Martin

A Greate Losse

2010-10-09T11:52:00.000-07:00

I begin today with a simple question, dear readers: who among us does not enjoy putting great grief aside so that we may focus instead on ridiculously minor heartbreaks?? As most of you probably know, this has perhaps not been the cheeriest year for folks of my surname, and here in the twilight months of the year my sweet grandpa has gone to his Long Home.* I am heading home this week for the good-bye time, and in lieu of discussing how I feel about THAT I am going to talk about THIS: missing the Renaissance Fair.

*I'm not being sarcastic with this term. I mean it, a lot.

At this moment, I am sitting sans pants (I seem to be sans pants a lot when I write, huh?) in a dear friend's apartment watching Pet Sematary and drinking Fanta Orange/Diet Coke. My exciting plans for tonight include maybe taking a shower and then picking bus or train as transport to work. Choices, choices!!! Now get ready for the bitching: these are my choices. Do you know what choices Jackie will be making this evening?

Jousting or a trip for fetching mead and meat on sticks? Trying to chat with elusive fairies, or admiring wenches in their low-cut bodices? Buying leather bracelets or a garland of flowers for her beautiful head?

When she announced her intention to attend this morning, I manfully un-trembled my trembling lip and instead launched joyfully into options for fun I could have that would simulate Renaissance Fair activities: here I present you the Anderson-Savage duo list of

Simul-Renaissance Fair Activities 2010

1. I am going to try and give credit where credit is due, because Jackie did come up with seriously funny stuff. For example, it was her idea to "stick the Subway sandwich on a stick". Almost as much fun as a turkey drumstick the size of my head, right?

2. It was my idea to warm up some Miller Lite in an oversized coffee mug and pay an imaginary tavern wench twelve dollars for the pleasure.

3. I could also make paper knight dolls and have my own jousting tournament on Al's table while I watch old episodes of the Tudors. I would have to make my own mouth-noises for this, but it's also something I could play with the four-year-old tonight, and they might have ACTUAL action figures!

4. I might, for the sheer fun of it, turn off all the lights in the apartment and huddle fetally under a blanket whilst warm helpless tears track their way down my cheeks. I could think my darkest, loneliest thoughts and suckle at the bitter teat of despair for a few hours before succumbing to liquor and Love Actually! I could watch Steel Magnolias and Terms of Endearment and drink warm vodka and turkey gravy while whimpering at the cruel injustice of an unfeeling world!!!!

5. Holocaust museum! Pictures of concentration camps! Displaced victims of tropical storms! Poverty levels in this, one of the richest countries in the world! Homeless people! Death, destruction, AIDS, herpes, Hitler, Mussolini, rotten eggs, child molestation and PETA!!!!

Yeah, that's sort of where that list went and Jackie got a little nervous when my laughter hit a fever pitch and I turned red and began sweating. When she politely suggested that I "let it all out", I cackled darkly and told her that were I to do that I'd have to take more than a couple of days off. She gave me a sweet hug and ignored me when I dramatically and solemnly announced my desire to drink all of our cough syrup and sleep the dreamless sleep of the eternal. At this point, I was of course being plain silly and she recognized that I had passed from my genuine grief at missing the fair into amusement at the situation.

Because seriously, folks - I may be done saying "Hit me with your best shot, universe!"*, but if I can't goddamn chuckle at the utter hilarity of this shit I might as well sleep the dreamless sleep of the eternal (LOVE this phrase, by the way!). If eventually my slightly maniacal giggles trickle into less maniacal weeps, well, at some point the emotional pendulum will swing back to giggles. I'm not very wise yet, but I know this much is true.

*Yeah, no, actually I am definitely done saying that.

Now, I am off to roll back and forth pantsless on the dirty carpet while I moan out useless Tudor trivia and mourn the loss of that perfect mug of Renaissance mead.

(insert photo of wench with mead here which I have downloaded but can't goddamn figure out how to put down HERE rather than up at the top so CHRIST, whatever, good-bye)

Priest/Beagle (or) Roofman With Ladder

2010-08-23T13:15:00.000-07:00

Here I sit at Dad's desk, blogging and trying - trying REALLY hard - not to spill my Abita Purple Haze on anything. There are shirtless roof or gutter (whatever) men outside, so I cannot continue to watch tv because a) they can see me and b) the goddamn dog will not shut her Hole. I tried, I tried, but she is useless and I could not make her silent. Here is what I tried:

"Lily, godDAMMIT!!!"
"Shut the fuck up!"
"I'm going to kill you!"
"SHUT THE FUCKING SHIT UP OR I WILL MURDER YOU IN YOUR SLEEP!"

So she wins this round. I hope she barks her floppy-eared goddamn beagle head off.

I am so far having a very nice time at home. Except for just now, when the roof-gutter-man came to get me to show me something I will have to describe to Dad. "Kin yew clam the layder?" he asked. "Shore can!" I said. What I really meant by "Shore can!" was oh-shit-heights-oh-shit-oh-shit-can't-be-a-pussy. I clammed the damn layder and stood there and baked in the sun and dribbled urine for the eternity he spoke. "Kin Ah git day-own?" I finally asked, and was released back into the wild with my beer and fear-dampened shorts.

Now I am going to write a little about my family but don't drool yourself, you ain't gettin' no scandalous goddamn details. I went this morning to chat with the priest of our church, mostly for some free therapy and coffee. I enjoyed my spiritual check-up immensely: the priest laughed heartily at my jokes, showed me his Buddy Jesus figurines, and demonstrated a tiny Barbie vacuum that really ran! I walked back to the house feeling buoyed and bolstered and just generally the kind of "feeling good" you get right before you fall down, vomit, and pass out. Dad took me on a Truck Ride - I enjoy this as much or more than the beagle - and showed me the cool new place he's working. I got some more free coffee, saw a dear friend, and we came home.

Dad left for work and I took the opportunity to read all the cards and letters and emails he's gotten since The Incident Of The Herald-Citizen Being Oh-So-Scandalous. And wow, buddies. Wow. If there's a silver lining on this shit-cloud, it's the piles and heaps of steaming friendship and support that have been dumped lovingly onto us all. So thanks for that - I know a lot of you who read this are out there (cue swelling of "Somewhere Out There" from An American Tale) supporting and loving (lovveeeeeeeeng USSSSS toniiiIIIIIIIGHT) my family and that's just peaches. Bless you. Love you.

I'm supposing that this little burst of goodwill towards mankind has exhausted my resources, so I am off for another rousing round of Chase The Beagle. I'll be flapping back at you very soon, dear reader(s).

Airport (or) Beagles/Chex Mix

2010-08-21T11:46:00.000-07:00

This was supposed to be a blog about being at an airport bar, but it turned into a blog about beagles and the annoying way my father eats Chex Mix. I mean, it's still a blog about being at an airport bar because I'm writing at one, but you get it. Oh well. Stay tuned for more updates during my week of being home!

Contrary to plan, I find myself at yet another airport bar drinking a beer - the cost of which I am too frightened to find out! As most of you no doubt know, I am heading home to Tennessee for a long week of relaxing, freaking out, and Chasing The Beagle. CTB is always the height of any visit home, and since my brother will not be there I might be able to lull her into a sense of trust. I fear that sweet Lily the beagle is ever-trusting , at least when it comes to me, and has forgotten completely

1. The time I got her drunk on red wine and she barfed purple
2. The time I socked her because she ate my Chex Mix
3. Locking her in the bathroom with the cats
4. Stepping on her in heels when I was drunk two Christmas Eves ago
5. Calling her fat*

* This is really Mom's fault because just as I got fat 'n fluffy, Lily lost weight and Mom began calling her both "Oprah" and an inspiration. Look, if Alma fed me hard, dry pellets twice a day and walked me, I would be an inspiration too. Endpoint: weight-losing beagles are not inspiring.

Oh dear, my airport beer is almost gone. And here I just promised Jackie I was drinking it slowly. Here's my excuse:

PSYCH. You thought I was going to talk about my dad, didn't you! Well, forget about it. I'm not going to write about it so don't hold your breath. It sucks, and it sucks. End story.

Back to the beagle. Usually she is my only companionship, but this time my stay-at-home dad will be, well, at home. I might try and see if I can get him drunk enough to puke purple, but I know I can't hit him for eating my Chex Mix and he knows how to get out of a locked bathroom. I wish I could keep him off the Chex Mix, because he does not eat it Right. I cannot hit him even though he doesn't even CARE what pieces he gets. He puts his hand in the bag, closes it around whatever pieces the Lord grants him, and puts whatever he's grasped straight into his mouth. I mean COME ON. Everybody knows that you rank Chex Mix thusly:

1. Corn chex
2. Wheat chex
3. Cheese crackers
83. Pretzels - yes, that's the 83rd place. Pretzels are soulless sinful crappy bag-filler.

And everybody (me) also knows that you eat these things either one at a time or two-by-two. Go ahead, loving readers, weigh in, but know ye this: I shall not be moved. Ready for an awkward transition? PSYCH. You just experienced it. Good-bye!

Screaming In Petworth

2010-02-24T16:46:00.000-08:00

I am sitting on our still-new couch on a Saturday minus Jackie, pants, and the better part of my supposedly 70% bodily liquid. I am happily weeping over Steel Magnolias and re-reading my Henry VIII book when I hear this exchange outside:

Voice 1: Fuck you!
Voice 2: Go to Hell!
Voice 1: FUCK you!
Voice 2: GO TO Hell!
Voice 1: FUCK YOU!!!
(this continues, same phrases, intonations changing a bit)

Well. I have lived here now for several years, and no matter what I have heard screamed outside my windows (on the fifth goddamn floor, mind you, I can hear these voices!) I have not reacted. This day, something in your friend here went a bit haywire. I put my book down, began to cackle creepily, and slid off the couch. I went into an awkward forward crab-walk across the room to our open window and slid my-self over the radiator, mouth positioned at the window. I cupped my hands around my mouth and screamed

"HEY JACKASSES!!!! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!"

Long moments passed and suddenly Voice 1 said - "Who say dat??" I collapsed helplessly upon our ancient hardwood floor, laughing with great tears leaking down my cheeks, and within some time was able to drag myself back to the couch. We can all safely assume that, having been so rewarded for the bad behavior, I will engage in it again. I spent the rest of the afternoon waiting eagerly at the window and being deeply, deeply grateful for my fifth-floor apartment and apparently carrying voice.

Girl Zines: Worth It

2009-11-28T14:44:00.000-08:00

When I received this book in the mail and began to flip through it, my first impression was an overwhelming “oh, shit” feeling. I had agreed to review this serious, probably incredibly dry book on “doing feminism”? Me, one of the most lackluster feminists I know, whose knowledge about the women’s rights movements shamefully begins and ends with Susan B. Anthony? Yes, oh yes, that me had somewhat drunkenly begged to be allowed to write a review of “Girl Zines: Making Media, Doing Feminism.” Well, as a wise man once said, “Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.” With that fixed doggedly in mind, I sat my completely unqualified self down and began to read the book.

To my great and delighted surprise, “Girl Zines” was ridiculously intriguing from the beginning. For those of you unfamiliar with zines, wiki or google them straight-away! The zines featured in this book reminded me most of journals, notes, and letters to and from friends. They’re not mainstream, they’re not “neat”, and the content is not edited by some white dude with a tie. The author managed to make clear even to this laywoman the import of zines to feminist work – these are young women just like me who are scribbling, Sharpie-ing, and glittering themselves onto a piece of paper, Xeroxing it, and distributing it. Really? I thought, is it that easy? In the foreword, Andi Zeisler says she’s never felt cool enough for girl zines: sister, I’ve never felt cool enough for feminism. About halfway through the book, Piepmeier offers this quote from Courtney Martin – “ We are not apathetic. What we are…is totally and completely overwhelmed.”

I read that and thought, you bet your ass I am! When it comes to women of different colors? COLOR?? God forbid I come right out and say talking about race makes this cracker crumble! The only thing I think when I open my mouth to talk about feminism in third-world countries is I’M A WHITE GIRL I’M A WHITE GIRL I’M A WHITE GIRL. I gave up on nurturing any riot grrl part of myself the first time I thought I’d offend somebody, and I honestly never felt like I had anything worthy to say. I read this book, and in reading it I found myself feeling pretty fucking empowered.

Making zines doesn’t take training. Making zines, at least the zines I’d make, would be barfing out inner chunks of myself onto the page. The zines featured in the book start conversations, they offend, they open up huge paths of possibility, and what the hell – turns out feminism isn’t scary. Turns out I could offend somebody in MY zine, then maybe she turns around and horrifies somebody in HER zine, and the next thing you know there is a smart, snarky, important conversation happening. Piepmeier says whenever she talks about zines in class, her students inevitably go forth and make their own. If that isn’t testament enough to the power of the media, I don’t know what is.

I loved this book, and I am grateful to the author, and I also really soon need to get internet back at the apartment so I can look up “hegemony” and “pedagogy.” If you’re like me in all of my ignorance, have you a nice search engine nearby while reading this book. I’m still itching to dig further into Girl Zines, with notebook in hand, but I did sign up to review it today so that will have to wait.

At any rate, this newly-empowered fat dyke bitch says buy the book and thank me later. Or thank Alison Piepmeier. Trust us, it’s more than worth it.

Martin Needs To Leave The City

2009-11-05T13:02:00.000-08:00

This is not New York City. This is DC. I should not be acting the way I have been acting, but the longer I am here, the more it sinks in that no one is going to tell Alma that they saw me misbehaving. For an evil little shit like myself, this realization is positively intoxicating. Add to this potent sense of freedom some actual physical intoxicants and my friends, you have a problem. That being said, the stories that follow happened on the job, my veins humming with nothing stronger than home-brewed coffee.

I am driving my two precious angels home from school, singing gently with them and enjoying the delightfully crisp fall day. We have just gotten out of Dupont Circle when before us weaves an un-helmeted bicyclist*. I am forced to brake rather violently, and, startled, I give my horn a gentle tap to let him know that he is not alone in the world. He turns his head around and gives me a MOST incredulous and unpleasant look, which bothers me mightily, and before I know it I return his look complete with my tiny middle finger thrust up into the air. He makes a full, lazy circle in front of us, pauses in front of the car, and spits ferociously onto my windshield. With impeccable Southern aplomb, I smile graciously, flip on the wipers, and wave gaily to him as I wash away his inconsequential spittle.

*I do NOT have a problem with cyclists or pedestrians. I have a problem with HELMET-LESS people who expect everything else with wheels to be in complete control of their safety.

This past week, I took Buddy to school in a taxi. I should have known from the first that I had gotten a "dud" cabbie; he wanted to chat.

Me: Please take a right on P St.

Him: I like to take Mass Ave, you see, it is much faster this way and...

Me: Turn right here.

Him: (bitches allllll the way the Georgetown about his "faster" route)

Him: 6.75, please, oh, you have a twenty? Oh, see, I don't have change for that, can I give you this ridiculous amount that will ensure me at least a five-dollar tip for this awful, annoying ride?

Me: No. Hold on.

Here's where it gets fuzzy. I am sure I gave him a twenty. When he finds me fifteen minutes later, after I've dropped Buddy off, he is sure I gave him a five. This has happened to me before (generally IN the cab, though) and I do not care to be bamboozled this time. The following occurs right outside of Buddy's school in full view of the parents waiting there.

Him: OH I am so glad I found you, I have been looking and looking and see, (does the obnoxious I'm-going-to-talk-fast-and-bamboozle-you thing)

Me: Wait, what? (I know that I am fallible and want to make things right)

Him: (Does not shut up, not for one second, not even to take a breath)

I realize I do in fact have a twenty in my pocket, and offer it to him, whereupon he starts into the no-change thing again. He will. not. Shut. UP. I think that's what did me in, was the constant and unrelenting noise. I burst horribly into tears on Wisconsin Avenue and said in a most deranged way, "Would you PLEASE shut the FUCK UP for one FUCKING MINUTE???" Well, dear readers, he did! For a moment. He began to open his mouth again, and I, bamboozled and frustrated, grabbed his arm, grabbed the eleven dollars he was proffering, and said, "Let's let it fucking go, shall we? I don't have the fucking time for this. Have a nice fucking day." This said in a shrill, odd voice, as tears streamed down my reddened face to fog up my glasses. I then snurfled and sniffed my way away from him, shoulders hitching pathetically occasionally. The fancy folk of Georgetown looked away from the sad little sight of me in my Walmart shoes, brown cords with said cord rubbed away, and saggy little zip-up sweatshirt splotched violently with tearstains. And folks? For the first time, I wasn't surprised that my obvious distress made me invisible.

I'm not sure if this is a surface coating of rage and insanity or the more pervasive crumbling and blackening of my soul, but all the same it merits at least a casual self-study. Just nobody tell my mom, okay?

Roof Work, Teeth, Pain & Spanish

2009-09-23T17:33:00.000-07:00

My employers are having roofwork done on their condo this week. So far - so good. Buddy is in big boy school now and Squirk is the perfect age to throw in car or stroller and go a'venturing. I don't want ya'll to have to do math so I'll just tell you that Buddy is now three and Squirk is now one plus change. As I had hoped, Squirk is a complete bitch. She is feisty, stubborn, has a great sense of humor, and will pinch the fuck out of you if you tell her no. She is also, finally, at fourteen months, cutting some goddamn teeth (seriously, she was looking weird). We are still waiting on the hair, but I find that a little lesbi-spit and claspy barrettes work fine when sticking a bow to her almost-bald baby scalp. I don't want to leave Buddy out, of course; he is a fine young man, active, interesting, thoughtful, and thoroughly gay. Also may I say you have not lived until you have heard him sing "Blame It (On The Alcohol)". They are a frustrating delight, a terrible pleasure, and dearly loved by me. That being said...

Things generally go all to furious hell when Mom and Dad return for their progeny, but today was truly a sensorial treat. There's no air conditioning because of the roof work, and there's no peace because of the erratic BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG roof work, the echo of which is truly stunning. I hadn't let Buddy nap in the car today as I usually do, and Squirk is birthing - count 'em - THREE teeth right now, at the same time. It hurts to even think about it. Mom comes home and these things happen in the next eighteen minutes:

She comes in and finds that there are several holes in her ceiling that didn't USED to be there. Her son runs at her excitedly, head-butting her in the thigh. SHE bursts into tears, upon which Buddy pees himself and then bursts into tears himself. Not to be out-done, baby Squirk smacks herself in the teething mouth with Thomas the Tank Engine and begins quite dramatically to bleed all down her chin.

I want very badly to leave. Instead I walk over and pick Squirk up, checking the injury and then letting her bleed all over my clean shirt (I can't brag. The shirt was black.) Dad comes in, having gone to talk to the workmen about the various holes in his home. I hand his baby to him and think I'm good to go until they remember I speak Spanish. "You could talk to them, right, Martin?" he says. I point out that his baby is bleeding profusely from her mouth, take one of his beers, and head down the stairs. I walk outside, locate the workmen's generator, find every extension cord plugged into it, and pull them out. Seconds later two, four, seven little heads popped up from the roof. I send the foreman in to deal with the weeping bleeding hysterical family, apologizing profusely for the unplugging and making quite clear that I'm just an employee here too.

Thank God it's almost Thursday.

Stycone Did It

2009-09-17T19:07:00.001-07:00

And anything she does I kind of want to do to. Rock out, friend.

I'm back, sort of, I guess. I didn't have much to say for awhile but I'm feeling like I've got quite a bit to say now. I want to blog* more, simply because I feel more situated in myself when I do. And other stuff, like my PAYATTENTIONTOME complex, which is not so much a complex as a way of life. I've been thinking a lot about weight and women and moms and daughters recently, and the only thing I can think of to do with all these feelings is a) lose weight b) leap off a building c) do nothing or d) write about all of my options.

*God, seriously? Could we come up with a more faggoty word? No. I do not think so.

And that's that, and this is this, and here we go again, ladies and gentlemen.

Let us blog* once more.

*faggoty faggoty faggoty and is that even SPELLED RIGHT??

Dear The Man

2009-02-05T17:44:00.000-08:00

Dear The Man,

I hope you had fun towing my completely dead 1995 Nissan Sentra to your goddamn towing shop. I suppose that (by the way, you suck. You suck so fucking hard.) it was indeed on private property, and should not have been there. I also suppose that it has been there for two and a half COUNT 'EM two and a half years, and not one single peep from you fuckers have I heard. I think it's super-neat that you are only open from nine to five, the exact hours that most people work, enabling me to do absolutely nothing about picking up the motherfucker until the weekend - the WEEKEND YOU DIRTY BASTARDS. Also, I have no money. Also, it needs a new battery.

My lady-friend has sweetly informed me that the cost (without new battery, without adding in time spent, without adding in I-Don't-Have-My-Zoloft-Anymore emotional distress) is one hundred and forty-one dollars. Did I mention I can't pay my rent this month? Did I mention that that is because as a conscientious citizen I am trying to pay off my credit card? GROWING PAINS PEOPLE. Financial growing pains.

Also, speak up and speak some fucking version of standard American English when I call and ask you questions. I can only take so much of half-muttered "What?'s" and sullen "Huh?'s" before I will become incensed enough to give the phone to my girlfriend, whereupon I will immediately march to the smoking-room, dramatically throw a lighter, kick the wall, and burst into tears.

Bad timing. Bad fucking timing, dude. Have a nice motherfucking nine-to-five day being the douche who helps make other people mad and sad.

Xo,

Martin

P.S. Your karma is fucked.

Nanny Rules

2009-01-17T14:26:00.000-08:00

To the parents who read this blog: Please don't. Nanny is going to bitingly criticize two of the most wonderful parents ever to walk the planet. There's no way I can make this honest from me AND fair to parents. So if you must read, read forgivingly. Parents are great. Childcare decisions are hard. That being said I present you with

How Not To Piss Off Your Nanny 2009

1. I have already covered this in an earlier blog, so I shan't be too long about it here. I make sure I get to work on time, so that you may get to work on time. Throw me a fucking bone here and get out the fucking door WITHIN the hour. I don't think that's too much to ask.

2. Read up, people. You Cannot Reason With A Toddler. Working Mom, I know you feel guilty leaving your little folks with me. I know you don't want to leave until Buddy is "copacetic". Unfortunately, the following does not work.

Morning Vignette

Mom: Okay, Mommy work time!

Buddy: *apoplectic toddler fit*

Mom: What do you want? (let Nanny point out - he WANTS you to stay. You can't. Do NOT ask this question!)

Buddy: *continues fit*

Mom: Do you want to go upstairs?

Buddy: *throws self on floor, screams 'UP, UP, UUUUP'* (they go upstairs. 'Oh!,' thinks the toddler, 'screaming = what I want!')

An hour later, at ten thirty am, NINETY MINUTES after they were supposed to be gone, the parents leave. With the toddler. To the playground. That day, both parents left for work at noon. I sat at their home alone staring blankly at the sleeping baby and suffocating the urge to quit. In short, #2: Your child is not in charge. You are. Be loving, be firm, be the goddamn adult.

3. This is a bit extended from #2, but it's very important and hard even for ol' Nanny Flaps to do: never, ever, never but NEVER end a MANDATORY request with the word "okay?" Examples: "It's time to go to school, okay?"

"Get out of the street, okay?"

"Fingers out of the baby's eyes, okay?"

Again: handing power to someone who's been out of the womb for less than two years. Say "please" instead, for the love of God.

4. Don't "help" me. You're not "helping". You're being a pain in the ass. We work with the same two children in very different ways - you're a mom and I'm not, so I like to tip-toe around my utter contempt for your "method". Please don't force me to witness it. Trust me, your child will stop that temper-fit the instant you leave his sight. He will only escalate if you hang around "helping" by asking what he wants and getting him more special-treat-snacks. Check out the differences:

When Buddy has a fit, you ask questions, you do what he screams at you to do, and you end up in tears too. When Buddy starts up with me, I put him in a safe place, tell him to find me when he finds his Big Boy Voice, and I walk away. I do not acknowledge him until he is done. If he hurts himself flailing, I wordlessly, cuddle-less-ly check for broken bones and blood and, finding none, walk away again. Guess what? It works.

5. People get sick. Parents and caregivers ESPECIALLY get sick, children being the disgusting little nose- and butt-picking disease vectors that they are (okay, me too, but I wash my goddamn hands. Sometimes.) I understand that you'll have to stay home occasionally, and I respect that. Please, though, if you're just going to sleep all day, stay out of the way of me and the kids, and understand that if I don't hear violent vomiting and defecating from you, I will resent it. If you're not completely incapacitated, roll out your sofa bed and plug yourself and your sweet babies into videos and give me the day off.

Evil Nanny Hint A: Baby Tylenol knocks today's organic-food-only vegetarian babies out like eighteen beers does your author here. They don't need it? Here's a thought - that unnecessary dose that makes them pass out will hurt them a lot less than having a cranky, sick, or tired person take resentful care of them.

6. Let me interject here and say that my lady-friend has pointed out that I favor this list-form because I have terrible trouble with transitions. She's right. I hope that you sweet readers still enjoy my blogging when I take an easier road. I also hope that you parents aren't a-massing with torches and the like to come show the just-a-nanny-who-the-hell-does-she-think-she-is?? what's what. You're right. I'm sorry. We're almost done!

7. On the inevitable sick-ness of children: colds? Go to work. Fever? Go to work. Constant, unrelenting diarrhea and vomiting from a two-and-a-half-year-old and an infant? STAY HOME. STAY IN YOUR HOME, and let me stay in my home too. Trust me, if you do not, you will find yourself using up the last of your leave to race home and save your shitting puking progeny from their also-shitting puking nanny. Let's keep it in the family, please.

7a. On Friday the last, every time I changed a diaper I changed an outfit as well, since the feces of the children was thoroughly non-viscous and streamed copiously from every possible end of their organic Seventh Generation Pull-ups and size three diapers. All day. I don't love your children like you do, and this brought me almost to tears and significantly lessened my enjoyment of my day. Literally - deal with your own shit.

8. To my lover, who put on a special television show just for me - Fucking fuck motherfucking Caillou. Look this bald little bastard up - you'll regret it just as much as she's just about to regret her evil little joke.

At any rate. Again, sorry I'm not updating as much. It's winter, and winter makes me want to do nothing more active than crack a beer and raise it to my lips. I hope I didn't step on too many parental toes here, but lord did I have a week and I just needed to give a shout-out to all my blogging friends. "Happy" winter - keep your Chapstick and thermal underwear close, and "enjoy" the outdoors, if that's the kind of pervert you are. Goodbye!

Gender

2008-11-20T11:34:00.000-08:00

Put your balls on, ladies and gents. I got me a rant a-comin'.

I have been a nanny for a little over two years now - I began with a little girl who had a used-to-be-a-man-mom and a born-a-woman-mom. These "enlightened" folks, in the name of gender neutrality, allowed nothing pink, flowery, lacy, or otherwise traditionally feminine in Bear's life. When people asked what gender she was, Bad Mom #1 would say, "She is a girl now, but she might grow up to be a boy". When I took Bear to a conference they were having on oh BOY we're so ENLIGHTENED about GENDER let's use non-gender-specific pronous for EVERYONE, they slapped a sticker on her (her, her, HER!) that labeled her as a "hir". This of course is one of the aforementioned pronouns. Now, this, to me, is not gender-neutral. This is labeling (literally) your child controversially before she is in any way equipped to make that decision for herself.

Then you have the other child, Buddy, for whom I still care. (It is an unrelated but to-me salient point that Bear's parents are some of the lowest and most despicable people ever to reproduce) His parents, a woman-born-woman and a man-born-man, took a more traditional route. He's been in blue and trucks and plastic hammers since birth. Now, it is my opinion that children GENERALLY build their vocabularies on commonplace, familiar things. It is my belief that Buddy's love of trucks and back-hoes and front-loaders and fire trucks and cranes is a direct result of his being surrounded by such things since birth. What I hear from his mother (a woman whom I dearly, dearly love) is that he is "all boy". What I see from her is not only willingness but an earnest, heartfelt desire to see what choices her boy is going to make. She wants a wedding and grandchildren, whatever happens, but Buddy is going to have her support and love even if he chops his dick off and grows tits.

Now I really try to stay away from topics what might tend to sow discord, but I am terribly hormonal, read an email just now from Bear's mom about god-damn gender, and am heartily, heartily sick of feeling like my less-than-lesbian-community-approved opinions are un-welcome out of my head.

This god-damned email directed me to a website called - wait, no, I am not telling you what it is called because I would rather eat off my own labium than help that lice-ridden bitch in any way - any-way, it is basically gender-queer-ism for children. This, in itself, I do not mind. What gets your friend Martin's knickers in a real twist is the deprecating and derogatory manner in which they treat more "traditional" folks.

See, here is my whole entire point - because I do have one, friends, I do - when it comes to differences, the only way I think we can ever REALLY be down with each other is plain old-fashioned respect. As a Gay, that is the number-one thing I want from folks. You don't have to like it. You don't have to vote like I do. You can be a gun-toting, Hummer-driving, anti-abortion-anti-gay Midwesterner, and I will respect your right to have opinions and beliefs different from mine. I do not have to LIKE what you believe. I CHOOSE to respect it. That's the thing about rights, you know? We all have them, and I am not going to deny someone the very thing I'm trying to get from them.

And as for where the children fit in, I repeat - r-e-s-p-e-c-t. You got a gaymo, like Buddy? You got a straighty-poo, like his friend Maddy? You got a genderqueer, like that Riley kid? Well, cowboy, you RESPECT that child's sacred god-given right to BE who she or he or ze or hir IS. You RESPECT their right to make their OWN decisions about Who. They. Are. You respect your children, gays, trannies, intersexed folks, racially-diff-from-you folks, straight folks, and people who like dogs more than cats, or vice versa. Hell, I try and even respect people who don't like babies.

In case you think I'm getting all righteous on you, my one caveat on this is not respecting certain folks who take rape-of-respect to a new and deeply obscene level. So, you know, whew.

God, I'm tired. See you next time.

Dear Dickface

2008-11-10T10:32:00.000-08:00

To: Assorted Dickfaces of the tri-state area

Dear Starbucks Douche,

You were sitting behind me at the Tenleytown Starbucks last Friday, reading your paper. I was sitting with my charge, four-month-old Squirk, who is learning how to drink formula from a yucky plastic bottle instead of breastmilk from a luscious rounded breast. She was, as named, squirking and grunting and occasionally letting out an admittedly ear-piercing wail. It did not escape my attention that every-time the poor little lamb let out a shriek, you sighed despairingly, stood up, began to fold your paper, and then were forced to sit back down as Squirk calmed herself. You bopped up and down and up and down and up etcetera for almost ten full minutes. You looked stupid, annoyed me, and my baby was no LOUDER or more OBNOXIOUS than the roving adolescents or the screeching toddlers. Have you noticed, dear sir, that you visit a Starbucks which at any given time has a population mostly comprised of people with small children??

If I may be so forward, per-haps it is time that you retire to a place more suited to your needs, like your home, where it will be less likely that I will pour my hot house brew onto your neatly-pressed pants.

Thank you,
Martin

Dear Metro Asshole,

It may be a surprise to hear this, but I am actually aware that there is a screaming infant on my lap. You may indeed be stunned to know that she is well-fed, comfortably dressed, greatly loved, non-gassy, dry-diapered, and un-exhausted. I am not, actually, a scruffy neglectful teenage mother with a toddler and infant. I am, actually, a scruffy nanny with a toddler and an infant who hates-hates-hates-HATES metro trains, metro buses, cars, movement, strollers, elevators, transitions, fluorescent lighting, Starbucks, changing clothes, being on her back, and pacifiers. There is - and let me be MOST clear - there is Absolutely Nothing I can do to make her stop screaming. I am aware that the noise is annoying to you. Rest assured it is both frustrating and heart-breaking to me. I have tried many things to comfort her upon the train, but unfortunately this is one of those this-too-shall-pass stages of Squirk's infancy.

Here are a few things YOU have tried to ameliorate her distress while amplifying mine - I would like you to note that they did NOT work, and I would advise VERY STRONGLY against continuing to do them.

1. Loudly rustling newspaper, glaring
2. Plain glaring w/o paper-rustling
3. Trying to give me advice over Squirk's wails
3a. I don't want it, I don't need it, shut your hole.
4. Also really? Do we NEED to add to the cacacophony??
5. Saying things about THAT POOR BABY to your companion.
5a. I can fucking HEAR YOU YOU KNOW!

Remember, I may be a caregiver, but I am also a fairly vicious little thing, especially when it comes to my Buddy and my Squirk. Bottom line? Don't fuck with me.

Yours,
Martin

Dear Snotty French Woman From Class,

I don't really care what worked with your kids. I notice that your three-year-old son has long, flowing locks of hair pulled back into a partial pony-tail, and that he is a non-sharing non-listening asshat of a kid. I am also aware, unlike Some People, that the condition and comport of your child is None Of My Business. Squirk is not tired. Squirk is not hungry. Squirk hates the noise of, the lighting in, and the reeky kid-urine smell of Buddy's preschool classroom. She does not have acid reflux. She is not sick. For the record, she HATES being held on her stomach, and you better not ever, ever, EVER take a child in my care out of her carrier without my express permission, ever again. You are lucky that your fat French head is still attached to your stupid French shoulders.

My charges, my choices. Hands off the kids or hands torn off your body.

Cheers,
Martin

Well, I think that about sums it up, what-what? As always I hope I was of service, and please remember to keep your hands, advice, glares, rustlings, and irritation re: newborns to yourselves. Good day.

Extremely Rude

2008-10-09T07:57:00.000-07:00

Scenario: Me happily skippily leaving work.
Situation: Beer-getting and friend-going-to-visit
Players: Martin, Asian check-out lady, and two douches

I was on my way to visit a dear friend for her birthday. I did not know if her brunch earlier in the day had depleted her mead supply, so I thoughtfully selected for my-self twelve frosty friends to bring. I took them swiftly to the counter and stood politely in line. Before me were two people purchasing a twenty-six dollar bottle of wine. The man was wearing faded Wranglers which sagged most unattractively over his non-buns, and his lady-beast was dressed entirely in black. She had (foolishly, oh-so-foolishly!) decked her-self out further in fake - fake I tell you! - golden bangles, earrings, necklace, bracelets, etc.

Obviously I was biased to begin with, but you just listen to THIS. Wranglers handed the cashier a card for paying, and she smilingly explained to him that they charged all cards as credit even if they were debit cards. "Whatever", Wranglers muttered nastily, and his bangly succubus sniffed in a most obnoxious manner. The poor check-out lady's face fell a little, which I have not seen before. This aggrieved me terribly. I bought my beers and left the store to catch a cab, and who do you think is on my cab-catching corner?

Why, Bangles and Wranglers, that's who! 'Ha-ha!', I said to my-self, 'Karmic justice for you, my check-out friend!' Pretending I did not see them standing there waiting, I bopped merrily into the street and raised my tiny hand. I was not there five seconds when my olfactories were assaulted with a thick and most evil scent. I turned slightly and what did I see but the terrifying countenance of Bangles. On closer study, her lips were not given her by the Good Lord, and the color red upon them was like nothing holy. In what I guessed to be a French accent, she said, "We where heere firrst." Much like Voldemort, she hissed when she talked.

Being both Southern and my mother's daughter, I can take purposeful rudeness only so far. I stepped back, smiled, and said, "Oh, that's all right!" She sniffed again, pointing her big honking nose up to the sky, and said "Well, gooood!". This second instance of utter rudeness made me MOST angry. I tried to control my-self. Finding I could not, I picked up my beer, turned to them both, and said in a ringing tone, "YOU are JERKS." Having delivered this judgment upon them, I marched haughtily away, my Tennessee-bred heart beating anxiously at my derring-do. I walked up to the next corner, where I immediately hailed a cab. It was my most extreme luck that this cab took me right by where they were still standing on the street-corner, looking bothered and like so much unwanted Eurotrash baggage. Wranglers stepped into the street and fussily waved at my cab. The cab was at a stop sign, and I suppose Wrangles and Bangles thought it was stopped for them. They began to make their way to my cab (my, my, my cab!) and reached it just as my driver began to move.

As we passed them, I rolled down the window and waved my hand at them in an unmistakably mocking way.

I don't like senseless mean-ness. Yes, I my-self am a mean little shit, but when I am MEAN I can tell you EXACTLY WHY I am being a jerk. I was a jerk to them because they a) were mean to the cashier b) did not respond when given an OPPORTUNITY to be polite and c) I fucking hate Eurotrash*.

*Ooooh, you don't put ice in your drinks. Oooh, your buildings are really old. Oooh, you have castles and nude beaches and hairy armpits. Seriously? Fuck you guys.**
**We could totally go back to calling them Freedom fries, you know.***
***I...don't really hate the French.

Any-way! I hope you enjoyed this tale of douchery. I am most glad that I do not have to write about incidents like these with frequency - after all, there is a time and place for returned rudeness, but I would rather it not be a part of my everyday life. Happy Fall, everybody!

I've Been Busy

2008-07-24T09:34:00.000-07:00

In all the right ways :)

The baby you see above is the Thing's little sister. She is just fresh-from-utero in the pink-and-blue hat picture, and two weeks old in the pic where I've got a-hold of her little self. The picture of me and Thing is us at the pool on our last day pre-Baby. I won't be taking care of both of them until November, sadly, but Mom and I and Thing and Baby are all sweetly and happily and respectfully adjusting to sharing the days.

I know I blog most cruelly at times about toddlers, but I do of course love my Thing. It's been wonderful to see Thing as big brother. I love him even more and in different ways to see him so sweet with his sister. I don't mean to get gay about it, but it's been a beautiful thing to see this little family grow and change. To go ahead and get gay about it, I feel honored to have been here.

In this fog of sweetness and honor and what-not, I feel compelled to both blog-name Baby and re-name Thing. I am able post-vacation* and post-Zoloft** to see the brilliant little person in the shitting, tantrumming toddler, and I'd like to reflect that new hippie-ass view in ol' Martinflaps. I also, um, want the blog-names to sort of match, and the only 'T' word I can think of for a breastfeeding baby is...well, less than respectful.

*It was good. Later maybe when I get me a 'scrip for Xanax I'll write a bit about my lovely family. My Dad, anyway. Yeah. Definitely him. Need that Xanax, though.
**Better living through chemistry!! Right on, folks. Got to tell you, I've never been less full of rage in all my life. Of course, there will still be some about which to write, but it will be less that white-hot-rage-kill thing and more oh-jolly-good-the-world-chaps. Or something.

On to the names - the Zoloft didn't change my focus (focus. ha!!!) - so don't worry, you can still expect the sort of hyper ADHD writing that you've come to expect from Martin. Names. Right. First off, the little girl will be Squirk. She is the gruntiest, squeakiest little thing ever and as you may know, that counts as personality for a two-week-old. The Thing I now formally re-name as Buddy, because he has certainly become that to me. (I changed my mind about the same-letter thing. This blog is homosexual enough without doing something that terribly cutesy.)

So! As you can see, I'm back, I'm happy, and I'll be a little more attentive to Me Olde Blogge in the days to come. Please feel free to leave a comment telling me how beautiful and smart the children look. I am helping raise them, you see, and anything they are that is good must certainly be Because Of Me.

Until next time, sweet friends, I remain your most faithful blog-friend and hope that you are all bathing in the same sweet light of happiness as I am.

But with your clothes on, because I don't know some of you all that well. Have a Happy Thursday!

Martin Helps You Live Pt III

2008-06-05T12:01:00.000-07:00

Here I am, back again! I am terribly sorry to simply flop off from my blog, but the warm weather called for much prancing about in the out-of-doors. Also, as you go to hear much about, I am working as a bar-tender once a week. This kills two full work-days, as I do nothing but prepare to tend one day and recover from said tending the next day. I have risen from my prone position on this day to again assist all of my delight-ful readers in a most precarious art...

How Not To Piss Off Your Bartender

(oh my goodness, look, I can make things in Bold!)

1. Let's start with tipping. Just this past evening, I had a lovely young woman purchase from me one Stella Artois, for which we charge $5 (plus tax). "That'll be five-fifty total, ma'am," I said. She carefully counted out one, two, three, four, five, six bills and graciously handed them to me. "Keep all the change," she said, grinning magnanimously.

May I simply say, fifty cents is not an adequate tip on a five-dollar beer, unless you wish that your karma bring you back as a knock-off brand box of Depends undergarments.

2. Did you come out with your friends? It is SO nice to have friends, huh? Now, look around. How many friends did you bring? Did you bring two or three? Well, okay, give me three credit cards and I will run three separate tabs and not think too badly of you. Now. Did you bring eight friends, like the group I had last night? First off, just don't, don't, don't give me eight different cards. If you HAVE to do that, then do NOT send a different person up each time for drinks. Think I'm an idiot? YOU try matching up the Person Ordering + Which Card + The Drink I Already Matched to One Person. Equals (=) Fuck all you guys.

3. Really quickly, about that idiot part: never assume that someone who serves you ANYTHING you put in your mouth is un-educated, stupid, un-savvy, or un-worthy of your precious non-serving time. We can tell, people. It's, um, kind of obvious. And it makes me seriously, um, want to kill you.

3a. About that non-educated thing. I realize that one does not need higher-level education to bar-tend. I realize now that one does not need higher-level education to do anything I am Doing With My Life.*

*Because of this conversation I had with my mom two days after my birthday.

Me: Jack's dad was a lot more friendly to me after he found out I had a B.A. I mean (chuckling) I'm not sure what it is about me that makes me look UN-college educated.
The Woman What Gave Me Birth: Well, the job you do doesn't require a degree. Most people just do that to get themselves through school, or they do it because they can only do menial labor jobs.
Me: (brief stunned silence) Right...I was just surprised that he...
Who Should Love Me More Than Anyone, Ever: You just don't want your child to be with someone who's going to drag them down. He's probably just worried that Jackie will be hampered by someone who isn't ambitious.
Me: (done)

4. SO. I recognize that I do several Stupid People jobs. I certainly understand why someone would look at me and think what apparently both my mother and Jackie's father do. Naturally, bar-tending demands huge patience, stamina, math skills, and every scrap of Social Nicety I've got, but it's trashy. I mean, sure, nannying takes immense amounts of love, creativity, patience, and (perhaps) just a smidgen of intelligence, but it is of course menial. I am just, after all, raising someone's child.

5. Whew! SOMEONE needed to blog, huh? Goodness gracious, didn't realize we had THAT in there. Back to the original point, proper care and tipping of bar-tender.

6. I really love numbered lists.

7. Let's take a minute to talk about ordering. In some places, you may certainly and with no worry what-so-ever order a "Cape Cod". You can tell which places these are by whether or not the tables are covered with cloths, and whether or not there is a glut of Gays about. You can tell when NOT to do such a thing when (ahem)

a. the bartender is me
b. the bar actually sells Natty Light in bottles
c. our fanciest beer is Stella Artois
d. the bar is sort of, well, sticky
e. Actually, fuck you, just don't do it. Order a god-damned Cranberry and vodka with a slice of lime. There is no need, oh modern-day Adam, to prissily name what is really just another combination of fruit and liquor. Cape Cod. Cape Cod, my dick.

8. Don't make faces at the beer list. I can't change it, and I will forever bear a little shard of hatred in my heart for the person who sneers at our $2 Miller High Life deal. Not good enough, Mr. Congressional Staffer? Get your ass back up the Hill then, you shiny-tied little bitch.

9. When it comes to Touching the Bar-tender.

Don't.

You may have noticed soft and gentle caresses exchanged 'cross the bar betwixt me and other patrons. These are a. friends or b. big, big tippers. Do be warned, though, that big tips do not affection for you make. You can tip big and still be a monumental ass-hat (which means no gentle caress for you, ah-ha!)

10. No matter how much you tip me, no matter who you know, no matter your four-day bender on crystal meth and cocaine, no matter your deeply-rooted issues with women....never, never, never, ever, but NEVER touch my ass. I have a baseball bat behind this bar, and I won't use it, but I will tell the manager and the owner and all the other bar-tenders about it and oh my GOODNESS Mark the THINGS they were saying about you last night after you left!!!

11. Last and final, and perhaps a jumping-off point for the next one: Straight Man Customer...HEY. STRAIGHT GUY!! You listening? Do not talk to me about how you are a "lesbian trapped in a man's body". I see that you're just trying to, you know, build a Bridge Of Understanding between us, but you're actually just being ignorant and obnoxious. Lesbian? In a man's body? THAT'S BEING A STRAIGHT MAN, YOU DIPPING SHIT.

Good luck to you all in your future bar-going endeavours, and remember: the drink passes through my hands before it hits your lips.

And you don't know where they've been, do you?

For Christ's Sake

2008-05-07T06:43:00.000-07:00

I've been working for these people for almost two years. In that time, they have been thoughtful, generous, kind, and many other nice adjectives. Their son is malleable and not mal-formed, if a bit boring, and they have a very big flat-screen television with many channels and DVR capabilities. I eat their food. The father shares mead with me at times. All in all, we have a great relationship and a very comfortable working situation.

However.

The mornings.

I take great pride in my punctuality. I am an "on-time" person. I, much like the toddler for whom I care, do best with a strict schedule. No matter the hour to bed the night before, no matter the number of meads consumed, I get my fat ass up, dress it, take it to the metro, and march it straight to work. I have never, NEVER, in the two years I've had this job EVER been more than ten minutes late. In all the other ways in which I am a fuckup, being late is not one.

So perhaps you understand that I find it more than a bit frustrating when my employers are NOT on time. I slide in the door at nine o'clock this morning, as per goddamn usual. I enter a strangely quiet house. I hear the Thing's mother call my name from upstairs, and return her greeting. She laughs sheepishly and replies, "He just got up ten minutes ago! We're running a little late."

You see, they use the Thing as an alarm clock. This used to work when he got up at the same time every morning. This does not work now, when he gets up anywhere from 4 a.m. to, apparently, 8:50 a.m. In the last month or so, they have not left this house before 9:24 a.m. Now, why am I writing about this minor annoyance?*

*Because it is. I freely admit that. I am actually very lucky in my work.

The larger problem with this is that he does not behave for them. Nor does the dog. For however long they remain, the toddler screams and the dog barks. Screaming. Barking. Screaming. To-day I was forced to watch in helpless silence as the Thing 1. Threw food 2. Slapped my lap-top with a plastic toy 3. Got what he wanted by screaming, and whoa nelly b'gosh 4. Hit his mother.

Was he punished? Re-directed, more appropriately? Put in the fancy time-out chair purchased just for these times? No. Mommy "understood". That's okay, sweetie, I know you're off your schedule (for hitting Mommy). You like Meme's lap-top, don't you, honey?(for hitting my computer) Do you not like your breakfast? (gets up to make him something different because he threw a waffle at her) I mean, Jesus Christ, I'm not a parent, but come on! What the hell? Last time I checked, you didn't let a damn toddler run the show. Not to mention, you know, why did I get up at eight o'clock this morning if you aren't going to leave the house until TEN TWENTY THREE???

Ach, these are the times that try Martin's soul! Luckily, while currently frustrating, there is a very real hope. The Thing will soon have a little sister, and I imagine that all of a sudden the loudness and the aggressive behavior will stop getting smiles of parental understanding. While not a parent, I do have grounds for this assumption.

I believe there are some folks out there who remember me before my brother was born.

On Responsibility

2008-04-26T11:51:00.000-07:00

So.

As most of you might know, the Girlfriend and I spend most (all) of our weekends in Virginia with dear friends. Every week-end here is cause for much mead-swilling and cackling smoke-filled laughters on the porch. There is almost never any "cutting off" or other such unpleasantry, and pretty much, it's an "anything goes" space.

Obviously, we feel pretty free when our hosts are here, so that leads me to question the actions of the Girlfriend and I upon this day. You see, our friends have gone a-way, to help an aged mother do tasks domestique. We are responsible for the house, the back-yard, and all the animals contained within. We've done a pretty bang-up job with house and dogs, as per usual, but as for being civilized....

Right now, I'm in the process of cutting my own hair, half-drunk and naked, as also-nude Jackie watches and giggles. This is hair only recently wetted from the glorious hose, with which I "showered" myself in the yard before laying down to roll, pasting millions of dandelion blow-flower petals onto my spring-water-wet bottom. We began the day with a plan: Haircuttery. Mall for bathing suit. Laundry. We have so far accomplished: Laying on bed. Showering together. Giggling. Drinking. Watching "Unicorn Planet", a Korean toddler singing "Hey Jude", fat people falling, funny cats, old Ellen Degeneres, and other ridiculous trash on YouTube - yes. That's us, folks. We like this shit. Are we ashamed? A bit, of course, but shame doesn't stop ANYBODY laughing when the fat lady falls off the trampoline in slow motion.

(Ladies and gentlemen, an update: the Lesbians are coming home tonight. TONIGHT. Not tomorrow, as previously thought. This means we have only a few hours in which to wash and return the clothes we borrowed, put back the pillows, re-place the hose, and god knows what else. Oh yes. Clean up the hair in the bathroom.*)

*Judge if you will! It is hard enough to cut hair drunk, harder still to contain the flurry of hair which inevitably follows.**
**Beyond hard. Perhaps impossible. I have just returned from the site of the finished hair-mauling and I must confess I have simply NO idea how to contain the hair maelstrom in that terrible place.

At any rate. My point (I think) is that these ladies don't quell our urges a bit, so why on Earth are we acting like two-year-olds?

Okay, me, whatever, ME, I'm acting like a two-year-old. Jackie's even put herself down for a nap, whilst I stay up, typing and drinking away. I'm not sure why I've become a toddler, and I'm not sure if we'll have the house restored to order before they get back. I am sure, however, that though they may fret and fuss at our chattering drunkery when they return, we shall all rejoice at being once more together and end this fabulously-begun day with an end equal to it.

Also I hope they don't look in the bathroom.

That's It

2008-04-16T11:42:00.000-07:00

Okay, everybody. Let's have a little sit-down. I think there's something, well, sort of on all our minds, and I'd like to talk about it. My parents just can't stop chatting it up, my friends even can't help but mention it, and I think it's best to simply take a more pro-active stance. By that, I mean admit it and tell everybody else that I know it and I do not, repeat DO NOT need to be told.

I am fat. FAT. Fat, fat, fat. I stand at around 5'1 1/4", and as of Monday, I weigh 134.2 pounds. ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FOUR POINT TWO POUNDS. I have stretch marks and eat poorly and don't exercise enough. I have gained almost twenty pounds since October. I still drink a lot of beer, and do you know what I just ate for lunch?

The entire freaking box.

Yes, I did, and you know what? I could go click on that email my mom sent me and feel guilty. I could go throw it up. I could swear not to eat for the rest of the day and follow through or take some pills or start drinking vodka/water drinks again. OR after years of doing god-knows-what to my metablism by doing all those things, I could just go take a walk with my girlfriend and the Thing and feel OKAY about the WAY I LOOK AND FEEL.

Whew. I think that was it, but let's review.

1. I'm fat.
2. I'm working on it.
3. Don't mention it.
4. I don't need "support" except in the form of Don't-Point-Out-That-I'm-Fat.

DISCLAIMER: I am hormonal, but seriously folks. For once, let's be Southern and not talk about the Emily-elephant in the room.

Oops.com

2008-04-04T08:28:00.000-07:00

I did a bad thing.

I have been on a quest since I was about eleven, which is when my parents began leaving me home alone. I found Red Shoe Diaries, a lovely series on Showtime featuring semi-nude people in semi-convincing sexual positions. It was very exciting and dangerous to be watching such a thing, but even at my tender age I wanted more. Where was the man's Thing? Why could I not see where he put it?

How many places COULD he put it??

Almost fourteen years later, I'm still on my quest. Between experience, television, websites and Literotica.com (great site, people!), I've figured out that he/she/sh-he can put it* pretty much ANY place there's a hole. I've seen all types of videos, read all types of stories, and found only one thing that they all shared: they're fake. I wanted more. I wanted true and real sex to watch.

*pretty much whatever.**
**I am more serious than I want to be about that.

I wanted women with imperfect bodies, not waxed to look twelve, with uneven, gloriously floppy breasts. Women making REAL sex-noise, instead of those weird "AUO AUO AUO" screeches which seem solely the territory of porn stars. Women doing something they'd REALLY never done before, you know? For the love of God, no more god-damned cum-shots.

Well, I found my site. I found it, and lord help me, I signed up for the three-day trial period. Excited, I immediately began watching videos. Twenty minutes into it, my stomach was flipped three ways to Sunday and I felt like I was going to cry. It was real, all right, and I don't think ANY of those girls were faking that pain.

I immediately began searching for a way to un-subscribe.

Unfortunately, I didn't find one. Not at the top of Analdestruction.com. Not at the bottom of Analdestruction.com. The links I clicked on led me to several defunct numbers and e-mails, and with great trepidation and extreme red-ness of face I decided to call the bank, to ask their assistance in un-subscribing from Analdestruction.com.

Turns out I have to wait until the $29.97 Thirty Day Membership! shows up on my card to call the bank and contest it, but the woman on the phone assured me that I should have no problem, since I could not contact the merchants behind the impenetrable face of my latest mistake.

In a few days, I will no longer be a member of Analdestruction.com. I look forward to my release, and leave you all this day as a shamed embodiment of horrifically satisfied curiosity. I would say learn from my experience, but I've got this sneaky feeling that you guys all would've known better.

Happy Friday.

Shiner

2008-03-24T10:11:00.000-07:00

The Thing for which I care has got one.

I got to work today on time for once, feeling decently rested though in the firm grip of hormones a'rage, and what do I see but a toddler with a distinctly, obviously black eye. Said hormones arose in my swollen breast(s), and through nothing but misplaced unintentional motherfeel, I felt tragic wetness cover my eye-balls. The Thing, who is a sensitive soul*, noted my upset. His little mouth went upside down in a perfect semi-circle and his blue eyes wetted to match my own. I swiftly re-arranged my face into a cheerier visage, which I re-presented to him. He smiled and came happily to my arms for a big hug.

*gay

Over his shoulder, I mouthed to his mother "What happened to his EYE?" Apparently in her Saturday absence, he had opened a drawer on the bathroom vanity, climbed into it, and of course toppled the whole damn thing right over on top of himself.

He is obviously lucky he didn't break his freaking face.

I was feeling pretty sorry for him, and resolved to give him a lovely day. The beginning of this was a game of chase-peek-a-boo, which is a great way to entertain him while I make delicious nutritious coffeedrink.*

*I've already had a few cups today.**
**Obviously.
***Do you guys think I use the word 'obviously' too much? I kind of do.

Anyway. Part of the game is every so often jumping into the hall and kneeling down so that he may fling his giggling self into my arms. As the coffee began to perk, I ducked out of the kitchen and leaned down into his path. He shrieked in Fun and jumped on me - I smiled, briefly, at the sweet affection of it, and then lost my smile and all my reason as the little fucker bit me.

A red sheath dropped behind my eyes, blurring my vision. Somehow, some way, he had sunk his four front teeth through three shirts and a sweater into an eighth inch of my skin. He hung there, biting with all his force until I screeched like a mad thing and tore myself out from betwixt his cruel little chompers. Mr. Sensitive the Biter looked at me, stunned and upset. This time I did not re-arrange my face, or present to him a facade of calm. I shook my shoulder out from my many shirts and surveyed the damage.

He had broken the skin.

I was bleeding, BLEEDING, from four perfect little teeth-prints.

I took a deep, deep, calming breath. I relaxed my body. I very carefully, very gently, helped him assume the time-out position, said "No, no", and walked away.

If I hadn't, I would've knocked him on his ass.

I tell you what, people. When I feel like going to jail for biting the hell out of a toddler, I'll have my own. When I decide that I want to feel punched seeing the pain of another, I'll have my own. However. At the moment, I am only a nanny, I have been at work for mere hours and I am already exhausted from the sympathy-rage toddlercoaster. I can only imagine (thank God) how I would feel if said child was actually Mine, to take and make civilized, more-or-less. I am afraid that for now, I would rather be devoured slowly by cackling sharks than reproduce.

Sorry, Jackie, and a Happy Monday to the rest of you.

Where Doth Pride Go?

2008-03-18T08:01:00.000-07:00

During this past weekend in Virginia, I took advantage of a beautiful Spring Saturday to pop upon my scooter and go scoot-scoot-scooting amongst the daffodils. I was out for around twenty minutes whirring down and up and around suburban road-ways, listening to Happy Feet and en-joying my increased heartrate. Arriving home, I noticed two lesbians and one cat staring at me fixedly out the front window. Apparently, I had been their entertainment as I scooted: indeed, a bet was made about whither I'd go left or right that ended with Jacqueline paying tip on lunch! As I puffed and and puttered, Jacqueline expressed a bit of concern about me scootering in the District.

"Oh," I said airily, "I wouldn't scoot if I wasn't confident in my scootering abilities!" "Well, what about a helmet?", she said. I smiled warmly, condescendingly. "Honey, you don't need a helmet with a scooter! It's not a bike - now, THOSE are dangerous." "But what if you wrecked?" she said, worriedly. "I have NEVER wrecked on my scooter! It would be REALLY hard to hurt myself on the scooter." Swollen with pride, I did a little caffeinated dance for them and skipped off, feeling as though I'd impressed my lady-friend with my scooter savoir faire.

Fast forward to Tuesday morning.

I am on my scooter, blithely scooting, feeling healthy happy muscle burn and just generally feeling excited about the Spring. I notice that even the little I've already done to be more physical is paying off, and put on a bit more speed in my burst of pride. Around 15th and S, I zipped off the sidewalk, because it gets bumpy and yucky and, well, begs a wreck, even for one as savoir'ed and scooter-faire'ed as I.

It wouldn't have been a mistake if my scooter had looked like this:

Unfortunately, unbeknownst to me, my scooter was about to look like this:

Which is unfortunate, because scooter-movement does not happen without this:

The metal former-wheel-holder sank into the pavement in the same moment I made an especially fierce shove forward. The movement can most clearly be described as a "pole-vault", only the scooter was my pole and I vaulted not up and over a bar, but down and into the streets of DC. I extended my arms in the universal Holy Shit Here Comes The Ground maneuver, and comically whoooof'ed all the air out of my lungs as I cracked my knees resoundingly against said inevitable ground. My sunglasses went dancing across the pavement with my iPod as I settled into the final landing position, and I lay, stunned, for several seconds. Upon remembering where I was, that is a fairly busy street in a fairly good-sized city, I grabbled to my feet and limpingly dragged all my dangling parts back to the comparable safety of the sidewalk.

Sadly, slowly, I hobbled the rest of the way to work, holding a scooter, a scooter wheel, broken sunglasses, a tousled bag, and severely, critically wounded pride. I could only hope as I stumbled that this tale might inspire great gales of Schadenfreudean laughter in someone, as I have gained nothing from it but a broken scooter, aching knees, and a stomach and mind chock-full of humble pie.

Ladies and gentlemen, here's to checking it before you go wrecking it. Have a good pre-Spring, and be most mind-ful that you manage your own Spring Fever and hubris before a combination of the two find you splayed, flattened, and saddened on a dirty DC street.

Martin Helps You Live Again

2008-03-12T09:27:00.000-07:00

Good day, readers! I realize I have fallen off a bit in my writing, but this is totally not my fault. I have tried EVERY SINGLE DAY this last week, and every time I get about halfway through a post, I stop, sigh in disgust, and tramp sadly back to Facebook to seek human interaction through "SuperPoking" or "wall-posting". The only thing I can think of that is sadder than that is how I stop Facebooking from 1-3 so that I may devote my full attention to 7th Heaven.

To-day I shall succeed, for to-day I shall escribe about something on which I am a veritable EXPERT.

Toddlers.

What you see above is one of these so-called toddlers. They are named such because they "toddle" instead of walking successfully, and often topple over due to the weight of their massive heads. They are uncivilized, savage, and express themselves mostly through screaming and repeating the same words over and over. As of now, my charge the Thing's vocabulary consists of Mama, Dada, Meme (that's me!), and "vroom, vroom", which he employs to describe cars, trucks, taxis, construction sites, homeless people, shoes, dogs, bicycles, and certain foodstuffs.

I shall now set forth today to instruct you on proper care and feeding of the toddling set. With great aplomb I give you

Martin's Guide To Toddlers

1. First off, these are not people. They look like people, they come from people, but they are not. They are bouncing balls of Id contained in fresh new babyskin. If you en-joy acts of futility, feel free to try and "reason" with the toddler. If you do not, practice your back-handing. This is kinder than speeching, as words only frustrate and confuse it.

2. Toddlers frequently have things called "tantrums", in which they "express" themselves by screaming and kicking. This is a normal part of development, and can be dealt with most effectively by finding one of these in which to store the toddler during his fit.

For an especially unruly child, staples may be needed.

3. Another part of life in which the toddler is unskilled is in self-feeding. For the sake of your own appetite, do not eat where you can see it feed. For the sake of good taste, never feed a toddler these things: yogurt, cottage cheese, mashed anything, dairy products, vegetables, or the softer fruits. It looks gross, and is an affront to basic dignity and decency.

4. Self-esteem is very important. A good way to build a child's self-esteem is to let him do things "all by myself". This can involve cooking simple foods for their meals, although it is important to keep the heat turned down low for them. Too much supervision can make a toddler who is around a stove nervous, so it is best to let them attempt this on their own.

5. It is around the toddling age when the thing will begin to gain use of words. Once the first few come, haltingly, the rest pour forth as a tidal wave. They imitate everything they hear, and something that is very, very funny to hear a toddler say is "bitch", or "fuck off". Once you have taught them these things, if they say them in public, look shocked, and chastise them. This introduces them to the concepts of hypocrisy, denial, and lying, which are important parts of life.

6. Around this age, you also ought begin thinking of "toilet-training". A good way to introduce your child to this idea is to accustom it to the toilet. Many children think flushing in particular is fun - unfortunately, this wastes water. To discourage flushing for "fun", I recommend taking a favorite toy and "drowning" it in the toilet before flushing it down.*

*Feel free to be creative! Children love puppets, and screaming, flailing toys seemingly in their drowning death throes will make a long-lasting memory for any child.

7. Young children are not innately aware of gender stereotypes, and as such, you may find yourself with a boy who loves nail polish and a girl who constantly talks about tractors and Melissa Etheridge. Allow the girl to explore this part of herself, but be sure and beat it out of the boy before his future classmates do.

8. Children are like flowers, in that if you squeeze them too hard they will bruise and perhaps break. Remember this in the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History in the Hope Diamond room when your toddler throws itself to the floor and screams in agony because you said it could not slap the legs of fellow patrons.

9. Remember it all the way down the three flights of stairs you have to take because the elevator is broken as people look at you like you're a single teenaged mother with a poorly disciplined son.

10. Remember it when you reach the bottom of the stairs as thirty pounds of struggling stiffened toddler suddenly becomes utterly limp before whipping around to bite you on the arm. While you may then want to scream yourself before dashing him to the floor, you ought not, as this might garner you unwanted police "attention".

I believe that concludes my advice to you today! I hope, as always, that I have helped you to educate your-self. I must myself flee, as the Thing for which I care is squirking about upstairs, up from his nap. One thing more before I go is to caution you against "killing" or "giving away" a troublesome toddler - not only will you get into QUITE a spot of trouble, you also will miss when they do this

In all seriousness, don't kill a toddler, and if you think you won't be able to refrain, don't have one. Happy Wednesday!

Home #1

2008-03-06T10:49:00.000-08:00

It's around one o'clock in the middle of the day on a Tuesday. I am at home in Tennessee. Both my parents are at their jobs, teaching away, being responsible members of society. I, hungover, have just arisen from my bed. After chasing our beagle, Lily, around the house, I collapse on the living room floor and stare at the ceiling for awhile. I'm just noticing how incredibly sumptuous our carpet is when the home phone trills. I continue to lay limply on the floor in full relaxation until I hear the machine click on and say into the quiet house, "Emily? Are you there? Pick up, it's Mom." Now, as soon as I hear the "Eh" sound which begins my name, I know it is my mother, and I catapult from the floor. Limbs previously relaxed assume the tension of steel, and I shoot with remarkable speed to the phone. Breathlessly, I pick up.

Me: Hello?
Mom: Oh, hi! I thought I was going to miss you! What took so long?
Me: Oh, I was upstairs getting ready for the day and had to run.
Mom: Well, I just thought I'd call - did you remember to call Your Friend about lunch this week?
Me: Not yet.
Mom: You should probably give her a call soon -
Me: Well, you said she had Tuesday or Thursday free, and today's Tuesday, so I just thought...
Mom: Well, she might need to know when on Thursday, you just don't know what other plans she might have. I think you should call her soon.
Me: Okay, I'll give her a call in a bit.
Mom: Okay, that's good. Dad and I should be home in a few hours.
Me: Sounds good. Love you.
Mom: Love you too.

That was the actual dialogue. This is what happened. As soon as I heard my mother's voice, as mentioned above, I went from a calm, relaxed state to an insane and stiff one. I told a ridiculous, pointless lie, ostensibly to protect myself against Hangover Charges. This, however, is a silly argument for the lie, because everyone who knows knows that my mother does not confront that which bothers her. She would no more confront me about a hangover than she would talk to my recently cancer-free father about the Marlboro Reds hidden in his truck. As we continued to chat, years and years began rapidly to drop away from me, and by the time she'd suggested, sweetly, that I call my friend, I was around thirteen years old again, with all the sullen hallmarks of that oh-so-special age. As I acquiesced, saying simply that I'd call My Friend, I gesticulated wildly, angrily, at the empty air, looking foolish and frightening Lily. As I said "Sounds good", I kicked fiercely out at an innocent armchair.

When I hang up the phone, I take a moment to wonder just what it is that turns a simple conversation with my mother into such a distinctly Baroquean drama. For some reason, a suggestion from her seems a refutation of everything I am and have managed to become in my twenty-four years of life. Which, stated so self-righteously, makes me feel better, until I remember that the vast, VAST majority of those years are ones for which I must thank her. If you can note the spiralling here, you have your answer as to why I've not written about this fascinating topic before - it's too damn hard.

Guiltily, I scrub my bootscuffs from the chair. I imagine it looks at me with a wounded expression, then realize I'm picturing my father's hurt face if he could see me abusing the chair that he so lovingly re-upholstered. I ponder this for a moment, and decide that two o'clock in the afternoon is a perfect time to start drinking.

Irwin

2008-02-06T08:37:00.000-08:00

For those of you who enjoy posts of brevity, be here warned. As you will no doubt notice, I have discovered the joy of adding photo-graphs. There may be some gratuitous use here. I apologize. Also this is a many-parted story, beginning with something which now fiercely plagues the District.

Rats. I took this picture with my phone yesterday while I was walking the Child. The little rat, bereft of life, was laying on the ground next to a some sort of propaganda about the Rat Problem In DC. Without meaning to, I felt a little twinge of compassion for the rat. This whole rat hullaballoo came to my attention some weeks ago when the City Paper published an article about a Dupont Circle incident involving an infant and a rat. In tones threaded deeply with horror, the bit told of the mother, turning briefly away from her baby's stroller. The rat, on the trashcan next to the stroller. The rat, being a rat, who jumped into the baby's stroller. The stranger who shooed away the rat. There was much made of the rat's boldness, and much also made of the time it took for the rat to scamper away. Much maligned in the article were the rats and the DC animal control people, to which I have to say (ahem) YOU LIVE IN A CITY. THERE ARE BOLD RATS. WATCH YOUR BABY, IDIOT.*

* Now, let's all look back at that paragraph real quick. In the second that the mother turned away, a rat noticed her baby, jumped into her baby's stroller, was shooed away by a stranger, took its time being shooed, left, and then and only then was the mother aware of the situation. Just so you know, she was only aware at all because the Stranger told her.
** To which I say, again, rats behaving like rats is one thing. Inattentive mothers are an entirely different one.
***I don't have to go any further there, do I? You all get my drift? Crappy mothering should be punishable by death or other unpleasantries? Oops. I was trying not to come right out and say that.

Back to the subject at hand. Rodents. I was feeling sorry for them all as I traipsed off to the bar, where Jacqueline and I chanced to meet a friend. I brought up the rat incident, whereupon our friend shivered and announced her fear of all things rodent. Being a kind thing, I showed her the above picture. She is a fine woman, very poised, and I had never before imagined her graceful face crumpling in horror as it did then. I swiftly stowed away the offending thing, and we all began to discuss the perhaps questionable merits of rodents. I have been put off of them as pets since my roommate's gerbil Ibid devoured my gerbil, her sister gerbil, Sugar. It was Christmas, my freshman year of college, and I had gone into the basement to check on them. First I saw Ibid, balled up in a corner, then thought "I never got them any red toys!", then thought, "Gosh, Ibid looks fat!", then put it together and ran screaming wildly up the stairs. My brother and father disposed of Sugar, and I was not there, but sweet Michael described it in such lurid detail that I almost feel as if I was. So much so, I can honestly say I shall never forget the little body falling from the cage, uneaten intestines unspiralling wetly onto the lawn.

At any rate, our friend told us a story about a terrifying pet she'd had. Not a rodent, not something traditionally terribly scary, but something all the same which will forevermore give me The Shivers.

A rabbit.

Soft, fuzzy, sweet rabbits. Easter bunnies. Hoppy, lop-eared cotton-tailed friends, like mischievous Peter Rabbit and his unbearably well-behaved sisters. Many of my childhood books feature rabbits. I have always thought they were adorable, and have always wanted one. Until this story. Hold tight to your bowels, friends, for terror only awaits you here on out.

In her youth, J had a rabbit. A rabbit, mid-sized, named Irwin. He lived in his own greenroom, with plenty of sunshine. They kept a little Japanese-style garden there for him to romp in. One wall of his little house was made of chicken wire, allowing him to sample more freely the smells of the outdoors. There was fresh air in good weather and protection from the elements in bad. He should have been a happy bunny.

He wasn't. He burrowed tunnels in his little garden, where he'd lay in wait until some sad wretch came to un-clasp the door. Upon the closing of the door, Irwin would lay in wait under the earth, waiting til footfalls echoed close to his little bunny head. When they did, he would fling his rabbity self at the person, propelling himself as far up the body as he could go before attaching and rending what clothes and flesh he could. This was unfortunate, but tolerable. They were his owners, and learned to protect themselves from his hateful claws.

A quick sidenote here. They are cute, they are cuddly, but their brains are the size of quarters. They have the emotional capabilities of serial killers.

The neighbors next door had an Irish wolfhound. I'm going to resist the urge to post a picture, and instead just say WOW. That's a big dog. A very big dog. Apparently one night, the dog got out and sniffed his way over to Irwin's happy little home.

The next morning, Irwin's family was awakened by their furious next door neighbors. Their dog, their massive dog, had come home early that morning torn all to bits. He was unable to accompany them, as he had had to go to the vet for stitches. The neighbors had originally blamed Irwin's family's cocker spaniel (ha), but Irwin's family knew. By way of explanation, they led their neighbors back to Irwin's home. There was a great, bloody scratched part of the wire. Puddles of blood sat drying complacently underneath it. There was no hole in the wire, just dog chunks pasted to it with congealing blood.

Irwin, the rabbit, had rent to pieces a creature more than twenty times his size.
He had done so THROUGH the chicken wire.

You tell me how that happens. From here on out, things smaller than cats with claws and teeth are things I will be avoiding. Rabbits, rats, mice, moles, voles, gerbils, hamsters, the lot of them. I don't care either that rabbits aren't rodents, they are close enough! I don't imagine there's any hope that I won't dream of red-eyed, red-mouthed rabbits for the rest of my life, and I'll never look at Peter Rabbit the same way again.

You think it's funny? I'm not quite done.

Sometime after the incident, Irwin escaped.

He has never been found.

She Almost Killed Me

2008-01-29T12:36:00.000-08:00

This morning, as per usual, my lady-friend’s alarm went off before the sun showed his smiling face. Per not usual, she shut the beastly thing off and returned to her sleep beside me. When she does this, it means that I am going to get a car-ride to work, and will not have either to walk on my legs or enter the train-hole with the other metro plebes. Happily, I drifted sweetly back to my sleep with a gentle smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. Around eight-thirty, I got up and performed my every-day Morning Routine, which is as follows: awake, feel around edges of hangover, stuff contacts in, make self clean and shining, dress self, and leave apartment. I did this today with the company of my lady-friend, who was monstrously late to school by choice. She has an excuse, as her eyes have threatened to pop painfully from her head in recent days, and also she has the Sniffles.

I “helped” her drive me to work, mostly by shrieking in fear at nothing, pointing wildly at things she could not see, and gorilla-grunting when I thought she should go “faster”. That is always how I help her drive, and I know she appreciates it very much! Normally we stop for a spot of breakfast, but both our various ailments had slowed our movements, and I was two minutes past the time by which I should have arrived at work. She pulled up to the Street of the Thing, and I prepared to swiftly exit the vehicle. It is important to exit as quickly as possible, because the Street of the Thing is located at a fairly frenetic thouroughfare. I expose Jacqueline to rampant disquietude from fellow motorists if I tarry in removing myself from the car, and on this morning as so many others, I readied myself for the moment long before it arrived.

Please remember at this time that both of us were not at our best: I, cloudy-headed, and Jacqueline, weary and bleary of eye, are not the best on-the-road team.

The car slows to a stop. Having pre-kissed Jacqueline, I immediately fling the door open and wildly thrust myself forward. I have one foot on the ground and one hand balancing myself on the open door when the vehicle begins, inexplicably, to move. In the first moments, I am too stunned to vocalize. My foot flops to its side to be dragged on the pavement and my body dips frighteningly to the ground as the previously stabilizing door begins to move with the car. Through a haze of panic, I see Jackie’s face looking questioningly at me. By this I am galvanized to action and scream politely, “JACKIE, GODDAMMIT!!!” Still puzzled, she returns my aggressive emotion with her own “WHAT?!” The car continues to slowly roll, and Jacqueline’s eyes widen with horror as she notices that she is very gradually dragging her flailing girlfriend down 16th Street. Her mind takes a moment to formulate an appropriate action, and I help her to a decision by hanging ever-more-pitifully onto the swinging door, my leg struggling for purchase on the still-moving street beneath it. “The BRAKE…the fucking…..STOP THE CAR!!!!” I yell, seconds before my sweaty paw gives way on the door. Finally the car stops, and I extricate what limbs and things had remained inside. I shut the door with my one good arm, and limp with relief to the un-moving sidewalk, solid and still beneath my feet.

An unsympathetic motorist behind then honked and uselessly flapped her arms in a questioning gesture. I cannot imagine what look I might have had on my face, but I know what left my mouth, and I know which finger I employed to convey to her my emotions. I am of course happy to report that naught was injured, and I was able to march gaily onward to work. I would also like to sweetly note that henceforth I shall always, loudly, consistently remind any driver with whom I ride to place her foot most firmly on the brake, and to leave it there, until all of my arms and all of my legs are distinctly outside the vehicle.

Happy Tuesday.

I See You

2008-01-17T09:00:00.000-08:00

It's the end of the day on Tuesday, and I meet Jackie at the local McDonalds before I take the Thing home. As we're leaving, I ask where I ought meet her when I leave work. "Oh, I'll be here!" she said, in a manner which invoked great trust on my part. I left, unknowingly minutes from one of the more embarassing episodes of my adult life. I took the child home, and, excited as I always am come six o' clock, traipsed to meet my love. Entering the restaurant, I did not see her, and reasonably surmised that she might be in the restroom.

I went into the restroom, and saw feet. I did not stop to remember that Jacqueline was not wearing sneakers. I did not stop to remember that Jacqueline was not wearing jeans. I instead begin breathing heavily, creepily in excitement for the tricks I was about to play on my lady-love. Shuffling from foot to foot and cackling quietly, I opened my stupid, stupid mouth.

"Doodle oodle oooo, doodle oodle oooooo!", I sang. Waiting, I imagined Jacqueline's face in the stall as she tried desperately not to laugh, and I could not suppress a breathy little chortle. I did a little tapping dance, and sang once more to my love.

"Doodle oodle ooooo, I see yooooOOOOOOOOu!!" Overwhelmed by merriment, I began laughing raucously, alarmingly, and then realized that those were not Jackie's feet.

Not Jackie's feet at all.

I was holding a complete stranger in terrifying hostage in a McDonald's bathroom for long minutes, sing-songing nonsense and intermittently hooting with crazed laughter. Can you even imagine, then, what that poor, poor, unlucky soul must have thought? My God.

"Doodle oodle oooo." This little phrase is what crazy sounds like.
"Doodle oodle oooo." The repeat. This is what lets you know that crazy isn't going away.
(Giggling, heavy breathing, shuffling feet) Crazy is VERY excited to be in the bathroom with you!

And the coup de grace, the one that will keep me up at night for years to come, "Doodle oodle ooooooh, I see yooooOOOOOOOU!" Doodle, oodle, ooh. I see you. It’s not enough that you’re trapped in the bathroom with a babbling, excited maniac. No, no, the maniac can “see” you, and is utterly thrilled at the prospect, so much so that she bursts into murderous cackling. God forgive me, I didn’t even apologize. I ran. Quickly, cravenly, blushingly, I ran out of that McDonald's without so much as one word to you.

Terrified stranger, I'm so very very sorry. I promise I will never again trap you in a public restroom. I will never again serenade you. I will never again claim to "see you" through an opaque and locked door. For that matter, I will never again look upon a McDonalds with anything but the deepest shame.

My God.
“I see you.”

I could just die.

An Exciting Day

2008-01-08T12:40:00.000-08:00

On Monday through Friday, from nine to six, I am alone. As a nanny, most of my conversation is in measured tones, with a hint towards pleasant or stern as the situation demands. I do not receive real-word responses. Grunts, wails, screeches, mutterings, and other such utterances typically associated with psychopaths, yes, but nothing that resembles adult interaction. It is true, at times, that if I say ‘uh-oh’ or ‘oops’ with enough passion, The Child will gaily mimic me, but this does not fulfill my need for actual communication.

In months long past, I’d pridelessly beg friends to join me and the child for lunch, coffee, a walk ‘round, a metro ride, a museum visit, an anything, but this is over now. I am out of tolerant friends, good weather, and The Child daily grows more and more demanding.*

*I hate toddlers.
**Okay, I don’t ‘hate’ toddlers, but I started with a sweet pliant newborn, and now I've got this Thing with an ever-burgeoning will that doesn’t snuggle and shits like an adult. I used to be as an animated cuddle-toy, and now I am like Mary fucking Poppins, only I am so not magic. And I don’t carry umbrellas. I hate fucking umbrellas.

At any rate.
Today, things were different.

We had a visitor.

The Cable Man came. He was supposed to arrive within a three-hour ‘window’, which began at eleven. I put The Child down so that the visitor would be mine, all Mine, and quickly prepared. I put on my socks and shoes. I spritzed all over with the cologne I carry everywhere, and I put my underwear back on. I ChapSticked vigorously. I strapped my freedom-loving breasts into the one nice bra I own.

I was ready.

I sat on the couch and waited. I waited one hour, then two, at which point I became tired of nervously waiting and made a crucial error, otherwise known as a pot of strong coffee. I drank one cup, then two, and double-triple-timed the amount of twitching I was doing. The knock came. I levitated off the couch and teleported down to the door. “HI. ARE YOU THE CABLE GUY?!” I shouted happily. Marc, as his nametag proclaimed, nervously returned my greeting. I led him up the stairs to the television, and then hover-crafted over him as he worked. “WOULD YOU LIKE SOME WATER?!” I yelled in a friendly manner. “GREAT WEATHER WE’RE HAVING, HUH?!” I commented cheerily. Sweet Marc managed to answer all of my loud verbosities with his own pleasantries, even when I sort of lost it and went off on a wild babbling tangent about global warming and the delight of high-definition television.

He has long since gone, but the excitement of The Visitor remains. I am just as thrillingly hyperactive now as I was before our time together, remembering what fun it was. How he answered me with words! How he refrained from laying on the floor and screaming when he did not get his way! How he, in the whole time he was here, did not once shit in his pants!

What a truly thrilling life I lead.

I Am Sick

2008-01-05T00:09:00.000-08:00

I am. I felt ill all through my week at home, brushed it off as best I could, then returned to Jackie only to be drug unhappily to a quick-clinic. We waited for eighteen years, as it seemed, then Jackie gently prodded me to my feet and to an exam room and put up with me as I feverishly declared my intentions. "We're leaving, I swear to God, I don't care, if they're not here in three minutes I'm going right out this window and I don't even care if you come with me.."

Please keep in mind that I had one very business-minded fever of 102 point 8 degrees, what the technician described with alarming surprise as a "REALLY high pulse. Wow!", and a home hangover (comprised equally of I-want-to-go-home and Home-is-too-hard). At any rate, the doctor marched in, listened to the bear inside my chest, and announced her diagnosis.

Pneumonia, with a complimentary touch of bronchitis. I was then tussled and bustled outside by Jacqueline, and honestly don't remember too much until mid-yesterday. This is because I had death, a z-pack, an inhaler, and a cough syrup with codeine in it. Right now I am skipping the cough syrup to have a beer.*

*Tell no-one!**
**Especially not my mom. She kept saying things like, "Just because you start to feel better doesn't mean you're better, honey." and "Take it easy for longer than you think you need to, okay?"***
***I swore I would and did not understand her concern at the time but then really. She knows I haven't enough tolerance or love of lay-about to be still for too long.

So I've been in bed for a long time, and this is my first writing, about being sick of all things but I simply can't tackle the joyous monstrosity that is Home Christmas until I feel a little less stoned. Now things are getting a bit fuzzy again, and I think it might be time to retire to the bed which has been, so far, my home of 2008.

Happy New Year. I wish for you all that when you become ill, you are given something with codeine in it.

It helps.

Whoo!

Certainty

2007-12-20T18:04:00.000-08:00

I tend to fall in love at the drop of a hat. Those who know me, know this, and do not afford my love any less import because of it. I never have afforded my love less import because of this, but I must say I've doubted its truth before. I doubt always. I doubt now.

But I must be convinced, when chores are fun.

My love is sweeping, before I mop. We both have our ears plugged full of iPods, and are dancing and singing quite loudly to our private self-concerts. We meet up, in the room, and wordlessly exchange said Pods. I make a face at what I hear and she nods, taking said Pod back and putting on a song which fills me with joy. I don't know how she does it, but again and again she does, fill me with joy when i'm not even sure how she knows what I want or need.

Certainty.
I am very lucky.

Merry Christmas.

Interview

2007-12-20T14:14:00.000-08:00

I wasted my morning.

I wasted a perfectly good excuse, almost three hours of my life that I’ll never get back, the cleanliness of my only pantyhose, and some of Jackie’s gas. I put on a bra and my most reasonable grown-up face and used up at least a day’s worth of charm.

I went to an interview. Here’s the story of how I got said interview. See if you can find my mistakes in actually going! Hint: I have placed asterisks after all of the mistakes.

After work yesterday, I went to the Townhouse* and got myself a beer*. I struck up conversation with a man I’d met last week*. He had a lady-friend with him, who was speaking through a stuffed Porky Pig and wildly waving a small sticky penis in the air. I introduced myself*. She said she needed someone for a job and was I interested? I said yes*. She described travel, money, benefits, and seemed to think I’d be perfect. I believed her*. So I called into work with a “doctor’s appointment”*, stuffed my body into pantyhose*, and went*.

It was over in half an hour. I filled out an application, which was apparently strenuous enough to leave me with great, wet circles under my arms. I took a typing test, at which I sucked (who knew?), and then bumbled stupidly about the cubicle labyrinth until I was found, relieved of my papers, and escorted out. I marched out with a confident and dangerously manic “HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!” to the startled doorman, attempting to keep the sheen on my charm. I lasted until I got into the car with Jacqueline, whereupon I began ripping off my nice suit with an insane person’s fervor. Here is the last mistake: I did not notice, until my naked breasts were perilously close to public, that we were in front of a building.

The building where I had just interviewed.

This comes, ladies and gentlemen, with particularly poor timing. I am approximately thirteen minutes and thirty-five hours away from driving five hundred and ninety miles home, where my father will almost certainly call me fat and my mother will gently, sweetly, unceasingly nudge me towards a teaching career, preferably in Nashville (blech). Also my father will accuse me of drinking too much, and he’ll be right, but he’ll most likely be sort of drunk when he slings his scurrilous slurs my way. This is not fair. Also he may not really call me fat, for he is him-self not upon the skinny side of the scale! But he will! He always does!! And this time when he does it, I’m going to call him a Very Bad Name!!!

I’m sorry.

I'm, done. I'm done now. I'm sorry. It's just that I'm crazy enough right now without a failed attempt at re-joining the work-force.

DISCLAIMER: Author is dangerously close to beginning her monthly luteal phase, which, as she is not knocked up, will end with progesterone withdrawal bleeding. As is common for many women, she is now suffering from Bloat, Insanity, Desire To Consume That Which Will Not Run A-way From Her, and the Out-Right Crankies. Prayers and cash donation may be addressed to Jacqueline at:

Long-Suffering Girlfriend
Darling Why Do You Still Love Me Ave.
I’m So Glad You Do, XO

Happy Holidays.

Oops (Corrina, Corrina)

2007-12-17T20:54:00.000-08:00

This has always been one of my favorite films. Ray Liotta’s young daughter, Tina Majorino, is mute and unresponsive since his wife’s sudden death. One nanny, then another, then another, are useless until appears Mrs. Washington , played by one of my absolute eternal favorites, Whoopi Goldberg.*

* She has a daughter. Did you know that? I did not. I myself think she is a lesbian, mostly because I think all women are until proven otherwise, and also her hair is not okay.

I had always loved this movie, and it had always brought me to minor tears, and then I became a nanny myself. All of a sudden this story rankles me in almost every way. The nanny is hired, and clumsily makes her magic with the child. The father falls madly in love with her, and the end of the movie shows a jubilant Tina Majorino leaping from a porch into the hand-holding arms of then-coupled Ray Liotta and Whoopi Goldberg. This is heart-warming.

This is not true.

It is a cruel and silly joke to imply that any nannying, at any time, might possibly make that child yours. It is beyond imagining to taunt an adult, paid to care for a child who loves that child more than anything with the mere thought of permanence.

Nannying is wretched. It is not babysitting. It is not parenting. It is parenting and loving and loving (I can’t say it enough) with the bottom-soul knowledge that this child is not yours, will never be yours, and that your love for this child makes no promise on your continued time together. It is watching this baby, this child, which is by now part of your body, grow away and away from you as she becomes her parents and not you, and yet more you than you are yourself.

You see I was recently a nanny and when I left my girl, my Dylan, she made my faces and exclaimed my phrases. She was dramatic and intense and I did not, myself, note these things. It was those nearest and dearest to me who upon a visit would exclaim, “Oh, Martin! How like you she is!”

She was.

And yet I left. Under duress, but I left. Though I have dealt with family- and friend-death before, I feel this is truly my first grown-up hurt. This will not end. This is not a dead person. She is out there every minute in her home, in her crib, two miles from me, and I don’t walk through a single day without thinking about her.

This is the first time I’ve really known that a hurt I’m feeling will be with me forever.

Forever. It’s a big word.

And it’s still not big enough for Dylan.

I’m about to go home for Christmas. I go home about once a year, and I know people will ask. I dread it. I am still in little bitty pieces about my girl, and I don’t know how I’ll brush it off when people mention it, casually, and most likely when I’m half drunk on someone else’s white wine. I’ve gained about twenty pounds and I sure look like someone who drinks a lot and sleeps too little, and I’m just not sure yet what I’m going to say when I arrive.

I’m sure I won’t say anything until I get a little too drunk. Someone will ask, and I will be consigned to the edge of the party in tears, thinking of a little five pound body next to mine that will never be there again.

My kid and not mine.

Let’s not talk about it.

Morning

2007-12-12T07:34:00.000-08:00

I awake at approximately 6:37 am, exactly eight minutes before the Girlfriend’s alarm goes off. I have started to do this, this damned waking before the alarm. I wake up before it even makes a sound, and I cannot return to my sleep. I lay in the semi-dark, my startled heart thumping in rapid rabbit time, and I wait. I wait until the alarm screams its mechanical welcome to the morning, whereupon I gently and lovingly let my dear lady know that it is time to rouse herself to face another beautiful day.*

* The Truth (a vignette)

Me: (muttered, generally raspily. A touch of specific rage, laid under a general layer of malcontent.) Goddammit.
Lovely Girlfriend: (sleeps)
Me: (general cursings, mumblings) The fucking…..the fucking…..goddammit!!!
Lovely Girlfriend, Whose Fault It Is Not That I Suffer From Morning Rage Disorder It’s Real I Swear: (rouses gently from sleep, fumbles for phone. Turns off alarm. Turns on snooze. Sleeps.)

At this point I am pumped up with enough anger-fueled adrenaline to move mountains with my mind. Sleep seems a sad dream from long ago, and I know that even were I to get back to it the snooze will go off in five minutes. When it goes off, we will repeat the above little scene. When the second snooze goes off, we will repeat again.

When the third snooze goes off, my trembling, shaken form will be left lonely in the bed as my lady-love goes to shower. I might try, here, to return to my sleeping. Unfortunately, sure as the tides turn, I will awaken when she re-enters the room.

Why, then, do I not simply rise to start the day? Why do I not ease the frustration of aborted sleep by acknowledging that said sleep has been just that, aborted, and will not return again to the womb of said morn?

Because Jackie gets up one hour and twenty minutes before I have to. I don’t need to be up! I don’t have to be awake!! I don’t even LIKE being awake!!! I hate the god-damned mornings! What does one DO in the mornings?? One SLEEPS in the mornings, and do you know why? BECAUSE THEY SUCK. They are dark and lame and you don’t have your clothes on and you have to decide what to wear and maybe whether or not you’re going to shower and you have to brush your fucking teeth, which I HATE, and you’re aware this whole time that the decision-making has only just begun and you’ve miles to go before it’s socially acceptable to have a beer and promptly go right back to sleep, and THAT is why I am NOT going to GET UP any EARLIER than I NEED TO.*

I HATE THE MORNING.

* This is not, you must understand, anger at my lady-friend. I am always filled with ire to face another day, and it is mere circumstance and indeed good luck on my part that she is beside me to soothe my feverish mutterings and to scratch my un-scratched back. Before I dated her, I behaved much more wretchedly in the mornings: throwing my cat, throwing my phone, throwing my glasses (both beverage and reading!), screaming out the window, and other such unpleasantries. Because I now have someone to comfort me, I only mutter curses and infrequently throw the cat.**
** It’s more of a casual toss, and at any rate he gets through it quite well.

A Helpful Guide For You

2007-12-07T11:06:00.001-08:00

Good day, friends! I take to my blog on this, a wet and gray Friday, in order that I might help my fellow man sojourn through his life with more ease. You see since I've moved to this lovely city, I have noticed something which rather disturbs me. I first arrived here in a summery season, and blamed this phenomena on the onslaught of tourists. Unfortunately, I have now been here long enough to experience this pitiable situation in EVERY kind of weather! As I am over-full of fellow-man love, I want nothing more but than to help these sad, misdirected souls. Please read on, and enjoy the first installment of Martin Tells You How To Live (a million part series).

How To Use The Metrorail

1. Let's begin with the start of your Metrorail trip, the escalator. This device is most simply described as a "moving staircase". Just like magic! It is not, however, magic, so you do not have to fear it. When you get up to that big, scary thing, feel free to hop on right quickly, without even looking down!

There is no need to stop abruptly in front of me to have a personal philosophy session about The Nature Of Machines.

2. Now you are ON the escalator. Good for you! Now, if you wish to WALK, thereby hastening your progress to the train, walk LEFT. If you would rather stand still like a large stuffed doll, you ought stand to the RIGHT. To the right, as in not in front of me. I will be moving at QUITE the clip down the escalator, and it is possible that I might accidentally sideswipe you with my bag, or elbow your child in the head! By accident, of course.

3. Don't pause at the bottom of the escalator. Just, don't.

4. Farecard not working? SmarTrip on the fritz? I am sorry for your misfortune, but do not remain in front of me, fruitlessly examining your card and blocking the turnstile. Go talk to the Station Manager. The turnstile does, you will notice, say "STOP - SEE STATION MANAGER" when your card does not work. It does not say, "STOP - LOOK CONFUSED. BRING CARD UP TO FACE FOR INSPECTION. SAY "HUH" IN A PUZZLED WAY. TRY AGAIN. BACK UP INTO CUSTOMER BEHIND YOU. NOW GO SEE STATION MANAGER.”

5. The train is here!! What joy! Board it.*

*Wait. I forgot. I am the only resident of this entire god-damned district who knows what that means. Here’s a step-by-stepper, turds: Wait for doors to open. When they open, move swiftly into the train. Do not walk into people. Do not stand uselessly in the very center of the open space. Find a seat, a corner, a spot, and wedge yourself as best you can.

6. Now the train is going to move. If you cannot find a seat, grab a pole or lean against the wall. If you are tall, please, please utilize the ceiling poles, not the little guys on the side. My brethren and I (short people) cannot reach the fucking ceiling.

Oh! I said “fucking”, didn’t I? Sounded a bit hostile, I’m sure. I’m truly sorry. It’s just all the times I’ve face-planted into the various body parts of a stranger because they wouldn’t turn loose the only pole which I can reach.

7. Sometimes the train is full. It just is, you know? This means it cannot accommodate any more people. THIS MEANS IT CANNOT ACCOMMODATE ANY MORE PEOPLE.

8. THIS MEANS IT CANNOT ACCOMMODATE ANY MORE PEOPLE.

9. You must be completely in the train before the doors close. This is because the doors have very long, very sharp razors on them and when they close, anything that isn’t fully in the train will be sliced off immediately.*

*Just joking! Ha, ha! But really, I love to think about it. Try to squeeze on the train now, businessman!! *SQUUUSCH* Hee, hee, hee.

I think that’s about it for today, folks. I really hope this little guide will ease your Metro suffering. I hope you remember it well, but if the day arrives when you find yourself in a Metro-related dilemma, there is one paramount piece of advice that I’d like you to take away from this.

Get out of my way, or I will kill you.

Happy Holidays!!

Calamity

2007-12-05T08:39:00.000-08:00

Life as I know it is over. My every waking moment is full of pain and suffering. I cannot breathe or think or walk and especially, I cannot talk but that I recall the wretched situation in which I find myself. It is a situation of my own making, yes, but any being with a heart might well find themselves near tears to see my pitiful state.

My lips are chapped.

I mean REALLY chapped. They're cracked and dry. They are crinkly in appearance, they stick to the tops of beer bottles, and they are stung by limey vodka-drinks. They are bad at sex, painful on my face, and generally useless. Why?

Because I cannot find my chapstick.

Normally this would not be a huge deal, the chapstick, but it is cold outside. Very cold. Earlier in the fall I told myself, swore to myself, and made Great Proclamations to this effect: I would not, NOT lose my lip lube or be without it for even a moment this cold season. It has now been cold for three weeks, and today I must purchase my sixth tube of chapstick.

It fills me with despair to know that I have reached the age of twenty-four and cannot take care for even a chapstick.

I suppose children are not to be.

My Friends Are Better Than Yours

2007-12-03T11:10:00.000-08:00

Find a seat for your bottom, friend. I have something unbearably exciting to tell you.

I have a new lap-top.

I have a new-to-me, speedy lap-top, with slate gray keys (all attached!!) and a bright, clear screen (which is stuck most firmly to the keyboard!!). This new lap-top is SO strong, my friends, that I was able to pick it up, put it into a bag, and carry it 'cross town this morning to my working-place. Which accounts for me being online, you see. I have not been able to fuss about on the internet for long (sober) hours since The Accident with my other lap-top. Which was not my fault.

What Really Happened, I Swear To God (a vignette)

Me: (sweetly, bright-eyed) Good evening, dear lap-top! I so missed you to-day at work. Would you care to check some e-mail with me, perhaps make a blog together? I do love our time together!!
Lap-top: I hate you.
Me: Excuse me?
Lap-top: Fuck you.
Me: (tearily) Good sir! You must not be yourself! Please, I beg you, stop before you say something you'll regret! Let me just try to check my e-mail, here - there's a good machine...yes....
Lap-top: (freezes)
Me: (gently) Oh, dear friend! I understand how hard this is! I will wait for you, however long you need. I understand.

Then something fucking CRAZY happened. As I sweetly spoke only gentle-words to the machine, it suddenly jumped up into the air! I begged it to come down and cease its tomfoolery, but it would not heed my call and instead began to bash itself violently against the floor without cease. I watched in horror as it began to come apart before my eyes. It finally wore itself out and I was left with a computer no longer suitable to top a lap. Four keys were missing and the screen was dangling perilously far away from the keyboard.

Now what was I to do? I sadly brought the situation to the attention of my room-mate, who eyed me warily when I explained the paranormal occurence.

"Martin, I heard you screaming at the computer. Are you sure it did this to itself? I mean, you look kind of drunk, too."

A cruel, lonely life is that of the cynic!

At any rate, I have been bereft of a true top to my lap for many months now. I was relaying this story to a Wonderful Person this past Saturday, and when I was finished this Saintly Being pointed off-handedly to a lap-top machine next to her recliner and said, "Why don't you take that one? It sucks, but you can have it if you want." I stammered, I blushed, I protested (insincerely), but it was true. The Best Friend, Ever, then asked her lady-friend if that would be all right, and her Blessed By Heaven lady-friend said why yes it was!

So here I am, at work, watching Boo eat while I listen to Christmas tunes online and blog happily, betwixt chit-chatting with my lovely girl-friend. I am enamored of this swift, strong lap-top machine and I am most happy this Monday with my new acquisition, which allows me to feel as though I am Doing Something With My Life where before I felt useless and sad at work. I have to say it is a good thing to have friends, a wonderful thing to have friends of generous heart, and I am a happy, happy, lucky little bit to have friends which are this and more.

Now if you will excuse me, I have some SuperPoking to do on Facebook.

An Incident

2007-11-26T18:58:00.000-08:00

I leave my apartment today in a right happy frame of mind. My car, which has been grievously ill, started with nary a murmur this morning. My girlfriend lent me her lap-top so that I might write at work, and I was wearing a jacket which I love and have not seen in quite some time! I set forth across the street, walking strictly within the crosswalk with five whole seconds left to go. I was about halfway across when a black VW bug approached the intersection. I was aware of the car, but figured that in this case, I was safe. You understand I do have a terrible habit of crossing streets when I oughtn’t, so when I actually follow traffic laws I feel fairly invincible.

Not today. As though in slow motion, the black car approached. I have been the human end to a car’s sudden stop before, so I did not alter the pace of my steps as it continued, not braking, towards me. While this seems foolish, I think any city-dweller would understand that stopping every time you just “think” you’re going to get “hit by a car” would ensure that you were never to be punctual again (and I DO love being punctual!). I did not, rather embarrassingly, jump out of its way until I felt car meet leg.

That surprised me.

I mean come the fuck on. Really? You stupid little man, in your stupid little car, you are REALLY going to RUN INTO me, the lofty pedestrian. Captain Right-Of-Way. You know, buddy, I wasn’t even crossing on red! Or yellow! You are a dirty bastard, Mr. Driver, and I don’t feel even a little bad for what happened next.

What Happened Next*

*or, “Script For Almost Being Hit By A Car”

Me: (smiling serenely. All is well. Leg feels car. Flail. Leap out of way. Recover. Slap hood of car.)
Bad Car Man: (sits)
Me: JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!! (extend middle finger. Lean
onto hood. While body is now fully damp from rain-wetted car, point has been made. Really made.)
Bad Car Man: (sits)
Me: (remove self from hood. Shelve finger. Glare.)
Bad Car Man: (sitting, the fucker)
Me: What the fuck…..FUCK….
Bad Car Man: (presumably still sitting. I, in an epic pout, have marched off.)

Maybe I’m just short. Maybe they don’t see me. But that doesn’t excuse it, and it doesn’t excuse the fact that this was the second time I’ve had a car come close enough to pair my flesh with its metal. The second time, need I say, that I’ve been forced to employ a hearty slap and the finger betwixt all others.

The first time I was pushing a stroller full of baby in Dupont Circle. A taxi came screaming up. The light made it quite clear where said taxi should stop, but in a burst of originality, he created his own. This cretin chose to make a new stop about twenty-seven inches from Baby Boo in his stroller.

I slap the hood. He calls me a “fucking idiot”. I tell him not to talk that way in front of the “fucking baby”. He tells me to fuck myself, I employ the aforementioned finger, and he’s off.

As frustrating as this is, I am at least thankful that I’ve a tried-and-true blueprint to fall back on when some fool motorist tries to end my life. Slap, curse, finger.

Repeat if needed.

An American Tragedy

2007-11-16T17:52:00.000-08:00

The girlfriend and I tottered home this past Sunday night, weary from a long weekend of fun, fun, and more fun. We were quite ready for a bed-time, and thusly went straight-away to my room in preparation for said bed-time. Imagine, then, our dismay and surprise at the scene we found.

The odor struck first. As I ventured into the room, other tiny horrors hit me, one by one. The rug, wadded up in the corner of the room. All the water glasses and bottles, knocked over. The visible dampness of the various piles of clothing on the floor.

The cat, smiling to him-self as he lay on the one spot of un-sullied floor.
The cat, now completely emptied of urine.

I shrieked sort of mindlessly and made a lunge for him, but mercifully the girlfriend had the presence of mind to restrain me immediately. I melted, blibbering, onto the floor as I surveyed the wreckage. I had not expected such disaster, as I had left the cat with plenty of water, plenty of food, and a clean litter box. I had even cleaned and cleared the room so he could run about to his heart’s content. To wit, the little bastard had everything his catty heart could have dreamed of, except for our company, and this was denied for only a night.

So why did he do it? There was plenty of room in the litter box for myriad poops and rivers of pee. I could’ve relieved myself in it, perhaps Jackie (the girlfriend) as well, with no problem. And yet Oliver (the cat) felt the need to spray his pungent cat-juice not only outside the box, but in almost every corner of the room.

Did he miss us? Of course he missed us! Naturally, that might’ve been the reason why he dragged clothes and rugs and beddings and stuffed animals all about the room before pissing all over them. I must say, though, that when I wish for more company, I do not go about releasing fluids on the possessions of my loved ones. Of course that’s just me. Maybe that’s the way I ought to be doing things.

Jackie, darling, I miss you. I miss you SO much, I have proved it by leaving you a special treat in your computer bag! Okay, see. No. That’s gross. I only wish that I could have explained that logic here to Mr. Pee-pee Pants. Unfortunately, I could not. There was nothing to do but drink a beer, crawl into bed, and get a good night’s sleep before I set to work scouring an entire room’s worth of cat-yuck. I drank said beer, brushed my teeth, and breathing in a most Zen manner, traipsed back into my sickly room.

I put on my pajamas, my favourite purple pajama pants with dancing purple lambs upon them. To my comfort, the purple pajama top which matches was clean. Though not overly joyful, I was content in my matching pj’s and eager to rest next to my lady-friend. We crawled sweetly into bed, onto the crisp, fresh sheets I’d put on the bed not two days before, and laid down our heads.

It took a second or two to register the dampness of the bed. My soft, sweet pajamas were fully and unwearably wetted by the time the smell hit me. Wailing softly and helplessly, I stripped them off. I spent the night cold, with stink penetrating the quilt which I’d turned into a sort of piss-protectant body-condom. I spent the next day, my day off, doing laundry and scrib-scrib-scrubbing the taint of cat-piss out of my floors.

Did I love him then, as I sweated and cursed over soaked and stinky laundry? Did I even like him yesterday, as I struggled to un-marinate piss-marinated floors? No.

But I didn’t kill him, and as far as I’m concerned that makes me a real good human being.

Out of Town

2007-11-08T18:42:00.000-08:00

I arrive to work on Monday to a frothy, crazed brown lab, a wild-eyed daddy, and thirty pounds of fifteen-month-old foulness. The very air is frenetic, and between the dog's howls and the baby's screeches, I am forced to consider simply turning around and leaving. Moving to Mongolia, perhaps. Going home to drink, perhaps - but not, and I must repeat NOT entering what is sure to be less than fun and certainly a little worse than wretched.

Unfortunately, to leave would be to cut off my only source of income.*

*beer money

With a future frosted mead fixed firmly in my mind's eye, I enter the maelstrom which is my Monday through Friday home. I traipse up the stairs, fingers firmly plugged in ear-holes, and am greeted at the top by unmistakable desperation in the form of Beast, the aforementioned frothy canine. He bays into my face as he attempts to ascend my body. As he is my height while standing, I am trapped in an awkward pas de deux with over one hundred pounds of frenzied retriever.

I pry him off just as Man, Boo's father, flippity-trips down the stairs. For a moment I imagine it's dog spittle blurring my vision, but then realize that Man is spotted from tip-top to mid-chest with a viscous white substance.

Perplexed Nanny: Man??
Spotted Daddy: I...it's, he - (points at baby)

I cast my ever-more-horrified glance over to Boo in his high chair, who is screeching merrily and smiling grotesquely. Leaking from his gaping grin is a YoBaby Organic Peach Yogurt fountain. Boo gargles grossly at my attention and pats his little hands in his yogurty tray, further spattering the already-ugly scene. Man, eyes bouncing desperately about, turns his red-eyed gaze to me and simply, helplessly says, "He sneezed."

Mom is out of town.

When Mom leaves town, baby loses what little mind he has. The dog barks incessantly, pleadingly, and insists upon sitting in my lap whensoever I sit myself down. Man-Daddy slowly and almost charmingly unravels by the day, while the trash piles up and the diaper pail passes from toxic to bio hazard to nuclear.*

*Do you think I am exaggerating? Suburban lesbian, back me up. Remember diapered-baby-eating-grownup-food poop? Unlike fine wine or tasty cheeses,
the flavour and scent it acquires with age are most foule.**
**I did that with "foul" on purpose, ladies and gentlemen. It looks all, you know, medieval and stuff. Or like Harry Potter. Man, that Rowling bitch freaking struck gold.***
***Anyway.

It's in these moments when I decide that to reproduce would be foolhardy. Incautious. Irresponsible. That a grown man and a large dog become as Boo in the absence of wife and mother reminds me that to care for something small and helpless, or large and helpless, is an act of love so great I cannot imagine being up for the task. As much as my monthly cycle begs for a sweet winky soft little newborn, scrunched and ugly and preciously dependent, I must yet deny my uterus that which it desires.

Not to mention that if any child of mine ever "sneezed yogurt" on me, I would take said child out to a merry meadow and feed said child to the first form of wildlife I found.

Childhood Dreams Vs. Another Beer

2007-11-04T10:42:00.000-08:00

Hi. This is my new blog! Welcome. As I am almost entirely grown, I have decided to make the switch from myspace to this far more adult-seeming blog forum. I do so love to blog, and have at this point reduced all my childhood dreams of glory, wealth, and fame to the rather mundane "Maybe I was kind of thinking I might write a book. Or something. Whatever. (drinks deeply from beer, squelches urge to Do Something With Life)". Also, I have proved so utterly useless in real life that I need to find some romantic female-attracting thing to do while I turn my sweet liver to beef jerky.

Doesn't make sense? Here you go: Hunter S. Thompson. Ernest Hemingway. William Faulkner. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Jack Kerouac. Dorothy Parker. Edgar Allan Poe. Miss Hannigan. Drunken writers, all. I shall now (falaciously) claim that all of those writers were constantly covered in "bitches" for the lengths of their often brief lives. No, Miss Hannigan was not an author. Miss Hannigan (as played by Carol Burnette in Annie) was one of my first idols as a child. As I was quite young, with my little mind still absorbent, her particular drunken beauty became something to which I aspired. This also made me gay. Were I not to ably capture the arresting charm of Ms. Burnette's sodden stumble, I determined, I would simply seek to make the love to some similar gin-soaked wretch.

Luckily, it turned out I am the toddling over-drinker, so I have the pleasure of dating normal lesbians. As soon as I figure out what to call her, I shall introduce to you my girlfriend, a very normal lapsed Catholic with deep-seated doubts about faith, life paths, the role of the family, and of course a painful sensitivity to the emotional conditions of everyone around her. It is almost but not quite a tacit point that she has the obligatory gay girl's daddy issues.

Sound like a handful? She doesn't self-mutilate and she's not straight. This means I am a lucky, lucky bastard.

At any rate, have a nice day. It is piercingly lovely outside today, and if you have not done so already, I encourage you to grasp your lady- or man- or animal-friend by the hand and (forcibly if need be), drag them outside for a jaunt in this all-too-brief autumn perfection.