Taboo Subject #2 Sex

Honestly, why is this a taboo subject?  I mean as a repressed country we sure spend a hell of a lot of time not discussing it. 

Sex is the focus of songs, poems, books, and lifestyles.  Religions focus on reasons why you should or shouldn’t do it, and how you should or shouldn’t do it.  Advertisers use it to sell things as mundane as M&Ms.  It can be exploited, taken, and sold.

Oh, and it’s full of wonderful contradictions.  Women can use it to get what they want, but apparently men aren’t allowed to.  If you’re a woman using it to get what you want, some men are happy to be used while others are afraid of it and other women try to demean you.  Sex is used to judge people, to rate people, to destroy people, and to uplift people.

Religions condemn sex, but keep asking for more followers to join their flock.  How in the hell is that supposed to happen?

Same sex relationships are condemned but some of them are so much more healthy than some relationships between men and women.  I can point to a lot of examples on this one.  Frankly some of the most healthy relationships around me are those with alternative lifestyles.

Which is a comment that leads nicely into my thoughts on sex.  I have a friend who says:  “Sex is like pizza, you never get a bad slice.”  Well, you know, sometimes there’re things on that pizza that you have to pick off.  

And I’ve had bad pizza.

The world is full of assumptions about sex about what men should want and what women should want.  Who should be saying yes and who should be saying no.  What’s acceptable and what’s kinky and what’s WAY too kinky.

Here are some facts:  1]  for some people sex takes on an emotional string  2] some people have such low self esteem that they will do anything to be loved and they think that if someone will have sex with them that they are loved  3] sex can have consequences that you need to be aware of like disease and pregnancy  -- if you don’t want them, then neither of them are any fun.  4] once you’ve had sex with a person, you can’t take it back so you shouldn’t take the decision lightly…which actually means it’s probably better to wait until you know a person for a while before doing the deed.  People are on their best behavior in the beginning of a relationship.  If it gets bad or you don’t like things at that point, it’s never ever going to get better and three weeks from that first date you’re going to know a hell of a lot more than you are on that first date.

I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps some sex is “good” but you really don’t know what mind-blowing, eyes-rolling-back-in-your-head, losing track of time and space sex is until you’ve had it with someone who matches you.  Opposites attract, but they aren’t good.  I mean, really if you’re with someone who doesn’t like sex and you’re a person who does; someone’s going to spend their time frustrated and the other person is going to be annoyed.  Which is why homosexual people are sometimes in better relationships…because they’re two people who’ve figured out what they like.  Heterosexual people are mixed up with all these do’s and don’t’s .  What’s right and wrong.  Blah Blah Blah.

And let’s go a step further and say that you should not stereotype.  There are really guys out there who don’t like sex.  Try this link out  http://shine.yahoo.com/love-sex/when-men-dont-want-sex-americas-best-kept-secret-1150099.html 

I’ve talked with other women about guys who don’t like sex…the guys who hear this conversation normally scoff in disbelief.  But then they would because they believe the stereotypes just as much as everyone else.  In any case, if it’s the man or the woman who doesn’t like sex, and their partner does…it causes all kinds of horrible things:  self esteem issues, confidence issues…everything.  A woman who gets turned down by a man with whom she is in a relationship feels worthless and it batters her self esteem; it effects a man who’s turned down the same way but he’s probably expected to “take it.” 

In the end, I think we’d all be happier just talking about it rather than avoiding talking about it.  I think we’d be happier if we didn’t look at sex as a proclamation of love but rather something that comes from a deep caring for another human being.  If we did, then perhaps we’d match up closer or at least talk about it or maybe even move on to someone who matches someone better.  Hear me when I say that what you say to someone about sex can affect them in ways you never expect—you can damage a person’s psyche with just a word or an expression when dealing with sex.  And people will use it as a weapon against you if you let it.

Sex is a healthy and important off-shoot of emotion.  It’s not a way to find emotion.  And it’s way better if you find someone who shares the same expectations as you do.  If you’re a little bit kinky, then don’t be in a relationship with a person who’s going to be horrified by the smallest suggestion of anything other than straight, sex for the sole purpose of having a baby:  “Hey, baby, let’s dress up like pirates and swing from the rafters.  Well, yeah, I know you aren’t ovulating and that your hips have to be at a 60 degree angle to improve the chances of you getting pregnant and yeah, uhm, we don’t want pirate babies.”

 If you like to play don’t marry someone who thinks that sex is something you only do when you’re courting someone and when you marry you don’t have to do it any longer and than only does it as a marital duty that you have to be grateful for:  “Excuse me, but I don’t know why you want sex again, we did it three months ago.  Gosh, that’s all you ever think about, there’s clearly something wrong with you.”  (Yeah, this one sounds more real than the other ones because I actually heard it.)

If you want to tie your lover to your bed posts and drive him or her insane with your tongue, don’t choose a partner who isn’t going to like that:  “RAPE!”

Try to talk about it.  If your partner says no to something you want to try, then find out why and try to explain why it’s important to you.  If you aren’t comfortable talking about it, then you shouldn’t be considering this person a partner anyway.   Oh, and don’t sleep around with people…this is a small town, it’s a festering pool of discarded liquids and gelatinous goop, don’t share the goop and don’t spread it around.  Rolling around in goop that’s not had time to dry or spreading your goop around…well, gosh, have some respect for yourself.  

Tired of your Bitchin'

I was sitting here tonight feeling bad for someone who is struggling to make ends meet.  I was feeling guilty about all the good things that I have in my life:  a house, a car, some spare cash to play with if I want.  Oh, yeah, I felt bad and guilty-- with none of the behavior that makes you feel good before you start to feel bad and guilty.

However, I started to analyze this situation more closely and I started to get angry.  It seems there are a lot of people who bitch about these things and their horrible problems on Facebook.  A couple of weeks ago it really started to become apparent.  Mostly because I saw this post which can only be described as an “oh woe is me” post and I was just not in the mood to read about it, to have it bring me down.  I was going to “unfriend” this person who really isn’t a friend anyway because I never see them anywhere other than on facebook, bitching.  I stopped myself from hitting the “unfriend” button because –and yeah this was my actual thought – I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.  I’ve recently been called mean for unfriending people and cold-hearted for totally writing them off my life.  But really, what obligation do I have to sit around and listen to them bitch and moan?

Am I mean because I fixed my own fucked up life and continue to work through my own demons and don’t want to spend my time reading the complaints of others who I know aren’t doing anything to fix their issues?   I’m not going to pick on anyone one person, but let me tell you that I work three jobs to pay off debt that I had which really shouldn’t have been mine.  If I were a single mother who wasn’t getting child support, I would work three jobs to make sure my kid had whatever he/she needed.  I would not be having my nails done, driving a gas guzzling car, choosing to purchase big screen televisions over paying the rent, or going out for drinks with the girls rather than feeding my kids.    So really, I have to sit there and read this drivel, knowing what I know about these people, and being “nice” means I have to pretend it doesn’t piss me off?  Do I have to diminish my accomplishments because someone is playing the victim card?  And if I don’t am I being mean?

I cry BULLSHIT!!

I believe now is where we cue the whining:  “I’ve been through some horrible stuff.”

Hey news flash, so has everyone else.  Other people though don’t dwell on it.  Other people keep moving on.  Other people don’t piss and moan; other people pick themselves up and keep moving without raining on the parades of others.  If some of these people would stop thinking about themselves long enough to look around they’d realize that their “stuff” isn’t half as bad as other people’s “stuff.”  And when you look at the things that other people have survived you really have to secretly admit that you are thanking whatever diety you believe in that that person wasn’t you. Actually, perhaps these people truly believe no one suffers something bad unless it’s plastered all over the internet.

There’s the 5 year old Iraqi boy who was grabbed by masked men on the streets of Baghdad, doused in gasoline, and set on fire.   But here they are on facebook bitching (via their $400 phone by the way) about the food stamps being a day late and HOW DARE the government allow that to happen?

Think about the US Representative Gabby Giffords who was meeting people and shaking hands only to get shot in the head by a crazy man and had to learn to talk again and still faces years of therapy to recover.  Or James Brady who was standing next to Ronald Reagon when he was shot in the head, paralyzed and left on the sidewalk while secret service agents rushed the President to the hospital.  These two people will never be the same.

Yet, they continue to bitch.  They have their health, their relatives and loved ones aren’t dying around them, and they survived every day that came before.  Other people suffer with sickness and chronic pain, they bury people they love, or they get driven over by a truck—just today a man died while working on the Ohio Turnpike because a tractor trailer carrying caustic materials hit him and two others.  Hey, but thank goodness you people are still alive and breathing able to bitch on Facebook about how horrible your lives are via your computer or your phone.  How dare people question YOUR pain or your decision to have your nails done or your hair done or go out for a drink with the girls/guys?

Here’s a newsflash—most of us who have the money to do something special for ourselves have it because we work 40 hours a week and more than one job.  We don’t have the things you have because we have to pay for them.  So you watch your big screen while we watch our 20 inch –I suppose you need the nicer TV because you’re home on your ass watching more than we are.  So sad you can’t join me at the fancy restaurant for some upscale dining because you got your nails done and your hair done while I washed the gray right out of my hair for $4.95 and used a coupon on top of that – sure, I understand that you can’t do that because your hair is “sensitive.”

The world owes you NOTHING, people.  You want something, do what my Daddy told me when I was a kid – go out and work for what you want and take it.  If you stand on the porch waiting for FEMA to bring you a bottle of water instead of walking down to the Walmart at the end of the block, you’re going to die of thirst.  You’re not going to die because of who you are; you’re going to die because you didn’t get off the frickin’ porch!

Oh yes, and now I’m mean again.  Because how dare I say something like this?  Don’t I understand the suffering?  You know what?  I actually do.  I’ve had some serious shit happen to me in my 40+ years.  I just don’t think bitching about it is going to somehow create a vortex in time and take it all away.  It’s there.  I watched my best friend get hit by a car when I was five years old and I’m haunted by the image of her shoe rolling across the pavement and by me laughing because I thought she lost her shoe and a car ran over it—then the woman jumps out of her car screaming and I see the body.  I had some bad men do some bad stuff to me when I was just a wee little thing.  I’ve been emotionally and mentally abused to the point where I thought I’d be better off just killing myself.  I tried.  Of course, when I tried, it wasn’t just to get attention, I meant it.  I wasn’t going to leave a note or stupid shit like that; thank goodness there was part of me that saw another way out.  I fell in love with the wrong man.  I forgot who I was.  I ended up in a financial gutter.  I’ve had my heart broken.  I’ve worked 16 hour days and had to get up the next morning and do it again when I would have preferred to collect a government check and sit at home to play Wii and order pizza.

So, I’m not going to read your crap on Facebook.  Call me mean.  Screw you.  I’m happy.  And if someone else is happy, I hope that they don’t let you rain on their parade because if they’re happy they earned it, they sought it out and they can own it.  There’s no shame in happy or money or freedom.   I got mine.  I’m tired of people who think they deserve the same things I worked for without putting in the work….not only the same things, but the best of things.  Not just a phone, but a smart phone.  Not just a TV, but a big TV.  And it’s time people stopped being nice and let some of these people know—there’s real suffering, there’s real poor, and there’s real pain.  There’s people who can’t escape these things and yet there still out there, crawling down the road for the pride of getting their own frigging bottle of water while you stand there and cry about not having one brought to you and cry louder because people who tell you to do something for yourself are just being mean. 

Some people actually do have it rough.  This is about the people who want to be victims, who live to be victims, who never make any effort to do more because they don’t want to do anything they don’t like.  Guess what, in the grown up world, we’d all like to be sitting on the porch drinking Pina Coladas mixed up by our own personal government bartenders.  Be a grown up.  Stop calling me mean because I refuse to help anyone who doesn’t help themselves.  And to all those people who I “unfriended” recently in life and Facebook:  I don’t hate you, I am just tired of your wallowing in self pity and tired of you using bad things as an excuse to not do anything.  Life is about sacrifices.  Those of us who make them; get stuff you don’t.

Taboo Subject #1 Faithfully Submitted

I respect everyone’s beliefs.  I truly do.  I figure if there is a God, then all the different kinds of religion are just different roads to the same place.  My problem lies in that little phrase which has already pissed off probably half of the people reading this:  “if there is.”

See, what you don’t understand is that while you have chosen your road—applied for your mapquest route so to speak, I’m good with that.  I just don’t understand why I have to go the same way.

Some people want to take the expressway.  Some people want to take the toll roads.  Some want the scenic route.  Others want to get there fast and wait in their car for the doors to open up.  And others—let’s face it, you know it’s true—are on the wrong road, but they want to convince you they’re on the same road as you, when really, they’re on some bypass that was never really finished.

I’m good with what you believe.  I really feel no urgency to convince you that you’re wrong.  Hell (probably a poor choice of words), I agree that you may be right.  I’m ecstatic that you’re happy and all that jazz.  But really, what if I don’t particularly want a blessed day after I pay my credit card off—what if I want a hell of a party instead?

Religion has always fascinated me.  Because of a lot of things, I suppose.  Mostly because everyone says you shouldn’t talk about it—naturally that makes me want to talk about it.  But also because historically religion has been bent to make people do horrible things.  There’s not a single religion that I know of which doesn’t speak about harmony and peace.  Whether you worship God or the Sun or the trees or Mother Earth, it’s all supposed to be about creating a quiet place in your soul.  However, religion has dedicated itself to destruction throughout history:  the crusades, the holocaust, the 9/11 attacks—they all had a religious component.

I’m thinking about this today because it’s Sunday and because the Jehovah’s Witnesses just came to my door.  Honestly, I thought I scared them away last year and figured they’d put a big black X over my address and never return.  But they were there, smiling vacantly as my Rottweiler barked and growled and considered having them for lunch.  I answered the door eating a leftover piece of my birthday cake.  I see that as irony because from what I understand, the JWs don’t believe in celebrating birthdays.  Okay, right there is a reason I’m never going to join their ranks.  I mean, you can give up your birthday if you want, but I’m keeping mine.  I like being the center of attention for one day a year and if I could have more birthdays and guaranteed gifts I’d take them too.

Anyway, I shushed the hellhound and tried to be polite to them.  There was one guy and three women.  All in their late fifties, early sixties.  Dressed like the Amish; breaking it down like the Mormons.  They said they noticed my doors were open and I was home on a Sunday morning.  I thought about telling them I was an Orthodox Jew and therefore had to be home and not using any kind of power item, but the television was on and I knew they could see it.  I think it was a rerun of Rosemary’s Baby, but I can’t be sure.

I should also warn you—since I didn’t warn them—that I have a history of arguing about religion.  Mostly because it interests me intellectually.  I’m sure it probably contributed to the end of my marriage.  I really wasn’t prepared for my ex to come home one day and suddenly be “born again” and he wasn’t prepared to come home to find someone who could argue what he thought should be taken as faith.  I’m of the opinion that if someone tells you the lake is fluorescent pink today, you might want to check it out for yourself before you agree—and my ex was like that punk who’s standing there going “What?  You’re going to check?  You don’t believe me?  You need to believe me or you’re a bad person.”  He came home from church with some real opportunities for me to question his sanity.

I’ve missed those discussions.  (Insert evil laughter here, totally inappropriate, I know, but it’s there and I’m not going to deny it)

The Jehovah’s Witnesses stood in my breezeway, the wind tossing their hair around leaves dancing across the driveway behind them.  Their flyers clutched in their hands.  Benign, blank looks in their eyes.  “Sister, we’d like to give you our flyer.”  He held it out to me.

“You ever think about changing the name of it?” I asked.

He frowned.  The women behind him (yeah, that’s another thing I found kind of annoying) exchanged confused looks.

“Well, it’s called Watchtower,” I said.

He gave me a blank look.

“Charles Whitman?”

Still nothing.

“University of Texas?  The guy shot up a campus from a watchtower.  In fact, watchtowers are traditionally military fortifications.  You know, places to put gunners and snipers to pick off people before they can invade your fortress.”

“Well, that’s something you could learn more about if you joined—“

“But you believe that it was Satan’s arrogance and self-importance that got him thrown out of heaven and yet at the same time you believe that your religion is the only one that’s real and everyone else has fake religions.  It’s practically a perfect analogy; you’ve become what you claim to have overcome.  I’m not sure I can fully absorb that kind of hypocrisy.”

“Did you just call us hypocrats?” one of the women said.

I shook my head.  “No.  I’m just saying I’m having a hard time reconciling your words with your actions.  How will I ever be able to join you when I can’t understand your doctrine?”

“I don’t even understand what you’re saying,” another of the women said, copping an attitude.

I nodded at her.  “That might be a huge part of the problem.  Don’t you think you should understand what you’re preaching before you start preaching it?”

“I have my faith,” the woman said indignantly.

“But you can’t believe what you have faith in.  And if that’s the case, then you’re really no better than the brainwashed cult which people have claimed you were since your creation in the late 1800s.”

They were moving out of my breezeway into my driveway as I spoke.  That blank benign look was changing over to something close to panic.

“Perhaps you only escaped the political persecution because you’re a large cult rather than some small cult which can be bullied around easier.”

The third woman who’d been silent until now, pulled herself up, jutted her chest out and threw her shoulders back.  “The devil quotes scripture for his purpose.”

I rolled my eyes at her.  It was early in the morning otherwise I might have stopped myself from this.  “You do realize you aren’t quoting scripture to me, you’re quoting William Shakespeare, right?  I mean, I was an English major.”

“Let’s go,” the man said, turning away from me and ushering the woman away.  Before he left he grabbed his flyer back from me.

“I guess sheep come in all forms,” I said, loud enough for the compliant women to hear.  “Thanks for stopping by.  Please refrain from doing it again next year; there’s no guarantee I’ll be awake this early in the morning.”

They heard, because they made sure they had the last word.

Yeah, I know, this whole thing is pretty insulting if you’re a Jehovah’s Witness and I admit it was wrong of me.  I’ve really become rather sensitive about people telling me what I should do and how I should act when they don’t even come close to being the people they think they are.  Delusions are rampant among human beings who claim sanity.

For the last 30 years, I’ve listened to religious people tell me why they deserve to borrow money when they’ve never paid anyone back in their entire lives.  I’ve watched my ex get religious and spout about the “Book” while running up my credit cards with gambling debt, refusing to work, and smoking a joint.  I’ve watched people fly planes into skyscrapers, killing thousands while yelling “God is great!”   I’ve watched people kick other’s out of homes they’ve had for generations because they are unworthy of being close to the Holy Land; and then wonder why those now homeless people harbor a grudge.  I’ve seen the graves of those who were slaughtered like cattle just because they held one set of beliefs.

In the end the most religious people are those who never tell me about it; who understand that religion is a personal thing to take you where you want to go, not a  battering ram to get yourself what you want and to get people to look at you like you’re a good person.  So, drive your roads, people.  Be sure you pick one that makes you happy and gives you confidence, strength and support.  But, leave me alone; I’m still studying mapquests and I’m not even sure I want to meet up with a lot of the people who say they’re going to the end.  I’m certainly not all that keen about hanging out with a bunch of people who judge me and others and refuse to consider other options.  If there’s a God, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care what road anyone takes as long as it’s a good road without too many exit ramps.

I’m also pretty sure that if there is a God, he’s got a sense of humor.  I’m sure he’s laughing at the Jehovah’s Witnesses who ran off my driveway after cussing me out this morning.  And he’s looking around at his peeps and he’s saying, “Well, they’re not on my flippin’ list. DANG!”

THOSE PANCAKES WILL KILL YOU

So, it’s been an interesting few weeks here.  Victories and defeats.  Which is kind of what life is about; isn’t it?  It’s funny how people seem to focus so much on the defeats, but in reality it’s the defeats and the challenges that make us better people.  And let’s face it, I need all the help I can get because I’m not a good person.

First the victory.  I finally paid off the debt I ended up with after the divorce.  Two years, thousands of dollars of debt gone.  I’m back to where I started “almost.”  House and car.  When I got married, I didn’t have a car payment.  If I’d been thinking clearly two years ago, I would have bought a used car and try to have it paid off by now as well instead of buying a new car—I thought I was going to get the A-plan for one last time, didn’t know I was going to have to pay the doofus for that.  But whatever, the debt is gone.

So, what do I do to celebrate?  Well, run up my own debt of course…lol. Actually, my house needed carpet from the day I moved in.  I thought about carpeting the entire house, but changed my mind when I looked at the number of books I’d have to move and the huge desk in my writing room.  So, I just settled for replacing the worst of the carpet.  It does look awesome and better yet, the strange musty smell that I couldn’t get rid of in the house has disappeared.  When that carpet is paid off, I’ll move on to the bedrooms.  I figure, I’m more inclined to get different colors for the carpets in there anyway.

But overall, I consider being out of debt and getting new carpet a win.  I think Charlie Sheen would as well. 

But the old Karma hag still has her eye on me.  Can’t let Jo be all that happy, can we.  Oh no.  Can’t have that.  It would upset the balance of the universe.

With the recent elimination of my staggering debt, I decide I need to relieve myself of my mother’s constant nagging and get myself checked out.  I did the doctor thing when I started training for the 5k thing, but that was just for the heart that beats too fast.  This time I got the whole blood work thing.  This is kind of how I got the results.

Doctor:  You know no one has ever checked your sugar before.

Jo:  Well, aren’t you supposed to?  I mean, I’m fat.  I have diabetes in my family.

Doctor:  Yeah, you would think that would be a normal thing to check, but no one has.  I looked at all your records.  Got nothing.  But I checked it.

Jo: This isn’t going to be good; is it?

Doctor:  Your glucose levels were really high.

Jo:  You do realize today is Halloween right?  You realize I have a huge tub of candy sitting at my house right now, filled with good stuff, not the crappy Whoppers or Almond Joy or that black and orange wrapped “no name” candy. 

Doctor:  Would you like to reschedule your appointment for tomorrow?

Jo:  Well, you’ve kind of already ruined it just by inference at this point.  And my birthday is in 10 days, along with carb heaven Thanksgiving.  You’ve effectively tainted those as well.  So, you might as well spell it out.

Doctor:  Well, you don’t have any of the other symptoms.

Jo:  Actually, I probably do, but I also excel at denial.

Doctor:  I can see that.  Well, I’m going to give you a tester.  You’re going to test for a month and fax the results back to me.

Jo:  What about—

Doctor:  Whoa there.  I know about you and your question asking.  I’m setting you an appointment with a dietician so you can spend three hours of her time asking questions about food and combinations and times to eat.  She’s got a cheaper hourly rate.

Jo:  I appreciate that.

Doctor:  I’m really not doing it for you, to be honest.

Jo: Still.

Doctor:  Okay, I’ll check out your fax and call you in a month.  Have a good Halloween.

Jo gives doctor a dirty look.

Doctor laughs and sends Jo to billing.

Yeah, so that’s what happened.  I now have to be a grown up and do what I need to instead of what I want to.  Pretty crappy if you ask me.  But, you know, the alternative is dying a horrible death.  If I go out, I would prefer that it be fast.  I don’t want to be losing legs and feet and toes or taking injections every day or whatever.

So, I met with the dietician.  I really don’t need her to tell me what she wants to tell me.  I know the deal.  Most fat people know the deal, we know what we’re supposed to eat and how we’re supposed to eat.  Check out my friend Nancy’s blog if you don’t believe me.  She tells it like it is.  We obsess about it; we feel guilty about it.  We figure everytime we open our mouths people are saying, “Look at the fat girl, she’s eating!”  We’re self conscious about what we buy in the grocery store.  But I ask my questions and the lady is actually quite good about deviating from her program and answering me; I actually learn some stuff.

Of course, what I learned sucks.  I’m addicted to carbs.  Carbs are bad.  My favorite foods in the world are carbs:  rice (there goes the Chinese addiction), dressing at Thanksgiving, homemade bread, potatoes.   Yeah, Thanksgiving is gonna suck for me.  Pass the fickin’ green bean casserole.

Could have gotten an iPad for my birthday, instead I get a flippin’ treadmill.

This is how my day went today:  Wake up. Stab myself in the finger until I bleed.  Write down a pathetically high number. Have oatmeal with skim milk and some nuts for breakfast.  Go out and work in the yard.  Stop for lunch which consists of a hard-boiled egg and popcorn.  Clean the gutters.  Come in for a bottle of water.  Stuff myself into a sports bra that severely restricts my breathing.  Get on the treadmill.  It’s great to get some use out of these running shoes again; isn’t it?  Run/walk 15 minutes.  Simultaneoulsy with the run/walk:  yell at dog to stay away from the treadmill, yell at the cat to stay away from the tread mill, yell at the dog to stay away from the cat (I can see them chasing each other back and forth down the hallway on my new flippin’ carpet).  Let the dog out.  Yell at the dog for chasing a squirrel.

They say high blood sugar makes a person irritable….

Take a long bath.  Read on the back of my bubble bath that baths are not recommended for diabetics.  Say “fuck em” I’m not giving up my bleeping bubble bath.  Talk to friend on phone.  Talk to mom on phone.  Eat dinner:  baked salmon, brown rice, and a small salad with Italian dressing.  Go in to type my blog so I can bitch.  Try not to think about how much I hurt right now.

How my day should have gone:  Wake up.  Pancakes.  Check Facebook.  Play on my new iPad.  Rake the yard.  Come in.  Have a boloney sandwich while watching Ghost Adventures on the DVR, maybe a few episodes of Seinfield on DVD (up to season 3!).  Talk on the phone.  Facebook.  Write.  Oooh, look, I have a new iPad.  Dinner:  Salmon with a honey teriyaki glaze, mashed potatoes and dinner rolls.  Write.  Watch some TV.  Play tug of war with the dog—using the cat.  Bubble bath without caring about the annoying blurb on the bottle.  Eat some leftover 3 musketeers.  Bed.

Yes, life would be so much easier if the pancakes weren’t trying to kill me and if adulthood hadn’t come crashing in.

Observations from the Center of the Universe: One of these things does not Belong

Observations from the Center of the Universe: One of these things does not Belong: I’ve been some places this weekend. Places that I don’t belong. You know, it’s a free country; but not everyone fits in everywhere and that’...

One of these things does not Belong

I’ve been some places this weekend.

Places that I don’t belong.

You know, it’s a free country; but not everyone fits in everywhere and that’s the truth.

I had lots of things to do this week before I started my week of hell:  2 charity events that I’ve somehow in charge of—although I have great people helping me, I still feel the pressure, 2 doctors appointments, new carpet coming early the week after so everything has to be done this week, and about 6 meetings.

And yet, this weekend, I find myself in two places on consecutive days where I’m surrounded by people who are clearly not planning to do anything this week or next.

To be fair, Saturday wasn’t as bad as Sunday.  On Saturday there were some professionals mixed in with the crazies.  Saturday was Walmart day.  I confess I do some grocery shopping at Walmart.  Some of the things they sell are way more expensive than other places, but for average stuff, they’re good—dog biscuits, kitty litter, toilet paper (the cat is a neat freak and wants to wipe after). 

I was in a contemplative mood when I was in Walmart on Saturday afternoon.  Most people I know were probably out working in their yards, getting the last of the fall work done or watching college football.  These were the people who weren’t.

There are some Walmart trends that I’m not real comfortable with. 

First, what’s with all the people wearing fuzzy pajama pants?  Saw one girl wearing fuzzy pink Miss Kitty pants and a big parka.  It really wasn’t that cold.

There was a heavyset guy in baggy cotton shorts, a t-shirt advertising a Flock of Seagulls concert, and a satin top hat—he was looking for clown shoes around the Halloween costumes.  A lot of people were at the costume section, going through those costumes like someone had hidden gold bullion in the piles of witches and evil clowns and vampires and Lady Gaga meat suits.  But of course, we’re talking about people who wouldn’t know what gold bullion is—the smartest of the bunch might assume it’s used to make soup.  The Walmart employees stood around the outskirts of the carnage watching the carrion feed.  Pieces of costumes flew up from the pile periodically.  Marlin Perkins stood off to the side filming.  (If you get that joke, you’ve just dated yourself).

As I tried to maneuver my cart around the place towards the dog treats I realized I hadn’t used the conveniently placed sanitizer sheets on the handle.  Good thing there were three used ones in my cart.  I wondered vaguely why they were stained brown.  I abandoned my cart between the baby clothes and the car seats.

As I made my way to the dog treats, I developed an itch.  But because of the whole sanitizer thing, I refused to touch my face.  I decided that maybe I should go to the restroom to wash my hands.

I walked to the bathrooms, which are ironically in the rear of the store.  My way in was blocked by a woman in one of those motorized carts.  She was a huge woman.  HUGE!  I’m not even sure how she managed to get into the thing.  I’m not sure how the motor managed to make the wheels move…they were practically flat.  I thought those carts were supposed to be the old and disabled.  I tried to go around.

The woman moved forward for the block.  The motor of the scooter thing groaned with effort.

I gave up.  Better just to get out as quickly as possible.  It was clear were social mores at work that I did not understand.  I tried to leave the little lobby area by the restrooms and layaway.

In the doorway, a big man in a scooter sat talking to a woman with a cart.  Neither of them looked at me.  The guy had a stringy dirty pony tail down his back—probably to give potential cardiac surgeons an idea where his spine was…the thinning greasy tail pointed at it between folds of flesh.

I cleared my throat.

They didn’t look up.

I was pinned, trapped between scooters.  There was a moment of panic.  A claustrophobic feeling of flesh closing in on me.  I’ve never wished for a blue light special to draw away the wolves more in my life.  Then, as my life started to flash before my eyes, I saw an opening.  The woman with the cart moved to go after a dirty kid who was running around the hunting section with a crossbow.

I made my move and looked down the aisle towards the dog treats.  There was another scooter.

They were swarming.

I weaved down the yarn aisle, fooling them.

I came out at bedding, made a left and grabbed the dog treats.  Kept moving, found kitty litter, then backtracked to checkout.

Where a restless scooter guy was in front of me, moving back and forth, torturing the motor—it screamed with each effort to move.  With him was a big woman who managed to move on her own two flip-flopped feet.  She wore a tent with a hole in the middle, no bra.  The tent was made of thin pink material, showing each horizontal roll, and two vertical lumps lying out on the bloated gut like raw bread loaf dough left out to rise.  She was itching her nose with a dirt encrusted finger, there was hair hanging out of her nose, there was a booger on those hairs, clinging there waiting for rescue.

So that was Saturday and why I ended my shopping trip crying at the sanitizer dispenser.  For those of you who saw me at Walmart on Saturday.  Thanks for stopping to make sure I was okay and for not mentioning anything about it on Facebook.

So, on Sunday, I worked in the yard all day.  I got dirty and sweaty and muddy.  I raked, mowed, and planted about fifty bulbs for next spring—tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, and crocuses for those who care.  I don’t normally keep pop in the fridge.  But, I had a turkey in the oven and a good dinner for one planned so after I took a shower and changed into clean clothes, I decided I could hop in the car and grab something at the convenience store down the street.

I’ve never been in that store on a weekend.  I’ve never been there, apparently on a sunny afternoon that’s about the perfect temperature.

Because that’s the temperature that brings people out of their apartments and across the field to the store.  Think of a scene in a zombie move where the zombies are staggering across an open field toward the protagonist; now, replace the zombies with people who are alive but haven’t showered in days so they smell like zombies.  I parked the car.

I grabbed my purse and my Droid phone that I saved up for, that I use as a house phone and a business phone and a scheduler and a planner.  There’s an ice bin on the sidewalk before the door.  It’s chained with a thick chain and a huge industrial type padlock—kind of reminds a person of a medieval dungeon except there were people in those dungeons, not ice bins.

A guy with no teeth and one hand holds the door open for me.  He steps back and waves me in with a stump covered in open sores which I know are needle tracks because I’ve researched what they look like while I write.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” he says in a voice that is gravelly and soft and phlegmy all at the same time.  His eyes are leering at my chest.  I move into the store.  There are two teens in there, huddling over the donuts rubbing their hands together.  Their clothes are dirty.  There’s a sickly sweet smell pulsing off of them that’s mixed with the skunky smell of recently smoked weed—I’ve researched that too.

The pop is at the back of the store.  There’s a guy at the back of the store.  Bald.  Flip flops with dirty feet and long yellow toenails.  Cotton shorts with—no underwear, it was obvious, I didn’t look that close—and a blue t-shirt with stains all over it and a dribble of mustard over the bizarre bulge of his belly that really looked like he might be pregnant with one of those exercise balls.  He’s buying 40oz Schlitz Malt Liquor bottles from the cooler section near the sprite that I want.  I have to wait.  He shuffles off after he manages to get two bottles out.  His flipflops make hissing noises on the dirty linoleum.  His toenails tap, tap, tap away.

I get my 7-up.  I hurry up to the counter to pay.  Flip-flop exercise ball guy is there in front of me.  In front of him is a guy who’s buying lottery tickets with pennies.

The teens have chosen chocolate donuts.  They’re now standing behind me eyeing my phone with a kind of lust that makes me wish I’d left the phone in the car or at least had 9-1-1 punched in ready to call.

The guy is still buying his lottery tickets.

Flip-flop-give-the-man-a-pedicure guy is trying to make eye contact.

The clerk has a gap in his teeth, top and bottom missing, giving him a little box there in the middle of his face which has a tongue flickering behind it in the darkness.  He breathes through his mouth.  His breath whistles as it moves through the gap.

The lottery guy has finally made out his $3.  He smiles triumphantly at the clerk.  He scratches himself.  I hear things scurry away from the friction.

“You want the kicker with that?” the clerk asks.

I almost scream.  “NO! He doesn’t want the fucking kicker?  He can’t even afford the stupid ticket.  Maybe he should apply the $3 to his water bill and get his water turned back on so he can shower.  Maybe all these people can pool their money and get one shower going…somewhere.”  But I press my lips together and wait.

Shuffle, shuffle, tap, tap.  The guy puts his bottles on the counter.

“Is that it?” the clerk whistles.

“Yep, I’m a Schlitz man.”  He looks at me and grins.  He has no teeth.  He gives a laugh.  His cheeks puff out.

I try not to stare.

The guy pays.  And says.  “Guess I’ll shack out my chances with one of those tickets as well,” he says, lisping and slurring without teeth.  His cheeks puff out and deflate with each word.  He looks at me again and shrugs.  “You never know.”  He laughs again.  He rubs his shirt where the mustard stain is, smearing it like a windshield wiper versus bird shit on a car window.

He doesn’t move when he’s done.

The clerk looks at him.

“Can I get a sack for this? Gots to walk across the grass back to my place.” Puff.  Deflate. Puff. Deflate.

“Sure,” whistles the clerk.  He double bags the Schlitz.

Shuffle. Tap.  Shuffle. Tap.

I move into place, feeling the teens standing behind me eying my phone.  I put the Sprite on the counter.  I open my purse.  I pay with a twenty.

The clerk hesitates a second.  “Anything else?” he says between whistling breathy pants.

I shake my head.  I get change.

“Do you need a bag for that?” he asks.

I shake my head again.  “I’m good.”

He nods as if that explains everything.

The teens invade the counter before I can grab the pop.  I have to reach around them.  The smell of stale sweat and pot makes my eyes water.

They look at me as if I’m somehow violating them.

I hurry out the door, nearly collide with a huge man who looks like he’s been pumping iron for 40 straight days while shooting up with steroids.  He’s got a tattoo across his forehead.  It says “Batman.”

I hurry to my car and lock all the doors.

I don’t want to judge.  I really can’t help it.  One of these things don’t belong and it’s me.

Ice Cream Truck Registry? I vote yes!

That f-ing ice cream truck came by again today.  You know the one.  It plays this annoying song and then the song stops and this chilling woman’s voice says, “Hello.”  Then the music starts up again.  There’s something very disturbing about it.  It makes me want to call the police or some child abuse hotline or something.

The truck in our neighborhood is driven by some big burly guy with a bald head.  I know this because I was out walking my dog and he stopped to tell me that I “Shore had a nice lookin’ dawg dere.”  I’m not making fun of people with accents, but this guy could have played a pig rider in Deliverance if you know what I mean.  I wasn’t worried, mostly because I’m pretty sure I’m not his type.  He goes more for the Ned Beatty type or perhaps he’s just a raging pedophile.

Which brings me to the question:  what kind of licenses are involved with ice cream truck driver?  Does the health department inspect these things?  Because that guy drives around for a long long time.  If I’m not mistaken, he’s got a bottle of hooch hidden under the seat.  That calls for peeing.  There’s no port-a-potty dragging along behind.  I’ve never seen him stop and ask to use the restroom someplace.  In fact, I’ve never ever seen an ice cream truck parked at a location that has a public restroom.   This brings us to the banana popsicle that was bought my one little kid who ran out of her house with a wad full of cash that she’d obviously stolen from her mother’s purse.

From the looks of the lawn maintenance, mom was probably passed out on the living room couch with a still smoldering doobie in her hand or she was locked in the bedroom with her boyfriend of the week.  Either way, the kid runs out and the stupid truck is already stalking me so it’s not a big deal for it to stop right there.  The kid nearly runs me down in the urgency to get to the window.

Child Molestor guy gets up from the driver’s seat and comes to the window.  And says (I’m not kidding about this either) “What can I get you, little girl?” in a fake deep voice that has me convinced I better look for his picture on the registry.

This little girl orders a “banana flavored popsicle.” 

Banana flavored popsicles are yellow.

Like pee.

I’ve just been wondering where the guy pees.

The girl looks thrilled.

The man looks strangely excited and flushed.

I am looking for the number to the health department.

Better yet, there's this poodle that keeps pooping in my yard.  I think his owner would make a nice meatsicle...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c1Q23MzSrkg&feature=related