Archive for May, 2011

There is an overwhelming cloud of funk in my bedroom. I do believe it might be the funk of forty thousand years.

It is not your garden-variety foot funk or armpit funk, lest you think I am that kind of dirty girl. I am clean and I do wash my sheets.

Unfortunately, though, I had a little seepage during our recent monsoon season; and my beautiful vegetable-dyed (Vegetable dye? RUNS.) wool rug got wet. If you’ve ever smelled a wet sheep, you know what I’m talking about. The funk has been outrageous, and no amount of Febreze or Oust or scented candles has touched its vile, nose-offending stench.

Yesterday my mother and I finally put our little bleached heads together and got the bright idea to put our industrial-strength dehumidifier in the room for a few days to see whether that would help.

So far I’ve had to empty three huge bucketfuls of water. This is how much evil moisture was lurking in my carpet and room.

Of course, it’s probably also sucking every drop of moisture out of my skin as well, making me look old before my time, but what can you do?

In other news, this summer we are taking a family vacation to a local amusement park/”resort” (I use that word EXTREMELY loosely) with my sister and her kids. We are renting a cottage that sleeps eight for the eight of us, instead of renting separate motel rooms.

This means that my stepdad, who pretty much hates children/getting up early/life itself is going to have to bunk with not one, not two, not three, but FOUR kids.

I am going to have to bring a flask.

Seriously, my stepdad seems to be rapidly losing his shit. Even though he is a Devout Cath-O-Lic who prides himself on his Holy Behavior, he’s been dropping F-bombs at the drop of a hat lately. If it’s hot in the house: F-bombs. If he drops something: F-bomb. If he has to drive in the rain: F-bombs.

I may swear like a motherfucker on this page, but I’m no Cee-Lo Green. I don’t really drop fucks and such that much in real life. I do say shit a LOT, though. Shit is probably my very favorite word.

The J-Man acts shocked on the few occasions he hears me say it, and I always say the same thing. “You’ve heard shit before, and you will hear shit again.”

After all, shit happens.

Happy Tuesday.

I’m a little disappointed that the Rapture didn’t come to pass. I don’t know about you, but I was looking forward to meeting the Big Jeez in the flesh. Or the spirit. Whatever. I have a lot of questions I’d like answered. Also a few demands.

(I’m confident that I would have been included in said Rapture because I did my time in parochial school and God knows that should count for something.)

(I’m really not that disappointed. A party with no gay people is not really a party. BO-RING.)

Anyway, spring has finally sprung here in Indianny, and with it has come about six million little birdies a-tweeting (not on miniature little iPads, although that would be much more to my liking) at four AM every morning.

Since I must sleep with the window open, this is very disconcerting. And since I sleep with a bevy of cats who must sit in the window and make bizarre choking noises at said birds, it’s a downright pain in the ass.

Even worse are the honking Canadian geese that flock to the farmer’s field located directly behind our backyard. Canada, take your fucking geese back before I start a war. Despite my rather rigid anti-gun stance, I’m about to buy a Winchester and start taking them out one by one.

Four AM, every single day, and please keep in mind that my headache has STILL not abated.

I am calling the neurologist this morning and demanding that he do something, anything. Shoot me up with drugs. Drill some holes in my skull. Whatever.

I can almost hear the response: “Jenny-fahr, I am sorry, I cannot fit you in until July.”

Bastard.

In other news, the J-Man has been grounded from all electronic devices for about two weeks. This is like torture for both of us; him because he doesn’t know what to do with his thumbs, and me because I have to hear a constant barrage of reasons why I am the meanest mother ever.

I know I’m the meanest mother ever. I studied extensively with Joan Crawford. I have a collection of both wooden spoons and leather belts. I lie awake at night contemplating how to best make his young life as miserable as possible. I occasionally poke him with sharp objects while he sleeps.

I feed him laxatives. I put nails inside of his shoes. I let the air out of his bicycle tires. I train the cats to attack him. I swear at him regularly. I whisper insults in his ear at the dinner table. I make him do his homework in the shed, in the dark, with the lawn mower. I mock him relentlessly.

All of this brings me great pleasure and I don’t intend to stop anytime soon, so he had better get used to it. I’ve told him this a hundred times, but he keeps squalling about ‘child abuse’ and ‘basic human rights’.

Blah, blah, blah.

Happy Tuesday. May your sweet little birdies sleep till noon.

The headache lingers on, but it’s either a little better, or I’m just getting used to it.

I’ve found a solution, though. I’m just going to unscrew my head and set it down on the table, like so. This way I can monitor myself while I’m cleaning and make sure that I’m doing a thorough job, and it will also be a hell of a lot easier to dye my roots.

I saw my friend K. this morning, and she asked me (with a completely straight face, mind you), “Do you ever think about having any more kids?”

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

For one thing, my tubes have been tied, cut, cauterized, and shipped overseas. For another, my own sweet dear child is currently in the throes of preteen hormone evil, and I wouldn’t take a second shot at this for all the crack in Washington D.C.

Not that I don’t love sweet little babies. I do! The thing is, though, that they grow up to be smelly little hundred-and-forty-pound charmers that roll their eyes at you every chance they get and screech, “WHY AM I STILL GROUNDED, SYLVAN LEARNING CENTER SAYS IT DOESN’T HELLLLLP!!!!”

We might be having a bad week in the Trance House. I’m just sayin’.

I love kids. I even love my own kid sometimes. But more? You must be high.

Those of you with seven children, I salute you. Mainly because you scare me.

In other news, I don’t have much news so far this week. This week has been about popping pills of every sort trying to contain the Headache That Would Not Die.

In the previous entry’s comment’s, Jeremy suggested that I may have cluster headaches and that I should try tripping on shrooms.

I tried shrooms one time, in college. Being the sort of person who never does anything – even crazy illegal things – half-assed, I ate about half the bag.

I have never vomited so long and with such vigor in my entire life. I have never tripped so hard, either. I was so afraid and paranoid and mystified by all the colors and shapes and giant Oreo cookies with big teeth and what have you that I thought I was going to DIE.

I am not a tripping kind of person. I’m way too freaked out for that.

So, no shrooms for me, Jeremy, but if they work for you, God bless, and I hope your headaches get better.

I know I’m ready for someone to take a giant nutcracker to this cranium.

Happy Tuesday.

I’m on day four of a brain-drilling headache that even my monster migraine pills won’t touch.

If anyone is in possession of a cyanide suicide pill, I’m game.

Things I have tried: Copious amounts of caffeine, ice packs, heating pad, all sorts of drugs, sleep (yeah, right), no food, lots of food, and a complete absence of light and sound.

Nothing works. I am pukey and and in pain, and I think my brain may be melting.

This is either the worst migraine of all time, or I have a brain tumor. I don’t really even care at this point. I am willing to try trepanning, anesthesia-less brain surgery in which they remove my entire skull cap and pour out the poison, and leeches applied directly to my brain. Anything. I am currently not safe around the power tools.

Using the computer during this time probably isn’t too smart, either, so I’m off like a dirty shirt; but if you don’t hear from me in a few days’ time, know that it’s because I took a Craftsman drill to my noggin and bled out in the bathroom.

Happy Monday. Argh.

So my awesome friend Poppy, after reading the last entry, hooked me up with the Sox tickets that she gets from work, and I am talking FOUR FREE BOX SEATS PLUS FREE PARKING.

Am I the luckiest girl in the world with the most generous, kick-ass friends? I think so.

July twenty-fifth I will be directly behind the Sox dugout cheering on the Sox to beat Detroit and, as Poppy so eloquently put it, convincing Konerko to leave his ho-bag wife.

I do love me some Paulie.

In other news, Mother’s Day was fun. We had my sister and her brood over, and I have to say that I fall more in love with the two-year-old every time I see her. That kid smiles one of her squinty little smiles, and I grow weak. Would you like some candy? A cookie? A pony? Whatever you want, I’m game. She is so cute that it’s absolutely sick, and I am generally not a sucker for other people’s kids, as you may well know.

My sister’s kids are, on the whole, a terrific bunch. The seven-year-old is as smart as a whip and a truly beautiful girl. The four-year-old, A., is probably one of the most hilarious children I’ve ever come across. Once the kids were playing in the TranceCave II, when he ran up to me and told on the J-Man for picking on him.

“You said you wouldn’t tell!” yelled the J-Man indignantly.

“I lied! HA HA!!” yelled A., full of glee.

He’s a trip.

In the wake of my sister’s homelessness, crazy relationships, and various trials and tribulations, those kids have come out brilliantly, and it’s got to be a testament to how my sister raises them. No matter what she’s been through, she takes good care of those kids.

For Mother’s Day I received some pajamas, some little baby roses, a new top, and… chocolates. The family persists in buying me chocolates, year after year, holiday after holiday, despite my efforts to stop them.

I cannot have chocolates because I will invariably eat them. This causes two adverse effects: A fat ass and a face full of pimples.

I already have a big ass. I do not wish for it to become bigger. I have relatively good skin. I do not wish for it to be dotted with the demon acne.

You would think I would just exercise some willpower and just not eat the chocolates, or maybe give the chocolates away.

You would be wrong. These are Russell Stover’s chocolates. While they are admittedly not the finest or fanciest chocolates, I love them, and they have the added plus of having a little chocoholic’s guide in the box, telling the eater which chocolate contains what filling.

This makes me so happy I could poop nougat.

The only chocolates I refuse to eat are the maple creams, which I give to my mother because they are inferior and should only be ingested by a person who will eat damn near any type of chocolate.

I have standards. Maple is for syrup, not chocolates.

Anyway, yesterday I ate at least five chocolates, and today I woke up with a large pimple on the side of my face. My ass is probably fatter, too, but I didn’t measure it or dare to try on any jeans.

I am doing my chocolate penance.

Isn’t it a fucking shame that a person can’t do anything fun without consequences? You can’t eat chocolates without getting pimples and a fat ass. You can’t drink too much without getting hung over. You can’t smoke without getting emphysema or lung cancer. You can’t have sex nowadays without getting some horrendous disease. You can’t even make out with a damn guy without getting a Big Herpes-Ass Cold Sore Right On Your Face.

You can’t do shit.

This is why I have a hard time believing in God. I think that if there was a God, He or She would make fun things fun and consequence-free. We’d be able to screw without fear! We’d be able to eat, drink, and be merry without the worry of cirrhosis and obesity! We could do ecstasy every night without having to worry about our spinal cords melting away!

Did I say that last one out loud? Forgive me, I used to be a club kid.

Anyway, I think God would love us and want us to have fun.

God would want us to eat chocolates.

Happy Monday.

Holy Pole-Dancing Christ, am I hyperactive today. I have only had a mere four cups of coffee and one Diet Coke, yet I am bouncing off of the fricking walls.

Sometimes I just wake up this way. Yesterday I woke up with “Livin’ La Vida Loca” in my head, which decidedly made it a Bad Day, but today I have a pretty sweet medley of Frou Frou and Stars going, so a Good Day it is.

Earworms. They can make or break you.

We are going to a Gary Railcats game (Gary, Indiana! Once the per capita murder capital of the US!) in a few weeks. I am as excited as shit because I love a good baseball game, particularly when it’s in the ‘hood and people get rowdy and ridiculous. I would also like to attend a couple of Sox games this year if possible, but heading out to that park has become quite the expensive undertaking.

I am also excited because the fine folks of the Gret Stet of Indianny have docked The Shit’s tax return once again this year, netting us a very reasonable sum of cash. This means new glasses and new duds for the J-Man, and perhaps a nice little local trip for all of us this summer – something for which we’re long overdue.

Maybe we can swing those Sox tickets, too.

This day also finds me excited due to the fact that it is not forty degrees. It may actually be fifty, which is practically T-shirt weather. Hell, I may actually put on my bathing suit and some baby oil and go lay out.

I’ve just grown to accept the fact that spring is not coming this year. It just isn’t going to happen, and we Midwesterners are going to have to suck it up and live with it.

In other news, I go to bed ridiculously early. Sometimes at 8:30, but usually at around 9:30. I generally am up by 5:30, so this works for me, because God forbid I don’t get eight hours of sleep. My eye bags, even though composed of the highest-quality full-grain leather, look horrendous if I have less than eight hours.

Not only do I go to bed ridiculously early, but I often take a nap in the afternoon after I take my afternoon meds. They tend to knock me out a little bit.

My point (and I do have one) is that I am one of the most well-rested people you will ever meet. So internet, tell me this: Why do I yawn all the time? I yawn incessantly. I yawn over breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I yawn while talking to very interesting people. I have yawned while doing the nasty.

It’s horribly embarrassing, particularly the Sex Yawn. No one wants to think they’re boring the crap out of their sexual partner.

I have no idea what causes this yawning, and frankly I’m afraid to look on WebMD, because everything there leads to cancer.

I think I’m going to go use my hyperactivity for good and go for a run. Have a happy day.

I don’t know if you guys heard this, as it’s kind of a closely guarded secret, but Osama Bin Laden is dead.

Heh.

In other, perhaps less newsworthy news, I had a seizure this morning whilst calling in a prescription to Walgreens. During this time I fell and somehow got the phone cord (yes, we still have a corded phone in the kitchen because it’s still 19-fucking-78 in this house) wrapped around my neck. I woke up some twenty minutes later to find an extremely frazzled mother who had apparently rescued me from the brink of choking to death.

The fun, it never ends!

Speaking of fun, Saturday night I went out with a few friends from high school to a dive bar in a town about a half an hour away to hear a local band.

I have always said that I attract only the strangest types of folks. The ones I meet through mutual attraction aren’t half bad, but the ones that actively seek me out in bars or clubs generally represent the dregs of society.

Why this is, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the nose ring. Maybe it’s the giant lighted neon sign on my forehead that reads “I *heart* miscreants”. Maybe I’m just funny looking.

Whatever the reason, I am a total freak magnet, and Saturday night brought even more weirdos to the table.

While sitting and watching the band and slugging down a couple a few a copious amount of Miller Lites, I had the heebie-jeebies, that creepy feeling one gets when one is being watched. I looked around and saw that at an adjacent table, there was a dude of about fifty or so sitting and boring a hole through my forehead with his eyes. I quickly looked away and continued watching the band.

The heebie-jeebies continued, and I looked again. Stary McStarerson continued. I gave him a moderately dirty look and started talking to one of my friends.

“Do you see that dude?”

“Yeah, he’s been staring at us all night.”

“He’s creepy.”

“Totally.”

Hours went by and he sat, unmoving, staring. Creepy. Weird.

I got drunk, which is never a good thing. I looked at my friend intently and scowled.

“I’m going to kick that guy in the neck if he continues to stare.”

“Heheheh.”

“I’m not kidding. Right in the neck.”

“Now might be a good time for you to ease up on the beer.”

I didn’t make good on my promise, thankfully, and soon forgot about Creepy Starey Dude, and got lost in animated drunken conversation with friends, as well as some choice drunk texting.

I should have a Breathalyzer on my phone. Seriously. I am a horrible drunk texter. My friends will attest to the fact that there have been many Saturday nights that I have sent “What are you doing??” or “HEEEY, what’s UP?” at four AM.

It’s a bad, bad habit.

Anyway, I was chatting and typing away, when a brassy blond woman in her fifties with a Very Bad Perm came up to me and asked me to dance. I did what I usually do, which is flap my arms wildly in the universal sign for “Oh, no, I don’t dance” and politely refuse, and my friend’s 21-year-old cousin C., who must have been tanked beyond all reason, took the bait and went and danced with her.

The woman waved at me from the dance floor several times to come and dance, and each time I flapped. No, sorry. Not me! I don’t dance! I am rhythmically challenged! I have a dead left foot! I am a Baptist!

(I do dance, and quite well, but not with strange women, unless I’ve had a lot of tequila.)

C. returned from the dance floor with news. “Heh. Why didn’t you dance? Is it because of her teeth?”

“What about her teeth?” I said.

My friend A. looked at me quizzically. “She has no teeth.”

“NO TEETH?” I goggled.

“No teeth. None.”

I looked her way again, noticed the somewhat sunken in face, and it certainly did appear that she had no teeth. I wasn’t sure how I’d missed it the first time around.

She caught me looking and returned to our table. “Hi, let’s dance.”

I politely refused again, and watched as C. punk rocked her way to the floor with my toothless would-be suitor.

Good Lord.

These are the people who are interested in me, dear friends. These are the people who find me attractive.

I am losing hope.

We went to White Castle after leaving the bar, and I forgot yet again that as much as I love White Castle when drunk, White Castle is vile and evil and stays with a person for days on end, and the horrible gastrointestinal aftereffects of White Castle are just not worth a little two-inch square, one-millimeter thick burger. Or three.

People blame White Castle Syndrome on the onions. It’s not the onions. They pour laxatives and pure hydrochloric acid into those fucking things.

In still other news, I actually got all of my Mother’s Day shopping done early and well this year, and I think my mother is going to be thrilled to the gills. I’m excited.

Happy Monday. Don’t forget your mama this week.