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.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
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.
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