Monday, November 30, 2009
1 the oldest dude i've ever fucked
had the oldest balls i've ever sucked
they had some gray hairs, which was sort of a drag
and they were all loose and wrinkled like an old dominick's bag.
2 i was used to young scrotums
all buttery soft leather
not vintage steamer trunks
that had seen decades of bad weather.
3 how does one approach sex with an old dude?
my mama always taught me to never be rude
i would HATE to fuck it up and have somebody tell her
that i had sexually disrespected my elder.
4 i didn't think middle age would be a big problem
but these balls were fifty years old when i saw them!
his tongue did nice work and his fingers did please
but the back of his balls touched the front of his knees.
5 now don't get me wrong, homeboy was smokin'
when he told me his age, i though he was jokin'
his handsome face and crisp suit got my fires stokin'
until finally i caved and gave in to some strokin'.
6 he paid for my dinner, which i thought was so sweet
but appropriate considering i'd had to cut up his meat
i had the chicken and the apples with streusel
he had mashed potatoes with a side of metamucil.
7 i talked about music and movies, what a bore!
because HE wanted to talk stock markets and high credit scores,
about investments and holdings and getting in on the ground floor
while i imagined his dick size because i'm such a huge whore.
8 the world is a magica, glorious place
from inside of a buick in the handicapped space
it's just like a spaceship, without all the lights
a spaceship that doesn't go out late at night.
9 i could learn to like turnips
i would learn to love beets
i would wear sensible cardigans
just to get in his sheets.
10 lights on or lights off?
all those sexy decisions
i had condoms and lube
but what other provisions?!
11 aspirin? check. icy hot? check.
we could take it slow if his heart was bad
but where would i find a fucking oxygen tank?
and commercially available defibrillator pads?!
12 no need to worry, the dick was just fine
the motion of his ocean had withstood the test of time
he got me off twice and then fetched refreshments
before teaching me about property tax reassessment.
13 there is only so long may-december can last
i got sick and tired of reliving his past
and sucking those old balls started to make me feel dirty
because when i was born this motherfucker was THIRTY.
14 he was sad that i ended it, all moping doom and gloom
but i couldn't handle eating dinner at four in the afternoon
he threatened to go all psycho crazy killer stalker
but that's not so scary when you're pushing a walker.
15 i missed him at first
i liked all the attention
but it made me feel guilty
to spend all his pension.
16 i like rock and rap music
and can't while away my days
listening to smooth jazz
and frankie beverly with maze.
17 i never could really relax during sex
visions of heart attacks and strokes danced through my head
terrified with every HUFF and PUFF
that this motherfucker would die in my bed.
18 it was fun while it lasted, but it's good that it's done
leaving behind only a slight tarnish on my purity
that was the first time, but probably not the last
that i'll suck some balls getting social security.
Monday, November 23, 2009
i brought a guy home after our second date, and when things started to heat up i grabbed a condom from my bedside table...but he stopped me and said he wanted to take it slow! i was shocked and offended. could he be telling the truth, or was he not that into me?
you chicks still don't know when you've got a gay or a mama's boy (same fucking thing) taking up space in your bed, eh? well let me clue you in. sissies and prudes have their place. i've got an entourage full of them. though not too many prudes, because they fuck up the party. and you know i believe in "he's just not that into you" wholeheartedly. but in this instance, i'm going with homo. then you just have to learn how to make lemonade out of that puckered little lemon! i'd get my sexy ass dressed and ask him to give me a smokey cat eye and highlight my new haircut so we could go out dancing. ooh, crunch!
my boyfriend makes a lot more money than i do. i pay for things when i can, i almost always pitch in when we go out, and i’ve made it clear that I don’t expect him to buy me expensive gifts. but every time we fight, he accuses me of dating him for his money. how can i show him that i’m interested in him, not his paycheck?
change your interests and start dating him for his money, honey. listen, he's OBVIOUSLY a gaping fucking asshole, since he brings up dumb, untrue shit when you fight. is this really about to be your manfriend? for real?! fuck no. so let this dick pay for everything. pick restaurants you'd never before dreamed of going to; get swanky hotel rooms downtown; try to get him to take you on a trip. and then when he dumps you, which is inevitable, you can be like, "at least i saw the south of france." i've been left heartbroken by silly motherfuckers who couldn't buy me a bucket of chicken, and that's way less fun than i imagine licking my wounds while wearing a tiffany lucida diamond would be. rich is better. go get you some!
i was very sexually adventurous in the past. i've settled down to the point where i'm happy being with just one guy, but the one i'm with now isn't all that wild. i'd like to suggest some new things, but i know he'll ask if i've ever done them before. should i lie or is there a way to tell him that won't freak him out?
when you pin his balls to his chin and bind his ankles and blindfold him and he's all, "where they do that at?" just tell him you read about it in cosmo. see, homie? i'm sexy AND i can read! dirty slut. i love it.
my guy is always the one who initiates sex, and he's starting to think i'm not attracted to him. how can i signal that i want to do it without doing something embarrassing?
do something embarrassing. dudes are fucking obnoxious pigs. and we give them entirely too much credit. something you think is humiliating would wind this dude's watch right up. so do it, you little minx, you. or you could employ my strategy. i just say, "hey you, i'm hot for it," and start pointing at my ladybits. works every time.
i've been with my boyfriend for almost six months now, and we've never had a fight. this may sound crazy but i've tried to get him mad by being bitchy for no real reason, and he never takes the bait. does it mean that he's not passionate about me?
you bitches are so dumb. do you really believe that fighting = passion? ugh! stop this bullshit! have you ever really fought with someone? i mean really really FOUGHT with someone?! that shit is exhausting. and fills me with venemous rage. i don't think, "boy, am i passionate about him!" i think, "how soon can i get carol's ass over here to help me blow this motherfucker's car up?!" if you want to see passion, give him a rusty trombone and make him a sandwich. he'll luh yew forever. might even wash the dishes after.
my guy kisses me good-bye, but otherwise, he doesn’t like to kiss unless we’re going to have sex. we have great chemistry, and the kissing, when it happens, is amazing. so why doesn’t he like it, and how can i get him to do it more?
threaten him. with bodily harm. i mean it.
so did you know that dudes have certain girls they "kiss in the mouth" and other ones they don't? i was on the phone with his hairness a few days ago, and he was schooling me on the whole girlyoukiss vs. girlyoudonot thing. dudes are really doing this! i've seen pretty woman, goddamn it, i know what that shit means. hooker. i have never been with anyone who didn't kiss me like his life depended on it. i mean, what kind of filthy tampon is like, "okay. we don't have to kiss or touch or be sweet. just stick it in." get a blowup doll, homie. because i'm the kind of bitch you gotta kiss. passionately. ON THE MOUTH.
i really like the guy i'm seeing and sex with him is great, but he has BO--down there. he's a bit of a hippie, so i'm not sure if he's dedicated to hygiene. how do i get to address this without humiliating him?
now i'm going to shoe-on-the-other-foot this one. i have sort of a bohemian sensibility, when it comes to certain things. i'm messy and sloppy and disorganized. and i don't wax my snatch. which came up in conversation with a certain hair-obsessed someone. things like that don't occur to a dirty ogre like me. i feel like if you know its general location you can find your way there. so quit bitching, hold your nose, and get a flashlight, girl. i mean, damn.
recently, i've been meeting a lot of great guys with whom i've hit it off really well. but i keep finding out that they're taken. why do i seem to attract men already in relationships, and how can i tell early on if there's someone else?
jackpot! senam and akilah and i were just talking about this shit yesterday. and by "talking about this" i mean, "i was saying that i don't mind guest-starring in someone else's show." sorry, bitches. but i just don't. i honor relationships if and when i am in them, and i expect my partner to do the same. but if he doesn't, my issue is with HIM. i just figure that every dude i meet is a dirty liar who specializes in half-truths anyway, the "baby mama" that's really his "girlfriend," the "ex-wife" who is still legally "wife." how can you possibly know? i dated zac for two years and never saw the inside of his apartment. he could've had a wife and three kids in there, and i would have been none the wiser. assume he's lying, then enjoy the shit out of yourself while you wait for the proof.
for the first time in my life, i’m involved in a fling with a guy, and i’m having a blast. but recently, he started bringing emotions into the mix. i just want to have fun! i thought that was what all men wanted.
man, this bitchass shit is a total bummer. nothing dries the panties up faster than some idiot you're just trying to grind on getting all sticky and emotional. ew. i spent most of my formative years dyyyying to be someone's stupid girlfriend, and then when it finally clicked that dudes just want to eff you and move on to someone else and i was sort of okay with that and trying to do my own thing with whoever i want i get the, "why don't you want to be my girlfriend?" speech. and what's funny is dudes never really MEAN it, they just can't handle you hollering at some other dude. he doesn't want to commit to you, he just wants you to commit to him. he wants you all weak and strung-out over his ass, sitting at home in your curlers while he fucks some hooters waitress. to hell with that. do your thing, bitch!
the guy i’m seeing is incredibly well endowed. i’m really nervous about sleeping with him; i’m afraid it will hurt. should i say something about my fears?
i've hollered at my fair share of mandingoes, and trust me. it sucks. and it hurts. so don't do it. and you bitches that lie and say you need a huge one are full of shit. nothing worse than a dude moving your dinner and internal organs all around. ugh. totally overrated.
are there any positions that are good for short-tall couples?
i love nothing better than a teeny tiny little nugget of a dude. i'm a gloriously amazonian 5'9"-5'10", depending on the shoes, and i used to have a strict "taller than me ONLY" policy. then i went out with a dude just a shade shorter than i am, and he was the nicest little rugrat ever! pulling out chairs and taking my coat. and in the bedroom he worked SUPER hard! so hard i almost didn't notice that horizontally his toes barely reached my ankles. it was like fucking a little monkey or something. a monkey who knew exactly what to do with his banana. zing! he was all over the place, poking and stroking and picking nits out of my fur. the bestest. so pick his little ass up and put him wherever you want him. up top, down below, left, right, wherever. totally rules!
i’m happy with my boyfriend, but after six months, the sex has gotten boring. he only seems to like it when i’m on top. i love the position, but i’d like to try out other moves. plus, i don’t feel like doing all the work! what gives?
i'm the laziest bitch alive. you dudes better take note. i don't do acrobatics or any of that shit that can get you injured in the bedroom. who has time for that?! i'll do pretty much any filth under the sun, but i draw the line when it comes to contortion and kama sutra and "porn moves." you can always tell when some asshole has been watching too much pinky and mr. marcus and wants to have your big toe behind your left ear while you twist your torso to the right and your booty to the left. man, fuck that. i'm the one with the vagina. you should do some shit for ME.
recently, i put on a few pounds, but my guy swears that he can’t tell. are men really oblivious to weight gain?
mmm. and this is why it helps to already be fat. because you don't ever have to worry about any dumb shit like this. and you can eat cheeseburgers! so take your fat ass out and find some dude who doesn't know what you looked like two bundt cakes ago.
my guy loves to give me oral sex. and i love it, too. but i'm always a little self-conscious about how i taste down there. he doesn't seem to have a problem with it, but i was wondering if what i eat could affect the flavor?
absolutely, bitch! that's why i maintain a strict garlic and onion diet.
we're all friends here, so i don't mind telling you that i have a very strong, ahem, natural musk. when i was nineteen i went to the free clinic for an std screen and a pap smear (before this sexy bitch had insurance, obviously) and the nurse was all, "i think i smell something..." like chlamydia has an odor or some shit. like salmon instead of catfish. i tested clean, OF COURSE. so after that i was just like, "eff it." if you get a chance to sniff these smelly treats you better act like a bitch in heat. now i'll wash and gut and scale the fish first. you just make sure you come hungry.
my guy hinted that he wanted to see me in sexy outfits, so i bought some lacy, girlie lingerie. now i’m too embarrassed actually to wear them to bed. i’m afraid he’s going to think they’re not sexy on me. what should i do?
outfits TOTALLY weird me out. and while i have no problem standing in front of a room full of people reading some filthy sex shit and laughing, just the thought of dressing up and modeling for some dude gives me the heebie-jeebies. i'm a firm believer that it is ridiculous to buy some frilly little ill-fitting thing whose sole purpose is to be ripped off by my manfriend's teeth. i have some hot bra-and-panty combinations, but i can actually use those bitches. lingerie costs too much and is pointless; if you don't think my pee-smelling "inside pants" are sexy, get out of my house. that's why everything i buy is black. it's instantly at least a little bit sexier, even if it's dirty and the the cat threw up on it a little. so this is what i do. any dude who finds my raggedy sleep shit unacceptable must also wear an outfit for ME. so dress him up, too. but i don't do banana hammocks or mesh shirts (so fucking gross!). i want you in a hot dog suit or an elmo costume. i got spanks in a studded dog collar. TWICE. it was hilarious! almost made up for the corset i was painfully strapped into at the time.
see bitches? i'm dumb, too! that's why we love each other so much. xxoo
you know what that makes me think of?! that incredibly excellent video for "epic" by faith no more, with that poor goldfish flip flopping all around and dying at the end. i LOVES me some faith no more! really and truly. whatever happened to those dudes? god, mike patton is genius. i was listening to "the real thing" on the train the other day and seriously almost wept. so effing good. you know who else you sluts should be listening to? andrew bird. really, get on the bandwagon already. he's the shizzz.
you know what weirds me out more than anything else at the doctor? the effing breast exam! i have had ALL SORTS of awful shit done to my mouth and my booty hole and every place in between, and none of that phases me nearly as much as that sixty seconds of clinical, technical titty-twisting. eww, it just makes me feel like i have two gross sacks of flesh hanging off my chest, you know? lying there with my arm over my head trying to make small talk while that bitch squashes my tits and rolls them into my stubbled armpit (i NEVER remember to shave before the doctor!) makes me want to die. she also does that test where she cups them in her hands (less sexy than it sounds) then walks across the room to stare at them before making notes in the computer. notes, my paranoia imagines, that read "almost touching knees this year" or "consider national geographic cover shoot." godawful.
so i scoot down to the edge of the table, trying not to rip the delicate tissue paper napkin these assholes call a "gown" and try get my feet in the stirrups, and my useless leg muscles locked into the worst cramp i've ever felt in the history of ever. i almost rolled off the goddamned table! all of my hairy lady meat (i have yet to get that wax) was totally gross and exposed, and my doctor is trying to work the cramp out with her hand while i grip the table in a near-futile attempt not to fall. my foot is cast to restrict the mobility of my achilles tendon so that it will hopefully heal and negate the need for a fucking surgery i can't afford. the problem is that the other muscles from hip-to-toe are also restricted, which means they haven't really flexed or even moved in almost eight weeks. it's like dragging around a fucking wooden limb.
crisis was averted, thank goodness. she just moved the stirrups far out and used the goddamned hubbel telescope to peer into my inner recesses. she also put her whole hand inside, and i was so busy trying to mentally count the number of fingers digging around my snatch ("do i really feel a fucking thumb?!?!!") that i almost slipped and fell AGAIN. so i'm itching to get the hell out of this cast, once and for all. i've never before been so excited to stretchhhhhhhh. my insurance is only going to cover three measly physical therapy sessions, so i'm probably going to go to pregnant-lady yoga again because yes, i am still lazy. (if you have no idea to what i am referring, search through these little bloggedy blogs for a little gem called "when are you due?" and have yourself a laugh or three.) i am also anxious to go to the gym (no, really!) if for no other reason than no one at bally's got the memo that my foot is fucked up and they have been charging my sweet ass forty bucks a month in membership dues i can't cash in. jerks!
i also am going to need a pedicure, but we'll have to get into that some other time. i might just be the one hot bitch on earth who cannot STAND pedicures. maybe i'm just self-conscious about these huge feet? no, my loves. that isn't it. because big people shouldn't have little feet. it just looks weird. so i don't give a shit about that. i just hate to have tiny, salty asians talking shit about me to each other while they gouge (potentially hazardous, possibly bacteria-laden) tools in and around my goddamned nail beds. and they are always too rough with that cuticle shit, too. i shudder just thinking about that fucking CUTTING. the shit's always slippery, and i never goddamn understand just what the FUCK they want me to do. sit WHERE?! put my foot WHERE?! move WHERE?! that shit wears my ass out.
the bowtie should have been the first indication that there would soon be a problem. this dude, a friend of a friend of a friend type person, went out of his way to introduce himself to me. let's start here: if you read what i write and love it, you should absolutely tell all of your homeskillets to read it, too. i love that. maybe that means i'll be famosa sooner rather than later. so some dude was directed to these here vagina chronicles by someone who thinks i'm awesome (and...i mean...DUH), and then felt further moved to inquire as to whether or not i'd like to accompany him to dinner.
i don't know. i feel like i'm telling this wrong. so i get this weirdly formal introductory email from a dude named ELROY (best name in the history of ever) and, after professing his love for my written word (and who wouldn't), he asked if i might like to go to dinner. which should be absolutely flattering. except. in addition to the awkward formality of that email, he was also kind of a judgmental little bitch.
i don't get it, and maybe you hoes do, but are we in the midst of some sort of victorian renaissance that i haven't yet heard about? or are dudes FINALLY experiencing the crippling doubt and self-esteem heretofore only witnessed in thirteen-year-old girls? because if you feel the need to question, or even reference, my sexual activity within two sentences of first telling me your goddamned NAME, the problem is yours. not mine. i don't typically spend a lot of time reading something i've written once i consider it finished, but maybe i need to rifle through some of this old shit and see just what the fuck these dudes are talking about. there are a pointed few direct references to specific sex acts in this blog, but this dude was acting like this was the daily dick diary or some shit.
i mean, maybe that's what i should fucking write. is that what you dudes want? a list of penises and the men to whom they are attached, complete with length, width, and girth, the length of the coitus, and specific details about how good (or not good, ahem) the experience was? complete with days of the week and the times of day?! although if i do that you understand you wouldn't have anything to read, because i've said more than once that I HAVE NOT HAD SEX SINCE MARCH. do you get it, elroy? being sexy and filthy and naughty doesn't equal whore, it equals a hilariously good time. so get the shit straight. and if you say you read, maybe you should actually READ. especially before you bust out your scarlet letters.
i said yes. because why not? what did i have to lose other than a little time and possibly some dignity? we spoke on the phone a couple times (and he was just so strange) and made plans for saturday night. i don't let dudes pick me up anymore, and not because i'm worried about anyone seeing where i live. i never really believe that someone would stalk me. sorry, i just don't. and if you want to waste your time sitting in front of my building trying to figure out if my bathroom light is on go right ahead. i think that shit is flattering. anyway, i like to avoid that "hi, this is my car" thing and the long ride to someplace fancy enough for my liking.
a few months ago, that dude teddy picked me up in his navigator and it had glowing neon blue lights outside and inside and was just so embarassing i didn't even want to get out when we got to the restaurant. i was hoping they'd serve my roast chicken and pommes frites curbside. ugh! and he kept pointing out the tv screens and the gps and all the other shit that might make some clucker take her panties off then and there. ugh! ugh! i was literally horizontal all the way to bistro 110, and then when we got there i almost broke my face trying to balance on the rail thing in this stupid boot before he came around to help me fall out. (two more fucking days. hallelujah.) and i was standing there trying to make the apology eyes to the valet for having to park that stupid beast with the spaceship lights and he looked back at me like, "bitch, please."
can i just say, i totally do not understand the getting excited because some douchebag has a nice car thing. i'll take a nice dude on the bus over an asshole with a mercedes any day of the week. dudes with nice cars are almost like super-hot dudes in that they think the car (or his face) just does all of the work for him. preston would act like that truck was an extension of his penis, and maybe if it had been we'd still be together. (zing!) for real, though, he would just be like, "you know why i'm dope?" and point at the expedition while i stood there thinking "i should kill myself. how have i been with a dude this stupid for this long?" ultimately, i'm a fat nerd who likes to read books and watch tv and sleep and listen to music and get tattoos, so all that shit is wasted on me. but dudes like that always wanna be all in my face, trying to make me care about rims and sound systems. boring.
next! so i got really nicely cleaned-up, not just my regular dinner self but my extra dinner self, because he'd suggested carnivale and i lurve that place. we had our fabulous s+s+l birthday dinner there in june and it was totally amazing, so i was totally stoked to go back. i spent the entire week imagining which ceviches i was going to get. bitch loves some ceviche! cleaned up, took a cab, got out, walked in. everything's cool.
he'd told me on the phone that he was 6'5" and thin, easy to spot, and he also told me he's always on time. i, of course, am never. so i got there and saw him at the bar immediately. his back was to me, but i could tell he was talking. i like to touch people inappropriately and weird them out (just ask lauraaaage), especially when it's unexpected and in such an awkward situation, so i walked up and placed my hand on the small of his back and said, "elroy" in my best, bottom-of-the-diaphragm voice. he jumped (ha ha) and spun around, and before i could even register whether he was gross or not i realized he'd been deep in conversation. with a dude he obviously knew. and from. the look of. things. had brought him. INTENTIONALLY.
why the fuck does shit like this always happen to me?! my DATE brought a DATE! and not just any date, mind you. he brought jeffrey, his best friend.
let's step aside for one second to make a note about how people who have names that are associated with obvious nicknames and they refuse to let you call them by one of those nicknames are the worst people in the fucking universe. just think of how much ragingly toxic asshole i would suck if i bristled every time you called me "sam." i don't have time for all of the "andrews" and "edwards" and "jeffreys" of the world. i want the andys and the teds and the jeffs. it immediately draws a weird line in the sand, doesn't it? when you have to call a motherfucker william?!??!! you know that shit irritates you.
i mean, please. i introduce myself as "samantha," and will tell you immediately after that introduction that you can call me sam. some people call me sammy. some people call me irby. my sisters call me sa-man-tha, but i think that's just to prove some authoritative point and piss me the fuck off.
okay. so jeffrey and elroy and i are standing at the bar staring at each other for a few seconds before i was finally like, "what, is this a gangbang kind of thing? because i'm not into that." elroy told me that jeff (fuck him) had come along to break up any tension. hmm. in what universe does the addition of an unanticipated third party DISSOLVE tension? i wasn't the least bit tense until i walked in and realized we were a tripod. ew. jeff stayed for a couple drinks until they got us a table, which was too effing bad because he was definitely cuter, smarter, and funnier than elroy. maybe jeff was his cyrano? damn, and i fucked it all up with my crude humor. ah well. that gangbang line was a classic.
elroy was wearing both a bowtie AND boat shoes, and not in the fashion-forward playful way of a pharrell or a kanye, but in the THESE ARE MY REAL CLOTHES kind of way. it was like carlton from the fresh prince. if only he'd done the dance. now you hoes know i don't care about that kind of shit. i look good for these reasons, and these reasons alone:
1 i wear variations on the same thing.
2 it all fits properly.
3 98% of my wardobe is black.
hard to look fucked up when no one can tell what the fuck you have on, eh? i wear: dark denim, black slacks, black blouses, black sweaters, and relaxed t-shirts. i have a couple white shirts and a gorgeous red shirt, but it's mostly grey, black, and navy. and i get away with that shit by saying my style is "classic." easiest shit ever. take notes.
he was also wearing a plaid shirt. all of this is cool if you're having fun with it, but dude obviously was NOT. painful. i mean, my boss wears boat shoes! really, kid?! you couldn't find a timberland or something? (or whatever it is young dudes are wearing these days.) i'm sure you're wondering how old this dude is, and if you guessed fifty-seven i totally understand why, but i hate to inform you that you are incorrect. thirty-fucking-five. and african-american. in BOAT SHOES!!!
he kicked the conversation off by telling me how i am "a little older" than women he typically dates, that he was making "an exception" because he liked my writing so much. at that point i started flagging down the waiter like i had been lit on fire so that we could get a wine list. it was looking like a three bottle evening. come on man, older than what?! i'm 29, not 69. (bwa ha ha 69.) i told him we could leave and go holler at some playgrounds if he wanted, but he didn't get the joke. just sat there. blinking.
i started to talk about myself (totally interesting) and he just kept blinking at me. even through the jokes! blink. i'm a funny motherfucker, so i tell hilarious stories to loosen bitches up, but this fool wasn't even having it. blink. at one point i straight up asked, "why is it you liked my writing again...?" and then his cell phone rang.
i have a surprising amount of etiquette for a saucy bag of snatch, and the cell phone while on a date thing killlllllllls me. it's absolutely unacceptable. i turn my ringer off, and i don't take calls make calls text or even check the time while sharing company with some hot delicious i'm trying to get with. that's so effing rude. so not only did his phone ring, but he answered it! and then got up!! so he could take the call outside!!!
after five minutes i thought, "now this is weird."
after ten minutes i thought, "i hope everything is okay."
after twelve minutes i thought, "un-fucking-believeable."
then i ordered one of everything.
it just gets even more boring from here, lots of apologizing and excuses about some "business issues" he refused to really explain in any detail. blah blah blah. i returned his earlier favor and just sat there, blink-blink-blinking as he scrambled. he ate every single thing that i ordered, and didn't even flinch when the check came. 250 bucks. we went out for drinks afterward (his suggestion) but i already had the warm wine drunks going on so i just slumped in the booth drinking club soda with lime listening to him prattle on about absolutely nothing. at the very end, once he'd had a couple scotch and sodas, he said, "you know something? you could be a lot hotter. you should think about working out."
i accidentally knocked my full glass over in his direction ("oopsies!") and got up to leave. good thing those deck shoes are made for slipping and sliding around out on the high seas (pshaw), because he caught up with me pretty quickly (damned foot) and sorrysorrysorried me half to death. we split a cab because i'm cheap, and when the driver pulled up elroy turned to me and said, "so, do you think i could...?" and nodded at my building.
"of course you can! but why don't we just wait until i'm hotter?" and then i slammed the door in his face. ew and gross and no.
oh, and elroy? 1987 called. it wants its shoes back. dick.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
well, i suppose the best part of being sick is all this weight i'm about to lose.
so i guess there's an upshot.
ugh, but you can tell whenever people lose a twelve-year-old off their hips and belly and shit and it didn't come from exercise and "healthy lifestyle changes." you ALWAYS KNOW when a motherfucker is dealing with some colossal badness and those new jeans are just a, um, bonus. new jeans and undereye circles and boxes of saltines. better than jenny craig, even.
the tricky thing with trying to learn how to deal with this crohns is that there are no triggers. one of my absolute worst flare-ups occurred on a day that i'd eaten, and i'm not even kidding, boiled noodles and white toast. i ended up in the hospital for four days after that business. four days of not shitting not walking not earning not eating not living after some goddamned toast! i am lulled into delusional (ch)eating by the good days, of course. days where pesto and fried chicken and ice cream go down perfectly and come out the same way. and i feel like, "hey! look at me! i can be normal!" and what does anyone want more than to just be fucking normal?
because i want to go to thanksgivings and order out for lunch and eat popcorn at the movies and grab a pizza just like any other sexy bitch who loves food and wants to be near people. but it's weeeeeird when you're the fucked-up one, and i think it equally weirds out everyone around me. because listen, i'll GO to the restaurant and i'll LOOK at the menu and i'll PRETEND i have options available to me, but then when i order the rice with a little bit of chicken next to it and no vegetables my dinnermates are always like, "what?! but the ricotta parmesan cream sauce beer-battered fried bologna milk butter chocolate vodka raw carrot donut pie is so good here! you have to try it!" and then, of course, i feel like i do. lest i run the risk of alienating someone who doesn't know me very well (and occasionally someone who does) with a boring, drawn-out speech about why i can't eat a goddamned delicious thing.
and i want to be part of the group! i work in a relatively friendly environment, rife with female sharing and commiseration, and when bitches are making dinner plans i want to make them, too. i want to go! i want to talk shit about our coworkers who aren't there! and i want to have some of what she's having! you fat bitches on diets know a little bit of what i'm talking about, don't you? sitting in a restaurant with some skinny slut who can order whatever the fuck and proceeds to DO SO while you sip your lemon water and act like that shit is delicious. but you're not fooling me, my love. because i know. soda tastes better. and grilled and/or steamed shit is for pussies. real women like US deserve a steak and the dessert menu, not this weak-ass broccoli and that pansy sorbet. i see you, my loves. don't worry your pretty little heads. we're in this together.
and lest i deny my tastebuds! let's not act like i'd be the picture of health save a few pushy friends and awkward dinner dates. i want food because it tastes good and makes me feel better. until it, inevitably, makes me feel worse. and maybe that's because my childhood was less than ideal or whatever, but oreos are cheaper than a therapist. even with this new insurance. (ps, thank god for it, but eff this new insurance, man! the worst.) but my oreo days are over, especially since i have to eat those hoes on the toilet. *tear*
not to make you dudes jealous or anything, but this recent hospital episode is going to cost me a lot.
1 it is going to cost me beer, and alcohol in general. which is tragic to a grizzled old drunk such as myself. although i suppose not nearly as tragic as writhing in excruciating pain and sleeping on the floor in the bathroom so i can be close to the toilet when i have to puke. but alcohol makes all of life's sticky/lonely/boring situations better. it just does. it helps to be drunk.
2 it is going to cost me cheese. and dairy, for the most part. because even though i shouldn't, i sometimes do. and it's not always a nightmare. just thinking about this is wearing me the fuck out, and i have an unopened pint of chunky monkey in my freezer that i got a little over a week ago and if you want it it's yours. goddamn this.
3 it is going to cost me diet coke, which seriously might push me over the edge. i'm not saying that i have more than a few a day, but i just might sometimes have more than a few a day. i'm weaning, because being on these steroids fucks up my mind grapes more than you could imagine, and going cold turkey would result in a ridiculously nasty headache. and i don't know how you bitches with migraines do it but, alas, i cannot. i would do anything to make a headache go away. ugh.
4 it is going to cost me grocery money, because i really should do things like shop and cook and eat breakfast. while that may sound enticing (i'm a helluva cook, yo) don't go all green in the eyeballs just yet. this morning's breakfast was peanut butter on dry raisin bread. beats the shit out of your full fat latte and buttery scone, doesn't it? i was all set to have some toast, then i realized that i busted the toaster like six months ago and never remembered to get a new one. really, in half a fucking year it has yet to occur to me to replace an appliance. seriously. not an adult.
5 it is going to cost me time and money at the pharmacy. i should say MORE time and money, as cvs gets a good chunk of my change every months already. it also might cause me to develop cancer, as one of the drugs dr. handsome has been asking me to take for over a year now has "cancer" as a handy side effect. awesome, right?! i know! jimbo the bossman has a similar condition, and he went on imuran and it put his shit in remission. which is rilly rilly fantastic. but i have bullshit luck, and taking this shit not only could cancer up my colon, i'd also have to have bloodwork every other week to make sure my liver doesn't sustain any permanent damage. i'm not bitching, i'm just saying. a few years ago i was on some shit that made my kidneys fail, and "potential side effects" are hilarious when you hear them on the tail end of a viagra commercial, but in real life that shit just sucks.
my kidneys are fine now, by the way. thank you for asking. you're so sweet.
in case you couldn't already guess, i don't resolve to do a goddamned thing. ever. i don't do it in december. or january. or EVER. because i'm already incorrigible and great, so what else is there to fix? truthfully, there are a lot of things i could fix, but somehow a year-end laundry list of all the shit i suck at is incredibly unappealing. i mean, i already know it, do i have to write it down? that never ensures that it gets done any faster. as a matter of fact, when i used to make resolutions they would just sit on my desk or in the kitchen or wherever, mocking my dumb ass as i broke every single one of them, one right after the other.
it's so unrealistic, isn't it, to fill up a sheet of paper with all of these lofty goals that you really don't have a chance in hell of achieving? and i'm trying my best to feel good about my stupid self, not have a daily reminder of all of my epic fail. because it feels like cheating to write down things you could actually do, like if i resolved to check the mail every day. because right now i don't. i don't know why, i just don't. unless i'm expecting something good from netflix, but even then i don't really know what's coming or when, because i read every third email or whatever. (it's mostly bills i can't pay anyway.) but if a passerby happened to glance at my new year's resolutions and saw "open the mailbox every day" they'd openly scoff at me!
"that's not a real resolution!" he or she would cry, clutching his or her pearls. "where is 'start exercising' or 'learn how to balance my checkbook?' don't you KNOW how to write new year's resolutions?!"
i'd sigh and feel like a dumbass, then i'd rip the whole thing up and try to shove it down that person's fucking throat. so here is what my new year's resolutions typically look like:
1 clean my apartment.
2 write more.
3 keep being ragingly awesome.
see? a list of things i can actually achieve! and it makes me feel so much better to cross at least two things off this list on a regular basis! (because let's be for real. until last night my apartment was a fucking hovel. but more on that later.)
i can't remember every single thing right this second, and that's probably due in part to my advancing age, but i'm sure it's also a testament to the massive amount of drugs i did in my youth. so as things come up i'll explain them.
the most important thing for you dudes to know, i suppose, is that just about everyone has a nickname. that's right, if i know and love you well enough to change your name in my beat-up shitty piece of bullshit cell phone, consider yourself blessed. i bring this up because as i continue to write this raggedy vag blog i have to reference the people in my life, and i can't write about "sarah" if i really call her "boobs." it just doesn't feel right to my fingers. so i figured i'd give you guys the rundown so you can start to get to know who is whom. ready? okay!
jenny = african
sarah s = boobs
sarah k = bitchass OR snatch
laura = lauraaaage OR mean mommy
chris s = jb
chad = bia
jen = doctor bia
lori = teenie OR tiny OR teenie tiger OR mama
helen keller = devil OR satan cat OR smelly helly OR chunky chunks OR little honey bun buns (because sometimes she is just so cute and i am just such a lonely cat lady.)
my old dudes get names, too, but it is WAY less important what their real names are. because eff them, that's why. hopefully you don't confuse easily, but i will try to explain who is who if they are ever referenced. but, just for fun, we in the irbyverse have so many stupid names for those clowns! spanks, the nerd, glasses, vajayjay, old dude, a-salaam-a-fuck-you, chili cheese fritos, marco polo, and that dude who hollered at my sister. the list is endless. just like the wind tunnel that is my birth canal. zing!
i have some lovely new friends (i'm looking at YOU akilah and senam) that i'll have to come up with names for, too. don't you worry. these mind grapes are always getting juiced!
so lauraaaage lives up in my ass all the time, and i appreciate her for it. i really do. because i am sloppy and careless and not always looking out for my own best interests. because i'm dumb, but i've already told you that. she mean mommies me all the live long day, and i kind of live for it. i always do and say stupid shit to get her to turn that glare on me. it almost melts my glasses, that gaze. *shudder*
she hates everything i ever do. hates might be a touch too strong. DISAPPROVES is better, and more accurate. every single time i mention that i'm thinking about doing some dumb ass shit or some raggedy ass dude i know if i glance at the desk behind me she will be scowling her disapproval and shaking her head "absolutely not."
eg, one of my wretched old used-to-bes was facebook commenting me to death (again with the goddamned facebook, egads) and i got suckered into some replies. totally weak. so lauraaaage jumps into the comment thread and says, "bitch, do you know what look i'm giving you?!" and i totally DID. she wasn't even in the same vicinity, yet i could feel THE LOOK all the way down to my colorfully striped socks. so i stopped the comments. saved from myself. i can't hide junk food in my desk drawer, because she'll find that shit and chastise me. and don't even let me be giggling and sniggling while secretly texting, lover. "who are you texting?!" she'll demand, all icily accusatory-like. and i am immediately flooded with shame, even if it's just my grandmother or something. (but it is NEVER my grandma! it's always some hot snatch. rawr.)
i called into work yesterday from my death bed to give an update, and after asking about how my broken intestines were faring, lauraaaage informed me that she and teenie were making a list of questions for old doctor hotmeat to fill out when i go see him in december. questions i would never ask, like "what foods should i avoid?" and "are there any homeopathic therapies that you would recommend?" i love that this bitch cares so much, although i secretly suspect she would like to go with me and ask the questions for herself, just to make sure i don't fabricate the answers.
because you know i would. i would write some shit like "taco bell three meals a day" and "unlimited chocolate and butter." teenie said i should eat baby food and drink water and abstain from sex, but what getting pounded hard from the back has to do with the state of my intestines remains a mystery to me.
so here are my 2010 resolutions.
-drink more water. (i hate water. except for pamplemousse lacroix. which i just bought a case of! way to go, me.)
-stop eating bullshit and take all my medicine.
-grow out my hair. (now i am smack in the middle of this, and it is a lauraaaage-specific request. it is so hard, because i am so lazy. but paul mitchell's leave-in conditioner is making a believer out of me, so this might just be doable.)
-keep my apartment clean. ish. (melissa came over last night to check on my dying ass, and was so grossed out by my living quarters that she proceeded to clean the entire thing, from top to toes. i was having a bit of an anxiety attack at the prospect of samson's visit and the daunting task of cleaning up in preparation, and now i don't have to. that bitch is amazing. she spic-n-spanned my shit in an hour. it would've taken me weeks. blerg! and i'm nervous about him hating my ratty/bohemian bachelorette pad. oh well. if he does, eff him.)
-wear more lipstick. i mean, really. these lips are my best feature (second only to those lips, maybe) and i should show them off.
-keep being fucking awesome. and maybe exercise. a little.
okay okay okay. that is ENOUGH. that's probably more than i could ever be expected to do anyway, and just looking at it is totally harshing my mellow and bumming me out. and i know that it should say things like: shut up more, stop making stupid decisions about dudes, quit swearing, stop smoking bowls, and focus on schoolwork. but we're trying to be realistic, remember?
this one's for you, lauraaaage. now let's have a dance party to celebrate!
ps, i have a date (maybe) saturday (MAYBE) with some dude who emailed me and said he thought my blog was "cute," but "gross." should i even bother? at the very least, i might go just to say some uncute, nongross shit about his ass. that'll teach 'im!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
his ashes are in a dusty box in a gap shopping bag on the shelf in my hall closet where i keep all of my coats and the space heater and a box of miscellaneous crap that i have moved with three times but can't bear to go through, next to a package of the most gorgeous bed sheets from the company store that are too big for my bed. i can never get myself together enough to handle that kind of thing, to return shit i've ordered that's wrong or photocopy and staple receipts and fill out paperwork to get rebates or register electronic equipment that i've purchased so i can use the warranty when i inevitably break it.
and they were so expensive, those sheets. ugh. i got two sets, and i left them out on my desk for the longest while promising myself every day that i was going to get it together and send them back, until finally i read the receipt and realized i was four days past the window of hassle-free exchange. so then i opened one set and put them on the bed, but i was so irritated at all of the extra fabric flapping around that i ripped them right off. so the unopened package went into the closet, primed and ready for the day i finally get a bigger bed. it's been two years.
winter is going to be here in approximately ten minutes, so i decided on a whim last night that i needed to take my fancy coats to the dry cleaner. i had a bunch of coats over my shoulder and was wrestling to get my beautiful houndstooth off the hanger when it suddenly broke free and knocked the bag off the shelf. i backed out of the closet in enough time to watch it hit the floor and immediately started hyperventilating, fear-stricken at the prospect of sweeping up my dad's burned up skin and bones and brains.
it took eleven years for me to even get his ashes.
he died the year after i graduated high school. it was early february and i was in my dorm room at northern when one of my sisters called to tell me that he'd had a series of strokes and was being shipped from memphis to evanston so he could be under the care of his lifelong physician, dr. ira weiss. he was lucid but clearly out of his mind, as was evidenced by my final phone conversation with him, during which he described to me a trip through the morgue that he'd taken on a bicycle in the middle of the night with a zombie that he really believed was real, not the obvious figment of his imagination that was instantly apparent to me.
he was found naked and frozen to death in some dude's backyard on valentine's day, a week or so after that conversation. mentally ill and robbed of his dignity. i had received a call from a detective two days before, informing me that my father had walked out of the nursing home he'd been put in and hadn't come back. incidentally, that nursing home was down the street from the one my mother was in, and he stopped there to visit her and steal ten dollars from one of her roommates on his way. i turned eighteen years old february 13, 1998, miserably floundering in the corn fields in dekalb, while my father was improperly clothed against the elements, sleeping in streets and alleys eating garbage and slowly freezing to death, like some sort of animal.
people always pretend like they want to know about my parents. and i'm not such an asshole that i don't appreciate the intent, believe me. because i want to talk about it. i want to talk about it every day, all the time. but no one really wants to know that my abusive, alcoholic father died in the street like a rat while i sat helplessly in a dorm room not fully understanding what was really going on, and it's not fair to lay that all on someone who might like me but doesn't have extensive grief counseling experience. so i don't talk about it much, because i can't say "oh, he had cancer" or "jeez, it was a heart attack," something that ties up neatly.
some unsuspecting dude came out of his back door one morning to find my dad lying naked atop his folded clothes, dead of hypothermia, and there's no way to make that pill an easy one to swallow.
i will never forget the detective's voice when he called. there was no caller ID on the phone in our room. cara and i had two distinct rings, so we'd know who the phone was for, and when it trilled my double ring i mindlessly picked it up, expecting it to be chris down the hall asking me if i wanted to go down to dinner. cara and i sat hugging on the floor while the detective explained everything to me, and it was so surreal to be in that place listening to that news. on the other side of our door horny college freshmen were running and screaming and puking and bitching about term papers. i think it was just an extra touch of cruelty that this had to happen while i was surrounded by raging youth. i was strangely disconnected from the whole thing; i remember hanging up the phone and going with cara down to dinner. my father had just died, and i had cereal and an ice cream sandwich.
cara and her mom drove me home for the funeral. it wasn't until i saw him in the casket that i finally understood. it had been a couple years since i'd seen him, and he was so heavily layered with makeup (freezing is an ugly way to go) that he was almost unrecognizable. i'm not one to put lipstick on a pig; my father was a wino who spent a great deal of my life actively refusing to be a father to me, and his funeral was packed wall-to-wall with other drunks and ne'er-do-wells, but he was still my fucking dad. the ONE THING i remember from his funeral was precious dr. weiss, a deeply religious orthodox jew who'd spent two days on his bicycle looking for his friend, my missing father, who sang the lord's prayer in hebrew over his body.
i can't remember my dad's voice. my mother's, either. trust me when i say that this is the kind of thing that will haunt you about your dead parents, and i hope it never happens to any of you ever. because you think you will, you think they'll remain vivid in your mind forever. or maybe because you don't think it's the kind of thing you have to worry about happening that you don't think about it enough, and then you realize one day that you are twenty-nine years old and if you heard a recording of your mother's voice what it sounded like would be a surprise to you.
in my mind their voices sound the same as all of the other voices in my head, the one that yells at slow milkshakes crowding up the supermarket and scolds me for saying something dumb in front of attractive dudes. you think you'll be all broken up about the ways in which you've disappointed your dad or the time you called your mom a "bitch" and she heard you--all that goes away. what really gets you is how she fades to the back of your mind like a movie character or something. how you can remember a shirt she wore one time when you were in the second grade but you have no idea what she liked to eat or what soap she used. i don't remember much of anything. and because i was so young when either of them was in anything closely resembling good health, all i remember is SICK.
i couldn't even go pick up his ashes. though he was in my sisters' lives for fifteen years before i came crashing through the ether to fuck everything up, he was not their father, so his cremains were mine to hang on to. but something in me couldn't drag myself to go get them. i went back to school the next day, and i thought everything was cool. i thought i was okay, that i was handling it. and i was, until the day i came back from class and couldn't stop crying. i was grief-stricken and stressed out and losing it, and finally cara called the cops while chris sat across from me on her bed holding my hands in his and muttering the lord's prayer or something until they got there. the police came and an ambulance came and they were nice enough not to turn on the siren during our trip to the hospital. a "danger to myself" apparently, i was sedated and put in soft restraints, and this super-nice cop dude stayed with me the entire time. i went back to the dorm a couple days later with a fistful of prozac and orders to see a therapist twice a week. i dropped out of college at the end of that semester. i also stopped taking the prozac; it shuts off your ladyfaucet COMPLETELY. and fuck that.
the first time i got pulled into the social worker's office was in the seventh grade. i had worn pajamas to school three days in a row (this was in 1992, mind you, before it became fashionable to do so and signaled some sort of problem in the home), and someone had alerted them to my "situation." dun dun DUN.
before i was born my mom was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, and shortly after that it kindly went along its way and settled into remission. it came hurtling out of remission in 1990 following a not-so-awesome brain operation. she had been in a car accident one day while i was at school; not wearing a seatbelt, she flew across the seat, clunking her head against the rearview mirror. she seemed pretty okay afterward. a couple days later i was home from school (i was in the fifth grade) for one of the jewish holidays, and my mother woke up but never got up. she sat on the edge of her bed for hours, drooling and unresponsive, while i watched cartoons. finally i went next door and got our neighbor, who in turn called an ambulance.
turns out she had a blood clot in her brain caused by the accident. GNARLY. so the doctors shaved her head and cut it open and pulled out the clot, leaving extensive brain damage and an un-remissioned multiple sclerosis in their wake. at that point conditions at home could scarcely be described as "normal," but once she came back it devolved at a furious pace.
multiple sclerosis is fucking awful, and i will describe it to you the way it was described to me by one of her neurologists when i was a child. think of the brain as a series of wires. the disease goes through the brain eating away at the protective coating on the wires, eating away and eating away until it renders the wires themselves totally useless. when you are watching it kill someone it looks sort of like this: limp; cane; walker--> wheelchair; carry--> lift--> hold--> point; paragraphs--> sentences--> words--> sounds. you slowly become a prisoner in a body you can't use, with a mind you still can. it's utterly heartbreaking.
none of what i am about to say is meant disrespectfully, it is just the unfiltered truth. i feel like you can't really have an idea of who i am without really knowing how the formative years of my life went down. my mom was physically and mentally incapacitated for the last few years i lived with her, until my freshman year of high school, when i was thirteen years old. i think i understand why people don't call government agencies when, perhaps, they really should. because you can't really believe that it's you these things are happening to, you know that you are a better person than your circumstances indicate. pride is an intensely powerful emotion, particularly for people who used to be great but are rapidly deteriorating due to no fault of their own.
and you really don't think it's you whose house is unclean, whose laundry is regularly unwashed, whose pantry is stocked with bullshit that is cheap and terrible for you because you don't have a choice. or maybe you do know but admitting it is really just too hard. you might not notice that your child isn't clean, or that she has both worn and slept in the same clothes for the last week. you certainly don't notice that her hair isn't combed, or maybe you do but you can't do anything about it, because you're living on social security and section eight and who has any money to fix anything anyway? my mother was trapped in a body she couldn't use with a brain that didn't work as well as it used to, and that was hard for both of us.
in hindsight i feel downright horrible, as i was a selfish pre-teen consumed with all of the things i wanted and couldn't have, and i didn't do anything to make that easier. i resented the bar in the shower and the raised toilet seat and the walker i was constantly tripping over. it was just the two of us, moving from one wretched apartment to another, sharing our space with mice and other creepy crawlies. no one else (as far as i knew) had a mother who couldn't get herself off of the toilet or down the stairs; i was extremely jealous of the normal lives of my classmates as i imagined them: mothers and fathers (together! what a novelty!) who drove cars and went to the grocery store and sponsored sleepovers and supplied lavish christmases and birthdays and weren't hospitalized regularly or lapse on the payments for your bedroom so that one day you came home and discovered you had to sleep in bed with your mom. we could never keep a phone on, so we moved to a place down the street from the fire department so i could walk down there if something really bad happened.
i was SO ANGRY. and totally embarassed. because if i couldn't really understand what was going on there was no way the other kids would. so i kept a lot to myself and cracked jokes and made nice and tried to blend in as much as i could. i wanted things to be simple. i just wanted to have cable and new shoes and shirts from the gap, not clean up and count pills and come straight home after school. i wanted to live in the kind of place i could invite my friends over to, with the kind of mom who had cookies already baked and dinner on the stove. my mom was the fucking greatest, and i miss her every minute of every hour every day, and if she'd been a whole person i have no doubt that she would have been everything a kid (even a selfish, spoiled one) could ever ask for. but she wasn't, so she couldn't.
i was in both the choir and the marching band (nerd alert!), and one day went to school early to audition for one of the piano parts in jazz band. i stayed late to practice afterward. we always had a piano in the house (we might have been lacking electricity at some point or another, but i ALWAYS had a fucking piano), but i needed to rehearse with a metronome and had just broken the rickety old one perched atop my rickety old piano. i hated going home. hated it. because when i wasn't there i could pretend that that wasn't my life, that the broke and the sick and the tired and the sad were all happening to someone else. walking through that door just crystallized my reality for me, and i'd try to stretch the hours between school and home as far as they'd reach, and then go a little further past that.
when i saw her i knew instantly that this was it. that our crippled way of "just getting by" together, as a unit, was totally fucking over. i saw her the second i opened the door, sprawled face-down on the hardwood, lying in a pool of her own urine and crap, crying. she'd fallen half an hour after i'd left for school at 6:45. her body, the vicious traitor, could barely go from sitting to standing, let alone from horizontal to vertical. she'd lain there all day waiting to hear my feet on the stairs, my key in the lock, too ashamed to call out so one of the neighbors might hear her. and i couldn't be bothered to come home straightaway because there were things i wanted to do for myself, things that didn't involve coming home and helping her.
she never came home after that. first the hospital, then a nursing home. for a fifty-something year old woman whose main concerns should have been oprah and making sure i didn't break curfew and kept up a decent GPA. i remember telling my mom about having lost my virginity. dementia had started to take over by then, and i sat across from her bed as she stared blankly at the little television she and her roommate shared. most girls would be quaking in terror, but she didn't even know what i was talking about.
the picture came sharply into focus at that moment, that she would never ever really know anything about me. you're not a real person when you're a child, no real thoughts or opinions or personality or experiences, at least. you're a little hurricane, blowing through the house running and jumping and kicking and laughing and playing. you're told what to do and when and how to do it. she and i didn't have conversations; i talked about kid stuff, and she talked about mom stuff. i was fourteen (huge whore, i know) at the time, and i realized that she would never know anything about who i'd become: what kind of person i'd be, what i'd like, who i'd end up with. she would never meet my children or see my grownup house or have an adult conversation with me. we were never going to argue over politics or where to have thanksgiving this year.
i came home from northern in june, almost four months after my father's death. sarah and i went to the nursing home to visit my mother, who at that point had been in hospice care for a number of months, and her lungs started to fail the second we walked in the room. she was shipped to the hospital, where my sisters and i were informed that she would die within a matter of days from whatever disease had overtaken her lungs. she was put on a morphine drip and died later that evening, surrounded by the stupid assholes she'd given birth to who couldn't help but bitch and fight with one another, even as she went from being a "person" to being a "body."
we each got a turn to talk to her before the morphine made her lose consciousness, and when i went in to say my goodbyes i remember thinking, "what the FUCK do i fucking say NOW?" what does your retarded teenage ass say to your feeble, dying mother? what resonance or profound wisdom did i have to impart? when i walked in my oldest sister was in there, bitching at me about one thing or another, and i couldn't resist being drawn into the argument. your siblings always know what the fuck to say, don't they? the perfect thing to make you ignore your dying mother in favor of snatching at her. finally my sister got the fuck out and i could focus on telling my mom i'd miss her and she'd have a good time in heaven and that i loved her.
she cocked her head and gave me a look before using her skeletal hand to pull the oxygen mask away from her face. i was waiting for some profound piece of knowledge, some sage words of wisdom, or maybe the admission that i was, indeed, her favorite child, when this bitch looked right at me and said:
"are you sure?"
my five minutes were up, the clock eaten away eaten away by some stupid argument, and i was hustled out of the room so my next sister could come in and say her piece. those are the last fucking words my mother said to her youngest child, and if you think someone's haunting you from the grave, try walking around carrying that.
so if i am a bitch to you or i say something inadvertently nasty and you think to yourself "goddamn i hate that fucking asshole! i hope something terrible happens to her!" you can fucking rest easy.
i already got mine.