Endings

The Ironclad Marshmallow is moving on. Thanks for having read my stuff.

A preview of my headstone

"Oh, it was so tiring sometimes, this business of
engaging with other human beings."
--Liam Pennywell, in Anne Tyler's Noah's Compass

Borderline personality disorder

"In my next life," I told my therapist last week, "I want to come back as an idiot who is completely oblivious to her feelings."

"You already did," she replied.

And I thought I was a bitch. This is the woman I referred to as Annie Sullivan? [Note my use of the past tense.]

With images of my sister-in-law flooding my mind, I asked, "Excuse me? I'm an idiot now?"

"No, of course not," she answered.

"But you know I believe I have enough feelings for everyone in the universe."

"Yes," she answered. "I know you believe that you have a lot of feelings."

Bite me. I hate that "reflecting" shit. Makes me fucking nuts.

"But," she continued, "you only fully let yourself feel one emotion."

Let's take a wild guess, shall we?

According to Our Lady of the Couch, I cannot tolerate psychological discomfort of any kind. Apparently, I trot out my go-to emotion--anger--every time I start to feel sad, stuck, frustrated, powerless, irritated; in short, every time I inhale. Think of me as Sibyl, except with only one personality.

As the session ended, Our Lady told me she would fax me some homework. The next day, 16 pages of "distress tolerance" exercises showed up. I noticed they are adapted from the Skills Training Manual for Treating Borderline Personality Disorder.

Awesome.

On the cover page, she had included a handwritten notation: "We'll have to talk these through. You are not a borderline personality." Yeah, whatever.

So my new goal is to become better at tolerating distress. According to the manual for people who may or may not have borderline personality disorders, I can do so by (1) distracting myself, (2) using my senses to "self-soothe" or (3) improving the moment.

The one about self-soothing makes me laugh for lots of immature reasons. As for improving the moment, I give the probability of my succeeding a solid 0%.

But you never know. Each of the aforementioned methods has many different strategies. Maybe I'll try a new one every day [or every day I feel like it]. I'll keep you posted on my progress. Think of it sort of like "Julie and Julia" but without a deadline, publishing contract or movie deal.

One caveat. If I feel like I'm losing my edge, the experiment is over.

Fun with Tourette Syndrome

Disclaimer: I believe that Tourette Syndrome (TS) is a heinous disease and I couldn't feel sorrier for those who have it.

That said, let me state my thesis: People with TS should be barred from movie theaters.

Sorry.

Last weekend, I missed most of a movie because an older man with TS sat directly in front of me. (Okay, fine. That and my immaturity.) He didn't have the fun kind of TS characterized by random outbursts of curse words, so I wasn't tempted to befriend him. No, this guy had frequent vocal tics that I can best describe as gutteral gurgling, punctuated by burps. Also, he had a motor tic--sudden arm raises that reminded me of "Heil, Hitler" salutes.

The couple sitting next to him immediately slid over two seats. Like that was going to help. A woman seated in front of the TS guy turned around and screamed, "Would you just stop it?" Clearly, she lacked my insight and sensitivity.

I caught on to his TS gig fairly quickly and began laughing uncontrollably. I tried to do it really, really quietly, and I think I succeeded. But try keeping that shit up for an hour and a half. It's fucking exhausting.

Despite my best efforts, I could attend to little else besides his tics. I tried to focus on the movie but for the most part, I failed. I began timing the vocal tics and pretty soon, I was predicting their arrival with the precision of a Swiss clock. Trying to get the timing down on his arm tics? That part was hard.

Seriously? Has no one ever told him his tics are annoying? Does he not have a doctor...or a therapist...or an honest friend?

It could have been worse, I guess. Given that it is virtually impossible for me to go to a movie and not be annoyed by something, I left feeling like I got my money's worth in entertainment, even though I missed the movie.

Santa Saws

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.

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.

Choose incivility

Every time I see one of those "Choose Civility" bumper stickers, I ask myself "What the fuck for?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.”