Thursday, December 18, 2008

Rest in Peace, Andrew

Today is the memorial service and funeral for Andrew E., an 18 year old child who took his own life this past weekend. He and his family have been members of my temple for years, way longer than I have. I didn't know Andrew, but I taught Sunday School to his youngest brother a few years ago. Our temple is a small community though, and while I don't feel like my place is with the family, I am still affected.

When I told some of my other friends about the news, since I was so shocked and saddened by it, they too felt the sorrow of a loss of a boy they also had never met, at the loss of life so young, at his own hand. They expressed concern for the family, the aftermath of such a senseless act, dismay at a child not getting help, or not able to be helped. And as I am torn with my own feelings, I am amazed at how one boy who had no idea of his impact on the world could affect so many people who never knew him, merely by one event that none of us can fathom.

The service is today, and right now hundreds of people, parents, family, friends, both local and from far away, are preparing to go and show their love for Andrew, their support for his parents and brothers and each other. They are putting on dress shoes, straightening ties, tucking tissues into pockets, dreading the whole event knowing how difficult and sorrowful it will be, perhaps not remembering that a memorial is not for mourning the loss of a life but for honoring the life that was lived. For some in attendance, this is their first memorial service, the first person they knew who died. I wish I could tell them it never gets easier. It will stay with them for the rest of their lives, the same way that I can remember the first funeral I attended, also for a high school friend.

There will be discussions of suicide in many homes for days to come, and then we will have the holidays to keep us occupied, and time will march on, as time is wont to do. Andrew's parents and brothers and friends will go through the motions, and it will either get easier or it won't. What I wish for them is what I wish for Andrew, that they can find peace.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Fire in the Hole

Okay, brace yourselves, I am about to share yet another too personal situation with you.

I am in the middle of a raging yeast infection, and I am not happy. Things down there are, shall we say, brewing, and I am trying desperately to clear up my situation without having to haul my breadbox to the local gyno for a little lookie-loo.


My friend LH had to do that recently, although for a different and significantly less common issue. She is going to kill me for this, I am sure, but since it could be any LH, you don't know who I am talking about, do you? Plus, I changed her initials to protect her womanhood. Anyway, LH is an avid exercise aficionado who was experiencing some chafing in her labial area (which I lovingly refer to as her mudflaps) due to too much friction producing activity of the clothed variety. She attempted to manage her mudflap failure at home, but over a few weeks, her mild discomfort bordered on disfigurement, so she dragged her beef curtains to the doctor. She was on the exam table, all business on the top half, the bottom half hiding demurely under her paper table cloth, when the doctor walked in. He was not her usual physican, since she couldn't get an appointment with hers on such short notice. He asked her the reason for her visit and LH told him her "stuff was broken" and she needed him to "fix her stuff." LH, for the record, was one dissertation away from a PhD, so obviously she is very articulate. He took one look down there before leaving the room to write a prescription for some strong puss cream and most likely to retch.


Anyway, I didn't feel like reliving her magic moment at the doctor's office, and besides, it's yeast, not a flat tire. Yeast, collectively, is the same critter that makes magical things like bread and beer. On my crotch, however, its magic is more of the dark arts variety, which includes redness, itching, burning, not to mention some other stuff that I really don't want to mention.After digging around in the medicine cabinet, I found a recently expired Diflucan. I popped that, and now I am waiting impatiently for it to kick in. Until then, I must suffer.


I itch. Bad. If I were a dog, I would scoot across the carpet right now, the rougher the pile, the better. I want to go outside and rub myself on a pine tree. I want to scrub myself with a Silkwood wire brush. Or even a toilet brush. I'm no prima donna. Hell, I would settle for a pumice stone at this point. I want something to rub myself raw, to scrape all that nasty yeast off, even though I am sure it will hurt even worse after all the scrubbing than it does now.


Yeast infections are not just a "women's health" problem. Think about it. Men scratch their balls all the time. Not only is it not frowned upon, it is expected. Only they give it a manly name, jock itch, which allows them to scratch their balls more openly than normal while sounding athletic at the same time. When women have issues, it's called crotch rot and no one wants to get near them, like it was small pox.

But I digress. I am scared to scratch myself now, since how much rawer could I be down there? Instead, I tried one of my favorite home remedies: yogurt. When it comes to yogurt, you have a choice of eating it or wearing it. Those little live cultures will do their job either way. Eating yogurt gives me heartburn, so I went with wearing it. I grabbed a container of plain nonfat yogurt, stripped down, laid out a towel on the floor, and frosted up my cupcake. I felt a bit like the cover of Herb Alpert's Whipped Cream and Other Delights album, only a lot less sexy. And as I lay on my crappy towel, enjoying the cool dairy goodness on my angry snatch, I remembered the most important detail. I forgot to lock the cats out of the bathroom. Let me assure you that no abomination to the lord occurred on my bathroom floor. But I did have to do a fair amount of shooing, kicking, and yelling before giving up and hopping in the shower. My two cats were circling me like turkey vultures.


I hope to find some improvement in a day or two. I am still not ready to show my junk to a professional, but I have also declared a moratorium on all Internet research. And wearing dairy products. If things don't improve, I plan on opening a microbrewery in my panties. Who doesn't want a frothy mug of fire crotch?

Lame...DUCK!!!

How many times have you seen President Bush duck that Iraqi reporter's flying shoe? Are you tired of it yet? Me neither. I am waiting for a good YouTube musical montage of it, with lots of fast replays followed by the slow mo version. Too bad that reporter's aim wasn't better, or W's reflexes a little slower. What a great way to end his second term.

Think for a moment about his father's presidency. What comes to mind? For me, it was that shining moment when Papa Bush threw up on the Japanese prime minister before collapsing.

Aahhh, good times. Feel free to post your own favorite Bush shoe videos in the comments. I promise I will enjoy them.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

Bald Faced Liar

The following story falls under the category of why does this crap always happen to me?

My friend B and I took our combined four daughters to the movies on Saturday.  After enjoying Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa,  my youngest daughter, S, decided that her two cups of lemonade warranted a stop at the restroom.  (No, this post does not involve poo.) Before we walked in, a bald pre-teen girl entered the bathroom in front of us.  We had just returned from Disney World the day before, where there are more children with rare genetic disorders  and bizarre physical anomalies having their final wishes come true than anywhere else on earth.  So S was very in tune with this bald girl, asking me under her breath what was wrong with her.  I answered that she probably had cancer, which satisfied her curiosity.  S went into a stall and I stood outside of it, waiting for her to finish.

While S was still occupied, the bald girl came out of her stall and looked at me. "I hate to bother you," she said politely to me, "but do you have three quarters I could have?" She looked over her shoulder at the vending machine near the sinks. "Oh, did you start your period?" I asked her. "Do you mind if I have three quarters?" she asked me again, not answering my question. She looked very earnest, so I dug around in my wallet and produced three coins. She thanked me and walked across the restroom to where the machine hung on the wall.

I continued to wait for S to finish, and glanced over at the girl, who was now standing by the machine and looking back at me.  She appeared confused, so I walked up to her and asked if she needed help. "Well, the thing is, I haven't started my period yet, and I don't know how to use tampons," she said shyly.  I looked at the machine.  Lip balm.  Breath freshening drops.  And OB tampons, which require a different level of user participation, but no pads or pantie liners. She looked at me, her face devoid of any eyebrow or lash, her cheeks flushed either from embarrassment or the extraordinary heat in the bathroom.  I couldn't tell if she meant she had not yet gotten her period this month , or periods in general, but I knew there was no way in hell I was teaching some strange kid how to insert a tampon, cancer or no cancer. 

"Have you not started it yet this month?" I asked for clarification.  "Cause if you think you're going to, you can just stuff some wadded up toilet paper in your panties until you get home. If you aren't comfortable with tampons, I mean."  "Oh, I know that," she said. "I just wanted to be prepared in case it happened. But maybe I could get one of those lip balms?" She pointed at the slot for the lip balm, available in a variety of nauseating fruit flavors, an eager smile on her face. My own smile faded. "No.  You should not ask strangers for money to buy lip balm." Really, you don't.  If you don't have money for lip balm, you shop lift it from the CVS.  She silently dropped the quarters back in my open palm and skulked out of the bathroom. 

I turned around to find S washing her hands behind me at the sink.  She had heard the whole thing. "What was that about, Mommy?"  "I have no idea," I answered her, and truthfully,  I didn't. We walked out and found B and the other girls waiting on a bench. "What's up?" B asked me.  "I think I just got scammed by the bald girl," I told her, and related what happened in the bathroom.  Neither of us could tell if she was truly menstrual, too shy to ask her own family for help, or suffering from severely chapped lips due to the chemotherapy.  But I had this feeling that she was using that bald head of hers for sympathy loose change, and I wasn't falling for it.  

Sunday, November 16, 2008

I Hate Control Top Panty Hose

In theory, I wanted to go to the Kristallnacht commemoration ceremony tonight. But why schedule it on a Sunday night? It wasn't the actual seventieth anniversary of the Night of Broken Glass tonight, and who wants to leave the comfort of home on the coattails of the weekend? My friend MJ asked me weeks ago to go with her, and I planned to, looking forward to sharing this experience with her. But I was in one those moods this afternoon when you know you should do something but you really don't feel like it. I wanted to see it, but I didn't want to get off the couch. I tried to think of a good excuse to bow out when MJ called to bail on me for reasons beyond her control. Baby sitter failure. She was truly remorseful, and I made the decision to go by myself, way out of my comfort zone, whatever that is.

I dressed in a somber yet tasteful black sweater and black lace skirt. I put on control top panty hose. I flat ironed my curly hair, and I don't even iron my clothes. I kissed my girls and husband good bye and drove to the technical college where the event was held. I don't get out much at night, I don't go to that part of town ever, and I got lost. Which is exactly why I don't leave my comfort zone. Despite my detour, I still made it there twenty minutes early. And even more surprisingly, I found convenient parking, walking toward the auditorium while a stream of people walked past me back to the parking lot.

I called MJ. "Okay, I am here. I got lost but I figured it out." "How did you get lost?" Don't ask me that, I felt stupid enough at it was. "I don't drive anywhere at night! But I made it, and it looks like I missed it, because everyone is leaving." "What do you mean everyone is leaving? Maybe it's more of a drop in and walk through than a sit down." She read me the email again, and it didn't sound like a drop in to me. I hung up and continued walking. A heavy-set woman stopped me before I reached the door and told me it was overcrowded, that they weren't letting anyone else in. She waved a paper at me, and I decided, like the rest of the lambs heading inside, to have someone more official tell me the same thing. An usher stationed at the entrance was happy to do it, intercepting me right at the glass door to let me know that no seats or standing room was left, and the fire marshal said no more people could be admitted. He handed me a paper, a cursory apology from the event committee about rescheduling, overwhelming response, alerting the media, blah blah blah.

I got dressed. I left my house. I drove at night alone, got lost, reoriented myself, and drove to the right place. I found parking. I walked, in heels, from bumfuck lot W to the auditorium. Did I mention I was wearing control top panty hose?? And I couldn't attend the ceremony for the Night of Broken Glass?!? I'll show you a night of broken glass, mother fuckers!

Okay, I didn't. I walked back to my car. I called MJ again to tell her the evening was a bust. She put her usual positive spin on it, commenting about how impressive the turnout was and what a show of community support. I answered, "Jesus Christ, couldn't they even have special seating for the Chosen People? I think the least they could have done is let the Jews in." Seriously, it's not like we have that many in town.

So I didn't commemorate the seventieth anniversary of Kristallnacht tonight. Instead, I went grocery shopping. I got dressed up, with flat ironed hair and motherfucking control top panty hose and drove over 40 minutes round trip go the grocery store that is a mile away from my house. But I guess in a small way I did recognize the Night of Broken Glass. While I walked the aisles pushing my cart, I saw a little girl accidentally knock over two bottles of wine, and they smashed all over the floor. Her mother gave her a very stern look that didn't bode well for when she got home. Does that count?

Monday, November 10, 2008

Is It a Good Thing?

What's up with reality shows these days? Okay, I guess that is a silly question. It's not like most reality shows were ever that great, what with their lack of creativity, story, and intellectual stimulation. Instead, they satisfy America's voyeuristic tendencies while allowing us to feel superior. We no longer have to peep in our neighbor's windows. We can now do it from the comfort of our own reclining couches. The variety of reality shows is endless, meaning there is something for everyone, from kiddies to grandparents to twisted sick fucks. My own tastes fall somewhere in that range, but I have recently discovered a show that blew my mind.


Most of you are familiar with Martha Stewart Living, unless you are busy eating your own toenail clippings and writing your manifesto. Love her or hate her, she is here to stay, and she seems stronger than ever now that she has street cred after her stint in the Big House. But you might not be aware that she has an adult daughter, Alexis, who as far as I can tell makes a living off of being Martha Stewart's daughter. Alexis has taken her career to a new level, from merely being Martha's offspring to public critic.

The other night I was flipping channels when I stumbled across a show called Whatever, Martha on the Fine Living Network, where old how-to shows go to die. The show features Martha's daughter, Alexis, and her friend, Jennifer, making fun of vintage clips of her mother's show. And they aren't nice; they say all the kinds of things you would say too, especially since Martha isn't your mother. They start by making fun of segments, like the guy with his fascinating antique twine collection or Martha's impossible guide to making s'mores, which is more about the quality of the sticks and bundling them with a winsome ribbon than actual marshmallow roasting. When they get around to it, Alexis and Jennifer insult her directly, her clothes and hair and bizarre homemaking fetishes. And if time permits, they go off on topics unrelated to the show entirely, such as nudity in gym locker rooms.

The show appeals to my inner bitch. And really, who doesn't like to make fun of one's mother? But insulting your mother with your friends is one thing, doing it so publicly, even if it is a lesser cable channel, is another. Furthermore, it is more acceptable to insult your mother than to have your friend do it. Isn't there a whole "yo mama" culture that speaks to this very issue? The bizarre part is Martha approves. She is the executive producer, so I suppose as long as Alexis and Jennifer don't compare her to a serial killer or discuss her aging vulva on the air, pretty much anything goes. An interesting mother-daughter dynamic, wouldn't you say?

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Hard Working Dog

At my gym, I frequently see an older woman with an assistive device, a dog.  She is not blind, so I assume she has multiple sclerosis or a neurological disorder that causes her to require help.  That help is a butter yellow lab, thick in the middle and solid as an end table. He wears a vest-like harness with a stiff handle on his back, and on both his harness and collar are many warnings to not pet him or distract him since he is a dog at work.

He sits patiently next to the treadmill while the woman walks, exercising the body that is failing her in a way that I can't perceive. When she is through, she stands near a low wall, chatting with a friend.  The dog sits patiently next to her like a husband at the mall, quietly waiting for her to need some assistance.

I pass them while I walk the track, and even though I know I shouldn't, I look him straight in the eye.  He moves his dog eyebrows in greeting, but does not smile because he is working. I want to touch his black nose, plastic and shiny against his thick pale yellow fur. It looks wet, but I bet it is dry and rough. 

I wonder what life is like for him when he is back at her house.  Does he get to take his harness off and unwind, or is his job around the clock for all of his dog years? Does he ever get a chance to be off duty, to happily chew a dried pig's ear or snap at butterflies hovering over a field? Does he sleep on a plaid cushion in front of the fireplace?

And what about his owner? Can she feed him or does he feed himself? Is she able to pour fresh water in his bowl to lap up with his floppy tongue?  Does she scoop up his waste and tie it in a little blue baggy? What happens if he has to go while sitting by her at the bank, the grocery store, or at the gym?

I don't think it would be a bad life for a dog, as some dogs like to feel needed and useful. But this dog looks like he needs the space behind his ears scratched. And knowing that I am not allowed to do it makes me sad for both of us.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

Open Wide

I went to the doctor today for my annual checkup, and no, it was not the dentist or the gynecologist. It was an eye appointment, which I dread more than those other two combined. Having significant myopia, I am always slightly embarrassed by how poorly I see, as if had I only tried harder growing up, I could have aced my vision tests, been the vision valedictorian. But unfortunately, eye exams don’t work that way.

To make matters worse, a few years ago, while still nursing my youngest daughter, I experienced such rapid deterioration of my distance vision due to hormonal changes and some condition that I am unable to spell. I found myself weekly at the ophthalmologist’s, funding his new SUV and lake property while trying every brand of contacts available on the US market with short lived, if any, success. Finally, my exasperated eye doctor fired me, since he couldn’t fix me, sending me instead to his colleague who specializes in problem eyeballs with bad contact issues. He ruled out LASIK as an option due to the double whammy of thin corneas and large pupils. I ruled out wearing glasses because of my vanity, my long eyelashes, and my intense desire to see peripherally. We compromised on hard lenses, not the most comfortable solution, but definitely the one with the best results. So now when I go to the eye doctor for what is a routine appointment, I sweat it, fearful that my unspellable condition is back, which will leave me sightless, wandering the streets with a dented tin cup full of pencils and a sign around my neck.

Today was no exception to my irrational fear of eye appointments but what made it worse was that I was due for dilation. Dilation can be fun, but not when it’s your eyeballs. No one I know likes to have their pupils dilated, and every two years when it is my turn, I am hopeful that some new technology has been invented that makes those evil eye drops obsolete. Alas, this was not the year. I sat in that Rube Goldberg of an exam chair and peered at the eye chart behind my black plastic spoon, trying desperately to not memorize the 20/20 letter line before switching to the next eye. I then read a close up eye chart, again relieved that I had dodged the reading glasses bullet for another year, thank you Jesus.

Dr. S came in next to work his magic, the portion of the eye exam that makes me both nervous and amused. I popped out my contacts and he moved the large apparatus in front of my face, blurring the eye chart. He then rapidly flipped lenses back and forth, a succession of “One or two? One or two?” that happened too fast to discern a difference. This part of the eye exam reminded me of a cartoon show on Comedy Central  from years ago, Dr. Katz. Dr. Katz was a squiggly animated therapist to comedians who would sit on his couch and tell jokes about their lives. One time, a comedienne said she had to break up with an optometrist she was dating because every time they were in bed together, he would ask her “Is it better like this or like this? Like this or like this?” I cannot go to the eye doctor without thinking about that episode, but Dr. S doesn’t appear to share my sense of humor, so I kept that story to myself.

After all that fun, and no significant changes in my prescription, it was time for the bad part. Dr. S left the room so his assistant could have the pleasure of administering stinging eye drops.
She handed me a tissue, telling me, “Blot, don’t rub.”
I did as told and discovered bright splotches on my Kleenex. “They’re yellow!”
“You should see what it does to your boogers,” she laughed.
Aren’t they already that color?”
“I guess,” she said, “But it makes for a cool party trick.”
“I don’t think I want to go to any of your parties,” I told her as she gave me another round of eye drops, this time clear ones.
“Well, maybe one for second graders. Second graders would appreciate a booger trick.”
I raised my fist in solidarity. “My peeps!”

She parked me in the waiting room and I read my book until I could no longer focus. A good friend of mine, after earlier hearing of my scheduled appointment, had said to me that eye dilation is worse than torture at Guatanamo, which at the time I felt was an exaggeration. But as I sat there, unable to do anything but stare plaintively at the other patients, I had to agree with him. Pupil dilation is not just a mild inconvenience or a slight discomfort. It is a mindfuck for half a day, impairing your sense of reality to the point of near madness.

As I lost my ability to see, I began to rely on my other senses. Eavesdropping on the optical department was my only entertainment option since smelling wasn’t something I really wanted to do, and the idea of sitting and doing nothing for forty-five minutes would make me insane. I have an irrational fear of sleeping in public, so a nap was never an option. But after listening to an elderly couple argue over their remote and where they parked the car, I was ready to confess to anything just to make it stop.

Finally, the assistant called my name and gently guided me back to a room. Dr. S entered and acquainted himself with my optic nerves. I was given a clean bill of eye. No obvious tumors, no significant floaters, no high pressure build up. I stumbled to check out, declining the attractive free wraparound sunglasses in favor of wearing my own sunglasses over my regular glasses. I discovered once outside and in my car that the effect made me look more unattractive and unstable than the freebies, but I wasn’t about to walk back in the office to grab a pair. I drove home, more impaired than after a couple of cosmopolitans, wondering if I did get stopped and ticketed, could I bill the doctor’s office.

So now I am home, my pupils more dilated than at a Grateful Dead concert, waiting for the sun to dim. It is almost time to get my girls from school, and I am hoping that over the next thirty minutes, the effects of these eye drops will wear off, after over 5 hours, and I can again multitask while driving instead of clenching the steering wheel tightly and breaking at every imaginary obstacle. Why is it that preventive care can make you feel as unhealthy as an actual disease? All I know is, being debilitated for a day is the last thing a hypochondriac needs.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

No Rodney King Impersonation Necessary

The beauty parlor (ha! I bet you think I get my hair washed and set once a week, don't you?) is one of those places where a woman is free to talk about her friends, her spouse, sex, and any other topic that would normally be off limits in most other settings. When I go to the salon, however, I usually resort to talking about politics and the trials of owning a small business, since my (gasp) straight male hair dresser doesn't seem to enjoy cattiness as much as I would like. With the election coming up, he was more than happy to dive right into an intense discussion of Obama and McCain, complete with his usual wonky opinions and misunderstandings. Don't get me wrong, I normally enjoy our political discourse, even though we typically are on opposing sides of an issue. But this last appointment, he took things too far.

While blowing dry my hair, he found himself running behind, so he asked his young assistant to flat iron the dry sections on the right side of my head while he worked on the left side. I sat in my zebra striped smock wondering how that would feel, hot air blowing on the left, intense dry heat near my ear on the right. My head tends to bobble everywhere when he yanks the round brush through my hair, so I didn't see how I was supposed to remain statue like while they double upped on me. His assistant stepped up and began her chore of flat ironing sections of my hair while trying to stay out of his way and not burn me, and kudos to her for her success.

If that wasn't bad enough, though, he thought tag teaming my head was a good time to begin a political debate with his assistant.
"So who are you going to vote for?" he asked her while ripping my hair out of my scalp.
"I don't know," she replied, quite articulate for a nineteen year old, I thought.
"No, tell me, you have to know who you are voting for," he pushed.
"I guess McCain."
"Why would you vote for him?" He sounded indignant. I don't want an indignant hair dresser. I want a happy one. And by the way, is it even legal for him to ask his employee about who she was voting for? Did I need to report him to the voter's registration office or the ACLU?
"I don't know. I don't like that Obama." How many Obamas does she know?
"That's not a reason to vote for McCain. Do you even know what he stands for?" Now, if they weren't debating politics over my head, I would have found this funny. He has been a staunch Republican since I met him, but he does great color, so I overlook it. But now that he is voting anti-Bush, he cannot fathom why anyone would not agree with him. I do agree with him, but I was more concerned about how his needling her would affect my blow out. She was smart enough to not take the bait, and just shrugged her shoulders. He did not take body language to be any kind of an answer.
"Well, what do you think about Sarah Palin?"
"I kind of like her," she said, running the flat iron along another section of my hair.
"How could you like her? She is kind of against what most women like, isn't she?" I thought about participating at this point, but they were paying so little attention to me as it was, I didn't think it would be smart to distract them further from their tasks. They were supposed to be making me look hot, for which I was paying good money.
"She seems real nice to me. And a Christian." Lucky for me, the assistant had finished all the flat ironing of the dry sections. She stood there watching him continue to blow dry, but got bored and set the flat iron down before walking out of the room. I breathed a tiny sigh of relief.


I survived the political discourse and the hair style. But can our country survive this polarization of politics? Can we survive four more years of governmental snafus and mismanagement? I offer another option, a candidate that is perhaps overlooked by the majority, yet someone we can all get behind. He is old, no doubt, but but clearly has a clear intelligence and fair mindedness that no one can deny. He transcends the Democratic and Republican ideals, and that alone makes him worth a chance. Look for him next week on your ballot, and if not, consider him as a write in....







Thursday, October 9, 2008

Bad Karma on Yom Kippur

I must have some things to atone for over the past year. And I did choose to not go to services last night, which I based on the amount of rain relative to the amount of exhaustion and general blah I was feeling. So it seems only fair that I experience some things out of my control this morning as a reminder of some sort, possibly of Murphy's Law, which I assume is the English equivalent of a good dose of Jewish guilt.

I skipped the gym today, so I put on some jeans and a cool shirt to take the girls to school. MJ got me this shirt, a long sleeve flowy yoga garment the color of a nice claret. And since I am solidly in my fast, I felt willowy and lithe and so I put on this shirt that normally makes me look like a red globe grape. I loved the shirt, and MJ for buying it for me. She did so because she knew I would never treat myself to something like that, since I tend to shop the clearance rack at Target for a taste of funky on a budget. And she thought it would look good on me. And I am pretty sure she also thought if it didn't fit she could keep it for herself.

When I got back from my school run, my husband K was still home, late for work even by his standards. I came inside and he was standing there with a wad of paper towels in his hand. "Did you or the girls spill something over by the back door?" he asked. "Nope, no one was over there. Why?" "I was going to check the locks and I noticed some wet spots on the floor. But it doesn't smell." Not yet, I thought. Wet doesn't just mysteriously show up on the floor. We walked over to the place where he had cleaned the floor moments before, and the cats followed us over to inspect as well. "You sure no one spilled a drink over here?" He took his wad of Kleenex to the trash can in the kitchen, and I stood there thinking, no one drinks pee for breakfast, knowing that piss is the only possible explanation for the strange puddle.

And for confirmation, Yoko sort of squatted right in front of me, mere inches from the floor vent, and strained to produce another accident while I watched. "It's pee," I called out to my husband. "I'm watching Yoko do it again." I stood there to let her finish. No point in chasing her, as then I would have a trail of pee to clean instead of a reasonably well contained leak. She sat there for a while, obviously not enjoying the process or the audience. "Do you think you can take her to the vet this afternoon if I make an appointment?" I asked K. "I guess so," he answered before rushing out the door.

I called the vet's office, hoping for an after lunch appointment. Instead, they wanted her right then, for an all day observation and potential urine collection. Good luck with that one. So I tucked Yoko under my arm and carried her to the garage, where her cat carrier is stored. She thought she was finally going to see what was behind that door we always step through, but then she spied the box, her arch enemy, and the fight was on.

Shoving her into that box was like lacing a giant squid in a straight jacket. Arms and legs I didn't know she even had shot out and blocked the opening of the carrier, and she hooked onto anything within reach with her little switchblades. We wrestled for about a good five minutes before I finally shoved her in. I am not convinced one of her limbs wasn't lost in the process, but I am sure she can regenerate at some point in the future, probably when she will have to be put back in the carrier to come home. She hissed at me but I ignored it. I put her on the front seat and backed out of the driveway before I realized she got me, that I was hit. My palm and the side of my right hand were a little shredded and bloody. We didn't speak the entire way there. Once inside the vet's office, I gave them Yoko's information and story while she tried desperately to claw her way out of her cage. I was more than happy to pass her over to the vet tech.

When I got home, I went upstairs to take a shower. That's when I saw the holes in my brand new couture yoga shirt. That bitch on wheels sliced my shirt open in three different places, and I wore it in public, looking like her crack whore owner. A series of bloody scratches peeked through the holes, adding to the overall sex-for-drugs appearance. That right there is why I shop Target and not Haute Look. Because I manage to fuck up the good stuff the first time I put it on. Somehow I have a hard time believing things like this happen for a reason. Why today? Why that shirt? Why now, when Yoko has never had a bladder infection in her life? I can only assume it is my fault, that I must deserve this because of some transgression I committed. If not, then it is further evidence that sometimes life sucks. Or that it's just a shirt, and get over it. I'll let you know if I figure that out. Right after I pay the vet bill.

Thursday, October 2, 2008

Someone's Big Day

My sister L and I chatted on the phone today, while she cruised around for oldies (what my daughter S calls old people, and my sister does that for profit, not fun) and I caught up on the more unusual headlines of the day. I like to share what goes on in the world with L, who limits all exposure to media on the basis that it is too depressing. So if something is going on in the world that she needs to know, I take it upon myself to be her news source. Whether she wants me to or not.

Case in point. I read today that love knows no boundaries, as it was reported by the AP that the world's heaviest man, who lives in Mexico, is getting married this month. He has found love, or rather, love has found him, and he will be wed on October 26 to his girlfriend of several years, a woman who is clearly more able than I to see beyond the physical. They have yet to select a wedding location, as he will need to be delivered to it on his special bed, so I cannot report with any accuracy on his reception.

I shared this news-worthy information with my sister, who surprisingly was aware of this obese man and his girlfriend. I asked if she had been invited to the ceremony, since she was so in the know. She said no, although she wished she were, since she is a big fan of Mexican wedding cookies.

Since L can't be there, and neither can most of you, I figured you might like to make your own Mexican wedding cookies, to celebrate their love and happiness. And a big felicitaciones por tu casamiento to the happy couple!

Friday, September 26, 2008

Long Overdue

What is it with the library these days? I remember it being a large building where you could go and borrow books. Not so much anymore. It has become like a town hall, or at the very least, a neighborhood club house. Surely there is some other public gathering spot people can use for their so called meetings. Some of us would actually like to check out these used books, thank you very much.

I have always loved going to libraries, even as a kid. There used to be this big thing called a card catalog, which was someone's anal retentive way of keeping track of all the books. Now everything is bar coded and computer inventoried, and the card catalog is nowhere to be found. It has gone the way of so many things...TV antennae, dial telephones, white dog crap, to name a few. But for me, the library was always about the books. The endless supply of titles and pictures and stories waiting to be taken home and occasionally lost. Library books even have their own smell and look, somewhere between old lunch box, mildew, and stale cigarettes, as well as a collection of crayon scribbles, pen marks, and disturbing mystery stains. These books, shared by us all, are clearly well loved.

My husband doesn't share the same enthusiasm for the library that I do, as he feels most of the books are covered with fecal contaminants or flu virus. And he might be right, but I go every week, and I have yet to report one case of bacterial meningitis. The truth is, I don't think I can afford my reading habit. Well, I can, but the risk is great. What if I buy it and don't like it? I am pretty sure Barnes and Noble won't take a book back because you think it sucks. If I don't like a book at the library, I turn it back in and get another one. Which I do frequently, at least once a week. I have discovered many writers I love at the library, writers I would not have given a chance at a book store. Does that sound cheap or practical? I' m voting for practical.

Which (finally!) brings me to my point. Since when is the library no longer about the books? I tried to go to my local branch three times on three different days last week, and each time I drove away in disgust because there was no available parking. On Monday, the old people took over. Buicks were everywhere, parked haphazardly on curbs and crookedly in parking spaces. I don't know if it was knitting guild day or just a rush after the spotty weekend hours, but either way, I couldn't even get to the drop off box.

On Tuesday, a political rally was held in the large conference room. Trucks plastered with conservative bumper stickers had taken over, and I kept thinking, couldn't they do this at a church? I like to think of a library as being neutral or possibly left leaning, what with its many volumes devoted to learning and educating a free mind. How dare the people who want to burn or ban half its contents use its building to influence more people to vote for someone who will pull funding from such things as...libraries!?!

Wednesday was less politically charged but no less irritating. It's story time on Wednesday, and every stay at home mom with a young child and its home schooled siblings come to decimate the shelves and fill the trashcans with used diapers. The parking lot was overrun with mini vans all driven by the proud parent of a Star of the Week! I again left in disgust, but at least I didn't catch a cold or the pox.

I tried once more on Thursday, and was lucky to find the last parking space in the lot. I grabbed my oversized library bag and hustled in, only to find the entire front area filled with men and women and a cloud of cigarette smoke, Old Spice, and Jean Nate. They were milling about the new book section, taking over all the benches as if waiting for the doors to open at a WWF match. I was mildly curious to know what all these people were waiting for, but not curious enough to ask anyone. My nosiness paid off when I saw several people with Home Depot aprons waltz in, heading straight for that overused conference room in the back. The crowd stood up and slowly made their way to the back of the building, and it appeared to be a library once again. I find it hard to believe that there was no space available in a Home Depot to conduct whatever it was they were conducting here. It's a warehouse, for Christ's sake. At least now I know why you can never find anyone to help you at Home Depot. They are all at the library.

I want my library experience to be like the days of old. Don't write in your books. Turn them in late and incur the wrath of the return desk matron. Cover your mouth when sneezing or eating and reading. Read your magazines in the bathroom, not a book handled by who knows how many other people. No sleeping in the corrals. And above all else, Sssshhhhhh! But if I could add one tiny request, have your community meetings at the back room of the Ryans. Some of us are here to read.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Per Your Request


It has been brought to my attention by my reading community (population: 2) that a photo of Challah Baby would be a lovely belated addition to my entry. I would hate to disappoint the both of you, so here she is, in all her freshly baked splendor. Enjoy!


Monday, September 22, 2008

Check, Please!

Please don't read this post while eating a meal. This blog entry is based on true events. A name has been changed to protect the identity of a certain person. She has requested that I refer to her as "Allison."

We had dinner on Friday night at Mimi's Cafe, a family friendly chain restaurant more commonly found in the West than here in the South. My daughters like to eat there because of the chocolate chip pancakes. I can never go there without overeating, but I tolerate the occasional visit there. To me, it is just like eating at the Cracker Barrel, but without all the Jesus. We met my husband's best friend and his family there, and in between discussing robots with his four year old and watching E, my older daughter, unhinge her jaw to swallow a piece of turkey whole rather than cut it, it was a pleasant enough meal. We had all finished our dinners when my younger daughter, Allison, told me she needed to go to the bathroom and mouthed the word "poo." E offered to take her since she needed to wash her disgusting hands, so I happily let them go off alone to the other side of the restaurant while I picked at the crumbs of my oat bran muffin.

Less than 2 minutes passed before E and Allison had returned. "That was fast," I said. "I am scared of the automatic toilets," Allison told me. I offered to take her back to the bathroom, and we walked hand in hand across the restaurant. The restroom is nicer than most in typical casual dining facilities. It has two regular stalls and one disabled one, as well as that nice foaming soap to which I am attached, and shiny brass sinks. Allison asked me to go with her in the large disabled stall, and I put the paper liner on the seat for her while she dropped trou. I turned my back to her for privacy and listened to the music, which meant it wasn't long before I was dancing and singing. "Stop that, someone will see you," Allison said from her perch on the crapper. "Only you, and I am trying not to watch you. Why don't you ignore me as well?" I was slow dancing with myself to a Nat King Cole song.

The bathroom door opened and I stood as still and silent as Michigan J Frog. A mother and son entered the stall next to us, so I quietly listened to them. "Sit down," the mother said. "But Mama, grown ups stand up when they pee." Mama answered more sternly," I don't care, I said sit down." I turned to look at Allison and she was making big eyes at me. "Almost through?" I asked. She shook her head yes and I saw from where I stood across the room that she had made what had to be the biggest poo any six year old had passed and survived to tell the tale. It was standing straight up out of the water like an angry cobra, and the recessed lighting above the toilet shined down on its unholy grandeur.

"Wow," I said. "That thing is huge! Can I see it?" Allison was appalled. "No! Well, only if you wipe me." She had only recently and reluctantly started wiping herself, as she felt it was better to keep her hands clean. Than, say, my hands, or her ass. The door opened and more people came into the bathroom. I could hear other conversations taking place as ladies waited their turns. "Never mind," I told Allison. "You can do it yourself." I turned around again and waited until she was finished. She stood and pulled up her pants and I heard the toilet flush automatically.

"Mom!" Allison called me as quietly as she could. "Help!" I turned around, expecting water to be flowing over the sides of the bowl. "Come here," she gestured with her hand. I looked down and there, on the inside of the bowl, was one of her turds, looking more like someone placed it there strategically than an accidental marooning. (And no, I did not snap a photo with my camera phone.) The paper seat liner was bobbing gently in the shallow water. I did what I would normally do in such a situation. I cracked up. "Stop laughing," Allison screeched. "What are we going to do?" I had tears running down my cheeks and could not think clearly. I wiped my eyes and looked at the back of the toilet for the little black button that all automatic toilets have in case you are in need of more than one flush. And it was cracked, the plastic all ragged and missing in places. I pressed it and nothing happened. I pressed again, more firmly, and no flush occurred. So I started laughing again.

Allison grabbed my face in her little possibly poo tainted hands and said again, "Stop laughing! What are we going to do? You have to sit on it to make it flush." By this point, I was crying again. I pretended to sit down, hovering slightly over the seat, and stood up. No flush. I tried again. Nothing. I laughed harder. More women came into the restroom. A line formed outside our stall. "Try again!" Allison screamed under her breath. "Sit longer!" I hovered again while Allison counted to twenty, and then I rose and ran over to the stall door next to her. Success! The water rushed and swirled the bowl.

Allison grabbed my hand and we went back over to peer again into the porcelain bowl. The turd was still sitting there, in all its damp perfection. I laughed harder. "Now what?" Allison was on the verge of tears. I pressed that broken worthless button a few more times. Then I grabbed a big wad of toilet paper and did what any mother would do. I tried to shove it into the water. It worked too, but not without first smearing across the white porcelain. I threw the wad into the water and pretended to sit again while Allison counted to twenty once more. I got up and ran next to her, still cackling, while the water flushed.

We gazed again into the toilet and at last, victory! But alas, it was bittersweet, as the shit smear lingered on the side of the bowl. "What are you going to do about that?" Allison asked, pointing at it. "Nothing," I snorted, and unlocked the door. We stumbled in front of the sinks and washed our hands, pretending like we weren't the ones who just left that stall. I handed her some paper towels and we dried our hands before leaving the restroom. While we stood in the hallway, she again grabbed my face in her little hands and said, "We must never tell this to anyone." "Really?" I said. "No one." She looked very serious.

E walked up to us at this point and said, "Hey guys, what's taking so long?" I started laughing again. "No one," Allison stared at me before walking back to the table. I looked at E and said," Nothing. It's just really crowded in there."

I guess Allison has a new reason to be afraid of automatically flushing toilets. I know I do.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

What Passes as an Ordinary Monday

I picked the girls up from school yesterday afternoon and took a short cut down a residential street on our way to the orthodontist's office. My oldest daughter, E, inherited her father's tiny little bird mouth and needs to get an expander now at age 8 so that she can have the railroad tracks in a few years. Luckily you don't see kids with full head gear anymore, but if you did, she would be one of those.

We drove by a man walking his effeminate little dog down the street, happily swinging a bag of feces like he had just come from the penny candy store. I said to my girls, "Hey, that guy is carrying a bag of poop." E was on the other side of the car and could not see him. "I sure hope he has a dog," she said. Bada-bing!


We arrived at the orthodontist's office right on time for her appointment. I signed E in and took my seat in the waiting room. The music is typically loud in his office, and yesterday was no different. The song playing had that pop ballad studio produced quality, and I tried to ignore it while organizing the homework the girls needed to do while waiting. "Christ," sang the unknown to me Christian singer. "Chhrrriiissst, my Savviiooouurrrrr." Oh Christ, indeed. Can we not sit at the orthodontist's office without praising His name?

E went back with the assistant to have an impression of her mouth made while S, my other daughter, and I sat and read a "Minnie and Moo" story. I love Minnie and Moo, and so does S. They are such stupid cows. We tried to ignore the exultation of the satellite radio and finish the story when E came mincing back to us. "Already finished? That was fast."

Dr. J followed her into the waiting area and handed me a slip of paper for the front office staff. "She did great!" he announced in his booming voice. Dr. J has a full beard, rosy cheeks, and a plump little belly. If he grays steadily over the next twenty years, he will look exactly like Santa Claus, and lucky for him, he has the voice and the laugh to complete the look. I have to admit, however, that his jolly takes some of the fear out of going to his office, for both me and my daughter.

"Great, huh? Does that mean she didn't throw up?" I asked him quietly. "Yes, it does!" he shouted. "Yesterday, one girl just gagged once and shot it out, but my assistant took a fast step back and missed it." It never occurred to him that might be a better story to keep to himself and his staff. "She sounds very agile," I replied. I scheduled our next appointments and we left. E still had flecks of white from the impression material on her face.

"How did you do?" I asked her once we got in the car. "I get to eat jellybeans for the next three weeks!" she exclaimed. And she is right, she can. Because after that, eating is not going to be something that brings joy to her. I'll let her figure that out on her own.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Challah Back, Y'all!

I bought my girls a toy last week from the Judaica shop at my temple. Already this is sounding very out of character, as I am not one to frequent Judaica shops, but I had fifteen minutes to kill, so I moseyed into the coat closet sized room and looked around. And there it was, amidst all the mezuzahs and seder plates, a doll that my daughters have been coveting for months: Challah Baby. Challah Baby is a bread shaped doll, in the same way that a bowling pin with a face drawn on it is a doll. She is more of a loaf with a head, a couple of braids, and a bread cloth, or blanket, swaddling her loafiness. And she is not just loaf shaped; she is also the color of a golden egg washed crust. She looked delicious, and I can see why my daughters craved her so. So I bought her. I explained to my girls that they had to share her, as there was only one left at the shop. They agreed they could handle that, and so we drove home from temple, in love with each other and our new addition.

I expected her to have a fresh yeasty smell when we took her out of her cellophane bread bag, but she just smelled like cotton doll. S thought she was the perfect Jewish toy and held her carefully, then checked her label to see if she was from Israel. "Made in Indonesia!?!" The fact that Challah Baby was from some South Pacific archipelago, most likely made by hands younger than hers, did not lessen S's love. Next was E's turn to cradle her. She carefully rewrapped her in her crusty bunting and immediately worked out a schedule of who gets to sleep with her on which night. I reminded them that they had to share her, and left them to hash out the joint custody arrangements.

All went well the first couple of days. I said goodnight to S the first night and told her to not get crumbs in the bed. The second night was E's turn, and as I went into her room for good night kisses, she was rocking Challah Baby in her arms, softly singing the Hamotzi to her. Apparently, she had a pretend bath in honey and was now tuckered out.

Tonight, however, custody talks fell through. E decided to alter the arrangement, requiring hand washing before handling Challah Baby, then proclaiming that the party in possession had sole guardianship for a period of no less than 24 consecutive hours, and finally that supervised visitation was no longer an option. S, who is in first grade and not her first year of law school, retaliated by crumpling into a mass of tears in her octopus bath towel, naked and red faced. I stepped in, going straight for drama, which egged them on further. "If you two can't work this out, I can always cut her in half and you each get a piece. Jesus, it's a doll! It doesn't even have legs!" I am pretty sure some of that happened once in the Bible, or at the very least, an episode of Veggie Tales. E actually stopped and thought about this option, but S, more like the true mother, was willing to relinquish her claims. My husband decided I caused the situation to escalate and made his own fair and just decree, at which point I went to my bathroom and began inspecting my adult acne and wrinkles.

I know, I know, that's what I get for only buying one doll. But it was the only one they had. Because it was half off. Yes, I am aware of what it looks like when you buy things on sale at the Judaica shop. But I am pretty sure that is the real lesson in King Solomon's story.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

A Lame Reference to "Poltergeist 2"

Homework is always a pain the ass, especially since I graduated in 1987 and still find myself doing it. My two daughters are both in grade school now and I have to go back and forth between first and third grade homework to help them. Of course, I prefer the first grade work, as it is not taxing, kind of like the crossword puzzle in my local newspaper. Usually my girls and I keep busy with daily practice of spelling words and math problems, and yesterday while we waited for piano lessons was no different.

What was different was the homework the mom next to us reviewed with her kids. I may have mentioned before that a number of the moms at our piano studio have their children indoctrinated at Job Bones University, which begins its, er, brainwashing, at conception and lasts until your first beer, gay experience, or jungle fever date, whichever comes first. Well, this mom of three quizzed her daughters at the same time I quizzed mine.

I called out spelling words to S, my six year old, " bib...limp....crib."

The other mom called out bible verses," Psalms, 3:29." (I am making this verse up. I don't know if there even is a Psalms 3:29. I know John has a 3:14, but I still don't understand what it has to do with football.) After they discussed the fact that none of them understood the significance of that particular verse, they moved on to rote repetition.

"Lap...did...sit," I said.

"Who made you?" she asked. "God did," her children parroted back to her. "And why did He make you?" She followed up with what I thought was a trick question. "For His Glory!" they shouted.

My daughter, S, looked at me with one eyebrow raised, a fairly sophisticated facial expression for a six year old. The questions continued in that fashion for a while, and I called out words louder to try to protect S from this display of holiness. I waited for a worm like creature to slither out of one of the kids' mouths, muttering "God is in His holy temple," but it never happened. At least not while I was watching.

My kids don't learn that stuff at Montessori. My oldest daughter, E, learned about historical timelines this week, such as the Prehistoric Age and the Stone Age. Where are the cavemen in the Bible? I guess the old Old Testament. Perhaps next week we will sit in the car while waiting for piano, where I can better protect my children's ability to think freely.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

No!

I have 144 popsicles in my freezer, and a dozen balloons in my guest room. This is what happens when I cannot learn how to say a simple two letter word.

I am in charge of the popsicle party at my daughters' school this afternoon, one of those meet and greet affairs, but without cheap white wine and a nut crusted cheese ball. I hosted a similar thing last year, only then the school was comfortable with ice cream, and referred to it as a social. But kids these days, burdened as they are by a slew of unusual allergies, which may or may not be linked to their vaccines, food preservatives, global warming, or inbreeding, might be allergic to ice cream ingredients. So we opted for popsicles, which have the added bonus of not requiring any special equipment to be enjoyed.

My children do not go to an ordinary school, they go to a Montessori school. So not only are we hyper vigilant about the ice cream allergy potential, but we can't offer regular old popsicles, of the orange, cherry, and grape variety. No, these popsicles have to be healthy. 100% juice. Or at the very least, heavy on the real fruit, light on the artificial flavors and high fructose corn syrup. I thought, no problem, when I was coerced into heading up this soiree, but that was before I went looking for the allegedly 100% juice popsicles.

I tried Costco with no luck, but that didn't stop me from buying a Benjamin's worth of stuff we don't need. The next day, I skulked my way over to Walmart. I don't shop there as it is against my elitism, but I was attempting to save the school and thus myself some money. But again, I left without popsicles. They carry plenty with extra preservatives, but none of the healthy variety. I finally broke down and spent top dollar on some Breyer's fruit pops at my local Publix, knowing that brand to be popular with the allergic crowd. And those pops, being of premium quality, come 12 to a package. Which meant I cleaned out the entire store supply of fruit pops.

"Wow, someone must like these popsicles," the cashier sweetly said to me as I checked out. Did I really look like the kind of person who would eat 144 popsicles? I know she was making conversation, but really. I had a similar episode when I worked at Publix in high school. A woman came through my line with about 18 boxes of Summer's Eve douches. I don't recall if they were the same type or a variety of fragrances, but I do remember asking her politely if she had a coupon. She didn't, and she was not pleased I drew attention to what was a very personal, if bulk, purchase. Lucky for her I didn't ask, "Wow, someone must like these douches!"

I picked up my dozen helium filled balloons, in festive colors, and one of those brightly colored plastic table cloths as well, so I am all ready. I am sure there will still be criticism of my efforts. Why didn't I find 100% fruit juice pops? Why aren't there more orange ones? Why balloons, they kill endangered birds and confuse the dolphins? Or as my youngest daughter, S, said, why not make all the pops myself?

And all because I can't say a word that even a two year old can master.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

The Other News

Most of you are either in bed, watching Seinfeld reruns, or possibly even enjoying the cult of personality known as the Democratic National Convention. Not me. I am keeping abreast of what's really important, what's going on in the real world, RIGHT NOW.

Okay, not really. But I do have a tasty bit that bears mentioning. Have you ever seen Californication on Showtime? Some of my friends are big fans, constantly trying to sway me. And I think it's crap, and I'll tell you why. David Ducovney. He is the creator, the writer, and the lead actor in the series, which as far as I can tell is an excuse for him to simulate getting pussy and/or head in almost every scene. I don't even know what it's about, to be honest. I think it is the tale of a man, a shitty writer with one story to tell (not unlike Robert James Waller,but less romantic) who has milked his bestseller status into as much trim as he can get away with. It is purely a vehicle for Ducovney to see himself having sex, because we won't pay to see him fuck himself, which is what he really wants to do. Well, guess who went to rehab? That's right. And guess why. Yep, poor David Ducovney has checked into rehab for sex addiction. So to all my peeps who dig Californication, here's a big "Fuck you, I told you so." As my husband pointed out to me, now that he is surrounded by his peers, he can get some real pussy.

On a side note, we must recognize with sorrow the passing of the 6 legged deer that was found recently limping and dragging its way through Georgia. It died in surgery, although why anyone would separate that poor thing from its extra limbs is beyond me. Now the world will mourn its loss of that poor innocent abomination to the Lord. Amen. Forgive me, I just watched "Jesus Camp." Which, coincidentally, is not that different from the Democratic National Convention. The message, yes, different, but the method, eerily the same.

(Sigh)

I have no discipline. Seriously. I say this after sneaking another Reese's Batman dark chocolate peanut butter bat from my husband's stash. (And no, they are not as good as they sound, if eating bat shaped chocolate is your thing. It's not my thing, but I have finished all of my own stash of secret chocolate and am now raiding his. Only 2 more months till Halloween!) And also from realizing that my blog has been sorely ignored for these past four weeks. I don't have any excuses, other than I feel my life spiraling out of control for no good reason, except, say, the first sentence. The sad part is that this was not always the case.

I actually used to be a very disciplined person. Anal retentive, some might even say. I tend to be very organized and on top of things in my life, or so I thought. Now I realize I am much more disciplined with my family than I am personally. I have all the laundry done in a timely fashion. Meals are punctual and well balanced. Activities and parties are scheduled and executed. Bedtime is promptly at 8:15, but only after lunches are packed, piano is practiced, showers are finished, and tomorrow's clothing laid out neatly. There is a clearly defined sense of order, and the expectations for everyone, from the kitten to the male head of household, are not a mystery.

But when it comes to me, it is a different story. I start the day precisely, but somewhere around mid morning my resolve fizzles and I am left an amorphous blob, as opposed to the other kinds of blobs, which have recognizable forms. And then I sit in front of the computer and waste time, usually snacking, until the dryer buzzes or the garage door opens and I realize that another hour and a half went by while I searched for free MP3 downloads and played Scrabble on Facebook. And usually there is some hummus involved in that time frame.

If my husband asks too many personal questions, I get defensive immediately. An innocent "What did you do today?" becomes a seedy interrogation, bright light shining in my face, no lawyer, no phone call, no Miranda rights. I am sure in his mind, he is asking an innocent question, trying to show how sensitive he is by being interesting in my day. To me, it is a personal attack, hinting at disapproval of my slothfulness and time wasting, a judgement on how I am always many steps away from self actualization. It is bad enough that I know how I wasted my day, but do I really have to detail it for others?

Thursday, July 31, 2008

Hot Enough for You?

Okay, I realize it has been a while since I last posted. I would like to think I have a good story or two to share since last I was here, and honestly, I do. But I don't really feel like writing any of them right now. And here's why:

It's too fucking hot. Seriously. Have you been outside lately? After lunch today, my car said it was 103 degrees, while I was moving. Not sitting still in traffic, but actually in motion. Now, granted, my car did not agree with the nearby bank, which claimed it was only 98 degrees. It boasted being cooler due to the large amount of cash stored inside, and everyone knows that large amounts of cash make anyone look, or at least feel, cooler. My car, being Swedish, probably went by the heat index instead, which is a more accurate interpretation of how it, or I, felt out and about in the heat. It was too hot to go anywhere or do anything, so I went home to sit in the sweet sweet air conditioning.

When I got home and peed, I felt instantly cooler, temperature wise, just having my panties down at my ankles, so I took them off and sat around in just my sundress. I felt comfortable and free, the way your pubic hair does when you go skinny dipping and it floats merrily like seaweed in the ocean current. Or so I heard. But then I decided that taking my kids to their piano lessons this afternoon sans skivvies might traumatize the other children, most of whom attend Job Bones school (The name was changed to protect the innocent. Think about the children. And their God.) and thus have never had their own panties off, ever. I had this mental image of me bending over to pick up S's cracker crumbs, or crossing and uncrossing my legs, not unlike Sharon Stone, and showing the other budding musicians the abomination to the Lord I keep under my dress. And now you have that mental image too. Sorry about that.

As an aside, on my drive home, I passed yet another person on a moped. I refuse to believe he was driving one because he "cares" about the environment. I tend to think of mopeds as a form of transportation for only two classes of people: those with mental retardation who need to get to their bagger jobs at the grocery store, and those with multiple DUI's. And I love the little moped license plates, the small rectangle ones that say MOPED on them. They remind me of the personalized license plates you could get for your banana seat bike back in the 70's, when kids had normal names with normal spellings, like Mary and Jeff. Anyway, this guy was amazing, because not only could he drive his moped, but he was also picking his nose and smoking a cigarette at the same time. And he did those two things with the same hand! Talk about multitasking! And I bet he was hot too. He couldn't even roll up his window.

What was the point of this? Oh yeah, it's hot.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

You Can't Make a Silk Purse out of a Sow's Ear, But Can I Interest You in a Ham Wallet?

Recently, I read an article in Self magazine that has stuck with me in ways I am still trying to understand. Entitled “Surgery where?” it was all about women having cosmetic surgery on their genitalia. Yes, pussy surgery. Apparently, women, and not just in California, are having all kinds of new procedures done, including collagen injections in their G-spots (referred to as the “G-Shot”), “vaginal tightening, labial reshaping, liposuction of the mons pubis, and reduction of the skin around the clitoris.” According to one doctor, women “want to look pretty in that area and not old and haggard.” Any of these surgeries cost several thousands of dollars and thank the lord are not covered by insurance. Now, I understand that sometimes a few of these procedures might occasionally be performed for medically necessary reasons, such as patient pain during intercourse or urinary incontinence. But “vaginal rejuvenation” surgeries are up about 30 percent over the past two years, so either there is a push in the pee leaking community, or women are really as vain as they appear to be.

I am so disturbed by this trend, for many different reasons. Let’s start with the G-spot injections. The idea of having a needle pump my G-spot (which I am not even sure I believe in nor have) full of cow skin by-products so that I can have a mini explosion in my panties every time I go to spin class or push my shopping cart down the grocery store aisle seems a bit excessive, even for the sex starved. We are not all in a porn movie. Sometimes sitting in traffic is just sitting in traffic, not an excuse for multiple orgasms because you can feel the bridge swaying in the breeze. I don’t want cow collagen in my facial lips, let alone my nether ones. End of discussion.

Onto the vaginal tightening. We have a time in our lives when our vaginas are tight. It is called childhood. Then we grow up, and if we are lucky, we have some fun stretching it out. There might be some painful birthing at some point or another, but the point is, it is supposed to be stretched and have that lived in look. Nobody wants a pussy that has that new car smell. And if you want your vagina tighter, you have another option available that doesn’t require surgery. It is called a Kegel exercise, where you tighten your perianal muscles for better bladder control and sexual satisfaction. You don’t have to work up a sweat or have special equipment, and no one can tell you when you are doing them. In fact, I am doing them right now.

Labial reshaping is another horrific concept to me. I’ve never really given much thought to my labia, nor to anyone else’s. But evidently young women are out there comparing theirs to their friends’. Again, I have to quote this article, which addresses a young woman who “noticed that her labia minora…were longer than those of other girls.” I have never noticed another woman’s labia intentionally. Now, call me crazy, but aren’t we supposed to demurely look away in the locker room? I didn’t realize that the modern girl was spreading her legs not so much for every Tom, Dick, or Harry, but more likely for Suzie, Mary, and Angie to get a better peek, purely for comparative purposes. Do we really need to feel inadequate about yet another part of our bodies? I have curly hair (on my head, you pervs!) that I want to be either straighter or curlier. My friend wishes her boobs were bigger. But seriously, I have yet to hear any woman say she wishes her labia were shaped differently. I generally don’t hear many women make references to their labia at all, and to those women who don’t, I say Thank you! Just think for a moment about the word labiaplasty. Okay, you can stop now. I am pretty sure no one wants to fuck Barbie. Not even Ken.

The article didn’t go deep (ha!) into the pros and cons of mons pubis liposuction and clitoral skin reduction, so I am really speculating about what these procedures entail. I would think a little fat on a mons pubis is a good thing, unless fucking skeletons is something your partner enjoys. I realize no one wants a camel toe, let alone a moose knuckle (yes, you should Google it), but I suppose if women were to actually have hair down there, the fat and cellulite would not be as noticeable. Since women are striving for the pussies of their younger days, when everything was hairless, younger, and thinner, than I suppose liposuction makes sense, almost. Clearly, it has become a top priority for women everywhere to be ready for their close-ups.

Clitoral skin reduction, however, seems more than a little akin to mutilation. Which I find remarkable. In Africa, women are traumatized, scarred both physically and mentally by genital mutilation. There exist a whole slew of humanitarian organizations to stop the practice, and even Oprah has discussed it, so you know it is really bad. In America, we pay out of pocket to have it done. I am assuming, again, that the purpose is to make the man in the boat have more of a catamaran or a pontoon than a submarine or aircraft carrier.

I know I seem to have my panties in a wad about all this pussy surgery. The Self article did not try to glamorize the surgery options, and presented just as many horror stories as it did happy endings, but in its effort to be objective and non-judgmental, it appeared to endorse the menu of treatments as an acceptable choice for a woman to make with her body. Perhaps some cosmetic surgeons out there see these surgeries as a way to enhance a woman’s life, but I would imagine there are just as many who are more than happy to take advantage with the American obsession with pretty, even parts that might not be meant to be pretty. And if all these options exist now, what’s left, asshole bleaching? Just kidding, I had that done last week.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Nature in My Own Backyard

We have one of those backyard ponds that people across American suburbia installed in an an effort to bring a little bit of the beauty of pristine nature next to their chemically enhanced lawns. We didn't install it, mind you, it came with the house. I am sure it was beautiful when it was first ensconced, a two tiered creation with a stone border that mimicked a mountain creek, the tinkling sound of running water causing children swinging in the vicinity to rush indoors for yet another potty break. Now it is a stagnant mosquito farm, rank with the smell of wet rotting leaves, quarried stones askew, black tarp peeking through the gaps. K, my husband, tested it when we first moved in and found we had a leak somewhere in one of the ponds, and we had yet to do anything about it. We had two options: fill it or fix it. K is opting for fix it.

I am supportive, honestly I am. But I have been married to this man for 13 years, and I know his limitations better than he does. And while starting home improvement projects might be his forte, finishing them is not. This project starts in the usual way, with lots of discussion. He has big plans for the one foot deep plastic ground insert. He wants to create a waterfall effect leading into the top part of the pond, with stacked stone for the water to tickle down. Which will require him to dig out the top part to a new depth, and retarp the whole thing after cleaning out all the muck, then restoning the edges, and finally filling the whole thing with fresh water and a functional pump system as opposed the current one residing in the depths. And then there will be some additional landscaping to surround it, perhaps the introduction of a delicate weeping willow, some climbing vines in the background. That is more or less what he has in mind. I would know more definitively if I actually listened, but after the fourth time of reviewing what to do with the pond, I stopped paying attention to him and instead turned to picking my cuticles and replaying that new Weezer song in my head.

The first step to this intensive project, which if done properly will take us approximately three years to complete, is the deconstructing of the current cess pool. First we had to study it to decide the best way to proceed. While we were outside doing that, my daughters and I discovered we had a visitor, a box turtle whom we named Shelby. We name all the box turtles we find in the back yard Shelby. S, my 6 year old, is optimistic it is always the same turtle, but E, my older daughter, is quite aware of the harsh realities of the world, and can tell this Shelby is an imposter because its eyes are orange and not red like the other Shelbys. S wants to pick up the turtle to snuggle it, since there is nothing snugglier than a box turtle. And then she wants to deposit it into the black water. K tells her no, snuggling is out because of the risk of salmonella, and that putting that poor turtle in the water is akin to someone plucking her out of her own warm bed and tossing her into an icy cold pool. While not the most accurate of analogies, it nonetheless does the trick, and she opts to set Shelby near the pond, which I hope is close enough to encourage it to dine on the myriad of biting insects we are breeding in that corner of the yard. Finding Shelby was a lot of excitement, so we had to wrap up the first part of our project there, waiting a few more nights to rethink the plan before any actual deconstruction could take place.

A few evenings later, after I ate too much Chinese takeout and felt the need for a little exercise, I suggested we go back outdoors and begin moving the rocks and stones into organized piles. We all put on our shoes and trudged into the back yard, but then had to come back in for work gloves, then go back out. After a thorough search for Shelby, who was hiding cleverly in the monkey grass, we began the task of sorting and piling the rocks that surround the pond. Of course that started with more discussion and ground rules, namely no rock throwing, as these were no ordinary rocks, but rather expensive ones, due to the value of rocks in our affluent neighborhood, and thus should be gently placed rather than tossed, which could lead to breakage. So we all stood near the rocks, and took turns picking them up, one by one, and stacking them neatly in a new pile. S picked up the next rock and threw it, breaking it in two. She was now excused from further rock moving and sorting, which left her to go spy on Shelby and laugh at him.

One thing I have learned about moving rocks, especially near a supposed body of water: you are disturbing the peace for someone/something that lives there. Perhaps a family of roly polies, a fresh ant colony, or in our case, the freakiest looking centipedes you have ever seen. These are not the run of the mill centipedes with orderly legs of identical length. These are fast moving creepy ones with legs of all sizes poking out of its disgusting little body, and they really give me the heebie jeebies. Yes, I screamed like a little girl. And I also threw a rock. We were done for that night.

Last night, after dinner, we went out to check our demolition progress. And surprisingly, we did get a fair amount done prior to my freaking out. The rocks were mostly moved, revealing almost all of the tarp that the previous owners most likely laid down in an attempt to stop the leaking that we knew had occurred from the top part of the pond to the bottom. K was able to get close to the tarp to see what it looked like underneath. He pulled one corner up, then shrieked and jumped back. S and E stopped looking for Shelby long enough to see what had disturbed their father. "Snake!" he yelled. Now, I am no Einstein, but even I know you don't yell snake at two little girls if you want them to ever step foot in their backyard again. "What kind?" I asked from a safe distance. "Copperhead, I think." He said this with all the authority of a US Federal Parks ranger. He could not have seen it for more than three seconds. "How can you be so sure?" I questioned. He pulled at the tarp again, but saw nothing this time. "I'm not," he admitted. "It was brown with a stripe. It probably lives down there." And with that, the girls and I headed back inside, to watch America's Funniest Home Videos, since we missed our opportunity to film what had just happened in the backyard.

I have no idea when we will continue this project. The fourth of July is around the corner, when our attention will be on more important things, like what to grill, what to drink, and how many legal fireworks to buy. I for one plan to avoid that corner of the yard, opting instead to enjoy the new porch furniture. Between the snake, the mosquitoes, and the centipedes, I have a feeling that the decimation of the backyard pond has been placed on hold until further notice. Or at least until we can locate Shelby again.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

A Sign of the Times?

Can anyone tell me when the election is? I used to think it was the first Tuesday in November, but now I am not sure if it is next week or last year. I am blaming my confusion on all those flimsy political signs that have spread like the pox along the streets in my town. I am sure the maddening excess of signage is a purely American experience. I would think in some other countries, the general population is too hungry to care about the candidates’ position on gay marriage, or, more likely, they are told for whom to vote by a gun wielding “campaign volunteer.” But here in the good ole US of A, we have capitalism, which means wealthy people can donate money to their friends who run for public office, who in turn use that money to see their last names immortalized in subtle variations of reds and blues on a sign by the side of the road.

It is never enough to have one sign; there must be multiple ones, both regular and supersized, obstructing my view of the weeds, cigarette butts, and Big Gulp cups that normally line the road. The political signs started some time ago, perhaps during my childhood, with presidential candidates, but now that my state’s presidential primaries are over, the signs have shifted to local elections, the county sheriff, state representatives, even school board contenders. I have always questioned the motives of those who would want to run for public office, but now I wonder if this is all a money laundering plot begun by the sign makers to control our roadways.

My daughters, E, aged 8, and S, aged 6, are also confused and annoyed by the barrage of political placards.
“Who is Leach?” S asks me.
“A balding fat white man in his sixties who is running for state something,” I answer.
“Well, then, who is Wylie?” E asks next. Questions tend to be followed by more questions when driving in the car with E and S.
“The guy who is running against Leach.”
“They must like blue,” E says.
“What does he look like?” S provides the follow up question.
“Um, I guess he’s also a balding fat white man in his sixties. Maybe he wears glasses. One of them does.”
S has recently learned how to read. “Leach, Wylie, Leach, Wylie, Leach, Leach, Leach, Wylie, Wylie…”
“Burns!” screams E. “His sign is red,” she adds.
“Yes, it really stands out against the sea of blue and more blue signs, doesn’t it?”
Sometimes we combine the names for variety. “Weach.” “Lylie.” “Wyleach.” If the drive to school is particularly boring, we count the signs. “How many Leaches between the red light and the next Starbucks?” We were even fortunate enough to have a Wylie fundraiser at our neighborhood clubhouse. My daughters wanted to go so they could ask him what up with all the signs. I told them they would have to contribute in order to attend the fundraiser, but they decided instead to save their money for some Star Wars action figures so they could play with Daddy.

So here’s my question: who actually bases their vote on a candidate’s sign and its meaningless slogan? “Yes, we can!” “Leadership for a new America.” “Making things happen!” “Eh, you could do worse…” Is there anyone out there, driving to the Bi Lo for some two percent milk and a three pack of early pregnancy tests who reads a roadside political sign and thinks, “Well, shucks! I was going to the store, but now I am dropping everything to cast my vote for Haskins!” Maybe there are some idiots out there who haven’t made up their minds, or who haven’t heard of a particular contender, but I seriously doubt someone that removed from the political process would be so moved to join in the debate based on the assault of name recognition on every street corner. I would go out of my way to not vote for a candidate based on how many signs they have used to pollute my town.
And you know, once those signs go up, they never come down until someone down on their luck can recycle them into a crude shelter or a car runs off the road, taking out a whole block of them. I suppose to some degree it is preferable to deal with the signs rather than a dinner interrupting polling phone call or an assault of junk mail mixed in with my bills. I like to think our political system can handle the concept of voters being informed on issues rather than beaten down with a constant barrage of advertisements that tell us nothing. In my mind, South Park explained it best; it all boils down to a contest between a giant douche bag and a turd sandwich.

Monday, May 5, 2008

One Man's Junk....

I drove down the road, in between errands, when I passed a duplex that I pass frequently on my morning route. It is one of those buildings that stands out from its surroundings, not well maintained. The yard is a series of grassy patches surrounded by packed dirt which makes it look like an overgrown parking lot. The house is brick with peeling white trim, the screens dark and torn on the dark windows, and it is difficult to tell how the units are divided, but nothing about it looks like a single family dwelling. Next door is an aging apartment complex, bustling with cars coming and going, a location one picks for convenience rather than quality or luxury.

I never gave it much thought while driving around, but this day, the contents of one of the duplex units were sitting in the corner of the front yard, the obvious remains of a recent eviction. In the pile were a pressed board bookshelf, a metal table base, a folded stained mattress, a plastic laundry basket with a broken handle, and many black plastic garbage bags, knotted at the top, containing who knows what. The remnants of someone's life sat in that pile, someone who had fallen on hard times, perhaps lagging behind on bills and rent, until the landlord was left with no choice but to put it all out on the street.

I felt badly for that person, not just for the loss of residence and personal effects, but more so because four or five other people were picking through the pile, looking for any items of value or use to them. It was like an impromptu garage sale, minus the cash box and eager homeowner. The people eyeballing the possessions did not look down on their luck, but looks can be deceiving. There was a woman dressed in tight jeans who was very interested in a lamp base. A few men in white hats, shirts, and pants, perhaps painters in between jobs, were testing the sturdiness of the bookcases. Another woman, in a brightly patterned shirt, was busy looking inside one of the bags. Five people, maybe aware of another’s adversity, but more likely, pleased at their own good fortune.

I watched this scene unfold before me from the safety and distance of my luxury SUV, well insulated from what I witnessed. It is no secret that the economy is in the toilet, that people can barely afford to feed their families and buy gas for their commutes to and from work, and I cavalierly drive around town on premium fuel, running errands and going to the gym and having my nails or hair done. All the while, I chat on my cell phone, complaining about my stressful life to other moms who can feel my pain. I am upset that my organic milk has gone up fifty cents a half gallon, that I cook an extra night at home instead of eating out, that I am waiting for the dress or shoes or swimsuit to go on sale before making my purchases.

Am I feeling the pinch? Do I understand the struggle? Absolutely not. I am grateful, however, for my luck. And in a more profound way than muttering to myself, thank god that’s not me. I have had rougher times, but never rough enough to understand expulsion or looting. Now my road is trouble-free, and every once in a while it intersects with another’s less auspicious path. All I could do then, from behind my windshield, was to take a moment to recognize that life is never predictable or easy, but by some turn of fate, it is easier for some of us than for others.

Monday, April 28, 2008

Paper or Plastic?

My friend B and I walk most Sunday mornings, and this past Sunday was no exception. We pretend our walks are about getting fresh air and exercise, but in reality, we walk because it is too early to drink wine in the morning, and crying uncontrollably over the Sunday paper every week seems a little nutsy, even to us. So we walk, and we talk, and no matter what the topic, B always manages to top me, effortlessly. I like to think it is because her life and the people in it are crazier than mine, but I suppose crazy is relative. And whose relatives aren't crazy? Even, or especially, the kids.

I told B about my rough Saturday night. My family had movie night, and we watched "Return of the Jedi" as both my daughters are solidly in their Star Wars phase. I forgot how long that movie was, and how creepy the Ewoks were, and after toothbrushing and storytime, my 8 year old daughter was too scared to get to sleep, what with images of Jabba the Hutt licking his mouth slit and Darth Vadar without his breathing apparatus terrorizing her when she shut her eyes.

I had to climb into her twin bed with her and tell her all the reasons she didn't need to be scared, including the fact that creepy primitive teddy bears were not going to chant "jub jub" in her room and attack her with spears. We covered everything that might be frightening, from the scratching of the squirrels trying to dismantle the attic for more acorn storage to the fact that no evil lurked in the shadows of her bedroom (which I am not able to state with absolute certainty, but did sound convincing at the time).

She tried her hardest to convince me that the only way she truly felt safe was having me with her always. I pointed out that she was eight, not two, and that she was old enough to understand that she could be safe even if her mommy was not by her side 24/7. She decided that she would try to sleep alone, but if she couldn't, she would, and I am quoting her, "perform a quiet activity" in her room such as coloring. I explained that quiet activities did not make one fall asleep, but since Tylenol PM did, and I already had one, I was finished talking about it for the night.

When I woke up the next morning, I found out she had performed a quiet activity after all. On her nightstand was a realistic likeness of me on a Kleenex, complete with a good night message. She even folded the bottom of the Kleenex over my tissue legs to tuck me in for the night. I told B about the Mommy Kleenex, which will be yet one more thing made of paper in my house that I will not be allowed to throw away. And then B did it; she topped the pocket mommy.

B told me how she went to check on her almost 7 year old before our walk and found her daughter using the computer, a Ziploc bag filled with water next to her on the desk. B, being the unassuming person she is, asked her daughter why there was a baggie filled with water next to her keyboard. Her daughter smiled at her and answered it was her imaginary goldfish. B calmly asked her to not keep the fish bag next to the computer, and left to walk with me. I laughed when she told me, as B has two real pets that were both being ignored by her daughter in favor of the bag of water.

When we returned to her house, we sat at the kitchen table, drinking water out of my favorite Pump It Up plastic kids’ cups, and who comes down the stairs but her daughter, still carrying around her Ziploc bag. She held it up proudly for me to see, all 15 of her imaginary goldfish pretend swimming in a small sandwich bag.

“Wanna help me teach my imaginary fish how to color?” she asked.

“Sure,” I answered, and she handed me a computer printout of a lemur from the PBS kids website. And the three of us sat at the table, coloring, the water in the bag jiggling slightly from the movement of our crayons on the paper.

“You know, B,” I said. “You really ought to write Ziploc and tell them how great their product is.”
“You’re right,” she answered. “I should.”

So which is odder, a mommy Kleenex or a Ziploc bag filled with water? I don’t know, but you can see why a Sunday morning cocktail is not such a bad idea. After a couple of drinks, it wouldn’t matter who tops whom.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

You Poor Asshole

I know you are going to laugh. I would laugh too if it wasn’t me. Laugh all you want. One day this will be you. And then it will be my turn to laugh. So there.

I have a hemorrhoid, painful and lonely, hanging around where it isn’t wanted. Believe the Preparation H ads. They are not lying to you. It is painful, and itchy, and sore. Sitting is challenging, as is standing and moving. Oh, and lying down too. But more than the physical discomfort is the psychological trauma associated with an unwanted anal protrusion. I am embarrassed, even blushing, while typing about my ass. It is awkward to tell your spouse or your friends, even those with whom you share all your intimate details. But I had to tell someone, first for a second opinion, and then for some validation.

I ambushed my husband in the bathroom. “I have to tell you something and I don’t want to,” I informed him.
“Just tell me.”
“I can’t, I am too embarrassed.”
“Just do it, it can’t be that bad.”
But it was that bad. “Something is wrong with my butt, and I don’t know what it is.”
“Like what? Is it bleeding?”
“Not anymore,” I answered hopefully. “But it was yesterday, and today there is a lump and it hurts.”
“Oh, that’s probably just a hemorrhoid,” he said, like he dealt with assholes all day instead of mouths.
“Should you look at it?”
“I don’t think that is necessary.”
“Well, what am I going to do?”
“Go buy some preparation H.”
“Could you do it for me? I am too embarrassed.”
“No, I’m not going to buy that for you. Buy it yourself.”
How helpful. I will remember that when he gets his first hemorrhoid. Except now we have preparation H in our medicine cabinet, so he won’t need to go buy it himself. Maybe it will expire before then. And then I will remind him of what he said to me, about buying my own. Ha!

I went to my friend B’s house after dinner to take a walk. Somehow moving seemed like a better idea than sitting by the end of the day. I drove to her house, easing over any potholes in the road.
When our feet hit the pavement, I said to her, “I have something I have to tell you, and I don’t want you to look at me while I tell you.” Yes, I needed to tell her. I was mincing along the road next to her, and I was concerned my entire 28 feet of intestines might come spilling out, so I thought it was a tidbit of data that might be helpful to her in case of a rectal emergency.
“Okay,” she said, looking at the house across the street. “Let’s hear it.”
“I think I have a hemorrhoid,” I confessed.
“Oh, is that all? I thought you had something big to tell me.” “It’s big to me, huge, and painful too.”
“But everyone gets those. It’s not that big a deal.” That’s why I told B in the first place. Not much is a big deal to her, certainly not about the human body. She helps me keep things in perspective. “Did you try tucking it back in?”
I was surprised by this comment, as I had indeed tried that, but I didn’t expect her to know about tucking. I knew to try it after looking up asshole problems on the Internet that afternoon, and along with some unflattering anonymous photos, I found some great advice on how to deal with this predicament from the comfort of your own home before breaking down and going public with your ass, and by that I mean the doctor’s office and not YouTube.
“I did try that!” I exclaimed. “All it did was make my hemorrhoid angry at me.” I looked over at B, who was gazing at the sky and trying to not laugh out loud.
“How did you get it?” Now here is a question that no one, no matter how close a friend or family member, should ask. Does anyone really want to know what caused the hemorrhoid? Is it objective curiosity, or a desire to avoid that activity? The answers came flying fast, none of which were factual. I bought it at Target, in the anal accessories department. I popped it out while bull riding. I choked on my ice and coughed until I burst at my nether seam. I was trying to win a world record by shoving as many socket wrenches up my ass as possible, but suffered trauma upon removal. I had a high heel wedged up there. I decided to go with the truth, which as usual was the most mortifying.
“I fell asleep in the car while my husband drove us home from out of town yesterday, and I guess he swerved or hit the brakes, but I was startled awake with such force that I clenched my butt and felt like I pulled something. When we got home, I checked myself in the bathroom since I still felt sore, and I was bleeding. And ever since then, I have had my problem.” Yes, it was true; I got a hemorrhoid from waking up too quickly.
B laughed harder, and then made me promise to get some medicine to make it better. I told her to forget we ever had our conversation. “What conversation?” she asked, stifling a snort.

Thanks to my hemorrhoid, I can hang up any last hopes of being a porn star. Age and childbearing has ruined the front half of my body, so I figured that the only option that remained was graphic anal sex, but it seems that too is now out of the question. Although, I am sure if I looked hard enough, and hell no, I don’t want to, I am sure there is a website devoted to lumpy assholes. (And if you don’t believe me, go Google jarmel berries.)
I wasn’t planning on quitting my day job, but right now, sitting around on my ass doing nothing isn’t all that comfortable. I suppose there is always the possibility of creating a diamond mine in there, since I am able to clench with such force that I’m sure I can render carbon into precious gemstones with little difficulty. Or, I could just suck it up, go to the CVS, hide the Preparation H tube among other benign drug store purchases, and hope the clerk thinks I am planning on using it for my puffy eye bags. Then I can stop obsessing on my asshole and get back to my other obsessions, like my puffy eye bags and how to launch my porn career.