighbor’s son happened to be stopping by to say hello to my mom. As he was walking out the door she said, “Is that your boyfriend?”
“No, that’s the neighbor’s son.”
“You didn’t invite a man to dinner?”
“No.”
“Well, why not? Don’t you have a boyfriend?” She was swaying at the entrance to the living room and I attempted to brush past her.
“No, I don’t.”
“She doesn’t date”, my sister said.
“I sure wish you’d meet a nice man and get married”, The Grandmother said.
That sent the majority of the room into peals of laughter. Irritated, I looked at TG and said, “Well what if I like women?”
“I’ve been thinking that’s the problem”, she replied calmly.
“Yes, I should have brought my girlfriend to dinner”, I said sarcastically.
“Where is Rachel today?”
“WHAT?”
Evidently The Grandmother has been under the impression that my best friend and I have a closer relationship than we let on. Seriously. I’ve joked about it before, but on Christmas day she decided that she would tell me how deeply disappointed she was that I’ve been secretly seeing a woman...and an atheist woman at that. I was relieved when they finally left.
The rest of the weekend was devoted to spending my gift cards on outfits they’d never allow me to wear to work and taking down the Christmas stuff. Usually we wait another week or so, but I wanted it all out immediately. For some reason it makes me feel better to have it out of sight.
Right now I’m deeply enjoying my quiet office. The boss is occupied with catching up on her phone calls and everyone else has been put on notice to leave me alone. This week is all about recovery.
After all, I’ve only got four days and then it’s New Year’s dinner at The Grandmother’s. Maybe I can find someone suitable to bring while I’m out getting shitfaced the night before. That ought to put things to rights with this lesbian nonsense. I'm thinking someone with a few tattoos and a leather fetish.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
If I call this "Highway to Hell" would that be too obvious?
Everyone is on their own road to discovery and enlightenment.
Some roads are smooth and black with perfectly straight yellow lines. Some roads have a pot hole or two, a few curves, and maybe the lines are a bit faded. Some are never ending dirt roads under a canopy of trees, the light never quite penetrating through. Some are four lane freeways crisscrossed with bridges, but with plenty of signs to point the way.
I’m going to hazard a guess that my metaphorical road looks a bit like this:
It’s scenic. Around every turn there’s something beautiful. The view from that road is so spectacular that I can’t imagine choosing another route.
Until, that is, those bastard ass rocks start falling from above and smashing around my car that has one too many miles on it, a bumper that doesn’t match, and a fuel tank that’s always hovering close to empty. Oh, and sometimes the gas pedal gets stuck and I go careening around those deadly curves, desperately trying to keep things in line so that I don’t go plummeting off the side of this scenic mountain.
So basically what I’m saying is my road to discovery and enlightenment is trying to kill me. Let’s look at the evidence, shall we? Just this past weekend will do.
*Note: If you don’t want to read about my vagina. Stop. Reading. Now.
Friday night I was in the shower. Naked, because that’s how I roll.
I was shaving my legs and my bizness (for you newbies, that means vagina) because Cosmo says it’s the way to a man’swallet heart...and also I may have let things run a little rampant lately. I mean, it’s not like anyone has been down there checking out the accommodations recently! Don’t give me any shit. Anyway, so I was shaving and I thought to myself, “Self, why not try something a little new and sassy. You can always go back to bald if you don’t like it. Let’s make it PRETTY! OOWA OOWA! Raise the roof!”
Like you don’t dance in the shower and talk to yourself in your head? Psssh, whatever.
“Design, design...what kind of design?”
Animals were out, because I’m not that talented. A circle would be weird, like a button, and that might distract from the real, more important button. Also, it made me think of that phrase “button, button, who’s got the button” and I’d likely giggle at in inopportune time and they’d think I was laughing at them and get all offended, like men do.
That left me with two options: heart or lightening bolt. Both of those are SO done, but I don’t have the dexterity to do a skull and crossbones. With the lightening bolt I could take my pants off and be all “SHAZAM!” With the heart...aw, fuck it. I did the heart because it was the simplest. Nothing says love like a heart made of hair.
I started shaving the damn heart into my bizness and I was really concentrating. I had one leg propped on the side of the tub and the shower curtain open a bit for more light. Things were trucking along smoothly for a minute. Then, with one side down and one side to go, disaster struck.
WHAM! The door flew open and smacked into the wall, followed by the unmistakable sound of my sister in a rage.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t really concentrate on her distress as I was too busy with my own. When the door flew open and she started yelling like a banshee, it scared the living daylights out of me. I jumped and my hand jerked up at the same time, causing me to slice my bizness like a Christmas ham. I SLICED my BIZNESS.
On a pain scale of 1-10, I’d give it an 11 ½. Coming in right after the discontinuation of my make up at a solid 9 ½.
Had I known there were people behind her in the hallway I never would have screamed those sailor inspired obscenities, nor would I have opened up the curtain all the way and thrown the razor at her head. Maybe.
The cut was bad, but not nearly as bad as the bloody half heart. Symbolic maybe?
It was a good thing that I didn’t hook up with that guy later on that night. How does one explain a bandaged vagina?
Then there was Saturday.
My sister and I were supposed to leave early that morning and go shopping, but I was so hungover that I couldn’t leave my bed until almost noon. Of course that meant by the time we got downtown it was a madhouse.
The first place we went to was a toy store. There was barely enough room to move. Screaming kids and angry parents crammed the aisles, shoving each other and ripping off limbs when necessary.
I’m a fast shopper. I go in with a list, I get what’s on it, and I get the fuck out. So while my disinterested sister pushed the most busted ass shopping cart known to man behind me (seriously, it sounded like someone was shooting bee bees at a tin can every time the wheels went round and it had a “limp”), I plowed through the people and grabbed.
I was looking at a display of toy guns, you know, the kind that shoots foam dart thingies? I squatted down and found the one I was looking for on the bottom shelf. I reached for it at the same time as this kid, who I thought was after something else. He couldn’t have been more than 14 or 15 with shaggy black hair and he had a spiky belt to cut himself on if his pocket knife ever got dull.
We glared at each other. I yanked, he yanked, and we glared some more. I was too hungover to hang on much longer, all that yanking was making my head hurt. So I did the only thing I could. I accidentally on purpose tripped and stomped on his toes, causing him to yell and let go of the gun.
“Go Lee”, I yelled and took off around the corner. My poor sister tried to keep up with the busted buggy, leaving a trail of noise for him to follow. “Clang, pop, clang, pop, clang, pop.” He came after us, shouting and for no apparent reason other than being on the edge of sanity’s cliff; I turned around and pointed the toy gun at him, mouthed “motha fucka” while I did a little foot to foot dance, and left Lee to handle the damage.
Lee ignored him and he finally let her be. She found me a few minutes later and we finished up the rest of our shopping there without incident. Until we were at the checkout counter and the little shit decided to pop back in and cause a scene. I mean, really! Who does that?
There was a lot of pointing and his mother started yelling at me, saying I’d hit her son. The girl at the checkout looked confused and concerned, like she should turn me in or something. I’d already paid and they were bagging things up so I said, “Lady, I tripped and accidentally stepped on his toe. It’s a madhouse in here!” Then I took off before someone decided to investigate.
Unfortunately I ran into that kid and his mom all fucking day long. I think they were following me. I bought a hat just in case, but my sister refused to wear one because it would mess up her hair. Teenagers. All they care about is themselves.
Then there was the party on Saturday night that sucked ass. And more shopping on Sunday, this time with the mom, who has to scratch and sniff EVERYTHING, turning a two hour trip into a five hour trip. Etc, so forth and so on.
See what I mean? Beautiful scenery: nakedness in shower, lovely new merchandise and a full bank account, parties....etc.
Then BLAM!
Falling rocks and deadly curves: Sliced bizness, annoying teenagers, sucky entertainment and booze, psycho moms...etc.
I’ll bet you thought from the beginning that this post was going to be all mushy and “I’m happy and then people fuck it up by dying” or “Jesus rocks”.
Ha, well jokes on you. I’m not that deep.
Some roads are smooth and black with perfectly straight yellow lines. Some roads have a pot hole or two, a few curves, and maybe the lines are a bit faded. Some are never ending dirt roads under a canopy of trees, the light never quite penetrating through. Some are four lane freeways crisscrossed with bridges, but with plenty of signs to point the way.
I’m going to hazard a guess that my metaphorical road looks a bit like this:
It’s scenic. Around every turn there’s something beautiful. The view from that road is so spectacular that I can’t imagine choosing another route.
Until, that is, those bastard ass rocks start falling from above and smashing around my car that has one too many miles on it, a bumper that doesn’t match, and a fuel tank that’s always hovering close to empty. Oh, and sometimes the gas pedal gets stuck and I go careening around those deadly curves, desperately trying to keep things in line so that I don’t go plummeting off the side of this scenic mountain.
So basically what I’m saying is my road to discovery and enlightenment is trying to kill me. Let’s look at the evidence, shall we? Just this past weekend will do.
*Note: If you don’t want to read about my vagina. Stop. Reading. Now.
Friday night I was in the shower. Naked, because that’s how I roll.
I was shaving my legs and my bizness (for you newbies, that means vagina) because Cosmo says it’s the way to a man’s
Like you don’t dance in the shower and talk to yourself in your head? Psssh, whatever.
“Design, design...what kind of design?”
Animals were out, because I’m not that talented. A circle would be weird, like a button, and that might distract from the real, more important button. Also, it made me think of that phrase “button, button, who’s got the button” and I’d likely giggle at in inopportune time and they’d think I was laughing at them and get all offended, like men do.
That left me with two options: heart or lightening bolt. Both of those are SO done, but I don’t have the dexterity to do a skull and crossbones. With the lightening bolt I could take my pants off and be all “SHAZAM!” With the heart...aw, fuck it. I did the heart because it was the simplest. Nothing says love like a heart made of hair.
I started shaving the damn heart into my bizness and I was really concentrating. I had one leg propped on the side of the tub and the shower curtain open a bit for more light. Things were trucking along smoothly for a minute. Then, with one side down and one side to go, disaster struck.
WHAM! The door flew open and smacked into the wall, followed by the unmistakable sound of my sister in a rage.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t really concentrate on her distress as I was too busy with my own. When the door flew open and she started yelling like a banshee, it scared the living daylights out of me. I jumped and my hand jerked up at the same time, causing me to slice my bizness like a Christmas ham. I SLICED my BIZNESS.
On a pain scale of 1-10, I’d give it an 11 ½. Coming in right after the discontinuation of my make up at a solid 9 ½.
Had I known there were people behind her in the hallway I never would have screamed those sailor inspired obscenities, nor would I have opened up the curtain all the way and thrown the razor at her head. Maybe.
The cut was bad, but not nearly as bad as the bloody half heart. Symbolic maybe?
It was a good thing that I didn’t hook up with that guy later on that night. How does one explain a bandaged vagina?
Then there was Saturday.
My sister and I were supposed to leave early that morning and go shopping, but I was so hungover that I couldn’t leave my bed until almost noon. Of course that meant by the time we got downtown it was a madhouse.
The first place we went to was a toy store. There was barely enough room to move. Screaming kids and angry parents crammed the aisles, shoving each other and ripping off limbs when necessary.
I’m a fast shopper. I go in with a list, I get what’s on it, and I get the fuck out. So while my disinterested sister pushed the most busted ass shopping cart known to man behind me (seriously, it sounded like someone was shooting bee bees at a tin can every time the wheels went round and it had a “limp”), I plowed through the people and grabbed.
I was looking at a display of toy guns, you know, the kind that shoots foam dart thingies? I squatted down and found the one I was looking for on the bottom shelf. I reached for it at the same time as this kid, who I thought was after something else. He couldn’t have been more than 14 or 15 with shaggy black hair and he had a spiky belt to cut himself on if his pocket knife ever got dull.
We glared at each other. I yanked, he yanked, and we glared some more. I was too hungover to hang on much longer, all that yanking was making my head hurt. So I did the only thing I could. I accidentally on purpose tripped and stomped on his toes, causing him to yell and let go of the gun.
“Go Lee”, I yelled and took off around the corner. My poor sister tried to keep up with the busted buggy, leaving a trail of noise for him to follow. “Clang, pop, clang, pop, clang, pop.” He came after us, shouting and for no apparent reason other than being on the edge of sanity’s cliff; I turned around and pointed the toy gun at him, mouthed “motha fucka” while I did a little foot to foot dance, and left Lee to handle the damage.
Lee ignored him and he finally let her be. She found me a few minutes later and we finished up the rest of our shopping there without incident. Until we were at the checkout counter and the little shit decided to pop back in and cause a scene. I mean, really! Who does that?
There was a lot of pointing and his mother started yelling at me, saying I’d hit her son. The girl at the checkout looked confused and concerned, like she should turn me in or something. I’d already paid and they were bagging things up so I said, “Lady, I tripped and accidentally stepped on his toe. It’s a madhouse in here!” Then I took off before someone decided to investigate.
Unfortunately I ran into that kid and his mom all fucking day long. I think they were following me. I bought a hat just in case, but my sister refused to wear one because it would mess up her hair. Teenagers. All they care about is themselves.
Then there was the party on Saturday night that sucked ass. And more shopping on Sunday, this time with the mom, who has to scratch and sniff EVERYTHING, turning a two hour trip into a five hour trip. Etc, so forth and so on.
See what I mean? Beautiful scenery: nakedness in shower, lovely new merchandise and a full bank account, parties....etc.
Then BLAM!
Falling rocks and deadly curves: Sliced bizness, annoying teenagers, sucky entertainment and booze, psycho moms...etc.
I’ll bet you thought from the beginning that this post was going to be all mushy and “I’m happy and then people fuck it up by dying” or “Jesus rocks”.
Ha, well jokes on you. I’m not that deep.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Turns out I HAVE been kidnapped. By aliens.
Friday night I went out with friends and got a bit wasted. Well, if “a bit” counts as stumbling around and playing grab ass with other women.
At the second bar I ran into a guy I used to know in high school. Well, I was in high school at the time...he wasn’t.
He worked at the same place I did and had a pregnant girlfriend who also worked with us. Being 16, that didn’t matter a bit to me and we ended up starting a quiet affair. And by quiet, I mean quiet. Only one person ever knew about it and she wouldn’t have opened her mouth if you paid her. Mutual dirt, see. She was a much bigger whore than I was.
On our breaks we would sneak around the side of the building and make out. He even once talked me into a blow job, right out in the open. I later found out that there were cameras in that area. If anyone saw anything they never breathed a word, thank gawd. I’m sure they would have had a good laugh though. I wasn’t nearly as talented back then. Maybe there was a bit of arm flailing and awkward head bobbing.
We never actually had sex, but we came pretty close a few times. He would sit close to me at work and just stare at me, big brown eyes saying, “I’d like to dip you in cheese and spread you on a cracker”. Occasionally he would lick his lips. It was all quite ridiculous.
Sometimes he’d have to call me from a phone booth and he would stand there for an hour, just to “hear my voice”.
I don’t remember what our conversations were about, but there was a song called Dilemma by Nelly and Kelly Rowland and he would play it on the phone and sing it to me. It was “our song”. Years later, every single time I hear that song it reminds me of him. Not in an “I wish I could go back and do it again” way. More like a “that was interesting but I feel kind of shitty for doing it” way.
So when I walked into the bar Friday night and saw him standing there, looking five times hotter than he used to, I was thrown for a loop. Being drunk helped a bit too.
He walked right up to me with a big grin on his face and said, “You don’t remember me do you?”
“Oh, yeah...I remember you”, I replied.
This was followed by a few nicey nice, what’s been going on questions. He mentioned his kid and I said, “So are you and what’s-her-name still together?”
“No”, he said smiling. “What about you? Are you single?”
“Terminally.”
He laughed and said, “You know, every time I hear that song...I think about you. For the first couple of years I looked for you everywhere: around town, Myspace, Facebook...”
“I don’t have a Facebook...”
“I know, but you do have a Myspace...”
“Never use it.”
“Used to.”
“Yep.”
“You’re still beautiful.”
Thinking: “Ooooooh shit.” Joking, I actually said, “You haven’t been pining away for me all these years, have you?”
He leaned closer and said, very serious like, “Yes, I have.”
At a rare loss, all I did was blush, smile, and fiddle with my drink.
He asked for my number and I gave it to him before my friends dragged me out the door.
He’s already texted me four or five times since then, but I’ve yet to respond.
I know you’re thinking, “Why the fuck not!”
There are several reasons:
- His baby mama is badass crazy. That’s drama I don’t need.
- He’s hot. Really hot. But I don’t feel any overwhelming sexual chemistry.
- At this point I’d just be using him for sex and my ego.
- It could never be anything but another fling.
I know. I’ve finally gone off the fucking deep end. Turning down sex that’s bound to be great (he’s storing a miracle grown cucumber in his shorts). Turning down ego stroking. Worrying about using a man. Ugh!
Who the fuck is this person and what has she done with me? Just what does she think she’s holding out for? And when is she planning on getting laid again, damn it?
In other news:
I’ve seen the bum one more time walking down the same road, but no one has seen him since. The motion lights have been repaired and the metal baseball bat is a permanent fixture.
As a matter of fact, I was on my way home the other night and I came to a license check. When the cop pointed his flashlight around the car, he noticed the metal bat riding in the passenger seat.
“What’s with the bat?”
“It’s for protection.”
“Against what?”
“Sexual deviants, bums, and the occasional rowdy house guest.”
“Cute. Are you concealing any firearms in the vehicle?”
“I’m not allowed to have firearms, but there are two Nerf guns in the trunk, if that’s relevant.”
Clearly irritated, “It’s not. Have a good evening.” He handed me my license back and waved me on through. I waved to the rest of them as I passed. Most of them have seen me half naked. Might as well give um’ hell when I get an opportunity.
In other, other news:
I’m feeling a little uninspired lately on the blogging front. Feel free (that means do it now) to help me out any way you see fit.
At the second bar I ran into a guy I used to know in high school. Well, I was in high school at the time...he wasn’t.
He worked at the same place I did and had a pregnant girlfriend who also worked with us. Being 16, that didn’t matter a bit to me and we ended up starting a quiet affair. And by quiet, I mean quiet. Only one person ever knew about it and she wouldn’t have opened her mouth if you paid her. Mutual dirt, see. She was a much bigger whore than I was.
On our breaks we would sneak around the side of the building and make out. He even once talked me into a blow job, right out in the open. I later found out that there were cameras in that area. If anyone saw anything they never breathed a word, thank gawd. I’m sure they would have had a good laugh though. I wasn’t nearly as talented back then. Maybe there was a bit of arm flailing and awkward head bobbing.
We never actually had sex, but we came pretty close a few times. He would sit close to me at work and just stare at me, big brown eyes saying, “I’d like to dip you in cheese and spread you on a cracker”. Occasionally he would lick his lips. It was all quite ridiculous.
Sometimes he’d have to call me from a phone booth and he would stand there for an hour, just to “hear my voice”.
I don’t remember what our conversations were about, but there was a song called Dilemma by Nelly and Kelly Rowland and he would play it on the phone and sing it to me. It was “our song”. Years later, every single time I hear that song it reminds me of him. Not in an “I wish I could go back and do it again” way. More like a “that was interesting but I feel kind of shitty for doing it” way.
So when I walked into the bar Friday night and saw him standing there, looking five times hotter than he used to, I was thrown for a loop. Being drunk helped a bit too.
He walked right up to me with a big grin on his face and said, “You don’t remember me do you?”
“Oh, yeah...I remember you”, I replied.
This was followed by a few nicey nice, what’s been going on questions. He mentioned his kid and I said, “So are you and what’s-her-name still together?”
“No”, he said smiling. “What about you? Are you single?”
“Terminally.”
He laughed and said, “You know, every time I hear that song...I think about you. For the first couple of years I looked for you everywhere: around town, Myspace, Facebook...”
“I don’t have a Facebook...”
“I know, but you do have a Myspace...”
“Never use it.”
“Used to.”
“Yep.”
“You’re still beautiful.”
Thinking: “Ooooooh shit.” Joking, I actually said, “You haven’t been pining away for me all these years, have you?”
He leaned closer and said, very serious like, “Yes, I have.”
At a rare loss, all I did was blush, smile, and fiddle with my drink.
He asked for my number and I gave it to him before my friends dragged me out the door.
He’s already texted me four or five times since then, but I’ve yet to respond.
I know you’re thinking, “Why the fuck not!”
There are several reasons:
- His baby mama is badass crazy. That’s drama I don’t need.
- He’s hot. Really hot. But I don’t feel any overwhelming sexual chemistry.
- At this point I’d just be using him for sex and my ego.
- It could never be anything but another fling.
I know. I’ve finally gone off the fucking deep end. Turning down sex that’s bound to be great (he’s storing a miracle grown cucumber in his shorts). Turning down ego stroking. Worrying about using a man. Ugh!
Who the fuck is this person and what has she done with me? Just what does she think she’s holding out for? And when is she planning on getting laid again, damn it?
In other news:
I’ve seen the bum one more time walking down the same road, but no one has seen him since. The motion lights have been repaired and the metal baseball bat is a permanent fixture.
As a matter of fact, I was on my way home the other night and I came to a license check. When the cop pointed his flashlight around the car, he noticed the metal bat riding in the passenger seat.
“What’s with the bat?”
“It’s for protection.”
“Against what?”
“Sexual deviants, bums, and the occasional rowdy house guest.”
“Cute. Are you concealing any firearms in the vehicle?”
“I’m not allowed to have firearms, but there are two Nerf guns in the trunk, if that’s relevant.”
Clearly irritated, “It’s not. Have a good evening.” He handed me my license back and waved me on through. I waved to the rest of them as I passed. Most of them have seen me half naked. Might as well give um’ hell when I get an opportunity.
In other, other news:
I’m feeling a little uninspired lately on the blogging front. Feel free (that means do it now) to help me out any way you see fit.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Kidnapping conspiracy or Vicodin haze?
Monday after work I met a friend for dinner at a swanky restaurant.
Well, she said we were meeting for dinner. In actuality we met for an appetizer and a drink. I was hugely disappointed as I’ve been drinking those diet drinks that taste like watered down chocolate and despair, and dinner at that restaurant has never failed to make me experience religion, however briefly. I stayed about an hour and headed home, sullen and hungry.
The last thirty minutes of the journey is a maze of back roads. With woods on either side it’s pitch black and not uncommon for deer or other small woodland creatures to wander out and cause a problem. Even though I know that, I don’t pay as much attention as I should. And I may or may not flatten said small woodland creatures in hopes of obliterating rabies. Fuck you PETA!
I was almost home, one road over from our gravel drive. I was singing Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer in an exaggerated country accent and moving my head like a puppet on Crank Yankers, when I had to slam on breaks.
There was a man standing in the middle of the road. He was wearing blue pajama pants and carrying a blue duffle bag. He had a beard and was puffing on a cigarette. I glared and muttered to myself as I maneuvered my car around him. He grinned at me.
When I walked in the door I was cranky. My back had been bothering me all day, my swanky meal turned to an appetizer, and some weirdo tried to make me a hit and run suspect.
“What’s the matter with you”, my mom asked.
I told her about my shitty day and when I mentioned the man she said, “The neighbors saw him too!” Then she called them and they went back to look for him, just to make sure there wasn’t any funny business going on, and he was no where to be found.
“I told your Papa about it. We think it’s probably Howard.”
“Howard? What the hell would Howard be doing around here”, I asked.
“Last I heard he was homeless and on drugs, looking for a place to stay, so he might have come around to check things out.”
My cousin Howard is a bit of an odd duck. He’s in his late 30’s, I think, and has a history of mental illness. That’s not saying all that much since most of my family is riddled with manic depression and bipolar disorder, but whatever, at least I’m sane. Right? Riiiiight.
He used to have a truck that he called “The Hump Me 2”. He spelled it out on the bumper with big, sticky letters that he later peeled off and put on his closet door. When he moved out we rented the place to a woman and her two young daughters. One of the girls had his old room and had to stare at the Hump Me 2 letters, which he’d tried to peel off, but it left a legible residue that refused to budge. That’s also the room he once shot himself in, but we didn’t tell them that. (Well, I did...but not until they were older and we started getting drunk together.)
Anyway, so I wasn’t too terribly worried about the man after hearing it might just be drug addled, homeless cousin Howard. And judge not lest I slap you in the face, people, because there’s no way in hell I’m taking in a mental druggie when I’ve got a four year old.
I forgot about it and went about my business. And my business turned out to be throwing my back completely out. It went from irritating pain to “FUCK I can’t move from this stooped position and if anyone touches me I’ll...whimper in pain”.
I thought I was going to die. I had to go lie down so I could moan in the privacy of my room because Ray complained he couldn’t hear the T.V. Whatever. Who really wants to watch a bunch of Mormon kids sing A cappella pop songs?
So I went to bed and watched Smallville on DVD. (Don’t judge me; fake teenage super heroes are the bee’s knees.)
But after a while I started to get nervous. Everyone else had gone to bed and there I was, stretched out helpless on the bed, with pull down blinds that are half an inch too short on each side so anyone could look in if they wanted. Not to mention that every now and then the dogs in the area would sound off, causing me to look toward the windows and bite my bottom lip.
I started to think:
What if it wasn’t Howard? What if it was an ex con escaped from a local jail? What if he was sleeping in my unlocked car or peeking through my blinds? What if he stole my cigarettes I left in the console?
If my back hadn’t hurt so badly I would have gotten up and retrieved them from the car and locked it. But after briefly chatting with a friend (who today told me he would like to be called “Krull the warrior king”, and I just this second realized that’s a quote from a chick flick called How to Lose a Guy in 10 days, and I plan on teasing him mercilessly) I finally fell asleep.
The next morning was hell. I was very late for work because I couldn’t move well and I had a ton of reports to get done before the department Christmas party. When I walked slowly and stiffly into the office with my pillow and heating pad clutched under my arm, the women stormed me, offering sympathy.
During the course of the day my mom called me four or five times. She had the day off and was doing her Christmas shopping with The Grandmother (which is probably why I got a fucking Snuggie) and wanted my opinion on this or that. By the time her last call came through, I’d had enough.
“WHAT NOW”, I shouted when I picked up the phone.
“Papa called the police to report that man being in the area.”
“That’s great”, I said sarcastically.
“And he found out that other people have reported him being in the area for the past week or so.”
“Ok...”
“And the outside motion lights have been cut. They think he’s been sneaking into the office and sleeping there at night.”
“Oh shit.”
She continued talking, but I was in another world.
It really wasn’t Howard! Someone was going to kill me in the dark when I got out of my car! I was never going to have sex again! That thought was enough to make me burst into tears.
I began compiling a list in my head off all the men that could possibly want to do away with me:
1. My cousin’s husband:
He hated me from the moment we met for calling him a meat head. Which, by the way, is entirely accurate and the nicest thing I could ever bring myself to call him. He wasn’t above sneaking around on his wife. Who’s to say he wasn’t sneaking around the neighborhood in pajama pants, plotting his revenge?
I quickly discarded that idea. After all, the guy can’t even spell revenge, let alone plan it. Not to mention he doesn’t have a stupid beard.
2. Mr. Fisher Price:
I’ve been avoiding him on and off for years. He’s been pining after me, waiting and watching. Who’s to say he hasn’t finally snapped and taken to wandering about, ready to pistol whip me into submission? What if he’s been spying on me this whole time through those stupid gapped blinds and jacking off with tweezers underneath my window? ‘Cause trust me on this, that thing won’t even cross his palm. There’s no way in hell he’s beating that Vienna sausage without some kind of help. I’d imagine giving him head would be the equivalent of sucking on a ring pop...without the pleasant flavor.
But no, it’s likely not him either. He’s a fireman (not THE fireman, of course) and they aren’t allowed to have beards. And he also once told me he (shudder) doesn’t wear pajama pants...or anything else of the sort.
3. My mom’s ex boyfriend SpongeBob:
The guy is probably one of the creepiest fuckers I’ve ever met. His eyes are really close together; he’s got jet black hair that looks like a duck’s ass, and body wise he looks like a potato with those growths they get when you leave them in the bag too long. (Sprouts?) And let’s not forget the SpongeBob tattoo on his leg! Seriously?
He asked a mutual friend if I was single. ME. The daughter of his ex girlfriend. Every time I think about it I throw up a little in my mouth. That line from Silence of the Lambs plays in my head every time I see him or hear his name: “It puts the lotion on it’s skin or else it gets the hose again.”
But it couldn’t be him...the build was entirely different. This guy was taller and definitely not old potato-esque.
4. Lunch box boy:
Let’s assume he isn’t gay and definitely wants a crack at my ass cheeks. He could be irritated enough from the phone and coffee incident and the lunch box insult to follow me home. He’s...
Too tall. Damn it! I probably would have liked that one. “It’s ok if you hate me. There IS such a thing as hate sex, you know. Sure, I’ll shut up. Hey, what’s in the box?”
5. It could be the guy I slapped in the face because his performance left much to be desired....6. Or the one that was barely legal (Yeah, don’t mention that to anyone) who wanted to move to Texas and have babies...7. Or the hairy one that I threw that pity fuck at that never got over my vaginal awesomeness.
There are just so many options.
So last night I went home and took some Vicodin. For my back, you know. And when I went to bed I was thinking about it (my possible murderous stalker being “it”) and I decided I was going to sleep with my metal baseball bat for protection.
Because lets be honest here: My back was killing me and my karate skills are over a decade old. I can still probably do the leg sweeper move, when I’m not bent over in agony. The metal baseball bat was necessary since people who shall remain nameless don’t think I can be trusted with a firearm. Something to do with PMS.
So I fell asleep hugging the bastard. The bat, not the actual bastard.
When I woke up this morning I felt a lot better. No one had heard or seen anything the night before and according to our neighbor, Larry the goose recently attacked a visitor and would probably give my stalker the ole’ one two if he got too close.
Now it’s just a waiting game. Will I survive to deface the internet another day? Will I be arrested for striking an innocent man with my metal bat? Or will I be kidnapped, lotioned, and put in a hole?
Stay tuned.
Well, she said we were meeting for dinner. In actuality we met for an appetizer and a drink. I was hugely disappointed as I’ve been drinking those diet drinks that taste like watered down chocolate and despair, and dinner at that restaurant has never failed to make me experience religion, however briefly. I stayed about an hour and headed home, sullen and hungry.
The last thirty minutes of the journey is a maze of back roads. With woods on either side it’s pitch black and not uncommon for deer or other small woodland creatures to wander out and cause a problem. Even though I know that, I don’t pay as much attention as I should. And I may or may not flatten said small woodland creatures in hopes of obliterating rabies. Fuck you PETA!
I was almost home, one road over from our gravel drive. I was singing Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer in an exaggerated country accent and moving my head like a puppet on Crank Yankers, when I had to slam on breaks.
There was a man standing in the middle of the road. He was wearing blue pajama pants and carrying a blue duffle bag. He had a beard and was puffing on a cigarette. I glared and muttered to myself as I maneuvered my car around him. He grinned at me.
When I walked in the door I was cranky. My back had been bothering me all day, my swanky meal turned to an appetizer, and some weirdo tried to make me a hit and run suspect.
“What’s the matter with you”, my mom asked.
I told her about my shitty day and when I mentioned the man she said, “The neighbors saw him too!” Then she called them and they went back to look for him, just to make sure there wasn’t any funny business going on, and he was no where to be found.
“I told your Papa about it. We think it’s probably Howard.”
“Howard? What the hell would Howard be doing around here”, I asked.
“Last I heard he was homeless and on drugs, looking for a place to stay, so he might have come around to check things out.”
My cousin Howard is a bit of an odd duck. He’s in his late 30’s, I think, and has a history of mental illness. That’s not saying all that much since most of my family is riddled with manic depression and bipolar disorder, but whatever, at least I’m sane. Right? Riiiiight.
He used to have a truck that he called “The Hump Me 2”. He spelled it out on the bumper with big, sticky letters that he later peeled off and put on his closet door. When he moved out we rented the place to a woman and her two young daughters. One of the girls had his old room and had to stare at the Hump Me 2 letters, which he’d tried to peel off, but it left a legible residue that refused to budge. That’s also the room he once shot himself in, but we didn’t tell them that. (Well, I did...but not until they were older and we started getting drunk together.)
Anyway, so I wasn’t too terribly worried about the man after hearing it might just be drug addled, homeless cousin Howard. And judge not lest I slap you in the face, people, because there’s no way in hell I’m taking in a mental druggie when I’ve got a four year old.
I forgot about it and went about my business. And my business turned out to be throwing my back completely out. It went from irritating pain to “FUCK I can’t move from this stooped position and if anyone touches me I’ll...whimper in pain”.
I thought I was going to die. I had to go lie down so I could moan in the privacy of my room because Ray complained he couldn’t hear the T.V. Whatever. Who really wants to watch a bunch of Mormon kids sing A cappella pop songs?
So I went to bed and watched Smallville on DVD. (Don’t judge me; fake teenage super heroes are the bee’s knees.)
But after a while I started to get nervous. Everyone else had gone to bed and there I was, stretched out helpless on the bed, with pull down blinds that are half an inch too short on each side so anyone could look in if they wanted. Not to mention that every now and then the dogs in the area would sound off, causing me to look toward the windows and bite my bottom lip.
I started to think:
What if it wasn’t Howard? What if it was an ex con escaped from a local jail? What if he was sleeping in my unlocked car or peeking through my blinds? What if he stole my cigarettes I left in the console?
If my back hadn’t hurt so badly I would have gotten up and retrieved them from the car and locked it. But after briefly chatting with a friend (who today told me he would like to be called “Krull the warrior king”, and I just this second realized that’s a quote from a chick flick called How to Lose a Guy in 10 days, and I plan on teasing him mercilessly) I finally fell asleep.
The next morning was hell. I was very late for work because I couldn’t move well and I had a ton of reports to get done before the department Christmas party. When I walked slowly and stiffly into the office with my pillow and heating pad clutched under my arm, the women stormed me, offering sympathy.
During the course of the day my mom called me four or five times. She had the day off and was doing her Christmas shopping with The Grandmother (which is probably why I got a fucking Snuggie) and wanted my opinion on this or that. By the time her last call came through, I’d had enough.
“WHAT NOW”, I shouted when I picked up the phone.
“Papa called the police to report that man being in the area.”
“That’s great”, I said sarcastically.
“And he found out that other people have reported him being in the area for the past week or so.”
“Ok...”
“And the outside motion lights have been cut. They think he’s been sneaking into the office and sleeping there at night.”
“Oh shit.”
She continued talking, but I was in another world.
It really wasn’t Howard! Someone was going to kill me in the dark when I got out of my car! I was never going to have sex again! That thought was enough to make me burst into tears.
I began compiling a list in my head off all the men that could possibly want to do away with me:
1. My cousin’s husband:
He hated me from the moment we met for calling him a meat head. Which, by the way, is entirely accurate and the nicest thing I could ever bring myself to call him. He wasn’t above sneaking around on his wife. Who’s to say he wasn’t sneaking around the neighborhood in pajama pants, plotting his revenge?
I quickly discarded that idea. After all, the guy can’t even spell revenge, let alone plan it. Not to mention he doesn’t have a stupid beard.
2. Mr. Fisher Price:
I’ve been avoiding him on and off for years. He’s been pining after me, waiting and watching. Who’s to say he hasn’t finally snapped and taken to wandering about, ready to pistol whip me into submission? What if he’s been spying on me this whole time through those stupid gapped blinds and jacking off with tweezers underneath my window? ‘Cause trust me on this, that thing won’t even cross his palm. There’s no way in hell he’s beating that Vienna sausage without some kind of help. I’d imagine giving him head would be the equivalent of sucking on a ring pop...without the pleasant flavor.
But no, it’s likely not him either. He’s a fireman (not THE fireman, of course) and they aren’t allowed to have beards. And he also once told me he (shudder) doesn’t wear pajama pants...or anything else of the sort.
3. My mom’s ex boyfriend SpongeBob:
The guy is probably one of the creepiest fuckers I’ve ever met. His eyes are really close together; he’s got jet black hair that looks like a duck’s ass, and body wise he looks like a potato with those growths they get when you leave them in the bag too long. (Sprouts?) And let’s not forget the SpongeBob tattoo on his leg! Seriously?
He asked a mutual friend if I was single. ME. The daughter of his ex girlfriend. Every time I think about it I throw up a little in my mouth. That line from Silence of the Lambs plays in my head every time I see him or hear his name: “It puts the lotion on it’s skin or else it gets the hose again.”
But it couldn’t be him...the build was entirely different. This guy was taller and definitely not old potato-esque.
4. Lunch box boy:
Let’s assume he isn’t gay and definitely wants a crack at my ass cheeks. He could be irritated enough from the phone and coffee incident and the lunch box insult to follow me home. He’s...
Too tall. Damn it! I probably would have liked that one. “It’s ok if you hate me. There IS such a thing as hate sex, you know. Sure, I’ll shut up. Hey, what’s in the box?”
5. It could be the guy I slapped in the face because his performance left much to be desired....6. Or the one that was barely legal (Yeah, don’t mention that to anyone) who wanted to move to Texas and have babies...7. Or the hairy one that I threw that pity fuck at that never got over my vaginal awesomeness.
There are just so many options.
So last night I went home and took some Vicodin. For my back, you know. And when I went to bed I was thinking about it (my possible murderous stalker being “it”) and I decided I was going to sleep with my metal baseball bat for protection.
Because lets be honest here: My back was killing me and my karate skills are over a decade old. I can still probably do the leg sweeper move, when I’m not bent over in agony. The metal baseball bat was necessary since people who shall remain nameless don’t think I can be trusted with a firearm. Something to do with PMS.
So I fell asleep hugging the bastard. The bat, not the actual bastard.
When I woke up this morning I felt a lot better. No one had heard or seen anything the night before and according to our neighbor, Larry the goose recently attacked a visitor and would probably give my stalker the ole’ one two if he got too close.
Now it’s just a waiting game. Will I survive to deface the internet another day? Will I be arrested for striking an innocent man with my metal bat? Or will I be kidnapped, lotioned, and put in a hole?
Stay tuned.
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
The morning from hell
I’ve never been a morning person.
Unless, of course:
- Something I’m really, really looking forward to is happening that day.
- I’m still drunk from the night before and haven’t actually been to sleep.
- I’ve just had sex and I’m being woken up to have more sex.
That’s about it. Getting out of bed in the morning is one of the hardest things for me to do. It really brings out my temper. I can usually control myself quite well, but in the mornings it’s hit or miss. I try not to speak to anyone and they generally try not to speak to me. But for some reason, this unspoken rule doesn’t seem to apply to my mom’s boyfriend Ray.
People that are chipper in the morning piss me off. Just what the fuck do you have to be so happy about? The same routine happens every day. Except maybe it’s raining or maybe the dryer is making a strange noise so everyone is afraid to use it should it just happen to blow up and you have to actually iron your pants instead of fluff them. Ironing pisses me off.
I’m supposed to be the first person up, but it doesn’t always happen that way due to the invention of snooze buttons. The next person awake is Ray.
I’m not sure what his routine consists of exactly, but it sounds like a herd of buffalo are mauling each other in the kitchen. Then there’s the whistling and loud singing. Every morning. Seriously? You’re going to WHISTLE right outside my door? You have that much disregard for your ballsack? And singing “The sun will come out tomorrow”? Really?
Cue clenched fists, eyes rolled heavenward, teeth grinding, and big breaths.
This morning my alarm went off at 4:30 as usual. I beat it into submission every 15 minutes until I finally rolled out of the bed at 5:30. I could hear Ray pounding around and whistling in the kitchen. I padded across the room, poured contact solution in my eyes, and went straight for the coffee pot.
He paused in his whistling long enough to look at me, laugh and say, “Good morning!”
“Fuck off”, I growled at him.
He continued out the door, whistling his death song, and I continued toward the bathroom where I caught the first glimpse of myself. Hair stood up in all directions, one stubborn curl hung directly down the middle of my forehead and there were crease marks on my face. Nothing different there.
I was peeing (which I know you like to hear all about) when my cat Nugget came and stood with his front paws on my leg. “Eeeugh”, he said, because he can’t meow properly you know.
“Go ‘way Nug”, I grumbled as I shook him off my leg. He sat at my feet, his big green eyes staring up at me accusingly. Then he promptly vomited Purina cat food all over the toes of my right foot. I screamed and gagged. I don’t do well with vomit.
When I stood up to hobble to the tub and clean it off, I accidentally stepped on his tail. He squalled, wrapped both of his hairy arms around my leg and started biting the shit out of me. I grabbed him and held him up in front of my face, “GODDAMNIT NUG! WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM!”
That’s about the time Ray came back in to grab his to-go coffee he’d left on the counter, heard the ruckus, and came to investigate. He and Nug are boyfriends, you see, and he won’t tolerate any Nugly abuse. So around the corner he came and there I stood, with the door open (because that’s how I roll) and my pajama pants around my ankles and puke on my foot, shaking my addled cat in the air and screaming in his face while he countered with “Eeugh eeugh eeugh” noises.
“Put him down!”
“Here!” I tossed him the cat and slammed the door. I heard him say, “It’s ok Nug”, in his animal voice.
You know what I’m talking about, right? I don’t care who you are, when you talk to an animal that you like, you use a different tone. Sometimes one that’s so ridiculous it’s painful. Some people do it with children too. (Ray’s isn’t really that bad, but mine is. Maybe I should do a recording. I can just imagine your shock and horror.)
The rest of my morning routine went pretty smoothly until it was time to warm up the car. I opened the door and got smacked in the face with wind and rain and cold. Muttering under my breath, I backtracked and put on a jacket with a hood and tennis shoes. Upon reaching my car, I realized that my sister had parked so close to my passenger side that I wouldn’t be able to put the kid in the backseat. Muttering some more, I splashed over to the drivers side, got in, moved the car, and hurried back inside.
I went directly to my sister’s room. “If you ever park that close to me again, I’ll rip your face off.” (I swear I’m not usually a psycho shrew.)
She blinked at me, having just woken up. Another reason to hate her...she got 45 minutes more sleep than I did.
I bundled the kid, whining and sniveling about her coffee cup being empty and her TV show not being over, into her raincoat and herded her toward the door. I heard my sister in my mom’s room, “She said she’d rip my face off....”
I took our belongings out first and stashed them in the front seat and went back for the kid. I picked her up, carried her to the car, opened the back door and shoved her in her seat. She immediately started wailing.
“What? What? What happened?”
She continued to wail. The rain was pounding down on my back and ass as I was bent over her, searching for injury. “What? What happened?”
Finally, when I could feel it soaking past my jacket and into my shirt, she held out her little hand, covered in droplets of water and screamed, “I GOT ALL WET!”
OOOOK. Bite the tongue, shut the door, ignore ignore ignore.
I shut the door, walked around and got in my seat, dripping all over the interior. She’d stopped wailing and toned it down to the sniffles, which I also concentrated on ignoring.
I backed out, drove down our gravel road, took a left onto the main road, rounded the curve and slammed on breaks.
“What mama? What’s the matter?”
“Hold on kid.”
It was 6:40am and still pitch dark. My headlights were trained on an enormous tree lying across the entire length of the road.
Motherfucker.
I got out and stood in front of it, assessing the situation. If I waited for someone else to help me move it, I’d be late for work. If I moved it myself (there was no doubt in my mind I’d be able to move it myself because I’m hardcore like that), I’d probably get dirty. If I drove over it, I’d probably rip out that black piece that was still duct taped under the front. If I didn’t hurry and decide, I’d probably run out of gas before I made it to town. My idiot light was already on.
There was a split in the tree on my side of the road. I decided I’d kick it and see if could get it far enough out of the way to drive around. As I was kicking the tree, my neighbor pulled up on the opposite side. She poked her head out the window and said, “Want me to call somebody?”
“Who the fuck are you going to call?”
“Papa!”
“Yeah, because he’s going to get his fat old ass out here and move this tree”, I said still vigorously kicking.
I made a bit of progress, but realized that I would have to try and roll it out of the way with my hands.
While my neighbor watched from her car I started pushing on the tree, leaning into it, my shoes slipping on the pavement behind me as if I were on a treadmill. The tree was giving bit by tiny bit and the bark was biting into my hands. My boobs were falling out of my top, my clothes were soaked underneath my jacket and I could feel the wet creeping through to my underwear. And the whole time I was letting the tree have it: “You sorry sonofabitch! Fucking move! SHIT! MOVE GODDAMIT! I’m gonna...”
Threatening a tree must be bad karma because I never got to finish the rest. The next shove sent part of it rolling down the embankment and sent me belly flopping onto the dirty, wet asphalt.
I’m ashamed to admit that I might have kicked my feet like a child throwing a tantrum. Just for a minute. My neighbor was roaring with laughter. She’s used to my clumsy antics, but not to seeing a grown woman wallowing on the ground and screaming in frustration and anger.
On the plus side, I’d managed to push half of the tree out of the way and my path was clear. Unfortunately I was also filthy and soaked to the skin...which was going to make me late after all.
I picked myself up and returned home to change.
So, how was your morning? I’m kidding, I don’t really care. Didn’t you just read all that?
Unless, of course:
- Something I’m really, really looking forward to is happening that day.
- I’m still drunk from the night before and haven’t actually been to sleep.
- I’ve just had sex and I’m being woken up to have more sex.
That’s about it. Getting out of bed in the morning is one of the hardest things for me to do. It really brings out my temper. I can usually control myself quite well, but in the mornings it’s hit or miss. I try not to speak to anyone and they generally try not to speak to me. But for some reason, this unspoken rule doesn’t seem to apply to my mom’s boyfriend Ray.
People that are chipper in the morning piss me off. Just what the fuck do you have to be so happy about? The same routine happens every day. Except maybe it’s raining or maybe the dryer is making a strange noise so everyone is afraid to use it should it just happen to blow up and you have to actually iron your pants instead of fluff them. Ironing pisses me off.
I’m supposed to be the first person up, but it doesn’t always happen that way due to the invention of snooze buttons. The next person awake is Ray.
I’m not sure what his routine consists of exactly, but it sounds like a herd of buffalo are mauling each other in the kitchen. Then there’s the whistling and loud singing. Every morning. Seriously? You’re going to WHISTLE right outside my door? You have that much disregard for your ballsack? And singing “The sun will come out tomorrow”? Really?
Cue clenched fists, eyes rolled heavenward, teeth grinding, and big breaths.
This morning my alarm went off at 4:30 as usual. I beat it into submission every 15 minutes until I finally rolled out of the bed at 5:30. I could hear Ray pounding around and whistling in the kitchen. I padded across the room, poured contact solution in my eyes, and went straight for the coffee pot.
He paused in his whistling long enough to look at me, laugh and say, “Good morning!”
“Fuck off”, I growled at him.
He continued out the door, whistling his death song, and I continued toward the bathroom where I caught the first glimpse of myself. Hair stood up in all directions, one stubborn curl hung directly down the middle of my forehead and there were crease marks on my face. Nothing different there.
I was peeing (which I know you like to hear all about) when my cat Nugget came and stood with his front paws on my leg. “Eeeugh”, he said, because he can’t meow properly you know.
“Go ‘way Nug”, I grumbled as I shook him off my leg. He sat at my feet, his big green eyes staring up at me accusingly. Then he promptly vomited Purina cat food all over the toes of my right foot. I screamed and gagged. I don’t do well with vomit.
When I stood up to hobble to the tub and clean it off, I accidentally stepped on his tail. He squalled, wrapped both of his hairy arms around my leg and started biting the shit out of me. I grabbed him and held him up in front of my face, “GODDAMNIT NUG! WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM!”
That’s about the time Ray came back in to grab his to-go coffee he’d left on the counter, heard the ruckus, and came to investigate. He and Nug are boyfriends, you see, and he won’t tolerate any Nugly abuse. So around the corner he came and there I stood, with the door open (because that’s how I roll) and my pajama pants around my ankles and puke on my foot, shaking my addled cat in the air and screaming in his face while he countered with “Eeugh eeugh eeugh” noises.
“Put him down!”
“Here!” I tossed him the cat and slammed the door. I heard him say, “It’s ok Nug”, in his animal voice.
You know what I’m talking about, right? I don’t care who you are, when you talk to an animal that you like, you use a different tone. Sometimes one that’s so ridiculous it’s painful. Some people do it with children too. (Ray’s isn’t really that bad, but mine is. Maybe I should do a recording. I can just imagine your shock and horror.)
The rest of my morning routine went pretty smoothly until it was time to warm up the car. I opened the door and got smacked in the face with wind and rain and cold. Muttering under my breath, I backtracked and put on a jacket with a hood and tennis shoes. Upon reaching my car, I realized that my sister had parked so close to my passenger side that I wouldn’t be able to put the kid in the backseat. Muttering some more, I splashed over to the drivers side, got in, moved the car, and hurried back inside.
I went directly to my sister’s room. “If you ever park that close to me again, I’ll rip your face off.” (I swear I’m not usually a psycho shrew.)
She blinked at me, having just woken up. Another reason to hate her...she got 45 minutes more sleep than I did.
I bundled the kid, whining and sniveling about her coffee cup being empty and her TV show not being over, into her raincoat and herded her toward the door. I heard my sister in my mom’s room, “She said she’d rip my face off....”
I took our belongings out first and stashed them in the front seat and went back for the kid. I picked her up, carried her to the car, opened the back door and shoved her in her seat. She immediately started wailing.
“What? What? What happened?”
She continued to wail. The rain was pounding down on my back and ass as I was bent over her, searching for injury. “What? What happened?”
Finally, when I could feel it soaking past my jacket and into my shirt, she held out her little hand, covered in droplets of water and screamed, “I GOT ALL WET!”
OOOOK. Bite the tongue, shut the door, ignore ignore ignore.
I shut the door, walked around and got in my seat, dripping all over the interior. She’d stopped wailing and toned it down to the sniffles, which I also concentrated on ignoring.
I backed out, drove down our gravel road, took a left onto the main road, rounded the curve and slammed on breaks.
“What mama? What’s the matter?”
“Hold on kid.”
It was 6:40am and still pitch dark. My headlights were trained on an enormous tree lying across the entire length of the road.
Motherfucker.
I got out and stood in front of it, assessing the situation. If I waited for someone else to help me move it, I’d be late for work. If I moved it myself (there was no doubt in my mind I’d be able to move it myself because I’m hardcore like that), I’d probably get dirty. If I drove over it, I’d probably rip out that black piece that was still duct taped under the front. If I didn’t hurry and decide, I’d probably run out of gas before I made it to town. My idiot light was already on.
There was a split in the tree on my side of the road. I decided I’d kick it and see if could get it far enough out of the way to drive around. As I was kicking the tree, my neighbor pulled up on the opposite side. She poked her head out the window and said, “Want me to call somebody?”
“Who the fuck are you going to call?”
“Papa!”
“Yeah, because he’s going to get his fat old ass out here and move this tree”, I said still vigorously kicking.
I made a bit of progress, but realized that I would have to try and roll it out of the way with my hands.
While my neighbor watched from her car I started pushing on the tree, leaning into it, my shoes slipping on the pavement behind me as if I were on a treadmill. The tree was giving bit by tiny bit and the bark was biting into my hands. My boobs were falling out of my top, my clothes were soaked underneath my jacket and I could feel the wet creeping through to my underwear. And the whole time I was letting the tree have it: “You sorry sonofabitch! Fucking move! SHIT! MOVE GODDAMIT! I’m gonna...”
Threatening a tree must be bad karma because I never got to finish the rest. The next shove sent part of it rolling down the embankment and sent me belly flopping onto the dirty, wet asphalt.
I’m ashamed to admit that I might have kicked my feet like a child throwing a tantrum. Just for a minute. My neighbor was roaring with laughter. She’s used to my clumsy antics, but not to seeing a grown woman wallowing on the ground and screaming in frustration and anger.
On the plus side, I’d managed to push half of the tree out of the way and my path was clear. Unfortunately I was also filthy and soaked to the skin...which was going to make me late after all.
I picked myself up and returned home to change.
So, how was your morning? I’m kidding, I don’t really care. Didn’t you just read all that?
Friday, December 04, 2009
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
That's not the star of Bethlehem...it's the twinkle in my eyeball.
The day after Thanksgiving is usually the day I become possessed by the “Neurotic Christmas Spirit” and go balls-to-the-wall crazy.
But I’ve done no shopping, only the required amount of baking, and my tree didn’t go up until Sunday. SUNDAY! I didn’t even rearrange the ornaments after everyone finished hanging them.
The only tradition I insisted upon was that we listen to Barry Manilow’s Christmas album while we put up the tree.
I know what you’re thinking. “Barry fucking Manilow?! Really?!” But you can all shove it. Everyone has their little thing and my mom and I have been listening to Barry’s Christmas CD every year for...a very long time. His version of “Baby its cold outside” is a duet with this woman (I don’t know who) and she’s all moaning and shit. Classic.
My mom’s boyfriend Ray was absolutely horrified when my sister and I did an impromptu tango to “Have yourself a merry little Christmas”. He called us a bunch of freaks and went outside to man the grill and be...manly. We compromised and didn’t play Kenny G’s Christmas album so he would come back inside with the food.
So now it’s December first and I’ve done nothing but sing along with Barry and buy an elf that’s supposed to teach my child to behave.
The elf in question comes with a book and a plan. Basically he’s magic and reports back to Santa every night while the kid is sleeping. Every morning when she wakes up, he’ll be sitting in a different place and she’s not allowed to touch him or he won’t be magic anymore. The elf returns to the North Pole on Christmas Eve and comes back to do his spiel all over again next December first.
The storybook that accompanies the elf explains it all in childlike terms. Bad or good news- he’s giving Santa a rundown every night. Every pouting session, every foot stamp, every eye roll, every sucker punch to the kidneys – he’s gonna know about it.
The kid had to name the elf. She chose, for whatever strange reason, to name the little fucker Shefford. It took us five minutes to understand that it was Shefford because she pronounces it “Seffwoolld”. That’s the best I can do. Her R’s sound like a combination of O’s and L’s.
The only concept the kid has grasped so far (and I realize it’s only been in effect for one night) is that the elf is magic and comes awake while she’s asleep. I seriously doubt that it will have any effect on her behavior, but we’ll see.
This morning when I woke her up she didn’t even ask for coffee first. She said, “Did Seffwoolld come alive Mom?!”
“I think so honey.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to go see.”
I helped her down from the bed and she took off running across the hardwood floor, hair still covering her face and eyes half glued together from sleep. She didn’t make it three feet before she slipped and careened face first into the door jam.
“OW!” She screamed and kept on running. I stayed behind a minute to laugh like the caring mother I am. Had she not been on an important mission, that collision would have been “the end of the world”.
Other parents know what “the end of the world” looks like: snot, tears, wailing, and insistence that something or everything is broken. I spend a lot of my time in that place since the kid isn’t the hardcore destroyer that I was at that age. She’s very sensitive and when I laugh (which I do often) it doesn’t help matters much. I’ll work on it in therapy.
Anyway, she found Shefford atop the kitchen cabinets, cheeky painted grin in place. She immediately demanded to hold him and I had to remind her that he can’t be touched or the magic goes away. This resulted in pouting.
I foresee this month long “behavior game” becoming a problem. If it doesn’t end in tears and bloodshed, it’ll likely end in me forgetting to move the fucker and “Ooops! The elf’s out of the bag honey! There’s no such thing as magic until you’re old enough to know what an orgasm is, and believe me, Santa doesn’t give those out for Christmas.”
So the tree is up, the elf is installed, and Barry has had his sing-a-long.
Next on the agenda is present name drawing. I’ve somehow earned the privilege of being in charge of this year’s list of names at Papa’s house. That means I have to call all of our relatives on that side of the family and find out if they are coming to Christmas Eve dinner and if so, do they want to be in the pot.
There are a few advantages to being list master:
1) I can give my name to a big spender.
2) I can keep my name from going to the dollar store queen.
3) I know who has who and I will accept bribes for switching names.
4) I can deny name switching for the person I like least and give their name to the DG queen mentioned in #2.
I’ve been informed that my sister and another teenager, being underage and therefore ineligible for the drawing, will be watching to make sure I don’t cheat. I’ve been practicing my slight of hand with slips of paper up my shirt sleeves. We’ll see how it goes.
But really...I need to get my ass in gear. There are cookies to bake, presents to buy and wrap, and people to suck up to. Contrary to The Grandmother’s often voiced opinion, Christmas isn’t about Jesus.
It’s about me.
But I’ve done no shopping, only the required amount of baking, and my tree didn’t go up until Sunday. SUNDAY! I didn’t even rearrange the ornaments after everyone finished hanging them.
The only tradition I insisted upon was that we listen to Barry Manilow’s Christmas album while we put up the tree.
I know what you’re thinking. “Barry fucking Manilow?! Really?!” But you can all shove it. Everyone has their little thing and my mom and I have been listening to Barry’s Christmas CD every year for...a very long time. His version of “Baby its cold outside” is a duet with this woman (I don’t know who) and she’s all moaning and shit. Classic.
My mom’s boyfriend Ray was absolutely horrified when my sister and I did an impromptu tango to “Have yourself a merry little Christmas”. He called us a bunch of freaks and went outside to man the grill and be...manly. We compromised and didn’t play Kenny G’s Christmas album so he would come back inside with the food.
So now it’s December first and I’ve done nothing but sing along with Barry and buy an elf that’s supposed to teach my child to behave.
The elf in question comes with a book and a plan. Basically he’s magic and reports back to Santa every night while the kid is sleeping. Every morning when she wakes up, he’ll be sitting in a different place and she’s not allowed to touch him or he won’t be magic anymore. The elf returns to the North Pole on Christmas Eve and comes back to do his spiel all over again next December first.
The storybook that accompanies the elf explains it all in childlike terms. Bad or good news- he’s giving Santa a rundown every night. Every pouting session, every foot stamp, every eye roll, every sucker punch to the kidneys – he’s gonna know about it.
The kid had to name the elf. She chose, for whatever strange reason, to name the little fucker Shefford. It took us five minutes to understand that it was Shefford because she pronounces it “Seffwoolld”. That’s the best I can do. Her R’s sound like a combination of O’s and L’s.
The only concept the kid has grasped so far (and I realize it’s only been in effect for one night) is that the elf is magic and comes awake while she’s asleep. I seriously doubt that it will have any effect on her behavior, but we’ll see.
This morning when I woke her up she didn’t even ask for coffee first. She said, “Did Seffwoolld come alive Mom?!”
“I think so honey.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to go see.”
I helped her down from the bed and she took off running across the hardwood floor, hair still covering her face and eyes half glued together from sleep. She didn’t make it three feet before she slipped and careened face first into the door jam.
“OW!” She screamed and kept on running. I stayed behind a minute to laugh like the caring mother I am. Had she not been on an important mission, that collision would have been “the end of the world”.
Other parents know what “the end of the world” looks like: snot, tears, wailing, and insistence that something or everything is broken. I spend a lot of my time in that place since the kid isn’t the hardcore destroyer that I was at that age. She’s very sensitive and when I laugh (which I do often) it doesn’t help matters much. I’ll work on it in therapy.
Anyway, she found Shefford atop the kitchen cabinets, cheeky painted grin in place. She immediately demanded to hold him and I had to remind her that he can’t be touched or the magic goes away. This resulted in pouting.
I foresee this month long “behavior game” becoming a problem. If it doesn’t end in tears and bloodshed, it’ll likely end in me forgetting to move the fucker and “Ooops! The elf’s out of the bag honey! There’s no such thing as magic until you’re old enough to know what an orgasm is, and believe me, Santa doesn’t give those out for Christmas.”
So the tree is up, the elf is installed, and Barry has had his sing-a-long.
Next on the agenda is present name drawing. I’ve somehow earned the privilege of being in charge of this year’s list of names at Papa’s house. That means I have to call all of our relatives on that side of the family and find out if they are coming to Christmas Eve dinner and if so, do they want to be in the pot.
There are a few advantages to being list master:
1) I can give my name to a big spender.
2) I can keep my name from going to the dollar store queen.
3) I know who has who and I will accept bribes for switching names.
4) I can deny name switching for the person I like least and give their name to the DG queen mentioned in #2.
I’ve been informed that my sister and another teenager, being underage and therefore ineligible for the drawing, will be watching to make sure I don’t cheat. I’ve been practicing my slight of hand with slips of paper up my shirt sleeves. We’ll see how it goes.
But really...I need to get my ass in gear. There are cookies to bake, presents to buy and wrap, and people to suck up to. Contrary to The Grandmother’s often voiced opinion, Christmas isn’t about Jesus.
It’s about me.
Monday, November 30, 2009
I really need to get out more.
The sad thing about this past weekend is not that I had to deal with irritating and/or unruly family members. It’s that I was disappointed when nothing really happened.
No one came to blows. No one got really drunk and fell in the lake. No one offered me any illegal drugs. And by no one, of course I mean my dad.
There are a few things worth mentioning here and there, but considering the material my family usually presents me with around the holidays I’m deeply disappointed.
Wednesday
I left the office and headed straight home. My dad arrived early that morning and my stepmom flew in that afternoon. I was sure I’d find him on my Papa’s patio, a sloshing brown paper bag in one hand and a cigarette in the other, telling my stepmom in no uncertain terms that she was to fuck off and leave him to his work.
Instead I found him asleep in the recliner. What a waste. I kicked the side of the chair and he continued to snore.
“He’s really tired”, my stepmom said.
“Eh”, I replied shrugging my shoulders.
My Papa has seven dogs. One of them is a round, chocolate colored Cocker Spaniel named Bud. I hate that dog with a fiery passion. If I could I’d have him butchered, skinned, roasted, and served to my Papa’s Filipino girlfriend. This has nothing to do with her nationality and everything to do with the fact that she encourages the fat fuck. (Although I do have my suspicions about her mother’s dietary habits in particular.)
Every time I set foot in the door that dog charges me like a bull. Sometimes the bastard even nips me on the leg. Everyone says it’s because I harassed him when he was puppy, but I didn’t. I was just in the vicinity when he was being harassed by my cousins. They tormented the dog and for some reason, he’s seen fit to torment me in return.
Anyway, I was facing my sleeping dad, my back was to my Papa in his chair and I was talking to my stepmom when I felt a sharp pinch on the back of my leg. I immediately whipped around, ready to kill Bud who had been barking at me for the past three minutes straight. As I turned I shouted, “YOU SONOFABITCH!” and came face to face with my Papa. He was laughing so hard he nearly died.
“You shouldn’t talk to your Papa that way”, he said still laughing.
I glared at him. The fat bastard had pinched the fuck out of my leg!
He spent the rest of the weekend telling everyone the “hilarious story” about how I thought the dog bit me and I called him a sonofabitch. Hilarious indeed.
Because I love my Papa and I know what’s good for me, I went home and made him the apple nut cake he requested for Thanksgiving dinner. I also had to make a pound cake for Thanksgiving lunch at The Grandmother’s. I still maintain the theory that if a man eats my cake, he’s smitten forever. Which is why I never bake for anyone but family.
The rest of the night, that wasn’t devoted to baking, was spent watching movies with my sister. She insisted that I watch a scary movie called Paranormal Activity. I hate scary movies, but I heard from several people that saw it in theaters that after they watched it they didn’t sleep for days and that intrigued me a bit.
But it was stupid. I didn’t find it scary in the slightest. My sister, however, was terrified and begged me to sleep in her bed. We haven’t really slept in the same bed in years. I took the opportunity to make it a miserable experience to keep her from asking again in the future. I’m a bit of a thrasher and she’s prone to nose bleeds.
Thursday
I bundled my cake and various other odds and ends into the car early that morning. I’d promised The Grandmother that I would come over before the others and help with lunch. Of course I was 45 minutes later than I said I’d be, with wet hair and no makeup. It’s become a disturbing trend, looking like a bum.
My Aunt, bless her, recently moved in with TG. From personal experience I know that TG is one of the hardest people on the planet to live with. But in her case I’m not sure what’s worse: staying with her husband or living with TG. I probably would have jumped ship too. The man is an absolute nutter.
I wasn’t there an hour before I was hitting the rum and coke. Eleven in the morning and I was drinking liquor. Dear lord, I’ve become my father.
The minute we returned to the kitchen for orders she said, “Are you two drinking?” Nothing gets by that damn woman.
Of course we denied it. “I’m high on life Grandma”, I said grinning.
“Well that’s the only thing anyone should ever be high on!”
“And Jesus”, I replied.
She glowered.
After arguments over seating arrangements and who was going to say grace (it was unanimously agreed that I wasn’t fit to pray for our health), we finally settled down to eat.
I decided to do the smart thing and give up on my diet for the weekend. It would have been unfair to my family to have me ripping out my hair at the table and salivating all over their turkey and dressing. There was no conversation for the first five minutes or so and I was in a heaven no granola bar could ever take me to.
Being an important member of the family (read: being put in charge of name tags and being a lefty) I was sitting at the head of the table. My mother was at the foot, my Aunt D (a different one) to my left, and TG to my right. I love sitting next to Aunt D. She always smells of pot and looks around like she’s lost. Sometimes she even laughs out loud for no reason and talks to herself.
When everyone finally started talking it was, of course, about politics.
So while my mother flashed me bits of “see-food” from her end of the table, TG and my Uncle yelled at each other across the turkey. All because someone had to mention (angelic face) that TG had ordered Sara Palin’s new book.
My Uncle hates Sarah Palin and began a loud and lengthy monologue on her less than adequate intelligence. TG loves Sarah Palin and began even more loudly interrupting him. Soon they were shouting and pointing at each other while the rest of us played ping pong with our heads.
D turned her glazed eyes on me, smiled and asked me to load her plate up with more turkey, my mother flashed me another chewed up mouthful of food, and my sister texted her boyfriend.
A typical American family dinner.
My sister, the kid, and I left around 4pm in order to make it to Papa’s for dinner. Never as formal as TG’s, everyone fixed their plates when they felt like it and sat scattered about the house.
For the first time in years there were no eggrolls and no pig with an apple in it’s mouth. And though I didn’t eat anything except for a bit of my own cake, I was happy I didn’t have to look at a whole pig. There’s something disturbing about them and for some reason they always make me think of that book Lord of the Flies.
My dad passed out with his pants unbuttoned minutes after dinner and there was no liquor consumed by anyone. I’ve never been so disappointed in my redneck side of the family.
Friday
In a moment of weakness I agreed to help my Aunt pack up her things and move them to her storage building. She hired Two Men and a Truck to help.
I showed up at TG’s at eight that morning, grumpy and hating life. We drove the 30 minutes to her house and waited for the movers to show up.
Two Men and a Truck finally came. Or rather, three hung over stoners. The leader was a skinny white guy and his cohorts were two hulking black men.
They took forever to get started, laughing, joking and complaining about needing a drink. I went about my business, packing things here and there, but before long one of the hulks started following me around and questioning me.
Where are you from? Where did you go to school? What year did you graduate? Do you know so-in-so? Do you mind if I call you “babe”?
What? Fuck off dude. It’s 10 in the morning on the day after Thanksgiving. I’m sweating like a whore in church and all I want is to take a shower and crawl into my bed with a book. Yes, I mind if you call me “babe”.
He continued to follow me around throughout the morning, offering his help to me instead of assisting the other two guys with the really big stuff. I eventually got my ipod and tuned everything out.
I was standing in the dining room wrapping pieces of glass from a china cabinet in bubble wrap. The song Crazy Bitch by Buckcherry came on which never fails to make me move, maybe even head bang a little, and I started shimmying around. Right when they shout “You’re crazy but I like the way you fuck me!” and I was doing the required pelvic thrusts against the table, there was a crash to my right. I looked and stopped mid thrust when I saw a large leg protruding from the living room ceiling.
The guys were supposed to be getting a few things from the attic but one of the hulks wasn’t walking on the beams and fell through the ceiling. It took me half an hour to calm my Aunt down enough to get her moving again. What made it worse was that the guys found it absolutely hilarious.
After almost five hours, with a timely appearance from my mom’s boyfriend, we were finished. The movers and my Aunt headed to the storage building while Ray and I headed to TG’s to unload his truck. He suggested we stop by Chick-fil-A for lunch since neither of us had eaten that day and knowing my diet was already shot to shit, I agreed.
Bliss. Food. Oh, mayonnaise...how I love you.
Moving on.
By the time I made it home that night I felt like I had bricks tied to my limbs. After a bit of excitement over a package of pig faced gummies I received in the mail (which I’ve decided may have just been the highlight of my weekend) and a shower, I was asleep by 7:30. Only sick people and geriatrics are in bed by 7:30pm. The shame!
Saturday
The only thing I did all day was read, watch the Carolina vs. Clemson game, and lounge on my Papa’s couch. I did drink a beer with my dad to celebrate the Cocks winning their first game against Clemson since 2006. WOO!
I also managed to find out that my dad will still be working in New Jersey after all. We’ve planned my visit for late February. New York and handbags...here I come.
Sunday
We spent that morning cleaning and rearranging furniture, the afternoon picking up last minute things from the store, and the evening putting up the Christmas tree.
Throughout the day, my sister’s boyfriend and I became quite close.
He smiled at me. I gave him the finger.
He said pass me the hooks. I said fuck off.
He touched my sister inappropriately. I made a finger cutting throat motion. (That one gets um’ every time.)
Yeah, I’m pretty sure my weekend sucked balls. It’s ok if you say so. Just be nice about it.
On a positive note it’s almost time for my yearly vagina violating appointment. They have Jesus posters on the ceiling. Oooooh baby.
No one came to blows. No one got really drunk and fell in the lake. No one offered me any illegal drugs. And by no one, of course I mean my dad.
There are a few things worth mentioning here and there, but considering the material my family usually presents me with around the holidays I’m deeply disappointed.
Wednesday
I left the office and headed straight home. My dad arrived early that morning and my stepmom flew in that afternoon. I was sure I’d find him on my Papa’s patio, a sloshing brown paper bag in one hand and a cigarette in the other, telling my stepmom in no uncertain terms that she was to fuck off and leave him to his work.
Instead I found him asleep in the recliner. What a waste. I kicked the side of the chair and he continued to snore.
“He’s really tired”, my stepmom said.
“Eh”, I replied shrugging my shoulders.
My Papa has seven dogs. One of them is a round, chocolate colored Cocker Spaniel named Bud. I hate that dog with a fiery passion. If I could I’d have him butchered, skinned, roasted, and served to my Papa’s Filipino girlfriend. This has nothing to do with her nationality and everything to do with the fact that she encourages the fat fuck. (Although I do have my suspicions about her mother’s dietary habits in particular.)
Every time I set foot in the door that dog charges me like a bull. Sometimes the bastard even nips me on the leg. Everyone says it’s because I harassed him when he was puppy, but I didn’t. I was just in the vicinity when he was being harassed by my cousins. They tormented the dog and for some reason, he’s seen fit to torment me in return.
Anyway, I was facing my sleeping dad, my back was to my Papa in his chair and I was talking to my stepmom when I felt a sharp pinch on the back of my leg. I immediately whipped around, ready to kill Bud who had been barking at me for the past three minutes straight. As I turned I shouted, “YOU SONOFABITCH!” and came face to face with my Papa. He was laughing so hard he nearly died.
“You shouldn’t talk to your Papa that way”, he said still laughing.
I glared at him. The fat bastard had pinched the fuck out of my leg!
He spent the rest of the weekend telling everyone the “hilarious story” about how I thought the dog bit me and I called him a sonofabitch. Hilarious indeed.
Because I love my Papa and I know what’s good for me, I went home and made him the apple nut cake he requested for Thanksgiving dinner. I also had to make a pound cake for Thanksgiving lunch at The Grandmother’s. I still maintain the theory that if a man eats my cake, he’s smitten forever. Which is why I never bake for anyone but family.
The rest of the night, that wasn’t devoted to baking, was spent watching movies with my sister. She insisted that I watch a scary movie called Paranormal Activity. I hate scary movies, but I heard from several people that saw it in theaters that after they watched it they didn’t sleep for days and that intrigued me a bit.
But it was stupid. I didn’t find it scary in the slightest. My sister, however, was terrified and begged me to sleep in her bed. We haven’t really slept in the same bed in years. I took the opportunity to make it a miserable experience to keep her from asking again in the future. I’m a bit of a thrasher and she’s prone to nose bleeds.
Thursday
I bundled my cake and various other odds and ends into the car early that morning. I’d promised The Grandmother that I would come over before the others and help with lunch. Of course I was 45 minutes later than I said I’d be, with wet hair and no makeup. It’s become a disturbing trend, looking like a bum.
My Aunt, bless her, recently moved in with TG. From personal experience I know that TG is one of the hardest people on the planet to live with. But in her case I’m not sure what’s worse: staying with her husband or living with TG. I probably would have jumped ship too. The man is an absolute nutter.
I wasn’t there an hour before I was hitting the rum and coke. Eleven in the morning and I was drinking liquor. Dear lord, I’ve become my father.
The minute we returned to the kitchen for orders she said, “Are you two drinking?” Nothing gets by that damn woman.
Of course we denied it. “I’m high on life Grandma”, I said grinning.
“Well that’s the only thing anyone should ever be high on!”
“And Jesus”, I replied.
She glowered.
After arguments over seating arrangements and who was going to say grace (it was unanimously agreed that I wasn’t fit to pray for our health), we finally settled down to eat.
I decided to do the smart thing and give up on my diet for the weekend. It would have been unfair to my family to have me ripping out my hair at the table and salivating all over their turkey and dressing. There was no conversation for the first five minutes or so and I was in a heaven no granola bar could ever take me to.
Being an important member of the family (read: being put in charge of name tags and being a lefty) I was sitting at the head of the table. My mother was at the foot, my Aunt D (a different one) to my left, and TG to my right. I love sitting next to Aunt D. She always smells of pot and looks around like she’s lost. Sometimes she even laughs out loud for no reason and talks to herself.
When everyone finally started talking it was, of course, about politics.
So while my mother flashed me bits of “see-food” from her end of the table, TG and my Uncle yelled at each other across the turkey. All because someone had to mention (angelic face) that TG had ordered Sara Palin’s new book.
My Uncle hates Sarah Palin and began a loud and lengthy monologue on her less than adequate intelligence. TG loves Sarah Palin and began even more loudly interrupting him. Soon they were shouting and pointing at each other while the rest of us played ping pong with our heads.
D turned her glazed eyes on me, smiled and asked me to load her plate up with more turkey, my mother flashed me another chewed up mouthful of food, and my sister texted her boyfriend.
A typical American family dinner.
My sister, the kid, and I left around 4pm in order to make it to Papa’s for dinner. Never as formal as TG’s, everyone fixed their plates when they felt like it and sat scattered about the house.
For the first time in years there were no eggrolls and no pig with an apple in it’s mouth. And though I didn’t eat anything except for a bit of my own cake, I was happy I didn’t have to look at a whole pig. There’s something disturbing about them and for some reason they always make me think of that book Lord of the Flies.
My dad passed out with his pants unbuttoned minutes after dinner and there was no liquor consumed by anyone. I’ve never been so disappointed in my redneck side of the family.
Friday
In a moment of weakness I agreed to help my Aunt pack up her things and move them to her storage building. She hired Two Men and a Truck to help.
I showed up at TG’s at eight that morning, grumpy and hating life. We drove the 30 minutes to her house and waited for the movers to show up.
Two Men and a Truck finally came. Or rather, three hung over stoners. The leader was a skinny white guy and his cohorts were two hulking black men.
They took forever to get started, laughing, joking and complaining about needing a drink. I went about my business, packing things here and there, but before long one of the hulks started following me around and questioning me.
Where are you from? Where did you go to school? What year did you graduate? Do you know so-in-so? Do you mind if I call you “babe”?
What? Fuck off dude. It’s 10 in the morning on the day after Thanksgiving. I’m sweating like a whore in church and all I want is to take a shower and crawl into my bed with a book. Yes, I mind if you call me “babe”.
He continued to follow me around throughout the morning, offering his help to me instead of assisting the other two guys with the really big stuff. I eventually got my ipod and tuned everything out.
I was standing in the dining room wrapping pieces of glass from a china cabinet in bubble wrap. The song Crazy Bitch by Buckcherry came on which never fails to make me move, maybe even head bang a little, and I started shimmying around. Right when they shout “You’re crazy but I like the way you fuck me!” and I was doing the required pelvic thrusts against the table, there was a crash to my right. I looked and stopped mid thrust when I saw a large leg protruding from the living room ceiling.
The guys were supposed to be getting a few things from the attic but one of the hulks wasn’t walking on the beams and fell through the ceiling. It took me half an hour to calm my Aunt down enough to get her moving again. What made it worse was that the guys found it absolutely hilarious.
After almost five hours, with a timely appearance from my mom’s boyfriend, we were finished. The movers and my Aunt headed to the storage building while Ray and I headed to TG’s to unload his truck. He suggested we stop by Chick-fil-A for lunch since neither of us had eaten that day and knowing my diet was already shot to shit, I agreed.
Bliss. Food. Oh, mayonnaise...how I love you.
Moving on.
By the time I made it home that night I felt like I had bricks tied to my limbs. After a bit of excitement over a package of pig faced gummies I received in the mail (which I’ve decided may have just been the highlight of my weekend) and a shower, I was asleep by 7:30. Only sick people and geriatrics are in bed by 7:30pm. The shame!
Saturday
The only thing I did all day was read, watch the Carolina vs. Clemson game, and lounge on my Papa’s couch. I did drink a beer with my dad to celebrate the Cocks winning their first game against Clemson since 2006. WOO!
I also managed to find out that my dad will still be working in New Jersey after all. We’ve planned my visit for late February. New York and handbags...here I come.
Sunday
We spent that morning cleaning and rearranging furniture, the afternoon picking up last minute things from the store, and the evening putting up the Christmas tree.
Throughout the day, my sister’s boyfriend and I became quite close.
He smiled at me. I gave him the finger.
He said pass me the hooks. I said fuck off.
He touched my sister inappropriately. I made a finger cutting throat motion. (That one gets um’ every time.)
Yeah, I’m pretty sure my weekend sucked balls. It’s ok if you say so. Just be nice about it.
On a positive note it’s almost time for my yearly vagina violating appointment. They have Jesus posters on the ceiling. Oooooh baby.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
I suppose I do look quite tasty.
Things have been a bit dull lately. I have a feeling that I’ll regret that statement come this weekend when my family shows up en masse for Thanksgiving, but there it is anyway.
I could tell you about what happened at court today, but I don’t particularly feel like talking about it. Let’s just say it went neither badly nor well. Though I did look quite smart, if I do say so myself.
Instead...
I always get a bit nostalgic around the holidays and today I found myself thinking of one incident in particular. I can only assume that the reason I dredged up this memory is that the person it involves reminds me a bit of Santa Claus – if Santa Claus sold marijuana.
Several years ago I lived in a small house on the more questionable side of town with five other people. One of those people was my cousin Dooby. His girlfriend and I worked together in a Greek restaurant close by. I have no idea what the others did. When we weren’t working we were getting drunk, getting high, and playing video games.
I also have no idea how we smoked the amount of marijuana that we smoked and functioned. Hell, for all I know we didn’t. Most of my time there is a great big blur. But there are a few things that stand out. One is the time Dooby tried to whore me out for pot.
He had a friend, aptly named after snack food, that was his regular pot dealer. I never saw the guy much because I always went through Dooby to get my stuff...or just smoked his.
One night we were sitting on the couch playing a video game when Dooby said to me, “You know, Dude likes you.”
I wasn’t really paying him much attention. “Uh huh.”
“I told him you were single.”
“Mmm....”
“So, you know he’s got this good shit that just came in right?”
That got my attention. “For real?”
“Yeah...”
“So are you going to get some”, I asked him.
“Well”, he said looking all shifty, “it’s kinda expensive and I’m broke.”
I sighed and turned back to the game. “Oh.”
“But...I was thinkin’. What if I invited him over to hang out with us? He’ll come because he likes you and he’ll probably smoke some of it with us too.”
I didn’t have to think about that for long. After all, all I had to do was sit in the same room with the guy and he would light it up and pass it around. Sounded good to me.
“Ok, whatever. But don’t tell him anything stupid like I’m into him!”
“Yeah, ok.”
So the guy came over.
He was over six feet tall, had a shaved head, and was very...round. I couldn’t begin to guess at a weight, but the fucker was huge. I looked like the Rob to his Big, only you know, a girl. And he had really red cheeks, like Santa Claus...but less jolly looking.
He sat down and we all hung out for awhile. I relaxed a bit because everything seemed ok. He did in fact break out his awesome new pot and share.
“....or something like that.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you! Get him out of here.”
I could tell you about what happened at court today, but I don’t particularly feel like talking about it. Let’s just say it went neither badly nor well. Though I did look quite smart, if I do say so myself.
Instead...
I always get a bit nostalgic around the holidays and today I found myself thinking of one incident in particular. I can only assume that the reason I dredged up this memory is that the person it involves reminds me a bit of Santa Claus – if Santa Claus sold marijuana.
Several years ago I lived in a small house on the more questionable side of town with five other people. One of those people was my cousin Dooby. His girlfriend and I worked together in a Greek restaurant close by. I have no idea what the others did. When we weren’t working we were getting drunk, getting high, and playing video games.
I also have no idea how we smoked the amount of marijuana that we smoked and functioned. Hell, for all I know we didn’t. Most of my time there is a great big blur. But there are a few things that stand out. One is the time Dooby tried to whore me out for pot.
He had a friend, aptly named after snack food, that was his regular pot dealer. I never saw the guy much because I always went through Dooby to get my stuff...or just smoked his.
One night we were sitting on the couch playing a video game when Dooby said to me, “You know, Dude likes you.”
I wasn’t really paying him much attention. “Uh huh.”
“I told him you were single.”
“Mmm....”
“So, you know he’s got this good shit that just came in right?”
That got my attention. “For real?”
“Yeah...”
“So are you going to get some”, I asked him.
“Well”, he said looking all shifty, “it’s kinda expensive and I’m broke.”
I sighed and turned back to the game. “Oh.”
“But...I was thinkin’. What if I invited him over to hang out with us? He’ll come because he likes you and he’ll probably smoke some of it with us too.”
I didn’t have to think about that for long. After all, all I had to do was sit in the same room with the guy and he would light it up and pass it around. Sounded good to me.
“Ok, whatever. But don’t tell him anything stupid like I’m into him!”
“Yeah, ok.”
So the guy came over.
He was over six feet tall, had a shaved head, and was very...round. I couldn’t begin to guess at a weight, but the fucker was huge. I looked like the Rob to his Big, only you know, a girl. And he had really red cheeks, like Santa Claus...but less jolly looking.
He sat down and we all hung out for awhile. I relaxed a bit because everything seemed ok. He did in fact break out his awesome new pot and share.
I got up to get something to drink and Dooby followed me into the kitchen. I was stoned off my ass.
“Hey”, he said. “I’m going to go to bed.”
“You can’t leave me in there with big un’”, I hissed.
“Why don’t you flirt with him a little bit and see if he’ll give you some pot?”
“Are you crazy?!”
“...man, if you slept with him you’d be set for like, a whole week!”
I was getting horrified. “Did you say anything to him?”
He looked sheepish and amused at the same time. “I might have said that you MIGHT do him...”
“WHAT!”
“....or something like that.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you! Get him out of here.”
But he didn’t. He ran for his bedroom and shut the door like a little wimp.
So there I was faced with an enormous drug dealer who was sitting on my couch, most likely waiting to get laid.
I decided to do the only thing I could do: I went back in there and played video games.
I told myself, “Self, if you stay busy and be aloof, he’ll leave.”
Let me tell you something about Self. She was a fucking retard.
I played the fuck out of that video game and while I played, he lit up another blunt. And I smoked it. And by the time I finished smoking it, I was so high I could have been on the goddamn moon.
The next thing I know he had his fat mouth on the back of my neck and I was crawling across the couch attempting to get away. Unfortunately, since I was so stoned, it seemed more funny than horrifying. I started laughing uncontrollably and he took that as an invitation, I guess.
I remember laughing and thinking, “Don’t crush it! Don’t crush it!” but I’m not sure if I said it out loud. And by “it”, I think I meant myself.
He kept pawing at me, but I finally managed to stumble to my feet.
I told myself, “Self, if you go to bed and leave him sitting here...he’ll just leave.”
Oh, Self! No!
The thing about my bedroom was...it was actually a dining room. It had double glass doors that led into the living room, but I had installed a curtain rod over them and hung long, dark curtains. Problem solved. But there was another entrance that led into the kitchen that didn’t actually have...a door. I’d fixed up a blanket over the opening.
And the thing about my bed was...it wasn’t actually a bed. It was a gigantic air mattress. Unfortunately, I’d poked a hole or two in it somehow and I’d have to hook up the electric pump at least twice a night to lift myself back up off the floor. But it was fucking awesome when it was inflated!
So anyway, I stumbled to my feet and out of the room. I may or may not have said goodnight, good riddance, or save the whales.
I flung myself through my blanketed doorway and onto my then inflated bed. I was so high all I could do was lay there and think about...whatever it is high people think about.
Then all of a sudden there was an eclipse.
Actually, big un’ walked in the “door”, but same thing.
Before I could move...or maybe that’s not true. I probably could have moved, but my brain wasn’t on speaking terms with my limbs. Or my mouth, since all it said was, “Uh...mumble mumble huh.” Anyway, he fell like a giant redwood onto my bed and, as it happens, on top of me.
Unfortunately I have trouble breathing when I’m being smothered, so I was unable to tell him to remove himself at first. I’m not sure exactly what he was doing while I was folded up in the air mattress and he was squishing me like a bug, but I’m thankful that Self didn’t tell me to undress before I got in that bed.
I felt my back hit hard floor. The fucker had managed to deflate my bed in the matter of minutes...maybe seconds. My concept of time wasn’t really at it’s best.
He grasped my arms and rolled, causing what air was left to shift to one side and dump us unceremoniously onto the floor. This left me sitting astride the great beast, stunned and slightly angry that I’d have to pump up my air mattress sooner than usual.
It was then that I noticed he’d managed to partially remove his clothing and I began to shriek and scramble off of him. Who knows what he was saying. Probably “Feed me Seymour!”
I finally managed to extricate myself and still oblivious to the danger of having a horny, mammoth drug dealer in my room that may or may not have just tried to eat me, I went straight to the fucking air pump and started fixing my mattress.
Fortunately he’d had enough of my shenanigans and plodded out in search of something more fulfilling...like an aisle or two at the grocery store. Again, I remember nothing he said. I may or may not have called him “bone crusher”.
It wasn’t until the next morning when I sobered up that I realized I might have just angered the wrong person. Then I remembered who was really at fault. Dooby.
That’s why I never told him about the bag of pot the giant dropped in my room in his struggle to swallow me whole.
I smoked it all by myself...to the FACE. And it was awesome.
I was surprised that the guy never came back for his bud, but I can’t say I blame him. I’m not used to fighting with my food either.
I was surprised that the guy never came back for his bud, but I can’t say I blame him. I’m not used to fighting with my food either.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Why does everyone keep calling me weird? Is it a fat thing?
The holidays are closing in and we all know what that means!
That’s right, FOOD.
I know some people say it’s all about Jesus, but listen to me: Jesus isn’t food. Unless you’re counting those flat, dissolvable cardboard disks those church goers call “the body of Christ”. I totally don’t.
But here’s the thing. There will be no mounds of macaroni and cheese, brown sugar glazed ham, or buttery, succulent rolls for me.
I’m on a diet.
I know. I know. EVERYONE is on a diet.
But the thing about me and dieting is we hate each other. We’re unfaithful. We tried to make it work for the sake of the kid, but there was just too much bitterness there.
Unfortunately, the doctor says we have to try again. He also acts like the problem with our relationship is 100% my fault, but what the fuck does he know?
The scene: Doctor’s office. The purpose: A doctor’s excuse. Why: Because I didn’t feel well and my throat might have been a little sore. Maybe. A week ago.
I attempted to look as forlorn and sickly as possible while the nurse took my blood pressure and asked me boring questions.
Then I waited, sitting on the crinkly papered exam table and swinging my legs back and forth. Heel struck table: clang! Heel struck table: clang!
Wait...wait...was that? I think it was! “Clang clang clang clang, clangclangclang”...and vocals: “I said what what in the butt! I said what what in the butt! You wanna do it in my butt, in my butt (clang clang clang clang clang clang)! Let’s do it in the butt...Ooooook!”
Enter Doctor Have-No-Soul.
Doc: “Good morning.”
Me: Totally not embarrassed about kicking exam table like a four year old and singing Southpark assholery. “Good morning.”
Doc: “So we aren’t feeling well today?”
Me: “Number one feels ok, but number seven needs a little work.”
Doc: Bland, sheep face. Does not compute.
Me: “Heh, you know...we...multiple personalities....”
Doc: Bland, sheep face. Does not compute.
Me: “Alrighty! No, we don’t feel well today. We didn’t feel well yesterday either.”
Doc: Pulls out stethoscope and starts asking medical questions.
Me: “We might need medicine.”
Doc: More medical questions. Touchy feely, under the shirt action etc.
Me: Medical answers, stray giggle at tickley under the shirt feely action.
After more examining:
Doc: Looks at chart, flips page. Frowny face. “You’ve gained 15lbs since I saw you this time last year.”
Me: “15!”
Doc: “Yes. 15.”
Me: “Shit. Oh gawd! We’re getting fat!” Deliberately bland sheep face.
Doc: “Mmmm.” Fake noncommittal face, but in actuality...judgmental face.
Me: “I’m sick though, so...we’re not talking about weight.”
Doc: “You should be aware that you gained 15lbs in a year.”
Me: “Could you stop saying that out loud?”
Doc: “Yes, but you should be aw...”
Me: “YEAH AWARE, I get it. So what do you think?”
Doc: “I think you should go on a diet.”
Me: “ABOUT MY SICKNESS, NOT MY WEIGHT.”
Doc: Bland, sheep face. “I’ll write you a prescription for antibiotics just in case.”
Me: “Great. Wonderful. Are we finished?”
I got my paperwork and headed to the check out counter. A girl I knew from school was working the desk.
“So, how did it go,” she asked.
“He called us fat.”
She stared at me. “Well, you aren’t”, she said.
I tore out the check I was writing and handed it to her.
“We’ve gained 15lbs in a year.”
She stared at me like I was crazy. “Um...really, you’re not.”
I sighed. “Are we done here?”
She glanced at the check, did a double take and started laughing. “Yeah! Ha! Man, that’s funny!”
On the Memo line at the bottom of the check I’d written: “Cash this before we eat it.”
“Fat people are funny”, I said knowingly.
I went back out to my car and called my boss.
“Well, what did the doctor say”, she asked.
“He said we’re fat.”
“What?!”
I repeated myself, then gave her a run down of the appointment (the edited, I’m too sick to work today version).
“Well, don’t worry about it. Didn’t you say he was an asshole anyway? I thought you were getting a new doctor after the last time when he called you a hypochondriac.”
“We forgot.”
“You forgot to get a new doctor?”
“We haven’t seen this one in a year. Besides, fat people are forgetful.”
“For god’s sake! You are not fa...”
“It’s an alliteration thing, I think. Fat, funny, forgetful, food, freezer, fellatio.”
“You do realize how weird you are right?”
“Yes, we know.”
“What’s fellatio?”
“Gelatin. We have to go now.”
She sighed. “Call me and let me know if you’re coming in tomorrow...and quit saying “we”. It’s weird.”
“We’ll be there. If we can fit through the door. F.....Fit.”
“Yeah, you need to go home and lie down. Feel better.”
“Bye.”
Fast forward.
Last night I was sitting on the couch talking to mom’s boyfriend Ray.
“I’m starting my diet tomorrow”, he said.
“Really? I should do it with you. It’s easier to diet with a partner.”
“Ya’ll are crazy. I’m waiting till after the holidays to do any dieting”, mom said.
“That’s the best time to do it”, he replied.
Mom looked at me. “You don’t diet well.”
“Well, I know we’ve had our differences in the past but surely we can hang in there for just 15lbs.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Ok. We’ll see.”
An hour later:
“Who ate my M&M’s”, my sister asked.
“I did”, I admitted from the couch.
“Uh! What the hell!”
“Listen, there has to be one last fling before monogamy starts tomorrow.”
“Mom, what is she talking about?”
“Dieting.”
“Really”, she asked me. “You’re going to diet?”
“Yes.”
“You know Thanksgiving is in like, two weeks.”
“Yes.”
“How are you going to keep from eating all that junk?”
“Fellatio.”
She looked confused. “What’s fellatio?”
“It’s what fat people do to keep from eating....food”, I said.
Mom glared at me. “That’s enough.”
“That’s not what it means, is it”, my sister asked.
I shrugged. “I forget.”
“Whatever. You are SO weird.”
And that’s the story of why we started a diet today.
Now you'll have to excuse us, we're off to lunch.
Not sure what we're having today...but I hear Jesus is low in calories.
That’s right, FOOD.
I know some people say it’s all about Jesus, but listen to me: Jesus isn’t food. Unless you’re counting those flat, dissolvable cardboard disks those church goers call “the body of Christ”. I totally don’t.
But here’s the thing. There will be no mounds of macaroni and cheese, brown sugar glazed ham, or buttery, succulent rolls for me.
I’m on a diet.
I know. I know. EVERYONE is on a diet.
But the thing about me and dieting is we hate each other. We’re unfaithful. We tried to make it work for the sake of the kid, but there was just too much bitterness there.
Unfortunately, the doctor says we have to try again. He also acts like the problem with our relationship is 100% my fault, but what the fuck does he know?
The scene: Doctor’s office. The purpose: A doctor’s excuse. Why: Because I didn’t feel well and my throat might have been a little sore. Maybe. A week ago.
I attempted to look as forlorn and sickly as possible while the nurse took my blood pressure and asked me boring questions.
Then I waited, sitting on the crinkly papered exam table and swinging my legs back and forth. Heel struck table: clang! Heel struck table: clang!
Wait...wait...was that? I think it was! “Clang clang clang clang, clangclangclang”...and vocals: “I said what what in the butt! I said what what in the butt! You wanna do it in my butt, in my butt (clang clang clang clang clang clang)! Let’s do it in the butt...Ooooook!”
Enter Doctor Have-No-Soul.
Doc: “Good morning.”
Me: Totally not embarrassed about kicking exam table like a four year old and singing Southpark assholery. “Good morning.”
Doc: “So we aren’t feeling well today?”
Me: “Number one feels ok, but number seven needs a little work.”
Doc: Bland, sheep face. Does not compute.
Me: “Heh, you know...we...multiple personalities....”
Doc: Bland, sheep face. Does not compute.
Me: “Alrighty! No, we don’t feel well today. We didn’t feel well yesterday either.”
Doc: Pulls out stethoscope and starts asking medical questions.
Me: “We might need medicine.”
Doc: More medical questions. Touchy feely, under the shirt action etc.
Me: Medical answers, stray giggle at tickley under the shirt feely action.
After more examining:
Doc: Looks at chart, flips page. Frowny face. “You’ve gained 15lbs since I saw you this time last year.”
Me: “15!”
Doc: “Yes. 15.”
Me: “Shit. Oh gawd! We’re getting fat!” Deliberately bland sheep face.
Doc: “Mmmm.” Fake noncommittal face, but in actuality...judgmental face.
Me: “I’m sick though, so...we’re not talking about weight.”
Doc: “You should be aware that you gained 15lbs in a year.”
Me: “Could you stop saying that out loud?”
Doc: “Yes, but you should be aw...”
Me: “YEAH AWARE, I get it. So what do you think?”
Doc: “I think you should go on a diet.”
Me: “ABOUT MY SICKNESS, NOT MY WEIGHT.”
Doc: Bland, sheep face. “I’ll write you a prescription for antibiotics just in case.”
Me: “Great. Wonderful. Are we finished?”
I got my paperwork and headed to the check out counter. A girl I knew from school was working the desk.
“So, how did it go,” she asked.
“He called us fat.”
She stared at me. “Well, you aren’t”, she said.
I tore out the check I was writing and handed it to her.
“We’ve gained 15lbs in a year.”
She stared at me like I was crazy. “Um...really, you’re not.”
I sighed. “Are we done here?”
She glanced at the check, did a double take and started laughing. “Yeah! Ha! Man, that’s funny!”
On the Memo line at the bottom of the check I’d written: “Cash this before we eat it.”
“Fat people are funny”, I said knowingly.
I went back out to my car and called my boss.
“Well, what did the doctor say”, she asked.
“He said we’re fat.”
“What?!”
I repeated myself, then gave her a run down of the appointment (the edited, I’m too sick to work today version).
“Well, don’t worry about it. Didn’t you say he was an asshole anyway? I thought you were getting a new doctor after the last time when he called you a hypochondriac.”
“We forgot.”
“You forgot to get a new doctor?”
“We haven’t seen this one in a year. Besides, fat people are forgetful.”
“For god’s sake! You are not fa...”
“It’s an alliteration thing, I think. Fat, funny, forgetful, food, freezer, fellatio.”
“You do realize how weird you are right?”
“Yes, we know.”
“What’s fellatio?”
“Gelatin. We have to go now.”
She sighed. “Call me and let me know if you’re coming in tomorrow...and quit saying “we”. It’s weird.”
“We’ll be there. If we can fit through the door. F.....Fit.”
“Yeah, you need to go home and lie down. Feel better.”
“Bye.”
Fast forward.
Last night I was sitting on the couch talking to mom’s boyfriend Ray.
“I’m starting my diet tomorrow”, he said.
“Really? I should do it with you. It’s easier to diet with a partner.”
“Ya’ll are crazy. I’m waiting till after the holidays to do any dieting”, mom said.
“That’s the best time to do it”, he replied.
Mom looked at me. “You don’t diet well.”
“Well, I know we’ve had our differences in the past but surely we can hang in there for just 15lbs.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Ok. We’ll see.”
An hour later:
“Who ate my M&M’s”, my sister asked.
“I did”, I admitted from the couch.
“Uh! What the hell!”
“Listen, there has to be one last fling before monogamy starts tomorrow.”
“Mom, what is she talking about?”
“Dieting.”
“Really”, she asked me. “You’re going to diet?”
“Yes.”
“You know Thanksgiving is in like, two weeks.”
“Yes.”
“How are you going to keep from eating all that junk?”
“Fellatio.”
She looked confused. “What’s fellatio?”
“It’s what fat people do to keep from eating....food”, I said.
Mom glared at me. “That’s enough.”
“That’s not what it means, is it”, my sister asked.
I shrugged. “I forget.”
“Whatever. You are SO weird.”
And that’s the story of why we started a diet today.
Now you'll have to excuse us, we're off to lunch.
Not sure what we're having today...but I hear Jesus is low in calories.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
I must, I must, I must increase my bust!
I was going to write a short post thanking all the guys that participated in Penis Week, but I’d rather do a video. So I’m thinking I might enlist the services of my best friend and make it a little extra special. (And that is not a girl-on-girl reference.) It’s in the heterosexual works.
I’ve always said that I’m glad my kid is a girl. I just didn’t think I could raise a boy. If I’m being completely honest, I didn’t think I could raise anything other than a penis or my hand...but here I am, doing it.
I took her shopping for fall clothes recently and was delighted to find that she and I have more in common than our freakishly long toes. We shop alike: Grab, try on, put back or keep, and get the fuck out. Fast, efficient, and leaving extra time for lunch.
There was only one exception: underwear.
My four year old decided she wanted a bra. Not a training bra, mind you, a REAL bra...with cups and adjustable straps. It took me about 15 minutes to get her away from those racks, sans bra and inappropriate panties, and hustle her, whining and pleading to the check out counter.
I told my mother about it when we got home.
“She wants a bra. Not a training bra with rainbows and butterflies all over it...a real one, with a matching set of bikini panties.”
"Are they made for her size?"
"Yes, the cups (air quotes) are flat, but"
She laughed. “Then why didn’t you get her one?”
“She’s four. Bras and bikini panties? Seriously?”
“Eh”, she said shrugging.
“I could be setting her up to be a....a....”
“A what? It’s no worse than the shit you used to wear.”
“Yeah, well you didn’t help me buy any of it!”
“Nope! And I’m not helping you with this one either!”
I got my first bra when I was six.
It was Fourth of July weekend and I was standing on my grandparent’s porch with my nine year old cousin, waving sparklers. She was making fun of me for not wearing a bra, pointing and laughing at my flat chest. This was the same she-devil that taught me about sex with a Barbie and Ken doll and how to steal the candy from our uncle’s army food packs.
The more she taunted me the angrier I got, until finally I took my sparkler and stabbed her in the hand with it. She ran off screaming and crying, eighties hair still visible over the bushes as she cut through the yard.
My Nana came out the side door, cigarette in one hand and the obligatory gin and tonic in the other. I didn’t know she'd been watching.
“What did ya do that for, dawlin?”
“She was making fun of me.”
She stood staring at me for a moment, blowing smoke out of her nose, before finally saying, "You come on with me.”
I was sure she was going to take the yard stick to my ass. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
She went into the spare bedroom, opened up the closet and started digging through a drawer. I stared at the lengthening ashes of the cigarette clamped between her bright pink lips. I remember thinking that if she dropped it, I had to step on it quick and make sure it was out. Because Papa always said, “Jackass, you make sure your Nana don’t burn this house down, ya hear?”
She finally found what she was looking for and turning around, held it up for me to see. It was a pale blue training bra with one of those sticky appliqués on the front of Strawberry Shortcake.
“This was ya cousin’s first training bra and now it’s yours.”
I didn’t want a hand-me-down training bra, but I knew better than to say that to Nana. She handed it over and told me to go to the bathroom and put it on.
The rest of the day she made sure to tell everyone that I was wearing that fucking bra. I was mortified. The only consolation was my cousin had a nice, red welt across her palm and was getting no sympathy. Training bra trumps sparkler burn.
My mom didn’t deal well with “girl issues”. It made her uncomfortable to talk about anything relating to underwear, boys, and especially periods. Nana used to say, “That woman just needs to touch herself, that’s all there is to it! Pain and simple.”
So Nana continued to buy my bras, panties, and other girl products as I grew up.When she passed away I was 12 and I started buying my own things.
My she-devil cousin was old enough to drive then and we would go to the mall with Papa’s credit card, buying whatever we wanted. My first run-in with Victoria’s Secret was on one such trip.
It was around my 13th birthday and I wanted something new and special to mark the occasion, but I wasn't sure what that was yet. She-devil marched into VS like she owned the place and started digging through the racks and bins. I was too busy gawking at all the leopard print and lace. Obviously this place had never heard of white cotton.
I finally started looking around, trying to draw as little attention as possible. I had a strong dislike for women that measure you for bras (still do actually) and I didn’t want one of them feeling me up in the VS dressing room in front of the she-devil.
I was rummaging through a bin when I saw a sign I couldn’t ignore. Glancing furtively around, I made my way toward every teenage girl’s destiny: the padded bra.
I found love with an emerald green, satin Wonderbra that day. The padding in that sucker was un-fucking-believable.
I took it to the counter, paid, and immediately went to the dressing room to switch it out with my plain white “Virgin” screamer.
BAM! Insta-titties!
I was so fucking proud of those things. Until I got home.
I stowed my bags in my room, made myself something to drink, and settled on the couch with a book. A short time later, my dad and mom came home from wherever the hell they’d been. It couldn’t have been 60 seconds before....
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH YOUR CHEST?” My dad was gawking at me.
“What? What’s going on?” My mom peered around him and her mouth promptly fell open.
“Let me see what you bought today”, she said reluctantly.
“Papa said I could get whatever I wanted!”
She started to my room. “Just show me.”
My dad was still yapping to himself, trying to wrap his pea brain around what was going on. “Don’t know what’s wrong with...is that green....I don’t think....”
A bright, emerald green strap was poking out from underneath my tank top and I shoved it back.
My mom started digging through my things and pulled out the Victoria’s Secret bag, empty except for tissue paper and a receipt. She read it and looked up at my dad standing in the doorway.
“It’s a MIRACLEbra”, she said with tears in her eyes, horrified. My dad looked at her, and then looked at my chest. Back and forth he went before finally bursting into laughter.
“MIRACLE! IT’S A MIRACLE”, he howled.
My face was bright red. I snatched the bag from her hand and stomped out.
“Call him”, I heard my dad say.
“I WILL not”, my mom replied.
Then I heard the unmistakable sound of the speaker phone. Ring. Ring. Ring. I stood in the hall, horror struck.
“HELLO”, my Papa shouted into the phone. He always shouts.
“DAD! THERE’S BEEN A MIRACLE!”
“WHAT?”
“WE’VE HAD A MIRACLE AT 154 blank ROAD!”
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKIN BOUT, JIM?”
“YOUR GRANDAUGHTER BOUGHT A MIRACLE BRA WITH YOUR CREDIT CARD! SHE’S GOT 'ER BOOBIES PUSHED UP TO 'ER CHIN!”
Loud, obnoxious, old man laughter.
“AND IT’S BRIGHT GREEN!”
More laughter.
For the next several years I became known as “The Miracle at 154 blank Road”...all because my mother was too embarrassed to help me shop for underwear.
Now it’s mine and my daughter’s turn to go through these rituals. I guess I'm about to buy her first training bra. Weird. Hopefully I'll do alright with this girly, parenting stuff and not embarrass her too much. It's definitely not all sugar, spice and everything nice.
But it will probably be fine.
After all...I have no problem touching myself.
**********
I’ve always said that I’m glad my kid is a girl. I just didn’t think I could raise a boy. If I’m being completely honest, I didn’t think I could raise anything other than a penis or my hand...but here I am, doing it.
I took her shopping for fall clothes recently and was delighted to find that she and I have more in common than our freakishly long toes. We shop alike: Grab, try on, put back or keep, and get the fuck out. Fast, efficient, and leaving extra time for lunch.
There was only one exception: underwear.
My four year old decided she wanted a bra. Not a training bra, mind you, a REAL bra...with cups and adjustable straps. It took me about 15 minutes to get her away from those racks, sans bra and inappropriate panties, and hustle her, whining and pleading to the check out counter.
I told my mother about it when we got home.
“She wants a bra. Not a training bra with rainbows and butterflies all over it...a real one, with a matching set of bikini panties.”
"Are they made for her size?"
"Yes, the cups (air quotes) are flat, but"
She laughed. “Then why didn’t you get her one?”
“She’s four. Bras and bikini panties? Seriously?”
“Eh”, she said shrugging.
“I could be setting her up to be a....a....”
“A what? It’s no worse than the shit you used to wear.”
“Yeah, well you didn’t help me buy any of it!”
“Nope! And I’m not helping you with this one either!”
I got my first bra when I was six.
It was Fourth of July weekend and I was standing on my grandparent’s porch with my nine year old cousin, waving sparklers. She was making fun of me for not wearing a bra, pointing and laughing at my flat chest. This was the same she-devil that taught me about sex with a Barbie and Ken doll and how to steal the candy from our uncle’s army food packs.
The more she taunted me the angrier I got, until finally I took my sparkler and stabbed her in the hand with it. She ran off screaming and crying, eighties hair still visible over the bushes as she cut through the yard.
My Nana came out the side door, cigarette in one hand and the obligatory gin and tonic in the other. I didn’t know she'd been watching.
“What did ya do that for, dawlin?”
“She was making fun of me.”
She stood staring at me for a moment, blowing smoke out of her nose, before finally saying, "You come on with me.”
I was sure she was going to take the yard stick to my ass. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
She went into the spare bedroom, opened up the closet and started digging through a drawer. I stared at the lengthening ashes of the cigarette clamped between her bright pink lips. I remember thinking that if she dropped it, I had to step on it quick and make sure it was out. Because Papa always said, “Jackass, you make sure your Nana don’t burn this house down, ya hear?”
She finally found what she was looking for and turning around, held it up for me to see. It was a pale blue training bra with one of those sticky appliqués on the front of Strawberry Shortcake.
“This was ya cousin’s first training bra and now it’s yours.”
I didn’t want a hand-me-down training bra, but I knew better than to say that to Nana. She handed it over and told me to go to the bathroom and put it on.
The rest of the day she made sure to tell everyone that I was wearing that fucking bra. I was mortified. The only consolation was my cousin had a nice, red welt across her palm and was getting no sympathy. Training bra trumps sparkler burn.
My mom didn’t deal well with “girl issues”. It made her uncomfortable to talk about anything relating to underwear, boys, and especially periods. Nana used to say, “That woman just needs to touch herself, that’s all there is to it! Pain and simple.”
So Nana continued to buy my bras, panties, and other girl products as I grew up.When she passed away I was 12 and I started buying my own things.
My she-devil cousin was old enough to drive then and we would go to the mall with Papa’s credit card, buying whatever we wanted. My first run-in with Victoria’s Secret was on one such trip.
It was around my 13th birthday and I wanted something new and special to mark the occasion, but I wasn't sure what that was yet. She-devil marched into VS like she owned the place and started digging through the racks and bins. I was too busy gawking at all the leopard print and lace. Obviously this place had never heard of white cotton.
I finally started looking around, trying to draw as little attention as possible. I had a strong dislike for women that measure you for bras (still do actually) and I didn’t want one of them feeling me up in the VS dressing room in front of the she-devil.
I was rummaging through a bin when I saw a sign I couldn’t ignore. Glancing furtively around, I made my way toward every teenage girl’s destiny: the padded bra.
I found love with an emerald green, satin Wonderbra that day. The padding in that sucker was un-fucking-believable.
I took it to the counter, paid, and immediately went to the dressing room to switch it out with my plain white “Virgin” screamer.
BAM! Insta-titties!
I was so fucking proud of those things. Until I got home.
I stowed my bags in my room, made myself something to drink, and settled on the couch with a book. A short time later, my dad and mom came home from wherever the hell they’d been. It couldn’t have been 60 seconds before....
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH YOUR CHEST?” My dad was gawking at me.
“What? What’s going on?” My mom peered around him and her mouth promptly fell open.
“Let me see what you bought today”, she said reluctantly.
“Papa said I could get whatever I wanted!”
She started to my room. “Just show me.”
My dad was still yapping to himself, trying to wrap his pea brain around what was going on. “Don’t know what’s wrong with...is that green....I don’t think....”
A bright, emerald green strap was poking out from underneath my tank top and I shoved it back.
My mom started digging through my things and pulled out the Victoria’s Secret bag, empty except for tissue paper and a receipt. She read it and looked up at my dad standing in the doorway.
“It’s a MIRACLEbra”, she said with tears in her eyes, horrified. My dad looked at her, and then looked at my chest. Back and forth he went before finally bursting into laughter.
“MIRACLE! IT’S A MIRACLE”, he howled.
My face was bright red. I snatched the bag from her hand and stomped out.
“Call him”, I heard my dad say.
“I WILL not”, my mom replied.
Then I heard the unmistakable sound of the speaker phone. Ring. Ring. Ring. I stood in the hall, horror struck.
“HELLO”, my Papa shouted into the phone. He always shouts.
“DAD! THERE’S BEEN A MIRACLE!”
“WHAT?”
“WE’VE HAD A MIRACLE AT 154 blank ROAD!”
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKIN BOUT, JIM?”
“YOUR GRANDAUGHTER BOUGHT A MIRACLE BRA WITH YOUR CREDIT CARD! SHE’S GOT 'ER BOOBIES PUSHED UP TO 'ER CHIN!”
Loud, obnoxious, old man laughter.
“AND IT’S BRIGHT GREEN!”
More laughter.
For the next several years I became known as “The Miracle at 154 blank Road”...all because my mother was too embarrassed to help me shop for underwear.
Now it’s mine and my daughter’s turn to go through these rituals. I guess I'm about to buy her first training bra. Weird. Hopefully I'll do alright with this girly, parenting stuff and not embarrass her too much. It's definitely not all sugar, spice and everything nice.
But it will probably be fine.
After all...I have no problem touching myself.
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