u s e y o u r h a n d s

Because I choose not to weep, I must laugh when recalling the arguing style of my parents. A loud and insulting couple, they regularly scrapped and in the process, developed a few verbal gems that have proved hilarious when told at parties. Because if I didn’t get a nurturing, peaceful home, at least I got some good cocktail party fodder out of it. And, really, sometimes I’ve just got to be okay with that.

To begin:

1) Why Don’t You Pack Your Shit and Leave? - This got trotted out generally in the middle of the argument, which you could rate on a scale similar to that for peppers or earthquakes. Some of their fights were jalapeno, some of them were San Francisco 1906. WDYPYSAL was most often used by my father, to which my mother would cleverly retort Why Don’t You Pack YOUR Shit and Leave? It’s this type of glittery badinage that I hope to work into my Great American Novel.

2) Go Flush Your Head Down the Toilet! - No, seriously. They really hurled this one at each other in all earnestness. And this came after most other expletives. Can you imagine? This always struck me as ridiculous, if simply for the visual. But why, after more potent invective, was this phrase trotted out? No idea. But try it — there’s no easier way to make your kids laugh even while cowering under the covers.

3) The C Word - That word. You know what I’m talking about. And I still wince when I hear this word, whether it’s used in British books or movies where it means something entirely different, or in the feminist book of the same name, where the etymology is examined and it’s supposed to be reclaimed. But to me, it will never be okay, and it will never be funny. The only humor I can recall from its use was the intensity with which it was said. Like hurling a verbal spear. Such energy in one word. I can’t help but laugh at how silly that was. Why not just throw the punch with your fist that you meant with that word? This taught me a lesson in being succinct, how one word can really mean “I’d hit you right now, but I find that somehow inappropriate, but if I could, I would.”

These are the three that really stick out. I’m sure there were others. But the first two are ones I share with friends and use solely in jest. The third one, though, that’s still verboten.

Anybody know about removing lead-based paint from woodwork? Heat gun okay?

The tile is down
LIKE THE DOLLAR OF MY HEART
What is next
Is not for ME to decide
But the corporations
The governments
The old, white, men.

That concludes today’s spoken word rant about the kitchen renovation fiasco.

For the past two nights, I have had two different dreams where I am murdered. These have been highly disturbing, not only for their content, but for their Law & Order-like details.

Dream One: Workplace Massacre

A disgruntled former employee is somehow enticed by a group of shadowy revolutionaries to shoot up my office. I narrowly escape being shot and am the sole survivor.

After I’m rescued, I offer to testify against the group on one condition — I can go into the witness protection program. The officer I’m talking with pulls out a video camera and shakes his head. He asks if I recognize him. I say no. He says he’s not a cop, but a criminal just a week out of prison. Then I recognize him as a man who assaulted and attempted to kill me. He draws out a gun and says, “I’m going to kill you four times over.”

How did he find me? The shadowy group of revolutionaries!

Dream Two: Similar, But Not Quite

In this dream, I get a knock at the door and man who recently got out of prison for assaulting me is there. Luckily, I push him out the door again. Before he comes back, to hack me to death, there’s all these weird scenes involving glitter-laden posters for a tranny-fronted rock band, blueberry pancakes, and a Jetsons-esque diner.

In both of these dreams, the part where I’m murdered loops and I try to make the action stop or change, but am unable. It is disturbing. I woke up after last night’s dream to find a cat curled between my knees sleeping so soundly I was convinced she was dead. I petted her hard until she woke up annoyed.

As I came up the walk into the house last night, I played a game where I only stepped on spots with no snow. Brian asked, “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back?” “No,” I said, “Step on the snow and forensic detectives will track the print back to you and tie you to that unsolved murder.”

For my friend Deanne, because it’s her birthday, and for all y’all because you’ll appreciate, here are the lyrics to my new favorite song, Eamon’s “Fuck It.” I will point out that this song is a ballad.

Whoa oh oh
Ooh hooh
No No No

See I don’t
Know why
I liked you so much
I gave you all, of my trust
I told you, I loved you
Now that’s all down the drain
Ya put me through pain
I wanna let u know that I feel

Fuck what I said
It don’t mean shit now
Fuck the presents
Might as well throw ‘em out
Fuck all those kisses
It didn’t mean jack
Fuck you, you ho
I don’t want you back

Fuck what I said
It don’t mean shit now
Fuck the presents
Might as well throw ‘em out
Fuck all those kisses
It didn’t mean jack
Fuck you, you ho
I don’t want you back

You thought
You could
Keep this shit from me, yeah
Ya burnt bitch
I heard the story
Ya played me
Ya even gave him head
Now ya askin’ for me back
Ya just another hag
Look elsewhere
Cuz ya done with me

Fuck what I said
It don’t mean shit now
Fuck the presents
Might as well throw ‘em out
Fuck all those kisses
It didn’t mean jack
Fuck you, you ho
I don’t want you back

Fuck what I said
It don’t mean shit now
Fuck the presents
Might as well throw ‘em out
Fuck all those kisses
It didn’t mean jack
Fuck you, you ho
I don’t want you back

Oh oh Oh oh
Uh hun yeah
Oh oh Oh oh
Uh hun yeah
Oh oh Oh oh
Uh hun yeah
Oh oh Oh oh
Uh hun yeah

Ya questioned
Did I care
You could ask anyone
I even said
Ya were my great one
Now it’s over
But I do admit I’m sad
It hurt real bad
I can’t sweat that
Cuz I loved a ho

Fuck what I said
It don’t mean shit now
Fuck the presents
Might as well throw ‘em out
Fuck all those kisses
It didn’t mean jack
Fuck you, you ho
I don’t want you back

Oh oh Oh oh
Uh hun yeah
Oh oh Oh oh
Uh hun yeah
Oh oh Oh oh
Uh hun yeah
Oh oh Oh oh
Uh hun yeah

Note: Please take special care to find where Eamon rhymes “one” with “one.”

I have four more payments to make on Cleo, my Subaru, my shagginwagon. And I’ve dumped several grand into her this year. For a new clutch after sacrificing the old one to the cause of teaching myself to drive stick. For some belt thing so the car would go. For a new alternator just to say I Love You. And then tires, etc.

Admittedly, I knew the battery needed replacing. But who’d have thought that it would go dead yesterday, one of the coldest days so far this winter? If Jesus knew, he didn’t tell me. So, I call Triple A, renew my membership, and wait for the guy to come. He came. And then I stalled, knocking out the engine again. I stalled because I DO NOT DRIVE STICK WELL. I fully admit this. I crunch the gears, stall, and pop into neutral all the time. I taught myself how to drive, so what can you do?

Anyway, it stalls. I get jumpstarted again. And then I turn left. And the car stalls in the middle of the turn. I jump out and begin to push the car. Someone helps out. And then he helps jump the car. At a stop light a mile from home, it stalls again, just inside a tow zone. I push the car back out of the tow zone and walk home. In a thin coat.

At home, I cry, liberally apply lip balm, and hop onto the computer to alert work. Then I wait for BRIAN! Brian, boyfriend of the gods, comes home and with his boy Spidey sense, tells me that there’s an auto parts store a mere jog down the road. We bundle up, head out, pick up the battery, and tools.

Note: batteries are heavy! And carrying them on the bus made me feel like a terrorist. I kept thinking that the bus was about to stop quickly, the battery would tumble to the floor, explode, and spray the unsuspecting passengers with disfiguring acid. But this paranoia was nothing compared to when Brian installed the battery in Cleo. I stood 10 feet back with 911 pre-dialed on the phone, just in case. No, not just in case. I was sure he would electrocute himself. I stood there, wincing, trying to remember CPR from my lifeguard training.

But nothing happened. The car turned right on. And then we went to Subway while on the phone listening to my brother Robby tell me about my other brother’s upcoming extradition to face federal drug charges. Ah, back to normal, safe in my car.

I am filled to the gills with psychopharmaceutica! Between the mood stabilizers, the antidepressants, the dopamine blockers, and the string of vitamins I ingest every day, the fine folks at Blue Cross/Blue Shield are eating up my paycheck with copayments.

But does this all control my choking depression? Yes and no. This and that. Blue or red.

Oh my God. I just realized that I’m sort of dressed like Jo from “Facts of Life” today. I’ve got this powder blue v-neck on, with a striped men’s oxford underneath. with.the.tails.out, dogg! I save myself from total ’80s dykiness as I’ve paired these with bad-ass pants from target and four-inch boots. Actually, more than Jo, I’m just apeing some Bryn Mawr scholarship student.

When you hear a diner conversation start with “A year ago, Rosh Hashanah…” it might turn out bad, but it will be compelling. And you will finish all your pancakes.

Let’s revise that whole “dish ran away with the spoon” thing to say “the scarlet paint ran away with my box of checks.”

During Friday’s wine tasting, the drunken din was just too much for my sober ears and I had to check out for awhile. When I descended again, full of overdue Sex in the City tapes, the crowd was smaller but no less rowdy. And then the hookah. And then the headache.

This will not be at all interesting to you, but mainly for my reference. This is my week’s to-do list:

1) Finish painting dining room
2) Order box of checks
3) Um….
4) Do prelim garden planning
5) Re-caulk bathroom
6) Etc.

I love snaking clogged drains. If you need your drain snaked, I’m your gal.

Wow. It’s been one hard week. I’ve been terribly, hideously depressed for the first time in a long time. So sad that doing anything at all is just too much. But my ears have begun to pop and I think I’m asending. The surface will break soon.

Last night, we watched a Jell-O pudding commercial with a mother and a son. The son in no way resembles the mother. Not a bit. So as they happily stirred and chilled pudding, I imagined a few ways they could enjoy it later:

1) Snatch ‘n’ Grab

Mom: Your real mommy is dead. I’m your mommy now.
“Son”: Can you take me back to the mall now?
Mom: No, I’m your mommy now.
“Son”: (tears begin to fall)
Mom: And your name is now “Andy.” Eat your pudding.

2) You’re Adopted

Mom: Here, enjoy this bowl of Jell-O brand pudding.
Son: Chocolate!
Mom: Funny thing about chocolate, son, is that it’s sort of like your skin color. And see how Mommy’s skin is like her pudding.
Son: Your pudding is vanilla.
Mom: That’s right. I’m vanilla and you’re chocolate.
Son: We’re both yummy!
Mom: (clutching son with tears glistening) That’s right, baby. It doesn’t matter if we’re not the same; we’re both delicious!

3) Move over, Old Baby

Son: Pudding!
Mom: Here’s a spoon!
Son: Mmmm! Thanks, Mom!
Mom: You’re welcome! Hey, what would you think if a baby joined you, me, and Dad?
Son: No, I think things are fine the way they are.
Mom: Babies are great!
Son: No, this pudding is great!
Mom: Pudding is like babies! They are both good.
Son: Pudding is made out of babies? WHAT?
Mom: Let’s start over….

Have they found Spalding Gray yet?

I’ve been quieter than usual lately. Things are going on in my head and life that are taking my words away. Sometimes, it’s an effort to just shake my head yes or no. But I’m getting through.

Now, can someone pull the sugar away from me? It seems I’ve replaced one bad habit for another, as you do. But don’t let me eat any more sugar. It’s just not good for my perfect teeth.

She was starting to sweat. The temperature in the box had been increasing for several hours. It must be morning. She shifted around trying to get a more comfortable position but she had few options.

She could not remember how long she had been in the box. Days bled together as she grew weaker from lack of movement, sleep, air, water, everything.

Sometimes, she panicked. It would come on like a panther pouncing on its prey. In the dark, she fought to stop her breath from coming in deep shudders, to stop her screaming from burning in her ears.

But what she never did was look up. Because there, hidden in the dark, away from her seeking hands, was a handle. And she could have left the box so easily but did not know how.

It’s time again for my semi-annual haircut. I sort of want to chop the whole mop off because I don’t know what to do with it. I want to dye it but my office is pretty square. Maybe I’ll just go ponytail until the whole thing goes white and then falls out.

Oh, Dominick’s! I love the way you love me with your special turkey sammich with cranberry sauce. You little minx.

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