Happenings on the Front Porch

I was outside with my little sister and her best friend, Chad, who happens to be flamboyantly gay and not so bright. The following actually took place:

Chad: "Does the sphincter always go back to being tight?"
Me: "Unless there's something wrong, I would assume so."
Christina: "But couldn't it stretch out like the kegel muscles in a girl? KEgel? KAgel? How do you say it?"
Me: "I don't know."
Christina: "Well, anyway, couldn't you do exercises to tighten the sphincter like you can for the kegel muscles?"
Chad: "Sue Johansen says you can tighten those at red lights."
Me: "You can do it anywhere. You could do it right now."
Chad: *squats and stands. squats and stands.* Ugh. I'm doing it right now.
Me: Chad. You don't have kegel muscles.**
Chad: *gasp* I don't!? I thought I was doing it too!



** Editor's Note: Research for this post, namely making sure the author had spelled "kegel" correctly, has revealed that men can, in fact, do kegel exercises. However, one should not practice the squat and stand method demonstrated by Chad. For instructions on how to prevent urinary incontinence later in life, please see this website.

This shit is bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

Ever text messaged your boyfriend to get the reply, "Johnnie* doesn't have his phone any more. He's in jail."? No? Well, it happens. And it just happened to my little sister last night.

So what did she do? She called her boyfriend's sister to find out what was going on. Missy informed my sister that Johnnie had been arrested for grand theft auto, writing bad checks, and some other miscellaneous charge.

My sister was suddenly confused. . . "But? Missy, he said he got that car from the government as part of the hurricane relief." "The car with the Texas license plates?" "Yeah. . ." "Honey, he's never lived in New Orleans. That car was stolen."

And suddenly the floodgates had opened. The daughter he claimed died in the hurricane? She's alive and well in our very own hometown--along with her two sisters. The twin sister he claimed died in the hurricane? Non-existent. He has two half-sisters right here and he was falsely claiming they were adopted. Born in Italy, adopted by missionaries and raised in Brazil? Hardly. Once again, welcome to an ordinary life in the Midwest.

Perhaps most importantly, the thousand dollars that my sister handed him to invest in the highly lucrative currency trade? Vanished. Most likely never to be seen again. Because she can't prove anything. Gotta love con artists.

Now, I've told you about Kevin before--the lying cheating 31-year-old husband and father. And now you know about Johnnie the Jackass. But have I ever told you about Billy the Bastard?

Bill was my mother's third husband. He seemed too good to be true. He was a church-goer, he was a family man--introducing us to his aunt and cousins--, he was friendly, and he was a hardworker. After six weeks of dating/bumping uglies, he and my mother were engaged.

Suddenly a whirlwind descended upon us like the rage of a spoiled two-year-old, flipping out in the store because his mother is buying generic peanut butter. Luckily for us, the proverbial mother in this situation thought the tantrum was cute and so we all went along with the wedding planning process in the best of moods. We were buying dresses and flowers and centerpieces and candles and the list went on and on.

My mother had her fairy tale wedding. Complete with the Brothers Grimm-style ending.

After four months, things had fallen apart. Credit card statements were popping up with weird charges. The bank account was constantly overdrawn. Bill couldn't help my sister with her sixth-grade math homework but supposedly had a degree in mathematics. Bill supposedly played college football but couldn't carry a conversation about football with people who never played after graduating high school. Money was vanishing from our bedrooms. Pets had been assaulted and had disappeared. My brother had been bodyslammed. And my mother had found a briefcase full of forged signatures and stolen credit/membership cards of various sorts.

Bill was asked to leave. Needless to say, he wasn't happy about that, and the whole thing went downhill quickly. We called his ex-wife in Florida only to find out that he had been in and out of jail, there were warrants for his arrest in Florida, he had beat his wife and eldest son such that they were hospitalized after his ex asked him to leave, and my mom was approximately the fortieth woman to contact the ex after being conned. Warm and fuzzy feeling inside? No. Restraining order? Definitely.

Let's recap: My mother married a con artist. My sister handed a thousand dollars cash to a con artist. And I dated a married man, falling for every single one of his lies.

We're all intelligent women. (I know--you have every reason to doubt the validity of that statement, but you're just gonna have to trust me here.) We're only stupid when it comes to relationships. It doesn't make any sense. So I've decided to declare that we have been cursed and just move on. Otherwise, I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to get the Human Genome Project to take us on as a special case so they can locate the "fuck-me-over-I'm-stupid-and-will-believe-anything-you-say" gene. And then I'd have to advocate sterilization for all those who have it--if not euthanasia.

And wouldn't that be a terribly boring way to spend my life?

I thought so.





*Names have been changed to protect the guilty-ass SOB. Well, not so much to protect him as much as to protect myself from a lawsuit.

This is an overdue update.

So before I left school for break, something most amusing happened. It involved me, sleep deprivation, stress, an uncomfortable desk chair, and an ebay account.

As some of you know, I've been in the market for an iPod for quite a while now. I just didn't have the money to act on that particular desire. Well, that all changed when I was informed of the birthday and Christmas cash waiting for me at home. Suddenly, my dreams of that pristine white (or black/pink/green/blue/silver) rectangular prism that would magically carry my mp3s wherever my heart desired, allowing my life to have the perfect soundtrack, was a tangible reality. I could almost feel the pending damage to my ear drums that would definitely result from hours of pure earbud listening bliss.

Now, as previously mentioned, this story involved a sleep-deprived and stressed-out me. It was finals week; I can't remember whether I was finished with all my exams and the article I was writing for a teaching journal, but I know I wasn't all there. And I know this because I wasn't acting like myself. I was being impulsive.

I had spent just a little time at Apple's website, looking at the overpriced yet highly desirable iPods. The new nanos weren't appealing to me because 2 to 4GB of memory just wasn't enough. Sure, I listen to the same fifty songs repeatedly all the time, but I absolutely must have thousands at my fingertips just in case I change my mind and want something different. Highly unlikely, but what would I do if it ever happened? Huh?

So then I looked at the regular iPods. They have a ton of memory. I could have 40GB of memory if I wanted--the equivalent of my laptop's hard drive. The only problem with that option was that I have but 6GB of music on my computer, so it would be a bit of a waste. Now, don't get me wrong; I am in no way opposed to amassing more music to fill the memory. I'm just working on a budget here.

It was at this point that I decided to scan the wonderful world of ebay for a bargain. And it was at this point that I saw the iPod mini--now discontinued. The mini, holding 4 to 6GB of music, was seemingly perfect. It quickly became the object of my desire. So I bid a max of $170 on a used iPod mini. (Before you criticize that amount, take a second to check out what the morons on ebay are paying for broken iPods. You'll be surprised.)

Then, as I was scanning, I saw an iPod nano 2GB for a bit less than retail. And the auction was about to end. It was a brand new iPod and the minutes were quickly counting down. So, impulsively, I decided to bid. And I was instantly beat out. So I bid again. Then I was beat out. So, being a competitive creature, I bid again. And bam! The auction ended and I won! A moment of elation should have ensued. In the world of ebay, I had become a winner. I had taken on the other internet-users who desired that iPod and I had smacked them down. I had won the iPod and it was mine.

But rather than that moment of elation, I suddenly remembered something. The iPod I had won retailed for $199. I had just won the iPod for $209.50. And then I remembered that I didn't even want an iPod nano, let alone a 2GB iPod nano. And yet another revelation revealed to me that I was currently winning an auction for another iPod. I had just screwed myself. Up the bum. Without lubrication.

I freaked out. Seriously. I'm not overexaggerating when I say I was spazzing out like a crack fiend with terret's syndrome going through withdrawals. The only rational thing I did was consult a friend who I consider an ebay guru. Here's a bit of the instant messenger conversation that ensued. Feel free to laugh at my self-inflicted misery.

[Warning: The following excerpts are dramatic and contain explicit language. They may not be appropriate for all audiences. Proceed with caution.]

Me: I was going to bed, but now I have an hour to watch myself lose a bid
Jon: haha on an ipod, or the case for one?
Me: an ipod--the green one you found for me actually
Jon: oh, wow. I rule... watch it suck. then you'll hold it over my head forever
Me: mhms, now I'm just going to be evil and bid other people up, because I'm vindictive and if I can't have what they want, then neither can they

*a moment passes*

Me: shit. I may have just won an ipod for 210. and it's a 2gb nano
Jon: wha? you bid on TWO?
Me: yeah... I don't think I'm going to win the mini. I set the max low
Jon: whats the nano retail for?
Me: 200. it was stupid, eh? I think I'm going to win it. shit.
Jon: :-\ is it new?
Me: yes, but still I may have just fucked myself
Jon: how much is shipping?
Me: 20
Jon: ew... :-\ this isn't like you
Me: oh fuck. I just won it. damnit
Jon: haha...um...congrats? :-Me: I hate myself

*moments later*

Me: yes! more people are bidding up on the second one. I want to lose it at this point
Jon: hahaha...great you scared yourself out of wanting an ipod all together
Me: you're not kidding. I should've gone to bed; I would've kept myself out of a whole hell of a lot of trouble
Jon: :-P go to bed
Me: twenty minutes to find out whether I'm fucked
Me: shit. people need to bid!
Me: why don't they give you the option of going "oh shit! I'm taking it back! I didn't mean it!"?
Jon: hah...not sure

*moments later. . . yet again*

Me: it just went up again. yesh! (or no! depending on whether it means I win at a higher price)
Me: okay. it's now the first one listed for "ending soonest" on mini 6gb search. so hopefully people will go to town. it's gonna pass me. they're 7.5 below my highest bid and there are three minutes to go
Jon: wow, going up fast!
Me: I know
Jon: damn last minute vultures
Me: I know. 7.50 more! can't they handle that!?
Jon: too rich for their blood
Me: yes! they did it. I'm out. whew
Jon: hahaha you're a psycho!
Me: :'( I know
Jon: YESSSSSSS! I JUST LOST AN AUCTION!
Me: hey. context, please, come on
Jon: haha DAMNIT I WON AN AUCTION!
Me: :-[ so I suck at this. I know
Me: they won it for 7.50 higher than my highest bid
Jon: woohoo
Me: grrrrrr 177.50 for a 6gb ipod mini really is an excellent deal. oh well. I'll try again at a later date when I'm not psychotic.

You'll be happy to know that I have since created a new ebay account and successfully won an iPod. It should be arriving any day now and we shall live together happily until the end of its battery life. At which point I shall reincarnate my electronic friend with a replacement battery. And all the villagers will rejoice.

Let's play a game.

It's called Stupid Stephen. Stupid Stephen began when I was in high school and frequently talked to someone named Stephen (go figure), who happened to be dyslexic. When communicating via instant messenger, one might have thought I was talking to an eight-year-old rather than a grown adult. Every now and then he would just truly butcher a word. I mean, he would take a six-inch cleaver and hack right through the middle, then pull out a twelve-inch chef's knife and slice and dice the word into oblivion. It was brutal.

Anyway, here's how Stupid Stephen works: pick a word from the instant messenger conversation. Message the other player with "Stupid Stephen!" then the word of choice. That player has three guesses with which to figure out what the compilation of letters is supposed to spell. After the three guesses, the "word" is given to the player in context. When viewed in the midst of other jumbles of letters that slightly resemble the English language, the player can usually discern what the word was supposed to be. As I'm sure you've figured out by now (and if you haven't, please don't admit it), the goal is to guess the word before seeing it in context.

Now that I've made myself out to be an ablist--I kid you not, that is actually a variant of "racist," meaning I am prejudiced against those with disabilities; I truly loathe the fact that my major dictates that I know such terms--I'll tell you the real game I want to play. It's called: What is wrong with this?

What is wrong with Stupid Stephen, the game I just presented?

To help those of you who may be a bit mentally challenged, let's make it a multiple choice question.

A) I misspelled "Stephen;" it's supposed to be "Steven."
B) It doesn't sound like any fun whatsoever, and you're disappointed that my game didn't involve zoo animals, acorn squash, and lubrication.
C) The PC police (that's Political Correctness, for those of you who needed multiple choice in the first place) are going to raid my room Patriot-Act-style and take me off to be tried by a secret tribunal where I will be forced to defend myself because I will be presumed guilty until proven innocent, and they'll be able to use all the hearsay and character evidence they can scrounge up. . . this is sounding frighteningly similar to our government as led by Dubya. Oops. That wasn't PC. Fuck. If I disappear, you know why.
D) Do not pick this answer.
E) I failed to provide an example of a misspelled word that would qualify for use in the game, such as "daiure" of "i rote in my daiure todae."

Have you made a selection? If you chose A, you are incorrect (even though I can't really remember which way his name was spelled). If you chose B, you are incorrect because the game is indeed incredible fun. If you chose C, you are CORRECT, and I will elaborate in a moment. If you chose D, . . . I don't even know what to say to you; don't even try to claim you were being noncomfortist or some other rebellious teenage shit; you're just stupid. If you chose E, then you would be right in criticizing how my post began, but the answer does not address the game itself and therefore is wrong.

Let us return to option C and to the PC Police. As most of you know, I am majoring in social work at a state university. This means that I am taking incredibly easy courses that do not test me on the knowledge and skills I failed to acquire throughout the semester. That is to say, I spend my class time with people who smile alot and say nice things, but don't know shit.

Part of our "curriculum" is learning the values/ethics of social work--if you're looking to be amused, this list will do it; our entire profession is based on helping people who don't know how to help themselves, yet one of our "values" is the clients' right to self-determination, which is based on the undisguised belief that clients can choose those options and actions which are best suited to their interest and wellbeing. . . right.

Anyway, along with these values, we are educated extensively about multiculturalism and diversity. By that I mean that we are told we are all racist and prejudiced on many levels and need to work through our own prejudicial beliefs so that we can truly interact with and help clients. We are also told that we need to be able to adapt our style to different cultures, but we're never told how to do anything outside the mainstream style that is tailored to a "European American" client, and best of all, we are taught all sorts of ways to be politically correct.

For instance, no one is disabled; people have disabilities. No one is deaf; people have deafness/hearing disabilities. You get the point. In the midst of learning about this wonderful semantic distinction, we were also informed to be careful because the American Council of the Blind got all sorts of pissed off about being called "people with blindness" rather than "blind people." They said they felt like the language made blindness sound way too taboo to ever actually truly associate oneself with it, so we had to use language that essentially kept the disability at arm's length.

As an interesting aside, when googling "American association for the blind," to find the exact name of the organization, I accidentally searched for "American association for the bling," and I found instead the National Association of Bling'n.

Alright, enough run-around. I'm going to get to my point because I could bitch all night about how incredibly ridiculous the PC language is. What is the logic in changing terms for disabilities and calling our clients "consumers" because "clients" carries a negative connotation of neediness, if we're going to continue calling one of the social work roles "enabling" when I contend that that has a damn negative connotation if ever there was one. Where's my new name?!

Annnnnnnnnd back on track. . . I received an end-of-the-semester email from a professor. He taught Interviewing and Observation (more poorly than I thought was possible) and also happens to be the chairman of the department. Let us take a look, shall we?

All: A gentle reminder from someone who cares ... Your grade will be calculated Friday after 5:30 based on what's in the grade section of the course ... "a helpful hint for better living:" what's not there won't figure into the final if you get my drift. Hopefully drift gotten! And if anyone tells the PC police that I wished you all a "Merry Christmas" I'll deny it and say that I was PC .. & I wished you all a "Happy Holiday." For those of you among the German persuasion "Frohe Weinacht und Gudes Neue Jarhe" In Him ... GS

Now, what is wrong with the email shown above?

Well, several things. I helped him just a bit by adding a couple missing words after pasting it into the window, but the major problems rest with the content. (1) He never actually wished us a Merry Christmas; he just felt the need to be a bastard who hypocritically violates the social work code of ethics--not that I particularly care about the code, but if they're going to shove it down our throats and force us to be PC, then what the hell is the chairman of our department doing? (2) He has an unhealthy obsession with speaking in German to people who don't know any German whatsoever and have stared blankly at him all semester as he repeatedly does it. (3) "In Him." Alright, beyond the obvious violation of PC yet again, this just doesn't make sense. Isn't "He" supposed to be "In" GS, rather than vice versa? How does one penetrate the big JC, and really get inside the Savior?

Interesting.

Go forth my children, and spread the gospel of the PC movement. It is your destiny. (Remember not to call it your manifest destiny because that carries negative connotations related to the blatant extermination of Native Americans, including the trail of tears and all that other fun stuff, like intentionally spreading smallpox by passing on blankets used by infected people. . . you know. . . the history of "European Americans.")

A Weekend in the Village

You know those little ceramic villages that people always put out around Christmas time? They put candles in the little houses, or they string some lights around them, and pull everything together with some fluffy cotton that is supposed to resemble snow. (If you ever spot real snow that forms strands and doesn't melt, let me know because I want to patent it.)

Okay, well, take your imagined little ceramic village and blow it up to life-size proportions. Now just add some trailers on the outskirts, a couple bars on the main strip, one stop-light, a chemical fertilizer plant in the middle of a neighborhood, and be sure that there are two churches within one hundred feet of each other. You are now envisioning the village in which my aunt and uncle (one of the two pastors) live.

This cozy little village is where I spent the weekend. It was a wholesome weekend. A weekend of football, Christmas cookies, homemade candy, church service, and euchre.* That's right, for an entire weekend, I reverted. I went back to the me who existed her junior year of high school--only slightly more liberal.

Some family friends came by for lunch after church, and as a gift for my birthday, I was given a wondrous treasure. It is something I will cherish all my life. I will preserve it and keep it in a lockbox, and never ever leave town without it. What is this gift? An 8x10 portrait of our dearest President George Dubya Bush.

I laughed so hard I couldn't stand up.

What did this same family friend do during church? The usual. Within earshot of others, he asked where the new tattoo was this time, adding that it was probably somewhere I couldn't reveal in church. I played along, only to realize that one of the parishioners I had never met had just heard me and was now bug-eyed. That's always fun to explain.

One of the seventy-something-year-olds in the church still believes that I have numerous hidden tattoos and piercings, and own and ride a Harley, thanks to the dear old family friend.

So what did I gain from my weekend in the village? Well, I got to sleep in a devilishly pink room (pink walls, pink quilt on the bed, pink pillows, pink babydolls, pink curtains, pink nightlight, pink cushions on the chairs, and the fuzzy, pink slippers I brought with me); I got to see a dead pheasant right before my uncle cleaned it (you know how those conservative villagers like to hunt); I got to look at a scrapbook my uncle made about his latest hunting trip to Saskatchewan (you know you're in the heartland when a man goes hunting in Canada for three weeks rather than taking a vacation with his wife); and I got to enjoy the cigarette that always feels the best: the I-made-it-through-the-weekend-and-now-I-can-go-back-to-being-a-liberal-heathen-for-two-more-months-until-I-run-out-excuses-not-to-visit cigarette.

Breathe it in, folks. It is good.

And if that's not your thing, I've also got cake, cookies, chicken noodle soup, chocolate-covered pretzels, and chex mix here--all homemade of course. That's what being a housewife is all about. God forbid you do anything but reproduce, cook, and clean. Come on now. What were you thinking?




*Those of you outside the region never seem to know what euchre is. It's a card game that resembles pitch. If you don't know what pitch is, then you're just out of luck because I can't explain it. Google it if you really care. I doubt you do. And I pity you if you google it just to spite me.

I should be writing a paper.

But instead I want to tell you about something remarkable.

It all started with burnt popcorn and a fire alarm. (Actually it started before that when I was accused of being racist, but we won't talk about that.)

All of the inhabitants of the building were outside. It's Thursday night, approximately midnight, the week before finals. Even in the beginning of the semester when not much was going on and people still had time to sleep, fire alarms were reason to complain and be grumpy little people. But tonight--tonight people didn't do that.

I mean, there was the usual, "I'm cold," or, "I should be studying," but, out there, in the midst of the several inches of snow already on the ground and the continuing downfall, people were reverting in the best of ways. Everywhere you looked, people were playing in the snow. Not the you-threw-a-snowball-at-me-and-got-my-hair-wet-so-I'm-going-to-shoot-you-the-evil-eye-and-then-get-you-back-when-you're-not-looking-and-if-you-even-retaliate-after-that-I'll-quit-talking-to-you-for-a-week kind of playing in the snow. Downright childish play.

It began when Jenny decided that we were allowed to throw snowballs at Erin and Bradley for burning popcorn and thus making us all go stand outside while the fire department (needlessly) inspected the burnt popcorn. (This was an excellent alternative to the punishment I proposed for those who caused fire alarms with burnt popcorn: stoning.) So we threw snowballs at them until it turned into an eight-person all-out brawl in the snow. People were tackled to the ground, snowballs were thrown, and snow was strategically shoved into coats to prevent any possible protection from the cold that might have existed from actually working. And as our fight escalated, others were running around, pelting snowballs at one another.

Later, after the vast majority of people had gone back inside, Jenny and I made snow angels in the courtyard. Really, people are at their best when they just let it all go and act like children for a little while.

And before you even think about, no one better throw a snowball at me at seven-thirty in the morning when I leave for work tomorrow. That would not be cool.

A Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Exclusive

Due to popular demand, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club is returning! And this time, we have an exclusive offer for you. That's right. What follows can only be found here. And once you've read all about him, you will know why. Ladies and gentlemen, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club is proud to present. . . *drumroll, please*

Frat Boy Mike

When you hear "Pi Kappa Alpha," what comes to mind? Do you think of celebrities like Ted Koppel, Tim McGraw, Karl Rove, Strom Thurmond, and some other random alumnus who happened to go on to be the CEO of La-Z-Boy, Inc.? Or do you think of the fraternity that was kicked off our campus because one of the members ran through the frat house naked and was accused of sexual harrassment and rape?

If you thought of the former, then you would be right in guessing that our dear Frat Boy Mike is part of a long line of Conservative Republican Pikes. If you thought of the latter, then you would be right in guessing that our dear Frat Boy Mike is part of a group of males who are so insecure in their heterosexuality that they commit homoerotic acts on a regular basis, then wonder why they get news coverage.

That's right folks, we have for you today one highly desirable Frat Boy Mike. Looking for someone who will entertain you with an endless stream of neologisms? Look no further! During Frat Boy Mike's screening interview this afternoon, he came up with "fuckadinkadysms," "dipect" (an inventive new mix of "disect" and "depict"), "egyptian rat screwed" (that's right, it wasn't a verb before), "Bia" (what the staff presumed to be an abbreviation of "biotch," which is slang for "bitch," but we can't quite be sure with Frat Boy Mike), and much much more. Any of you out there looking to learn a foreign language, this is your chance!

And while we're on the topic of communication, you absolutely must take this opportunity to hear someone who knows he's not supposed to have a hillbilly accent, but just can't help it that he's damn proud of a farmland heritage that has given him the confidence to go clubbing in cowboy boots, oversized belt buckle, and cowboy hat. Come on now, you know you wanna hear that signature drawl that reminds you of George Dubya (who, by the way, is Frat Boy Mike's "dawg"), as well as the long history of chauvinism and racism in the South.

But fear not, ladies (or gents, if you're so daring as to try to tap into Frat Boy Mike's hidden homoeroticism--the staff here at Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club wish you all the luck in the world). Frat Boy Mike is a self-proclaimed lover, not a fighter; but he'll be quick to tell you that he's only a fighter when he's a lover. Try making sense out of that one!

Frat Boy Mike's ideal night out begins with "a nice steak dinner," after which it would be getting dark, lending the night to a romantic, little car ride home, complete with some deep conversation, and then, depending on his date's style, either a party, at which he would be so chivalrous (if you're looking for a laugh, ask him to pronounce "chivalrous") as to refrain from getting drunk, or back to his place for a movie like The Notebook, which he claims to really like because "Frat Boy Mike has a sensitive side." And, in his own words, "if [you're] real good, [you] might even get to spend the night." How's that for enticing!

If you're not sold already--and we're sure you are--then here's one last pitch. Frat Boy Mike is so concerned with the environment that after throwing away a recyclable plastic bottle, he took the time to write a note (quoted exactly as written): DEAR IMPACT, This room Needs A Recycling Ben For us to Save The World!! (Poor & Rich) Thanks, FBM.

In the words of our bachelor, "Why wouldn't you date Frat Boy Mike? That's the question." Anyone who speaks about himself in the third person is a real catch! Come on folks, we know you want this guy!

Contact Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club by responding to this post, and we will put you in touch with the one and only Frat Boy Mike. It's not every day you'll encounter a man who puts on sunglasses after dark, then looks at his reflection in a window and says, "Oh wow! I look good today."

I want to live on a flat Earth.

And I want everyone to be two-dimensional. In fact, let's all be transparent while we're at it. That's right. No more hiding our motivations, our intentions, our desires, our fears, our thoughts. Let's just put it all out there. And when we do, we'll understand why humans are inherently incompatible with humans, at which point we can all go back to being three-dimensional, take our new knowledge, and go get dogs (we will have confirmed that cats despise us and just recognize that if they rub against our legs we'll feed them; therefore no one will want cats anymore) and leave other humans alone. After all, wouldn't it be better to acknowledge this up front, rather than masquerading around looking for soulmates and "the one"s and other ridiculous illusions that we only want because we were taught to want them?

I thought so.

And from here on out, December 13th shall be Two-Dimensional World Day: A Celebration of How Much Humans Hate Humans. Let's all dress up like Republicans. (Ten dollars to the best Bush impersonator.)

Welcome to Alamaroo's Pharmacy

It has recently come to my attention that I am the official pill-pusher of my community. It's not as bad as it sounds. I promise. In reality, I belong to a community of overachievers who love to overcommit themselves such that they don't have time to sleep. Lately, I've found myself threatening to drug them all to sleep. And then I started thinking about all the different drugs I have on hand, and I decided to take a little inventory. How many prescription and over the counter items do you think I found? Sixteen (not counting three empty bottles that I just threw away).

Shall we take a lookie-loo?

In the category of pain relief and inflammation, we have:
1. Huge bottle of ibuprofen. Word to the wise: just use 800mg (four tablets) for extreme pain or inflammation. I hate going to the doctor to be given a prescription for 800mg ibuprofen tablets when I could've taken that on my own.
2. Bottle of Bayer aspirin. I never take it. I have persistent trouble sleeping, so before my sleeping pill days began, I was told that taking aspirin before bed would help. False.
3. Prescription prednisone tablets (oral steroid) that I never finished taking for unexplained chest pain that was, at the time of prescription, suspected to be a sprained muscle.

In the category of skin care, we have:
3. Lac-Hydrin, a prescription 12% ammonium lactate lotion. (My mother informed me while I was home for Thanksgiving that this is actually the same lotion they used on the residents at the nursing home where she worked for ten years. I am truly an old old woman.)
4. Prescription 2.5% hydrocortisone cream. (Topical steroid.)
5. Prescription .05% clobetasol propionate cream. (Another topical steroid.)

In the category of drops, we have:
6. Prescription "neo/polymyxin/hc" ear drops. I can't remember what the abbreviations are for, which disappoints me because I like medical terminology. For instance, "myocardial infarction" is so much more fun than "heart attack." Come on, who hasn't at least said "stat!" after watching ER? That's what I thought.
7. Bausch & Lomb Opcon-A allergy eye drops. These things are amazing. Really. If you have problems with allergies to cats, dogs, the air, your significant other who resembles a monkey, your imagination, whatever it may be, you should try these things.

In the category of undisclosed, we have:
8. Almost empty prescription bottle.
9. Empty prescription bottle that has one refill remaining on it that I just forgot to get before returning to school for the semester.
10. One full refill of the prescription.
[Isn't that just too cute? Look at me trying to be secretive and mysterious while dumping my medicine cabinet onto the internet. Aww. . .]

In the category of allergy medication, we have:
11. Generic Claritin, a.k.a. loratadine. Get the 24-hour kind. It's great. Truly non-drowsy. It works even better if you remember to take it, which is often a problem for me. Memory is not my strong suit.
12. Generic benadryl. This was from my pre-loratadine days, but I can't remember whether it also had something to do with my insomnia. Seriously. It could easily be used as a sleeping pill.
[If you wanna know something sad, I know that I have another generic brand of benadryl in my bedroom at home. How much allergy medicine can one person need?]

Which brings us to our final category: Sleeping pills:
13. EuroCalm, made with valerian root, passion flower (which, surprisingly enough, also makes an appearance in my hairspray), chamomile, and hawthorn. Purchased two years ago and never taken on a regular basis, which eliminated the point entirely. It's an herbal supplement, which supposedly helps you sleep if taken every day. Remind me to tell you about the village witch doctor from whom I bought it.
14. Generic Unisom. I bought this at the end of the summer, knowing that the transition from a third-shift schedule back to that of a student would be somewhat difficult. The great thing about this medication (diphenhydramine HCl) is that they claim you need eight hours to sleep if you're going to take it, but in reality you need only five or six hours, which is much more suited to my schedule.
15. Lunesta. This sleeping pill has been pretty useless for me. You truly need eight hours for this sucker, and I just don't get that much time for sleep (at least consecutively--nap time totally doesn't count).
16. Sonata. My favorite. You only need four hours for this. And you don't wake up groggy at all. It's truly beautiful.


There you have it. Perhaps we'll take inventory of the first aid supplies at a later date. (The vitamins aren't worth mentioning because I have never remembered to take them, which might explain why I couldn't last as a vegan.) Just know that I do have a large bottle of saline solution from the hospital. I don't know why it matters. It just strikes me as odd. It's at least slightly normal to have band-aids and gauze and coban and hydrogen peroxide and antibiotic ointment. . ., but saline?

If you were walking down the hall

And you passed my room this morning, this is what you would have heard. . .

Jenny: I was in a doorway the other day and I heard clicking heels, so I turned around, totally expecting to see a girl behind me--but no! It was a guy. A guy with clicky heels.
Curtis: Clicky?
Jenny: Yeah, like tap heels, but not really. You know the sound that high heels make when girls walk down a hall? It's like that. And I keep noticing it on guys.
Curtis: Are there different kinds of clicky heels?
Jenny: Why yes, there are. But the Bush administration is currently in the process of rating the levels of click. They're a bit confused by the term "click"--one too many syllables for 'em.
Me: Oh god, they're not going to come out with a color scale, are they? There's no way to figure out the difference between a blue click and a green click.
Curtis: Warning! It's a red click! Headed your way!
Jenny: No no no. . . it would have to be mauve.
Curtis: Mauve?
Me: *looking down* The sad thing is I can easily start naming different shades of mauve right now.
Curtis: *looks confused* Different shades of mauve?
Me: You know, antique mauve, rose mauve--
Jenny: Okay, Allison. That's something you just don't tell people. It's one thing to tell people you have a mole on your ass, but it's quite another to start telling them you know different shades of mauve.
Me: That is such a false analogy!
Curtis: Are there really that many people with moles on their asses? And how would you ever know? Psychological studies have shown that people are highly unlikely to tell you if they have moles on their asses.
Jenny: But we do know. One in seven.


We're not normal.