Set down your food. Walk away from the table. Un-tuck your dinner napkin from your well-pressed collar, and seat yourself somewhere steady so that you may hear the grossest tale ever told. Background: I am dog-sitting for a puppy who might more accurately be described as a minute pony. The pup in question is a gentle and large lass of mixed parentage. She is kind and enthusiastic, a penultimate snuggler, and in general a fine old gal.
I ventured to the home of PonyGirl a few evenings ago, where I was greeted with much love and slobber. We took a nice walk, and we then tottered out to the backyard area to enjoy the evening before we retired. I had made for myself a delicious cocktail, and was waving my cigarette jauntily in the air when I heard the "crunch". "What's that, dear?," I called out melodically, "have you found a branch?" I waved my cocktail and cigarette in the air, laughing gaily, to my mind reminiscent of Tallulah Bankhead. The crunching continued. "PonyGirl, darling, bring Martin what you've found!" The pup in question resisted my kind inquiries, and instead scurried up the steps past me in quite a hurry. I laughed heartily at what I assumed was her attempted subterfuge, and then I heard this:
"Ha...ha...," I laughed (weakly), "what are you up to?" I then stepped into the dining room, and the framework of what I assumed was my life dissolved.
An ex-rat lay most un-jauntily in, across, and around her food bowl. She had succeeded in consuming him swiftly, and as such one could still clearly note the distinct body parts of said ex-rat. I, still very cosmopolitan, drink in hand, contained myself for at least forty-three seconds before I added my own awful intestinal offal to the pile.
The sight before my sad, pre-aged, well-bagged eyes was simply too much to take without surrendering the contents of my stomach. It was as though someone cruel had tossed a whole rat into a blender on a "low" setting for seventeen seconds, poured that gently into the dog bowl and ONTO the dog bed, and then gently by hand mixed dog drool with dry kibble to create a deeply distasteful slurry. I gathered up the mess, retching all the way, while PonyGirl leapt around beside me as though to say "Now give me a bit of that, Martin, this is MOST delightful! Quite a yum, am I wrong??"
She's still precious, but we don't kiss on the mouth anymore.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Today was going to be a good day, a very good day, in fact! I was well-rested, wearing my new purple shirt, and was eager to trot down to the hardware store to hang with The Boss (and hopefully, you know, do some work and stuff).
I was feeling quite proud of myself for several things, among them being a Big Girl in spite of the devastating Stuffed Bear Loss, & once
I got to work that pride grew. The Boss was apparently trusting me to manage
A. Her car
B. Her credit card
C. A massive trip to OMG Costco
I went happily out to the car, put myself inside it, set up my GPS and drove to the store. I procured and purchased all the listed items with nary a bathroom break or refreshing beverage, sweatily loaded them up, and set forth to my victorious return.
I was almost to the store and happily howling along with Wiz Khalifa when I noticed the car making a sort of "unnnnnnhhhh" sound. "Huh," I thought, "that doesn't sound right." I took it back down to first gear to give it a chance to un-fuck itself, and it said (more insistently) as I pressed the pedal "UNNNNNNHHHHH!!".
Moments later, a wretched burning smell filled the vehicle, and I pulled it to the side of the road.
I tried first gear. Nope.
I tried second gear. Yeah, no.
I tried reversing. Hell, no. Not happening. That car had no intention of going ANYWHERE.
I prayed. I cursed. I turned it off and on again. I cursed, I prayed, and then I finally dialed up The Boss to inform her that I'd broken her car.
She was very kind, especially considering that her heretofore whole go-machine was practically smoldering in dysfunctional despair. She gently asked me if anything had happened, and I'm sure I flapped my arms hysterically while babbling maniacally. I left to get a cart to unload the 224 hot dogs, 224 hot dog buns, 720 paper plates, 8 cases of soda, and 3 cases of water from the car. I did pretty well for about 23 seconds, walking away, and then I felt The Lump in my throat and knew I would not escape this travesty clean-faced.
Oh, good readers, I wept. Oh, how
I wept! I snorked. I snorted. I coughed. I leaked from the nose. I fogged up my glasses. I used my briefly clean purple polo to sop up my tears, and when my sweet WorkFriend Sparks said, "Hey, you don't look so happy!" I blibbered insanely and intelligibly at her before stumbling away.
Pride goeth before the fall, folks. It surely do.
I also bought the wrong kind of soda.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
First off, don't fuck them. Really, don't fuck them. It's more trouble than it's worth, and these things never end well.
Don't fuck them.
You're not listening, are you? Of course you're not. Fine, then, just don't fall in love with one. Seriously. Please don't fall in love with the married woman you're fucking.
You already did, didn't you? Sigh. Fine. You're just too stubborn for your own good, did you know that? You're probably too stubborn and stupid to listen to ANY good advice, but at least don't overreach yourself - i.e., don't go to dinner at her house with her husband. Don't hang out with her kids. Definitely don't actually enjoy the company of her children, and please don't develop a genuine dislike of her husband. You're clearly too damn dumb to avoid fantasising at great length about how this is Totally Going To Work Out, and kid-like plus husband-hate plus never-you-mind the most AWESOME sex you've ever had = a constant damp-panties daydream.
You're already doing that too, huh? Sweet Jesus Christ, you really can't be helped.
She's going to break up with you. I'm done trying to give you advice or convince you, so let me just reiterate: THIS WILL END BADLY. It's really up to how crazy you both are and how many people to whom you've babbled about the affair* how badly it ends. Either way, stay stocked up on liquor and never, ever assume she's coming over to fuck you, because one of these days she'll be coming over to rip your heart out of your chest and shit in the gaping hole that's left.
* I know, I know, "affair", right?! How COOL does that sound?
Maintain what's left of your dignity by NOT agreeing to be driven to Virginia to go grocery-shopping with her after she's made it plain you'll never see those boobies again. Never you mind that she's promised you a treat, and don't be a mindless twat in trying to hold off the inevitable o-fuck-she's-walking-away feeling. Since you most likely won't manage to pull that off, at least don't let her drive you to her house to have dinner with her aforementioned horrible dick (perfectly nice, really) husband and kids.
She'll drive you home after, but just try and keep your shit-packed chest cavity intact when she kisses her fucking jail-keeper on his nasty hairy mouth before you both leave.
Like I said four paragraphs ago? Don't fuck married bitches, but since you're STILL not listening, you jackass, come on down to the bar and let's talk about how that was the best sex we've EVER had.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
(In which wise Martin guides you through life's most arduous process -excepting perhaps childbirth or getting your wife and small children out of a large city at the commence of the zombie apocalypse)
1. Realize you really, REALLY need to move. Freak out. Stare slack-jawed and uncomprehendingly at the seven-years accumulation of lesbian litter. Trudge to kitchen, pour drink.
2. Call Mom. Get SUPER-EXCITED about move. Make lists, agree to set a timer and work on packing for small increments every day.
3. Hang up phone, set timer, walk into living room. Meditatively notice blood pressure rising, heart pounding, and wet sweat moistly collecting on forehead. Recognize sheer panic.
4. Turn around, walk back into kitchen. Pour bigger drink.
5. Hours later, no progress made, go to sleep with midnight beef jerky snack, drift happily into sleeping-time with thoughts of Little House on the Prairie and lesbians/hardware.*
*As regards the lesbians/hardware, y'all, it's not as sexy as it sounds. I just work at a hardware store that's packed to overflowing with attractive, unavailable, free-range Sapphists.**
**Okay, WHATEVER, it's sexy as hell. They're all there...and unavailable...and making keys and talking and cutting screens and walking on their legs and shit it's a MIRACLE I GET ANYTHING DONE.***
***And also I bought a thing there to use in a thing one time, which was also sexy. Who knew, plumbing supplies?? Aisle 11, toward the back, on your right. You're welcome, ladies.
6. Snap awake at three in the morning with a not-yet-cold sheen of sweat, remembering that OH, MY GOD, WE HAVE TO MOVE, OMG, OMG.
7. Panic self into calmness.
8. Do nothing for the next eight days. Wait until mother's arrival is twelve hours nigh, and begin pitching things with sweaty fervor into boxes, bags, and carrying-sacks.
11. Begin intentionally breaking things you don't want to pack. Feel guilty. Pour drink, then remember it is ten in the damn morning and we don't DO that anymore. Pour drink down sink. Cry.
12. Consider setting fires. Consider gleefully tossing possessions out window. Consider possibly-injured passersby, realize you don't care. Make another appointment with therapist.
In the spirit of that asshole Dick Wolf*, to be continued.
* Is he a jerky wolf? Is he a wolf who preys upon the penis? I've been asking myself this question for years. Either one, well - we've all got issues.**
Sunday, April 21, 2013
This morning, I arose from my sleep at around nine o' clock. I lay abed letting waves of panic wash through my agitated little mind for awhile before I decided that this was NOT actually pleasant. The wise words of my WorkFriend Sparks danced into my thoughts ("Fuck your nervousness, meditate, goddammit!!") and I figured I'd give it a try. A few dizzying deep breaths later, and BOOM. Peace.
I woke up three hours later. Now, my choices were as follows:
1. Stay in bed and think about sex.
2. Go down to the bar for half-price wing night.
3. Read a book and drink beer.
4. Read a book and drink tea.
Well, my dear readers, find a seat for your bottom. Against all natural Martin Law, I picked #4. I hummed into the kitchen, practically vibrating with self-righteousness. I selected my tea, filled my Fiesta cup, and stared unceasingly at the microwave until it beeped. I opened the door and reached for my refreshing beverage.
It was then that disaster struck. My large, manly fingers became stuck in the hot little loop on the side of the cup. I shrieked in pained panic, and (reasonably) jerked my hand forcefully away from the cup of steaming liquid. To my deepest distress, the cup came with the fingers. With the cup came the boiling tea.
I know we've talked about the importance of "wearing clothes in the kitchen". To my credit, I was wearing a robe. To NOT my credit, I was wearing it as a cape.
It's going to be ok. I mean, nipples grow back, right?
Friday, April 19, 2013
This was a terrible week. My Buddy is old enough now to be aware of terrible things, and it breaks a Martin's heart. Most of you saw this already. My conversation with my boy follows.
Buddy: Mimi, I'm not going back to school, ok?
Me: Why not, Buddy?
Buddy: (tears up) My friend told me that bad things happen at school.
Buddy: I know you not want to tell me, I'm big, Mimi! I know that bad things happened yesterday and some of the people died.
Me: (here I lie, because what the hell else can I do??) You don't have to worry, you are safe with me.
Upon which he buries his face in my chest and weeps. My sweet little boy.
Go fuck yourself, Senate.
He is scared to go to school. My six-year-old is scared to go to school. GiGi and I didn't listen to the radio today because I am simply not able to watch her little eyes lose that innocence yet. We shut that shit off and sang Hall & Oates songs together all the way home. There's a lot of bad shit out there, indeed there is, but my little girl singing "Kiss on my list" gives me hope.
Frankly, ladies and gentlemen, I'm exhausted. I'm sure we all are. It's time for hugs.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a fully factual account of my attempt at meditating. The following took about eight minutes, give or take a few. Well, hell, don't give or take a few - I timed myself and you all could've guessed that I wouldn't settle down to chill without a first glimpse at my sweet, sweet numbers. Here we go:
Become prone on the soft, firm mattress. Deep breaths...
Are deep breaths supposed to make me dizzy? Because I'm dizzy. I wonder where the cat is? I need to buy some cat fo...huh, I'm kind of hungry. Should I get up and eat here? It's nice outside. I should go to brunch. Wait, fuck, I'm supposed to be meditating!
Ok, what does the meditation lady say? Right. Be aware of my body. Got it. Aware of my body. Body, body, body. Body in bed. Body at rest. Body working hard to keep me alive. Thank you, body! Body, body, sex. Sex, sexy sex. No! No sex! Meditate, goddammit, Martin, meditate! Can you not keep your mind out of the gutter for five damn minutes??
(to which a small voice always answers, "No. No, we can't, and you know it." Damn you, small voice, for your unerring honesty.)
All right, now, deep breathing again and don't think about the fact that you are dizzy and therefore dying of some undiagnosed heart condition. Nope, really don't think about that. Did I pay my insurance this month? I should call my mom. Deep breathing. Forgive the self for being bad at meditation. Remembering that I suck at forgiving anything of anyone. Ruminate on past mistakes.
If I listen hard, I can hear the people in the drive-through line at Wendy's order. I bet you shouldn't have made that a combo, you Chunky McFatterson. Oh, shit sandwich, Martin, you can't be judgmental when you meditate!
Huh, I wonder if my WorkFriend Sparks buried that dead dog she found yet. I should check my phone to see if she texted. Hey, neat, lots of texts! Wow, my friends are funny. I'm bored of this bed. Meditation sucks. I should tell everyone on Facebook how bad I am at it!
Your Martin, dear ones, assiduously sucking at mental health since 1995. It's all for you guys - don't you feel so stable and cool?? Yes, loves, you're welcome. I'm taking my crazy on a walk now that I've reminded everyone on the internet of it. Happy Sunday, and may you all know peace.