I just received the most disturbing holiday card I have ever seen. It is a postcard with a picture of my cousin's two daughters, posed oh-so-carefully in a dreary wooded area. The oldest child is five. She's holding a chainsaw, staring down at it with utter fascination. So mesmerized is she that I'm relieved she doesn't know where I live.
Inches away, the younger daughter is sitting on a tree stump, sans chainsaw but wielding a substantial stick. She is only three years old but uber-intimidating. Clearly, what she wants most for Christmas is a small animal to beat the fucking life out of.
The little psychos are wearing matching jeans and white fleece hoodies, most likely from GapKids. On their feet: adorable pink and white polka-dotted wellies, the choice of juvenile delinquents everywhere.
"Enjoy the Holidays" is printed on the bottom of the card. I guess "Or Else" was cut off.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Pillsbury says it best
The Bitch and I had an argument Monday night. I was waiting for biopsy results that were MIA somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle of laboratories, so I was off my game and forgot to check caller ID. My bad.
Arguments with The Bitch have a blindingly bright silver lining: She won't call me for at least four days. Normally, that's a big fat slice of heaven, but this time was different. I got the biopsy results [which were good] on Tuesday. But it took The Bitch five days to ask about the them.
Five days.
I thought about calling her to tell her the news, but the masochist in me was still hoping she could shed her narcissism and........wait for it........be a mother.
Pathetic. Embarassing, even.
For some bizarre reason, this latest lovefest reminded me of Pillsbury commercials from the 60s. A mother served her kids piping hot cinnamon buns, drizzled with a sugary white topping, as this catchy little jingle played:
"Nothing says lovin'
Like somethin' from the oven
And Pillsbury says it best."
Seriously? At this point, I'd be satisfied with a crappy piece of pastry.
Arguments with The Bitch have a blindingly bright silver lining: She won't call me for at least four days. Normally, that's a big fat slice of heaven, but this time was different. I got the biopsy results [which were good] on Tuesday. But it took The Bitch five days to ask about the them.
Five days.
I thought about calling her to tell her the news, but the masochist in me was still hoping she could shed her narcissism and........wait for it........be a mother.
Pathetic. Embarassing, even.
For some bizarre reason, this latest lovefest reminded me of Pillsbury commercials from the 60s. A mother served her kids piping hot cinnamon buns, drizzled with a sugary white topping, as this catchy little jingle played:
"Nothing says lovin'
Like somethin' from the oven
And Pillsbury says it best."
Seriously? At this point, I'd be satisfied with a crappy piece of pastry.
Choose incivility
Every time I see one of those "Choose Civility" bumper stickers, I ask myself "What the fuck for?"
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Simple gifts
A few years ago, I was the subject of a newspaper article about hospice volunteering. To put me at ease—or to blow some smoke up my ass—the writer ventured, “You must be quite a people person to be able to do this.”
Yeah. Whatever.
“Listen, Sherrie,” I said. “I don’t want to write your article for you, but here’s a suggestion: If you value your credibility, please consider a different approach. I am as far from a people person as my hospice patients are from running marathons.”
Poor Sherrie didn’t know what to do with that shit.
C’mon, Sherrie! Each of us is a bundle of contradictions. Embrace the irony and revel in it, baby!
That’s precisely what I did at one of those stupid team-building conferences a client required me to attend. (Note to self: NEVER attend one again.)
The keynote speaker asked audience members to write a headline for their obituary. In addition to our names, we were limited to two nouns that described who we were. The format was: Name: blank, blank. Three blanks, tops.
We were told we would have to use these headlines at lunch as a way to introduce ourselves to our "teammates." (Is there anything more painfully awkward than having to share a meal with a bunch of strangers?)
Blank, blank. I believe the assignment exemplifies exactly what Elder Joseph Brackett had in mind when he wrote that short but ever so sweet Shaker song, “Simple Gifts,” back in 1848. 'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free/'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be…'
Those blanks—a simple gift if ever there was one--would free me attending to the morning’s mind-numbing, touchy-feely crap that makes team-building conferences the mother of all workplace rip-offs. Better yet, the speaker’s simple gift pretty much guaranteed that I would come down where I ought to be: sitting alone.
I thought and thought and thought. Chuckled and chuckled. Considered and rejected. Rejected and reconsidered. [Note to readers: This game is fun. Try it!]
And just like that, like a deer catapulted from dusky shadows, my nouns broadsided me: hospice volunteer, misanthrope.
This blog is dedicated to my nephew, Josh: humanitarian, snob.
Yeah. Whatever.
“Listen, Sherrie,” I said. “I don’t want to write your article for you, but here’s a suggestion: If you value your credibility, please consider a different approach. I am as far from a people person as my hospice patients are from running marathons.”
Poor Sherrie didn’t know what to do with that shit.
C’mon, Sherrie! Each of us is a bundle of contradictions. Embrace the irony and revel in it, baby!
That’s precisely what I did at one of those stupid team-building conferences a client required me to attend. (Note to self: NEVER attend one again.)
The keynote speaker asked audience members to write a headline for their obituary. In addition to our names, we were limited to two nouns that described who we were. The format was: Name: blank, blank. Three blanks, tops.
We were told we would have to use these headlines at lunch as a way to introduce ourselves to our "teammates." (Is there anything more painfully awkward than having to share a meal with a bunch of strangers?)
Blank, blank. I believe the assignment exemplifies exactly what Elder Joseph Brackett had in mind when he wrote that short but ever so sweet Shaker song, “Simple Gifts,” back in 1848. 'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free/'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be…'
Those blanks—a simple gift if ever there was one--would free me attending to the morning’s mind-numbing, touchy-feely crap that makes team-building conferences the mother of all workplace rip-offs. Better yet, the speaker’s simple gift pretty much guaranteed that I would come down where I ought to be: sitting alone.
I thought and thought and thought. Chuckled and chuckled. Considered and rejected. Rejected and reconsidered. [Note to readers: This game is fun. Try it!]
And just like that, like a deer catapulted from dusky shadows, my nouns broadsided me: hospice volunteer, misanthrope.
This blog is dedicated to my nephew, Josh: humanitarian, snob.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Systematic desensitization
I’m thinking about bronzing my Brother-In-Name-Only (BINO)'s shoes and hanging them from my rear-view mirror. Who cares that he is 60 and his shoes are a size 10? He is such a driving force in my life that having his shoes along for the ride just seems right.
BINO is emotionally retarded, which is understandable given the gene pool he swam in. He has more avoidant behaviors than a corpse. We communicate by email only--and only when The Bitch requires our intervention. I am fairly certain I have spoken to BINO by phone only three or four times my whole life. We don't do a whole lot better in person. When my son was in middle school, he and I went to see BINO’s daughter play soccer once. BINO noted our presence but didn’t make a move to sit with…or talk with us. Try explaining that one to your child.
Long story short, BINO married a moron. He considers her "the blessing of his life," which gives you an idea of how badly he was whooped by the loser stick. If his wife were merely stupid, she might be acceptable. But she’s a moron who is convinced she is always right. That it only took 30 years for us to come to blows is miraculous.
She and I are nearing the four-year anniversary of our not speaking. Except for the fact that my mother continues to breathe, it has been a blissful period in my life. The only time anyone misses my sister-in-law is when it is time to do the dishes on Thanksgiving. She always washed them all, and she always washed them well.
Not surprisingly, The Bitch holds me fully responsible for this fracture in her fantasy family. Three months ago, during a moment of insanity--or overcome by some smarmy emotion--I tried to reconcile with BINO and his dumbbell by suggesting that they join my husband and me for dinner.
I can hear you thinking, “Wow. That was nice of her.” Please don’t. My motive was divinely impure. I was hoping the gesture would give me the opportunity to tell The Bitch, “You can go now.”
My brother wrote back that he’d need to take “baby steps” in order to be able to break bread with me.
Baby steps? What the fuck does that mean? Does my poor BINO need some systematic desensitization? Try this, bro. Week one: back the car out of of the driveway. Week two: back the car out of the driveway and proceed to the end of the street. Week three: drive halfway to the restaurant. Week four: drive to the restaurant and park before doing a quick U-turn and heading home. Week five: kiss my ass.
Here it is a quarter of a year since my invitation, and BINO has taken nary a baby step. My 15-month-old great-niece, Emma, takes baby steps with more finesse. In fact, that sweet, beautiful child is a marathon runner compared to BINO.
Normally, I’d be pissed about BINO’s paralysis. But I realized that he has as much chance of taking a baby step as I do of outliving The Bitch. And every time those bronzed, big-boy shoes knock against the windshield, I will be reminded that BINO is still looking out for his little sister, urging her to temper her hopes with reality.
BINO is emotionally retarded, which is understandable given the gene pool he swam in. He has more avoidant behaviors than a corpse. We communicate by email only--and only when The Bitch requires our intervention. I am fairly certain I have spoken to BINO by phone only three or four times my whole life. We don't do a whole lot better in person. When my son was in middle school, he and I went to see BINO’s daughter play soccer once. BINO noted our presence but didn’t make a move to sit with…or talk with us. Try explaining that one to your child.
Long story short, BINO married a moron. He considers her "the blessing of his life," which gives you an idea of how badly he was whooped by the loser stick. If his wife were merely stupid, she might be acceptable. But she’s a moron who is convinced she is always right. That it only took 30 years for us to come to blows is miraculous.
She and I are nearing the four-year anniversary of our not speaking. Except for the fact that my mother continues to breathe, it has been a blissful period in my life. The only time anyone misses my sister-in-law is when it is time to do the dishes on Thanksgiving. She always washed them all, and she always washed them well.
Not surprisingly, The Bitch holds me fully responsible for this fracture in her fantasy family. Three months ago, during a moment of insanity--or overcome by some smarmy emotion--I tried to reconcile with BINO and his dumbbell by suggesting that they join my husband and me for dinner.
I can hear you thinking, “Wow. That was nice of her.” Please don’t. My motive was divinely impure. I was hoping the gesture would give me the opportunity to tell The Bitch, “You can go now.”
My brother wrote back that he’d need to take “baby steps” in order to be able to break bread with me.
Baby steps? What the fuck does that mean? Does my poor BINO need some systematic desensitization? Try this, bro. Week one: back the car out of of the driveway. Week two: back the car out of the driveway and proceed to the end of the street. Week three: drive halfway to the restaurant. Week four: drive to the restaurant and park before doing a quick U-turn and heading home. Week five: kiss my ass.
Here it is a quarter of a year since my invitation, and BINO has taken nary a baby step. My 15-month-old great-niece, Emma, takes baby steps with more finesse. In fact, that sweet, beautiful child is a marathon runner compared to BINO.
Normally, I’d be pissed about BINO’s paralysis. But I realized that he has as much chance of taking a baby step as I do of outliving The Bitch. And every time those bronzed, big-boy shoes knock against the windshield, I will be reminded that BINO is still looking out for his little sister, urging her to temper her hopes with reality.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
This is not about my trip
I hate listening to people talk about their vacations. I can fake interest for maybe three minutes. Tops. So, instead of subjecting you to the highlights of my recent trip, I have chosen instead, to share the lowlights:
1. Checking in at the self-help kiosk, a man standing to my left turned directly towards me and, without making the slightest effort to cover his nose or mouth, sneezed violently, covering me with liquid germs. Seriously? I felt those little fuckers land. Twenty-four hours later, I had pink eye.
2. I don’t require a lot of legroom, but even short people can feel cramped in an airplane. So I get a little worked up when the person in front of me decides, seemingly on a lark, to recline into my lap. Jesus! Give me a little notice, please. I always appreciate something subtle--like “Incoming!”--before I get intimate with a stranger.
3. Speaking of airplanes, ALL passengers need to shut the fuck up. I’m trying to read.
4. My family and I were sitting in the outdoor restaurant in our favorite hotel, enjoying breakfast. We were halfway through our meal when I noticed two other diners at the table directly in front of ours picking at each other’s scalps. To their credit, they were taking the job seriously. She picked his scalp, missing--I'd bet--nary a hair; then he returned the favor. Quite lovingly, too.
Did I mention that this was a restaurant? Generally, when I have the urge to see monkeys groom themselves, I go to a fucking zoo, not a cafe. You know how some people send bottles of wine to other tables? I wanted to send that couple a bottle of Quell.
5. Miami airport, named 2008 “TSA Airport of the Year.” A Helen Keller wannabe must have been the nominator, because nothing else explains the choice.
Okay, I have to include two highlights from my trip. First, the pharmacies in Costa Rica sell everything—and I mean everything—over the counter, cheaply. To someone like me, who has to bring a separate carry-on bag to hold all of her psychotropic meds, it doesn’t get better than that. But my very favorite thing was the blind man in the parking area of Guayabo National Monument. The driver who took us there paid him to watch his car. So did other drivers. It is one of the many reasons my family and I love Costa Rica.
1. Checking in at the self-help kiosk, a man standing to my left turned directly towards me and, without making the slightest effort to cover his nose or mouth, sneezed violently, covering me with liquid germs. Seriously? I felt those little fuckers land. Twenty-four hours later, I had pink eye.
2. I don’t require a lot of legroom, but even short people can feel cramped in an airplane. So I get a little worked up when the person in front of me decides, seemingly on a lark, to recline into my lap. Jesus! Give me a little notice, please. I always appreciate something subtle--like “Incoming!”--before I get intimate with a stranger.
3. Speaking of airplanes, ALL passengers need to shut the fuck up. I’m trying to read.
4. My family and I were sitting in the outdoor restaurant in our favorite hotel, enjoying breakfast. We were halfway through our meal when I noticed two other diners at the table directly in front of ours picking at each other’s scalps. To their credit, they were taking the job seriously. She picked his scalp, missing--I'd bet--nary a hair; then he returned the favor. Quite lovingly, too.
Did I mention that this was a restaurant? Generally, when I have the urge to see monkeys groom themselves, I go to a fucking zoo, not a cafe. You know how some people send bottles of wine to other tables? I wanted to send that couple a bottle of Quell.
5. Miami airport, named 2008 “TSA Airport of the Year.” A Helen Keller wannabe must have been the nominator, because nothing else explains the choice.
Okay, I have to include two highlights from my trip. First, the pharmacies in Costa Rica sell everything—and I mean everything—over the counter, cheaply. To someone like me, who has to bring a separate carry-on bag to hold all of her psychotropic meds, it doesn’t get better than that. But my very favorite thing was the blind man in the parking area of Guayabo National Monument. The driver who took us there paid him to watch his car. So did other drivers. It is one of the many reasons my family and I love Costa Rica.
Friday, August 28, 2009
How low will she go?
I have tried to let this one go, but I just can't, so....
My niece is the epitome of the complete package. She's got it all, including--sadly--the fact that she is often the object of The Bitch's jabs.
After two weeks at the beach, my sweet niece paid a visit to The Bitch. "Your tan looks great," said TB. "It makes you look prettier than you are."
Unlike me, my niece was able to laugh it off. Also unlike me, she was raised by people who helped her feel good about herself.
Inside and out, my niece could not be more beautiful. Alas, her grandmother could not be uglier.
My niece is the epitome of the complete package. She's got it all, including--sadly--the fact that she is often the object of The Bitch's jabs.
After two weeks at the beach, my sweet niece paid a visit to The Bitch. "Your tan looks great," said TB. "It makes you look prettier than you are."
Unlike me, my niece was able to laugh it off. Also unlike me, she was raised by people who helped her feel good about herself.
Inside and out, my niece could not be more beautiful. Alas, her grandmother could not be uglier.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Shot shit
If I worked with the public on a regular basis, I’d wind up in jail. I simply don’t have the ability to suffer fools, gladly or otherwise. I know my [many] limits, and I am fortunate to be able to work—sans others—90% of the time.
However, I do expect that those who work in customer service positions possess a modicum of manners. My standards for that are pretty low. All I want is a greeting at the start of a transaction and a cursory "thank you" when it ends.
Here's an example of how my system should not work. Last week, a friend told me she waited at the reception counter of a doctor’s office for a full three minutes while the secretary ignored her until the clock struck eight and office hours officially began. When my friend spoke up, the secretary reprimanded her quite nastily for not having said good morning.
I, too, have encountered many an asshole in doctor’s offices. In fact, I have been encountering one particular asshole for 11 years, at my allergist’s office. Sometimes I luck out and he is being rude to another patient, so I get another, slightly more pleasant shot-giver. But more often than not, he’s the one who inoculates me.
In my mind, I refer to him as Mr. Happy because of his overbearing friendliness and pure joie de vivre. Here’s how a typical encounter between us goes.
Me: Hi. How are you?
Him: Last shot okay?
Me: Yep.
Him: Left arm today.
He gives me the shot, to which I reply, “Thanks.” To which he replies...nothing. No “You’re welcome.” No “Shove your thanks up your hindquarters.” Nothing. It makes me want to grab every needle in the place, hold them in my fist and stab the shit out of his eyes and tongue. Instead, I merely leave the office, pissed off every time.
Sure, I reported him once. “Well, his sense of humor isn’t everyone’s cup of tea” was the customer-is-always-right answer I got.
Worse yet, the prick told on me. I'm supposed to wait 20 minutes after I get my immunization to make sure I don’t die. I’m an impatient patient, so I never wait. I used to, at first, but after two years, I figured I was safe. Or maybe I entered a new decade of depression and stopped caring if I died. I don’t really remember how it began, but I quit waiting. Now, after nine years, Mr. Happy suddenly decided to spill the beans.
So, when I showed up at the office today, a substitute shot-giver started lecturing me about the importance of waiting. She wouldn’t part with the goods until I said, “I will wait in the office for 20 minutes after my shot.” Fine, I thought, I’ll say your stupid little pledge, but I’m not staying. So I got my shot and left immediately.
I swear I’m not looking for special treatment here. I just think it is ridiculous to drive 20 minutes to and from the allergist's office, wait to get the shot from Mr. Happy or one of the women whose love for the job pours out of their pores…and then wait 20 more minutes not to die. I’ll sign whatever waiver or hold harmless clause they want, because I’m pretty goddamn sure that when I die, it ain’t gonna be from an allergy shot. It is far more likely that I will die by lethal injection, in jail, because I killed Mr. Happy.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Post office antics
It’s not often one sees a USPS clerk smile, but I lucked out today.
A man in line ahead of me started addressing one of those padded mailers. Midway through the task, his pen poked a miniscule hole in the envelope. “I’m going to put this envelope back and get another one,” he told the postal clerk.
“You can go ahead and get another one, sir,” she replied, “but don’t put that used envelope back.”
Stunned, Mr. Postal Perfectionist asked why.
“Sir, you wrote on it. It’s yours now. You have to pay for it.”
Now super-stunned, the man argued, “Someone will use it. I’m just going to put it back.”
Cool! Things were heating up. The clerk shifted into marginally polite overdrive. “Sir, nobody’s gonna want your envelope. You wrote on it, and you need to pay for it.”
“The writing can be covered up,” he persisted. By this time, I’m seconds away from handing him $2.00 to pay for the fucking envelope and get the hell out of the building, but the clerk intervened. She puffed out her ample bosom, dropped her head to her left shoulder and narrowed her eyes just enough to make him cave.
“Fine. I’ll pay for it,” he said curtly. Then he stepped aside to finish addressing the envelope while the clerk waited on another customer. Finally, he completed his transaction and left with the pesky extra envelope under his arm.
I stepped up to the counter. Although I had made eye contact with the clerk at least three times during the performance, I decided to play it straight. I paid for my two packages, acting as though nothing odd had happened. When she asked whether I needed stamps or mailing supplies, I pretended to think about it for a few seconds and said, “No. I don’t think so. Unless you’re having a sale on used envelopes.”
The clerk slammed her hand on the counter and doubled over, chortling. “I knew you were gonna say something. I knew it! I knew it before you even came up to my counter.”
It was the first time I ever had fun in a post office, and it made me feel like a fucking ray of sunshine.
A man in line ahead of me started addressing one of those padded mailers. Midway through the task, his pen poked a miniscule hole in the envelope. “I’m going to put this envelope back and get another one,” he told the postal clerk.
“You can go ahead and get another one, sir,” she replied, “but don’t put that used envelope back.”
Stunned, Mr. Postal Perfectionist asked why.
“Sir, you wrote on it. It’s yours now. You have to pay for it.”
Now super-stunned, the man argued, “Someone will use it. I’m just going to put it back.”
Cool! Things were heating up. The clerk shifted into marginally polite overdrive. “Sir, nobody’s gonna want your envelope. You wrote on it, and you need to pay for it.”
“The writing can be covered up,” he persisted. By this time, I’m seconds away from handing him $2.00 to pay for the fucking envelope and get the hell out of the building, but the clerk intervened. She puffed out her ample bosom, dropped her head to her left shoulder and narrowed her eyes just enough to make him cave.
“Fine. I’ll pay for it,” he said curtly. Then he stepped aside to finish addressing the envelope while the clerk waited on another customer. Finally, he completed his transaction and left with the pesky extra envelope under his arm.
I stepped up to the counter. Although I had made eye contact with the clerk at least three times during the performance, I decided to play it straight. I paid for my two packages, acting as though nothing odd had happened. When she asked whether I needed stamps or mailing supplies, I pretended to think about it for a few seconds and said, “No. I don’t think so. Unless you’re having a sale on used envelopes.”
The clerk slammed her hand on the counter and doubled over, chortling. “I knew you were gonna say something. I knew it! I knew it before you even came up to my counter.”
It was the first time I ever had fun in a post office, and it made me feel like a fucking ray of sunshine.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
I'm back
I saw my neighbor’s penis last night. It was air-drying at the bathroom window. Not the "Welcome Home" gift I would have chosen, but still, it was something. Barely.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Question of the day
Does vacationing mitigate my anger? Find out when my blog returns, at some point during the week of August 17. Mark your calendar! (Yeah. Like that will be happening.)
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Harper's bizarre
Would someone please make Susan Boyle go away? Or explain why she has, apparently, been elected “Queen for Eternity”? You'd think she was the only mildly talented head case in the world.
I just heard--on national news--that "Harper’s Bazaar" gave her a head-to-toe makeover, featured in glorious detail in this month’s issue. Like that will change her wretchedness.
The love affair with Susan began because shallow people the world over were flabbergasted a frump could sing without shattering glass. For some reason, it just won’t die.
I feel like the “I see people” kid from “The Sixth Sense.” The only difference is that I’m weirded out by hearing voices--okay, just one voice--warbling the uber-irritating “I Dreamed a Dream,” over and over and over again. Somebody--anybody--please make it stop. Not just for me, either. My husband is sick of hearing my piss-poor imitations of the singing lass.
I just heard--on national news--that "Harper’s Bazaar" gave her a head-to-toe makeover, featured in glorious detail in this month’s issue. Like that will change her wretchedness.
The love affair with Susan began because shallow people the world over were flabbergasted a frump could sing without shattering glass. For some reason, it just won’t die.
I feel like the “I see people” kid from “The Sixth Sense.” The only difference is that I’m weirded out by hearing voices--okay, just one voice--warbling the uber-irritating “I Dreamed a Dream,” over and over and over again. Somebody--anybody--please make it stop. Not just for me, either. My husband is sick of hearing my piss-poor imitations of the singing lass.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Off-put THIS
Given my hypomanical personality, I imagine that there are numerous people who are angry at me, disappointed in me or nursing a case of hurt feelings I’ve caused. Right off the bat, I can think of at least six people who fall into one or more of those categories.
Guess what? I don’t give a shit. You know why? I have many talents, but mind-reading isn’t one of them. So if you would rather nurse your grudges or put a sling on your fragile emotions than risk having a conversation with me, knock yourself out.
My therapist, Annie Sullivan, pointed out just last week that I can be “off-putting” when I’m angry. Wow, Annie, I bet you graduated first in your social work class. So...what? I’m supposed to rein in my anger? Make it nice and pretty for you? Call it off-putting if you want. I call it taking responsibility for myself, and I’m happy to do it.
That’s right. I’m happy to take responsibility for myself. But read closely, folks, because this is where it gets tricky: I’ll do it for me, not for you. Doing it for you is your frigging job. And, if you choose to do nothing about your issue(s) with me, at least own the fact that you’re walking around with an empty nut-sac [or whatever the female equivalent of that is]. Do not play the victim. In the film world, that performance may make you an Oscar winner. In my world, it makes you a pathetic loser.
Maybe you just need a different word than the “C” word. No, no, no. Not that “C” word. The "confront" word. Clearly, it is way too loaded for most people. How about we say “talk”? Or “share”? Or “Rosebud,” for Christ’s sake, if it makes you feel better.
It makes no difference to me. I’m not afraid of the “confront” word. In fact, I hold myself to the same standards I’m asking you to sign on for. If I’m pissed, hurt or disappointed--hell, even if I’m having a positive feeling, infrequently as that may happen--nine times out of 10 you’ll know it pretty damn quickly. Ironically, the longer I hold onto my feelings, the harder it is for me to “Rosebud” you.
I like to compare this phenomenon to a penis’s refractory period. You know how, when guys are young, they can be back in the proverbial saddle more quickly than when they are older? Well, when my feelings are “young,” they are easy come, easy go [again]. When they get “older”--when I hold onto them too long--it is more difficult for me to get them out. Worse, I can’t pretend, even a little bit, that everything is A-okay between us.
Jeez. I just re-read what I wrote and now I’m worried that all of this was way too scary for you. Wow. I sure hope not. I’d be so, so very sorry if I was “off-putting.”
Guess what? I don’t give a shit. You know why? I have many talents, but mind-reading isn’t one of them. So if you would rather nurse your grudges or put a sling on your fragile emotions than risk having a conversation with me, knock yourself out.
My therapist, Annie Sullivan, pointed out just last week that I can be “off-putting” when I’m angry. Wow, Annie, I bet you graduated first in your social work class. So...what? I’m supposed to rein in my anger? Make it nice and pretty for you? Call it off-putting if you want. I call it taking responsibility for myself, and I’m happy to do it.
That’s right. I’m happy to take responsibility for myself. But read closely, folks, because this is where it gets tricky: I’ll do it for me, not for you. Doing it for you is your frigging job. And, if you choose to do nothing about your issue(s) with me, at least own the fact that you’re walking around with an empty nut-sac [or whatever the female equivalent of that is]. Do not play the victim. In the film world, that performance may make you an Oscar winner. In my world, it makes you a pathetic loser.
Maybe you just need a different word than the “C” word. No, no, no. Not that “C” word. The "confront" word. Clearly, it is way too loaded for most people. How about we say “talk”? Or “share”? Or “Rosebud,” for Christ’s sake, if it makes you feel better.
It makes no difference to me. I’m not afraid of the “confront” word. In fact, I hold myself to the same standards I’m asking you to sign on for. If I’m pissed, hurt or disappointed--hell, even if I’m having a positive feeling, infrequently as that may happen--nine times out of 10 you’ll know it pretty damn quickly. Ironically, the longer I hold onto my feelings, the harder it is for me to “Rosebud” you.
I like to compare this phenomenon to a penis’s refractory period. You know how, when guys are young, they can be back in the proverbial saddle more quickly than when they are older? Well, when my feelings are “young,” they are easy come, easy go [again]. When they get “older”--when I hold onto them too long--it is more difficult for me to get them out. Worse, I can’t pretend, even a little bit, that everything is A-okay between us.
Jeez. I just re-read what I wrote and now I’m worried that all of this was way too scary for you. Wow. I sure hope not. I’d be so, so very sorry if I was “off-putting.”
Monday, August 3, 2009
The case of the missing bras
I am missing two bras and I’m not happy about it.
They were supposed to arrive by USPS today, and they almost did. Instead, I received the box, which had been pried open, and the receipt. No bras in sight and--at the risk of over-sharing--those bad boys are hard to miss.
They are expensive, too. But so deeply committed to appearing “up to 1-3/4 inches smaller” am I that I gladly overpay. Besides, it would be selfish of me to complain. My bras’ work ethic is unparalleled. Theirs is no small job, my friends, and they do it uber-cheerfully.
As valuable as my bras are to me, I think they probably lack street value. So why the fuck would anyone steal them? And who would they give them to? It’s not like they’re one-size-fits-all. They barely fit me. [I refuse to wear the correct size; I can’t even say my correct size.]
Lucky for me, only the finest retailers can cater to my bra needs. These stores always stand behind their merchandise--even when it is stolen. So I'm getting two free replacement bras and free overnight shipping.
This time tomorrow, I’ll be riding high.
They were supposed to arrive by USPS today, and they almost did. Instead, I received the box, which had been pried open, and the receipt. No bras in sight and--at the risk of over-sharing--those bad boys are hard to miss.
They are expensive, too. But so deeply committed to appearing “up to 1-3/4 inches smaller” am I that I gladly overpay. Besides, it would be selfish of me to complain. My bras’ work ethic is unparalleled. Theirs is no small job, my friends, and they do it uber-cheerfully.
As valuable as my bras are to me, I think they probably lack street value. So why the fuck would anyone steal them? And who would they give them to? It’s not like they’re one-size-fits-all. They barely fit me. [I refuse to wear the correct size; I can’t even say my correct size.]
Lucky for me, only the finest retailers can cater to my bra needs. These stores always stand behind their merchandise--even when it is stolen. So I'm getting two free replacement bras and free overnight shipping.
This time tomorrow, I’ll be riding high.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Stupidity abounds
Little Preston Scarbrough took his family’s car and led police on a high-speed chase last Sunday because he didn’t want to go to church. Preston’s little prank, which could have killed him or others, “drove” mom and dad to sentence their up-and-coming Indy driver to four days in his room, sans television or video games.
Then Mom and Dad Scarbrough screwed up. They accepted an invitation to appear on NBC’s “Today” show.
The family showed up, adorable little Preston in tow. I am not at all convinced Preston understood the gravity of his little joyride. I am, however, positive he reveled in every second of his stardom, especially the front-row “seat” he was given for the show’s weekly concert in Rockefeller Plaza.
The camera loved Preston and its love was not unrequited. Preston’s family loved the camera loving Preston. I assume Preston loved the airplane trip from Utah and his whirlwind tour of New York, too. That’ll teach him, huh? Imagine what this clever lad will come up with when he has a book report he doesn’t feel like writing--or how he’ll get out of visiting crotchety old grandma in the stinky nursing home.
I know most families would love to be on the “Today” show, even though mine would rather guzzle strychnine. But shame on the Scarbroughs for using Preston’s potentially deadly prank as currency for buying 15 minutes of fame.
And shame on the “Today” show staffers who invited them.
Then Mom and Dad Scarbrough screwed up. They accepted an invitation to appear on NBC’s “Today” show.
The family showed up, adorable little Preston in tow. I am not at all convinced Preston understood the gravity of his little joyride. I am, however, positive he reveled in every second of his stardom, especially the front-row “seat” he was given for the show’s weekly concert in Rockefeller Plaza.
The camera loved Preston and its love was not unrequited. Preston’s family loved the camera loving Preston. I assume Preston loved the airplane trip from Utah and his whirlwind tour of New York, too. That’ll teach him, huh? Imagine what this clever lad will come up with when he has a book report he doesn’t feel like writing--or how he’ll get out of visiting crotchety old grandma in the stinky nursing home.
I know most families would love to be on the “Today” show, even though mine would rather guzzle strychnine. But shame on the Scarbroughs for using Preston’s potentially deadly prank as currency for buying 15 minutes of fame.
And shame on the “Today” show staffers who invited them.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The new heroin
I am sitting under the hairdryer at my neighborhood salon, waiting for the conditioning treatment to work its miracle. Magazine in hand, I’m feeling about as relaxed as I can when I’m out in public, knowing I am in constant danger of colliding with stupidity.
Once again, I am not disappointed.
“Who has my ‘Vanity Fair’?” yells an old crone badly in need of some salon magic. No one answers.
She takes it up a notch. “I need my 'Vanity Fair!' I need my ‘Vanity Fair!’” Apparently, 'Vanity Fair' is the new heroin.
What in the world makes her think the magazine is hers? Suddenly, I am feeling better than relaxed. I’m feeling feisty.
“Oh,” I asked naively as I showed her the cover, “is this what you're looking for?”
“Oh my God! Yes. Can I have it?”
“Nooo. I’m reading it. Just started, too. It’s a really, really great issue.” Actually, I consider the magazine pretentious and way over-written. But I was dying to see some previously unpublished photos of Heath Ledger.
Then Queen Bee really fucked up. “Find me,” she commanded, “when you’re finished with it.”
FIND ME WHEN YOU’RE FINISHED WITH IT???? Are you fucking kidding me? Do people not say “please” in The Land of the Entitled?
I was dumbstruck. Puzzled that I hadn’t answered--or, more likely, snapped to attention--this creature stuck out her hand and introduced herself, to which I replied, using my best manners,“Uh huh.”
“I always read that magazine whenever I come here. I’m a Republican and I love to argue with the magazine.”
I jumped right on that one. “Um, I don’t mean to pick nits, but you can’t really argue with a magazine. It’s an inanimate object. You could roll up the magazine, though, and use it as a flimsy weapon when you argue with a living thing, provided the living thing speaks.
"And I gotta tell you: If I ever had any intention of 'finding you'--which, by the way, I did not--it would have evaporated the instant I found out you were a Republican. Step and fetch your own magazine, okay?"
“Oh, but now we’re having a dialogue!” she countered. "Isn't that great?"
“Actually, honey, you’re having a monologue. I’m reading ‘Vanity Fair.’ Really, really great issue.”
Once again, I am not disappointed.
“Who has my ‘Vanity Fair’?” yells an old crone badly in need of some salon magic. No one answers.
She takes it up a notch. “I need my 'Vanity Fair!' I need my ‘Vanity Fair!’” Apparently, 'Vanity Fair' is the new heroin.
What in the world makes her think the magazine is hers? Suddenly, I am feeling better than relaxed. I’m feeling feisty.
“Oh,” I asked naively as I showed her the cover, “is this what you're looking for?”
“Oh my God! Yes. Can I have it?”
“Nooo. I’m reading it. Just started, too. It’s a really, really great issue.” Actually, I consider the magazine pretentious and way over-written. But I was dying to see some previously unpublished photos of Heath Ledger.
Then Queen Bee really fucked up. “Find me,” she commanded, “when you’re finished with it.”
FIND ME WHEN YOU’RE FINISHED WITH IT???? Are you fucking kidding me? Do people not say “please” in The Land of the Entitled?
I was dumbstruck. Puzzled that I hadn’t answered--or, more likely, snapped to attention--this creature stuck out her hand and introduced herself, to which I replied, using my best manners,“Uh huh.”
“I always read that magazine whenever I come here. I’m a Republican and I love to argue with the magazine.”
I jumped right on that one. “Um, I don’t mean to pick nits, but you can’t really argue with a magazine. It’s an inanimate object. You could roll up the magazine, though, and use it as a flimsy weapon when you argue with a living thing, provided the living thing speaks.
"And I gotta tell you: If I ever had any intention of 'finding you'--which, by the way, I did not--it would have evaporated the instant I found out you were a Republican. Step and fetch your own magazine, okay?"
“Oh, but now we’re having a dialogue!” she countered. "Isn't that great?"
“Actually, honey, you’re having a monologue. I’m reading ‘Vanity Fair.’ Really, really great issue.”
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Let's have fun!
Wow. Yesterday’s blog was a real upper, huh?
If there is one thing I hate—and oh, how I wish there was only one (or 100, for that matter)—it is people who are unable to say “I’m sorry.” I plan to dedicate a special blog to them in the near future but, for today, suffice it to say that I cannot apologize to you nearly enough for allowing my marshmallow center to immobilize my armor.
More than once since posting what I have dubbed "The Big Boo-Hoo,” I was tempted to remove it. But I kept hearing the voice of my therapist--known by my family and friends as Annie Sullivan--urging me to embrace my pain. So embrace it I did. I left the blog as is and will use that triumph as currency when I try to barter a free session from her on Wednesday.
But today, on the eve of reuniting with The Bitch and my brother-in-title-only, I have bigger challenges to face. The marketing manager at the “retirement village” strongly suggests that we sample an activity or two. Left to my mother’s devices, we’d be first in line for “Margarita Mondays!” But I’m going to push for “Who Am I?” Half the people living in that place probably have no fucking clue. How cool would it be to see what they come up with?
Initially, I was tempted to sit in on a session of “Baking Memories!” but I realized that it requires too much forethought. I would need to figure out precisely what year I brought that disaster of a pumpkin pie to my aunt’s Thanksgiving dinner. Or I’d have to try to remember who saved my sorry ass by lending me a cup of confectioner’s sugar during the middle of the night when the cream cheese frosting on my carrot cake got so damn runny.
I’m starting to feel a little desperate. Maybe the Monday at 2 p.m. slot is just a loser. Sure, I could suggest “Story Hour!” but how, exactly, would I word that? “Okay, Mommie Dearest, it’s time to be infantilized?”
There are two stellar possibilities. I know she could come up with a bitter memory for “Let’s Reminisce!” Or, if I could stand seeing her “life of the party act” one more time, she would likely love “Let’s Sing Out Loud!” Sing out loud? Jesus. As opposed to…what? Sing to ourselves?
[Note to whoever names these courses: Overusing exclamation marks is a sign of laziness--not unlike my overuse of long dashes. They reek of desperation, too, so let them go. Please?]
Okay. Here’s the bottom line on tomorrow. I don’t know which activity we’ll end up trying, but I can promise it won’t be at “Mind Games!” Just being there will be mind game enough for me.
If there is one thing I hate—and oh, how I wish there was only one (or 100, for that matter)—it is people who are unable to say “I’m sorry.” I plan to dedicate a special blog to them in the near future but, for today, suffice it to say that I cannot apologize to you nearly enough for allowing my marshmallow center to immobilize my armor.
More than once since posting what I have dubbed "The Big Boo-Hoo,” I was tempted to remove it. But I kept hearing the voice of my therapist--known by my family and friends as Annie Sullivan--urging me to embrace my pain. So embrace it I did. I left the blog as is and will use that triumph as currency when I try to barter a free session from her on Wednesday.
But today, on the eve of reuniting with The Bitch and my brother-in-title-only, I have bigger challenges to face. The marketing manager at the “retirement village” strongly suggests that we sample an activity or two. Left to my mother’s devices, we’d be first in line for “Margarita Mondays!” But I’m going to push for “Who Am I?” Half the people living in that place probably have no fucking clue. How cool would it be to see what they come up with?
Initially, I was tempted to sit in on a session of “Baking Memories!” but I realized that it requires too much forethought. I would need to figure out precisely what year I brought that disaster of a pumpkin pie to my aunt’s Thanksgiving dinner. Or I’d have to try to remember who saved my sorry ass by lending me a cup of confectioner’s sugar during the middle of the night when the cream cheese frosting on my carrot cake got so damn runny.
I’m starting to feel a little desperate. Maybe the Monday at 2 p.m. slot is just a loser. Sure, I could suggest “Story Hour!” but how, exactly, would I word that? “Okay, Mommie Dearest, it’s time to be infantilized?”
There are two stellar possibilities. I know she could come up with a bitter memory for “Let’s Reminisce!” Or, if I could stand seeing her “life of the party act” one more time, she would likely love “Let’s Sing Out Loud!” Sing out loud? Jesus. As opposed to…what? Sing to ourselves?
[Note to whoever names these courses: Overusing exclamation marks is a sign of laziness--not unlike my overuse of long dashes. They reek of desperation, too, so let them go. Please?]
Okay. Here’s the bottom line on tomorrow. I don’t know which activity we’ll end up trying, but I can promise it won’t be at “Mind Games!” Just being there will be mind game enough for me.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Stranger in a strange land
The Bitch is sitting on the toilet. I am kneeling, all senses fully engaged, between her 87-year-old legs, wiping her ass.
Because of a genetic anomaly, I am able to acknowledge the possibility that I don’t have a monopoly on feelings, so I am talking nonstop to distract her. As I reach for her clean panties [oh, to have the talent to describe how hard it was to type that p-word], she says, “One day, I hope you learn some compassion” and begins to segue into yet another recitation of her woes.
I lost it. Looked right in her eyes and screamed, “Shut the fuck up! I’m sick of your goddamn bitching and moaning. Just shut UP!”
As soon as I helped her back to bed, I went to the kitchen and started to cry, overflowing with shame at having told my mother to fuck off, even though she deserved it. Even though she had deserved it for a very long time.
Then, of course, I got angry—at myself—for crying instead of celebrating what should have been a triumphant moment.
That incident happened more than two years ago, but I have thought about it often this week. On Monday, my brother-in-title-only and I will take her to visit an assisted living community. Signing a lease is far from a done deal, but my real brother, who lives out of town, has somehow made this miracle visit happen.
I know she would be safer there than in the large apartment she loves. I know she’d be busier and far more content. What I don’t know is why this upcoming visit fills me with sadness. If ever I needed to put on a happy face, Monday afternoon would be the time. I fear I won’t be able to pull it off. And I’m afraid of the tears I hope I can hold back until after I take her home.
As always, my sadness makes me feel angry. This time, it also puzzles me. I know I will grieve when she dies, although not for the “right” reasons. What has sustained me for the past I-don't-know-how-long is the knowledge that one day, if I am lucky enough to outlive her, the space I allow her to occupy in my head will shrink to a manageable size. That I can see myself in a light her judgments don’t eclipse. That maybe I can be free.
Because of a genetic anomaly, I am able to acknowledge the possibility that I don’t have a monopoly on feelings, so I am talking nonstop to distract her. As I reach for her clean panties [oh, to have the talent to describe how hard it was to type that p-word], she says, “One day, I hope you learn some compassion” and begins to segue into yet another recitation of her woes.
I lost it. Looked right in her eyes and screamed, “Shut the fuck up! I’m sick of your goddamn bitching and moaning. Just shut UP!”
As soon as I helped her back to bed, I went to the kitchen and started to cry, overflowing with shame at having told my mother to fuck off, even though she deserved it. Even though she had deserved it for a very long time.
Then, of course, I got angry—at myself—for crying instead of celebrating what should have been a triumphant moment.
That incident happened more than two years ago, but I have thought about it often this week. On Monday, my brother-in-title-only and I will take her to visit an assisted living community. Signing a lease is far from a done deal, but my real brother, who lives out of town, has somehow made this miracle visit happen.
I know she would be safer there than in the large apartment she loves. I know she’d be busier and far more content. What I don’t know is why this upcoming visit fills me with sadness. If ever I needed to put on a happy face, Monday afternoon would be the time. I fear I won’t be able to pull it off. And I’m afraid of the tears I hope I can hold back until after I take her home.
As always, my sadness makes me feel angry. This time, it also puzzles me. I know I will grieve when she dies, although not for the “right” reasons. What has sustained me for the past I-don't-know-how-long is the knowledge that one day, if I am lucky enough to outlive her, the space I allow her to occupy in my head will shrink to a manageable size. That I can see myself in a light her judgments don’t eclipse. That maybe I can be free.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Bus stop hallucinations
An elementary school friend told me a former classmate of ours has been asking about me. She said that the former classmate, now an attorney, accused me of having beaten her up at the bus stop in 4th grade.
I’m a big believer in taking responsibility for one’s actions, so I’ll admit it: I was among the legions of classmates who bullied her--with good reason. I regret--really, I do--any pain I caused her, but not nearly enough to make amends. That would necessitate my talking to or--worse--seeing her again. I would rather pour lye into my baby blues.
But beat her up on the bus stop? We weren’t even on the same bus, for fuck’s sake. I would have needed a bionic arm to reach her bus stop from mine. Besides which, I would never risk damaging my fist; I’d reach for an RPG, my weapon of choice--at least according to a silly Facebook quiz.
Six years ago, this lunatic decided she wanted to meet me for dinner. She left a bunch of messages on my voicemail. I could tell you I didn’t call her back because my dad had just died and I was institutionalized, but the only thing true about that statement would be the first part. No, the truth is simple. Every dead person I ever knew and loved could be resurrected in my living room and I’d still have to be grossly overpaid to spend five minutes with this chick.
I don't want to hear her histrionic rants about how mean I was. Bygones, honey. Truth is, she owes me a debt of gratitude for giving her the strength and wherewithal to overcome adversity. Especially because she brought it on herself.
What self-respecting, awkward adolescent tries to craft an Oscar-worthy performance from a stupid report? You got up in front of the class, you mumbled--at breakneck speed--whatever was written on your index cards, then you sat the hell back down as fast as you could. But not my little punching bag. She stood up and --with great pride, drama and an overabundance of volume--cleared her throat and announced the title of her project: “CLAra BARton. (LONNNNNG pause.) ANGEL (pause, pause) of the BATtlefield.”
Important note: I’m not a lawyer, but if I were defending me against my friend’s bogus assault and battery charge, I would look knowingly at the jury as I restated the full name of her book report, emphasizing the word “battlefield.” Then I would hint, ever so slyly, that my old buddy had a longstanding fascination with fighting.
Hmmm. I'm liking this court scenario.
So hear this, Clara. Keep slandering me and my niece and I will see you in court. She'll be passing the bar exam next week. Or, of you prefer, I will gladly meet you at a bus stop and, this time--I promise-- I will beat the living shit out of you.
I’m a big believer in taking responsibility for one’s actions, so I’ll admit it: I was among the legions of classmates who bullied her--with good reason. I regret--really, I do--any pain I caused her, but not nearly enough to make amends. That would necessitate my talking to or--worse--seeing her again. I would rather pour lye into my baby blues.
But beat her up on the bus stop? We weren’t even on the same bus, for fuck’s sake. I would have needed a bionic arm to reach her bus stop from mine. Besides which, I would never risk damaging my fist; I’d reach for an RPG, my weapon of choice--at least according to a silly Facebook quiz.
Six years ago, this lunatic decided she wanted to meet me for dinner. She left a bunch of messages on my voicemail. I could tell you I didn’t call her back because my dad had just died and I was institutionalized, but the only thing true about that statement would be the first part. No, the truth is simple. Every dead person I ever knew and loved could be resurrected in my living room and I’d still have to be grossly overpaid to spend five minutes with this chick.
I don't want to hear her histrionic rants about how mean I was. Bygones, honey. Truth is, she owes me a debt of gratitude for giving her the strength and wherewithal to overcome adversity. Especially because she brought it on herself.
What self-respecting, awkward adolescent tries to craft an Oscar-worthy performance from a stupid report? You got up in front of the class, you mumbled--at breakneck speed--whatever was written on your index cards, then you sat the hell back down as fast as you could. But not my little punching bag. She stood up and --with great pride, drama and an overabundance of volume--cleared her throat and announced the title of her project: “CLAra BARton. (LONNNNNG pause.) ANGEL (pause, pause) of the BATtlefield.”
Important note: I’m not a lawyer, but if I were defending me against my friend’s bogus assault and battery charge, I would look knowingly at the jury as I restated the full name of her book report, emphasizing the word “battlefield.” Then I would hint, ever so slyly, that my old buddy had a longstanding fascination with fighting.
Hmmm. I'm liking this court scenario.
So hear this, Clara. Keep slandering me and my niece and I will see you in court. She'll be passing the bar exam next week. Or, of you prefer, I will gladly meet you at a bus stop and, this time--I promise-- I will beat the living shit out of you.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Mommie Dearest: part 1
For the first 10 or so years after I was married, my mother never failed to greet my husband by asking, “Do you still love her?” Never.
Uncharacteristically, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the first time--hell, I can be generous--maybe the first two, it was cute. Not funny, but mildly amusing. Maybe.
After that: not so much. Especially after four years. And then after five and six and seven and... It seemed my marriage needed to last a decade before my mother could cast aside her deep-seated fear that my husband would wake up one day and realize what a horrific mistake he had made.
Thanks for the memory, mom.
Uncharacteristically, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the first time--hell, I can be generous--maybe the first two, it was cute. Not funny, but mildly amusing. Maybe.
After that: not so much. Especially after four years. And then after five and six and seven and... It seemed my marriage needed to last a decade before my mother could cast aside her deep-seated fear that my husband would wake up one day and realize what a horrific mistake he had made.
Thanks for the memory, mom.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
My great airport debacle
I have always resented rules, especially when I determine they are stupid and/or inforced inconsistently. Placing a very close second is my dislike for authority figures. I encountered both at the Ft. Lauderdale airport.
It's a simple but moving story: a TSA agent took away my snow globe. Apparently it’s a weapon. I thought it was a stupid rule, but I was more concerned with flying safely than I was about pressing the point. What got me—but didn’t matter a lick to that fat fuck of a TSA agent—was that I purchased the snow globe at the Baltimore airport and flew with it, in my carry-on bag, to Ft. Lauderdale.
If there is a syndrome that is to impotent men what Napoleonic complexes are to short people, this prick could have been its poster boy. He was a strident son-of-a-bitch whose delight in my displeasure was written all over his body, in huge neon letters.
“I don’t care what they do in Baltimore,” he crowed. “That snow globe isn’t leaving here.” He told me I could mail it, but I didn't have enough time.
"Well, then, you’ll have to hand it over.” He took the bag and threw it away immediately. Right in front of me.
Prior to this event, the only problems I had ever encountered going through airport security were caused by the underwire in my bra. So it took me a second or two to process that I was furious at this jerk. I knew enough to whisper my curses, but they came fast and furious, like the orgasms in his dreams.
I began an internal dialogue. “Go get that thing out of the trash.” “Don’t. You could get in trouble.” “He’s an asshole and his rule is ludicrous. Get the goddamn snow globe.” "You really shouldn't. Just get to the gate."
That my son was witnessing this meltdown only fueled my passion to reclaim the snow globe. I was sure the incident was destined to be the film that played in his head whenever he needed inspiration. Sort of like Rocky running the steps at the Philly Museum of Art, but with a better soundtrack.
I was wasting time and I knew it. Quickly, I slipped into my sandals and gathered my stuff from the conveyor belt. Corporal Cocksucker had his back to me; he was busy “assisting” other travelers. Fearlessly, I dropped to my knees, crawled to the trash can and reached my arm right in. Bag in hand and headed for victory, the agent did an about-face. Apparently, he is such a freak that he actually has eyes in the back of his blockhead.
He screamed—and boy do I love when authority figures do that—“Ma’am, what are you doing?”
He was angry at my blatent disrespect. I was angry at my failure to succeed. “Uh. I thought I’d mail it after all,” I countered, not nearly as forcefully as I would have liked.
“I don’t think so,” he smirked. “Once you surrender an item, it’s ours.” He put my snow globe back in the trash, exactly where he belonged.
It's a simple but moving story: a TSA agent took away my snow globe. Apparently it’s a weapon. I thought it was a stupid rule, but I was more concerned with flying safely than I was about pressing the point. What got me—but didn’t matter a lick to that fat fuck of a TSA agent—was that I purchased the snow globe at the Baltimore airport and flew with it, in my carry-on bag, to Ft. Lauderdale.
If there is a syndrome that is to impotent men what Napoleonic complexes are to short people, this prick could have been its poster boy. He was a strident son-of-a-bitch whose delight in my displeasure was written all over his body, in huge neon letters.
“I don’t care what they do in Baltimore,” he crowed. “That snow globe isn’t leaving here.” He told me I could mail it, but I didn't have enough time.
"Well, then, you’ll have to hand it over.” He took the bag and threw it away immediately. Right in front of me.
Prior to this event, the only problems I had ever encountered going through airport security were caused by the underwire in my bra. So it took me a second or two to process that I was furious at this jerk. I knew enough to whisper my curses, but they came fast and furious, like the orgasms in his dreams.
I began an internal dialogue. “Go get that thing out of the trash.” “Don’t. You could get in trouble.” “He’s an asshole and his rule is ludicrous. Get the goddamn snow globe.” "You really shouldn't. Just get to the gate."
That my son was witnessing this meltdown only fueled my passion to reclaim the snow globe. I was sure the incident was destined to be the film that played in his head whenever he needed inspiration. Sort of like Rocky running the steps at the Philly Museum of Art, but with a better soundtrack.
I was wasting time and I knew it. Quickly, I slipped into my sandals and gathered my stuff from the conveyor belt. Corporal Cocksucker had his back to me; he was busy “assisting” other travelers. Fearlessly, I dropped to my knees, crawled to the trash can and reached my arm right in. Bag in hand and headed for victory, the agent did an about-face. Apparently, he is such a freak that he actually has eyes in the back of his blockhead.
He screamed—and boy do I love when authority figures do that—“Ma’am, what are you doing?”
He was angry at my blatent disrespect. I was angry at my failure to succeed. “Uh. I thought I’d mail it after all,” I countered, not nearly as forcefully as I would have liked.
“I don’t think so,” he smirked. “Once you surrender an item, it’s ours.” He put my snow globe back in the trash, exactly where he belonged.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Glass half full
I have never been mistaken for an optimist, but Baltimore's new trash pickup policy is bringing out the Pollyanna in me. I believe it may be a blessing--and not just for rats.
Make no mistake. I have no doubt the once-a-week pickup system will fail. People are too goddamn lazy--or feel too fucking entitled --to be bothered with the enormous burden of recycling.
Sooner than we imagine, Baltimore City's streets and alleys will be rife with the stench of decomposing trash. One city resident, interviewed by a local t.v. reporter, hypothesized that children will be unable to play outside before long.
Bravo. Perhaps they will be less vulnerable to stray bullets.
Make no mistake. I have no doubt the once-a-week pickup system will fail. People are too goddamn lazy--or feel too fucking entitled --to be bothered with the enormous burden of recycling.
Sooner than we imagine, Baltimore City's streets and alleys will be rife with the stench of decomposing trash. One city resident, interviewed by a local t.v. reporter, hypothesized that children will be unable to play outside before long.
Bravo. Perhaps they will be less vulnerable to stray bullets.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
My aborted career as a hair stylist
I am a hospice volunteer. Once a week, I sit with a terminally ill person for a few hours so the primary caregiver can take a much-needed break. It is a wonderful service, but its biggest advantage is that it allows me to be selfish. I get to work through my death anxiety even as I fool people into thinking I’m nicer than I am.
Hospice work builds my character, too. Volunteers are told to leave their judgments at the front door. For me, this is no small feat. I have made progress during the 15 years I have been volunteering, but it certainly hasn’t generalized to other areas of my life.
One area in which I don’t hesitate to be judgmental is the referral process. WAY too many doctors suggest hospice too late in the process for people to benefit from it. Since 1994, I have known only two patients for any significant length of time. So, when people wonder if hospice volunteering is sad, my answer is—unfortunately—“not often enough.”
Surprisingly, there can be much humor in hospice. Once, my supervisor called to ask me if I would accept a patient who had a rash in her genital area. “No, problem,” I told her.
“Wait, she said. There’s more. Whenever the patient pees, you’ll have to wash her bottom and then blow dry her pubic hair.”
Jesus. I’m a hospice volunteer, not a hair stylist. I don't have nearly enough talent for that.
Before I accepted the assignment, there was stuff I needed to know. Does the patient use styling products? Was she going for straight, wavy or curly? I didn’t ask about her hair dryer or brushes; I sure as shit wasn’t going to bring mine.
I accepted the assignment, but my pre-visit anxiety was sky-high. To allay my fear, I formulated a simple plan for my patient. No liquids. I didn’t care if she had feasted on potato chips and feta cheese for hours before I arrived. If she wanted a drink, she was going to have to get out of bed and get it herself. I would neither aid nor abet. I’m not a medical professional, but I knew that what went into her would eventually come out, and I surely did not want to “go there.”
When I arrived at her apartment, she was--of course--finishing an extra-large milkshake. For every second of that visit, I paced, anxiously awaiting her husband’s return. Lucky for me, he came back in record time. He said he “hated to leave her alone.”
Bingo. Another opportunity to be selfish...and come out smelling like a rose.
I told him that I wouldn't hear of putting him through that anxiety ever again. “From now on, I’ll do the errands and you can stay home with your wife!” He protested, but only a bit. "Seriously, it's no problem at all! “I’d be happy to do it!” I reassured him.
Hair today, gone tomorrow.
Hospice work builds my character, too. Volunteers are told to leave their judgments at the front door. For me, this is no small feat. I have made progress during the 15 years I have been volunteering, but it certainly hasn’t generalized to other areas of my life.
One area in which I don’t hesitate to be judgmental is the referral process. WAY too many doctors suggest hospice too late in the process for people to benefit from it. Since 1994, I have known only two patients for any significant length of time. So, when people wonder if hospice volunteering is sad, my answer is—unfortunately—“not often enough.”
Surprisingly, there can be much humor in hospice. Once, my supervisor called to ask me if I would accept a patient who had a rash in her genital area. “No, problem,” I told her.
“Wait, she said. There’s more. Whenever the patient pees, you’ll have to wash her bottom and then blow dry her pubic hair.”
Jesus. I’m a hospice volunteer, not a hair stylist. I don't have nearly enough talent for that.
Before I accepted the assignment, there was stuff I needed to know. Does the patient use styling products? Was she going for straight, wavy or curly? I didn’t ask about her hair dryer or brushes; I sure as shit wasn’t going to bring mine.
I accepted the assignment, but my pre-visit anxiety was sky-high. To allay my fear, I formulated a simple plan for my patient. No liquids. I didn’t care if she had feasted on potato chips and feta cheese for hours before I arrived. If she wanted a drink, she was going to have to get out of bed and get it herself. I would neither aid nor abet. I’m not a medical professional, but I knew that what went into her would eventually come out, and I surely did not want to “go there.”
When I arrived at her apartment, she was--of course--finishing an extra-large milkshake. For every second of that visit, I paced, anxiously awaiting her husband’s return. Lucky for me, he came back in record time. He said he “hated to leave her alone.”
Bingo. Another opportunity to be selfish...and come out smelling like a rose.
I told him that I wouldn't hear of putting him through that anxiety ever again. “From now on, I’ll do the errands and you can stay home with your wife!” He protested, but only a bit. "Seriously, it's no problem at all! “I’d be happy to do it!” I reassured him.
Hair today, gone tomorrow.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Safe in Al's arms
My nephew took me to an indoor shooting range last year. It was the cheapest therapy I ever had.
Al’s Arms shares a building with a U.S. post office, a real convenience for postmen who decide to go postal. For the rest of us, a valid driver’s license and $30 will cover the cost of a pistol and 50 bullets. No knowledge of guns or proof of mental health required.
Three sullen employees kept watch over case after case of rifles, pistols and revolvers. I didn’t care what kind of firearm my nephew picked; I was captivated by the target choices. While I scoped them out, a startling sound ricocheted off the countertops right into my eardrums.
What I assumed was a prank hand buzzer turned out to be digitalized words from the voice box of one of Al’s employees. Predisposed to inappropriate laughter, I knew that making eye contact with my nephew was out of the question, so I returned to the targets. Choosing the right one was vitally important to me.
“We’ll take the 22-revolver and the checkerboard target,” I heard my nephew say. “No," I countered, "we'll take the one with the body outline."
I had been waiting half a century to fire a pistol. No way was I settling for a checkerboard.
Admittedly, there were worse choices, but no one who has an ounce of self-esteem would unload hostility onto a prairie dog target. Bulls-eye targets were too plebian for my taste, and targets covered with photos of bottles and cans seemed like child’s play. What I wanted was a lifelike target that cried out in pain and fell to the ground, hemorrhaging, when shot. Barring that, I wanted the closest possible thing.
You see, I needed to witness the horror on my mother-in-law’s face when she spotted me, pistol in hand and ready for revenge. I craved the chance to watch my son’s principal piss his pants while, eyes fixed on my weapon, he begged for my mercy. I wanted to pretend I had the power--just once--to make a grocery store cashier thank me for bagging.
We took the body outline target and entered the shooting range, accompanied by our instructor. When he tells people about our trip to the shooting range, my nephew refers to him as Ned, the character from “South Park” who has a voice box, too.
Ned taught us to use the gun in a minute flat. He and my nephew tag-teamed the demo; it called for two hands, and Ned had to use one of his to cover his voice box. The lesson was so basic it barely qualified as one, and it shouldn’t have qualified us as range-ready. Maybe it should have bothered me, but I had my victims in sight and I was itching to pull the trigger.
For a novice, I thought I was a good shot. My nephew disagreed. He believed his bullets were the lethal ones and that most of mine were out of bounds. I was too mature to argue.
I was not too mature to yell at the target before I fired. “This one’s for you, Kilgore, you asshole” I taunted the principal. “Who’s the bitch now, Ida?” I asked my mother-in-law. This was therapy at its finest.
We shot our load in record time, but the feeling of power persisted long after we were home from the range. The bullet-ridden target still hangs in my office, and every so often I find a shell casing hidden by my nephew to remind me of the time I found comfort in Al’s Arms.
Al’s Arms shares a building with a U.S. post office, a real convenience for postmen who decide to go postal. For the rest of us, a valid driver’s license and $30 will cover the cost of a pistol and 50 bullets. No knowledge of guns or proof of mental health required.
Three sullen employees kept watch over case after case of rifles, pistols and revolvers. I didn’t care what kind of firearm my nephew picked; I was captivated by the target choices. While I scoped them out, a startling sound ricocheted off the countertops right into my eardrums.
What I assumed was a prank hand buzzer turned out to be digitalized words from the voice box of one of Al’s employees. Predisposed to inappropriate laughter, I knew that making eye contact with my nephew was out of the question, so I returned to the targets. Choosing the right one was vitally important to me.
“We’ll take the 22-revolver and the checkerboard target,” I heard my nephew say. “No," I countered, "we'll take the one with the body outline."
I had been waiting half a century to fire a pistol. No way was I settling for a checkerboard.
Admittedly, there were worse choices, but no one who has an ounce of self-esteem would unload hostility onto a prairie dog target. Bulls-eye targets were too plebian for my taste, and targets covered with photos of bottles and cans seemed like child’s play. What I wanted was a lifelike target that cried out in pain and fell to the ground, hemorrhaging, when shot. Barring that, I wanted the closest possible thing.
You see, I needed to witness the horror on my mother-in-law’s face when she spotted me, pistol in hand and ready for revenge. I craved the chance to watch my son’s principal piss his pants while, eyes fixed on my weapon, he begged for my mercy. I wanted to pretend I had the power--just once--to make a grocery store cashier thank me for bagging.
We took the body outline target and entered the shooting range, accompanied by our instructor. When he tells people about our trip to the shooting range, my nephew refers to him as Ned, the character from “South Park” who has a voice box, too.
Ned taught us to use the gun in a minute flat. He and my nephew tag-teamed the demo; it called for two hands, and Ned had to use one of his to cover his voice box. The lesson was so basic it barely qualified as one, and it shouldn’t have qualified us as range-ready. Maybe it should have bothered me, but I had my victims in sight and I was itching to pull the trigger.
For a novice, I thought I was a good shot. My nephew disagreed. He believed his bullets were the lethal ones and that most of mine were out of bounds. I was too mature to argue.
I was not too mature to yell at the target before I fired. “This one’s for you, Kilgore, you asshole” I taunted the principal. “Who’s the bitch now, Ida?” I asked my mother-in-law. This was therapy at its finest.
We shot our load in record time, but the feeling of power persisted long after we were home from the range. The bullet-ridden target still hangs in my office, and every so often I find a shell casing hidden by my nephew to remind me of the time I found comfort in Al’s Arms.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Thanks for everything
It takes so little to make me and my son laugh uncontrollably. Last month, for example, we were in Miami. Our friendly bellhop gave us a lot of excellent hints. Here is our favorite:
"There's a stool in the bathroom."
My husband, who acts like the grownup he is, thanked the bellhop for the information. My son and I glanced at each other and knew--immediately--we were in trouble.
I wanted to ask the bellhop why no one had flushed the toilet or--if need be--cleaned the floor. But I was otherwise occupied, biting the inside of my cheek in the hope that pain would triumph over laughter.
My son was standing nonchalantly in front of the window, pretending to admire the view of Biscayne Bay. His strategy failed. The curtains, moving to the beat of his silent but convulsive laughter, gave him away.
My son laughs in a dignified manner; I howl and cry. The minute the bellhop left the room, we let loose. After four or five minutes and a few false attempts, we composed ourselves well enough to explain the joke to our loveable but clueless roommate; then we fell apart again. And again. All weekend long.
It's not that we didn't appreciate the bellhop's hint. In fact, we gave him an extra-generous tip. And we included a lovely compliment in the evaluation form we filled out at the end of our trip: "Thanks for the stool in the bathroom."
"There's a stool in the bathroom."
My husband, who acts like the grownup he is, thanked the bellhop for the information. My son and I glanced at each other and knew--immediately--we were in trouble.
I wanted to ask the bellhop why no one had flushed the toilet or--if need be--cleaned the floor. But I was otherwise occupied, biting the inside of my cheek in the hope that pain would triumph over laughter.
My son was standing nonchalantly in front of the window, pretending to admire the view of Biscayne Bay. His strategy failed. The curtains, moving to the beat of his silent but convulsive laughter, gave him away.
My son laughs in a dignified manner; I howl and cry. The minute the bellhop left the room, we let loose. After four or five minutes and a few false attempts, we composed ourselves well enough to explain the joke to our loveable but clueless roommate; then we fell apart again. And again. All weekend long.
It's not that we didn't appreciate the bellhop's hint. In fact, we gave him an extra-generous tip. And we included a lovely compliment in the evaluation form we filled out at the end of our trip: "Thanks for the stool in the bathroom."
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
You don't have to do that to be popular
When I was 16, my mother saw me kissing a date goodnight. As I recall, there was tongue but no humping. Nevertheless, Mommie Dearest pounced on me as soon as I entered the house.
"You don't have to do that to be popular," she yelled.
"Hi, mom. I had a good time. Thanks for asking."
"Did you hear me? I said you don't have to do that to be popular."
I wanted to tell her that, au contraire, I felt I had to do exactly that--and a whole lot more--thanks to the pitiful lack of sense of self-esteem she had instilled in me.
Instead, I proceeded down the hall to my bedroom, the only place in the house I felt even remotely comfortable. Once, in group therapy, my shrink asked participants to describe the room we felt safest in as a child. I came up empty and described the back yard.
But my adventures in therapy are fodder for other blogs. So let's jump ahead 10 years to the afternoon my mother called me to see if she could stop by for a visit. First of all, this was unprecedented. Second of all, FUCK.
She arrived saying she "had something important to talk about." This never was, never is and never will be a good thing.
For the first time in my life, she wanted to apologize to me. The reason? She feared that her aforementioned comment, uttered a decade earlier, "had made me frigid." If you need to re-read that last sentence, I understand. Catch up when you can.
Besides the fact that my mother's narcissism is unparalleled, her reason for thinking I was frigid was that she didn't think I had been "seeing anyone." Oh, I'm seeing people, ma. I'm seeing A LOT of [a lot of] people. I don't tell you about it because we don't have that kind of relationship."
She blanched and exited. I smiled and made plans for that evening.
"You don't have to do that to be popular," she yelled.
"Hi, mom. I had a good time. Thanks for asking."
"Did you hear me? I said you don't have to do that to be popular."
I wanted to tell her that, au contraire, I felt I had to do exactly that--and a whole lot more--thanks to the pitiful lack of sense of self-esteem she had instilled in me.
Instead, I proceeded down the hall to my bedroom, the only place in the house I felt even remotely comfortable. Once, in group therapy, my shrink asked participants to describe the room we felt safest in as a child. I came up empty and described the back yard.
But my adventures in therapy are fodder for other blogs. So let's jump ahead 10 years to the afternoon my mother called me to see if she could stop by for a visit. First of all, this was unprecedented. Second of all, FUCK.
She arrived saying she "had something important to talk about." This never was, never is and never will be a good thing.
For the first time in my life, she wanted to apologize to me. The reason? She feared that her aforementioned comment, uttered a decade earlier, "had made me frigid." If you need to re-read that last sentence, I understand. Catch up when you can.
Besides the fact that my mother's narcissism is unparalleled, her reason for thinking I was frigid was that she didn't think I had been "seeing anyone." Oh, I'm seeing people, ma. I'm seeing A LOT of [a lot of] people. I don't tell you about it because we don't have that kind of relationship."
She blanched and exited. I smiled and made plans for that evening.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Sorry, idiots
I am mistress of the caustic phrase, queen of the acerbic comeback. It makes people wary of me, which suits me just fine.
Compared to my cousin, however, my cutting edge is dull.Her tongue is quicker and more irreverent than mine, yet she is loved universally. At her wedding last month, guest after guest felt moved to speak about how “nice” she is.
“Jeez….I can be nice,” I whined to my husband during the reception, “but nobody ever stands up and says so.”
Desperate for confirmation that the definition of “nice” had changed without my knowing it, I did something I almost never do: I initiated a conversation with a stranger.
“How long have you known my cousin?” I asked a guest named Stephen. “About 11 years,” he replied. “Yet you described her as nice,” I said. “What’s up with that?” He laughed, so I liked him immediately--something else I rarely do.
Stephen explained that my cousin is “thoughtful” and “gives great advice.” Big deal, I thought. I think a lot, and I love telling people what to do.
Despite Stephen’s uninspired analysis of “nice,” I invited him to join me for the wedding dinner. Throughout the meal, he and I fired off inappropriate but hilarious remarks about the other guests. It turns out Stephen isn’t all that nice, either.
I was uncharacteristically excited about having made a new friend, but it was a short-lived high. During dessert, my cousin pulled me aside and whispered, “I just saw Stephen on his way back from the bathroom. He says that next to you, I look like Mary Fucking Poppins.”
I was pissed off. What made me the bigger misanthrope?
I think I have it figured out. If people would simply keep their mouths shut, I believe I could become quite fond of them. But they insist on talking. To me.
Here’s an example. I was at the dog park when a neighbor bragged, “My grandson has only been at college for two days and he told his parents that it already feels like home.” This would be fabulous news if I cared even an iota--or if I hadn’t just told her that my niece was having a really rough time adjusting to collegiate life.
I’d lose my will to live if I believed people actually heard themselves talk.
I have a relative who says things like, "Where did you get those flowers? From FDIC?” Apparently, she can’t distinguish syllables from words, either. During one of her daughter’s temper tantrums, I heard her say, “Samantha, I have two words for you. Be-have.”
I did not tell my gloating neighbor that the ability to make a seamless transition to codid llege life is a trait shared by serial killers. And I have never told my relative she is a moron. Still, I don’t see people chomping at the bit to call me nice.
My friend Wesley and I consider it supremely unjust that we don’t get credit for the times we wanted to make an offensive comment but didn’t. To this day, we mourn every one of those missed opportunities for a laugh at someone else’s expense.
Oh, to have the freedom to respond from the heart, like my then three-year-old did when I asked him to apologize for hurting his daddy’s feelings. He thought about it for a moment and said, “Sorry [VERY long pause], idiot.” I will go to my grave regretting that I had to tell him he must never apologize like that again.
From his first colicky moment, my son was exceedingly in touch with his feelings. His first words were “Fucking shit, mama! Beep beep!” At first I thought this was outrageously funny. But as the first day of pre-school drew near, his cursing began to make me uneasy. I called his pediatrician for advice.
The doctor has a great sense of humor, which is every bit as important to me as his medical acumen. “Well, what’s typically going on when he curses, mom? "Um, I'm not sure, but I might be beeping the horn and and yelling at other drivers," I confessed. “Okay,” the doctor advised, “quit beeping the fucking horn.”
As he matured, my son began to express his feelings the hard way: without profanity. I remember one of the many times he turned down my invitation to sit in the timeout chair. My frustration must have registered on the infinitesimal part of his brain that wasn’t focused on himself. “Don’t you roll your stupid eyes at me,” he warned.
It was one of my proudest parenting moments ever. I knew the situation called for me to be an adult, but I was overcome by the pleasure of seeing the values I had instilled in my boy brought so vividly to life. The best I could do was to put him in his room, shut the door, run downstairs and laugh until I nearly puked.
I don’t know where things went wrong but these days, my son is exceedingly kind, polite and deeply respectful, especially to people who don’t deserve it. This nice streak of his irritates the shit out of me. He has what I consider to be an unnatural ability to shrug off rude people. Worse, he invents excuses for their behavior. I, in stark contrast, get enraged that they are allowed to exist; then I hang on to each incident way past its shelf life.
I found a solution. A few years ago, I bought an iPod, and I seldom leave home without it. I consider it nothing short of miraculous how well that tiny little device keeps my blood pressure stable and my internal Feng Shui-ing.
My son shudders when he sees me grabbing my iPod along with my car keys and grocery list. My husband rolls his [stupid] eyes at me. In stores, fellow customers look at me more oddly than they did before.
Sorry, idiots.
Compared to my cousin, however, my cutting edge is dull.Her tongue is quicker and more irreverent than mine, yet she is loved universally. At her wedding last month, guest after guest felt moved to speak about how “nice” she is.
“Jeez….I can be nice,” I whined to my husband during the reception, “but nobody ever stands up and says so.”
Desperate for confirmation that the definition of “nice” had changed without my knowing it, I did something I almost never do: I initiated a conversation with a stranger.
“How long have you known my cousin?” I asked a guest named Stephen. “About 11 years,” he replied. “Yet you described her as nice,” I said. “What’s up with that?” He laughed, so I liked him immediately--something else I rarely do.
Stephen explained that my cousin is “thoughtful” and “gives great advice.” Big deal, I thought. I think a lot, and I love telling people what to do.
Despite Stephen’s uninspired analysis of “nice,” I invited him to join me for the wedding dinner. Throughout the meal, he and I fired off inappropriate but hilarious remarks about the other guests. It turns out Stephen isn’t all that nice, either.
I was uncharacteristically excited about having made a new friend, but it was a short-lived high. During dessert, my cousin pulled me aside and whispered, “I just saw Stephen on his way back from the bathroom. He says that next to you, I look like Mary Fucking Poppins.”
I was pissed off. What made me the bigger misanthrope?
I think I have it figured out. If people would simply keep their mouths shut, I believe I could become quite fond of them. But they insist on talking. To me.
Here’s an example. I was at the dog park when a neighbor bragged, “My grandson has only been at college for two days and he told his parents that it already feels like home.” This would be fabulous news if I cared even an iota--or if I hadn’t just told her that my niece was having a really rough time adjusting to collegiate life.
I’d lose my will to live if I believed people actually heard themselves talk.
I have a relative who says things like, "Where did you get those flowers? From FDIC?” Apparently, she can’t distinguish syllables from words, either. During one of her daughter’s temper tantrums, I heard her say, “Samantha, I have two words for you. Be-have.”
I did not tell my gloating neighbor that the ability to make a seamless transition to codid llege life is a trait shared by serial killers. And I have never told my relative she is a moron. Still, I don’t see people chomping at the bit to call me nice.
My friend Wesley and I consider it supremely unjust that we don’t get credit for the times we wanted to make an offensive comment but didn’t. To this day, we mourn every one of those missed opportunities for a laugh at someone else’s expense.
Oh, to have the freedom to respond from the heart, like my then three-year-old did when I asked him to apologize for hurting his daddy’s feelings. He thought about it for a moment and said, “Sorry [VERY long pause], idiot.” I will go to my grave regretting that I had to tell him he must never apologize like that again.
From his first colicky moment, my son was exceedingly in touch with his feelings. His first words were “Fucking shit, mama! Beep beep!” At first I thought this was outrageously funny. But as the first day of pre-school drew near, his cursing began to make me uneasy. I called his pediatrician for advice.
The doctor has a great sense of humor, which is every bit as important to me as his medical acumen. “Well, what’s typically going on when he curses, mom? "Um, I'm not sure, but I might be beeping the horn and and yelling at other drivers," I confessed. “Okay,” the doctor advised, “quit beeping the fucking horn.”
As he matured, my son began to express his feelings the hard way: without profanity. I remember one of the many times he turned down my invitation to sit in the timeout chair. My frustration must have registered on the infinitesimal part of his brain that wasn’t focused on himself. “Don’t you roll your stupid eyes at me,” he warned.
It was one of my proudest parenting moments ever. I knew the situation called for me to be an adult, but I was overcome by the pleasure of seeing the values I had instilled in my boy brought so vividly to life. The best I could do was to put him in his room, shut the door, run downstairs and laugh until I nearly puked.
I don’t know where things went wrong but these days, my son is exceedingly kind, polite and deeply respectful, especially to people who don’t deserve it. This nice streak of his irritates the shit out of me. He has what I consider to be an unnatural ability to shrug off rude people. Worse, he invents excuses for their behavior. I, in stark contrast, get enraged that they are allowed to exist; then I hang on to each incident way past its shelf life.
I found a solution. A few years ago, I bought an iPod, and I seldom leave home without it. I consider it nothing short of miraculous how well that tiny little device keeps my blood pressure stable and my internal Feng Shui-ing.
My son shudders when he sees me grabbing my iPod along with my car keys and grocery list. My husband rolls his [stupid] eyes at me. In stores, fellow customers look at me more oddly than they did before.
Sorry, idiots.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Probably too much information
This morning, I had a mammogram for which I was way overdue. Having one is always a nerve-wracking experience, but that wasn’t what made me procrastinate. Blame that on last year’s mammogram.
It wasn’t the results, which were excellent, and it had nothing to do with the physical discomfort of having a mammogram. Sure, when your breasts are run over by a steamroller, it hurts a bit, but if you've given birth, you have some perspective. If you haven’t given birth, just know that a mammogram is a dewdrop in the pain bucket.
No, my reticence in scheduling this year’s appointment was the result of what happened after last year’s mammogram. I was still in my gown, waiting to hear if I needed more x-rays taken. Suddenly, I heard hysterical laughter emanating from the radiologist’s office, where the doctor and tech were looking at my x-rays.
Let me define “hysterical” for you. You know how, sometimes, you laugh so hard you think you are going to throw up? Or how, when you can’t stop laughing, you think you’re going to lose control of your bladder? Multiply those kinds of hysterical by, say, 5 gazillion, and you’ll get a sense of how those two “professionals” were laughing.
At my breasts.
First of all, let me say that my breasts are 55 years old. Certainly, they are past their prime, but they have served me well. Besides, I have seen enough other breasts to feel fairly confident that they are, if not stupendous, then certainly not laughable.
Most important, my breasts are healthy, for which I am profoundly grateful. Indeed, I respect them and, naively, I figured my mammography tag team would, too, given that they are attached to a person.
What my tech lacked in professionalism she made up for in stupidity. When she came to tell me to get dressed, I asked what it was about my x-ray that had made her and the doctor laugh so hard. She didn’t even try to come up with an excuse. Here’s what she offered up instead: “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am. You should never have heard that.”
In my head, I’m around 25 years old, so the ma’am thing always rankles, but I know how to prioritize so I focused on the larger issue: her misconception that what she did would have been fine if only I hadn’t heard it.
“Did it occur to you,” I yelled, “that I would never have had to hear ‘that’ if you and your buddy hadn’t acted like pre-prepubescent assholes?” She apologized again and walked away. Very quickly.
Within an hour of my visit, I had called the director of the facility and emailed the owner. An hour later, both contacted me to express their “horror,” which I was fairly sure wasn't going to keep them up at night. But it gets better.
Two days later, the radiologist phoned me. “I’m calling to apologize for your visit," he said.
“It’s not my visit that needs apologizing for. Your behavior during my visit is the problem,” I sniped.
He tried again. “I didn’t mean to do anything that would make you uncomfortable.The walls are very thin."
The walls are very thin? That’s the problem?
“The acoustics in your office is not my concern. Your laughing at my breasts is. Try to imagine how you would feel if someone took an x-ray of your penis and you overheard people laughing like hyenas at it?”
“Again, ma’am. I’m sorry it happened. I hope you have a nice day.”
Wow. Like an act of god, it just “happened.” I could picture him checking "apologize to the woman with funny breasts" off of his "To Do" list.
Today’s mammogram went a lot better. My results were great and there was no laughter. Still, there’s a nagging little worry I can’t get rid of. What the hell is so amusing about my breasts?
It wasn’t the results, which were excellent, and it had nothing to do with the physical discomfort of having a mammogram. Sure, when your breasts are run over by a steamroller, it hurts a bit, but if you've given birth, you have some perspective. If you haven’t given birth, just know that a mammogram is a dewdrop in the pain bucket.
No, my reticence in scheduling this year’s appointment was the result of what happened after last year’s mammogram. I was still in my gown, waiting to hear if I needed more x-rays taken. Suddenly, I heard hysterical laughter emanating from the radiologist’s office, where the doctor and tech were looking at my x-rays.
Let me define “hysterical” for you. You know how, sometimes, you laugh so hard you think you are going to throw up? Or how, when you can’t stop laughing, you think you’re going to lose control of your bladder? Multiply those kinds of hysterical by, say, 5 gazillion, and you’ll get a sense of how those two “professionals” were laughing.
At my breasts.
First of all, let me say that my breasts are 55 years old. Certainly, they are past their prime, but they have served me well. Besides, I have seen enough other breasts to feel fairly confident that they are, if not stupendous, then certainly not laughable.
Most important, my breasts are healthy, for which I am profoundly grateful. Indeed, I respect them and, naively, I figured my mammography tag team would, too, given that they are attached to a person.
What my tech lacked in professionalism she made up for in stupidity. When she came to tell me to get dressed, I asked what it was about my x-ray that had made her and the doctor laugh so hard. She didn’t even try to come up with an excuse. Here’s what she offered up instead: “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am. You should never have heard that.”
In my head, I’m around 25 years old, so the ma’am thing always rankles, but I know how to prioritize so I focused on the larger issue: her misconception that what she did would have been fine if only I hadn’t heard it.
“Did it occur to you,” I yelled, “that I would never have had to hear ‘that’ if you and your buddy hadn’t acted like pre-prepubescent assholes?” She apologized again and walked away. Very quickly.
Within an hour of my visit, I had called the director of the facility and emailed the owner. An hour later, both contacted me to express their “horror,” which I was fairly sure wasn't going to keep them up at night. But it gets better.
Two days later, the radiologist phoned me. “I’m calling to apologize for your visit," he said.
“It’s not my visit that needs apologizing for. Your behavior during my visit is the problem,” I sniped.
He tried again. “I didn’t mean to do anything that would make you uncomfortable.The walls are very thin."
The walls are very thin? That’s the problem?
“The acoustics in your office is not my concern. Your laughing at my breasts is. Try to imagine how you would feel if someone took an x-ray of your penis and you overheard people laughing like hyenas at it?”
“Again, ma’am. I’m sorry it happened. I hope you have a nice day.”
Wow. Like an act of god, it just “happened.” I could picture him checking "apologize to the woman with funny breasts" off of his "To Do" list.
Today’s mammogram went a lot better. My results were great and there was no laughter. Still, there’s a nagging little worry I can’t get rid of. What the hell is so amusing about my breasts?
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
Let's make a deal
People wonder why I shop online for 95% of what I need or why, when I have errands to do away from home, I do them at the ass-crack of dawn--at breakneck speed. The answer is simple. It's self-preservation, because when I venture out into the world, I usually regret having done so.
This morning, I was in line at a neighborhood store when the woman in front of me turned around, made eye contact with me, then quickly did an about-face. She is a friend of a friend, and until a few years ago, she worked at a store I patronized somewhat regularly. We know each other. Not well, but certainly well enough for me to feel obligated to say "hi."
Here's the problem. She's inconsistent--what my aunt used to label "sometimey." Sometimes she greets me, sometimes she doesn't. I never know how to prepare. Today, had I known she was operating in snotty bitch mode, I could have skipped the pep talk I give myself whenever I run into someone unexpectedly: "Oh, fuck. There's (fill in name). Shit. Now I'll have to talk to (her/him). I should have fucking stayed home."
But, no. Moody McMental made me waste valuable energy I could have used to obsess about something really important, like why people feel compelled to whistle in public whenever I am within earshot.
So here's what I suggest. If you're one of those "sometimey" people, just scratch me off your list. Good mood or bad, don't talk to me. I promise to return the favor. With pleasure.
This morning, I was in line at a neighborhood store when the woman in front of me turned around, made eye contact with me, then quickly did an about-face. She is a friend of a friend, and until a few years ago, she worked at a store I patronized somewhat regularly. We know each other. Not well, but certainly well enough for me to feel obligated to say "hi."
Here's the problem. She's inconsistent--what my aunt used to label "sometimey." Sometimes she greets me, sometimes she doesn't. I never know how to prepare. Today, had I known she was operating in snotty bitch mode, I could have skipped the pep talk I give myself whenever I run into someone unexpectedly: "Oh, fuck. There's (fill in name). Shit. Now I'll have to talk to (her/him). I should have fucking stayed home."
But, no. Moody McMental made me waste valuable energy I could have used to obsess about something really important, like why people feel compelled to whistle in public whenever I am within earshot.
So here's what I suggest. If you're one of those "sometimey" people, just scratch me off your list. Good mood or bad, don't talk to me. I promise to return the favor. With pleasure.
Dogged loyalty
I am addicted to solitude. A couple of hours of socializing and my brain feels like a pinball machine, unkind thoughts ricocheting off every neuron.
When I start craving alone time, voicemail is my savior. No more mindless chitchat, no more privacy deprivation, no more Pat, the kennel Nazi. The last time Pat took care of my dog, she left this message on my answering machine: “I need to talk to you about Sophie’s inability to interact with the other dogs.”
Are you fucking kidding me?
The only thing that surpassed the absurdity of that message was my reaction to it. Did I consider the source—a misanthropic, overbearing doggie drill sergeant who makes me seem like the patron saint of friendliness? Did I laugh at the ludicrousness of discussing a canine’s interpersonal skills? Did I chastise myself for being too lazy to find another kennel? I did not.
What I did, instead, was get defensive. With supersonic speed, I flew to the conclusion that Pat—the crown princess of social gracelessness—considered Sophie a loser dog. Visions of my loving, loyal Sophie, cowering in her run, shunned by the kennel community and counting the minutes until I rescued her, hijacked my sense of humor.
I wanted to confront Sophie’s accuser, but she scares the shit out of me. In my dreams, Pat sports a heavy choke chain I yank each time she says something offensive. In real time, this happens at least once per interaction.
"You push on the doorbell too long. For God’s sake, you don’t have to sit on it!” Pat complains. “Stop bringing so much food. You’re feeding Sophie, not the entire kennel!” Next time, I decrease the kibble and she bitches, “I ran out of food for Sophie. Are you trying to starve her?”
Email seemed like the safest choice, so I fired one off. “Hi, Pat. I’m sorry to hear Sophie is having trouble this visit.”
Emboldened by my intimidating opening line, I continued. “Sophie goes to a play group every morning and gets along just fine with regulars and newcomers alike. Perhaps you should examine the behavior of your other boarders before you blame Sophie.”
Whoa. Now I feared I had gone too far, so I threw Pat a bone. “My kitchen is being renovated, and the house is in turmoil. Maybe Sophie internalized my stress. She’s probably just acting out.”
Immediately, I was pissed off at myself for having written those last sentences. Sophie is a loving, trusting Labrador retriever. Even after a pit bull attacked her savagely, Sophie chose not to generalize the experience to all other dogs. My disloyalty appalled me; I erased the offending sentences.
With newfound resolve, I continued writing. “Pat, you seem to regard Sophie as a problem client, and I don’t like it. She is an exceptional dog.”
Does it get more pathetic than that? Sadly, yes. When my son quarrels with a friend, I skip the obligatory empathizing and ask what he did to cause the fight. When my husband has personnel problems, I question his supervisory capabilities. Sophie, however, is always right. This phenomenon has not escaped my mother’s notice. Her fondest wish is to be reincarnated as my dog—a role she imagines would be infinitely more fulfilling than being my parent. [Each time she voices that hope, I remind her that I gave away a loser dog once before and would do so again, in a heartbeat.]
Ironically, it is my mother’s fault that I have been obsessed with dogs all of my life. I believe the dog-lover gene went haywire while I was in utero. Her utero. Lucky for me it did; I needed some source of unconditional love. But that’s another saga. Bottom line: it is not my fault I have always known dogs are heads and tails above humans. Pat’s behavior merely confirms my point.
She replied to my email with three conciliatory paragraphs about Sophie’s many Lassie-like qualities. Here is an excerpt: “Sophie is a lovely dog whose sunny disposition enriches the spirit of the kennel. Her ability to retrieve balls is admired by all of our boarders.”
"Bite me, bitch,” I thought, laughing at the transparency of Pat’s gesture. Then I asked Sophie to make room for me on the sofa. I spent the next few hours letting voicemail do its job while I did what makes me happiest: I read a book with my sweet girl snuggled beside me, both of us unleashed from the burden of interacting with anyone who might feel even remotely entitled to scrutinize our interpersonal shortcomings.
When I start craving alone time, voicemail is my savior. No more mindless chitchat, no more privacy deprivation, no more Pat, the kennel Nazi. The last time Pat took care of my dog, she left this message on my answering machine: “I need to talk to you about Sophie’s inability to interact with the other dogs.”
Are you fucking kidding me?
The only thing that surpassed the absurdity of that message was my reaction to it. Did I consider the source—a misanthropic, overbearing doggie drill sergeant who makes me seem like the patron saint of friendliness? Did I laugh at the ludicrousness of discussing a canine’s interpersonal skills? Did I chastise myself for being too lazy to find another kennel? I did not.
What I did, instead, was get defensive. With supersonic speed, I flew to the conclusion that Pat—the crown princess of social gracelessness—considered Sophie a loser dog. Visions of my loving, loyal Sophie, cowering in her run, shunned by the kennel community and counting the minutes until I rescued her, hijacked my sense of humor.
I wanted to confront Sophie’s accuser, but she scares the shit out of me. In my dreams, Pat sports a heavy choke chain I yank each time she says something offensive. In real time, this happens at least once per interaction.
"You push on the doorbell too long. For God’s sake, you don’t have to sit on it!” Pat complains. “Stop bringing so much food. You’re feeding Sophie, not the entire kennel!” Next time, I decrease the kibble and she bitches, “I ran out of food for Sophie. Are you trying to starve her?”
Email seemed like the safest choice, so I fired one off. “Hi, Pat. I’m sorry to hear Sophie is having trouble this visit.”
Emboldened by my intimidating opening line, I continued. “Sophie goes to a play group every morning and gets along just fine with regulars and newcomers alike. Perhaps you should examine the behavior of your other boarders before you blame Sophie.”
Whoa. Now I feared I had gone too far, so I threw Pat a bone. “My kitchen is being renovated, and the house is in turmoil. Maybe Sophie internalized my stress. She’s probably just acting out.”
Immediately, I was pissed off at myself for having written those last sentences. Sophie is a loving, trusting Labrador retriever. Even after a pit bull attacked her savagely, Sophie chose not to generalize the experience to all other dogs. My disloyalty appalled me; I erased the offending sentences.
With newfound resolve, I continued writing. “Pat, you seem to regard Sophie as a problem client, and I don’t like it. She is an exceptional dog.”
Does it get more pathetic than that? Sadly, yes. When my son quarrels with a friend, I skip the obligatory empathizing and ask what he did to cause the fight. When my husband has personnel problems, I question his supervisory capabilities. Sophie, however, is always right. This phenomenon has not escaped my mother’s notice. Her fondest wish is to be reincarnated as my dog—a role she imagines would be infinitely more fulfilling than being my parent. [Each time she voices that hope, I remind her that I gave away a loser dog once before and would do so again, in a heartbeat.]
Ironically, it is my mother’s fault that I have been obsessed with dogs all of my life. I believe the dog-lover gene went haywire while I was in utero. Her utero. Lucky for me it did; I needed some source of unconditional love. But that’s another saga. Bottom line: it is not my fault I have always known dogs are heads and tails above humans. Pat’s behavior merely confirms my point.
She replied to my email with three conciliatory paragraphs about Sophie’s many Lassie-like qualities. Here is an excerpt: “Sophie is a lovely dog whose sunny disposition enriches the spirit of the kennel. Her ability to retrieve balls is admired by all of our boarders.”
"Bite me, bitch,” I thought, laughing at the transparency of Pat’s gesture. Then I asked Sophie to make room for me on the sofa. I spent the next few hours letting voicemail do its job while I did what makes me happiest: I read a book with my sweet girl snuggled beside me, both of us unleashed from the burden of interacting with anyone who might feel even remotely entitled to scrutinize our interpersonal shortcomings.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Why I hate people: part 1
Walking down Warren Avenue in Federal Hill, I noticed a woman approaching me with a pair of dogs in tow. My Pavlovian response was to ignore her and greet the dogs. “Hey, babies!," I said, in a tone far more enthusiastic than any I use with humans. "Look at you two cutie pies, all out and about!”
Apparently, I should have done a quick veterinary assessment first. “They aren’t babies,” the prissy owner corrected me huffily. “The bigger one is eight.”
I hope she trips on the stick protruding from her ass.
Apparently, I should have done a quick veterinary assessment first. “They aren’t babies,” the prissy owner corrected me huffily. “The bigger one is eight.”
I hope she trips on the stick protruding from her ass.
My first attempt to alienate readers
I have lost keys, my bearings, countless gloves and—too often—my temper, but I’m proud to say I never “lost” my father. He died. D-I-E-D. I know, I know. A lot of it has to do with cultural differences, which--let me reassure you--I celebrate. Still, why is the "D" word so difficult for people to say?
Whenever someone mentions “losing” a loved one, I have to restrain myself from asking if I can help find said missing person. “Well, let’s see. If you were a father, where might you be?” I know exactly where my father is: six feet under. Dead. As sad as that is for me, the vision of him wandering around, unable to find his way, is infinitely more unsettling.
My father hasn't "passed on," either. Like most dead people, he is incapable of speaking, so I'm certain he hasn't "passed on" any wisdom or jokes since he took his last breath on July 12, 2002. In fact, the only sound he's making now is the sound of silence. Dead silence.
Want to get me going? Simply ask, “When did your father pass?” Pass what? The salt and pepper? Gas? A kidney stone? Go?" Or ask if my dad “passed away.” I'll answer in the affirmative and recall how he “passed away" countless hours watching old movies on t.v.
Death euphemisms. They’re killing me.
Whenever someone mentions “losing” a loved one, I have to restrain myself from asking if I can help find said missing person. “Well, let’s see. If you were a father, where might you be?” I know exactly where my father is: six feet under. Dead. As sad as that is for me, the vision of him wandering around, unable to find his way, is infinitely more unsettling.
My father hasn't "passed on," either. Like most dead people, he is incapable of speaking, so I'm certain he hasn't "passed on" any wisdom or jokes since he took his last breath on July 12, 2002. In fact, the only sound he's making now is the sound of silence. Dead silence.
Want to get me going? Simply ask, “When did your father pass?” Pass what? The salt and pepper? Gas? A kidney stone? Go?" Or ask if my dad “passed away.” I'll answer in the affirmative and recall how he “passed away" countless hours watching old movies on t.v.
Death euphemisms. They’re killing me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
