I fed the tapeworm mold.

Yesterday I convinced myself that I ate the worm harboring inside an apple. This is the only way to explain the strangeness of the apple’s interior. It went from firm, crisp, sour whiteness to a golden, felt like substance where a worm surely lived. I’m not about to waste food so I just ate as much of the whiteness as I could without disturbing the worm’s residence. I still think the worm found a way into my intestines as punishment for violating its fruity adobe. And since the only acceptable parasite I will host is a tapeworm, it stands to reason this is the creature that has crawled out of the apple and into me.

With my newfound tapeworm tenant I was sure to be skinny by dinner. I’ve seen all the stories. I’ve read the news. I know the remedy. Ahhh, the remedy. Something about your lips to a dish of milk and the tapeworm will crawl up through your innards, out your mouth and into the milk. No thanks. First, I’m not a cat. Second, I despise milk. I mean despise to the degree that watching another drink it makes me throw up in my mouth a little. Thinking about it is causing nausea. Third, who in their right mind would WANT a worm to retrace its steps through their digestive system like they were some kind of reverse water slide? Fourth, if I so much as felt this thing on my tongue I would literally die. Like on the spot flat line.

Finally, I don’t mind being a mini version of myth busters. I could stand to drop a few pounds even if that means a no face creature is consuming me from the inside: I’m willing to test the theory. In fact, for that reason alone I sort of cherish the tapeworm. I’m going to be nice to it. Maybe even challenge it a bit. Maybe try to add a friend or two. I have more apples. You never know. There could be other lonely worms that won’t mind meeting their soul mate in my bowels. Single White Tapeworm Seeks Soul Mate For Organic Ingestion of Hoechst. Ha! Get it? You say my last name like “host.” It’s perfect.

Anyway, what’s going on inside me gets weirder. Last night I was starving to death in the middle of the night because I am an eater who is trying not to eat. As much. As usual. So I went to bed without snacking and had something like prunes, a diet soda and a single serving of microwave instant mac n cheese. Ok that was a bad choice. I wanted to poop (because I think each turd must weigh a pound hence weight loss), the instant serving thing was gross because I was too lazy to stir the potion into the hard mac and water so it didn’t cook right. Note I was too lazy to cook to begin with. Finally, I drank the diet soda even though I have been warned it will give me cancer because surely the tapeworm is more susceptible to fatal diseases and it would be affected by the cancer first, not me. I was in the clear. But I didn’t poop. And I was hungry still.

I digress. It was the middle of the night. Me and the tapeworm got up to pee. This is more weight loss. I think pee weighs half a pound. (*If this elimination theory was remotely correct I would look like I was from Ethiopia will flies buzzing around my lips by now.) After we deposited the mid night half pounder of pee I was forced to address the tapeworms raucous noisemaking. Make a right and I go back to sleep. Left, and there is kitchen bliss.

The tapeworm made a left so I followed it. In this slumber stupor I manage to molest the fridge and cabinets. Vaguely I note this must be what being drunk feels like. I can’t find anything to eat. The fat chick that lives in me decides we all need a cheese and mustard sandwich. Somehow I make this happen. I wrestle two pieces of Weight Watchers bread from the bag in the fridge. Yes, I keep my bread in the fridge. Yes, I recognize this is probably not even real bread. I steal three slices of my husband’s provolone cheese and squeeze some spicy mustard onto it all. Wah-lah. Bottoms up tapeworm.

My house is so small that I can just about stand in three different rooms at once. My point being that I was neither awake nor holding a sandwich by the time I got back in bed. This was impressive. The tapeworm means business. I was somewhat satiated and instantly asleep. I dreamed that the fat bitch inside me lost the sandwich battle to the tapeworm and I would be a size two before my alarm went off.

I woke up sadly disappointed. Clearly I let the tapeworm down. Either that or it was a disabled tapeworm. Only one way to find out. Candy bar for breakfast. I accomplished this to a degree by eating a Skinny Cow peanut butter chocolate candy bar for breakfast chased by a zero sugar Red Bull. Take that tapeworm. Yes, I recognize neither of these were actual food items meant for consumption. Try to keep up people: I am an experiment in progress. I can eat outside the normal bounds of reality.

I attempted another apple before lunch in an effort to entice the weight loss process with a second tapeworm assistant. Either that or tapeworm one would find happiness with tapeworm two. At any rate, there was no worm this time and the skinny bitches could keep their ranks as is for one more day.

At lunch I decided toasted WW bread (that’s Weight Watchers not whole wheat, though it claims to be) with Nutella spread was in order. Why not? After all, I wasn’t really eating it, the tapeworm was. So I get the bread out, the same bread used to vessel my midnight cheese and mustard concoction into my unconscious face last night and….

GASP. The bread was covered in mold all along two sides. I’m not talking about a little bit. I am talking about Muir Woods mold. The kind of mold people take pictures of. It’s in science books. People make medicine out of this shit. I was instantly frozen. Poor worm. What have I done? I have ruined my skinny chances! I’m surely toxic now. I’ve killed the tapeworm. No way could it survive this fungus, and it ate the fungus surely as I inhaled it last night. I don’t even remember chewing. It all happened so fast. There was blinding fridge light, a grabbing of a bread shaped bag, the slathering, squeezing of mustard, the improper rewrapping of cheese. It’s all coming back to me now. That late night snack went down as smooth as a whipped cream whippet. I didn’t even notice the growth. Didn’t taste or feel it. But I ate it.

And now I am left with these facts. There is no worm. Still no poop. I’m out of bread. Nutella is not an option. Don’t eat in the dark.

I stress ate crunchy Cheeto’s after this dilemma and I clearly gained two, if not three, pounds of grief over my lost worm. 

Invasion

Invasion

My recurring dream involves an instant baby. This has happened so often that I am now confronted with babies of different races, genders and ages. Sometimes I have the baby and endure the entire labor. Other times the baby magically appears. Every time I decide I am stuck with it and must care for it. I find it amazing that I have never once said F that shit and left it on a doorstep somewhere. I mean there’s gotta be a Daddy Warbucks out there for real, right?

So these needy creatures appear, and by that I mean babies. There is instant panic and pressure and the desire to shop. This child must have it all. I also have the undeniable feeling that no one in the world could tear this child from my arms. Um, remember me? I don’t even like to hold babies so I don’t know what this is about.

There I am with useless child and decide I need everything. A crib, a car seat, strollers, diapers, food, clothes. And I need it yesterday. I often let the kid sleep in a drawer because that seems logical when deep in REM. I also know there are rules, like don’t drive with your kid on your lap on don’t leave magic babies home alone while you go on a shopping spree. Such is the dilemma of how to transport insta-child to said store to buy it everything it needs? Riddle me this.

I end up consumed with frustration and overwhelmed with change. I never asked or wanted any of this. I want to fight it but I don’t. I am always annoyed with myself for not fighting it. Give it away, I say. Leave it, I say. But I never do. I always manage somehow to provide for this invader.

I wake up each time and know I must be pregnant. Fortunately that delusion is short lived. Still, if I’ve eaten too much or feel bloated I blame an imaginary pregnancy (because how does one become so fat so fast?) It’s the only logical explanation. I steer clear of infants at all times because I don’t want their fertility germs or stem cells near me. It could be catching. I’m not built for kids, I was not meant for them, and the invasion dreams are an absolute assault on my choice of lifestyle. I need a ray gun of sorts. Or strong sleeping pills. 

50 things I could've done instead of reading 50 Shades

50 things I could’ve done instead of reading 50 Shades

*Disclaimer – probably gonna say some nasty words. If you’re offended by that kind of language (1) don’t read anymore and (2) how the F did you read the books OR (3) don’t read the books.

**SPOILER – if you plan to read the books or have not finished them yet – don’t read this because I’ll ruin it for you. As if I could. It ruins itself.

Where to begin? 50 Shades. Trendy name. I like it I admit. I had to read the trilogy because I wanted to know what everyone was talking about. I don’t get it. This was almost as bad as Twilight – and I still haven’t forgiven myself for those wasted hours. Speaking of…this was practically the same book, just add a dash of hardcore porn. Set in Washington; independently wealthy, impossibly good looking young guy; super fast cars; clumsy, girl-next-door beauty who falls desperately in love; best friend that’s a guy who’s in love with her; married within five minutes; pregnant within five minutes; pregnancy almost kills her; impossibly in love and then breaking up but then impossibly in love again; self sacrificing moments of insanity; mom lives in another state…need I go on?

Wait…I have to give kudos to the author and the mega bucks she will be rolling in. Good for her. A+ for effort. Glad she took a stab at something slightly taboo and ran with it. It wasn’t the best literature ever, but she still made profits off the three books I bought. Dammit. But congrats again.

Ok, wtf. I mean really. First, who has gray eyes? No one. No one I know. I don’t know a lot of people but whatever. No one has gray eyes. Get over it.

CORNY that you say he has gray eyes and his last name is Grey. Hate that. Read a book once where the detective’s last name was Capslock. Are you f’n kidding me? Be original people.

Second, Christian and Anastasia. Pah-lease. Ridiculous names. Only Nora Roberts can get away with princess names like Anastasia. And super creepy that Christian has a biblical connotation yet he’s all whips and chains and erections. (Just wait till I get to erections).

Third, the money is ridiculous. It’s super rare for someone so young to amass such wealth so don’t even try to convince me that he did. Fictional or not, I’m not buying it. Oh you don’t like that car, here’s keys to a new one. You like books? Here’s first editions worth more than your yearly salary. Don’t do this. It’s not impressive and completely unbelievable.

I’m going to stop counting.

Charlie Tango. Cute name, but I don’t believe you have time to learn to fly this thing when you are 12 and still building an empire and counting your coins. This is jumping the shark.

A three month/week/year honeymoon around the world? Whateva. I wanted the yacht to sink by then.

Ok let’s get to the nitty gritty. Book one was interesting but that’s it. I felt bad for princess – yea, I’m calling her that – because she did want hearts and flowers and nothing wrong with that. I could sorta see a situation like this unfolding. Virgin? Maybe. Unlikely, but maybe. The contract that wasn’t really a contract and all that? Props. Just for show. Clearly it didn’t mean anything so why bother? I get that people live this kind of kinky fuckery lifestyle as she wants to call it. More power to them, I have no problem with that. And it was interesting to read a bit about it. But it didn’t make me want to swing from the chandelier or tie up my husband or stick foreign objects in forbidden places.

I’m sure some people DO have these playrooms. I’d rather have a kennel. I’d use my leashes on dogs, not men. Or women. Anyway, good for these people. And thanks for the insight…but what really grinds my gears is the LACK of words used in this book. This book is about kinky fuckery so get kinky. Say pussy, say vagina, say cunt! Damn. He touched me…there? Are you kidding? We all know where there is. SAY IT. Keep going. Don’t bounce back and forth between treasures and trash. She says fuck all the time but can’t call his dick a cock? It’s an erection ONCE. After that it’s a fucking dick and a sex tool. SAY IT. And sooooo tired of the erection springing forth? Really? For all the springing his dick did they should have called it Tigger. Oh and the bathtub blow job scene in the first book where he was sitting in the tub and the massive erection was so enormous it broke the surface of the water….well…how deep was this water? I pictured a baseball bat size penis and surely that’s not the case.

Ugh, the constant fucking. The absolutely unbelievable amount of times she came. No one is that good. No one comes every other minute. And if they do, good for them but NO ONE DOES. Who are these people who have sex when they wake up (sans brushed teeth), at the breakfast table, before they leave for work, in the elevator (the elevator? So unsanitary), in the car, in the foyer, in the shower, in bed, in the middle of the night. Chafe much? Come on. No pun intended.

The author should’ve ended it in one book. The breakup was great. That was awesome. Except the back and forth twilight-like “I love you, but I can’t be with you” bullshit is nauseating. Knock it off. Leave his wicked ass. Let him suffer. And stop calling your mother the crack whore. That’s what my mom is called.

Book two: I barely remember because it was awful. Something about a masquerade party because who’s parents don’t own half of Washington state and throw massive million dollar charity events? And Jack, Jack who? Terrible character. Wait, I can’t even say that because there was little to no character development on him. Who was he, what’s his beef? Stupid. Dumb. Waste of space in the book. I don’t believe that this Jack is suddenly and entirely capable of sabotaging helicopters, breaking in to high rise million dollar apartments and so on and so forth. Drama with a capital D. Unbelievable-you-lost-me-this-book-is-absurd drama.

Book three: ummmm… oh yeah…boring. I had to force myself to finish. I kept waiting for the climax, again, no pun intended, but oh of course – super-beautiful-(but doesn’t know it)-magically-knocked-up-princess-Ana is going to save the day with her sharp-shooter skills. Who didn’t see that coming? My dogs. Because they can’t read. And I wouldn’t torture them with this nonsense if they could. Jack’s involvement in all of this was so over the top it’s not even border-line illogical it’s straight up DUMB. I was never tense, I was never worried, I was never even interested. I just wanted it to end. Much like Twilight where I wanted to kill Bella 47 times, I wanted something REAL to happen to Ana so Christian could have something significant to whine about. Enough with the: you’re my whole life and world crap. Two minutes ago you wanted to beat her to a pulp with a ruler and then fuck her sorry ass. Seriously? That’s your world? And wait, all this kinky shit and he never does fuck her ass. Let down.

And the need to hurt AND screw women who looked like your mom? Dude, I get the hurt your mom angle, but you want to have sex with women who look like your mom? Oedipus much?

I kept thinking make it stop. Let something fascinating and unexpected happen, but no. Total let down. Total waste of time. Oh, and then the author throws in a mouth fucking scene at the end to say hey let’s not forget these two are kinky. No thanks. I’m over it.

I also didn’t like how the author suddenly switched to Christian’s POV at the end. At that point, who cares? He was a total ass. Maybe I would’ve cared in the beginning. Maybe. But by the end I wanted their whole plantation and magic home to be targeted by terrorists.

So here’s a list of 50 things I could’ve done instead of waste my time on this book…plus one more because I wasted time writing this blog. And you should thank me for saving your time. Unless you wanna get kinky, go read it.

*ps – loved my mini book club with my friend during this ordeal. For me it was an ordeal.

**pss – I could never be anyone’s submissive. I barely hear my husband when he asks me to do something. On purpose. ;)

Here is where I planned to list the 50 things I could’ve done instead…but I refuse. I’m bored with this blog already. Sorry. 

Rub me like a Genie - but don't ask for a wish.

It’s been well over two years since I had a massage so as part of my birthday month celebration (and thanks to a handy Living Social coupon) I went last night for some pampering. They say you should just relax during a massage but seriously, my mind never shuts off so this is pretty much how it went down…

My masseuse’s name is Jennifer and she’s magic. No doubt. Now I have an Organic Jenn (coined by Marla) and a Magic Jen. I’m collecting Jennifers. Nothing weird about that.

The table is fantastic because it’s heated and therefore I’m in mini heaven already. For some reason I wish Papaya was there and I could listen to her breathe instead of this strange voodoo music, but I’ll deal. Paya’s sounds are medicinal.

I make a point of not talking to Jennifer because I just want to relax. But truth, after her first touch I am in love with her. Not in the I-need-a-rainbow-flag kinda way, but more like the way I love macaroni and cheese. Or the person that does my pedicure. It’s fleeting and permanent at the same time.

This is fantastic. I should do this more. I need a weekly massage. How much would that cost? Too much. I don’t have that kind of money. I wish Eddie would just do it. When does Jesse come back? He gives great massages. I don’t know. Not soon enough. I wonder if I peek through this face holder hole will I see her feet? No, I can’t see them. Just relax.

This is amazing. I love you Jennifer. You are very good at this. I wonder what she is thinking about my tattoos on my back. I bet she has seen hundreds of tattoos. I should ask what was the best tattoo she ever saw? Shhh. No talking.

I wonder what does she do if someone is gross, like if they have sores and stuff or scabs? Are they lepers? I have no idea what a leper is – why did I say that? I should Google it. I’m getting my information from a cartoon. Sheesh. Note to self to Google lepers. Speaking of lep things – is a leopard spotted or is that a cheetah? Why am I almost 35 and I don’t know? Cheetahs are spotted. I have seen them run on Nat Geo and there was a commercial during the Super Bowl with a cheetah and a dumb ass guy who shoulda got back in the cage. Why are you thinking about this? Because I could be questioned one day on big cats and not know what a leopard looks like. I need to go to the zoo. Are there leopards there? I have no idea. They got rid of the elephants so the zoo can’t be trusted. Their accuracy has declined. I should go anyway because I love the orangutans. I love my new tattoo, too. It feels good. Holy shit you are way off track, you need to relax. I am relaxed what are you talking about?

I panic about the clock. I can’t see it. What if she cheats? This is supposed to be an hour long but what if she fast forwards the clock? Can someone do that? She is Magic Jenn. I bet she could. I hope she doesn’t. I don’t want this to end.

I should blog about this tomorrow. I haven’t blogged in a while. That’s such a weird word. Blog. Who would read it? Sandy Wick Fenton would read it. She reads everything I write on Facebook. She’s nice. For someone I’ve never met. I bet she would make a great Aunt. Aunt Sandy. I’m gonna call her that. Aunt Sandy. I could use more family. She would laugh if she knew I thought of her here. Sandy Wick Fenton. Has to be all three names. Except from here on out…she’s just Aunt Sandy. Whether she likes it or not. Sandy Wick Fenton. I have a bunch of names, too but I don’t use them all. Aunt Sandy doesn’t know about any of them. I wonder what she’s doing right now? I hope she’s reading Room. I can’t wait to get home and finish reading it. It’s awesome. But you have to do at least an hour of tax homework. Ugh. Shhhh no thinking about school. Relax.

It’s weird and comforting how Jennifer keeps a hand on me at all times as she moves around so I know where she is. I don’t think I would be startled if she just suddenly touched my foot though. It’s her job to touch me and she better do my feet.

My FEET! OMG I forgot to get the sock dust out from between my toes. Holy shit she is gonna get down there and think I’m filthy. Not to mention this oil she is using is going to mix with the sock dust and create a sock snot of sorts and we are going to have a mess on our hands. Well, she will, I won’t. I’ll just have to act like I don’t know what’s happening and she encounters sock snot all the time. Act natural. Relax. I can’t. Sock Snot. I can’t stop thinking about it.

It’s not time for feet yet. She’s done with my back which is a very sad time. It’s the best part. Thank you, Magic Jenn. My back thanks you. Please come back. She doesn’t. She moves on to legs which is not my best feature. I shaved yesterday but I think I Chia-Petted back to stubble already. Sorry Jennifer. I think our relationship is taking a turn for the worse. I can’t imagine what the cellulite looks like as she manipulates it. I try to picture it but all I can think of is buttery grits. I’m kinda hungry. I’m going to have prunes when I get home.

After she mashes the grits in my thighs she asks me to roll over. I’m so groggy and cozy that I want to say please just do my back again but I don’t know what I said. I mumbled something. It was probably I love you. I hope that’s not what I said.

So now I’m on my back and slightly more awake and a little less in love. I can hear the faint sounds of children carrying on somewhere outside this room, probably outside the building. I know Jennifer can hear them, too. They should give her a BB gun and a slidey window where she can open fire on them to shut them up. This is her job and she needs it quiet and peaceful. Goddamn kids ruin everything.

On another note, since I’m lying on my back now I figure Jennifer must realize how super skinny I have instantly become. I am thinnest when laying down thanks to my friend Gravity. Gravity makes my cheekbones stand out like Joan Crawford and my tummy scoops in a bit like a bowl. OK maybe a tiny dip like a plate but Gravity made it flat nonetheless. And surely Jennifer can see (and feel now that she is doing the front of my legs) the massive bike muscles I have developed. She should comment on them. If she doesn’t I may not tip as well. I worked hard on those. Come to think of it, she can’t see how skinny I am at all because the blanket is covering me. No wonder she didn’t say anything. The truth is, all my fat spreads out like pancake batter around me so I look like Papaya when her fat rolls spill to her sides on the floor. I’m gross. Fuck you Jenn. I don’t really like you anyway.

It turns out there is no sock snot issue because she doesn’t do my toes. That’s weird. She should have. But I’m ok with the feet part at least. She did ok. I thought about opening my eyes for a second to look at the clock but what if we make eye contact on accident? That would be awkward. I can’t let that happen. Her face would reveal this: Bitch you a ho. You got barely any polish left on that nasty big toe and none on the others. What kinda skank are you? You got skank feet. I’m ashamed. She’s right. I can’t afford a pedicure right now and I am too lazy to paint my own toes. I’m a skanky ho with sock dust. I keep my eyes shut. I can’t face her.

I’m unloving her just as she finishes the first arm because she didn’t do my fingers. Another masseuse had done my fingers before. That was great. Magic Jenn isn’t so magic. She has no idea what she is doing. And she keeps pumping oil into her hands. I honestly have no idea if she has gloves on or not. Does it matter? I don’t know. I try to remember how many oil pumps she did. At least 400 on my back. 200 probably on each leg and countless others on my arms. I’m a walking grease monkey! My clothes will stick to me like a wet t-shirt contest when I leave here. And CRISIS! Eddie is re-caulking the tub as we speak and he said no showers until tomorrow. Holy moses I sleep with three dogs and that means I’m gonna wake up oiled and dog haired instead of tarred and feathered. Oy vey. What the fuck am I gonna do now? How much of this massage have I just un-enjoyed worrying about this? Maybe I can take a shower at Sue’s. That’s only a little weird. I can shower at Jesse’s but the power is off so it would be dark. I need to change my sheets.

Jennifer is working on my neck now which means this whole experience is ending soon. Damn. I want to stay. I love her again. This part is excellent. She’s very good at this. Oh wait, that hurts. That’s a very tender neck muscle that I did not know I had. Why are you hurting me like that? Why am I letting you? This is not a fair fight. I’m gonna tell you to stop in two seconds. No I won’t. I’m non-confrontational. Dammit, just hurry up and finish hurting me. Oh man, now the other side. Ugh. I hate you Jenn. It’s over between us.

Almost. Now she puts a super hot washcloth on my face which I was not expecting. Holy mackerel. Where did that come from? You didn’t tell me you were doing this and I hate to tell you but the wetness is heavy on my eyelids and I can feel my mascara sliding off. I look like a wildebeest under all this pretty. You have no idea what you’re about to encounter. Poor you Jenn. Ok the cloth is gone but now she is rubbing oil onto my face in this weird, some-but-not-all pattern. Very Navaho. What? Where did that come from? Why Navaho? I don’t know, it feels Indian. Yeah, but Navaho? I said I don’t know. But Shawn said there’s some Indian in us on Grandmom’s side so, Navaho it is. Why wouldn’t we be the popular Indians? Were Navaho’s popular? I’ll have to Google it.

OK you’re done. Done? But, but, wait, I want more. OK I say. Thank you I say. She leaves and I stagger off the blessed heated bed and look in the mirror and the wildebeest looks back at me (full of sagging pancake batter). I look like I have been sleeping for ten days. Wouldn’t that be nice?

I can’t wait to do it again. I make sure to get Magic Jennifer’s hours on her business card. See you soon I hope.  

I have to go home and Google lepers and Navahos and plan a trip to the zoo. 

Interview with a Vampire…ok so he was a psychic/medium. Same thing.

The following takes place in a town I’ve never been to in a baby’s room that I’ve never met with a man claiming he can talk to dead people. He looked like he worked at Home Depot. Anything in italics are thoughts/actions. Anything following the ~ is me speaking.

There’s a very high wall blocking your energy that I am going to try to work through. Try to keep an open mind.

~Ok.

He shuffles Tarot cards.

I don’t read Tarot cards; I just use them to guide me.

Or something like that I don’t remember.

~Ok.

Now you shuffle them anyway you want and then we’ll get started.

I shuffle and pass them back. There’s a large McDonald’s cup on the baby’s dressing table. It’s sweating. The cup is as nervous as I am.

                Flips first card.

Well you’re not getting divorced.

SHOCK. Dammit. I meant to take off my wedding rings just so he didn’t see them and have that prop to work with. Shit. Wait, what the fuck are we talking about Eddie for? 

~Ok.

Have you had problems in your marriage? Were you thinking of getting divorced?

                Who doesn’t? And no.

~No.

                Second card.

Your economics are weak and struggling.

                Who’s aren’t?

Do you understand?

~Yes.

                Next card.

You need to protect your immune system.

                I think I am having a heart attack. I can’t see straight. Am I dying this very instant?

Have you had a cold recently?

~No.

You’re like a pressure cooker. I’m sensing severe anxiety. Do you understand?

                OMG.

~Yes, can I tell you something?

Yes.

~My doctor just put me on medication for anxiety and depression on Wednesday.

Ok, that’s what I’m getting. But this isn’t new. You have carried this with you since you were a teenager.

                Have you met my mother?

                Next card.

Has your mother’s father passed?

Fuck. Yes, but I am not here to talk to that drunken fool. Dammit. Enter waves of sadness. I hate this. I must have paused too long because he says…

I’m getting a father figure. It’s your father. You’re father has passed.

                I’m vibrating.

~Yes.

He wants me to tell you he loves you 3 times. Do you understand?

No. I don’t have any idea what that means. He actually may have said “he loves you times 3” but I can’t remember. Does he mean that there are 3 of us kids? I have no idea.

~Ok.

                Shrugs his shoulder. OMG. Daddy had a torn rotator cuff.

I’m getting a lot of pain here.

Daddy was in a lot of pain.

He says he loves you very much, that you had an incredibly strong bond.

                Tears. Yes….but you could say that to anyone (skeptic).

~Yes.

                Applying tissues.

                Flips a card.

You’re mother is still alive.

                Unfortunately.

                I nod.

She is a very thorny one. Be careful of her.

                No shit. You didn’t need to tell me that one.

You have two kids.

~No.

Two siblings then?

                I nod.

Two brothers. One you get along with, one you don’t.

                I nod.

When your father passed the family sort of went crazy.

                We were crazy before that.

~I did.

I’m getting that. He knows it. He says he loves you very much and you’re going to be ok.

                Skeptic - You could say that to anyone.

He says you are Daddy’s Little Girl.

I bet you say that to all the girls. He called me Sweetie Pie. Had you said that I would have been   sold. I’m not convinced.

                He places his hand over the mother/brother cards.

There is no reconciliation here.

                Sherlock. But thanks because no one believes me.

Your Dad is telling me that anyone that is a friend of yours is a true friend. He is saying that you make friends very easily, but in a room like this (meaning the 30 people downstairs) you feel a million miles away.

                Accurate.

What does he mean about sketching and drawing?

~I used to do both.

I asked for an electric typewriter as a kid and spent countless hours clacking away and spinning crazy stories with help from lots of correction tape. Dad used to read them and give me advice on them. I used to draw too, but never thought it was worth anything though I did win some contests in grade school now that I think of it….how did you know that? Could he really have told you that? That was a heck of a guess.

He says to continue with that, that you are talented and it will help you.

~My friend actually encouraged me to start a blog in January.

You need to keep doing that. It will be good for you.

~Ok.

                Crying.

I’m sorry that you’re upset.

~It’s ok.

I’m feeling pain in my heart, how did your father pass?

~ Liver transplant surgery. His heart stopped five times.

That’s what I’m feeling then.

I don’t believe you. All your major organs are in your body’s center, you could have been feeling anything. Weird anyway.

He says that the medication you are on will help you. You won’t be on it forever. It will help. You won’t always feel like this. You will get better.

                I nod.

He says that you don’t talk. You really need to talk. He’s telling me that you push things deep down and repress a lot.

Bingo. But wait, there are a few I tell everything to. I just can’t talk to Eddie about it. He doesn’t understand.

Counseling would really help you but your Dad says only if you are willing to open up and talk.

Dad told me, if you don’t tell the other person what is wrong, they will never know and you won’t be able to fix it. Is this what he means? Eddie just doesn’t get me.

I nod.

He flips a card.

Ah, conception.

                HOLY FUCK. WHAT?

Are you trying to conceive.

~No.

                Absolutely no fucking way.

Hmmmm.

                Flip. Puzzled.

Are you sure? Because this is the card for fertility. You are extremely fertile.

                And you sir, are out of your fucking mind. Stop saying Fuck, L.

~Listen, let me explain something to you. I have two uteruses. That’s where this is coming from. I am not having kids.

Oh. Well that makes total sense. This isn’t always a literal translation. But that makes total sense.

                Note we are in a baby’s room. The freak factor is in full effect. No sex tonight just in case.

What do you do for a living?

~I’m a legal secretary.

Ok, I don’t see that as the path for you.

                Good or all this school would be a waste.

I see you working with kids.

                HAHAHAHAHHAHA. No. Lord if others could hear this.

Are you planning to move? I see a major change coming up with where you live.

~No.

Hmmmmm.

~We are planning to redecorate.

OK but this will be something that looks totally different.

                Isn’t that what RE-decorate means?

Ok well your economics will get better, don’t worry about that.

I wasn’t really. Other than 2 billion dollars in school debt, I didn’t think I was doing that bad. Plus Eddie’s settlement will be here in a month – hence the redecorating.

And you will get better. Keep taking the meds, write, and know that your husband and your father love you very much.

                Surprisingly, I was happier to hear that Eddie really loved me. I already know how my Dad feels.

Understand that your husband loves you, but he doesn’t get you. He doesn’t understand you and he doesn’t know how to fix you.

                Ahhhh. Well, then. I agree with that. Why does it make sense when you, Mr. Home Depot, says it?

You’re father says talk to him. Talk to your husband.

                Fine. Dammit. I’ll tell him everything tonight. I’d rather try to teach algebra to a two year old.

~He doesn’t understand me. He doesn’t even know I am here.

Talk to him.

~Ok.

Is there anything you want to ask me, anything from A to Z?

                Are the Giants going to win the Super Bowl? Dammit L, you are so selfish.

~I don’t know.

Anything?

~Is he at peace?

Pause.

When’s the last time you were at the cemetery?

                Gotcha. He’s not at a cemetery.

~I haven’t.

                Let’s see what you do with that.

I’m not sure what he is telling me but he is saying that he is in a beautiful place. Where is he?

~On my mantle.

                It’s dusty.

Ok he is saying it is very beautiful there.

                If you say so.

You are certainly not going to tell me that he hates the place and there’s an abundance of fire and brimstone. This is not to imply he would be in hell; that would be impossible. I feel like you are reading from a script now.

Well I’m sorry that you are upset.

~It’s ok.

When did your Dad pass? It feels like it was yesterday.

~ November 27, 2009.

                Yes it does.

Ok so it’s still very recent. You will be ok. This is all very painful but you will be ok.

~OK thank you. Thanks for your time.

You’re welcome. Sorry about your Dad.

                He sips the sweaty McyD’s soda.

                I exit stage left.

I go back downstairs to join all the ladies but they’re all silent as I enter, noting my tears. Some hug me, another shoves tissues at me. I feel like they are all trying to touch me. It takes me a minute to get composed and someone has the courage to ask, “What did he say?”

I start crying again and tell them, “He said I’m not getting divorced.”

Eruptions of laughter. “I guess that’s why she’s crying!” They said.

 I didn’t mean it that way. But in hindsight it was kinda funny.

I can readily admit that while 50% of this was uncannily accurate, the other 50% was generic and would fit anyone. I am not convinced that my Dad waited for a high fructose absorbing Home Depot has-been confined to a nursery – the last place on earth I would want to be – to say “hey howdy.” Which, if it was really him, he would have said.

Every minute that passes since the encounter expands my doubts and questions it all.

And yet…what if it was him? 

Try Being Me.

Try being me for a day and you’ll know how hard it is to get up each morning. Not just because I despise waking up, but for the few hours I was able to sleep, there’s a chance I was with my Dad. That first sense that I’m awake though, that moment where if you opened your eyes the world would seem watery, that’s when I’ve lost him again. Getting back there is so far away; and sometimes impossible. And I have no choice but to sit up or roll out of bed and live this life without him. What I wouldn’t give to dive back into the depths of dreams where his moustache brushes my cheek with a goodnight kiss or his sandy shoes are beside the door. His sausage sized fingers write misspelled words or he laughs without his false teeth. I kiss Papaya when I get up and tuck her in real tight. There’s a chance she is dreaming of him too and I don’t want to disturb her. Let them be together.

In the mirror I see how old I am now. How the sadness etches my face with sorrow and my eyes look more than ever like those of a beaten puppy. I can put on as much makeup as I want and nothing changes. I’m still in there. I just have on war paint now. Because this is a war; this daily battle. And it’s one I’m losing.

The routine is short and I’m in my car and on my way to work. My Dad would like this car. He’ll never drive in it though. And if he is looking for me I have betrayed him because he won’t recognize this car and won’t be able to find me. I have eluded him unintentionally and I will suffer for it.

Work is mundane. I am not challenged. There’s nothing to focus on. I waste time and perform robotic tasks that require no effort and less skill. Dad sits on my desk painted on a mug. The two of us going to a football game. One of the best night’s of my life. I never dream about it though. Has he forgotten it?

I cried every day at lunch until Papaya made me stop. It was almost four months later when I came home in tears and she had shredded an entire box of tissues. Wispy tear catchers like downy feathers all over my living room. She looked at me. I looked at her. OK, I said. And we cleaned it up. It was the living room. She wants me to live. I can’t, but I didn’t tell her that.

At first I ate because people made me. I loved food before this. Now I eat because it feels good. That’s a disorder in itself. Add it to the list. I don’t eat meat anymore and I wonder if he knows. Once he stopped eating veal because of its journey to his plate. Noble, but he didn’t last long. Is he happy that I’m not contributing to it? I’ll never know.

School takes up every other minute I have. When I’m not doing school I am thinking about school and berating myself for not working on schoolwork – while simultaneously entirely aware that this behavior is an avoidance tactic designed to prevent me from acknowledging what happened. Which I know is unhealthy and in turn I’m consumed with guilt for not giving my Dad that time that he deserves. But I can’t right now. I don’t know when I can. I worry that I will be forced to face this soon, when school is over and I have no excuse and nothing to keep my brain busy. It’s like I’m on a sliding board with no ladder…going down would be so, so easy, but without the steps there’s no way back up. And yet there’s another me at the top, desperately clinging to the wrists of the me that wants to slide, refusing to let go. Not now. Not yet.

Driving home sucks because it was our call time. Now it’s consumed with silence even if the radio is own. Nothing sounds the same. I try to listen for messages in songs that could really be from him, but it doesn’t work. I wish he would just say something.

A few years ago he told me I need to get control of my weight. I should have listened to him then so he didn’t have to have such a fat, careless daughter. I know he didn’t mean it that way, though. I know, without a doubt, that he loved me unconditionally. But he never, ever, in all my life ever commented on how I looked so I must have been extreme. Anyway, I workout five times a week now. Towards the end the trainer says something like “we don’t quit at the end, not when it gets hard.” Oh but we do quit you skinny bitch. We do. Except I don’t. I watch the effect gravity has on my rolls in the mirror while I do those final jump-ropes and say to myself, I will jump as high as you want me to Dad. As high as you want. But it’s never high enough because I still can’t reach him. After each workout, that period where you can’t breathe because your fat is angry and punishing your lungs, I think, WASTE. What did I do all that for? He can’t even see me. I’ve colored my hair and he doesn’t know what I look like now. What have I done? He’ll never recognize me. I’m in control like you said I should be so come see me. I did what you asked. Why haven’t you come to me? Just tell me what else I need to do. Please.

Showers are the worst. They are sadness sanctuaries. I can gush and sob and blame it on a nicked ankle from my razor. As if I shave my legs like I should. If you collected the anguish my drain has absorbed there’d be enough for an ocean where one could sail for ever. The mirror routine is up next and I already made that confession.

Another drive, this time to school. Focus, focus. Listen, pay attention. But I’m easily distracted. I want to tell you about this crazy case. Complain about this teacher. Tell you what I think about this concept. But you’re not there. Where are you? Same thing in reverse. But it’s time to go to bed soon so at least there’s that.

I’m home. Kiss the dogs, scratch Papaya. Tell Yahtzee that my Dad would have loved her. That he does love her, she just doesn’t know it. I wish they had met. She watches me undress and tilts her head. Probably she notes what gravity has done to me and questions my rolls. Sorry Yahtz. I’m trying.

Kisses goodnight all around, turn on my true crime show, lights off, climb in bed. Arrange my pillow nest and tuck Papaya into her spot alongside me. All is right. Except it isn’t. But it could be. If you come to me tonight. If I see you. We can go for ice cream if you want, you love ice cream. Fishing? Let’s go in the ocean like we did that one time. I know I am safe there with you. I don’t mind boating if that’s what you want or let’s just go for a walk. Just come to me, please. I’ll close my eyes and I’ll meet you there. Where ever. Please come this time. 

You're a totally selfish bitch.

You’re a totally selfish bitch.

Have we met?  I thought I made that clear from the start. Isn’t that written right here on my name tag?

I never promised to be anything but selfish. This is my life. I’m going to do what I want with it. There are things that I like and things that I don’t like. Maybe you didn’t notice all the times I do the things I don’t like just to make someone else happy. Guess no one is putting a check mark in the non-selfish category for me.

I chose not to have kids. That makes me selfish. I also think it makes me pretty fucking smart to acknowledge that I am that selfish. And for those of you with kids, you’re selfish too. You wanted kids (want = selfish) and you got what you want. Now don’t get me wrong, I have no doubt that (at least the majority of you) put your kids ahead of yourselves and now your selfishness has taken a backseat. That’s excellent. That’s the way it should be. Here’s a cookie.

That’s not my choice. I want to sleep late. Read a book. Ride my bike, walk my dog, take a bubble bath or go to a movie without scrambling for babysitters and fighting the guilt that will ensue for leaving my child so I can enjoy me-time. It’s hard enough seeing my dogs’ faces in the window when I leave for work to make money to buy them bones and treats and food. I wonder where they think I am all day? Well, silly, I’m clearly out being selfish.

I like my independence. I like being alone. I like doing things on my own or for myself. But if we are keeping score maybe you should know how many times I give out dollars or change in class to people who are selfishly in need of sustenance from the vending machines. No, please, don’t pay me back. One day I will need to borrow from you and then we’re even. There are a lot of things I do for people that you should know, but screw that. I don’t need to keep score. I know who I am and I know what I do, have done, and will continue to do for others.

So if it makes you feel better to think that I am selfish you go right ahead. Your opinion does not define me.

I once read that you dislike most in others what you secretly despise in yourself.

Sadly, when I am gone, and it will be soon, you will realize that you never met anyone like me. And it was your loss for not appreciating me while I was here.  (But it’s selfish for me to say that.)

*I laughed several times writing this when I thought I wrote shellfish instead of selfish. Ahh, to be the little mermaid and wear a seashell bra. Heads up that chick was selfish, too…remember her secret cave?