Thursday, March 18, 2010

why, do you have roaches?

i should probably not start with something as inane and stupid as this, but if i could somehow combine christian bale, my hot little t-rex, and richard the genius/hilarious/brutally awesome dude who writes about le teevee for gawker in a blender with three bottles of yuengling traditional lager and a sprinkle of crushed narcotics i would drink that business every single morning and probably stop complaining so much. and i maybe could burn all my sad and lonely music in a fire. just saying.

so here's some fresh crazy for you: when faced with a prospective "brand new hot dude paying a visit to casa sam" situation, i am always TOTALLY OVERWHELMED by the insatiable urge to completely overhaul my living space.

i spent an entire week getting my shit together prior to hair's visit in december, scrubbing baseboards and hidden corners and unseen crevices with earth-murdering hazardous chemicals and non-biodegradable towels, using 1 swiffer cloth per square inch of my humble abode, bleaching and laundering everything i could get my filthy hands on in gallons of super-hot wasteful water; essentially, i took a huge shit right in mother earth's mouth just to impress some goddamned dude. one who wasn't even in my fucking house long enough to notice my artfully arranged kitchen cabinets and expertly styled bookshelves.

i don't know what the fuck my major malfunction is, but i just CANNOT accept that, despite their constant oversight and idiocy, men could give a shit that my toilet paper is on the roll the correct way.

and, in case you don't fucking know, the loose part should hang FROM THE BOTTOM, not REST ON TOP OF THE ROLL. why don't you assholes know that? all i can think when i see that is how i'm about to PLACE MY HAND ON and then WIPE MY ASS WITH someone else's shit. we haven't talked about poop in a while, so let's fix that. my crohn's will not get its ass together, despite the fact that i am pouring hundreds of dollars of fancy medicine down my gullet by the minute. i am impatient, man, and i've been taking this new shit for almost two months and this bad girl simply WILL NOT go quietly back into remission. and i'm irritated. two months is too soon to expect too much, but i'm aggravated out of my fucking mind. especially since i had, like, THREE normal weeks where i had normal-ish craps that actually had a shape and some heft to them.

i'm too dumb to have these rare and intermittent good weeks, because then my tiny corn kernel of a brain forgets that between my ribcage and my pelvis my internal landscape looks like fucking afghanistan. all charred and bombed-out and shot up and crawling with pissed off insurgents declaring jihad on my digestive system. and my joints, because please don't forget how bad this peripheral arthritis is. especially in the fucking morning. jesus. i'm staying at tom's right now, and i had to sit halfway down his big flight of stairs because my knees hadn't warmed up yet. what an old lady. no wonder i don't have a dude. i can't find a hot one with a walker fetish.

i'm about to start acupuncture just to try to come at this cunt from another direction, but those of you who pray should do me a favor and add "cure for crohn's disease" to the top of your lists in the likelihood that that bullshit is going to fail, too. speaking of needles, i was in the hospital recently for some treatments. exciting, i know. but i don't mind the hospital. AT ALL. because people who are sick and falling apart feel better once they get there. you normal people who break your arms or bump your heads and sit terrified in the emergency room waiting to get in make me sad. i get triaged ten seconds after i walk in, especially if my stomach pain is at an eight or higher. i don't have to dick around with insurance forms and co-pays, they just get me in a bed, get dr. handsome on the horn, and pump me full of steroids and dilauded until i pass out.

did i ever write about how i almost DIED my last ER visit?! it was in november, and i knew at two in the afternoon that i was going to "flare," a rather innocuous-sounding word considering what it physiologically means. the purpose of all these drugs i take is three-fold: 1 maintenance/flare prevention, 2 trying to get the disease to lapse back into remission, and 3 to keep the pharmaceutical industry rich. flare-ups often feel like the world's strongest man stuck his hand into my midsection, grabbed hold of my intestines, and started wringing them like a wet towel while STABBING ME IN THE GUT WITH A MACHETE. awesome, i know.

so anyway, i knew early that i was going to be fucked up, but i can't DO anything until it happens, just try to flood my system with steroids or sit and wait to puke and then holler at the ER. so ten hours after the first warning sign i was lying on my bathroom floor with my face in a puddle of acidic bile and foam, and i called melissa and asked her to be my date to the vomit-prom. fast forward to us in this tiny curtained room, tubes stuck all in up my everything, and this jersey shore bitch in blue scrubs comes in with syringes and a clipboard, blinking through her tarantula lashes at me. she asked me THREE TIMES what i was there for, then muttered, "this is an awful lot of painkiller, honey," AS SHE WAS INJECTING IT INTO MY CENTRAL LINE.

i would take a horse tranquilizer if it meant that unbearable pain would go away, so i didn't even flinch. bring it on, bitch. do your worst! WELL. heavy-duty shit like that...slows...your breathing...to...a...CRAWL...and sometimes...you.

need...oxygen.

so.

you...don't.

DIE.

i don't remember much other than being yanked away from the white light by the deafening shriek of the pulse ox machine and a blinding red light blinking outside the door. two nurses burst in and snatched me out of baby jesus's loving embrace, shaking me awake and shoving oxygen tubes in my mouth and nose. exciting! dying is no big deal to me, life on earth is serrrrriously wearing me out, but i texted my lawyer anyway. why shouldn't my sisters feast on caviar at my funeral? live it up, you dirty snatches. but BOO fucking HOO i did not die, that time at least, and am now just sitting on the toilet waiting for my next opportunity. right now i'm pretty good, only flaring up once every six to eight months, but melissa is moving to seattle. so you bitches better keep your phones on. come may or june you might have to come pick a bitch up.

i have steered this stupid ship disastrously off course. let's refresh: hospital awesome needles treatment. you still with me? amazing, you smartypants. so i'm all hooked up to IV bags and getting all injected up and i have my shoes off and a book (i broke down and am reading "edgar sawtelle;" book report to follow) in my lap, settling in for three nonstop hours of ass-numbing misery. and then my favorite thing on earth happened:

i got to witness a couple having a nasty public fight.


i always piss and cry and moan because no one is waiting at home for me every night with a hot bowl of pesto and a handful of xanax, and the ONE THING that eases that persistent dull ache is watching two assholes in love scratching each others' eyes out in the grocery store or a hair salon. makes me feel MUCH less anxious that there is no man contractually obligated to suffer through sex and the city 2 with me or that i still have my original last goddamned name. at first i couldn't figure out how the brouhaha got started or what it centered around, but these dudes went from glaring at each other to raising their voices to cell phones being thrown and security getting called. i just sat there texting hot weekend and thanking my lucky stars that no one else's name is on my lease.

UGH. how do you fightfightfightfight and then go HOME with the person you just fought with? you know i don't believe in arguing, i believe in "get the FUCK OUT." i am uninterested in it, all that tiresome back and forth. and i'm the nastiest grudge holder you will ever meet. seriously, if we have it out just do yourself a favor and cut my ass loose. because i NEVER let anything go. i will keep bringing up old shit every single time you get on my last nerve. it's not worth it. trust me. so either don't eff me over, or tell me to take a hike as soon as we take the gloves off and get to scrappin'.

this crohn's business makes me feel lame and unlovable, but watching this bitch hiss and spit through clenched teeth about the unpaid electric bill and some other bitch whose number was in his phone after he promised he'd delete it made me feel a smidge better. because while no one loves me at all ever not even a little bit, at least no one is snatching my wrist and idly threatening me in the middle of a phlebotomy lab. i just sat the with the nurse, opening and closing my fist 469 times so she could collect a gallon of my blood one tube at a time. seriously, like EIGHT tubes. i can't even stomach watching it. a butterfly needle in my bad hand and a giant bloodsucker in the other arm. christ almighty. open close open close open close open close FAINT.

so when it was decided that hot weekend was going to come over to luxuriate in my incandescent glow, the first thing i did was call maya's ass and say "you know where we need to go? TARGET." because this dude is totally going to notice that my shower curtain rings are sorta dull and that the plug-in in the bathroom is almost out of scented oil. pshaw.

i talk a lot of shit. but the minute some dirtbag is like, "want to watch a movie at your place?" i'm out the door in thirty seconds flat buying new dish towels and replacing the sink mat. no, really. and i know a man doesn't have the sense or observational skills god gave your average housecat, but i still like to have my ducks in a row just in case. you know, what if he's part gay or something? then he'll totally notice that my blinds are dusty and my dish towels don't match. and i can't deal with that.

here is what i bought and/or replaced in anticipation of this four-hour visit, in no particular order: shower curtain liner, shower cleaner, hand soap dispensers, pink grapefruit dish soap, an electric blue laundry basket, a surge protector, kitchen sponges, paper towels, toilet paper, plug ins, air freshener, silver glitter toothbrushes and fennel toothpaste from merz, formula 409, comet, clorox wipes, shea butter soap, water filters, a humidifier filter, juice boxes.

then i: cleaned the cat kennel; washed and changed the litterbox; threw out 100+ old issues of the new yorker and bust and bitch and vanity fair that had been piled atop the cat kennel; washed all of the dishes; dusted the metal rack in the dining room; swept and mopped the dining room, and the kitchen, and the BATHROOM; scrubbed the oven and the stovetop; bleached the refrigerator; scrubbed the toilet; put all my clean laundry away; hid all the dirty laundry; swapped out the dish towels; dusted all the bookshelves and the blinds; reorganized the dvds; changed the bedsheets, shams, and the duvet; and did dumb shit like uniformly filling the ice cube trays and made sure all my spanish and algebra books were stacked neatly, spines facing outward, of course, on top of my desk.

all after i spent half an hour on my knees retching into the toilet (and not in the cute way) because i'd taken a small army of drugs on an empty stomach (idiot) then tried to chase them with crackers and dry corn cereal. but i'm a soldier, man. i took a benedryl and slept on the bathroom floor then got up and cleaned my place, terrorizing helly with the swiffer because she's a dumb cat and can't discern friend from foe.

hot weekend called to let me know that he was en route and asked what i was doing.

"well, i just took the garbage out, and i'm about to shove all my new balances into the hall closet." as sexy as he'd expected, i'm sure.

he laughed. "why?"

"i just cleaned up, and i don't really have any place to put all my shoes. so i'm going to hide them until after you leave." i mean, DUH.

"you didn't have to clean up for me. i could care less."

well thanks for telling me that NOW, asshole. argh. "of course i did. i didn't want you to see all my errant porn. or find that bag of chocolate cashews that melted at the foot of my bed. so i had to clean up."

long pause. "why, do you have roaches?"

"what? eww. no!" horrifying.

"okay, well that's the only thing i care about. i HATE when a woman has you over to her place and there are roaches crawling all over your shoes and shit. yuck. so you're cool as long as i don't have to kill any bugs."

so i didn't have to lysol all the doorknobs and clean the bathroom tiles with a toothbrush? shit. 


"so that's the barometer for whether or not you like a bitch's place? ROACHES?" 

why did i go through all the trouble to put all my cool movies out and make sure my smartest magazines were on the nightstand? why did i drag all of those ancient bottles of salad dressing and decades worth of old, shredded period underwear down to the dumpster? why did i wipe down the lightbulbs over the vanity and re-fold all of the bath towels? fucking stupid.

"uh huh. anything else? totally doesn't matter. i wouldn't even notice."

hot weekend assured me he'd be at my place in twenty minutes and i hung up, dejectedly glancing around at my spotless apartment, wishing i'd already made the dinner i could eat off the floor or that i had spent more time napping so i wouldn't have to pound diet cokes all fucking night. helen looked at me and shook her head, laughing. then she got in the litterbox and dumped half of the fresh litter on the floor, took a queen-sized dump, knocked her food bowl over, sending teeny little pellets skittering across the hardwood in forty-seven directions before jumping her shitty behind in my clean bed. blerg.

when he arrived i was in the kitchen sweating a bunch of onions in a big dutch oven (sexy sexy date food, right? i am suave to no end, lover!) so he was left to see to his own coat hanging and comfort making. "is this the coat closet?" he shouted, but i was intensely focused on not burning his dinner and didn't really register what he'd said. until i heard all the shoes. come tumbling down from wherever they'd been shoved.

 
"oh my god, are you okay? did anything hit you?!"

 
"ALMOST," he grumbled, pouting as he rounded the corner. "i could have been knocked out!"

"dude, i'm really sorry. i have GOT to figure out something to do with my stupid shoes."

"it's okay,"
he said very nicely, considering the shoevalanche he'd barely escaped intact. he smiled, and i assumed everything was right in the world again. then he paused for a few beats.



 
"i thought you said you cleaned up?"