what doesn't kill ya

Chet's nuts roasting on an open fire

Two weeks ago John and I were in a department store, where we heard the first Christmas music of the season.  We looked at each other and cringed, silently agreeing that this was just wayyy too early to be piping Bing Crosby throughout the store.

There's a radio station here in Phoenix that prides itself on playing nothing but Christmas music ALL DAY! EVERY DAY! between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  The station is classified as "adult contemporary," otherwise known as Sterilized-Inoffensive-Politically-Correct-Office-Friendly music.  In other words, terribly boring but better than silence -- most of the time. Too many doses of the Celine Dion/Kenny G/Faith Hill blend make me long for crickets and my whirring brain.  Somehow, my own personal montage of music,  with its references to bootys and drunken cavorting, wouldn't have others in the office feeling very productive. So yesterday, I decided to play nice like I always do and flipped on the warm-fuzzy station.

To my surprise, instead of yet another rockin' three minutes and thirty-one seconds of "Kokomo," I was greeted by John Lennon's "Happy Christmas."  What?  But it's not even Thanksgiving yet!  I was delighted, even with Yoko Ono's tone deaf contribution.   

True, in another two weeks I will have definitely had my fill of holiday music.  And I'll be the first to admit that Tom Jones belting Christmas carols is a bit much.  Not to mention all the talk of "Jack Frost nipping at your nose," meanwhile it's 82 degrees outside and I'm pondering yet another purchase of flip-flops.  And the "people passing dressed in holiday style?" I haven't seen them yet in downtown Phoenix.  Although, I could have missed them amongst the scantily-clad meth-heads and drunks hanging out at the park.  You never know.

For now, I'll enjoy the heavy doses of virgin-pure Christmas music and long for the days when the Donny & Marie dolls in purple satin get-ups topped my Christmas list.  The days when I thought that Santa really was watching, and I'd better not swipe any more candy or my Weeble Fun House would go to that snotty-nosed kid next door.

The bastard.

She thinks the Pledge of Allegiance is that stuff she cleans her coffee table with

Not being one to ignore good advice, I have refrained from mentioning the "W" word here.  No, not Dubya.  This time I'm referring to (pssst: work).   Shhhhhhhhh!  I KNOW.

Let me just say:  I have this friend.  And this friend may or *may not* have had the following exchange while at a place that could easily be confused with a place of employment:

Friend:  Welcome to your first day of work here at [employment-like place.]  As required by the federal government, I will need to verify your identity via approved forms of identification.

Some Other Chick:  Sure.

Friend:  A driver's license and social security card will work just fine.

Some Other Chick:  Okay, here's my driver's license.  I can't find my social security card though.

Friend:  Okay... can you bring it tomorrow?  We need to have it right away.

Some Other Chick:  Yeah, sure thing.  I'll track it down tonight and bring it on in tomorrow.

Fast forward, two weeks later.  Still no social security card.  Corporate A central big-wig type place is barking at my friend to get the positive ID already.  Some Other Chick keeps forgetting the damn card, and now she has been MIA for a few days.  Friend decides to call her at home.

Friend:  Hey, have you found your social security card yet? 

Some Other Chick:  Oh... no, not yet.  I forgot.

Friend:  I see. Okay, well, here's the deal.  If I don't get that card, [employment-type place] can't pay you.

Some Other Chick:  But I have to get paid!  You guys have to pay me!

Friend:  Well, it's been two weeks and you keep forgetting it.  As I've explained to you a couple-three-dozen times, we haven't legally identified you so technically we can't pay you.  Do you have some other form of ID?  How about a birth certificate?

Some Other Chick:  Well, I haven't seen it in awhile, but I can look...

Friend:  NO!  Uh, I mean no, no... that's okay.  How about a passport?

Some Other Chick:  Passport?  Did you say PASSPORT?

Friend:  Yes.

Some Other Chick:  No I don't have a PASSPORT.  I am a GODDAMN US CITIZEN. 

Friend:          *Blink* 

Some Other Chick:  Hello?

Friend:  Yes.  Um, alrighty then.  I wasn't implying that you aren't a US citizen.  Plenty of US citizens have passports. 

Some Other Chick:  Well I don't.  I was BORN HERE. 

Friend:  Um, YEAH.  Okay.  So was I.  But some of us have passports.  Some US citizens travel.   You know, like OVERSEAS.  And they use their passports to do so.

Some Other Chick:  Not me!  I never travel!

Friend:  Duly noted.  I was just asking, you know, because you can't seem to locate any other acceptable forms of ID.  And like I said, without another form of ID, we will be unable to process your payroll.

Some Other Chick:  Jesus!  Well, what about one of those... what are they called?  Green Cards?  What if I got one of those? 

***

If you would like to send cards, flowers, or well-wishes to my friend, just let me know.  I can get you the address and her room number on the psych unit. 

Trimming the tree

A while back I talked about how I had gotten my nose pierced.

My nose is no longer pierced.

I had a sinus infection a month or so ago and was blowing my nose like crazy. In the aftermath of one particular nose-blowing session, I wiped my nose with a tissue and dislodged the little stud from my nose. I saw it go flying through the air, all slow-motion like, and thought I had seen the vicinity of its landing spot. I searched on all fours, to no avail.

Several days went by, and still: no stud. (This is the prevailing thought of many women I know. Hmmm.) I decided I had better get my happy ass to the nearest Body Jewelry Retailer (read: lame-ass piercing kiosk in the mall.) I picked out a – dare I say? shnazzy - little number for my nose. It was the corkscrew kind, and as the name suggests, the post part of the stud is corkscrew-shaped which means YOU MUST SCREW IT INTO YOUR NOSE. I felt it necessary to go with this option so that during my next Snotty Phlegm Fest I would not dislodge it. Smart cookie, am I not?

Not.

I attempted screwing the damn thing in my nose, only to be met with defeat. First of all, the hole had partially closed up. I had to kind of re-pierce it with a french wire earring of mine. After conquering that, with blood and cursing aside, I thought I was out of the woods. "I’m going in!" I told myself.

I stuck the end of the corkscrew (which by this time reminded me of a pig’s tail poking out of a hefty piggy ass) in the pierced hole and began working my way in. I got like a whole nanomillimicrometer into my nose and was at an impasse. I twisted clockwise. I twisted counter clockwise. Soon it was clear that I was essentially hollowing out the cartilage of my nose. I could not find my way out of the hole. Instead of a sparkly little diamond chip on the side of my nose, I had an inflamed bloody mess. It looked like a couple of gigantic red ants had tried to burrow into my nostril and set up camp.

I realized that in order to get this done the right way, without further blood and carnage, I would have to slug my defeated ass back to the dude that had pierced my nose in the first place. No big deal, really… I mean surely, it couldn’t hurt as bad as it did the first time. I decided I would take care of it that next weekend.

"Next weekend" turned into next week, which turned into the week after that, which turned into…

…a piercing that is no more.

The hole has totally closed up. (Which reminds me of many women I know... Hmmm.) The nose piercing has lost its appeal. Maybe that’s because my boss was right after all, and I did it because I was having a mid-life crisis. Naw. Jesus HIMSELF knows I don’t need to be a mid-lifer to have a crisis.

Or maybe, it’s because I have this friend, you know? And he’s kind of a smart ass, right? And he said that me piercing my nose was like decorating a Christmas tree.

No. It definitely couldn’t be THAT.

Okay, so this one isn't funny either

My last post was rather macabre.  I debated on whether or not I should even go there, but I’m glad I did.  I can be a raging cynic, and it’s a great thing for me to be able to interact with cool people, and know that really, the Idiots haven’t taken over quite yet.  The feedback I received was great, and you all give me hope.

Now, since I’ve opened up the proverbial Flood Gates of Un-Funniness, I might as well continue with something else that’s occupying one of my front burners.

I was reading something yesterday that got me thinking about memories and how we recall them.  I think it’s fascinating that a seemingly insignificant, innocent trigger can instantaneously transport us back to some other time or moment in our lives.  Particularly intriguing is the way a mere noise or smell can turn into a time machine, propelling us back to years past. 

There are many things that trigger memories or give me déjà vu, and some really surprise me by doing so.  For instance, when my daughter was a newborn I was sick with a cold and felt it necessary to wash my hands obsessively, every chance I could, with antibacterial soap. Did I just pick up a napkin off the floor?  Better go wash my hands!  Had to re-adjust my ponytail?  Better go wash my hands!  I went through what seemed like GALLONS of the soap. 

Fast-forward about three years, and I’ve purchased some new liquid soap for the bathroom.  The first time I use it, I’m washing my hands, and BAM!  There I go, back in time to when my daughter was a newborn and I’m sterilizing bottles.  I hadn’t realized it, but this was the same soap I had used back then, and it’s fragrance struck up powerful memories.  I stood there at the bathroom sink, memories flooding my brain.  I could see, through my mind’s eye, out the back window of my old house, sunlight streaming into the kitchen as I washed my hands.

What a trip. 

Another thing that freaks me out is when I hear ice clinking in a glass.  My stepfather, the bastard drunk that he was, had a personal bartender:  me.  He drank like a fish, and from about 8 years old on, he had me fixing him “cocktails.” 

One Big Gulp-sized glass filled halfway with ice (cubed not crushed), filled halfway with Canadian Club Whiskey, then topped off with Diet 7-up = Cocktail.

Obviously, I was no fan of tending bar, and I hated the whole process.  My stepfather had two methods of telling me he was ready for a “refill.”  If I was in the room while he sat in his usual spot – on the sofa, watching TV, smoking and drinking - he would point the glass in my direction and shake it.  Any remaining ice in the glass would clink, and this was his signal – the clinking noise.  He would not make eye contact while he did this.  He would continue staring at the television with his arm outstretched.  The expectation was that I would stop anything I might be doing, take the glass from his hand, and immediately prepare another “cocktail.” 

If I was not in the room, my stepfather used another method to get my attention.  He whistled.  The whistle was loud and shrill, and went up and down in tone, like the whistle someone uses to call a dog.  The expectation was the same:  I should immediately go to where he was, take the glass, and refill it.

Usually, I did what was expected of me.  Once in a while, I would ignore my stepfather’s methods of “communication,” just to see what would happen.  If I ignored the clinking ice, he would keep his arm outstretched and clink once or twice more before he would finally look over at me.  “Fix me a drink,” he’d say, staring at me intently.

If I ignored the whistling, he would whistle once or twice more, sometimes making the whistle extra long, as if to say, “What the hell are you doing?  I’m WAAAAITTTTINNNNGGG.”  Finally he would actually verbalize and say:

“Heather!  Get out here and fix me a drink!  I’ve been calling you!”

Sonofabitch.

Oh, the fantasies I had of dumping his beloved cocktail all over his bloated body, smashing the Big Gulp tumbler, and then shoving shards of broken glass up his ass.

So, needless to say, hearing ice clinking in a glass puts me in a very foul mood. 

And don’t ever try to get my attention by whistling at me, or I just may give you some kerosene-laced Carmex and then offer to light your cigarette with a blowtorch.

Attention Good Sleepers: Congratulations. Now suck it

I suck at sleeping.  I get insomnia quite often.  When I don’t have insomnia, I’m having crazy, epic-like dreams while I sleep.  Dreams that are so vivid and intricate that when I wake up, I feel as if I have been up all night watching HBO.  Dreams that are usually quite negative, and sometimes, downright disturbing.  Although two nights ago I dreamt I bought a car from Donald Trump.  The strange thing was, he paid me.  He said, “Heather, you drive a hard bargain,” and handed me an envelope filled with crisp $100 bills and a certificate for a free facial at the Trump Tower salon.  Which I could really use, by the way.

My sleep problems began after Noelle was born five years ago.  Since then, sleep has been the proverbial carrot dangling in my face.  And it’s not that motherhood has been the only culprit – there was my ex-husband’s “health” problems, divorce, depression, etc.  I can actually name the date of my last decent night’s sleep. 

The last time I woke up feeling… wow, rested:  December 24, 2004.

Since then, I have been struggling for a decent night’s sleep, without the aid of sleeping pills.  I am afraid of getting hooked on them.  Recently the insomnia has gotten so bad that I’ve gone nights with just an hour of sleep.  Consecutive nights.  The lack of rest is showing in my appearance, and manifesting itself in an inability to concentrate and think clearly.   I stare at the same piece of paper for what seems like hours, trying to FOCUS, FOCUS, FOCUS.  Only to say to myself, uh, what am I looking at?  Huh?  What was I doing?

There are some factors that, if I had any common sense, I would address to keep  from exacerbating the sleep problem.  Like, caffeine.  I drink wayyyyyyyy too much Diet Coke.  So I’ve tried to stop that after 3pm.  Another: watching TV in bed.  Also:  no exercise.

What really kills me, is the husband.  John can fall asleep in seconds.  Literally.  He can be talking and mid-sentence, there’s a snore.  He likes to deny it but it is so true.  And I am incredibly jealous.  I fantasize about how I would feel, what I would be like, if I could only sleep like him. 

So, I’ve reduced the caffeine intake, and stopped watching TV at bedtime.  It has helped some.  Now the exercise…. well, I can’t change overnight, can I???  Okay, so my elliptical machine arrived two weeks ago, and I’ve yet to use it.  Tomorrow, I say.  After I have a good night’s sleep.  Except there NEVER IS ONE. 

So I’m just going to have to bite the bullet, take a hit in the ass, what have you, and get on the damn elliptical already.  And enough with the cheese and the carbs.  My ever-expanding ass is taking on a life of it’s own, and summer is fast approaching.  Never mind that the consistency of my blood is like Crisco, my cholesterol is so high.  My grandmother died of a heart attack at 48, so it’s not like I have genetics on my side.  If I follow her model, I’ve got only 15 years left.

I need someone to hold me accountable.  Someone to push me, someone I can give a giant BITE ME to when they nag me about exercising and eating right.  Better yet, I need a miracle sleep-diet pill hybrid and a plastic surgeon.  Know anyone?

Next Stop: Tupperware Parties & PTA Luncheons

And so the day has come.  The day when I must resign myself to the fact that I have become a member of a club I didn't really care to join.

I now own a minivan.

Hold me.

The minivan became a necessity once we admitted to ourselves that throwing one of the kids in the back of our SUV was grounds for a traffic violation.  Oh yeah, and dangerous too.  The SUV seated five; there are six of us two weekends a month. 

All six of us went to the car dealership “to look.”  All six of us.  What on earth would possess someone to drag four kids, ages 5 to 16, to a car dealership?  Stupidity.  It turns out, though, that our doing so actually pushed the General Manager into wanting to please us and get us the hell out of there.  While John haggled and test-drove, the older kids kept themselves amused by teasing me about being on my way to becoming a soccer mom. !  Nooooo.  Stereotypical soccer moms are my kryptonite.   I reminded them, the little turds, that it was BECAUSE OF THEM that I would be driving a shoebox on wheels, and that if they had just quit whining about bumping around in the cargo area of the SUV, I could have kept it, and thereby, maintained my coolness. Or something.  Sort of.  Ahem.

After making the deal and trading our SUV for a minivan, John toyed with the idea of trading in our Silver Bullet, otherwise known as the Anemic Base Model Economy Car. Six incredibly long hours after we left the dealership, we went home with a minivan, a sedan, and wicked headaches thrown in for free.  I refuse to call our new family vehicle a minivan (ATTENTION: DENIAL ON AISLE FOUR) and instead call it The Big Green Bus.  Now just how twisted does that make me, that I would prefer a green bus over a van?  Very twisted indeed. 

Audio Slave

One of the local radio stations here changed its format for the new year.  The music is still the same – a mix of rock and alternative.  The change has come in the form of radio talk shows.  The majority of the day is filled with them.  There’s a typical morning drive time show, and a mid-day group consisting of two “regular” guys and a token hot chick, who engage in mostly meaningless banter filled with double entendres and jokes about sex.  I’ve caught a few minutes here and there of these shows, mostly while channel surfing.  I hear these people and they are so ridiculous – but I keep listening.  It’s kind of like watching the dorky kid in high school doing a dance routine at the talent show, a la Napoleon Dynamite.  You aren’t expecting a great show or anything, but the mere fact that he has his skinny ass up there is enough to intrigue you.  The guy who hasn’t spoken more than two words since freshman year is gonna bust moves while lip-synching “Maniac?”  I am sooo there.

Similarly, I have made the mistake of listening to the evening talk show airing in the new format.  This show is different from the others in that it’s a one-dude show.  I’d name the guy and link to him, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.  Simply put, this Talk Show Host is an asshole.  His whole “game” is to cater to men, mostly younger guys.  That’s nothing new.  But his angle is crap.  His angle is:  women are bitches, sluts, and gold diggers.  (His words.) Do whatever you can to get laid and then dump them.  Don’t ever get married, because there’s nothing in it for you.  She’ll nag and smother you, and then probably cheat and go after everything you have.

This guy is incredibly narcissistic.  He admits that he is in the business for the money, he doesn’t care what people think, and that he’s only saying how most men, if not all, feel.  The morons that call in to the show call him “dad” or “father,” saying how Talk Show Host has changed their lives.  How yeah, they used to treat women with some respect, but Talk Show Host has shown them the error of their ways.  Now they understand just how really stupid women are, and they’re happy about this because this makes it easier to get them into bed.

Yesterday’s show was even more disturbing than usual.  A 23-year-old guy called in, saying, “Father, I have a story to tell you.”  Like it’s motherfucking confession time at St. Mary’s.  Dipshit.  The guy goes on to tell his story, about how he goes out every night with his buddies, trying to meet chicks to bring home and have sex with.  A few months ago he succeeded in bringing a woman home, and they had sex several times through the course of the night.  He tells Talk Show Host, “We were both wasted.  The first couple of times I used a rubber, but….” Need I go on here?  Long story short, this guy got the girl pregnant.  She is now at the end of her first trimester.

Dipshit says, “Father, she wants to keep the baby.  I don’t want a kid.  She won’t get an abortion or anything.  She says she won’t make me pay child support if I’m a part of the kid’s life.  But I don’t want to be a part of the kid’s life.  I’ve never wanted kids.  I don’t know what to do.”

Talk Show Host goes into a lecture about how Dipshit should have known better than to bring a chick to his house.  “They can always track you down that way,” he says.  Then he moves on to the matter at hand:

“You could always invite her over for some cocktails and a dip in the Jacuzzi.  Pregnant women aren’t supposed to go in hot tubs or drink.  Not that you would do that [wink, wink].  I mean, god only knows what could happen if she got in the hot tub or drank some alcohol.  Theoretically speaking, of course.  Not that you would ever do that or I would ever suggest such a thing [wink, wink].”

“Well that’s a good theory to know.  Not that I would ever do anything like that, you know.” Dipshit catches on quickly.

“Yeah, because that would be WRONG.  You would never do something like that.  That could jeopardize her pregnancy [wink, wink].”

So I’m driving in my car, listening to this miserable excuse for a man.  Why?  Because I’m infuriated and keep getting shocked by what Talk Show Host and his listeners are saying.  I realize this is exactly the point; to keep me listening.  But this asswipe is “suggesting” (wink, wink) that this guy try to induce a miscarriage. 

Let me break this down:  Talk Show Host’s two pieces of advice were to 1) never bring a chick to your house to have sex with; and 2) not invite a pregnant woman into a hot tub or offer her alcohol because that would be WRONG.

WRONG is teaching men that women are objects for sex, and are useless in every other way.  WRONG is lamely veiling your advice to induce an abortion as a “theory.” 

WRONG is not calling this dude on the fact that he didn’t wear a condom the entire time.

WRONG is calling some Talk Show Host “father” because he preaches crap and irresponsibility and you can’t think for your damn self.

WRONG IS ME LISTENING TO THIS CRAP.