The Spider That Wouldn't Die

I have feared spiders since birth. Well, maybe not birth. I was a trifle busy that day. But sometime after that I found out that there were spiders. I realized on my own that they were evil. Works, if you will, of Beelzebub, Satan, The Dark One Who Lives Below.

Up until I was nine my mother killed all spiders for me. In our house, in the car, in the yard. I made her kill spiders in stores. I could not suffer a spider to live. It freaked me out to think that they were still there . . . Somewhere . . . Probably plotting to crawl across my face as I slept. They had to be destroyed. My mother was the spider eradicator.

One evening, when I was nine, I was sitting on the floor of our living room watching television. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a movement. I turned. Time seemed to stop. There, standing not four feet from me, was a spider. I shrieked for my mother as if Freddy Kruger were breaking in to murder me. My mother, naturally, came a runnin’.

What greeted my mother’s panicked eyes? Me screaming in front of the television and pointing at the floor. The spider, you see, was so small that she couldn’t see it until she knelt down beside me…and squinted. She pointed this out to me. I continued to hyperventilate. My mother decided that this tiny creature would be my first kill. My practice spider, if you will. A warm up for all the times she wouldn’t be there later on in life and I’d have to squash spiders with extreme prejudice by myself.

My mother handed me a rolled up magazine. I took it with hands made shaky with fear. I took a deep breath, crawled up behind the spider, in case it decided to bolt (how did I decide what the back was? No idea. I just knew.), raised my arm and…THWACK! The magazine came down on the spider with all the miniscule strength in my nine year old arm. I looked under the magazine. The spider moved. I hit it again. I looked again. The spider crawled to the left. I hit it again…and again…and again. I looked. The spider crept to the right….And this, my friends, is when I lost my mind.

I grabbed my math book and began pounding the spider over and over again while screaming, at the top of my considerable lungs, DIE! DIE! My mother, who had gone back to the kitchen, came a runnin’ once again. She grabbed me up and sat me on the couch. I continued to stare, fixedly, at the book laying on top of, what I assumed was, The Spider Who Wouldn’t Die. She demanded to know what had happened.

Through my tears I looped up at my mother. “It won’t die,” I said. “It has to die.” My mother went over and lifted up the book. She took a tissue from the side table, scooped up the spider, and squished it between her paper covered fingers. “There,” she said. “Dead. Happy now?” I nodded.

I never had to kill another spider….

"Perfection Is Intensely Annoying." - Hugh Laurie

I don’t blog enough. I know. . . I know. . . I know! But, you should know that when people point this out to me it only hurts you, the reader. Why? Because you know what you get now. You all know what time it is, boys and girls. Say it with me…

Stream of Consciousness Time With Fury (insert theme song of your choosing)!

I really don’t think I have the energy to do this today. Why did I start this? Dumb. That’s why. Why did I decide not to ingest caffeine anymore? Again, dumb. No. That’s not dumb. That’s not dumb at all. Especially when you consider that I drank so much coffee last Monday? Was it? Whatever. So much caffeine that I was practically levitating above my bed like Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters and my heart was beating out a conga (CONGA! [sorry, that’s only funny if you’re related to me or have ever seen “My Sister, Eileen”. You probably haven’t. You should. Unless you don’t like musicals and then not so much.]) rhythm that could have powered Brazil through all of Carnival. OK. Fine. It wasn’t that bad. Happy now? It’s called colorful language. Learn to live with it. Where was I? Fuck. I forgot. Oh. Caffeine. It’s the devil’s work. But I need it. Need. It. Sleepy & yet still can’t sleep so well. Hello, insomnia, how you doin’? I get tired at around midnight. I lay down. I continue to lay there. Staring up at the ceiling. Or the wall. Or the other wall. Or the closet door. It’s good times. How does one count sheep? I can’t picture sheep jumping over fences in my head. Maybe because I’ve never seen a sheep do that. Wander around in a big cluster of smelly, stupid confusion? Seen it. Jump things? Nope. What kind of sheep go around jumping walls? I think they must be thinking of mountain goats. Or deer. Not sheep. Or maybe sheep were a lot more energetic back whenever that expression started. Now I want to know when that was exactly. I will not look it up. I have enough useless knowledge at my disposal without looking that…mid 19th century. Damn. It. You win this round OCD. Which should really be CDO. They only do it the other way to mess with us. I know it. Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get me. They? Who is this “They” you speak of? Them. Oh. Them. Well, that explains everything. Have I lost you yet?

Great. Now that They’re gone and it’s just you and me, tell me, is it true what They say about you?

"Who needs astrology? The wise man gets by on fortune cookies." ~Edward Abbey

Horoscope For Tuesday, January 12, 2010


Aries (March 21 - April 19) -

You need to be as honest as you can be today--someone needs to hear the truth and nothing but. It’s easier than ever for you to tell people what they need to hear, even if they don’t think they’re ready…or even if they don’t particularly care to hear it. Nobody wants to hear about how tired they look or that their baby looks like a monkey but, hey, as far as you’re concerned honesty is the best policy so who cares who gets hurt? Just watch out for violent reactions. Having your foot surgically removed from your mouth is expensive…and painful.

Taurus (April 20 - May 20) -

For once, you’re totally certain you’re heading in the right direction. Let go of your illusions of self-control and just dive headfirst into the madness. Medication is for sissy Mary’s! Go au natural down that rabbit hole and let the chips fall where they may. At some point a friend or family member will have you committed & you’ll get a nice long rest out of it. Aaaahhh…vacation.

Gemini (May 21 - June 21) -

Beware of bossy pals. There’s not much you can do to shut them up so try to just smile and nod your head and wait for them to get bored. If that doesn’t work there’s always duct tape & a baseball bat.

Cancer (June 22 - July 22) -

You can’t make up your mind very easily today, and that may be driving you crazy. You need to get some advice, but deciding between advisors may pose its own little problems as well. Hot cereal or cold? Coke or Pepsi? Meth or Crack? Oh, my sainted aunt, how to choose?! Just lie down with a cool cloth on your head & decide tomorrow.

Leo (July 23 - August 22) -

You’re out on the cutting edge once again, making people wonder how they can keep going on with the same-old same-old. It’s not that you want them to feel bad…much. It’s just that you’re so much better than everybody else. Is it your fault that the lives of the peasants are unforgiving and uncool? We think not. Just slip on your shades and swagger away…you pop-collared fuck.

Virgo (August 23 - September 22) -

You’d love to skip the whole flirtation stage and go right into, say, living together, but this person doesn’t even know you exist yet. It’s probably time to overcome the tension (that exists perhaps solely in your mind) and, you know, say something to them. . . Or you can keep trying to send psychic messages and hoping that your aura will hover above the crowd like a neon arrow. While you’re at it why not try bending spoons with your mind? It’s a nice party trick.

Libra (September 23 - October 22) -

Even someone as balanced as you can feel a little frustrated or blue now and then. Enlist your sweetheart’s aid for a little cheering up -- or tell them to leave you the hell alone for two minutes for the love of God! Seriously! Back up! Can a person get some space? Damn, yo, what is their glitch? Ya’ know what? You may have to cut a bitch. We do not in any way endorse this…but we do understand.

Scorpio (October 23 - November 21) -

Are you still holding onto an old grudge? It’s time to forgive, even if you can’t quite forget. Even if this person is no longer part of your life, you are still letting them affect your current prospects. So, put the voodoo doll down and step away from the cyber stalking. ‘Kay? Take a deep breath. . . You can do it. . . We have faith in you. OK? Now, see? That wasn’t so bad, was it? Good job. Next we’ll work on sleeping with the light off!

Sagittarius (November 22 - December 21) -

It’s time to suit up for the game of love. This isn’t like seventh grade phys ed; here, everyone gets to play, no matter what…well, it might be a little like seventh grade phys ed. Somebody has to be picked last after all. I’m sure it has nothing to do with your hair lip. . . Or that funny, well, let’s call it an odor. No, certainly not. . . It’s your personality. Let’s face facts. It’s not them. It’s you.

Capricorn (December 22 - January 19) -

Despair is too easy to embrace today -- but if you do, expect to hang on to it for quite a while. You’re much better off enforcing optimism in yourself and…oh, who are we kidding. Life is pain. Life is earnest. Life’s a bitch and then you die…what were we saying? Oh, right. Optimism. Sure. Try that. See where it gets you!

Aquarius (January 20 - February 18) -

Help is needed! Hold on, it’s on its way -- if you can get it together enough to ask your partner for it. The stars urge you to do so -- your honey can provide a badly needed reality check. For instance, you will never get out of debt if you keep using one credit card to pa off another. And, listen carefully to this one because it’s key, you don’t look good in skinny jeans and guy liner if you’re a 46 year old gym teacher named Burt.

Pisces (February 19 - March 20) -

You’ve got quite a lot going on right now, so see if you can get your friends and colleagues to help out. And by help out we mean do the whole damn thing. Because, let’s face facts, they’re better at this stuff, whatever it is, than you are. Also, why deprive people of the greatest gift of all? The gift of helping others. It ups their karma quotient and you get to take a nap. It’s win win, by God!

It is easy to get a thousand prescriptions but hard to get one single remedy. ~Chinese Proverb

Fun fact! Did you know that if you take 1 percocet every 4 hours, as prescribed by your physician, for two weeks your body will become, for lack of a better word . . . And because it’s the word that should be used, addicted? Me neither! So, if your physician tells you to take 2 pills every 4 hours for 6 weeks, um, yeah. Don’t do it.

I have been taking percocet off and on for the past 6 weeks. Not at the dosage prescribed by my doctor, thank God. Nope, I’m a little soldier who attempts, if possible, to suck it up. So, I’ve been taking maybe 2 a day. I haven’t had much pain for the past 2 days so I haven’t taken any. And, hence, therefore and thusly I woke up after the 2 hours of sleep (5:30 - 7:30 AM) that I was able to get (you try sleeping in a neck brace and see how well you do) with wicked spasms in my arms. I, being me, went immediately to the bad place and thought that I’d managed to break my neck in my sleep…even though I hadn’t moved. But then I thought about the fact that I wasn’t in much pain so, really, what are the odds that a broken neck wouldn’t hurt? Slim to none. Second bad place I went to? Percocet addiction. DING! DING! We may have a winner. Apparently, when your body is trying to rid itself of the demon opiate it spasms. DT’s, anyone?

Now, after waking up and going to multiple bad places (they don’t call me Dark Fury for nothing, after all) I went and read my prescription hand out for the valium which I was also given in case, and I quote, “you start getting muscle spasms.” How, I have been wondering, would Valium help with that? Well, kids, Valium is used to treat symptoms of detox. So, either I’m supposed to be spasming as part of my regular recovery or they bloody knew that I would need them to get through tossing the Percocet. Great. I feel good about that. Wait…not so much. If they knew I’d be spasming during my recovery should they not have told me why? Or, if they knew I’d need them to get through pitching the opiates should they not have told me that as well? Apparently not. Super.

Let us be clear, I am not in any way a Percocet junkie. Opiates are good for pain management and that’s about it. How people get high off this shit I have yet to figure out. It cuts the pain in half and makes you go to sleep. Woo Hoo! Party time? Nope. Not so much. Sleepy time? You betcha’. And, as an insomniac, I can understand the appeal of that but, seriously, it only put me to sleep for about an hour. Big whoop. Not worth it. Tylenol PM is a better sleep aid. But, I digress! I took the Valium and now the spasms have subsided. Also, I may be able to catch a nap if I’m quick about it. I have a finite window for drug induced sleep as for some reason the drugs don’t work so well for me. I blame my hippie gene pool. My father smoked so much dope, dropped so much acid (even though he always had a bad trip . . . the man ain’t right in the head) and took so many pills (no, so many, seriously, he used to go and pick them out by color combination…as in yellow and blue make green so I’ll take 3 of each…what? We’re artsy people.) that I’m convinced that I have opiates and THC permanently embedded in my DNA making it almost impossible for me to get any sort of wacky effect from pain meds. Go, father, it’s your birthday. Hopefully his other kids have inherited this trait as it makes surgery so much easier. Of course, on the down side, he loved morphine and that crap makes me sick as a dog. Oh, well, we can’t have everything in this life.

So, whether or not you decide to follow your doctors orders, if ever you should , God forbid, have a need for pain management is up to you and, let’s face facts, if it’s a fatal disease or a truly horrific incident you shouldn’t worry about the addictive properties. But, as one pal to another, if you can do without it then I advise you to do so. Thus ends my PSA for the day. . . .

Of course, it may just be that after the surgery my muscles and nerves which were injured by the condition which needed fixing are regenerating or attempting in some way to right themselves….Who knows? But why go to the good place when bad is so much easier and I don’t need GPS to get there?

“Look in a mirror and one thing's sure; what we see is not who we are.” Richard Bach

Brushing your teeth shouldn’t be a mine field. It should, in fact, have no emotion attached to it at all. Tooth paste on the brush. Brush up. Brush down. Brush side to side. Brush the back teeth. Brush the tongue to avoid halitosis. Be thorough because anything worth doing is worth doing well…especially when it helps you keep your teeth. Teeth are important. Important but not an emotional battle ground. No, brushing your teeth shouldn’t make you reevaluate your life. And it wouldn’t either if it weren’t for that damn mirror.

There it is. Morning and night . Every morning and every night of your entire life staring back at you. Showing you every change. Whether you want to see it or not. And, as you get older and your mother starts leaving bridal magazines around the house when you drop by and suggesting names for your future imaginary children while knowing full well that you don’t know, in point of fact have never known, any man you’d like to spend a month with let alone a life, the mirror can be a friend and a foe.

It can be a bastard setting you up for the big fall when you come home at two o’clock in the morning when your face is showing the wear and tear of a good time. Mascara streaks. Lipstick fades. Powder settles. And then, Mr. Demille, you truly think your mother is right. You’re not getting any younger. You are, as it happens, getting older every minute. This minute, this one right now, is the oldest you’ve ever been…until this minute…and then, of course, there’s this one. Well, it may be better than the alternative but it doesn’t feel so hot at the time. The mirror isn’t to blame. It’s just a reflection of what is. But, as every woman knows, there are good mirrors and bad mirrors. Mirrors that flatter and mirrors that solidly tell what may be the truth and may be a grave insult. And none of the good mirrors are on duty at two o’clock. You think the wicked witch in the fairy tale must have had a two o’clock mirror. You brush your teeth and you go to bed.

In the morning a mirror can be magic. It can reassure you that despite the sins of last night or a lifetime that you still look pretty damn good in the morning without makeup or even a hair brush. You wish you could take credit for it but you know that that’s all down to genetics. When do you ever remember to moisturize? You don’t. And, sin of sins, you usually, despite purchasing all manner of expensive facial cleansers, wash your face with regular soap. The horror! The only contribution you make is SPF protection on a semi-regular basis. So, clearly, the good moments have nothing to do with you and may, now that you think about it, be the mirror giving not you but your mother a compliment since she’s the one who gave you the good genes to begin with. But a compliment is a compliment and you’ll take it. And, after the two o’clock mirror of the night before when you thought that you would have to immediately check yourself into an upscale “spa” in Mexico City for a quick “freshening up” the eleven o’clock mirror is your pal and your coconspirator. It assures you that no matter what anybody might say, including yourself, you are not in fact the hag of the western world. That there are still good times to come and to be had. And that, if the Lord be willin’ and the crick don’t rise, you’ll have the face you see staring back at you for a good five more years at least. You believe in genetics and SPF. You can face the world. But first you brush your teeth because fresh breath is important.

Three (3) Random Things

I’m trying to blog more frequently. I hope you appreciate this sacrifice on my part. You probably don’t though…you selfish bastards….

1 (one). Do Not Revisit The Past

On Friday night/Saturday morning I went to see an old (to me) movie. It was Evil Dead II: Dead By Dawn. Wow. I remember seeing it when I was a kid. My friend Julie and I would watch it all the time and laugh like drains. Needless to say it was not as we remembered it. Now, possibly, it had something to do with being drunk as a lord (that night not as children). But, generally, I think it just isn’t the same when you’re allowed to be watching a horror film, you’re not jacked up on all the sugar you can find and, oh, yeah! You aren’t ten anymore. Ah, well. It was still good to hang out with Julie and, bless her, she fell asleep so that I could make the let’s get the hell out of here call.

2 (two). Most Random Conversation Ever.

Yesterday I went to Burlington Coat Factory (Fancy!) to get some presents for my friend Elisa’s baby shower. While I stood in the longest line ever (always an issue at that place) I heard a voice behind me say “Excuse me.” I turned around and there was a rather lovely British gentleman standing there. He held up a mask and asked me “Would you say this is African or Asian?” I looked at the mask. “Asian.” I turned away. He then tapped me on the shoulder. “Well, are you sure? It was with all the African masks but it looks a bit Asian to me.” I looked at the mask. . . Again. “I believe it’s Asian. I may be wrong.” As I was turning I saw the made in sticker on the mask. “Especially since it was made in China.” I turned away. “Actually,” he said, “I believe that says Ghana.” I turned and looked at the made in sticker. Sure enough it was made in Ghana. “Oh, sorry. No glasses!” I turned away…yet again. “No worries,” he said, “where is Ghana?” I turned back to the Englishman, “Africa, I believe.” “So, the mask is African.” “Apparently.” I turned around. “So, excuse me,” he said. “Yes?” “What about these?” He held up the other two masks. “Would you say these were African as well?” I looked at the masks. They looked exactly the same as the first one. “I’d say they all come from the same place. Why? Is there a theme?” “Yes, there is a theme.” “Well, I don’t think anyone will notice if it’s wrong unless you’ve invited a lot of art historians and then, of course, there may be a problem.” I laughed. He laughed. “I don’t think I know any art historians.” “Then you’ll be fine.” “Do you think so?” Then it was my turn to check out. I completed my transaction and turned back to the Brit. “Yes, I do.” Then I walked away.

3 (three). Speaking Of Bad Movies….

I’m currently watching “Journey To The Center Of The Earth.” It’s crap. Absolute twaddle. But, the worst part? Brendan Fraser is going bald…quickly. And they’ve put him in the worst rug ever. It’s horrible. I can’t look away! It’s hypnotized me. I’m startled and confused by this piece of foolery. Brendan Fraser is, I think we can all agree, an attractive man. He will always be an attractive man. That is if he stops acting the fool and rips that rug off. Why can’t he/his agents/directors just accept the facts? The man is going bald. Big whoop. Did that hurt Bruce Willis? No. No, it didn’t. What hurt Bruce Willis? The bad hair plugs. There is a lesson there. Learn it.

So, Long Time No Blog...'Sup?

I apologize in advance. I promise to blog more tomorrow so that you can have a fun & frothy blog. However, in the mean time, I had some photos taken and I am not photogenic. This is not Earth shattering. This doesn’t effect my life in any major way. However, it does mean that every time I see a picture of myself I want to vomit up my lungs. Seriously. Because then I wouldn’t need to look at the picture anymore as I’d be in surgery (at minimum). Also, hopefully, the picture would be ruined by the lung goo. Sorry. That’s gross. But I think you got my point.

I think maybe I don’t know what my face looks like. Although, it should be said that in a few rare photos I do look like me. At least I look like I think I look…if that makes sense? Probably not. But, mostly, I look at a picture and think, wow. Is that my nose? Are my eyes that small? Are my lips that big? Good Lord! That’s not a forehead that’s an EIGHTHEAD!

So, why is that? Why do I recognize myself in some photos (even bad photos) but in most I could walk right past them & not know it was me unless I was told. I’d know they were related, obviously, but me? Nah. That ain’t me! That’s my aunt. That’s my cousin. That’s my ma. That ain’t me. Hu. Maybe it’s because we all look alike? And, from different angles, I look like different people?

Hu. It takes a village to raise a Fury. Perhaps it also takes a village to make a face. In that light it’s not so bad. In that light I can accept it. I still don’t like it but I accept it.

Rollin', Rollin', Rollin', Keep Them Wagons Rollin'!

I am officially moved into the apartment. And I will say this about the move - I will never, as G-d is my witness, move without the help of movers again. It's so bloody choice you wouldn't believe it (unless you too have used movers but then, obviously, I'm not speaking to you).

However . . . and I'm not here to judge . . . I'm just mentioning it . . . really it's fine . . . have you ever semlled something so foul that you're afraid it will stick to you? No? Just me? Fine. I'm the weirdo. What else is new?

In addition to all my stuff the movers left a BO stench that wouldn't die. Liv said it smelled like "old sweaty ass crack and feet." I believe that, though to my knowledge neither of us have ever sampled that particular perfume before, this is quite an accuaret description. I would just add that there was a wee drop of ten day old dead skunk in there but, then again, I have superior olefactory senses. But whatever the source, in the ass or the shoe, the reek of those gentlemen almost killed this Jew (sorry, I went a little Seusse). It was so bad that I had to immediately tell Liv, "hey, that is so not me!"

After they left I opened the windows. That didn't help. So, I Febreezed the entire apartment . . . including my own face. This seemed like a mistake at the time but I quickly realized that it was, in fact, the best idea I'd ever had. The smell, if such a force can be called a mear smell, is gone now and everything is fine. But it was a close call.

Three (3) Random Things

1. Today I went to work. I sat in my office. I attempted to work. I was interrupted, every ten minutes, by random coworkers popping in and out of my door.

"You're going to the breakfast, right?"
"Do you know if it's time for the breakfast?"
"What will I do if I miss the breakfast? Oh, Christ! I'll die! I'll. . .die."*
"Hey, they're starting the breakfast."

I thought about the fact that, even though I had nothing at all to do with said breakfast shin-dig, I am, apparently, thought to be Julie, The Cruise Director. On Friday we're having a luncheon. I think I'll make myself a name tag, buy a white blazer and direct people to the lido deck whilst flipping my super cute Dorothy Hamill hair cut. It's gonna' be boss and...possibly...gnarly.

2. Speaking of cruise directors. . . .

I have been staying at Elisa's in-laws since everybody and their brother Mike left for the cruise on the twelfth. I'm watching the dogs. They're adorable. I heart them. However, one of them has killer gas. No. I mean it. Killer. My life is in danger. Go ahead and laugh but you'll be laughing out of the other side of your face when you read in the paper (oh, come on, who am I kidding? Nobody reads papers anymore!) that I was found in deep rigor with a look of extreme terror and not a litt;e awe engraved on my face. Awe? Yes. Awe. I'm amazed that anything or one can smell that bad and not be dead. It must be a skill of some kind.
Oh, also? They wake up and bark every two hours starting at 1 AM. It's awesome! But, they are ador - - - - -

Holy. Mother. The stench just hit me. I can't give you a third item. I've got to run. Literally.

*OK. I made that one up. But not by much!

Two (2) Mini Blogs For The Price of One (1)

1.
It Costs Extra To Have The Word Schmuck Carved Into A Tombstone But For You? I'll Save Up.

Today at work a man told me, as part of his defense, that his daughter “isn’t that retarded.” Oh, OK. To think that someone honest to G-d thought that it was OK to not take care of their mentally challenged child because, hey! They’re not that retarded! So, what’s the criteria? If she eats dirt and sits in the yard all day tethered to a post wearing a helmet will you support her then? I’m not trying to be cruel, I just really want to know what the cut off is.

2.
Alvy Singer: Hey listen, gimme a kiss.
Annie Hall: Really?
Alvy Singer: Yeah, why not, because we're just gonna go home later, right, and then there's gonna be all that tension, we've never kissed before and I'll never know when to make the right move or anything. So we'll kiss now and get it over with, and then we'll go eat. We'll digest our food better.

Annie Hall is on. I believe that this movie should be used as a compatibility litmus test (I’m very scientifically minded when I’m motivated). If you are interested in someone you should make them watch Annie Hall. If they love it and you love it? Grand. Go ahead and accept that dinner invitation. If they hate it and you hate it? Same deal. If you don’t feel the same way just walk away right there. Seriously. Further, you should watch it together and if you laugh with glee/scowl morosely and back chat the screen at the same time? Get married, shack up, have babies, whatever.

Annie Hall is the only one it will work with. Bananas , Take the Money and Run, Zelig? Those are funny to everybody …or should be…actually, no. I tell a lie. You can use any Woody Allen comedy. Go ahead. Go nuts!

But, of course, if they’re from someplace like Utah you’ll need a New York to English dictionary. But, hell, what do I know? Maybe you’re from Utah. No offense.

Well, Hey! How You? How's Yer' Mamma & Them?!

So, long time no blog, eh? Well, them’s the breaks. What’s been going on? Oy. So much! And, as we all know, I love a list….

A. The Saturday before last I went to my grandmother’s family reunion. I know, technically, that since it’s her family it’s also my family but come on! I can’t take them. What am I Job?

My grandmother’s family is white. No. Seriously. They make me look like a fine Nubian princess. They find Catsup spicy. I’m not kidding. They believe catsup to be some spicy, hot, fire in the hole hellishness. They’re nutty. But, hey! It takes all kinds to make a world so live and let live I say. . . Up to a point.

Conversation Overheard At Family Reunion:
Batshit Crazy 7th Cousin Once Removed #1: Who brought this?
Batshit Crazy 7th Cousin Once Removed #2: What?
BC7C1R #1: (pointing at container that is clearly marked “Garcia”) Who brought this?
BC7C1R #2: Oh. Teeny [my grandmother’s nickname…remember, they’re uber white] did.
BC7C1R #1: Oh! That’s right! I always forget that Teeny married a (whispering) Mexican…I hope it isn’t spicy….

Um, seriously? It was macaroni salad. Also? We’re not Mexican. Furthermore? If we were you wouldn’t need to whisper it. If we were Nazis? Sure, you go ahead and whisper that craziness. Mexican? Not necessary. It isn’t contagious. And if it was I bet you’d enjoy life a lot more. Welcome to flavor country! I know. I know, you thought mayo was a spice. You were wrong. But, once you catch the dreaded Mexican you’ll know better.

Why must people assume that all people with Spanish last names are Mexican (or, in Nuevo York, Puerto Rican)? There are a lot of Spanish speaking nations. Grab a map and concentrate on the Central & South American countries. Oh! And, also? Friggin’ Spain! Hence the word “Spanish.”

I really wanted to point all of this out but, since I was raised right, I decided that this was my cue to get the hell out of Dodge. I even said goodbye on my way out in a very polite manner. I said, because I may have been raised right but Mr. Garcia didn’t raise no fools, “Adios, ladies!” And, yes, I enjoyed the mixture of confusion and panic on their faces when I said it.

B. The Sunday before last I attended the wedding of my friends Stuart and Anne. Now, as we know, usually I could give a crap about weddings. I believe I’ve been clear. I’m generally the one in the back of the room making book on how long the marriage will last. What? I give fair odds and pay out when I lose. Don’t judge me!

That being said, I got a wee choked up at this wedding. Why? Well, partly because I’ve known Stu since G-d was a boy . To me he’ll always be the gangly, sadly long haired, hyperactive puppy of a lad I met way back when. But he’s grown up. He’s grownsed up and he’s grownsed up and he’s grownsed up! And, not only has he grown up, he’s grown up well. He’s a good man. Well done, luv, if you read this. And then there’s Anne. We like Anne. Hell, we love Anne! Could there be anybody better for the Stude? Nope. Not on this planet. So, yeah, that explains the robot getting choked up. That or I’ve blown a cog. Hmmm…must get that checked out. I knew I should have had my heart taken out when I had my soul removed to make room for more sarcasm. Oh, well, hind sight is 20/20!

And, besides the fact that I actually gave a crap about the people getting married, it was a super fun wedding! And, though I say it myself, we were the fun table. One problem? There were three flasks. That, in itself, is far from problematic. But two of them were wasted on Gin and Bourbon. Honestly! Who does that?

C. A few of my friends and I will be hitting up the Richmond Highland Games this weekend. Before you say it, yes, I know! It’s supposed to rain. I say bring it on! I’m a fool for authenticity. I bought a disposable camera so I’m sure I’ll have plenty to post and plenty of photographic evidence. I may have to bring a tranquilizer gun. Olivia gets…funny…around kilted men. There may be an incident.

D.Besides all this? I’ve been at work. I got my first performance review. Yeah, it’s official, I rock.

And . . . That’s . . . About . . . It . . . …..

Things We Lost In The Fire?

The urge to blog. But I'm working on it. Check back later. Hang in there. Be strong. G-d bless you and G-d bless America....Oh, wait. I'm not running for president. Woops!

No. There wasn't an actual fire.

Hmmm...Well, why not?

I’m watching “Failure to Launch,” a truly horrifying movie. I don’t know why. Well, that’s not true. I know why. Matthew McKindahigh is hot, except, of course, when you look at his arms which are entirely too short for his body but then, who am I to talk? So, let’s just say he’s a good looking man and leave it at that. That is all besides the point. Besides? Beside the point? Besides the point? Whatever! It isn’t the point. The point is that the only good characters in this movie are the sidekicks. It occurred to me that that is often the case in “romantic comedies.” Look at “Four Weddings and a Funeral.” His friends are much, much more interesting than the leads. And that isn’t just because one of them is played by Andi McDowell. Look at “Pretty Woman.” I’d much rather see a movie about her friend Kit.

Why are the sidekicks so much more interesting? And why doesn’t somebody write a movie where the sidekicks are the main characters? I mean, it would be interesting. Let the leads be the sidekicks for once. You’d still have the Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant types and they’d still be the catalysts for the action of the sidekicks but the movie would follow the sidekicks. I don’t think I’m explaining it well but I still think it’s a good idea. So sue me.

Where there is a sea there are pirates.

When Walter Somlug first set out to sea there was no way he could have known how profound an impact it would have on him. When his doctor suggested a little sea air would do his poor lungs a world of good Walter wasn't sure he could stand to be away from his family's paper bag processing factory in Little ShimSham on Thames. Of course, his Uncle Fred and Cousin Alf both said Walter's health had to come first and that they'd be well able to get a temporary accountant to come in and see to the books for a few weeks.

But Walter just felt that Great Grandfather Somlug's fine busines shouldn't be left in the uncaring hands of strangers. And he hadn't just been thinking of that temporary accountant. After all, what did the family really know about Uncle Fred, other than the fact that he'd married Aunt Mudgey...and wasn't that odd in itself?

Now, after just ten days at sea, Walter wasn't sure he could bring himself to go back to that nine to five grind. But, he consoled himself, he'd always have the memories and the tattoo to remember it by. . .and, naturally, all that booty would shore up the employees retirement fund nicely. He wondered what the tax codes would have to say.

The Carrot & The Stick

Annie Pinchis sat staring at the ink blot. Her therapist, Dr. Lipke, seemed to think this was an important step in her “healing.” Healing from what he had, thus far, kept to himself. Annie thought Dr. Lipke was a douche bag but, thus far, she had kept that to herself.

If Annie had known that she would be subjected to an unholy mélange of Jungian philosophy. Freudian analysis and self help mumbo jumbo she’d have given therapy a pass. But, unfortunately, Dr. Lipke was the only therapist in her insurance network within fifty miles. He also insisted on her attending at least one session a month in order to get her prescription. Annie knew that medication was all she needed. So, she thought, my brain chemistry isn’t right. Big whoop. Give me a pill and leave me alone! Dr. Lipke continued to hold up the ink blot.

Annie began to panic. What if she said the wrong thing? How often would he require her to come in then? Oh, Christ, she fumed, they always find something wrong with your answer. They say there is no right answer. So, if there’s no answer why ask the question? Hu? Why? Just to mess with you.

Annie looked at the ink blot. It looked remarkably like someone had spilled ink on a white piece of paper. Wisely, she decided that that probably wasn’t the right not right answer. She leaned forward as if concentrating on it more closely.

“It looks,” think, she screamed in her head! “It looks,” safe. Safe. What’s the safe answer? “Like Bugs Bunny holding a carrot!” There! What could anybody possibly say about that? Annie felt a smug smile creep across her face.

“Is it,” Dr. Lipke leaned forward excitedly, “a large carrot?”

Annie sank back in her chair, smirk sliding away to nothingness, and resigned herself to twice weekly sessions.

Take Two (million and six)!

Today I cleaned out my car. It was disgusting. My car is clean and I am filthy. I found jackets and shoes I forgot I owned. Oy. So, yeah, maybe once a year isn't often enough. Who knew?

Also, as of today, I've quit smoking...again. I know. I know, I've tried before. I KNOW! But I'm feeling good about it this time. Last time I quit I just decided one day to do it and didn't prepare at all. This time I think I'm prepared.

• I cleaned out my car so it no longer smells.
• I threw away all my cigarettes and cigarette related paraphenalia (except my engraved zippo - it says "Dark Fury" I had to keep it. Besides, I've never filled it so how can it hurt?).
• I purchased the Commit nicotine replacement system. They're gross but we'll call the aversion therapy.
• I joined a quit smoking support group website.

We'll see.

Roll Up! Roll Up! Get It While It's Hot, It's Lovely!

Lately, I’ve been too bored to blog. . . too pooped to pop. . . um. . . . too nauseated to navigate? Hu. Yeah. Probably not that last one.

So, back by unpopular demand –

Stream Of Consciousness! And the crowd goes wild! Or just sits there and thinks, “ok.” One or the other. Up to you.

I’m getting a wrinkle. A laugh line to be precise. I suppose that that’s better than a frown line but it’s still a wrinkle. It still smoothes out when I relax my face. Nevertheless, I know it’s there. Waiting. Maybe Botox isn’t so bad. No. No. That’s probably how they sucked in Nicole Kidman and look at her now! Scary. I hate when men get Botox. Hate it. I like a lived in face. Besides, how do I know what you’re saying without facial cues? I don’t. You could be lying through your teeth and, without the appropriate facial expression, I’ll believe you. I’m kind of gullible. I need the cues to know what’s really going on. Maybe that’s why Nicole Kidman hasn’t made a movie in yonks. Because she can’t get the emotion across. Not that she ever really could but that’s a different story. I wish Craig Ferguson would write himself another movie. There, my friends, is a lived in face. Lovely. Or a book. Where’s the next book? Bloody hell, man! Get with the program. I need to quit smoking. I looked into Chantrex (sp?) but that’s not meant for people with a history of “mental illness.” I hate that expression. I want a different one please. How about “batshit”? Or “loopy”? Or “mad as a bag of cats”? That last one is my favorite. It’s so colorful. Imagine if that was the clinical term.

Doctor: Well, Mrs. Jones, we’ve figured out why Mr. Jones sits in his study all day listening to death metal and screaming obscenities at the dog.

Mrs. Jones: Oh, doctor! What a relief. The children were beginning to notice.

Doctor: Yes, yes, Mrs. Jones. We’ll soon have it sorted. The technical term for your husbands’ condition is “Mad As A Bag Of Cats.” It’s quite treatable. Pick up the six prescriptions at the desk on your way out.

Mrs. Jones: (weeping quietly in relief) Oh, thank you, doctor! Thank you!

Ain’t language grand? All languages are pretty. Well, ok, not German but I’m biased. Maybe it’s simply gorgeous but I’m a bitch who can’t let it go. Probably not but it could be. Wrinkles. Wrinkles. Wrinkles. Wrinkles. It honestly never occurred to me that I would live long enough to get wrinkles. When I think of it like that, I’m almost pleased. Almost. Vanity thy name is Dark Fury. Who knew? Luckily, I’m smart and funny. If I were just a pretty face, I’d be screwed.

Three (3) Random Things

OK, before we get to the scheduled randomnes or randomossity, if you prefer, I feel the need to briefly set something straight. I will never attempt to not be funny. That would be as fake as spray tan and I'm not OK with that.

On to the random!

1. The Jewish year is currently 5767 (I think. I forgot to buy a calender this year.). How does that work? Is it like leap year? When we started using the modern calender how did people know when it was their birthday? Did the just pick a day and go with it? Did they get two? I just wondered.

2. I have one of those Buddha glasses you get from Asian resteraunts sitting on my desk. I use it as a pen holder. It has a hole in it that was meant for a straw. I stick a pencil in it. At least three (3) people have walked by my desk - giggled - and said that it "looks dirty." The hole is in it's chest. Who have these people been dating and/or what's wrong with them that they find a sucking chest wound "naughty"? I mean there's kinky and then there's just creepy.

3. I hope that if anyone ever again offers me "E" (sucking on lollipops like an idiot while my spinal fluid dries up? Sounds keen! Wait. . . hold on . . . no.) that they do so on a Friday night. Just so I can tell them, "I don't roll on Shabbas!"

Yeah, I was booooored today and no, I didn't spell check.

Chaos, Panic and Disorder . . . My Work Here Is Done.

Today I had a panic attack. It felt like it lasted for an hour and a half. That, of course, is impossible. Panic attacks last for about twenty minutes tops. So, in actual fact, I had a series of them. Being a sensible human being didn't help matters at all.

At 8:30 I was looking over a file and, all of a sudden, I felt like I was going to die. Seriously. Die. Big "D". For about five minutes I thought about going to the hospital which made me think about the fact that I don't have health insurance which made me more agitated. Then I realized it was a panic attack.

I told myself I wasn't having a heart attack. Then I started thinking what if someday it is a heart attack and I mistake it for a panic attack and I die? What then, smarty pants?! Then I told myself it was a panic attack and it would be all over in twenty minutes . . . tops. I started watching the clock. Twenty minutes . . . twenty minutes . . . Twenty one minutes . . . Twenty one? Holy shit. Twenty one! Heart attack! Heart attack! Not panic!! OK, I thought, ok. It's panic. It's panic. DON'T PANIC! Maybe it's time to go back on medication. Then I remembered I don't have health insurance . . . again. BOOM! More panic.

Finally, at ten, a coworker came and asked me if I wanted to go on break. We went outside. I took some (more) deep breaths. We shot the shit. I calmed down.

Keep in mind this all happened, silently, whilst I was sitting at my desk pretending to go over some figures. Say what you will about me but I know how to behave in public. I really should have been born Lady Muck. I have mad stiff upper lip skills . . . um, yo?

I'm fine now. Relatively. The aftermath is almost as bad as the actual attack. I'm sleepy and shaky and want to go to bed. Ain't we got fun?

The point of all this is the following -

Anybody have any valium?

Memories Are Made Of This.

When I was little I used to throw up every Christmas Eve. I would appear, of course, perfectly calm and blasé. I behaved as if it was any other ordinary day. But inside? Oh, Lord. On the inside I was dying.

After all, I’d been watched, all year, by some old fat guy with a beard. He knew when I was sleeping. He knew when I was awake. He knew if I’d been bad or good, for goodness’ sake!

I never knew if I’d been good enough. I’d tried. G-d knows I’d tried but what about that time I wanted the prize out of the cereal box and dumped half the contents behind the couch. I’d attempted not to be wasteful. I’d eaten as much as I could but, after three bowls in a row, I couldn’t see another frosted flake. They had to go. What if the fat man had seen that? Was that enough to black list me?

Santa, to me, was no saint. He was a judger. He made up random rules and punished children willy nilly as he saw fit. He was a jack booted fascist. But I still wanted those presents. Did that make me a collaborator? Oh, Jesus, would I have to name names for that new Connect 4?! What if nothing was enough? What if it turned out to be random and this year was just the year I went on the list for coal?! Oh, the humanity. Finally, around ten or eleven, I’d throw up and be put to bed with a cool cloth on my forehead.

On Christmas morning my mother and aunts would run into the room and jump on my bed screaming, “get up! Santa came ! Presents!” So, I’d think, I made it through another year. Then I’d roll over and go back to sleep.

Later on in the year I’d think, what if there isn’t really a naughty list? What if he’s just trying to wind us all up? Sadly, we’ll never know so we’ll have to stay on our game. Well played, fat man, well played.