"So he was like some big rich Vegas real estate guy, but he was gross and old and ugly. Of course he brought his stripper girlfriend who was studying to be a hair stylist to the wedding. And she would put whatever she could get her hands on up her nose. So, then she ends up taking like all her clothes off in the middle of the wedding, and of course like 20 guys lined up to touch her boobs. I would be like so mad if someone did that at my wedding. Hey, but that's Vegas."
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
To Gag a Yankee
We recently spent the weekend at my brother's house. He and his partner live about an hour away from where we all grew up and where my mother and oldest brother still live. Since it was close, my mother planned to visit us at my brother's place during the weekend. The bf and I had brought along a good friend of ours from DC, someone who was blissfully unaware of my somewhat eccentric family. My mom showed up several hours late because her neighbor and transportation for the day was extremely hung over. Upon arrival, hugs and kisses were dispensed to all and we settled down in the living room for a good visit.
When discussing my family, the conversations can usually be categorized by:
1. who's sick
2. who's dying
3. who's sick and dying
4. who died
5. who's been arrested/is in jail/has a court date
6. who's out of work
7. who needs money
8. who's loosing their minds or has lost their minds
9. who's having car trouble (see #7)
Our friend came from a long line of closed mouth, emotionally cool, attentive and polite New Englanders. Their family matters were only discussed with other family members and I imagined that their discussions never included the words "bail", "chronic alcoholic" or "intent to distribute". Our friend never imagined that a simple introduction to my mother would now subject him to our made-for-Jerry-Springer family updates. As mom finally turned to the subject of my oldest brother, I saw the rising fetid tide of our southern gothic begin to swamp the well ordered and white washed world of our Connecticut yankee.
The latest news concerned her attempt to get my alcoholic brother some form of disability assistance from the Social Security Administration. An important part of the qualifying process involved a telephone interview with my brother. In trying to explain how the this dissipated son of the South could get some money out of the government for his ruined health, mom related in a matter of fact way "so you know his short term memory is completely gone due to his drinking, so I wrote down the important things that he should tell them. I wrote down that he is unemployed, that he has had a colostomy, that he can't walk because he needs a hip replacement and that he is an alcoholic."
As each of these vital talking points were listed, our friend looked more and more uncomfortable, as if a colostomy bag had ruptured all over the coffee table and he was fighting his impulse to run, vomit or both. I was suddenly afraid that he would spontaneously combust rather than hear one more dubious disability virtue, so to save him and to preserve the last few molecules of respectability that our family may have had somewhere in the known universe, I quickly added to the end of this illustrious list that my brother was "unbelievably, single and available." The room erupted in much needed laughter, and all thoughts of suicide faded.
Still laughing, I made a mental note to never mix friends and family again and that we were running low on rum and diet coke.
When discussing my family, the conversations can usually be categorized by:
1. who's sick
2. who's dying
3. who's sick and dying
4. who died
5. who's been arrested/is in jail/has a court date
6. who's out of work
7. who needs money
8. who's loosing their minds or has lost their minds
9. who's having car trouble (see #7)
Our friend came from a long line of closed mouth, emotionally cool, attentive and polite New Englanders. Their family matters were only discussed with other family members and I imagined that their discussions never included the words "bail", "chronic alcoholic" or "intent to distribute". Our friend never imagined that a simple introduction to my mother would now subject him to our made-for-Jerry-Springer family updates. As mom finally turned to the subject of my oldest brother, I saw the rising fetid tide of our southern gothic begin to swamp the well ordered and white washed world of our Connecticut yankee.
The latest news concerned her attempt to get my alcoholic brother some form of disability assistance from the Social Security Administration. An important part of the qualifying process involved a telephone interview with my brother. In trying to explain how the this dissipated son of the South could get some money out of the government for his ruined health, mom related in a matter of fact way "so you know his short term memory is completely gone due to his drinking, so I wrote down the important things that he should tell them. I wrote down that he is unemployed, that he has had a colostomy, that he can't walk because he needs a hip replacement and that he is an alcoholic."
As each of these vital talking points were listed, our friend looked more and more uncomfortable, as if a colostomy bag had ruptured all over the coffee table and he was fighting his impulse to run, vomit or both. I was suddenly afraid that he would spontaneously combust rather than hear one more dubious disability virtue, so to save him and to preserve the last few molecules of respectability that our family may have had somewhere in the known universe, I quickly added to the end of this illustrious list that my brother was "unbelievably, single and available." The room erupted in much needed laughter, and all thoughts of suicide faded.
Still laughing, I made a mental note to never mix friends and family again and that we were running low on rum and diet coke.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Modesty
My handsome bf and I decided to go on an Alaskan cruise, something that had intrigued me ever since I had read about it from the comfort of my lounge chair on our last cruise. The itinerary looked interesting and the possibility of becoming hopelessly wedged in some glacial crevice for the week would be the perfect balm for my parched August-in-DC soul. The cooler weather would also necessitate a more modest dress code for my man of a certain age, big boned, beautiful just as I am fat-assed self.
It's not that I don't like going to the gym. It just goes against my strong moral conviction that exertion of any kind which doesn't end with dessert or an orgasm (though not mutually exclusive) is wrong and evil. Think about all the descriptions of hell. They include everything designed to torture and punish souls for eternity: getting hot and sweaty while repeating endless, pointless tasks (sounds like the elliptical machine and every job I've ever had) without the possibility of rest, food, sex or cocktails. The specific lack of these vital, life sustaining options in your hellish work day clearly implies that they hold the key to heavenly health, truth, joy, a clear complexion and a well regulated digestive track. I don't pretend to understand the reasons behind these great mysteries, but I do get the message loud and clear: as the sweaty, disciplined and gainfully employed sow, so shall they and their tight abs and bony asses reap.
I would explore this issue in more detail, but the exertion of writing has left me light headed and room service just arrived with my passion fruit and Metamucil daiquiri. Mmmmm...tastes divine!
It's not that I don't like going to the gym. It just goes against my strong moral conviction that exertion of any kind which doesn't end with dessert or an orgasm (though not mutually exclusive) is wrong and evil. Think about all the descriptions of hell. They include everything designed to torture and punish souls for eternity: getting hot and sweaty while repeating endless, pointless tasks (sounds like the elliptical machine and every job I've ever had) without the possibility of rest, food, sex or cocktails. The specific lack of these vital, life sustaining options in your hellish work day clearly implies that they hold the key to heavenly health, truth, joy, a clear complexion and a well regulated digestive track. I don't pretend to understand the reasons behind these great mysteries, but I do get the message loud and clear: as the sweaty, disciplined and gainfully employed sow, so shall they and their tight abs and bony asses reap.
I would explore this issue in more detail, but the exertion of writing has left me light headed and room service just arrived with my passion fruit and Metamucil daiquiri. Mmmmm...tastes divine!
Friday, August 7, 2009
Just Call me Job
When I woke up yesterday morning, my leg felt a little itchy. I noticed a few red spots, but since it was 5:30 am, I was not capable of the higher mental functions of curiosity, fear or vanity. I was, however, able use the primal functions contained in my brain stem to drive my handsome boyfriend to the airport for his flight to California. Back at home, a fourth cup of coffee gently lifted my mental fog and allowed me to turn my attention to my increasingly itchy backside.
What had looked like a preschool game of connect-the-dots two hours earlier had morphed into an advanced biology lecture where the professor comments "this is what the subject looked like about 14 seconds before being completely consumed by the Ebola virus." As my fully caffeinated brain reeled, a troubling memory percolated to the surface. Just two days before, a resident in the building where I work had related the horrifying story of her sudden illness the previous weekend, an illness that had involved A TERRIBLE WHOLE BODY RASH. Since I love to pet this resident's adorable dog, there was only one conclusion to draw...I had contracted a deadly human/canine skin disease. I nervously called my doctor.
The receptionist listened to my impassioned plea for assistance and assured me the doctor would call me back as soon as possible. I accepted this lie as gratefully as a terminal Cindy Lou Woo, wanting so desperately to believe in my medi-Kringle. To demonstrate my trust, I called the office back every 20 minutes with updates of my condition until the doctor returned my call. He advised me to SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION at my local hospital.
I hurried right over to the hospital and checked in at the reception desk. Surveying the waiting area, I selected the spot that would put me as far away as possible from any other human being in the room, seating myself somewhere in northern Manitoba. Once seated, I pulled out my cell phone in order to text my last will and testament to my handsome boyfriend but could not get a signal. My only hope for getting a signal was to move to one of the few open seats below a row of dirty skylights.
I considered my options. My choices were to sit next to the the man who periodically coughed and hacked something into his well used handkerchief, the woman who sighed repeatedly, looking around for someone/anyone to tell her tale of woe to or the totally quiet old lady in Jackie O sunglasses with a face-lifted, permanent smile. Since she could have been dead for all I knew, I picked the old lady for a seat mate.
After moving into the chair near her, I discovered that there was life in the old girl yet. She emitted a low, wheezing rasp with each intake of air. As I studied her with my peripheral vision, I suddenly wondered if she would slowly reach up, open her unnaturally wide, plumped lipped mouth, unhinge her jaw and shallow me whole. My thoughts and her death rattle were interrupted by a commotion at the reception desk.
Though the person was around the corner and out of sight, it sounded like they were drunk and trying to explain something to the receptionists. Bitter that I may be missing a somewhat early happy hour at 1 pm, I watched the forced cheerfulness of the receptionists decay into a mixture of discomfort, pity and I-wish-I-was-anywhere-else-but-here. It was then that the trouble maker was gently urged around the corner and into a chair by her caretaker husband. It was painfully obvious that her disability had left her with little idea of where she was, how to form words correctly or the purpose of the facility she was in. I think that is why she tried to ask everyone who hurried by where she was. Her husband smiled at the uncomfortable passers by and said "that's okay, that's okay", trying to put them at ease while patting and rubbing his wife's back, calming her. He would lean in close and speak quietly to her with such gentleness, love and grace that it was breathtaking. I was ill prepared to encounter such a thing of beauty in such a place. Maybe it was my own pain and discomfort, maybe my caffeine levels were getting dangerously low or maybe my Sphinx-like seat mate's wheezing had unnerved me, but I found myself beginning to cry.
I came in with the dreaded human/canine skin disease, which turned out to be nothing more than a reaction to antibiotics, but I had stumbled upon a cure for self pity, and I hoped its effects would be permanent.
What had looked like a preschool game of connect-the-dots two hours earlier had morphed into an advanced biology lecture where the professor comments "this is what the subject looked like about 14 seconds before being completely consumed by the Ebola virus." As my fully caffeinated brain reeled, a troubling memory percolated to the surface. Just two days before, a resident in the building where I work had related the horrifying story of her sudden illness the previous weekend, an illness that had involved A TERRIBLE WHOLE BODY RASH. Since I love to pet this resident's adorable dog, there was only one conclusion to draw...I had contracted a deadly human/canine skin disease. I nervously called my doctor.
The receptionist listened to my impassioned plea for assistance and assured me the doctor would call me back as soon as possible. I accepted this lie as gratefully as a terminal Cindy Lou Woo, wanting so desperately to believe in my medi-Kringle. To demonstrate my trust, I called the office back every 20 minutes with updates of my condition until the doctor returned my call. He advised me to SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION at my local hospital.
I hurried right over to the hospital and checked in at the reception desk. Surveying the waiting area, I selected the spot that would put me as far away as possible from any other human being in the room, seating myself somewhere in northern Manitoba. Once seated, I pulled out my cell phone in order to text my last will and testament to my handsome boyfriend but could not get a signal. My only hope for getting a signal was to move to one of the few open seats below a row of dirty skylights.
I considered my options. My choices were to sit next to the the man who periodically coughed and hacked something into his well used handkerchief, the woman who sighed repeatedly, looking around for someone/anyone to tell her tale of woe to or the totally quiet old lady in Jackie O sunglasses with a face-lifted, permanent smile. Since she could have been dead for all I knew, I picked the old lady for a seat mate.
After moving into the chair near her, I discovered that there was life in the old girl yet. She emitted a low, wheezing rasp with each intake of air. As I studied her with my peripheral vision, I suddenly wondered if she would slowly reach up, open her unnaturally wide, plumped lipped mouth, unhinge her jaw and shallow me whole. My thoughts and her death rattle were interrupted by a commotion at the reception desk.
Though the person was around the corner and out of sight, it sounded like they were drunk and trying to explain something to the receptionists. Bitter that I may be missing a somewhat early happy hour at 1 pm, I watched the forced cheerfulness of the receptionists decay into a mixture of discomfort, pity and I-wish-I-was-anywhere-else-but-here. It was then that the trouble maker was gently urged around the corner and into a chair by her caretaker husband. It was painfully obvious that her disability had left her with little idea of where she was, how to form words correctly or the purpose of the facility she was in. I think that is why she tried to ask everyone who hurried by where she was. Her husband smiled at the uncomfortable passers by and said "that's okay, that's okay", trying to put them at ease while patting and rubbing his wife's back, calming her. He would lean in close and speak quietly to her with such gentleness, love and grace that it was breathtaking. I was ill prepared to encounter such a thing of beauty in such a place. Maybe it was my own pain and discomfort, maybe my caffeine levels were getting dangerously low or maybe my Sphinx-like seat mate's wheezing had unnerved me, but I found myself beginning to cry.
I came in with the dreaded human/canine skin disease, which turned out to be nothing more than a reaction to antibiotics, but I had stumbled upon a cure for self pity, and I hoped its effects would be permanent.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Divine Wrath
As I stared into the bathroom mirror this morning to begin my daily assessment of the ravages of time, I stopped short. There it was. A zit on my upper lip. I leaned forward to steady myself on the sink as the enormity of the situation rolled over me. God had judged me and decided to smote me with a zit. A facial zit. An upper lip facial zit. But why? I could not remember machine gunning any orphanage. Though we played together as children, Satan and I were not BFFs and I had nothing to do with the current hair "style" of teenage boys. To sentence one to an upper lip zit was severe punishment. My personal Mount Vesuvius looked angry and I was sure that its roots entangled my vital organs, brain and soul.
"I should call in to work" I thought. Dealing with this Divine retribution must trump the tedium of the modern work day. There were priorities here that should not be ignored, but I knew with nauseous certainty that I was lashed to the wheels of oppression and would trudge off to the salt mines as usual. God and I had already come to an uneasy truce about his previous Chinese-water-torture-like sentence of the 40 hour work week.
To underscore His displeasure, my handsome boyfriend entered the bathroom and asked me to look at his skin, something that he has asked me to do maybe 1 time in 5 years. I had forgotten that he had a dermatologist appointment today. Though ostensibly concerned about cancerous growths, he presented me with a smooth, blemish free surface who's only purpose was to mock my condition. "Oh, this God is clever" I thought, to rub my zitty face in the perfect skin of those in His pleasure.
My boyfriend took his spotless skin and soul and headed off to his appointment. I donned my version of sack cloth and ashes and headed to the Metro. As it is August in DC, I sometimes think of visiting my old playmate Satan if only for a cooler diversion. The platform was crowded with sweaty people waiting for the train to arrive or for the rupture of some local dam that would send thousands of gallons of deadly but cool water flooding through the tunnels. After the train arrived, we piled into the car where we enjoyed the same tropical conditions found on the platform, now thoughtfully compressed by Metro with body odor and a lack of seating.
Forced to stand, my skin affliction was visible to most of the people in the train car and several satellites in low earth orbit. I tried to bury myself in reading the newspaper, but having to hold on to one of the pre-greased poles does not facilitate the turning of pages. I only succeeded in drawing more unwanted attention to myself with quick, noisy snatches at my paper, as if we were quarreling. At the next stop, a small portion of the 36,000 people in the car got off, and one seat opened up beside me. I quickly took possession, feeling elated at out maneuvering the rest of the dehydrated horde and from the removal of my pimple punishment from public display. I settled in and happily turned the page with my greasy hand.
It was then that I noticed the new passengers forcing their way into our movable Hades. The horizon above my newspaper suddenly filled with stretched green fabric. I looked up to see a tired, sweaty expectant mother directly in front of me. "Very clever indeed" I think about this zit wielding God. I got her attention and gave her my seat.
I'm pretty sure the zit made me do it.
"I should call in to work" I thought. Dealing with this Divine retribution must trump the tedium of the modern work day. There were priorities here that should not be ignored, but I knew with nauseous certainty that I was lashed to the wheels of oppression and would trudge off to the salt mines as usual. God and I had already come to an uneasy truce about his previous Chinese-water-torture-like sentence of the 40 hour work week.
To underscore His displeasure, my handsome boyfriend entered the bathroom and asked me to look at his skin, something that he has asked me to do maybe 1 time in 5 years. I had forgotten that he had a dermatologist appointment today. Though ostensibly concerned about cancerous growths, he presented me with a smooth, blemish free surface who's only purpose was to mock my condition. "Oh, this God is clever" I thought, to rub my zitty face in the perfect skin of those in His pleasure.
My boyfriend took his spotless skin and soul and headed off to his appointment. I donned my version of sack cloth and ashes and headed to the Metro. As it is August in DC, I sometimes think of visiting my old playmate Satan if only for a cooler diversion. The platform was crowded with sweaty people waiting for the train to arrive or for the rupture of some local dam that would send thousands of gallons of deadly but cool water flooding through the tunnels. After the train arrived, we piled into the car where we enjoyed the same tropical conditions found on the platform, now thoughtfully compressed by Metro with body odor and a lack of seating.
Forced to stand, my skin affliction was visible to most of the people in the train car and several satellites in low earth orbit. I tried to bury myself in reading the newspaper, but having to hold on to one of the pre-greased poles does not facilitate the turning of pages. I only succeeded in drawing more unwanted attention to myself with quick, noisy snatches at my paper, as if we were quarreling. At the next stop, a small portion of the 36,000 people in the car got off, and one seat opened up beside me. I quickly took possession, feeling elated at out maneuvering the rest of the dehydrated horde and from the removal of my pimple punishment from public display. I settled in and happily turned the page with my greasy hand.
It was then that I noticed the new passengers forcing their way into our movable Hades. The horizon above my newspaper suddenly filled with stretched green fabric. I looked up to see a tired, sweaty expectant mother directly in front of me. "Very clever indeed" I think about this zit wielding God. I got her attention and gave her my seat.
I'm pretty sure the zit made me do it.
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