i shouldI want to give a shout out to my best friend Kathy, who I get to work with all day and who accepts my weirdness, especially when I yell across the room “Hey, Kathy!  The only way I can get a hysterectomy is if I have a sex change.”

” Go for it.”

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Peeing On Command

I have to have a cervical biopsy on Monday.  I’ve had two before.  They aren’t bad except for that whole “Oh shit, do  I have cancer?” thing. And the gross stuff they put in there to see your cervix better and it comes out looking like coffee grounds.  Juan Valdez was in my underwear.  The thing I’m anxious about is the fact that I have to pee in a cup before the biopsy.  They need to check for pregnancy or infection.

I cannot pee on command.  My body goes into shut down mode.  My urethra dry heaves a little but that’s it.

At last year’s biopsyyou have to pee, the doctor gave me a glass of water to speed things along and my bladder was laughing at me, taunting “I’m not giving up anything.”  There was no way I was pregnant.  I haven’t had any fun for years.  All that is up in my uterus are a couple of dust balls and an old TV Guide with the cast of Welcome Back Kotter on the cover.  There was no pee to be had.  I fail at a lot of thing but to screw up something as easy as peeing….

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Duck Psychosis

I’m not crazy about summer because I’m kind of chubby and I don’t like having boob sweat.  It makes me cranky.  There shouldn’t be sweat near or on my boobage.  But I do like the fact that kids are outside playing and being kids- even that three year old boy who planted his hands on his knees and yelled into the sky “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.”  I think he just needed to relieve some stress.  It’s hard being 3.

I live near a protected wetland (It’s not beautiful or pristine or makes me gasp at the wonder of nature…it looks like a place both humans and animals go to die) and a lot of ducks have moved in.  They’re loud bastards but I like them.  I was looking out the window the other day at an apartment complex across the street.  A duck had landed on the other side of the chain link fence.  Two little girls of about four laced their fingers into the mesh fence and gave it a gentlecry shake and began babbling at the duck.  He didn’t seem too alarmed because he was on the other side of the fence or maybe he was just an asshole and refused to acknowledge the little girls.  I was thinking, “That is so damn cute!  They’re talking to the duck and now he’s starting to make noises back at them.”  And then I realize the duck’s starting to get alarmed because the girls are shaking the fence so hard.  They’re almost in tears like this is 1964 and the Beatles have landed.

The duck flew off, the little girls got distracted by something shiny and the little boy raised his face to the evening sun and screamed “Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.”

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Something really disturbing happened to me while waiting at a stop light. I never look at the people in the crosswalk while I’m downtown because there are some people who give off vibes, just truly bad vibes. You look one of them in the eye and you know they have a dead body wrapped in a sleeping bag in some closet in a dark room. I was crossing in front of a car at a light a few years ago and this woman rolled down her window and shouted in what she must have thought was a seductive way:
“You have beautiful hair. Is that your real hair? Do you like pussy? Do you want me to eat you out?”
I ‘d be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered by the crack head yelling at me. I’m getting older. It’s nice if someone tells me I’m pretty. My answer to her was a polite and demure “No, thank you.”
So I’m waiting for the light to change and this guy walks in front of my car. He’s leaning over so he can see me. I started to think “This guy’s good looking” followed by “Oh, holy fuck. That’s my brother!” So I waved maniacally because whenever I see my brother away from the
family I forget he has his own life beyond the family. I was embarrassed about looking at my brother and thinking he wasn’t hard on the eyes.
And then I realized what had happened. I saw my almost 40 year old brother as a grown up. For years he was “Oh, this is my brother. He used to hold me down so he could fart on me.”  He doesn’t hold me down anymore but he’ll still fart right behind me and move away quickly.

Months ago I was waiting to cross a street on foot.  I hate being honked at.  There’s just something so aggressive about someone honking at you.  Someone honked at me and without looking I flipped the honker off.

Turns out it was my brother trying to get my attention.

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New Year, Old Me

I don’t make resolutions for the new year because I know I’m never going to learn to speak fluid Spanish in three months, lose 30 pounds by April, cut back on the swearing (fuck that shit) and write and finish a novel. My ambition to become a better human usually lasts until January 3 and that’s when the me in meanness comes back out. I’m not going to set up an exercise regimen that will stay with me until the end of time but I will take the stairs instead of the elevator at work (only because I’m terrified of getting stuck in an elevator with nothing to read). I’ll probably always swear because it makes me feel better than crying. I wrote a novel from last May until this October. I have no clue what the fucker’s about. Really. I flip through my notebooks and wonder how much Benadryl was I on when I wrote it. Evidently, a shitload of Benadryl.

So, my resolutions will look like this:

*Remember to check my pockets before I wash clothes. I’ve lost about 6 chapsticks in the dryer.
*Try not to flip off my co-workers when they leave a room.
*Gossip less. Nah. Just kidding. It’s the one thing that keeps me coming to work. Fuck that “be a bigger person” shit.
*Try to be a more disciplined writer (but that means turning off Netflix and Huluplus to write and damn it, there are so many awesome BBC shows to watch that I’ve had to make a list of all the ones I want to watch. And Love Actually isn’t going to watch itself 17 more times).
*Try to be more patient (but there are so many dumb drivers out there)
*Try not to “accidentally” knock over whining children at the grocery store.
*Try not to “accidentally” knock over whining adults at the grocery store.

There are probably a million more “try to” resolutions. I think not knocking down kids and not washing lip balm is a good start. Let’s see what happens on January 2nd.

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This is Progress?

“Shit fuck damn baby fart!”

This is what I yelled at the television last week.  We got rid of cable because it’s insanely expensive and the bill would be $120 a month but should have been $90 but they tack on all those taxes probably thinking no one would notice.

So we got antenna.  It’s not good old rabbit ears that sits on top of the TV.  It’s this creepy thing that looks like a stingray taped to the living room window.  You’d think that in all these years antenna would have improved.  Lies. All lies.  So many channels don’t come in.  When I was having an epic fit over the antenna not working I was watching Too Close For Comfort, a show I used to watch as a kid.  I love TV.  I’m a reader but I like having the TV on because it’s like being around people I don’t have to talk to.

So I lost my shit.

Fuck a duck, shit shit shit!

I later apologized to the TV, soothing it by saying “It’s not you.  It’s that asshole antenna.”

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TV Crack

broken tv

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I Got Bored….

And when I get bored I get into trouble. Google is my best friend and my best enemy and my go-to when I need to look at cats stuck in couches or what Thom Yorke is really singing in that one Radiohead song.
Sometimes I get nauseous for no good reason. I think it’s anxiety or the idea that life is so really boring that it makes me want to vomit. So when I get this feeling, the only food I want is Top Ramen because it’s uncomplicated and I don’t need to read the directions to cook it. Same with shampooing. I like knowing I can lather, rinse and repeat if I want. I also like knowing I don’t need those directions. And I’ve been tying my shoes all on my own for years now.
Bu I got to thinking-because when I get bored I start to think and that’s when I usually really get into trouble-Top Ramen probably isn’t such a healthy choice. I should probably eat some raw veggies. I have a friend who eats raw carrots when she’s nauseous but the thought of eating raw carrots when I feel like upchucking makes me want to upchuck some more and then I think about chunks of raw carrots and oh, it’s a vicious cycle. I should probably eat plain toast, applesauce. But you know what? I want boiled noodles and whatever the hell seasoning is in those foil packets that look like foreign condoms.
I asked Google-we’re on a first name basis-“On a scale of 1-10 how bad is Top Ramen for you?”
From what I’ve read, Top Ramen is prepared to kill me. I can’t pronounce most of the ingredients and Google inferred that since I’m closer to 40 than 20 I shouldn’t be eating it at all since if you’re 20 you can live on the stuff without harming any major organs.
So I thought, okay. I’ll take better care of myself. If I feel nauseous, I’ll sip some ginger tea, do some deep breathing, even take some Dramamine (that really helps but probably causes brain tumors so I’m not Googling it).
And then yesterday happened. Nothing bad happened. I didn’t have a shit day, no one was an asshole to me (or more of an asshole to me than usual). But I got in the car and somehow got to Safeway, gave the entire produce section the finger and bought a shitload of Top Ramen.
Take that Google! And 20 year olds who can eat anything without consequences.
The moral of this story? Nothing. I just like Top Ramen.

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Yeah, This'll Probably Kill Me

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Mrs. Kravitz

I once lived next door to a duplex.  A lot of people came and went and I can’t remember if any of them were kind or considerate people.  I just remember a ton of assholes.  One day I was lucky enough to get two assholes moving into the duplex.  On one side, a redneck turd with two small boys he liked to duct tape to the wall.  He also liked to start bonfires in the backyard and throw beer bottles at raccoons.  The other neighbor, JD, was an African American man.  I’m just describing him because he said nigger a lot and I didn’t want you thinking there was some redneck living next to me saying nigger a lot although why it’s better coming from an African American I don’t know.  It made a lot more sense in my head.  Because he used the word A LOT.  He would have parties with the music so loud, the bass ripping right through my walls and making my pictures rattle around.  And I lived in a separate house.  To have the music so loud I could feel it vibrating through my stomach….well, I became familiar with a particular rage that comes with sleeplessness.

JD had a son name Dorian except I kept calling him Damian because it fit.  JD would stand outside drinking with three or four friends and I’d heard him yell at Damian “Little nigger!  Little nigger!  Get your motherfucking nigger ass back here!”  And then as if he was the proudest papa ever he’d turn to his friends and say “Little motherfucking nigger can run!”

There was a very young girl living with JD, not jailbait young but dumb and naïve young.  And mean.  She’d stand outside smoking a cigarette two feet away from the kid and talking into her cellphone. I heard her say once “I don’t fucking care.  He ain’t my kid.”  I think they thought they had something to prove, her and JD.  I was out pulling weeds one morning and they were having sex with the window open.  It sounded like the ear pulling, back scratches kind of sex.  I wasn’t disgusted.  Sex can be a beautiful thing.  With the windows closed and the lights off.

JD rarely paid his rent on time.  The owner of the duplex was friends with my mom and would give her all the gossip which was funny because he was a man in his 50s.  Men love to gossip.  Don’t let them tell you any different.  JD had his license taken away from him.  One day, the cops were called because we had crazy ass neighbors down the street.  Remember the Tom Hanks movie The ‘Burbs, the one with those terrifying neighbors who were cannibals and possibly incestuous rapists?  These neighbors were just like that.  They were always calling the police.  For some reason Duct Tape Dad had gotten into it with them and the cops were called.  In rolls JD in his shitty car with the $1200 rims.  He slowly gets out of his car with a giant beer can nestled between his knees and his music so loud the concrete of the street was weeping.  How did I know all of this?  Because I was like Mrs. Kravitz from Bewitched.  I wasn’t the neighborhood narc.  But I did like to stand at my window and see the fucked up stuff my neighbors got up to.  Gave me a lot to write about.  Here’s this dude, no license, no job, living off of his girlfriend, calling his kid Little Motherfucking Nigger, watching the police as he gets out of his car and drains his beer.  What a winner.

One night, one of the last I would see of any of the duplex neighbors, I was up late watching a movie.  I could hear crying and then I saw red flashing lights.  I cracked my window a little.  I heard the girlfriend sobbing hysterically.  JD was being arrested and all she could yell was “But he’s my boyfriend!  But I love him!”  Seems like his warrants caught up with him, especially after he beat the shit out of his brother a few hours previously.

Did I get off on their misery?  Yeah sure.  They were entertaining.  Had they been hard working people who were struggling to get by I would have respected them or given them a shy smile at the mailbox.  But the girlfriend was the only one who had a job, the dad on the other side of the duplex was a violent drunk and one of his kids was in the backyard swinging a dead squirrel by its tail so I stayed the hell away from them.  Except for peeking out the window to see what stupid shit they pulled next.

Now I live in a new house and nobody does anything interesting.  But at least I can sometimes fall asleep without having to hear “That little motherfucking nigger must be part Kenyan!  Look how fast that little motherfucker can run!”

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