Archive | July, 2011

Conversations with My Father

31 Jul

The scene: watching one of those CRAZY OUTRAGEOUS CAR CHASE shows with my Dad.

Dad-I can’t believe anyone would be stupid enough to out run the police.

Me-I know. It’s so dangerous! And it’s not like you’re actually going to get away.

Dad-Exactly. Your best bet is to pull over, kill the cop, and drive away. That will give you a good lead time.


Taking Myself Off the Market

29 Jul

This one is for the laaaaaaadies. And I guess, anyone who has ever gone on a date with a redheaded dickfarm who plays clarinet and doesn’t like tattoos EVEN THOUGH I CLEARLY HAVE TATTOOS.

Can’t Go Home Again

28 Jul

The sap of a fig bush is toxic, and if you pluck that fruit without gloves and long sleeves, your arms will erupt and itch.

My grammy had a fig bush in her front yard, by the gardenia tree. (Fact: what you think smells like magnolia is actually gardenia.)

I don’t remember ever picking figs, I guess because it could hurt me. She would pick them, though, and boil them down with sugar. We ate them over pancakes or biscuits or just plain white bread. Then we moved and I didn’t see her anymore (she hated my mother, might still hate her.) And there were no more figs. I guess they don’t grow up here. Now I eat all the fig chutney from cheese plates and ask for more. I don’t think my grammy knows what a cheese plate is.

A few months before I got married, she discovered she had breast cancer. A quick mastectomy. Then she had a stroke and her daughters (twins, fathered by my 70 year old grandfather. She was 30.) put her in a…home? Not her home, with the linoleum in all the rooms and no toaster, ever. But a home.

This fall, my father made the trip back home to say goodbye to his mother. And I said, please bring me some figs. That’s what I want from home.

And he was dutiful, and he did. Two jars, one for me. I gave the other to a close friend, because figs are the kind of food you share.

I put them on a top shelf. I am afraid to eat them, because it’s the last I will have. She was a strange women, at best distant and at worst vicious. But she gave me my sweet father, and for that I am grateful. If I eat those figs, something is over and I’m not ready for it to end.


Lesson No. 1

27 Jul

This is how you eat a peach at your desk without ruining another keyboard.

Things You Should Know About Me

26 Jul

I wrote a sonnet about the fetal pig I had to dissect in Advanced Biology.


Bonus: I took Advanced Biology because there was no math involved. The teacher had previously suffered a nervous breakdown (actually, it happened the year my older sister had him as a teacher) due in large part to his son. His son legally changed his name to Genitalia and that pushed him over the edge, I guess.

Updates in Passive Aggression

25 Jul

I have declared a tentative victory in the Rotten Dog Smell Summit of 2011. Neighbor crumpled my severely funny note and threw it in front of my door (so mindful of my record keeping efforts, neighbor!) and the foyer smelled suspiciously delightful. I take his Febreezing as an admission of guilt, which some cranky and not fun people might point out won’t hold up in court. But I don’t want to go to court. I want what everyone wants: to be right about the good things, and wrong about the bad ones.

And then I was like…

24 Jul

Behold! My awful speech pattern and a mildly funny story about being married.


Adventures in Passive Aggression

21 Jul

I’m a note leaver. I don’t like making eye contact and I can be meaner in writing than I am capable of verbally. Just kidding! I’m mean all the time. I left my college suite mate a note that read, “You’re only a slut if you feel like a slut. And if everyone says you are.” She cried, and I still don’t feel bad.

I’ve recently embarked on a passive aggressive note exchange with my upstairs neighbor who, while not bad looking, has a contraband dog that is stinking up the joint. I can’t be having that. So, after much Febreezing on my part, I leave the following missive:


Dear Neighbor,

I get that you’re a dog person. I prefer cats myself. I’m a cat person. Here’s the thing, though – and I hate to say this, since you seem very nice – but your dog smells crazy bad. The front and back foyers reek of rotten dog. I’ve Febreezed, lit candles, etc. If you could…I don’t know, actually. Just make it go away? Please? I know that we would all appreciate it.

He responded with:

Dear Neighbor,

I don’t own a dog. I’m guessing this building stinks because

1. It’s crazy humid

2. The landlords never clean it.

3. It’s old.

And I’m a cat person. I have a polydactyl cat named Wednesday. She’s awesome.

Nice try, sir. Try to distract me with a cute story about your cat with the cute name. Luckily, I have this superpower I like to call VISION and I’ve fucking SEEN your dog. I’ve seen him. With you. And what are the landlords going to clean in the foyer? The mailboxes? The banister? I know those two things really TRAP odors. I call shenanigans.

And so I respond:

Okay, look. I don’t want to fight about this. But I’ve seen a dog both enter and leave this building with you. Is he your cousin? An old college roommate?

The seldom-cleaned foyer rots because of a dog – I won’t even attribute said dog to you – but I think if we all agree to remain cat people and not let old college roommates spend the weekend, that would be nice. Even if  the “roommate” belongs to your girlfriend. For instance.

I don’t imagine that this will end well. But then, does anything?

Things I Have Heard Yelled Outside My Apartment

20 Jul

Fuck! Julie! Julie! Julie! Fuck! Julie!

Thoughts I have had while hearing this:

Am I going to die?

Is this how it ends?

Why is he announcing himself like that?

Should I throw a cat at him?

Conversation with the Little Sister

19 Jul

Little sister: You know what freaks me out about rompers?

Me: You have to get naked to pee.

Little sister: GET OUT OF MY HEAD.