Friday, February 26, 2010

Pamphlematic

I can't help perusing the shopper pamphlets that are jammed in the mailbox every week. Of course, there are no real jobs in the help wanted section. Just work from home make a grand scams where they want you to fill out 500 surveys and then suddenly your inbox is inundated with spam. Then, there are the volunteer positions at local animal shelters, 'cause that's what I wanna do with my time as a I slowly starve to death. Work with dogs and cats who get generous food donations, blankets and someone to love them and take them out every hour to take a sh*t. Gotta love America.
So, back to the shopper mags. I am looking now at a Rite Aid insert and have found amusement in almost every deal promising to change your life because it's only 99 cents. Yeah, it's gonna take more than that to tip this sh*tboat on its head, let me be honest. Here are some of the deals I've found to be among the most optimistic in terms of product versus how product is advertised.
"Poise Pads and Depends--30-60 count" is labelled a "RED HOT SPECIAL", with little flames coming off of the letters. I am certain that the only thing red hot about that is if an elderly person got carried away with onions the night before at dinner time, around 5 p.m.

"Fill Up & FUEL Up" Apparently if you get your prescriptions switched to Rite Aid, they will give you $25 and a chance to win free gas for a year. That means you can buy the Benzos for awhile and the rest of your scripts you can go to Hudson for, without having to worry about filling the tank every time you run out of illegal aderall, etc.

Now there is a product called "Adult Acnomel" for supposed grown ups with acne. This one comes with a healthy rebate because it is $6.99--the rebate is, of course for the 99 cents (once again). No word as to the cause of adult acne, but I think it has something to do with increased obesity, insurmountable stress levels due to joblessness, and just a general feeling of "when will this f*cking end."

My most favorite product in the pamphlet, shopper, whatever you want to call it is, and I quote verbatim, "Anti-Monkey Butt Powder". I'm not really sure what it is because the product description seems a bit reticent. I can deduce from the microscopic words "friction fighter and sweat absorber" that this can only be a product for someone who insists on wearing a thong that is too tight, and has been for several years.
And yes, there is a picture of a monkey with two giant red balloon like butt cheeks. Awesome.

I think my next invention will be "Anti-Ass Brain Powder."

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Could you just....?

I had to go to a press conference in NYC yesterday. Well, technically, I didn't HAVE to go, but there wasn't any way in hell I was going to sit around in this greasy blizzard and peel my own skin off layer by layer.
Yes, the diagnosis is cabin fever, in case that wasn't blatantly obvious.
Anyway, I invited my mom to go, which never ceases to make me laugh. She was white-knuckling it all the way to the train station as trucks were flying by us. Mind you, she has a 4-wheel-drive car, the windshield wiper is going so fast I feel like I'm about to puke.
"Ma, you know, you could probably pick up the...."
"Nope, I can't, I can feel it under the wheels, we'll fishtail and that will be it."
My fatalist genetics seem a little less mysterious to me now.

So, after a 2-hour train ride in which my body realized it was hungry and hers remembered that it was crippled with Lyme disease, we got to Grand Central and needed to hit the bathroom. As we are entering the East Bathroom, an NYPD cop walks right in behind us. I thought that was weird, but my urge to pee literally drowned my common sense at the moment. I get into the stall to do my business and the smell hits me like a refugee camp in the heat. Someone in the stall next to me has forgotten to wash herself, and I mean EVERYTHING, about herself. I am peeing and gagging at the clammy smell and through the slits in the door I can see the cop standing outside the stall. That's when the screaming started, the gravelly voice in the stall next to mine.
"I didn't f*cking kill nobody! I hate this f*cking place!"
"Why don't you have any shoes on, ma'am. Were you sleeping in here?"
"Why would I sleep in a f*cking bathroom. I ain't doing nothing in here."
"You never are. Now c'mon get your shoes on and get out of the stall."

Let me tell you something, I stayed in that stall until all was clear. When I came out my mom was standing stunned at the sink.
"Let's go," I said, as if nothing happened.
As we were walking down Lexington in the pouring rain I was bragging about not bringing my cigarettes, how I left them in the car, etc.
Then I stopped in my tracks at the sweet smell of cigars and nutmeg. I forgot about the "gentleman's" shop halfway to East 69th. Of course, we went in, chatted with the manager, and I left with a pack of Dunhills (red, of course) and a smile. Surprisingly, my mom seemed delighted by the purchase.
"Where were they made?"
"London, Paris, you can't get them around here."
"Nice. You know everything French is back en vogue."
No judgment, just one clumsy lady with bad eyesight following the other with addictions and a hearing problem....

Monday, February 22, 2010

Spirals

If you watch a twisted piece of metal on a string, you'll see that when the wind blows it's hard to tell whether the metal is moving up or down. It is an illusion. The metal is just moving, not in any direction. Yet, as humans, even watching this simple motion of a summer mobile, we cast judgment upon its movement.
"It's definitely circling up."
"Nope, that thing is making it's way down. Like it wants to drill through the earth."
This speaks to the power of the lens through which we view, well, everything.
I sometimes can't help but think that the human lens is the fatal flaw, that what we see is inconsequential compared to the way we see. I am a naturally suspicious person. I'm using "natural" very loosely here because it isn't natural that through my life (as I am sure is the case with most people if you ask them) I have been abused, abandoned, disappointed, lied to, etc. And so, through this f*cked up lens, I see my brothers and sisters. Mistrust is at the helm, followed by assumption....you get the point. I want to wear a sign, one day when I have the guts, that says something like "I am a kicked puppy, please ignore my teeth and the way my eye twitches."
I think I'll start by taking the glasses off.

Friday, February 19, 2010

temperance is a blessing

We rolled in this morning at 3 a.m. after a night out with P-Funk. Sort of a nostalgia trip, seeing all the Yale buildings roll out over the abject poverty of the rest of the city. It doesn't help that it's been 10 years since I actually went to Yale, this compounded by the fact the I "celebrated" my 33rd year of existence yesterday.
I tell you what, feels like 43 or 93 due to lack of sleep. I don't regret cutting myself off after two drinks, otherwise I'd be heaving out the weight program of the century. Either way, you can't see P-Funk without dancing your feet raw and wanting to dry hump every body in the room. Just happens.
Of course, I still have my heavy make-up on from last night. Anna's first question after she dumped a container filled with cupcakes into my lap was "What the hell happened to you?"
"I got into a fight." I wanted to see if she would take the bait.
"Huh. Doesn't look like you won. Next time you shouldn't wear heels, I guess."

And that was that, followed by a few comments about my scrawny arms and how clumsy I am. Faith does have rational limits when one is 9. She may, in fact, be the most rational person in the house, which is a scary thought to say the least.

"Free your mind, and your ass will follow."

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Vacation? For who?

It is that horrible week come 'round again. The week in which the children are sent back into the fold for February vacation. It is only Tuesday and we are all ready to eat hand grenades. I would actually eat a Claymore if need be. The dialogue this morning would perk the ears of any social worker/concerned citizen.
"Mom, if you had a shotgun, I bet you'd shoot me. Wouldn't you?"
"Why do you say that, Lucian?" Of course, the child is covered with maple syrup which I am sure he will distribute into various pockets of the living room. And in a day or two I will sit down to play the piano and Middle C and all the notes surrounding will be covered with dog hair and sticky sh*t.
"Well, whenever I do something bad you get a look. And when I do something really bad your eyebrows go straight up."
"So what does that tell you then?"
"Not to look at you when I do something bad?"

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. I was hoping he'd come to the conclusion that perhaps he shouldn't do bad things, but, of course, he didn't make it that far. In fact, he then jumped from the table almost directly on to the dog and began using the dog's ears as reigns.

Anna, on the other hand, knows to keep her actions to herself. Then when no one is looking she takes out the metaphorical dagger and hacks away at things. Her mouth is also a main source of frustration for everyone in the house.
"Anna, you need to finish cleaning your room."
"No way. That's all I'm doing for today."
These are my Linda Blair moments where I can see myself spewing green vomit and jamming a crucifix into my....eye. But I don't, I don't reach out and grab her by the ear and drag her up the stairs so that I can throw her out the window along with ALL 90000000000 toys she has. Instead, in a calm voice laced with danger I simply say, "Anna, have you lost your mind, girl? Get your *ss back up there right now and clean that sty."
Usually that's all that's required. Usually.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

The year of our lord...1929ish

Well, it could not be avoided. We had to have a family get together sooner or later. At least this time it was with a kind of dysfunction that I totally understand. I may even love it, I'm not sure.
It is my grandmother's birthday today (she told me to tell everyone that she was 51 again, so that's what we're going with). This is my mother's mother, the "originator" so to speak, of all of this sardonic wit.
Plus she gave us all her terrible diarrhea problem which my Aunt A likes to call the "Watson trotsomes". I think it's apropos.
So, the gathering at dysfunction junction (or devil's pulpit, since there were several mentions of horns) begins first with Aunt A, as I am walking into the house, trying to peel open a bottle of wine.
"Hey, you're alive. How's the f*ck are you?" And immediately following this my Aunt P, who I affectionately call Fa gives me a quick hug and somehow a pair of pants materializes and she holds them up to me.
"What size are you, right now I mean, these don't even get past my thighs."
Mind you, this woman is skinnier even than me. In fact, I would venture to say that I am the "big girl" in the family at a hefty range below 130lbs.
At this point, of course, there is the running and screaming of children in greeting and the annoying little f*cking Sheltie that I want to kill with the bottom of my boot, but since my grandmother is convinced that he is her best friend, no go.
After A LOT of banter and many comments about how the tap water smells like egg (or ass, or a combination of the two), we are ready to eat, sort of.
Thing is, most of us at the table, exempting the men and most of the kids, have some form of an eating disorder. Never been diagnosed, but it's there. It was funny to watch everyone negotiated the other's plate. Funny in a sick way.
"I told you not to get me presents," was my grandmother's angry response.
"They're not presents, they're tokens of your age."
"Don't be fresh."
The evening ended with the cutting of the cake, which my half-crippled mother cut into pieces that were so small they needed to be torn away from each other, giving each piece a "bitten-off" look. Of course, while she is doing this she is laughing without breathing. For some strange reason she decorated the edge of the cake with teddy grahams in alternating directions.
My "69" comment sent her over the edge.
Happy Birthday, Nana Fiss Fiss.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Out of doge...NOW!

I got an e-mail from Expedia this morning. They are offering a 24-hour major "sale" on tickets and hotels to a city of your choice. I can honestly say that the urge to leave was very strong. And I still have until midnight to decide. Why would I leave, you ask, to go BY MYSELF to some far foreign reach for a few days.
If you have to ask, you're nuts and you should stop reading this right now.
I want to claw my own skin off, that's the truth of the matter. Winter has never been my strong suit, sh*t, I don't even have a snow suit. Here, in the midst of February (my birth month and sadly my least favorite month of the year), I am ready to bolt.
My main fear is that I will cancel the return ticket and send for the kids later on...when they're 20 or so. Just for a visit, no boyfriends or girlfriends. Just me, them, and a psycho-therapist well-trained in abandonment issues. With Paris as the backdrop.
Should be fun.
Any location suggestions would be welcome, I am seriously going and I have until midnight, so please, have at it.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Regression

My brother and I do a lot of texting and some talking depending on how drunk I am, how broke he is or what the status is on either of our packs of cigarettes. A recently common text, which I think we have saved so that we can send it out immediately is: "And the hits just keep on coming."
And sadly, they do. Like waves pounding on the sand that is begging for mercy. We volley the idea with each other, back and forth, wondering when the hits will subside for a bit, maybe the sea will be calm and we can take a picnic to the beach. No such luck.
Then it dawns on me. Maybe this is who we are. Maybe it's not the hits, but the reaction to the hits. Maybe, if we weren't so matter-of-fact and always wearing an ironic grin then it would ACTUALLY BE WORSE, Jesus help us!
That is an arresting thought. What if we didn't have a sense of humor? I'm guessing we wouldn't make it very far, at least not to 20 and certainly not to 30 and beyond. There must be some power in humor that I have overlooked until now. Sick power for sure, but power nonetheless.
What most families refer to as "the incident" my brother simply says, "Oh, you mean the time I tried to off myself, yeah, that was dumb." What other families try to explain away, we confront with reckless abandon. "Of course the father is black, what the hell do you think, I stole her?"
I could go on, and I will, at some point, in a book entitled: How to Laugh Your Way Through Hell.

Friday, February 5, 2010

Killing me softly.....

Writing is giving me stomach cramps. And whatever naturally (feels pretty unnatural) follows stomach cramps. I'm trying to decide if it's my body's way of telling me to get the f*ck out of the writing world or to just let go and dive into the concrete pool. I was at the Bookloft last night and no sooner had I picked up a copy of "Ploughshares" when I started to sweat and was fighting back the urge ditch the book and "drop" my anxiety into the Price Chopper bathroom. Fortunately, I talked myself down and there was no need to purchase Depends or new underwear, but still. What is going on?
"It's your personality. You come by it honestly," was my mother's response. This after telling me she was worried that the kids would mistake acid tabs for stickers and put them on the their body. Since acid is the new drug of choice at the high school.
I wonder why I'm nervous all the time. Thanks for the heads up, Mom. Now I can lie awake even longer and think about Lucian's mind getting fried by LSD before he hits first grade. Awesome. See, I almost have to use the bathroom....again.
I'm fooling myself, actually. I know why it makes me sick....because I have to do it. I just got a short story published and some poems I wrote have made it out the door. Now, the pressure is on for me to keep going, and as you know, keeping going ain't easy. Not like this.
If you can think of any other thing to do in your life, stay away from writing. It's not glamorous. Look at all of the authors we hail as America's literati; Hemingway shot himself with a double barrel, Annie Proulx lost custody of ALL FOUR of her kids, Nathaniel Hawthorne locked himself in his attic for 13 years then married an S&M queen, Raymond Carver's life enacted itself on the inside of a halfway house and then in a hellish marriage, and what about all the guys who wrote the bible?! What must their lives have been like that they needed to piece together chapters about giving up your daughter to a gang rape, some dude sleeping in the belly of a whale, nearly cutting your son's throat...
Yeah, sounds like fun. I think I'll stick to pick-up trucks, alcoholic indians and coffee.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Poor rodent

So, the groundhog saw his shadow. Of course he saw his f*cking shadow it was partly sunny and that's what happens.
What I find truly amazing is that over 30,000 people came out at 7 o'clock in the morning to watch a groundhog sh*t himself at seeing his own shadow and knowing he was being watched by tens of thousands of people. What were those people doing? I'm assuming they were all unemployed and very bored, not to mention cold. It was 15 degrees outside.
The verdict of this strange ritual; 6 more weeks of winter. How do you figure?
And we call ourselves a rational society...wow. Rodent watching, jobless soothsayers who will go from worshiping a beaver to worshiping two football teams while tanking out on wings, nachos, beer and flashing boob images.
And we wonder why we're slipping as a country and a culture.
Did I mention that NBC is so desperate for cash that they sold a Superbowl ad slot to a pro-life organization? Yup. Right as you take that big, cold swallow of beer an unborn fetus will flash on the screen.
Amazing. Simply amazing. Can't wait for the halftime show when Taylor Swift and Beyonce flash their nipples and lip sink and dry hump their way through a Stones song.
We need a new national anthem.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Would-be men

My son punched his own tooth out yesterday. Fortunately it was loose already and also fortunately the little guy has a great sense of humor and appreciation for the ironic. Still, he punched out his own tooth.
"Hey, MOM!!! My other front tooth is gone." He smiled at me, the blood still fresh on his mouth. For a brief, heart stopping second I thought he had punched out his recently acquired adult tooth.
"Wow, that's great, Bud. More money from the tooth fairy, huh?"
"Actually, I wish you guys would call me Sport."
"Um, OK, Sport. Sorry."
"Do you think the tooth fairy is going to give me five bucks, or maybe more this time because I punched it out?"
"I think the rates are fixed, Bu---uh, Sport."

And so, right as sleep nearly crept in, Jon sat up in bed, as millions of parents do, and said "Oh, sh*t, the tooth."
We then scrambled in the dark for money. I pulled a one-dollar-bill out of my wallet and Jon shook his head.
"No, no, that's not enough. I've been giving him fives."
"What the fu---fives?! That seems like a lot for a little rotted, nasty tooth."
"Inflation."
"Right."
So, now Lucian has about 20 bucks sitting on his dresser. He wants to give five to the Haiti fund at school and keep the rest "for a big toy."
I do not have the heart to tell him that $15 will not get him a big toy. It won't get him a big anything. In fact, I think the 5 bucks will go further.