• “Gay Chicken” and Other Traumas

    Haven’t you played “gay chicken”? Seriously, aren’t there some things you don’t even know how to respond to? “Nah, serious, like you go like this…” and then the demonstration: basically, you slide your hand up the other person’s thigh towards the coin purse/crotchular area until the person says (or doesn’t say) “stop”. I think the likely birthplace of this game is obvious: frat houses. I mean, they DID also invent the limp biscuit. Ingenuity abounds.

    Lots of semi-traumatizing events have transpired in the past couple of weeks. Learning about gay chicken wasn’t that traumatizing—it was sort of enriching, actually. I sort of realized that the thrill of gay chicken is something I might never experience. I think I would win all the time.

    My grandma’s cat went missing. This cat is Kiki Jones’ grandmama and was the fluffiest of the kitties at granny’s. I think her name was Mama Cat or one of the other very imaginative names my grandma comes up with like Tanny or White Face. So, this cat was sweet and my grandma was really depressed about this. My brother and his girlfriend went for a visit and just as Stephanie is about to step on some furball, he grabs her and flings her out of the way. There it is: it’s tongue lolled out of it mouth, the skin and fur pulling back from the mouth and eyes. And it was stiff and very stinky. He sent Stephanie into the kitchen to talk to my granny for like half an hour while he figured out what to do with it. Can’t bury it, the soil is hard-ass clay. Can’t hide it anywhere really (although it was basically right near the porch and granny didn’t see it). So, he gets the brilliant idea to scoop it up with a shovel and dump it in the green compostable recycling bin. The shovel broke, so he had to use a shorter spade sort of thing which the cat kept falling off of. I think he finally ended up getting a wheelbarrow and wheeling it over to the bin. I know dead cats are biodegradable, but it still disturbs me that it got recycled like that.

    I have been pretty consistently traumatized at work as of late. I have to do really interesting research memos on things like physical characteristics of drowning victims and describing the types of damage insects and animals really do to a human body in nature. I could go into it if you like, but really, just know it’s all gnarly crap. Basically, you want to die of natural causes all warm and toasty in bed. Oh well, that’s not even the traumatizing part. I have to review book chalk FULL of autopsy photos. I mean, in this age of CSI and true crime shows, I would think I might be prepared for this type of thing. Nope. Bludgeoning is really terrible. And drowning is really awful. Bleh. Although the other night when I got drunk with my mom I think I said I could have a death-related job. WTF?! That is just plain weird.

    I got to make up some drag queens the other week. I think if I had been given free reign, it might have been a hell of a lot fiercer. Believe me. I am craving to let the inner drag queen out on a pretty regular basis. I seriously have to restrain myself when it comes to daily makeup application. Working in theater is awesome and really fun. I’m doing costuming for my friend’s night of plays/films/live music. We had to get this guy a red janitor’s suit, which, if you know work wear, is hard to come by. And there, suddenly it was–at clothes-by-the-pound. Perfection. I am so glad I didn’t take it home though—my friend had a giant cockroach crawl out of it. I hate to hate on thrift stores, but dammit, that roach was so big I bet we paid extra for it.

  • ‘Possum pouches, Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy and Party Poopin’ with Vesuvius

    I saw a hawk eating a pigeon.  I told this story at happy hour last night and I don’t think people understood the impact this scene had on me.  I’m not even sure I know what impact it had on me.  I was walking to the BART station and passed right by the Main Library and there on the Library lawn was a gigantic hawk pulling the bloody tendons out of poor little Pigeotto.  It was a little traumatizing.  But fascinating too. 

    I’m at a criminal defense firm now.  One attorney, one secretary, one word processor and me, the paralegal.  Small office dynamics are weird, but these people are nice.  I share an office with the word processor.  He’s nice—he’s a poet and photographer of weird things and people and I think we’re going to watch trial next week.  The secretary works for wildlife rescue and fosters raccoons and ‘possums and other orphaned baby animals.  She told me that the only place to draw blood from a bird is in the wing or in the ankle.  I learn lots of facts every day.  Did you know that possum fetuses fuse to the nipple in that gross little mama pouch?  I didn’t.   

    I think I could very easily sit in one of the nearby Civic Center coffee shops and write my Twin Peaks.  So many characters.  I almost bumped right into a crackhead dressed like a baby—complete with a pink bonnet!  She dropped her pacifier on the ground, stooped over quick and popped that wet and dirty rubber right back in her mouth.  It almost sounds sexy.  But it really just wasn’t.

    At my new-and-improved job I get actual work to do.  Grown-up work.   Nitty-gritty nasty work.  And a lot of substantive, analytical work too.  I spent a good part of my week reviewing prisoner visit logs, phone logs and the occasional letter.  My, my.  I am getting an edumacation, I tell you what.  For example: did you know that if someone is true and real, they are “treal”?  I didn’t until yesterday.  I also did not really realize that shit like pimpin’ hella hoes and slappin’ thick-ass bitches and putting hits on snitches were casual sorts of everyday things.  I mean, I’m not that ignorant—these things do happen…but I guess I wasn’t aware it was typical, run-of-the-mill daily grind for some.  And I complain about my effing day?!

    I haven’t been in much of a party mood lately, and it hasn’t anything to do with the new job.  I guess I’m tired.  And possibly socially awkward.  Meeting people is energy and as I mentioned in blogs past, all the energy I can muster goes into things like work and class and Flavor of Love.  And now that Flav’s over, I will have slightly more energy, but not enough to go throwing countless new energy-sapping events into the mix.  I don’t even know the last time I went to a damn house party.  And then somehow, there I was last night—at a crammed college party with NO costume on and NO good beer buzz and I started to feel…like running.  Before I ran across the street to catch the only cab for what seemed miles, we all got into an almost uncomfy conversation with a guy named Vesuvius.  Like the Mount.  He said, like Madonna or Cher.  He looked a lot like Kenny G, so I believe he could get away with Vesuvius.  And I think I muttered something I thought funny and he said somewhat defensively, “It is sort of a spiritual name.  Someone gave it to me.”  And that was the night-ender.            

    So, I was thinking about Kenny G and then my thoughts turned to Yianni and sheeeez…he’s a freakin’ wife beater!  And about how that is a surprise of the negative variety.  And negative surprises really stink.

  • Smelly Gym Stories

    Ah…the joys of being poor. So, I have decided to just pay $36 per semester and join the gym at City College. That is a spectacular deal that I don’t believe can, in any way, be beat. Typically I think gyms suck. That’s why it’s hard to justify allowing those jerks at 24-Hour to dip into my checking every month. I mean, to be quite honest, the place is kind of a dump. The one I go to at least. And the people are not so nice. No one wipes down their sweaty machines afterwards and they cover up the time on the machine with their stupid unused towels so no one can see how long they’ve been on. It reminds me a lot of high school because there I am just there to fulfill some guilt-induced duty to myself and there are all of these cliques that roam the gym in packs. Some of these possees roll like 10 deep. Hella deep yo!


    I look all kinds of tore up when I exercise. I’m not there to meet people really. I’m there out of guilt for eating fried things and really, I just want to be left the fuck alone.


    So, the City College gym—it’s okay. It’s decent. Small, but fairly decent. It’s hooked up via computer to some system that monitors your workout. If you lift weights too fast, it beeps. If the weights touch, it beeps. It congratulates you when you’ve reached or surpassed your target repetition. So, it’s rather motivational. And refreshing.


    But the freaks remain. I think that will never cease to be at any gym. A lot of these freaks pretty consistently violate a number of gym rules. The first rule I think was “wear proper workout attire.” So, why did I see a chinese girl wearing a big thick turtleneck on the hottest day of the year? And when she left, she put on a scarf. And there are a lot of people who wear what looks like the clothes they’ve worn all day—with the exception of the tennies. Dude, jeans and a button-up shirt is not gym-wear.


    Rule number two was something like “the only beverage is allowed in the gym is water.” Okay, so, then why the past couple times I went have I seen the same geeky little asian guy literally pounding a quart of milk? Milk is like the last thing I want to drink when I’m working out. I really don’t care for excessive amounts of phlegm. I should just pour myself a nice stiff martini to fit in.


    Another rule: the stretching area is for stretching only. This should be fairly easy to follow since, what else you gonna do in the stretchy area? Oh right. Kung-fu moves. UGH. So, the whole time I get to run on the treadmill I have the added bonus of watching a giggly middle-aged white guy with banana-boobs practice his kung-fu moves and sweat like a hog. Eventually nippleage was easily visible. And then he follows me to the weights and while I’m doing the embarassing “look – I’m – flashing – my – crotch – open – close – open – close – thigh- extension”, he sits at the next machine and grunts because he’s trying to max out. It was pretty grotesque. I could hear it over my headphones! Finally the teacher on duty had to come over and tell him to take it easy. I do love freaks I must admit. I guess it’s the phlegm I can do without.


  • Sting Rays Suck (but I could have told you that), Ta-dow and Elder Abuse

    It’s been a super-dee-duper long time since I last wrote. This is weird because in the span of time since the last entry I have quit my horrible job, visited New York City in the rain, broke up with a good and crazy friend, visited fattening Chicago, taken a vow of semi-poverty by deciding not to go back to a full-time job, started school, become a theater department aid (I get paid minimum wage to schlep moldy old costumes around) and mourned the death of Mr. Steve I-Wish-Sting-Rays-Were-Extinct Irwin (this was originally published in  September ’06 after all). Why do all the great ones have to die? We’ve got a world crammed full of crummy jerks who don’t conserve wildlife and defy animal inflicted death on a regular basis. And for some reason, they will live way too long.

    I really did mean to write in depth on each and every item above, but for some reason I just plain and simply didn’t. I think I am lazy. My current motivations are school and Flavor of Love.

    Mario got a walker thrown at him by this decrepit old black lady in the ‘Loin. This would, of course, only happen to him. I think it was the Chrysler he rented. It made him angry. I think the bigger the car, the angrier you get. Although, it might be just the opposite when on two wheels. Those Razor scooterers are assholes.

    So, this Friday at the SleEZ5, we will be sending off a girl we nicknamed Ta-dow. We don’t even know this girl, we don’t know her name or anything. We just know she’s got the ghetto booty. But we would see her there every Friday. And she’d be there shaking it and mesmerizing all the happy-hour attendees with her antics. Who rips off her shirt and dances in her bra? Ta-dow. Who flings both legs over her head and lets people line up to spank the ham hocks? Ta-DOW! Boom goes the dynamite! So many undulations. I caught Kristin feeding one of Ta-dow’s homies some salami with tongs last happy hour and they invited us to her going-away. End of story. Will be good. Stay tuned, we’re bringing cameras.

    Why is it that in every class there is one mentally damaged individual who has to fuck it up for everyone? In my makeup and costume class there are like two. This one guy asked the teacher to repeat how to properly wash your face. And he wrote it down. And then he asked him to go over it one more time to make sure he had it down right. Well, it’s effing makeup after all.

  • “Thank You Sausage”, Sexual Harassment, and Prison Fantasies

    Dani was an anomaly.  I guess I can use her name since it’s probably changed 3 or 4 times since she worked here.  She was hired on as a legal secretary for a fairly important guy and as a thank you she brought in paper bag full of sausages.  What happened to cards?  Too status quo I suppose.  Too run-of-the-mill.  No one ever says thank you with a sausage and honestly, I don’t know why not.  This other guy wanted to cook the firm some crabs or clams, I can’t remember which.  He got denied because people are really sensitive to smells here.  Food is an excellent thank you in my opinion.  But …people at work–they’re jerks and will tell you if the flowers you got for your birthday stink or the perfume you’re wearing is too strong or too floral and how dare you pop popcorn in the common area?!  This woman told me my food smelled really bad in the elevator once.  Society has crumbled–of this I am sure.  People think it’s okay and even good to be bitchy–it’s called “assertiveness”.  Assholes.


    When you work in an office full of adults, you sort of realize that you are surrounded by weirdos.  Adults have fully-developed idiosyncrasies, as I’ve said before.  They have mastered their personalities and basically they are locked-in to whatever fucked up and strange behavior they have added to the repertoire.  For a while there, our company was hiring the “unhireable” as Grammy used to say.  There was that lesbian who held her Teva sandals together with duct tape.  It didn’t work.  She just squished down the hall.  Or the other lesbian who handed out a list of items necessary for survival after y2k.  On it: guns, ammo, and condoms–to keep gun barrels dry.  This one older guy told me a really lame masturbation joke his first day on the job.  He had like 4 teeth and they were all on the same side of his mouth.  He had a big butt and a rounded bird chest.  His pants accentuated his bulbous ass and he would saunter down the hallways and I’d be mesmerized.  It was like staring into a lava lamp.  Only far more disturbing.


    For a while sexual harassment was rampant here.  The terrible thing is, it is a headache to get harassed.  Not only is it awkward, but then if you tell, you have to tell the story about 5 times to different people who sit on the Sexual Harassment Committee.  It is considered.  Then they call in the harasser and you sit there, tell the story again and then the horrible pervert is forced to apologize in front of everyone.  So it is awkward all around.  Maybe that’s the way the deter people from filing false claims. You’d be surprised how many people are actually insulted that they never get sexually harassed.


    This one old man–he was an old salty seaman who eventually did become a merchant marine–harassed this girl who used to be a friend of mine.  First he told her to wear some red leather skirt she wore when he was just a temp because it “inspired” him then and he was in need of a little “inspiration” these days.  Then he told a few people about a whimsical little play he had dreamt up.  I guess it was a musical set in a women’s prison and some of us were guards and others were prisoners and nasty, dirty prison things ensued.  And some of the gayish copy vendor friends of ours were dressed in drag and had some role in it too.  I was a prisoner.  He gets points for creativity.  He wasn’t a bad old guy–he was always trying to get us to see tall ships and take up an interest in sea stuff.  When he came back with his sailor duffel bag he was yellowed from being in the sun and he had found god.  I guess the ocean can do that to you.


    There were many more freaks–many more than can possibly be mentioned in one blog.  And the sad thing is that now all the freaks have gone and we are left with all the normies.  They are not really good gossip.

  • Gummy Joe and My Life in the Blender

    So Jim said something that made me kinda mad today.  She was walking around a department store sniffing perfume and had to say, “Damn dude…how the hell can you bear to work in a fucking office?  That sucks!”  The reason it made me mad I guess is because I KNOW.  I’ve known this for about five years now.  It is unnatural, it is unbearable.  All those things.  The thing is, it has afforded me a load of trips and crap.  Money hasnt had to be an issue.  I have an office and I stare out through tall high rises towards a tiny sliver of bay.  I do this for about 4.5 hours a day.  I have music and plants.  I surf the internet for tips on papermaking and surviving in the wilderness and how to skin squirrels and I sometimes look for disturbing pictures of bodybuilders.  So, it ain’t all bad.  Damn me for complaining.


    And, because I have this job,  I was able to get the gum surgery I so desperately needed.  It was terrific.  I mean terrifying.  They numbed me up good so when he took the scalpel to shave my gums down and extracted a nice fleshy chunk of upper palate and sewed that juicy plump chunk down on my lower gumline, I felt nothing but the blood running down my throat.  That was gross.  And I even got twenty-five pain pills.  And had five days off work.  So I am sitting pretty.  All this and I did not have to use freaky cadaver skin which is the more cost-efficient way to go.  I did eat my mouth bandage though and that was disturbing.  I thought it was something in my burrito, but no, it was mouth putty.  Yikes!


    I caught up on great television.  I saw The Man Whose Arms Exploded on TLC.  That channel has the most disturbing shows with really foul and uncreative titles.  The Boy Whose Skin Fell Off.  Jackie: The 627-pound Woman.  I also saw Little People, Big World and my dad came in the room all tipsy and annoying and laughed at the primordial dwarves and said they were freakish.  He didn’t think they were real.  I was all bent about that and left.


    My ten-year high school reunion is coming up and I haven’t decided whether or not to go.  I don’t know–I feel a little too loserly to be going to that thing.  I went to school with the best and brightest and I’m sure they’ve all made the most of their twenties.  I kind of have.  I think if I go I might have to hit the sauce.  Maybe.  Or just be cheap and find out where the after-party is and crash that.


    Tomorrow is Fat-Ass Thursday.  It is usually Fat-Ass Friday, but Wayne can’t make it and so it’ll be tomorrow because we’ve got to work it in somehwere!! Grammy, Wayne and I sit around and discuss important life things like Lindsay Lohan’s fire crotch and what that really means, or naked people running around Wayne’s office building.  My favorite story by far has got to be Grammy waking up after a night of drinking with a blender full of water next to the bed.  I need to get the poor gal some glasses.  I think we’ve all woken up with random things in our beds after strange power party nights.  People don’t count.  I know that happens too.  And that’s weird.  I mean, once I woke up with an orange in my bed.  I think its because my pop always told me to sniff citrus when youre nauseous.  Another time it was a box of half-eaten Peeps.  Its like dimensions collide or something.  Profound!

  • Cadaver skin, Goat Legs, Crunchy Granola…my life

    So here goes my attempt at recounting at least a month’s worth of happenings–some weird, some disturbing, all very very real. Mostly real, anyhow.

    It all began with a mysterious patch of skin on my right forearm. It was a red bump at first and then I accidentally scratched it and it became multiple little red bumps all in a circular pattern that looked like some kinky bastard put a cigar out on my arm. That, or ringworm. RINGWORM?! Does that even happen to adults? I made an appointment to see the dermatologist who then scraped it and another similar spot on my right palm (stigmata much?) with a razor blade and I guess looked at it under a hi-def microscope. Not ringworm. He didn’t know what it was. So, he gave me some ointment and it’s still there. It’s funny the way this patch makes me really self-conscious.

    When I went to the doctor to get a TB test, the nurse looked at it and grimaced and snapped her latex gloves up high. Yes, in order to volunteer to work with kids, you have to have proof you’re not going to infect them with terrible diseases. I understand this.

    My third medical encounter in this very long month was a lovely and very worthwhile trip to see my periodontist. As suspected I have to have a gum graft. There are two tantalizing ways to go about this. I can either have them put cadaver skin in my mouth which is strange and disgusting; or I can have them scrape the roof of my mouth and use that gunk. Seriously, if it were any other part of my body, cadaver skin would suffice. My mouth is a little private, yo. Romes thinks this would make an excellent short story–like dude, you totally got some dead killer’s gum tissue and it makes you taste weird things or maybe say weird things–things the dead killer would say. We’ll have to flesh that one out.

    Speaking of…remember a couple of weeks ago this lady stole a car and drove it from Concord or some other hellhole like it all the way to San Francisco where the CHP officers bizarrely shot and killed her in a tiny little dead-end street?? Well, that very street is one block away from me. It was a really dumb and really terrible incident. I guess they said she was using her car as a deadly weapon because she rammed a police car. I don’t know–sounds fishy to me. Who wouldn’t try to get away?

    Well, ok, this very spot where they shot her is literally five paces away from another spot on the corner where this guy got shot in his car. This happened like a couple months back. His roadside memorial came down super effing quick. I suspect it was the realtors trying to sell a condo in the building right next to the scene of the crime. His memorial shrine was a little ghetto. Someone left a half-empty bottle of Hypnotiq, a couple 40s, some poor soggy little teddy bears and a poster board with shot-outs from all his homies. The woman’s shrines–there are two–are nice. They have flowers and a declaration from an attorney describing what he saw at the scene of the crime. The lame thing is, someone STOLE some flowers from one of those memorials. Come on. Weak.

    So, my suspicion is that the place is cursed. Like really. At the very end of that murderous cul-de-sac is this dirt lot where a little kid has lined up all his action figures and random odd-and-end toys. I never used to leave my crap out in the rain for dogs like mine to piss on. The dogs love this little area. One day, my pop was walking them over there and Nichi got really fascinated by something in the mud. My dad tried to pull him away and then he saw what it was: a goat arm. No, I’m not even kidding. A goat arm–hoof intact. Probably a little front leg. I think he freaked out a little because he basically ran the other way after nudging it with his foot. Where the hell do I live? Seriously, where.

    A couple of weeks ago, Mar and I took the miniest of road-trips out towards Novato and St. Helena and Calistoga and I had the best time ever. I cut work and got to look at the pretty country-side and wouldn’t you know–I even got a massage. It was an experience alright. Dude, the place I wanted to go to was booked and we happened upon this healing arts center and the hippie lesbians DID have time to kick my ass for thirty minutes. I got the crunchiest of the granola lesbians to give me the best massage of my life. I had to breathe with her. Like deep breaths. And she pulled my arms out of their sockets and realigned me in a more interesting and comfortable way. And when I got out of there I was sweating like a pig. Ask Mario–I was shiny.

    In closing: I am about to construct an ark. Gather up the animals. The rain is making me crazy. I like water and all–as much as the next guy–but boy howdy, I am sick of the way it has increased my proximity to insects. This seems like a stretch, but they don’t like the rain either. Everywhere I’ve been lately, I’ve had some terrible encounter with some freaky-ass bug. My favorite pub, for example. Romes and I were just finishing up our lunch when we see this man at another table flail his arms wildly and this thing goes flying in the air and lands next to the bar. And then the thing ran. And it ran towards me. It was the biggest, reddest roach I done ever seen. I can never go back there. I’ve had a spider in my hair and a mosquito-eater landed on my face–all in the matter of one week. Oh yeah, and I ate a sour-cream-and-onion flavored cricket. So, maybe it’s payback time.

  • Strange Days–Take Two, and Following Your Dang Instincts

    My good friend Grammy always likes to talk about how humans are the only animals that do NOT heed their instincts.  We’ve always talked about this in very obvious terms—like when your friend is going out with a loser creep crybaby who drinks too much and hurts animals, or when maybe you think you should not go down that dark shrub-lined unincoporated street drunk as hell missing one shoe.  Just don’t.


    But man, weird things have happened around me over the course of the past 24 hours and I am beginning to question certain theories of coincidence and maybe even planetary alignment.  It all started yesterday on my commute home.  Romes, Mario and I were getting ready to walk down that crazy BART escalator—down, down, down, into the depths—when this wrinkly old Chinese lady took the gnarliest tumble and, some say, hit her head.  She fell in slow motion like she meant to—I kind of thought she was having a heart attack or something—and before she even landed, her family was there yelling and shouting at her for being a clumsy little idiot.  This is what I’m guessing, anyway.  They were screeching in a way that made it clear that this sort of thing happens all the time—there Paw Paw goes again, falling in public, shaming us, inconveniencing commuters, halting BART escalators.


    BART’s been bad to me lately.  Not only did I get to witness that poor old lady eat major shit, but this VERY morning, Mar and I were riding up the escalator and saw this man trip and fall down about five or six steps.  Mar asked if he was alright, and as he was turning to answer and pick himself up, he hit his head hard on that bumpy sound-proofing wall.  Half a second later, the escalator we were on grinded to a weird and sudden halt and then started rolling down in reverse.  We all jumped off like the damn thing was gonna blow!  And then took the stairs.


    See, and this comes on the heels of my Chiquito mishap.  Picture this: Mar and I are chillaxin’ in my granny’s room, watching TV and giggling and I decide to get a soda.  It’s not unusual for the pup to be out of sight—he runs the joint.  I went to the kitchen, didn’t see him there and as I was returning to continue laughing at the horrors of bad, bad art—like the silver embossed picture of the Virgen de Guadalupe over granny’s bed, or the wall of angel paintings, or grandpa’s velvet painting of golden, big-assed nudes kissing, or the small fortune of cheesy Lladros in the living room…well, wouldn’t you know, I heard gasping, choking noises coming from the kitchen.  I ran back and saw the poor little dog lying on the floor nearly unconscious.  I thought he’d swallowed a bone or ate some poison (or some of their five pounds of rotten salami I threw into the trash—such another story), but really, he had gotten his neck stuck in the loop of a Chico’s bag and had cinched it around three or so times until it was tight and he was slowly dying.  I screamed for Mario and ripped that loop open and let him free.  I thought we’d have to take him to the emergency vet because he kept coughing and gagging.  He eventually calmed down and we brought him into bed with us.


    I sat there and cried for like ten minutes.  I wouldn’t have felt worse if I would have accidentally set the house on fire.  Poor little guy.  And even thought the bag was my grandmother’s and even though she was the one who put it on the floor for the dog to hang himself by, I am the one who would have gotten blamed.  And probably banned.  Believe me, it’s happened to other family members for much less.


    So, you can see why I think I should have just Indian Jones-jumped off that deadly escalator and ran back to the platform and taken the first train back home.  There are signs in this world—but like most humans, I’m probably too dumb to follow ’em…

  • Shitty Times, House Sitting with Chiquito, and a Few of My Many Smells

    I have so many cringe-worthy conversations on almost a daily basis.  I’m in a constant state of horror.  And a little amusement too.  I rode up in the elevator with one of the founding partners–a wee man who instills grave fear and trauma in those of a weak stomach and constitution.  Man, people are so emotional.  Get over it.  So, we’re riding up, and mind you, this man only this year has managed to force himself to say “hi” to me after four years of neglect, and because it’s just the two of us I feel like I should say something and so, noticing his arm was in a casty-bandage thing, I asked the obvious question”what happened to your arm?!”  And then he went and had to tell me it was an infection.  Infections just gross me out because I just think, what does that smell like?  It must be awful.  Then he said he was bummed.


    One day last week, I went to the bathroom to wash my hands and ran into the office manager.  She came out of the stall and said, “WOW…whoever was in here before us really had a problem!  Can you smell that?”  Odd question.  It’s bad enough to experience it without having someone point out how terrible and putrid the smell really is.  And she wouldn’t let it go: “Gosh, I wonder what they ate?  Just plain AWFUL!  I’d better get out of here before the smell sticks to my clothes!”  Like that terrible Chevy’s smell when you order fajitas.


    I know I take on poo-poo talk a lot, so I’d better just get it all out of my system.  Sort to speak.  I’m house/dog sitting for my grandparents for the next month.  It’s kind of nice to have a huge, huge house and a really cute little dog all to yourself.  I want to bite him.

    There are only a very few minor problems.  All the door locks turn differently–some to the left, some to the right.  I can’t figure out which light switches turn on which lights.  The shower upstairs only seemed to blast cold water and I ran that shit for like five minutes and the shower downstairs? Only hot water.  I felt like I was in Money Pit.  But before I get that far…before I could try the shower downstairs and scald the shit out of my tender epidermis, I got a little side-tracked.  Actually, I was really gripped with fear.  The toilet was full of a sick-looking stew and I couldn’t decide whether to risk flushing.  I didn’t want to clean anything up.  I stood there for a few minutes trying to decide what to do, and so I did nothing and decided to let my grandpa just deal with it in a month.  I know it’s mean, but it was kind of mean to conveniently “forget” that atrocity in the toilet.  Okay, I’m done with the potty humor.  For today at least.


    Old people are very trippy.  They have their little idiosyncrasies that take a lifetime to develop and hone to a fine and perfect weirdness.  I have come to the stark realization that my grandmother has OCD.  I kind of suspected it when she showed me how to fold all of her plastic grocery bags into neat little triangles for ease of storage.  And then she left me to fold bags for an entire afternoon.  I found a bag of triangles yesterday.  I looked in their medicine cabinet for the hell of it and found a stack of half-used bars of soap–eight high.  There are about 10 bottles of eye drops–some older than me.  There are old vitamins and rusty bottles of Tres Flores.  So, maybe she’s just a weird pack-rat.  She also locks her closets.  Back in Mexico her mother used to be a money lender–I guess like a pawn-broker–and she would lock up all of the merchandise for safety.  My granny locks up closets full of her own shoes and clothes and god-knows-what-else and then loses the keys.  She has about four closets full of shit.


    And finally, my reflection on love.  When I get to be as old as my grandparents, I sure hope I don’t hate my husband–if he’s still alive.  That would bum me out.  And I hope my husband would discourage me from collecting old medications and slivers of soap.  And learn to flush the dang toilet.  I guess what it’s really all about is helping each other not to be too psycho or too smelly.

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