Fat Prayer

I read something hilarious the other day. And I'm a huge jerk, because I cannot recall what I was reading or who wrote it. So, my deepest apologies to the brilliant person who I am about to paraphrase, and if any of my readers know the source, PLEASE share that information with me so that I can give credit where it is very due.

This thing I read discussed how using the term "douchebag" to describe an obnoxious man makes no sense. The author then suggested this would be very similar to calling an obnoxious woman a penis trough. I laughed for a solid five minutes and resolved to use this term when it became appropriate.

Well, folks, I met a penis trough the other day.

I was at work in the store, when I spotted a lost-looking customer. I asked if she was finding everything all right. She said yes, that we had the item she was looking for, which was great because she'd been having a hard time finding it. So far, so good. Then, she told me she had lost weight. And handed me this:

Being polite, I congratulated her on her success. She then said "I teach a weight loss class, you know."

Well, I knew right away where this was going. "Excellent. I have to get back to work."

"You should stop by sometime."

"Yeah, thanks, have a nice day."

"I'd like to give you a prayer."

"No, thank you."

Penis Trough then set her papers down on the cart I was working off and happily walked away.

Now, I'm sure this woman thought she was doing a lovely thing. Oh, here's a person I can help by sharing the word! However, the reality of the situation is that this was an horrendously rude and utterly offensive thing to do. Let's break down the levels of offensiveness.

Proselytizing. Look, folks, it's not cool. Now, I don't mean it's not okay to share your viewpoint with people you know or even strangers you find yourself in a conversation with at a party.  It's not even bad to offer to share your religion with somebody you care for. However, you can do this without proselytizing. It's great if you have religious beliefs, and it's great if you feel comfortable openly discussing these beliefs. It is not okay, however, to charge up to strangers and say "My religion is right and, even though I don't know what yours is, it's wrong." How pissed off would Penis Trough be if I had done the opposite to her? If I walked up to her at her place of work and said "Hi. I don't know what your religious affiliation is, but let me tell you why the Judeo-Christian mythology is hokey nonsense!" it would be fair for her to punch me in the face. It would be so excruciatingly rude of me to do such a thing. That holds true for a Christian person trying to change the beliefs of a Jewish person, a Hindu, an atheist, or a member of any religion (or rejection thereof).

Let's move on the presumptuousness that I'm interested in your help losing weight. Maybe, just maybe, I'm happy with my looks. Maybe I have great hair and incredible breasts. Or maybe I'm not so shallow that the way I look is the only thing I care about. Maybe I'm concerned about being good at my job; something that you're actively interfering with when you interrupt me at work to call me fat and try to introduce me to this new and interesting concept of God. 

But let's play that a different way. Let's assume that I am unhappily fat and that I do believe in God. Maybe I belong to the same religion as you. Maybe I even go to your church. Maybe I just sneak in and sit at the back because I'm so ashamed of my appearance that I don't want to be an affront to God by dragging my fatness into His house. "Well, that's stupid." No. It's what you've just suggested to me. You've just suggested that God doesn't love me and I'm fat as punishment. That my not-traditionally perfect body is a punishment for not believing what you believe. That would make your God pretty petty, wouldn't it? I'm Baptist, but God wants me to be Methodist, so I'm fat. PETTY. Furthermore, how do you know I'm not praying? How do you know I don't go home and cry every night until I can get up the nerve to go to church and pray to God that my body is different? Oh, that's right. You don't, because you don't fucking know me.

Have you ever shot a fish in a barrel? Seen a helpless little creature that you know can't fight back against you or escape, and giggled in delight while firing bullets at it? Oh, does that sound incredibly cruel? Well, cornering somebody while they're at work in their customer service job and saying extremely offensive things to them is remarkably similar. If a missionary comes to my door at my home to talk to me about why their religion is best (even though they don't know what mine is), and tells me that until I look different, I'm undeserving of God's love, I can slam the door in their faces. I can sic my dog on them. I can just tell them to go fuck themselves. I can snark at them; I can fuck with them. I can tell them off for their presumptuousness. At work, though? I can't do anything. I can stand there and listen to this offensive bullshit, or I can get fired for punching you. Yep. That's the love and respect God wants you to show your fellow man. Forcing them to choose between being insulted or losing their livelihood. Well done. You win at compassion.

Now, I have to touch on the text on the images. "Watching Life at 334 Pounds." Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know being overweight meant I wasn't alive. Shockingly, despite your assumption I'm the fattest of sea cows and desperately need your help, I do not weight that much. However, I do not believe that gaining that extra weight would make me a non-entity. Pretty sure I would still have friends. I'd still enjoy having my pets. And I would still have *gasp* sex. Would still be in love with my partner. Still be a good a daughter. I'd still read and carry on conversations with people about what I read. My weight doesn't stop me from doing a damn thing except wearing a particular clothing size. But I appreciate your candor and further insults that not only does my fatness mean that God doesn't love me; I'm also less of a person. 

And here's the really amusing part of it, Penis Trough. Your face was really cute when you were heavier. But I'm glad you're happy you traded that cute face for a bad tan. I'll come visit you when you're receiving treatments for your impending melanoma, and I'll be sure to remind you that you just need to accept somebody else's religious beliefs.

I Wanted a Puppy...

A few years ago, my grandfather become very, very ill. (This would be the husband of my grandmother, of robbing Royalty Ranch fame.) Concerned that he might not make it through, my then-boyfriend (Nerfherder, as many of my readers know him) and I hopped in the car and made the four hour drive to visit him in the hospital.

Now, my grandpa has always been...goofy. In an hilarious, lovable way, of course. He has always been known for saying the most ridiculous crap you could ever hear. My mother and grandmother are both very squeamish about anything being on or near their neck, which includes whispering in their ears. My grandpa has always loved sneaking up behind them and doing his frog impersonation in their ears. He used to make up bizarre songs about such things as feeding gingerbread to pet monkeys. The basic summary here is, Grandpa's weird. To the point where, now that he's getting older, people sometimes mistake his humour as confusion or dementia.

When Nerfherder and I arrived at the hospital, my mom and grandma were sitting by my grandpa's bed. Nerfhereder and I pulled up some chairs and joined them. I don't recall exactly how this came up, but we somehow got to talking about when my mother was born. Grandpa suddenly got a very upset look on his face and glared at my grandmother. "She lied to me!" he said accusingly.

Nerfherder and the nurse, who had just entered the room, looked nervous. Here we had been, having a happy conversation about this couple's second child being born, and now this elderly man is accusing his loving wife of being a liar. But my grandmother has always known better than to take what he says at face value.

"What sort of nonsense are making up now, Barry?" Grandma asked.

"I'm not making anything up!" he replied, his face beaming with disingenuous animosity. "You lied, Dot! You told me we were going to the hospital to get a puppy!"

Nerfherder and the nurse looked terrified, while my mother and I were cracking up. The two non-family members thought my grandfather had just insulted my mother horribly, and he was just getting started:

"I didn't want some stinky baby. I never would have come with her if I'd known she was going to have a baby! I wanted that puppy!I tried to sneak away and take that baby to the pound to work out a trade, but Dot never let me alone with her long enough!"

At this point, it was obvious the nurse was thinking about interjecting but wasn't sure how to go about it. Nerfherder had begun to be amused, but still thought my grandfather was being serious, so he didn't dare laugh. After all, this man was pushing ninety and had been showing signs of confusion, and surely nobody would say they wanted a puppy instead of their own child! Meanwhile, my mother, grandmother, and I were wiping tears of laughter from our faces. That's when my grandfather turned, looked Nerfherder straight in the eyes and said, completely deadpan, "I really wish I'd gotten that puppy."

Nerfherder looked like he had been sucking on a lemon. He had his lips sucked into his mouth and was shaking slightly in his attempts to stifle laughter. My mother managed to stop laughing long enough to say "Nerf, you can laugh. He knows exactly what he's saying!"

Nerfherder and the nurse then joined in the laughter. A few minutes later, my grandpa was getting sleepy and motioned for my mother to come close. She leaned down towards the bed, putting her ear near my tired grandpa's mouth, and we could hear from the other side of the room, "Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrribbit."

If your take-away from this story is anything other than "Roz's grandparents are fantastic," you should read it a few more times. They're the best.

Sitting Here, Thinking About Food

I really like Melissa McCarthy. Not only is she talented and funny, she's freaking adorable! As a feminist, I'm happy to see genuinely funny women being successful in comedy. As a person who thinks talent trumps physicality, I love to see larger people succeeding in a business that used to be boring and irritating because it was full of traditionally "attractive" people who couldn't act their way out of a paper bag. I realize, and am thrilled, that Melissa McCarthy is not the only larger lady who is gaining success. I can't figure out where in the Hell Adele was hiding for so long, but man am I glad she made an appearance. Rebel Wilson? Hilarious. Tess Munster? Oh, how I love Tess Munster. That girl is gorgeous and she rocks her body. If you folks aren't familiar with her, look her up. She is somebody you should all definitely be aware of. Have you seen Roseanne lately? I know she was known for portraying a semi-"white trash" character, but when I see her now, all I can think is "Damn, is that one classy looking lady!" I have always found her to be hilarious - if you haven't read her autobiography, go get it! Catherine Tate has always given me some serious hair envy while making me roll on the floor laughing. And sometimes bawl like a baby, depending on the work. And she may be the ultimate proof that physicality and talent have no relation on each other. She's slimmed down, but is exactly as talented and funny as before. No more, no less. I have *the biggest* celebrity crush on James Corden, because, seriously, go try to find a cuter man than James Corden. But I'm not talking about men right now.

Sorry, had to take a "look at photos of James Corden" break. *Dreamy Sigh*

So, if I'm not blathering about James Corden, what is the point of this? The point is, as much as I love that Melissa McCarthy is having success in all of her adorable funniness, she kind of pisses me off with the work she accepts. I just saw a commercial for the new movie she's in, and oh, look, there's the fat girl, talking about food, and how she's going to eat all of the food. Because, y'know, that's all us fat girls do. If we're not sitting at home alone, eating food, we're sure talking about food! I love her on Mike and Molly, where she plays an actual person with a job, a boyfriend/fiance/husband, friends, dreams, aspirations, etc., etc. And I acknowledge that TV allows for more depth of character than movies do - that's one of the reasons I prefer TV to movies. But here's the thing about fat girls: we're people. We have jobs, partners, friends, dreams, aspirations, intelligence, and conversations about all of the above. Aside from ordering at a restaurant or grocery shopping with the boyfriend, I can list on one hand the number of conversations I've had about food in the past year. And if we don't include politely listening as a friend details the menu she has planned for her wedding, what type of cake is best to serve at a birthday party, and "I'm at work in the grocery department and we're out of eggs!" I can probably count these incidents on one finger.

I'm going to do quick little experiment and grab my phone to see my most recent text conversations.

• Boyfriend and I discussing how our cats are going to get along when we're all living together in a month (Follow that saga here: Jerk Tips For Cats)
• Teasing work friend about a customer who obviously has a crush on her
• Mom saying she may have to go out of town
• Work friend asking me to go over to her place to hang out
• Close friend and I making plans to hang out today
• "Hey, Marty, let's write a horror movie together!"
• Social commentary on the lower-class area we were driving through
• Friday the 13th!
• Harry Potter

So, am I doing being fat wrong? None of these conversations were about "Eat all the food!" Yet, Melissa McCarthy, that beautiful, funny woman, keeps perpetuating that stereotype. And it's such a stupid stereotype! I don't know about the rest of you larger ladies, but I find it demeaning. "Oh, you're larger in stature? You must do nothing but eat! I mean, even if you take short breaks from eating, you must think about food all the time!" Yeah...I'm also a woman. That doesn't mean I spend all of my time either menstruating or thinking/talking about menstruating. (And yes, what just happened in my head is an imaginary 30 Rock bit in which Jenna Maroney, playing the Overly Confident Morbidly Obese Woman, is eating a sandwich, whilst saying "I like brownies! I can eat more brownies than you! Me want fooooood! Oh no! My period!") 

I'm a person. I have a job. I have dreams, some of them about having a better job. I go out with my friends. I like taking my dog for long walks. I am deeply in love with a man with whom I get physical. When I'm not recovering from ankle surgery, I really enjoy going to the gym. Do I eat? Sure. Is that the main focus of my life? No. And I find it really offensive when people assume it is. So Melissa, you beautiful, funny lady, please stop a stereotype fat moron who only talks about food and farts. You're better than that.

Now, I'm going to go find my favorite James Corden interview on The Graham Norton Show.

The Haunting of my Apartment Complex

A few years ago, I suddenly found myself unemployed. This sent me into a pretty severe depressive episode. While I was unemployed, my days consisted of a pretty regular pattern: Print copies of my resume, walk the dog, go to an interview or two, walk the dog, apply for jobs online, fall asleep on the couch, walk the dog, wake up, walk the dog, watch a floppity jillion horror movies, walk the dog. In case you, dear readers, couldn't determine this from my blog being called "The Garbled Babbling of an Insomniac," I don't sleep well. I particularly don't sleep well at night. It's typically quite rare for me to sleep during the psychic hours. My brief period of unemployment was no exception to this. Because of this, I frequently take my dog for his long walk around three or four in the morning. During this time, a series of crazy, creepy events occurred.

One night during unemployment, I decided it would be brilliant to power watch all of the "Paranormal Activity" movies that were available at the time, which was only three. I finished up PA3 around 3 a.m., which meant it was time to walk the dog. I called my bestie, Jocelyn (my late night phone calls are the only time I'm glad she lives in a later time zone than myself), so I had somebody to talk to while I was walking the dog. We walked around for about twenty minutes before Lenny (the dog) stopped to sniff some things and be a dog. While he was dogging it up, I was yapping away on my phone. Suddenly, I glance up, and see this bizarre, blue-ish face in the window of the closest building, about only five feet from the sidewalk, staring intently at me. It's eyes met mine, and I was overcome with a sense of horror. Then a horrible, blue-ish hand reached up and towards the window. I was certain I was going to die. Then that horrible, ghastly hand slammed the window shut. My logic kicked in. I had been standing outside somebody's open bedroom window at 3 in the morning, talking on my phone, and had woken up my neighbor. The look hadn't been one of malice, it had been one of...well, maybe malice, but justifiable malice, as I had woken this person up and stupid o'clock. My neighbor had an eerie, blue appearance because she had turned on her television.

A few days later, I took Lenny out for another 3 a.m. walk. This time, I was on the phone with my mother, who also prefers to be awake at night. Explaining the architecture of my apartment building is a little tricky. There are two doors. The back door opens into a sort of common area like you might find around college dorms. When I take Lenny for short walks, we go out the back door, go around this courtyard, then walk around the attached buildings, making a wide circle in order to enter through my building's front door. The front door is in sort of alcove. The door itself is set back about twelve feet, with the apartments jutting out that distance. On this particular night, Lenny was getting a short walk. As we rounded the corner of the building and started towards the front door, I saw a flutter of something white and transparent flitting from the alcove. Then something misty appeared, floating a little higher than that white transparency. Panic. Complete and utter panic. I felt as though my heart were in my throat. But Lenny was okay with this. He wasn't bothered. In fact, he kept pulling me forward. He was ANXIOUS to reach this apparition. So I proceeded forward. The mist continued to float as we got closer and closer to the alcove. The white transparency sporadically fluttered, making itself visible. Finally, as Lenny was dragging me to that alcove, I saw the source of the mysterious substances. My neighbor, who I'll call Carla, was standing outside, leaning against the wall of the alcove. She was wearing her light-weight, white nightgown, smoking a cigarette. I had a really hard time explaining to her why I couldn't stop laughing.

A lot of weird little things like this happened outside of my building, always easy to explain, and always really funny in retrospect. However, after two years, I still haven't been able to explain why the lightbulb in my closet literally exploded as soon as I hung up the phone from talking to my friend Marty about Ronald DeFeo, Jr., the young man who killed his family in the home George and Kathy Lutz would later purchase, and would soon become the subject of The Amityville Horror, or what caused the loud knocking sounds on the walls of my apartment - the common wall to Shawn's apartment, the wall against the common hallway, and both external walls...

Easter Bunny Says Go Do the Laundry!

Happy Easter, to those of you who celebrate. I don't, so I find it quite strange that I'm about to post a second Easter-related entry.

My mother is a really fun, intelligent, creative person. She loved having children, because she got to do these neat, fun, creative things. My sister, Liza, is four years older than me. One year when we very young, probably 2 and 6, my sister asked for a new radio for Easter. My mom organized a scavenger hunt. She wrote clues on index cards and hid the index cards around the house and yard.

Mom handed Liza the first card, which instructed her to go out to the see-saw. The card at the see-saw instructed her to check under her pillow. The card under her pillow sent her to the backyard again to check the tire swing. Then back inside to the bread box. Then back outside to the playhouse. Then back inside. Back outside. Inside. Outside. Liza ran back and forth for over an hour, until she got a clue that instructed her to go to the basement. The final card read "You've reached the end of the scavenger hunt. The Easter Bunny left you this present." And there was a chocolate-covered raisin, sitting on top of the card.

Liza burst into tears and started bawling, "The Easter Bunny left me a turd!"

My mom, trying to not give it away, said "Turn the card over."

"NOOOOO! The Easter Bunny hates me! He made me run back and forth for over an hour, and all he left me was a bunny turd!"

"Honey, it's okay. Just turn the card over."

It took some convincing, but my mom finally got my sister to turn the card over. On the back was written "Now go do the laundry."

"WHY DOES THE EASTER BUNNY HATE ME SO MUCH?! I ALREADY RAN BACK AND FORTH AND ALL HE LEFT ME WAS A TURD! NOW I HAVE TO DO CHORES FOR HIM?!"

My mom hugged my sister, trying to calm her down, then said "Honey, do what the Easter Bunny says."

"NO!"

So my mom took my sister's hand and led her to the laundry room. Liza, still bawling, needed a lot of convincing to lift the lid of the washing machine, but her tune quickly changed.

"MY RADIO!"

Yep. My mom had hidden her radio in the empty washing machine. However, she did not play that particular game with us on any other Easter. And I know what Mom's getting for Christmas this year!

DFTBA!

Oh, Hank and John Green. They bring much education and joy into my home. And while I'm a huge fan of John, I definitely favor Hank.

Last night, I had a dream that Hank and John Green were my brothers. One dream night, we went out for dream dinner with my real-life sister (who I'll call Liza) and her real-life husband (who I'll call Clark), as well as a few other people. At dream dinner, Liza picked some sort of fight with me. I don't remember about what, but I remember it was really hurtful and awful. Then she threw something at me, which led to me screaming angrily. This led to all of the other women at the table telling me I was a horrible, insane bitch. So I got up and left. 

Sitting in my dream car, I got a dream text from dream brother Hank, telling me dream our sister had left and that he wanted me to come back. So I returned to dream restaurant, where Hank was waiting for me by the door. Just inside the door, dream Hank gave me the warmest, most loving hug I've ever dream experienced, and walked me back to the table. Sitting with my dream brothers, much happiness and fun was had.

In reality, I woke up warm and cozy in the loving arms of Le Boyfriend, who was wide awake and had likely been watching some Vlog Brothers while I was sleeping. I could make some speculation about how, even though Le Boyfriend is incredible and I love him dearly, I feel rather lonely and abandoned. I moved 45 minutes away two years ago, and most of my "closest friends" have never bothered to come down and visit. I had ankle surgery about two weeks ago and expressed repeatedly beforehand that I was going to be lonely and wanting company, yet very few people from "home" have come to see me, and literally none of the friends I've made much closer to my new home have come over. My sister hasn't so much as called me. So it would be easy to speculate that this dream was forged in loneliness, because no matter how awesome my boyfriend and his family and friends are, no matter how much I love them, I want the people I care about to care about me too. The dream fight? Anger that those people give no indication that they do care. The being dream-shunned? The guilt of not feeling Le Boyfriend is enough. Hank Green being my dream brother? He amuses me and I think we would have fun conversations. John Green being my other dream brother? Same reason. 

However, I think the simple explanation is I watch too many Hank Green videos, was thrashing in my sleep a bit, and the boyfriend hugged and comforted me in my sleep. Either way, I enjoyed waking up in his arms. Now, enjoy this link to a video of Hank Green talking about the psychology of dreams in a Crash Course video. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rMHus-0wFSo

Randym Cyrcumstance Has an Album!

As many of you know from my geeking out over Leigh Whannell, I will promote the stuffings out of artists that I like for no benefit to myself. This is one of those times!

Two funny men with incredible voices make up the not-always-family-friendly band Randym Cyrcumstance. They perform a great range of music. They met working the Renaissance Festival circuit, and some of their songs are Ren Fest based. Others are just straight comedy. Some are beautiful, deep original creations. Some are beautiful covers. They really dig Simon and Garfunkel. :-) Anyway, check them out. It'll be $10 well spent, I promise.

http://kunaki.com/Sales.asp?PID=PX00ZWPSVK

Grandma Robbed Royalty Ranch

My grandmother is the sweetest person in the world. She's adorable. I don't recall her ever not looking like a sweet TV grandmother (obviously, this doesn't apply to photos). Grandma's 85 now, and as such has begun to lose some height, but the tallest I ever recall her being is 5' even (that probably wasn't different even in old photos). I don't recall her ever having any color to her hair, just really pretty, silver hair, and always cut very, very short. She is by no means fat, but she's got a bit of a tummy. She just looks like a sweet, old grandma. My grandpa just looks like your stereotypical elderly Swedish man - tall, rail thin, ears that grow two inches a day :-) To further their adorableness, my grandparents frequently split items when they have meals. I've never seen either of them have a whole can of soda to themselves - they split their cans of soda evenly.

About ten years ago, my grandparents, then 75 and 79, went into a Royalty Ranch in the tiny town they live in. They ordered a Junior Whomp-Whomp meal. They took their food back to their table, started dividing their french fries, then realized they were going to need to cut the burger to split it. So, 75-year-old, five feet tall, slightly unstable on her feet Grandma got up and walked back up to the counter. The 6'2", fairly buff, 18-year-old Royalty Ranch employee walked over and asked from the other side of the counter. Grandma, in her tiny sweetness, asks "Can I have a knife?"

Royalty Ranch employee throws his hands up and takes a small step back from the counter. "Absolutely, ma'am. Anything you want."

It took Grandma a moment realize he had misheard her, at which point she gasped in horror and quickly explained the situation. "No! No, no, no! Honey, I'm asking for a plastic knife. To cut my burger with. I do not have a knife. I don't want to hurt you or take anything. I just want to cut my burger."

Royalty Ranch employee breathed a heavy sigh of relief and handed her a plastic knife. Grandma, trying hard not to laugh, returned to the table where Grandpa was waiting...with the local Sheriff, a friend who had sat down to chat with him while Grandma "tried to rob Royalty Ranch."

I'd like to mention, by the way, that as adorable and misguided as the employee's reaction was, good for him. I'm glad he wouldn't have thought "Oh, I can take her" and put everybody in the restaurant in possible jeopardy. Over reaction? Absolutely. But if he thought there was a legitimate threat, his reaction was completely correct.

My Dog Can't Read Your Stupid Sign, You Idiot

I spent the vast majority of my time in high school with my two best friends, Jocelyn and Karl. We had a great many stories, each more hilarious than the last. The following is one of my favorites.

The three of us were sitting in my car in Karl's parents' driveway. Jocelyn looked over and saw a sign, spray-painted on a piece of scrap wood. It's been about 12 years so I don't remember exactly what the sign said. But Jocelyn read it out loud and it was something in the vein of:

"Dear Idiots,
"My dog can't read your stupid sign, you morons. You're a waste of space and that's a waste of a sign. Screw you!"

Jocelyn looked confused, and asked, "My God. What does your sign say to illicit such an angry response?"

Karl sighed, rolled his eyes, and replied flatly "Keep off the grass."

Dry Socket To Me!

I had my wisdom teeth removed when I was 18 years old, as many people do. I have a fair amount of anxiety (okay, overwhelming), so the days leading up to the procedure were naturally much worse than the procedure itself. Here's how the time line kind of went:

Two Years Before: "What's this in the back of my mouth? Are these the crowns of new teeth? Blerg."

18 Months Before: "Hey, my wisdom teeth haven't come in any further. I wish they'd do something. My gums kind of hurt."

A Year Before: My friend's high school boyfriend, who I'll call Graeme, had his wisdom teeth taken out. The oral surgeon discovered after the surgery that Graeme had some nerves that had grown in oddly, and had wrapped around his teeth. He lost feeling in his face - to my knowledge, he never regained feeling. He was out of school for weeks because there was so much swelling that he couldn't speak, he couldn't brush his teeth, and he couldn't stop drooling. His twin sister was in my Spanish class, and she came to school making fun of him EVERY DAY that he was out. I proceeded to panic and vowed that I would never have my wisdom teeth taken out. I shouldn't need to. After all, they started breaking through a year ago and have made no progress yet.

Six Months Before: My friend's dad told me a story about having his wisdom teeth taken out. He insisted that he woke up mid-surgery with the oral surgeon's hands in his mouth and THE SURGEON'S FOOT ON HIS CHEST! True or not, screw that! Never doing it!

Three Months Before: Routine cleaning time! And the jerk dentist said those horrible words: "It's time to start thinking about getting your wisdom teeth out."

Three Months to One Month Before: AUGGGGGHHHHHHHH! NONONONONONONONONONO!

One Month Before: Scheduled Wisdom Teeth Extraction. I was reassured I would be put under general anesthetic. I began calming down.

One Week Before: I went to the Oral Surgeon for my pre-operative appointment. We discussed the procedure I would undergo. I tried to bolt; my mother caught me. Then, in what the surgeon claimed was a guarantee that I would make an informed decision, but was clearly an act of psychological torture, I was shown a video detailing the more common risks and dangers of the surgery. I left sobbing.

Six Days Before Through the Day Of: "I'm not doing it. Absolutely not. No. Mom, why haven't you cancelled that appointment yet? I'm not doing it."

Two Hours Before Surgery: "Nope. I'm not getting in the car because I'M NOT DOING IT!!!"

One Hour Before Surgery: Further histrionics in the car.

Ten Minutes Before: "VALIUM!!!!!!!!!!!"

Nine Minutes Before: "Oooh, that helped."

During Surgery, as I woke up with the oral surgeon's hands in my mouth: "NO! STOP! MOTHER FUCKER! I'M AWAKE! I'M AWAKE! GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OUT OF MY MOUTH, I'M AWAKE! STOP STOP STOP!"

"Honey, it's over. That's not the doctor's hands. That's gauze. You're fine."

"Oh. Can I go home now?"

Twenty Minutes After: My mom took me to 7-Eleven for a banana Slurpee. Yay, Mom!

The rest of the day: A lot of eating KFC whipped potatoes.

The following day: My best friend, who I'll call Karl, and I decided we needed to drive two hours to go see another high school's production of "Footloose." We stopped and picked up Karl's friend, who I'll call Dave, who I was meeting for the first time. I was still a little loopy from the painkillers and sitting in the backseat, eating mini-marshmallows, chewing them with my front teeth. We then drove the remaining hour to the high school, only to find out the show was sold out. Well, blerg. So, we drove back to Dave's, hung out there for a bit, then went to Denny's, where I couldn't resist cheese fries. After watching me eat a plate of cheese fries while only chewing with my front teeth, I have no idea why Dave ever spent any time with me again, but he did and I've come to cherish him as a friend.

So, pretty traumatic for me. Here's how much time, attention, and stress went into my ex's wisdom teeth extraction when we were 24.

Day Before: "Oh, hey, I'm getting my wisdom teeth out tomorrow."

Two Hours Before: "K, I'm off to the dentist."
"Okay, good luck! I love you! Let me know when you're home! I'll come over and take care of you."
"Yeah, whatever."

Immediately after surgery: "Oh, cool, am I done? Hey, Dad, can we stop at KFC?"
"Sure. Do you just want some mashed potatoes?"
"No. I want a Famous Bowl!"

And he ate it. Fried battered chicken, corn nibblets, and all.

Seven Years Later, Still Grateful

When I was a child, I had a cat who I love very much. Note I did not make that past-tense. I still love this cat. Always will. My childhood was not in any means the best of childhoods. There was a lot of loneliness and a lot of feeling shunned. But I had Goose. The day I broke my ankle for the first time, Goose stayed next to me all day. When I was three and had a stomach virus and threw up on Goose, he just cat-shuddered and started to clean himself off (he was very grateful when my mother cleaned him with a wet washcloth). Sometimes my older sister was mean, because that's what older sisters do. Goose would respond by randomly chasing her through the house. I could go on and on and on about this, but I think you guys get the point.

When I was 21 and Goose was 18, he got sick because he was pretty old for a cat. Our vet, who is a tremendous person, didn't even suggest that unthinkable option, and just told me to take Goose home and take care of him. We had a few good last days together, even though he obviously wasn't feeling well. When he started struggling to breathe, I knew it was almost time. I picked him and took him to bed. I lay down with him, cuddling him, holding him to the very end. I told him it was okay, that I would love him forever, that I knew he was tired and had to go. He died peacefully in my arms. I then sobbed hysterically for two hours, and continued to cry for several days after. It's been seven years, and I'm still tearing up writing this. I love him and I miss him to this day.

I had ankle surgery yesterday and am in a lot of pain today. I'm really missing Goose right now. I know if he were here, he would have been by side since the moment I got home. He would have been purring, transmitting the healing sound waves to my body, and just keeping me company.

I walked past his grave tonight with Le Boyfriend, and told him about the most amazing thing another person has done for me.

When Goose died, a good friend of mine was living about 5 hours away and was very pregnant and unable to come be with me. However, she called me and asked what she could do. She asked if she could have her brother come help me bury him. I said yes, because I didn't think it was something I could do.

So, my friend's brother, who I'll call Howie, came over after working a long shift at his retail job. It was raining when he arrived, but without hesitation, he grabbed a shovel and began digging in the spot where I asked him to, rather near the house. Howie dug and dug and dug, and about a foot short of being able to set Goose's casket into the grave, Howie hit the foundation of the house. It was still raining as Howie filled that mostly dug grave back in, and it continued to rain when we went to the second best spot I could think of. Howie dug a second grave. My mom had found a perfect casket for Goose, and I had wrapped him in his favorite fleece throw blanket before placing him in it. Howie gently put that casket in the second grave, rain still pouring down on us, then waited while I placed a dozen roses in the grave and said a tearful good-bye, waited while I tossed in the first handful of dirt, then filled the grave in. He then held me and let sob on him for a good ten minutes.

It's been seven years since the worst 24 hours in my life. And I just want Howie to know I've never forgotten what he did for me that night; what he seemed to not even realize was a big deal and a tremendous thing to do. I deeply appreciate my friend's response of expressing how much she wished it was possible to be with me and for doing the most helpful thing anybody could do for me in that moment. And I will never cease to appreciate that Howie dug the grave at all, but all of the inconvenience he went through. He dug Goose's grave for me. In the rain. TWICE.

Thank you, Howie, for your compassion that night.

Easter Bastards

A few years ago, around Easter time, my sister put a small package together for our Aunt. I don't recall exactly what this box contained, but it had some form of Easter candy in it. My sister may have even put some Easter grass in the box. She put our Aunt's address on the box, our address for the return address, and then wrote a note on the back of the package:

Hi! I'm an Easter Bastard!

Our mother noticed this note before taking it to the post office and was not amused, until learning my sister had genuinely written the wrong word. Of course, she intended to write "Hi! I'm an Easter Basket!" Then, in attempt to fix the note, it turned into:

Hi! I'm an Easter Bastard!ket!

Since, this has become a joke in my family, because we're slightly horrible people (hopefully in an amusing way, though). This leads to statements like:

"Hey, Honey? Are we making your mom an Easter Bastard this year?"

"Hey, look what I got Kate's Easter Bastard!"

The store at which I work my day job, like many stores, has a suggestive sell initiative. We're supposed to sell x number Chocolate Yum-Yum Bars per shift. I think tomorrow, I'm going to ask customers if they'd like to purchase Chocolate Yum-Yum Bars to include in their families' Easter Bastards.

Push the Button, Honey

About 6 years ago, I had a major abdominal surgery. This surgery had me out of work for about 8 weeks and had me in excruciating pain for...well, I'll let you guys know when the pain is completely done. One of the incisions for this surgery was inside my belly button. That incision was hurting pretty badly last night, so I grabbed a cotton swab and some antibiotic cream and applied it to that incision. When I removed the cotton swab from my navel, I saw it was covered in blood. So, yeah. 6 years and that sumbitch is still bleeding. And people wonder why I'm so very terrified of having another surgery in less than a week.

All of the conversations about my concerns about having this surgery (to repair a torn tendon in my ankle) have had me remembering the major abdominal surgery from 6 years ago. In particular, one story stands out as being quite amusing.

I was 22 years old and working overnights at a convenience store. My boyfriend at the time, Nerfherder, was still in university and living almost an hour away from me. I call him Nerfherder because even though he could be quite shitty to me, he was mostly pretty good and a part of me will always love him. So he gets a nickname that is simultaneously endearing and insulting. There have been a lot of negative stories about him shared in this blog, but tonight's story is a positive story. Now, back to that story!

My mother took me to the hospital at five a.m. for preparation for surgery. Around 6 a.m., as they were putting my IV in to sedate me, I started panicking and grabbing my mom's hand and crying and begging for Nerfherder. I then lost consciousness and was wheeled into surgery. My mom, being the most fantastic person in the world and always willing to do anything for me, went back to the waiting room and called Nerfherder. When I came to following surgery, Nerfherder and my mom were both sitting next to me. That made me happy, and I fell right back to sleep. The doctor came to talk to my visitors. He told them that I was hooked up to a morphine pump, and that I could push the button for a dose every ten minutes. My mom went to the hospital cafeteria, since she had not eaten since about 4 a.m. and it was probably noon at this point. So it was just me, heavily medicated, and Nerfherder, well-meaning but apparently having had misunderstood the doctor's instructions.

Ten minutes passed, and Nerfherder shook me awake. "Honey," he said softly. "Honey, you need to push that button."

I trusted Nerfherder implicitly and was too heavily medicated to think for myself, so sure. I'll push any button you tell me to, Babe.

I fell back to sleep right away. Another ten minutes passed, and Nerfherder gently shook me awake again. "Honey, you need to push the button."

Press. Sleep. Ten minutes later: "Honey? Honey? Roz? You need to push the button."

This continued on and on. My mom returned after about an hour, surprised by how soundly I was still sleeping. Then, Nerfherder told her, "I've been waking her up to push the button every ten minutes. She's really out. I had to help her push the button a couple of times. Last time, I just pushed it for her."

My mother, a nurse, panicked. "NERFHERDER! No!"

"What?!" Nerfherder replied, matching her level of panic. "The doctor said she needed to push the button every ten minutes!"

"Oh, Nerfherder. He said she could have it every ten minutes. Not that she had to have it that often."

I don't think I felt anything that entire day.

I'm thinking about calling Nerfherder to control my pain medication following this surgery...

The First Scary Story I Ever Heard

I've been bored at work a lot lately. A LOT. So this leads to me having really bizarre trains of thought. Last night at work, I got to thinking of the first "scary story" I ever heard. Honestly, it could not have been the first scary story I ever heard. I always liked reading ghost stories and I always liked watching horror movies. So I'm sure this story that I used to tell every chance I got when I was around 6 was not the first scary story ever.

What baffles me is how much this story used to scare the other kids. It's dumb. It's really dumb. If anything, it's mildly amusing. Nothing scary about it. But judge for yourself. And pretend you're somewhere around six years old so you might have a shot of enjoying it.

One night, a boy's friends dare him to go into this old, creepy house that was rumored to be haunted. Everybody always said that anybody who went inside heard voices, foretelling death. The boy, of course, didn't believe this, so he went into the creepy old house in the middle of the night, all by himself. As he was walking around, he did, in fact, hear a voice. It was high-pitched and a bit ethereal; it was difficult to make out at first, but he focused and finally heard clear as a bell "If I roll over, I will die."

The boy was terrified and ran out of the house as fast as he could. He ran all the way home. He told his older brother what he had heard. His brother rolled his eyes and didn't believe him, but agreed to go into the house with him the next night.

The following night, the two brothers went into the old, creepy house. They started looking around, walking into rooms, looking in closets, when suddenly they heard two voices. Both voices were high-pitched and difficult to make out at first, but when they really focuses, the brothers could hear the two voices chanting in unison: "If we roll over, we will die." The older brother led the way as the boys ran out of the house as fast as their legs would carry them.

The older brother told his best friend, who rolled his eyes and didn't believe the brothers. The following night, all three boys went to the old, creepy house. This night, there were three voices, all chanting in unison "If we roll over, we will die." Again, the boys ran out of the house, terrified.

The best friend told his girlfriend about what happened, and the fourth night, the group returned to the old, creepy house. The chanting was apparent as soon as they entered this time, with a fourth voice having joined the mix. "If we roll over, we will die."

The boys were ready to run, but the girlfriend said they needed to explore. The group walked further into the house, following the sound of the four voices chanting "If we roll over, we will die." The girlfriend led the boys further and further into the house. Down the hall. Up the stairs. "If we roll over, we will die" was heard louder and louder. Down the upstairs hall. "IF WE ROLL OVER, WE WILL DIE." The girlfriend stopped out of a door, where the chanting was louder and faster. "IF WE ROLL OVER, WE WILL DIE! IF WE ROLL OVER, WE WILL DIE! IF WE ROLL OVER, WE WILL DIE!"

The girlfriend burst through the door. The group saw nothing, but there was a foul stench and the chanting was even louder! "IF WE ROLL OVER, WE WILL DIE! IF WE ROLL OVER, WE WILL DIE! IF WE ROLL, WE WILL DIE!"

The girlfriend walked further into the room and then the group saw what was happening. They had entered a old, dirty bathroom. The smell was human excrement. And in the toilet were four flies, resting on a piece of shit, half-sticking out of the water. "If we roll over, we will die."

And the Neighbor's Trying to Kill Us

I had such a weird dream last night that when I woke from it, I grabbed my phone and sent an extremely long text about to a good friend who I'll call Marty. And now I'll be sharing it with you folks.

In this dream, my boyfriend and I went over to his mother's house because we like her and apparently I decided I needed to do my laundry at her house for some reason. So we go into the house, I put a load of laundry in the washing machine, and we go outside to hang out with Boyfriend's mom (who I'll call Margaret) and Boyfriend's sister (who I'll call Chloe). I don't clearly remember what happened, but we somehow accidentally pissed off the next door neighbor. Like we were playing with the dog and hit the side of his house with a tennis ball or something. Neighbor gets furious and comes busting out of the house, screaming and threatening to kill us. And then we realize this neighbor, who we had never before seen, was Gary Busey. (I would like to make it clear right now that I do not know Gary Busey in any way and know basically nothing about him. This dream is not in any way meant to be an accurate depiction of his personality. For all I know, he's the nicest guy in the world.) I also notice that Dream Gary Busey somehow has my childhood best friend's dog as his pet.

DGB starts doing all sorts of insane stuff, trying to kill us. Like at one point we look over and see him inside his garage and notice he has a gun. Then holes appear in the side of his garage, because apparently instead of shooting us through the open window, he opted for shooting through the walls of his own garage. So we decided we should probably go inside. We all sneak along the side of Margaret and Chloe's garage. Boyfriend peaks around the corner of the garage, and notices DGB has a blow dart up to his mouth, waiting for us to step out into the open. We start throwing dog toys, balls of paper, a shoe, all sorts of things. DGB keeps jumping the gun when he sees movement, and blowing blow darts into the random objects we're throwing. When he runs out of blow darts, we run from behind the garage into the house.

DGB gets mad about being foiled, and goes away. I go to move my laundry from the washing machine to the dryer only to discover that, for some reason, Margaret doesn't have a dryer, just the washing machine. And apparently the spin cycle wasn't working well, because I pulled my clothes out of the washing machine soaking wet. Like, dripping. As I'm hanging all of my clothes up to dry, there's a loud, angry knock on the door. Chloe goes to answer it and finds DGB and an angry horde of people, waiting to kill the lot of us. Obviously, Chloe slams the door in his face. This gets DGB and his horde to retreat to his house. Boyfriend and I start watching DGB's house out a small window that is apparently a secret and formulate our plan to protect the family. While spying, we notice that DGB is watering his back yard...with gasoline. Okay, so we obviously decide to set the yard on fire. We have a conversation about what to start the fire with and decide to grab some junk mail. We pop outside to get the mail, and for some reason, there is a shopping cart full of old newspapers on the porch as well. We bring in the mail; bring in the shopping cart of newspapers. We pull one of the subscription slips out of a magazine (you know, the annoying little piece of cardstock inside every magazine that ends up falling out and laying on the floor of the store for weeks). Apparently we decided that was all we needed to set DGB's lawn and house on fire and sneak out the back door. We go to the far corner of DGB's back yard, stand on the "safe" side of the fence, light the corner of this little 3"x4" slip of paper, and toss it over the fence. Lawn goes up in flames, reaches the house, and the house explodes, killing DGB and his horde. My childhood best friend's dog comes playfully bounding out of the house and over to Margaret's, where she from thereon lived in my dream world.

As DGB's house is in flames, we hear another knock on the door. I answer the door this time, and it was a friend of my ex-boyfriend (who has been referred to as Nerfherder in previous entries). This girl, who I always found to be kind of a bitch, got up in my face and was like "I saw you guys!"
"You saw us do what?" I ask.
"I saw you take the newspapers in!"
"Yep. That's what people do."
"I saw you take the newspapers in, then Gary Busey's house burst into flames! Obviously you set his house on fire!"
"Because we took the newspapers inside?"
"Obviously!"
"Okay, Nut Bag. 'Bye."
And shut the door in her face.

The family and I decide to go somewhere. I don't know where we were going, but we pile into Margaret's SUV, which she is far too environmentally conscious to drive in real life. As we're backing out, I see actor James Morrison, who he was apparently Bill Buchanan in "24" which I have never seen, but I figure he'll be most recognized for that. I am familiar with his work on "Space: Above and Beyond" and I'm sorry, Mr. Morrison, no matter how good-looking you are and how fantastic of an actor you are, you will always be Col. McQueen to me. Anyway, James Morrison's standing on the sidewalk in front of the house on the other side of Margaret's, just kind of watching us. I say that this is weird and that we should probably get out of there quickly. So, Margaret puts the SUV in reverse and guns it, just in time to slam the back of the SUV into an FBI vehicle. She then throws the vehicle into drive and speeds off. No interesting chase ensues. We just go to dinner, and then suddenly I'm back home. My home. Without my laundry. And I was really more upset about the laundry than anything else.

Good Night, Friend

I received word today that an old friend passed away. Since I didn't get to say good-bye, and obviously the deceased have access to blogs, I thought I'd do it here. I'll call him Brad.

Brad and I were not close, but I cared about him. I met him through my ex, who in the past has been called Nerfherder. I didn't really like many of Nerfherder's friends. I mean, I tried. I certainly never told them I didn't like them. I did stuff with them. But after Nerfherder and I split, I had no desire to remain in contact with most of them. This was not the case with Brad. I used to joke that I wanted to take him with me and told Nerfherder I'd take him to court to battle for custody of Brad. That was mostly joking, but I really was sad that he and I didn't keep in touch afterwards. I instantly liked Brad. He was fun. And he really loved dogs, so that's always a plus in my world. And I could keep going, and tell stories about him, but since he just died in a really, infuriatingly stupid way, I don't want to give too much away about who he is, for his family's sake. So here's some things I want to say to Brad.

I don't pretend to know what happens when we die. I don't believe in God. I don't believe in Heaven. But tonight, Brad, I hope they're both real. I want that for you so much. I don't know if souls are real. I don't know what happens to our life energy once our physical bodies have failed. But I hope it's good. I hope you're safe. I hope you're comfortable. I hope you're happy and at peace.

I'm so sorry your life ended the way it did. Brad, I hope you weren't alone and I hope you weren't scared when you left. You were such a good person in so many ways, and I'm sorry life was so hard in so many ways for you. You deserved better. And I'm sorry you didn't feel like you had other options for how to deal with how hard life was. I'm sorry for every day that you felt alone.

I refuse to remember you for how you died. I'll remember you every time I see a profoundly stupid tattoo or somebody wearing their baseball hat sideways. I remember the dog you saved and the way you didn't think twice before reporting that man for animal abuse. I'll remember you at epic bonfires, especially if somebody's blasting ska punk from the car.

Brad, I hope you know that you will be missed. Good night, Friend.

Oh, the German Dog

I've mentioned before that my best friend, Jocelyn, was a grade behind me in high school. While this made me sad in some ways (never getting to have high school classes with her, starting college without her, etc), sometimes it was kind of cool. Like when she started looking at colleges and went to all of my classes with me for a day to get a feel for the school I was going to.

I should back up very slightly. At the beginning of my senior year and Jocelyn's junior of high school, she was in a play called "The Musical Comedy Murders of 1940." If you want a good laugh, obtain a copy of this script. Or even better, find someplace that's producing it. It's absolutely hilarious. Such things occur as:
"There's been a murder! Call the police!"
"POLICE! POLICE!"
"On the phone!"
Anyway. Glazing over a lot of spoilers, Jocelyn played a character from Germany. 99.9% of her lines were in English, but at one point, she did start counting in German. And back to the A story, here.

So, Jocelyn goes to classes with me one day. We went to American Lit, which was completely uneventful and little dull. We had lunch, and then we went to German class. A lot of my German class was perpetually confused and could not wrap their minds around grammatical gender. While these college students were busy being confused, Jocelyn was sitting behind me, banging her head on the desk, wanting to scream. Finally, the professor gave up and told us to open our books to a particular page number. Behind me, Jocelyn gasped, and started furiously tapping my shoulder. "Roz! Roz! I understood that! I can count to five in German! Eins, Zwei, Drei, Vier, Fünf! Why can I count to five in German?"
I just whispered "Helsa" in response, and then heard Jocelyn stifling laughter.

This is not the truly incredible story about Jocelyn's innate ability to speak German. That was simply the warm-up. The truly fantastic incident happened several weeks later.

Jocelyn was telling me a story about a friend of hers who had just auditioned for an opera company. I'm going to call this friend Michael, because they just said that name on TV. So, Michael was told that he would be expected to perform two pieces in different languages, to be determined on the spot by the panel. Michael tried to learn some German opera, but couldn't manage it, so he hedged his bets and learned several pieces in Italian and in French. He got to his audition and was first asked to perform an Italian piece. He was relieved. Italian was super easy for him. He sang beautifully and everybody on the panel was extremely happy with his performance. He felt really, really confident until the panel announced their next selection...it was German. Michael began muddled through the song, site reading where he could, but the letter combinations just didn't make sense. So he did what we all do when we don't know the words for a song we wish to sing. He made random nonsense sounds, hoping to just blend in to the music.

I'm going to switch to quoting Jocelyn here, because this is where it becomes amazing.

"So, Michael's panicking and just thinks 'Shit. What sounds German? Ach? Yeah.' And belts out "Ach!...Der...Deutsch...Hund!"

I starting laughing and said, "Yeah? He stood there and sang that?"

"Well, I don't know. I was making up words to take place of the words he was making up."

"You just made that up? Just now? You just spat out some random sounds?"

"Well, yeah. That's what Michael said he did. Why?"

"Because that was a sentence. You just pulled the phrase 'Oh, the German dog' out of your ass."

That was the day we decided Jocelyn's super power was an innate knowledge of German.

Snot Potatoes, or The Origin of My Eating Disorder

Okay, this probably isn't really the origin of my eating disorder. The origin of my unhealthy relationship is probably actually that I was a slightly chubby kid who was constantly harassed and called "that fat girl." In elementary school, kids were supposed to bring treats for the whole class on their birthdays. One kid brought in red rope licorice for his birthday. Red rope licorice is pretty awesome. So I was excited, and was just noming on my red rope licorice, being all happy. And the jerks in my class made fun of me for eating the same thing the rest of them were eating! "Wow, fatty, eat much?" Yes. Yes, I do. Suck it. At another point, I think in fifth grade, we were watching some meat propaganda film. If you recall from my previous blog, I have always loved animals and from second grade through high school would not consume any meat. I still don't eat red meat. So, this propaganda film informed us that "If you didn't eat meat, you'd be as thin as a sheet of paper." I rolled my eyes at this, and announced to the kids at my table, "I don't eat meat." And the little bastard next to me responded with "Then why are you so fat?" Gee, I can't imagine why I might have issues with food. For several years, I would not eat anything in front of anybody. I dropped to an unhealthy weight in high school and through most of college. Since, I've gone to the other extreme and am clinically overweight. It's still insanely difficult for me to eat in the presence of somebody I don't know well. I mean, I can go to restaurants, but for example, I went to dinner with an old workmate and his wife. They're great and I adore them, but going to dinner with them was a huge source of anxiety for me.

However, it's more amusing for me to blame my food issues on Snot Potatoes, so I'll go with that. When I was a kid, hot lunch was different than it is now. I don't think the FDA even existed when I was kid (this may be an exaggeration). Nutritional requirements? No. So once a week, hot lunch was turkey and mashed potatoes with gravy in elementary school. All of the kids loved mashed potato day. Including me, cause yay, carbs! Well, my sister told me that the slightly yellow-ish gravy on the mashed potatoes was snot. So I never ate those again. I still associate turkey and chicken gravy with disgustingness. So, thanks for that, Sis.

Come Back, Horny!

I was apparently a strange child. Go figure. 

I have always preferred animals to most people. I don't mean, "Oooh, I like kitties!" (but, well, duh). I mean all animals. Cats, dogs, rabbits, hamsters, raccoons that hung out in the dumpsters, worms, bugs. Bugs were really neat. Sometimes I really question all of my life decisions for not having studied entomology in college. When I was a kid, I went back and forth between "I wanna be an author!" and "I wanna be a veterinarian!" Then I realized that being a veterinarian wouldn't just mean "I get to play with animals!" but that it meant "I have to see animals when they're in pain." And that would haunt my dreams. One time I took my cat to the vet and a dog died in the waiting room. I cried for hours. Not like a trickle of tears. Gut-wrenching sobs for hours. I was 20. I definitely could never be the person breaking the news to somebody that their pet was sick. 

I spent most of second and third grade "writing books" about cats and hamsters. Recess? Fuck that noise! I'd go to the school library during recess, grab information books about cats, and summarize them, because I was determined to write informational books about cats. Same with hamsters. While this never took off into a lucrative career, it did serve quite well for preparing me for freelance technical writing. So, that's cool. Thanks, me, for being so damn weird as a kid.

What was I talking about? Oh, yes. Come back, Horny.

I always thought bugs were cool, be they insects, arachnids, vespines. Oh, vespines. Such interesting creatures. Vespines, my dear readers, would be hornets. It seems I used to play with hornets when I was around three or four. Yeah. Play. With. Hornets. I don't even know what this means. I asked my mother about it today and she doesn't remember. So I assume this means I would be jumping on my Pogo Ball (that's right, I'm an 80s kid!) while a bunch of hornets flew around overhead. I probably talked to the hornets at the same time. I don't know. This was also the same era in my life in which I called all animals by diminutives. Kitty, Doggy, Bunny, Birdy, etc.

So, one day, I was in the backyard, playing with hornets. One of the hornets flew away, as hornets are wont to do. And I burst into tears. Like, absolutely inconsolable, because my friend was leaving and I never even got to say good-bye! According to my mother, I ran after the hornet, screaming for it's return. And I wasn't just screaming, "Come back, Friend!" I was running across the backyard, screaming at the top of my lungs for all the neighbors to hear, "COME BACK, HORNY! HORNY! I WANT MY FRIEND HORNY! HOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRNNNNNNNNNNYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"

WHY IS LEIGH WHANNELL IN MY HEAD?!

Holy fucking fuck (sorry, Mom, it's one of those revelations though).

Has anybody bothered to read this blog from the beginning? Basically the origin of it was I watched Insidious, which kind of threw me because a scene towards the end mirrored a recurring nightmare I had as a child very well. That nightmare, and the similarity to a particular scene in Insidious, is detailed here: http://insmonibabble.blogspot.com/2013/12/ghosts-in-shower.html. (Don't worry, it is mostly spoiler free and only refers to a scene that is kind of inevitable from the description of the film and only in the broadest of terms.)

Tonight, I watched Insidious Chapter Two. Overall, I genuinely think the sequel was a lot better than the original. And I did like most of the first film, the ending just got a little out of hand for my tastes. I find James Wan's directing to be just mind-blowingly good and genuinely scary. Saw is the only movie I've ever seen that has truly frightened me on a lasting level (I'll tell that story here some time). I rewatched The Conjuring last night and still have the high opinion of it that I had in the cinema (some small issues, but I'm speaking generally here). Basically, lots of good stuff in the sequel, but not quite enough Patrick Wilson foxy-ing up my screen. Usually not the type of guy I find super attractive, but something about that man...

ANYWAY! Here comes the bit that could be slightly spoiler-ish, but again I intend to speak in broad terms and I don't think what I reveal will ruin the movie for anybody who, like me, waits ages to see movies and hasn't seen it yet. This is your warning. If you want to watch this movie and go into with less knowledge than you'd catch in your average trailer, close this now.

Still reading? Last chance.

At one point, Patrick Wilson makes an uncomfortable face, then reaches into his mouth and removes one of his own teeth that has just sporadically fallen out. That's it. End spoiler. Aren't you happy I gave you all of those warnings and that you kept reading?

The dream about my teeth falling out lasted much longer than the ghosts in the shower. I don't recall when the ghosts in the shower dream stopped happening, but I had the teeth falling out dream well into college. Maybe a little beyond. And it was pretty much exactly how Patrick Wilson portrayed the experience (a little less sexy, perhaps). Uncomfortable, mouth hurts, shit, something's wrong, what's back here, oh, it's a tooth.

"But Roz, everyone has that dream!" (I think.) Well, good. That knowledge makes me less convinced that Leigh Whannell just IS THE AUTHOR OF MY CHILDHOOD NIGHTMARES!

CHILDREN!!!!!!

A few years back, my dear, dear friend, who I'll call Natalie, announced she was pregnant. This was tremendously exciting. I love Natalie and I love her husband, who we'll call Logan and I was very excited that they were joining forces to create an awesome new person.

Another extremely dear friend, who I'll call Jo, and I decided we needed to throw Natalie a baby shower. Of course, we couldn't have a regular old baby shower, with a bunch of women and tea and blah blah blah. No. The first decision we made was that it had to be male friendly. The second decision was that "baby shower" was not the best name and renamed it "Natalie and Logan's Procreation Party."

Then we started thinking about the games to play. We did the obvious "freezing cupcake topper babies in ice cubes and seeing whose ice baby was 'born' first" game. We did a feed the piggy bank game where if you said somebody's real name instead of an assigned goofy name, you had to drop change into a piggy bank. So we had the games. Now we needed to come up with the prizes.

We considered doing the normal prize-y things, but then thought the better of it. Jo and I decided it was far more wise to buy a bunch of toys from the dollar store for prizes. We got some fantastic dollar store toys for our adult friends. A ball-in-a-cup. A little water/pinball game. A "feather" boa. Then we found the hats. There was a whole host of hilarious foam hats shaped like various animals. Our favorites were the shark and the T-Rex. The T-Rex hat just showed the top of the T-Rex head, down to the top jaw. So basically, it looked like whoever was wearing the hat had their inside of a dinosaur's mouth. The shark hat was a foam visor with a 3-D shark face. Jo and I loved these hats. There's a photo out there of us posing in the dollar store wearing them. The problem was, we couldn't decide which one to go with. I made the joke that if only there was a small child in the store, we could have that child pick which hat was better. What better way to determine the best gift for 25-35 year olds?

We looked around the store and found no children, something I had never witnessed in this dollar store before. So we resumed our shopping, still wearing the hats, of course! We got out decorations, we got our other prizes, etc., etc. Then something magical happened. The door to the store opened, and in walked a woman...with two children. A boy and a girl. In my inability to guess age, I'd say they were both around seven.

Jo saw the opportunity and became delighted. I knew exactly what was going on in her head, but the way it was expressed was simultaneously the most terrifying thing I've ever witnessed and the funniest.

A huge grin on her face, Jo screamed, "LITTLE CHILDREN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and ran towards the kids. The terrifying part? Their mother had no problem with this. Strange adult running towards your kids, screaming "Hooray! Children!"? Sure, nothing wrong with that. The woman basically pushed her children forward towards us, encouraging them to talk to these strange adults.

They chose the shark.

My Love Affair with Vegemite

Yesterday I posted an entry about my struggle with Depression. With that background information, I'd like to tell the story about how I came to love Vegemite.

I have some fairly intense anxiety about certain things. One of the worst is doing things alone. I don't know exactly what I think is going to happen, but doing things alone has just been nearly unfathomable to me for a large chunk of my life. There have been countless movies I've wanted to see in the cinema but had nobody to go with, so I just waited for the DVD release. I love Cleveland and there have been times I've really wanted to go for a spontaneous visit. Nobody to go with me? Never mind. It's an ordeal buying shoes without having somebody with me. I even have difficulties going to visit people alone. My best friend lives on the other side of the country. I've been out to see her twice, but each time I had to take my now-ex with me so I wasn't traveling alone.

Yesterday, I mentioned a breakup with my ex and the hit my sense of identity took. Not only was my relationship gone, but so was my family, my home, and even some of my friends. I was devastated and didn't know what to do. So I called a friend in New York City and told him what had happened. He immediately responded with "Get out here." And to everybody's surprise, even my own, I did.

Of course, I was panicking about which form of transportation to use. Flying was the logical option, but flights are expensive, I'd never flown by myself before, I didn't know the city and, the most overwhelming concern, I have a pretty serious fear of abandonment. Since the one person I'd thought would never abandon me had, in fact, just abandoned me, that fear was extra strong. I couldn't get around the fear of not being picked up at the airport. The logical part of me knows this is stupid. My friend, who I guess I'll call Charlie, is a fantastic person. I love him dearly. He is the only person in the contacts list on my phone for whom I use punctuation. He's not "Charlie" in my phone. He's "Charlie!" There is no logical reason for me to fear him abandoning me in a strange airport, or anywhere for that matter. He's a great person. He was exactly who I needed to see during this horrible crisis of identity. So I ultimately decided to drive to New York City.

The drive from where I was living at this time to NYC was about 700 miles. So I went to the library, checked out some audio books, and drove to NYC while listening to "Dracula" (which I've read more than any other book in my adult life). I was still heart-broken and feeling lost and, even though I was on my way to a wonderful friend who I knew was going to take great care of me, I felt so incredibly lonely. I called Charlie several times on the drive. He told me about life in New York and about his boyfriend, who I'd never met before, but had spoken to on the phone. Daniel is from Australia, really nice, and shared Charlie's and my odd sense of humor.  Somewhere in eastern Pennsylvania in the Adirondacks, cell phone reception went out. I was tired and sad and stopped at a random hotel. I fell asleep in a strange bed watching "The Golden Girls," then woke up after a brief but expensive nap, and continued on my drive. Exhausted and sad, I arrived in New York City. I called Charlie as I crossed into Midtown and he ran downstairs and jumped in my car to help me find someplace safe to park. Daniel was waiting by the door when we walked in, with a plate in his hand. He handed me the plate and took my suitcase. On that plate was the most beautiful sight my eyes have ever beheld - two pieces of toasted French bread, buttered, and coated in Vegemite. I took a bite and it was the most phenomenal thing I've ever tasted. It was delicious and salty and just full of flavor. Mostly, it was just one of those random, small gestures that was so overwhelmingly kind that I didn't even know what to do. I have never felt so welcomed into somebody's home as I did when that stranger met me at the door and handed me something so reminiscent of his home.

Charlie and Daniel did so much for me in the time I stayed with them, the most obvious being allowing me to show up at their place and stay with them. And that is endlessly appreciated. It was tremendous of them to allow me to stay there and I'll never forget that kindness. But the part that brought tears of gratitude and feelings of safety and of being loved was that Vegemite toast. To this day, when I taste Vegemite, that's what I taste - safety, love, acceptance, and the most genuine act of kindness and friendship I've ever experienced.

"Charlie!": I love you, man.

Betrayal on the Most Personal of Levels

I recently started taking anti-depressants again. I'm having a really difficult time with having had to do this.

Depression isn't a new thing for me by any means. I don't remember there being life before Depression. I've heard of some people having a fairly sudden onset of Depression. This was not the case with me. I don't have many clear memories of my childhood, but I do remember my fifth grade teacher recommending my mother take me to see a therapist. I don't clearly remember much other than the fact that I did go to one session. I don't know why it didn't continue.

I was suicidal in middle school. I remember one day contemplating dousing myself in nail polish remover and setting myself on fire. That's around the time I went on antidepressants for the first time, but that didn't last long. Again, I don't remember why.

The worst was when I was in college. I went away to college. Far away enough that I felt like I was having the "away at college" experience, but close enough that I could still see my best friends, who were a year younger than me. I was excited for college. Until I got there. My roommate barely spoke to me and told me from day one she wanted to room with somebody she'd met at orientation. I didn't make friends on my floor. I was a lit major and I didn't read a single book my first semester. I had a 4.0. So, the academics were garbage. And even more upsetting was, even though I was less than an hour away, my friends from high school never came to visit. Ever. They were still in high school, so I'd thought they would all jump at the opportunity to stay on a college campus for a weekend every once in a while. Nope. I wasn't learning, I wasn't having fun, I missed my cat, so I transferred to a university about fifteen minutes away from my mom's house and moved back home at the end of the semester. I went to the new school feeling like a complete failure. We always hear how great college is and blah blah blah. No. You lied to me, Judd Apatow! There was no Seth Rogen living on my floor, being adorable and mischievous. My roommate was not my best friend. I *did* end up meeting Loudon Wainwright while I was in college, but not because of college.

So I returned home a failure. I was extremely ashamed of everything about myself. So I spent a lot of time in college pretending to be someone else. I put forth a lot of effort trying to prove I was fun. I'm pretty sure I was just regarded as annoying. Probably. I annoyed myself. I hated myself. So much. I'd frequently tell people "I don't want to live here anymore," "here" sometimes referring to the town, sometimes referring to the state, but what I wanted to be saying was "I don't want to live anymore." I changed majors from English to Theatre Design, because, I don't know, I'm stupid. This provided me lots of parties to go to and pretend I was fun. I could drink everybody under the table and I was always the last person to leave, because I was just that much fun, dammit! I convinced myself I was going to be a lighting designer and a damn good one. All the while, I kept wishing I wasn't there. I thought if I could move, it would get better. So when I got an opportunity to take a summer internship in another state, I jumped at it. I packed my car and drove away to a new place, where I still pretended I was fun in the way I thought people wanted me to be. While I was there, my suicidal thoughts began to run rampant. I'd go to work and look around for things I could use to kill myself. I never made any attempts, but I saw opportunities everywhere. I was an assistant lighting designer, so a big part of my job was hanging lights. Walking around on catwalks and going up in scissor lifts with long pieces of cable, you get a lot of ideas about how you could die. I'd go home and take pills. Never a whole bottle, but more than I should have. A lot of drinking happened, and I would purposely do stupid things like get extremely inebriated and take more aspirin than recommended. Sometimes I did this with the idea that I was going to go home and slit my wrists, and this would help me bleed faster. This was when I started smoking, half wanting to fit in with other and half hoping it would bring about my death sooner. Finally, I contacted a psychiatrist who started me on antidepressants and recommended I quit the internship and go home where I at least had a support system.

Again, I returned home feeling like a miserable failure. I couldn't even do what I was studying in college. Before I'd left for the internship, I'd been working as a technician on rentals at my university theatre. On my return, I phoned my boss at that job who I had also regarded as a friend. Foolishly, I was honest and told him I'd come home early because I wasn't doing well emotionally and I would like to return to work. I was not fired, but I was never scheduled to work again. So I was a failure who now was angry and felt betrayed. This led to super pissed off, stand-offish, "everybody leave me the fuck alone" Roz. I don't think many people from college know how badly I wanted to die. While I was taking medication after medication, seeing therapist after therapist, my best friend told me I was a "Negative Fucking Nancy" and proceeded to refuse to speak to me for the next year. The only reason I stayed in college was for spite. I thought about changing my major back to English, but so many people in the theatre department were hinting that I didn't belong there that I was furious and finished the program just to show them.

My senior year, I took a directing class, because it was required for my degree. We were given an assignment in which we created an abstract autobiographical scene. My scene showed me going in to talk a man (representing my boss from the tech job), telling him I had a problem and needed to talk about it. The man's response was to start throwing ping pong balls at me, until I got up, walked out of the room, closed the door, sat down, lit a cigarette, and started crying. The chair of the theatre department was my instructor for that course. She watched my scene, then told my friend who I had brought in to play "the man" he could have thrown the ping pong balls at me in a more believable way. She then pelted me in the face with ping pong balls so hard she actually chipped one of the lenses in my glasses. I directed a one-act play for that class, after which she told me "Huh. I didn't expect you to be able to pull that off."

During my senior year of college, I met a boy in my linguistics class. This was during the kind of whore-ish period of my self-loathing. I went on a date with him after giving a blow job to a guy in my Medieval Literature class. And I wound up falling madly in love with him. The boy (who I'll be calling Nerfherder) and I did all that couply nonsense, such as vacations. Shortly before going on a road trip to Boston, I started a new antidepressant regimen, including Seroquel, a mood stabilizer with some serious sedating effects. This sedative was making it difficult for me to wake up in the morning. Nerfherder berated me for being lazy to the point where I decided my antidepressants weren't worth it and stopped taking them altogether. Not surprisingly, I spiraled.

When Nerfherder and I moved in together, I was working at a job I loved in a small shop. I still had a lot of self-loathing and allowed this job I cared about to be a focal point of my identity. My boss was terminated in January, so I stepped up and took control of the shop with no promotion and no pay raise, just being an interim manager with a metric fuck-ton of overtime until they hired my boss's replacement. So, from January to April, I ran things. Then they brought in a woman who I will call "Rusty Cunt Bucket" (I do believe this is a thing Ari Gold screamed at an object in an episode of "Entourage" and not my own creation). I offered to help RCB with anything she might need help with, letting her know what vendors we ordered what from, etc, etc. RCB told me I was "just a keyholder" and cut me down from the 70 hours a week I'd been working to 5. I was devastated beyond words. That wasn't just some job to me. It was the thing I was most proud of in my adult life. It was my redemption for all of the self-hatred. And out of nowhere, I was told I wasn't valued or even necessary. Hell, I wasn't even wanted. I quit and took a job I hated. That was when I finally began to actually hurt myself.

I had lost a significant part of my identity. So I started making my relationship with Nerfherder the focal point of my identity. But he was becoming increasingly distant. So one night, while doing the dishes, I picked up a kitchen knife and sliced my arm open. I wasn't trying to kill myself, but I was thinking about it. I cut my arm open to see how badly it would hurt. I was curious if I did decided to kill myself, would slitting my wrists be a reasonable way to go? Would it hurt? Here's the scary thing. It didn't hurt. At all. It didn't bother me even slightly until it started to heal. Then it itched.

One day at work, at the terrible new job, a customer screamed at me and threatened to kill me. My boss was standing less than five feet away while this happened, and she allowed it to happen. I already felt stupid and unliked and altogether unwelcome at that job, and my boss standing behind me while a customer threatened to kill me really drove home the feeling of not being wanted. After the customer left, I excused myself to go to the restroom. Where I stabbed myself in the leg. Not like "Oh, if I feel a little physical pain, it'll distract from the emotional pain" pinch. That sumbitch bled all over the place. To this day, my leg goes numb for extended periods of time. I quit that job quite soon after that with no contingency plan.

Then my worst fear became true. Nerfherder left me. I came home one night and he told me it was over. There went the last shred of the identity I'd worked so hard to build for myself. My partner, who I'd planned to spend the rest of my life with, was suddenly gone. I'd come to regard his family as my own, and now they were gone. My home was gone. Everything.

A lot of my friends and loved ones were, understandably, concerned for my well-being. I was basically on an informal suicide watch. My mom called off work the first two days so I wouldn't be alone for a minute. And yeah, I was crushed. I had no idea how to go on. But a weird thing happened. After about two weeks, I didn't want to die. I ran off to New York City for a brief period of time to be with a friend. I got a new job. I started preparations to move about an hour south. Still sad? Yes. Of course. But I was able to pick up and carry on. I was okay.

I was pretty sure I was invincible. I mean, I'd lost everything, and I was still going. Since then, some seriously bad things have happened. I met another man to whom I became engaged, until he forced himself on me while I was asleep. I called off my wedding. Yeah. I called off a wedding and was okay. I got fired from the job I moved down here for. That was actually fine. I hated that job. I still think it's one of the best things that ever happened to me. I got a new job; one I really like. Met another guy, who spent our entire relationship lying to me and ultimately stole a large sum of money from me. While I was angry, I was still okay. None of this sent me into a spiral.

I live with my cat, who is just all sorts of fantastic. My dog, who is also all sorts of fantastic, lives with me part of the time. I don't have to argue with anybody that yes, it is always time to watch sci-fi, especially if said sci-fi is "Doctor Who." I've been seeing an amazing man for about five months and am just completely nuts about him. He doesn't assault me or steal from me; he just makes me happy and makes me feel loved and wanted. His family is incredibly. I adore his mother and she seems to genuinely like me too. I'm earning money writing. I've lost almost ten pounds in the last month. There is so much good going on in my life right now.

So why the fuck am I having a depressive episode? The good in my life right now FAR outweighs the bad. But I've been having panic attacks. I've had nights of sitting on my couch crying over nothing. A few days ago, I was opening boxes at work, glanced at my box cutter, and thought, "Hey, I could sink this into wrist!" What the Hell is that about?! I called my doctor and have been started on Zoloft. I'm awaiting an appointment in March to return to an ambulatory psychiatric program I was in while in college. But I'm having a really hard time with this. I thought I was going to be okay. I thought I was cured. I thought I was never going to have to deal with again. I feel unbelievably betrayed by my body.

A thought occurred to me today. When there was so much bad happening and I wasn't having problems with Depression, what if my body was overcompensating? There's definitely a chemical imbalance in my brain. I don't think anybody would ever attempt to dispute that. Between the Depression and the chronic insomnia, my serotonin levels are just FUBAR. But I think my body instinctively wants to stay alive. It's basic evolution. It'll do what it takes to remain living. So when all of these horrible things were going on, I think my body just overrode the chemical imbalance, overrode the Depression. That instinct to stay alive just took over. But now that things are okay, my body doesn't have to work as hard at surviving. It doesn't have to have every imaginable defense up. I hold my cat, I look into Boyfriend's eyes, I open my check from my freelance work, and I know there's good in the world. And I can relax. And those defenses go down, my body stops overworking itself, and the Depression bubbles back up, because things are so okay that I don't have to constantly fight it.

It may sound incredibly messed up that I'm saying "I think I'm Depressed because things are okay." But I actually take comfort in this thought. I find it comforting that even my own body is relaxing and letting me be me. I wish this wasn't a part of me, but it is. I don't think Boyfriend is ever going to try to bully me out of taking my medication. I think he's going to continue to accept me as I am. I don't have to hide this anymore. Wonky train of thought? Probably. But I think it's going to be okay.

The White Menace

My first car was a white 1989 Buick Century. I loved that car. Because I was 17 years old and had a car.

My mother bought this car used from somebody we knew and trusted. He was very honest about the car. He had hit a deer with it but repaired the car afterwards. If my memory serves me, the car was also rolled over at one point in its life. And that's just the beginning of the problems this car had.

One day, my mom was driving the car and misted the windshield to clean it. And the wipers kept going. And going. For the next twenty minutes. This became a regular thing. The windshield wipers would turn on no problem, but after turning the switch off, they would continue to go for at least twenty minutes. Around this time, my mom decided "Nuts to this!" and bought a new car, giving me the Buick. Which was the coolest thing ever because I was 17 and had a car! A car!!!!

I drove my car to school every day. It took about two weeks before somebody keyed it. Not a nice little strip down the side of the car. Jammed their key into my passenger and went at it like a toddler drawing on a wall. Didn't make the car any worse, but dammit. That's my car, jerk. I love it; how dare you hurt it?

For the most part, we got through high school without incident. It learned some neat new tricks while I was in university, though. For instance, one day, the locks decided not to work anymore. Not just the power locks. You could manually slide the lock switch on the inside of the door. Nothing. You could put the key in the door and turn it. Nothing. Great. So now I'm going to uni in a city that is consistently ranked as one of the top ten worst cities in the U.S., and my car doesn't lock.

One day, my best friend Jocelyn and I head about two hours south to see a play for our theatre class. We get to the town early, and decide to go to Taco Bell and get something to eat first. I pull my car into a spot and shift it into park. And my keys fall out of the ignition. With the car still running. Jocelyn and I exchange panicked looks before I picked my keys up off the floor and put the ignition key back in. Timidly, I turned the car off. Then, out of half-curiosity and half-panic, I restart the car. Good, it worked. I turned it back off. Then Jocelyn reached over, removed the keys, and started my car. With nothing in the ignition. No key. No screwdriver. NOTHING. Well, shit.

At the time, Jocelyn was dating a guy I'll call Will. She and Will have now been married for two and a half years. Last time we talked about it, Will was still denying he was responsible for what happened next. Jocelyn and I still think he was the culprit.

Almost every day, I would go to university, park my car, go to classes, come back and my car would not be where I had parked it. This caused me to spend a lot of time wandering the parking structures at university, trying to find my damn car. Jocelyn and I are certain Will was moving my car while I was in class. I don't know why he won't admit it, because it's pretty funny.

Things really got ridiculous with my car when I was living and working in Columbus, Ohio for a summer internship. I'd come home for a weekend and was driving back to Columbus in the middle of the night. Somehow, I got off course. This was before everybody had GPS in their cars, so I stopped at a gas station and asked for directions back to the expressway. The guy at the gas station was really nice and gave me directions. I paid for my gas, bought a soda, and went back to my car. As I was starting the car, the guy ran outside and knocked on the window. Since the car didn't have electric windows, I told him to just open the door. He apologized profusely, telling me that he had made a mistake; I needed to make a right at Bling Blong Road, not a left. I thanked him, and he closed the door....only to have it swing back out at him. He tried to close it again, heaving it rather hard. It swung open again. The latch the holds the door shut was stuck in the closed position. All of my tools were in Columbus, 53 miles away. Somehow, there was not a single screwdriver anywhere in the gas station. So we grabbed some elasticized bungee cords from my truck and bungeed my passenger door to the passenger seat. For the next hour, every left turn I made resulting in my passenger door swinging open. Thank goodness it was three a.m. and there weren't many other cars on the road. I got back to dorm I was staying in, went inside, got my screwdriver, popped the mechanism so my door could close. At this point, I was tired and frustrated and was a little young and irrational. In my sandals, I kicked the bumper of my car in anger. And missed the bumper. And kicked out my own taillight. Damn.

I called Jocelyn the next morning while I was driving from the dorm to work and told her about the incident. She laughed for a solid ten minutes. Thanks for that, bestie. When I got home from work that day, I had an e-mail from her. It was an audio file of Adam Sandler's "Piece of Shit Car." Then it was my turn to laugh for ten solid minutes. That song made it onto every CD I made for my car for the rest of the time I drove that beast.

I finally gave up and left the car to die about two years later. I was visiting my grandparents, about 150 miles north of where I lived. My grandparents live in this fantastic house in a wooded area off of a US highway. Their driveway is an extremely steep incline. As I was pulling out of their driveway, the brakes went out. No idea how I didn't die as my car rolled carelessly into the road. Either way, I turned the car around, pulled it back into their driveway, and rode home with my mother. My grandparents sold the car for scrap and I bought a Pontiac Grand Prix.

EDIT: Since posting, I was finally able to remember the name I gave this car. Der Weiß Baron.