The way I see it, you're either blessed with good teeth or cursed with really shitty ones. I got the latter and am choosing today to be really pissed off about it. In fact, I'm going to officially recognize September 14th as BOGUS BICUSPID day. And not just this year. Every year for the rest of my life I'm going to take one day to say F YOU, TEETH! You take all my money. You cause me pain. You suck!!!
Okay, so my teeth plight isn't just bad luck. It's coupled with some funky health issues I have that cause me to be extremely susceptible to cavities.
Let's start at the beginning. Of course I was living in England at the time. 6th grade. Went to the dentist on base who, after an examination, exclaimed, "you have thirty-something cavities!!"
He was referring to different surfaces of my teeth, but so what? He said thirty something. Was that even possible? What the hell was he talking about? I thought it must be some kind of a joke, but turns out it wasn't.
Then, he said, "so, you grind your teeth, too, eh? You're wearing them down to the point where they'll be nubs soon. What's going on at home? Are you having problems with your parents?" He even insinuated my dad was touching me inappropriately and that I needed a psychiatrist. Asshole.
I wish my parents had pulled me out of there permanently after that experience, but dental work was free on base, so I don't blame them for making me go back. That stupid office filled all those cavities but I was only numb for maybe 20% of the time. Those guys couldn't numb a nerve to save their pathetic, untrained lives and I was their guinea pig. Who even knows if I really had that many cavities? Maybe they just needed someone to experiment on? Like a human cadaver but alive... Sick.
After that I didn't have many tooth surfaces left, so I was okay until I graduated from college. One day I was chewing a piece of Trident gum and WHAM! A pain so intense it knocked the wind out of me shot up through one of my teeth. Because I seem to enjoy torturing myself, I did it again, just to make sure what I felt the first time was real.
Hello, root canal # 1.
And from there things just took off. My dentist drilled out all my old fillings and most were so deep I had to have root canal after root canal after root canal. Then crown upon crown upon crown. I figure it's about $2500-$3000 per tooth, so you do the math. It's a miracle I haven't had to move back in with my parents.
One of my root canals got infected so I had to have my gums cut open and scraped. Yeah, I know - I'm gagging too. It was freakin' sick. So gross I was crying, but no one knew since I don't have tears. It can be an advantage to be a medical mystery, I'm telling you.
About a year ago I noticed my gums receding on one of my bottom teeth. Go to the gum guy and get one of the most disgusting procedures done. Ever. He took 'material' from the roof of my mouth and sewed it onto the receding gum. Then covered it with this putty that tasted just like throw up (I'm serious) and I walked out of there in tears. Luckily, I pulled out some of the stitches by accident and had to go through the whole process again. Like I said, I like to torture myself. Was the first surgery real or did I have to go through it a second time to be 100% sure? At a few thousand dollars a pop I should have believed the first one.
Post surgery I had to get a retainer for $800 and a mouth guard for another $800. "Jesus Pete," was all I could say.
A few months ago I noticed a twinge in one of my few teeth that still has a nerve. Cold. Heat. Pressure. Biting. Sweets. You name it and it made it hurt. This morning I went to my root canal guy, who's actually pretty hot so it makes the whole thing slightly less painful. UNTIL HE PUT ICE ON MY TOOTH. I'm not kidding. I shot through the roof and my tooth throbbed until he shot me up with novocaine. Seems I have a cavity under my crown that grew and infected the nerve in my tooth. Funny how my dentist missed it at my last teeth cleaning, huh? They're all probably in cahoots with one another.
He got to the nerve and suddenly I could feel it. SO HE PUT A NEEDLE FILLED WITH NOVOCAINE DIRECTLY INTO THE NERVE OF MY TOOTH. I was shaking all over. I should mention, though, that this guy has done all my root canals. He's awesome. It's just the nature of the beast having an infected tooth, I guess. Anyway. The rest of the procedure went off without a hitch and then I left his office. $1700 poorer. The prices went up. That's for one tooth with one nerve.
I got out of there and headed for the office, my mind wandering in all directions. Seems everything has reached maximum capacity in my brain because I started to cry walking down the street. Good thing I had my shades on because at one point I was really boo-hooing. It's pointless to list everything - what do you care? People expect me to be happy, happy, happy all the time, but that's completely unrealistic. I deserve to have a bad day now and again. Screw you if you don't like it.
The only thing I want right now is a hug from my mom and dad. And they're coming on Friday. Two days with them and the world will once again be all right. Back on the funny track tomorrow.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Day 31. Condo from Hell.
I was ready to buy a place. My own place. One that I could paint any crazy way I wanted. One where I could park my car. Own an animal. Save some money on my taxes. Be a real grown-up. I got what I wished for. The first floor of a 3 flat. My real estate agent called me a 'pioneer,' since the neighborhood was for shit, but it offered more space than any of the other places I looked at. Besides, I didn't want to be in an apartment building. I wanted character. Quirks. I got that, too.
There was a guy living in the basement unit who was really nice. He had a cat named Popcorn "because that's what his poo smells like." Seriously. That's what he told me. His name was Chris. Ben and Amy lived in the top unit, which was smaller but it had two floors and a great deck.
A couple days after Ben and Amy moved in I thought he was going to kill her. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, tons of stuff was banging around, it was madness. So I called the cops, who hauled his ass off to jail because she had marks on her arms. He swore they had the argument because she was off her meds, but I knew he was just an abusive asshole that was lying right to my face.
For two years I took his crap. He would go out on drug deals at 3 am, peeling out of the driveway like a lunatic, spraying gravel all over my and Chris's cars. He'd blast the Grateful Dead at 5 o'clock in the morning. He'd start at one end of his apartment and jump to the other, just to make noise and be obnoxious. He broke his garbage disposal by putting a nickel in it and then used the condo money to fix it without telling anyone. He stole money from the condo fund to do who the hell knows what with. He couldn't open his mouth without bragging about something - usually himself. He was a slob who was addicted to porn. He tried to break through Chris's front door one night to beat him up. He was so mad he was spitting. He had three cats who pissed and shit all over his apartment and he didn't bother to clean it up. He took pictures of the crack whores giving blow jobs in the alley behind the house. He took pictures of the thugs out front when someone got stabbed. He wasn't making any friends in the neighborhood, but he was making a target out of our house. Everyone hated him, especially the dangerous people, and I didn't want to pay the price for it.
I put my place on the market and sold it in a day. Made $200K and was able to get the rowhouse of my dreams. No condo fee. No one upstairs. No roommate. No bullshit. Just me, my cat and my fish. I've been here for five years and am still as happy as the day I moved in.
At closing, the couple I sold my condo to tried to shave $25K off the price because I 'misrepresented the square footage.' I didn't. My real estate agent did. I was fuming mad and my mom heard me say "fuck" for one of the first times ever. I ended up giving them $7K and said 'take it or leave it.' Isn't karma a funny thing? They treated me like dirt and then inherited one of the dirtiest, meanest, foulest guys on earth.
If you're wondering what happened to Ben and Amy - well, Amy moved out in the middle of the night when Ben was out of town. I guess her mom came and they snuck away into the night. Good for her. At least now she'll live. As for Ben, he sure got his own. He was eventually evicted from the building - by the bank. His freelance world caved in all around him and he couldn't pay any of his bills. He must not have been able to keep his drug deals going either... As far as I know he's out roaming the streets somewhere and I don't feel an ounce of pity for him.
The couple that bought my place tried to get out of there shortly after they moved in. Didn't take them long to realize what they'd gotten themselves into. But by then the market had changed. There was no way they were going to get anywhere near what they paid, so in desperation to get away from Ben they left it behind as a rental.
Chris got married and moved in with his wife, I think. He was a funny guy who hopefully is doing well.
When I first moved into my condo, my real estate agent gave me a present - a sketch of the outside of the house. Today, it's still in a locker in my basement. I have a hard enough time even driving by my old place without cringing, so why have a constant reminder of it on the wall?
Mark my words. I will never, as long as I live, ever, ever, never, ever, ever live in a condo again. That shit's for the birds.
Day 31. World's Worst Roommate.
Okay, I know I said I was going to write about cigarettes and volcanoes, but I changed my mind because I remembered a story that's much more psychotic.
First, a confession. I may lose many of you that actually read this thing, but it's a chance I'm willing to take.
I vote Republican. I wouldn't say that I'm 100% right leaning, but I'm surely not leaning any more than 50% left. I see things from both sides and let people speak their minds a lot more than they let me speak mine. You're probably wondering why I'm telling you this. It has to do with my roommate in 1992.
A month after I graduated college, I got my first job, but I didn't have a place to stay so some friends of my parents were generous enough to let me stay with them for a couple months. Then, I met a girl at work who seemed sane enough to share some space with. At least that's what I thought at the time.
We got a 2 bedroom garden style apartment. It was pretty cute, but pretty small. At the time, Clinton was running for President and I was less than thrilled. One night he was yammering on on TV and I made a rude comment.
"What an asshole," I probably said.
To which my roommate responded, "have some pride in your vagina!"
But she didn't pronounce it like it's spelled or how most normal people say it - VUH JYE NUH.
She said VER JYE NER.
Um, yeah.
So I yelled back, "if you had any pride in yours you'd learn how to say it properly! It's VUH JYE NUH. NOT VER JYE NER!!"
Then she started coming at me. Her face was purple she was so pissed. I think she was screaming, "I'm gonna fucking kill you!!!" So I bolted to my room and slammed and locked the door. She beat it and kicked it until the whole apartment was vibrating. She was a raging lunatic ... and what the hell do vaginas have to do with Bill Clinton?
HAHHAHAHA I guess we all found out, didn't we? He sure took care of business in the Oral Office. Oops. Oval.
Anyway. I let that bitch calm down for a good long time before I came out of my room. Then I announced I'd be moving out as I made a bag of red beans and rice.
That was the last roommate I ever had. When I got away from that crazy lady, I moved into a studio apartment on the ground floor of a humongous apartment complex. It was gross. It had roaches. It always smelled of some kind of exotic food mixture that resembled barf. The fire alarms went off all the time. My landlord was a pervert who stole my security deposit. My bed was in the closet. It was concrete hell. I was thrilled to get out of there, even though the next place is where I encountered The Rapist. After that I moved to a great one bedroom in a hip, safe part of town. Then I bought my first place. Another good story.
First, a confession. I may lose many of you that actually read this thing, but it's a chance I'm willing to take.
I vote Republican. I wouldn't say that I'm 100% right leaning, but I'm surely not leaning any more than 50% left. I see things from both sides and let people speak their minds a lot more than they let me speak mine. You're probably wondering why I'm telling you this. It has to do with my roommate in 1992.
A month after I graduated college, I got my first job, but I didn't have a place to stay so some friends of my parents were generous enough to let me stay with them for a couple months. Then, I met a girl at work who seemed sane enough to share some space with. At least that's what I thought at the time.
We got a 2 bedroom garden style apartment. It was pretty cute, but pretty small. At the time, Clinton was running for President and I was less than thrilled. One night he was yammering on on TV and I made a rude comment.
"What an asshole," I probably said.
To which my roommate responded, "have some pride in your vagina!"
But she didn't pronounce it like it's spelled or how most normal people say it - VUH JYE NUH.
She said VER JYE NER.
Um, yeah.
So I yelled back, "if you had any pride in yours you'd learn how to say it properly! It's VUH JYE NUH. NOT VER JYE NER!!"
Then she started coming at me. Her face was purple she was so pissed. I think she was screaming, "I'm gonna fucking kill you!!!" So I bolted to my room and slammed and locked the door. She beat it and kicked it until the whole apartment was vibrating. She was a raging lunatic ... and what the hell do vaginas have to do with Bill Clinton?
HAHHAHAHA I guess we all found out, didn't we? He sure took care of business in the Oral Office. Oops. Oval.
Anyway. I let that bitch calm down for a good long time before I came out of my room. Then I announced I'd be moving out as I made a bag of red beans and rice.
That was the last roommate I ever had. When I got away from that crazy lady, I moved into a studio apartment on the ground floor of a humongous apartment complex. It was gross. It had roaches. It always smelled of some kind of exotic food mixture that resembled barf. The fire alarms went off all the time. My landlord was a pervert who stole my security deposit. My bed was in the closet. It was concrete hell. I was thrilled to get out of there, even though the next place is where I encountered The Rapist. After that I moved to a great one bedroom in a hip, safe part of town. Then I bought my first place. Another good story.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Day 26. Cold Busted 2 and shoplifting.
Now that I'm cat pee free I can finish up my story about Anne's shenanigans, as well as tell you about my own sticky fingers.
My neighbors are currently making fried chicken and the smell has permeated my entire house, so if I start to veer off subject, it's completely out of my control. I also feel like I've lost my sense of humor and desire to write because of this aroma.
Anne was at the bowling alley when she should have been on her way to softball practice. As soon as the guy at the counter was distracted and headed off elsewhere, she reached up, grabbed a Snickers and thought her shoplifting quest was a success. It wasn't. She got cold busted and the cops were called.
Considering my parents were already livid about her getting trashed at school, I think this is when they tried sending her - or maybe both of us, I don't remember - to a shrinky dink. It didn't do much good, because he recommended my parents back off, let us have messy rooms, give us our freedom, etc. My dad heard that for about 10 seconds and no more shrinky dink.
I, on the other hand, shoplifted but never got caught. I did it twice. The first time I was in the convenience store on base. I'm pretty sure it was in England, once again. I had a real hankerin' for candy. All day. Every day. Loved Big League Chew. Fire Jolly Ranchers. Suck on them long enough and they get bendy. You can actually make a rollup out of a Jolly Rancher stick if your mouth is hot enough and you have enough patience. Fireballs. I'd eat anything in the candy aisle. Chocolate. Hot Tamales. I didn't discriminate.
One day I was perusing the candy aisle, trying to narrow down my selections, when a dare was presented to me. People who know me know that whether truth or dare, I'm playing. I was dared to steal a piece of candy. And I did. I peeked around, located the check out guy, and slick as oil slipped either a chunk of gum or piece of chocolate into my pocket. I honestly don't remember what it was, but isn't shoplifting all about the thrill? Seeing if you can pull one over on someone without getting caught? I thought I was being inconspicuous, but I bet you any money that guy knew exactly what I was doing. Maybe I just had better luck than Anne in this particular arena.
Shoplifting experience #2. England. Yes, England again. I went downtown with a friend of mine to do a little shopping - wasn't planning on lifting until faced with yet another dare. She dared me to steal a pair of earrings.
"Consider it done," I said. I started eyeballing the merchandise for the shiniest pair.
I was scared shitless because stealing off the Air Force base was a hell of a lot different than on it. I'd be in trouble either way, but base cops are like rent-a-cops. Bobby's are like regular cops with anger management issues and a desire to beat down anyone who messes with the law. You guess which one you'd want to deal with if facing a shoplifting charge.
I had my target picked out - a cheapo pair of danglies that no one would miss except the inventory team. I grabbed them, canvassed the scene for eyeballs and cameras, then slipped them into my pocket. I was sweaty, my heart was racing, I felt like I was going to hurl. My friend thought it was the coolest thing ever, but I couldn't bring myself to agree.
After that day I never stole anything from a store again. I stole clothes from my dad, but that's about it.
Tune in tomorrow for the inhalation of lit cigarette butts and volanco'd bowls.
Yep, in England.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Day 25. Cold Busted.
It's only fair that, as I shared the intimate details of my getting slapped for poor behavior yesterday, I do the same for my sister. Not just to even the telling score, but she's had some pretty impressive times that we should all strive to live up to.
England.
Why do all the stories involving trouble start with England?
Let's call my sister Anne. She was in 8th grade, maybe 9th? We were going to school on the Air Force base and there was an AYA (American Youth Association?) across the street and a bowling alley off to the right of the gym, if I remember correctly. Both of them were regular hangouts for me, Anne, and all our friends. The AYA had dances where everyone made out, either inside or out in the dugouts at the baseball field (not that I know from personal experience).
One day Anne decides to chug a lug some 'suicide' with a bunch of friends behind the AYA at morning break. 10:30 AM. Every kind of alcoholic liquid was in there - without any kind of mixer. I was, as usual, hoovering down the 3 candy bars I ate every day in the cafeteria.
That afternoon, I heard that Anne was outside the principal's office, busted for being drunk in school. This bitch, who hated Anne because they once came to blows over a guy and she lost, went and told on her. So Anne was rehearsing "Who's on First," chewing grape bubble yum and facing a breathalyzer. I remember running to see her, but nothing about the interaction. Anne says it was when she was locked in the office, drunk, and I was talking to her through the glass? Who knows - I just know that I was worried out of my mind that she was going to get expelled.
Anne not only failed the breathalyzer, she fell off the damn chair as she was trying to blow through the tube. Like that wasn't bad enough, she then cut and ran down the hall like a madwoman to get one of her friends out of class. And finally, she tried bolting out one of the back doors, just to be caught by the principal.
My mom - the one who slapped me for smoking - told the principal to keep Anne at the school until she got there. Then, she picked her up, brought her home and made her sit upright in a chair until my dad got home - the one who poked me in the chest really hard with his big, pointy finger.
Anne was suspended from school and in big trouble with my parents. She actually thought she'd be living the high life those few days; sleeping in, watching soaps, lazing around. Hardly. My mom dragged her to her classroom and made her play some kind of bingo bonanza with the kids until she nearly went insane.
When it was time to go back to school, it was a holiday weekend, and everyone miscalculated the date. She showed up a day early, but instead of going back home or to my mom's classroom, Anne had to sit in a detention room all by herself. All day. She says I brought her lunch, and I have a faint recollection of that. By that time I must have outgrown my tattling phase and moved on to protection.
It would have been nice if the drama stopped there. After all, it was pretty crazy already. But Anne was on a wild streak. My parents agreed to let her go to softball practice one day during her grounding, but before she got there she hit the bowling alley.
Hold on, I have to take The Beast to a kitty hair salon. More later.
You're not going to believe this. Or, you might, considering my luck. I stuffed The Beast into his kitty carrier, which he was anything but happy about. I walked out the back door, lugging him along, then realized my leg was wet. Then my foot and shoe. There was a trail of liquid coming out the bottom of the kitty carrier. Not only was The Beast pissed. He pissed right out the kitty carrier and aimed it so it dribbled all down my leg.
I'm sure you can all understand that I'll finish Anne's story tomorrow. Trust me, it'll be worth the wait.
England.
Why do all the stories involving trouble start with England?
Let's call my sister Anne. She was in 8th grade, maybe 9th? We were going to school on the Air Force base and there was an AYA (American Youth Association?) across the street and a bowling alley off to the right of the gym, if I remember correctly. Both of them were regular hangouts for me, Anne, and all our friends. The AYA had dances where everyone made out, either inside or out in the dugouts at the baseball field (not that I know from personal experience).
One day Anne decides to chug a lug some 'suicide' with a bunch of friends behind the AYA at morning break. 10:30 AM. Every kind of alcoholic liquid was in there - without any kind of mixer. I was, as usual, hoovering down the 3 candy bars I ate every day in the cafeteria.
That afternoon, I heard that Anne was outside the principal's office, busted for being drunk in school. This bitch, who hated Anne because they once came to blows over a guy and she lost, went and told on her. So Anne was rehearsing "Who's on First," chewing grape bubble yum and facing a breathalyzer. I remember running to see her, but nothing about the interaction. Anne says it was when she was locked in the office, drunk, and I was talking to her through the glass? Who knows - I just know that I was worried out of my mind that she was going to get expelled.
Anne not only failed the breathalyzer, she fell off the damn chair as she was trying to blow through the tube. Like that wasn't bad enough, she then cut and ran down the hall like a madwoman to get one of her friends out of class. And finally, she tried bolting out one of the back doors, just to be caught by the principal.
My mom - the one who slapped me for smoking - told the principal to keep Anne at the school until she got there. Then, she picked her up, brought her home and made her sit upright in a chair until my dad got home - the one who poked me in the chest really hard with his big, pointy finger.
Anne was suspended from school and in big trouble with my parents. She actually thought she'd be living the high life those few days; sleeping in, watching soaps, lazing around. Hardly. My mom dragged her to her classroom and made her play some kind of bingo bonanza with the kids until she nearly went insane.
When it was time to go back to school, it was a holiday weekend, and everyone miscalculated the date. She showed up a day early, but instead of going back home or to my mom's classroom, Anne had to sit in a detention room all by herself. All day. She says I brought her lunch, and I have a faint recollection of that. By that time I must have outgrown my tattling phase and moved on to protection.
It would have been nice if the drama stopped there. After all, it was pretty crazy already. But Anne was on a wild streak. My parents agreed to let her go to softball practice one day during her grounding, but before she got there she hit the bowling alley.
Hold on, I have to take The Beast to a kitty hair salon. More later.
You're not going to believe this. Or, you might, considering my luck. I stuffed The Beast into his kitty carrier, which he was anything but happy about. I walked out the back door, lugging him along, then realized my leg was wet. Then my foot and shoe. There was a trail of liquid coming out the bottom of the kitty carrier. Not only was The Beast pissed. He pissed right out the kitty carrier and aimed it so it dribbled all down my leg.
I'm sure you can all understand that I'll finish Anne's story tomorrow. Trust me, it'll be worth the wait.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Day 24. Slapped.
There are a few times in my life where I got slapped so hard I can still feel the sting.
Wexford, PA. I was 9 if I remember correctly. We were having a family dinner - a pretty fancy one - with my parents, me, my sister, and my grandparents on my mom's side. We called them Grandmom and Grandpop to keep from getting confused with my dad's parents - Granny and Gramps.
Dinner was going off without a hitch. I have no clue what we ate, but I do remember very clearly what I said at the table and what the consequences were.
"I love everyone at this table except for Grandmom." I blurted out, probably over some mashed potatoes.
There was a mix of horrified and stupefied stares and the room went dead silent.
I, of course, thought it was funny, so I said it again. Maybe even a couple more times. Then, I was excused from the table by my dad. A military man. Who could be really scary.
I busied myself clearing dishes and trying to stack them in the kitchen, but stuff was everywhere. There was no room.
"There's nowhere to put this stuff," I whined.
And then, it broke. You could literally hear my dad's patience pop. I had pushed him to the limit and was done for.
He chased me up the stairs, spanking me hard all the way to my room and not even the daffodils on my canopy bed could calm me down. I'd never seen him so mad and I never saw him that mad again. He poked his big sausage finger right in my chest and it hurt. I was so scared I started to pee my dress, which was no big deal because it was ugly, but I didn't want to pee on my daffodils.
I hid in the bathroom for a while - and if I had half a brain I would have locked the door and never come out. But I did. I'll never forget that day as long as I live. And it's not because my dad was mean. It's because I acted like a real asshole and told my Grandmom I didn't love her.
England. I was 11. My mom taught elementary school, so my sister and I normally beat her home. One day I had a few girlfriends over and we were smoking in the backyard. Suddenly, I heard a car pull up and I knew I was screwed. I ran into the house, grabbed a Pepsi and started chugging it - somehow thinking that would cover up the smell of a Marlboro? Of course it didn't. My mom took one whiff of me and slapped me across the face so hard I had her handprint there for about a week. My friends just slipped by behind me, out the front door to safety from this crazy lady. Boy, was she ever pissed. And she's tiny, too - 5'2", 105 pounds - so imagine the anger that propelled that hand. Oh well. It's not because my mom was mean. It's because I was stupid enough to smoke at home and get caught.
Slap #3. England. I was 11 or 12 and thought it was a hoot to borrow my sister's stuff. I'd take clothes, earrings, bracelets, makeup, pretty much anything I could get my hands on to be like her. One day I had on her purple plastic earrings. They were shaped like triangles and probably cost about a dollar. I was in my bedroom when she burst in and told me to take them off.
"Take em off, I'm serious." She said, and the look in her eye was wild. I knew I was playing with fire, but I was ready to fuel it. And but good.
"No!"
"Take them off. Now. And don't you dare throw them." God, she knew me well.
I reached up to my right ear, pulled off the back of the earring, took the earring out and replaced the back. Then I hauled my right hand back as far is it would go and chucked that earring with the force of a pro baseball pitcher. It whizzed by her face, I think, and then the rest was sort of a blur.
WHAP! Her hand made contact with my face and then she was on top of me, wrestling me on my bed and basically just beating my ass senseless.
It wasn't that my sister was mean. It's because I took her stuff without asking and then got obnoxious about returning it.
Those are the three slapping incidents I remember most vividly. I'm sure there are more, but only the best ones deserve fond recollection. I guess, along the way, I got some sense slapped into me after all.
Wexford, PA. I was 9 if I remember correctly. We were having a family dinner - a pretty fancy one - with my parents, me, my sister, and my grandparents on my mom's side. We called them Grandmom and Grandpop to keep from getting confused with my dad's parents - Granny and Gramps.
Dinner was going off without a hitch. I have no clue what we ate, but I do remember very clearly what I said at the table and what the consequences were.
"I love everyone at this table except for Grandmom." I blurted out, probably over some mashed potatoes.
There was a mix of horrified and stupefied stares and the room went dead silent.
I, of course, thought it was funny, so I said it again. Maybe even a couple more times. Then, I was excused from the table by my dad. A military man. Who could be really scary.
I busied myself clearing dishes and trying to stack them in the kitchen, but stuff was everywhere. There was no room.
"There's nowhere to put this stuff," I whined.
And then, it broke. You could literally hear my dad's patience pop. I had pushed him to the limit and was done for.
He chased me up the stairs, spanking me hard all the way to my room and not even the daffodils on my canopy bed could calm me down. I'd never seen him so mad and I never saw him that mad again. He poked his big sausage finger right in my chest and it hurt. I was so scared I started to pee my dress, which was no big deal because it was ugly, but I didn't want to pee on my daffodils.
I hid in the bathroom for a while - and if I had half a brain I would have locked the door and never come out. But I did. I'll never forget that day as long as I live. And it's not because my dad was mean. It's because I acted like a real asshole and told my Grandmom I didn't love her.
England. I was 11. My mom taught elementary school, so my sister and I normally beat her home. One day I had a few girlfriends over and we were smoking in the backyard. Suddenly, I heard a car pull up and I knew I was screwed. I ran into the house, grabbed a Pepsi and started chugging it - somehow thinking that would cover up the smell of a Marlboro? Of course it didn't. My mom took one whiff of me and slapped me across the face so hard I had her handprint there for about a week. My friends just slipped by behind me, out the front door to safety from this crazy lady. Boy, was she ever pissed. And she's tiny, too - 5'2", 105 pounds - so imagine the anger that propelled that hand. Oh well. It's not because my mom was mean. It's because I was stupid enough to smoke at home and get caught.
Slap #3. England. I was 11 or 12 and thought it was a hoot to borrow my sister's stuff. I'd take clothes, earrings, bracelets, makeup, pretty much anything I could get my hands on to be like her. One day I had on her purple plastic earrings. They were shaped like triangles and probably cost about a dollar. I was in my bedroom when she burst in and told me to take them off.
"Take em off, I'm serious." She said, and the look in her eye was wild. I knew I was playing with fire, but I was ready to fuel it. And but good.
"No!"
"Take them off. Now. And don't you dare throw them." God, she knew me well.
I reached up to my right ear, pulled off the back of the earring, took the earring out and replaced the back. Then I hauled my right hand back as far is it would go and chucked that earring with the force of a pro baseball pitcher. It whizzed by her face, I think, and then the rest was sort of a blur.
WHAP! Her hand made contact with my face and then she was on top of me, wrestling me on my bed and basically just beating my ass senseless.
It wasn't that my sister was mean. It's because I took her stuff without asking and then got obnoxious about returning it.
Those are the three slapping incidents I remember most vividly. I'm sure there are more, but only the best ones deserve fond recollection. I guess, along the way, I got some sense slapped into me after all.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Day 23. Kitty be Gone.
I'm a cat killer. Not on purpose, but give me a cat and I can guarantee you it'll be dead either immediately or within a few years.
Cat #1: Oscar.
I got Oscar in college - a Himalayan - super cute and friendly. Thinking I'd save myself a little cash, a vet tech friend of mine said he'd neuter Oscar in my bathroom for free. Normally I'd say no to an offer like this - what the hell, is he crazy!? But I spent a lot of money on the cat so saving on the ball tying would be great. He came over. Shot Oscar up with Special K. Oscar ran all over the place, bumping into stuff, a wild look in his diluted pupils. Then, he just dropped dead. But he wasn't dead - yet. Just heavily sedated and primed for cutting. My friend shaved 'the area,' and everything was over in just a few minutes. Oscar eventually woke up and I thought everything would be fine.
The next day I thought my bed was on fire, but it was Oscar's hot, feverish body pressed up against me. He didn't look good at all. So much for saving a few bucks. I drove him to the vet who damn near took the cat away from me because of my 'poor decision making.' And of course I spent way more fixing Oscar than fixing him properly in the first place.
Oscar stuck around for a while - he was about 6 when he got nailed with this horrifying intestinal/stomach/colon problem. I'm a firm believer that you don't spend thousands of dollars prolonging a miserable animal's life. There are too many others out there that need saving. Since this was my first experience with euthanasia, I took Oscar into the vet, plopped him on the counter, told the receptionist who I was and what I was there for, and then ran out in tears of hysteria.
Cat #2: Sophie.
If you read The Rapist, then you know about Sophie already. My gray and white life saver. She was around 3 years old when I adopted her from the rich lady and hung out with me for about 6 years. She got struck with liver disease, and I'm not kidding when I say she turned yellow. She did. It was awful. And I was devastated. This time, a friend came with me and we sat with her until all the breath was done blowing out her sweet little face.
Cat #3: Beaker & Cat #4: Grendle.
I decided to give the SPCA a shot cuz I can't stand those animals being stuck there and killed every few minutes. They sent me to a foster home that had a pair of orange tabbies for adoption. They were really cute. Grendle was shy but Beaker seemed affectionate so I took them home. Grendle was dead within a few days and I was down more than $800. Somehow no one knew that he was dying of liver failure when they handed him over to me. Thanks a lot.
Beaker immediately developed an ear infection, which I thought would be no big deal to cure. Wrong. Nearly $2000 and 6 months later I was still watching him walk around the house with his head cocked off to the side, unable to balance himself. Eventually, in tears, I took him back to the SPCA, and you know what the guy at the desk said to me?
"So, you just don't want him anymore? Is that the reason you brought him back here?"
I was so livid my friend had to hold me back from punching him square between the eyes. Bastard.
Cat #5: Merlin & Cat #6: Regan.
A couple of my parents friends were going to build a new house and move to Ireland for a year, so their 2 Maine Coons needed a new home. I went to see them and was sold. Regan was a tortoiseshell poof ball and Merlie a 30 pound beast the color of a Creamsicle. I had to muscle up to get that bad boy in the car. I felt like I was really doing a good deed, though, because Merlin's name had been something like Prince William Wordsworth Wilmington III or something crazy. He does have a regal look about him, but come on.
Everything was fine for a few years until I noticed Regan breathing heavily. She was only about 6 years old. Turns out, she had congestive heart failure and wasn't going to come home with me. The vet warned me against being in the room with her when she was put down because with heart problems "there's a lot of gasping." There was no way I was going to put myself through that, so I sat there with her for a long time and said my final goodbyes. She was a great kitty with a funny square mouth and I miss her all the time.
Cat #7: New Kitty.
I adopted New Kitty from the most reputable shelter in the area - a gorgeous, no-kill place. She was a short-hair tortoiseshell and super sweet. Merlin tolerated her just fine. He's really too big to care about anything other than himself. After about a year, though, New Kitty's personality started to change. She'd attack me every time I walked by (yes, she had claws), and she was starting to bite. Not nibble. Bite. It was vicious and I was starting to relate to the stories of people being afraid of cats because of a nasty attack. New Kitty was only 10 pounds, but she was a bad ass.
One night she was up on my bed and I purposely wasn't looking at her because I knew she'd jump me. She jumped me anyway, dug her claws all the way into my arm, then her 2 front fangy teeth. I pushed her off the bed with a loud "NO!" and my finger pointing at her and you know what she did? That little bitch jumped back up on the bed and shredded my ass.
The next day she was on a ride back to the shelter.
Today, I only have Merlin, but he's more than enough. He's now 39 pounds, a real kitty heifer, but he's a great cat. He doesn't even care that I got a fish tank - all that entertainment, wasted. My friend who goes with me to put my cats down once knew she had to start making jokes or I'd drowned myself in red wine.
"You know, you could start a business, considering the crap luck you have with cats. My sister's cat is 22, incontinent, blind, deaf, shits outside the litter box, but refuses to die. One day with you and that cat would finally succumb. Hey, you should start a Kitty be Gone website. Got a cat you want to get rid of? Tired of that pesky pet hair? Call 1-800-KTY-BGON."
As harsh as it sounds, it was the perfect thing to pull me out of my funk. And, once you've 'killed' as many cats as I have you start to get a little numb about it. I tell myself that the cat, while alive, had a much better life with me than anyone else, and there are millions of others out there needing a good home.
If I ever have a cat live past 10, I'm writing Guinness. Merlie's pushing that now, so keep your fingers crossed. Otherwise, you'll probably see me down at the shelter again, casting my shitty luck on the next unsuspecting victim.
Cat #1: Oscar.
I got Oscar in college - a Himalayan - super cute and friendly. Thinking I'd save myself a little cash, a vet tech friend of mine said he'd neuter Oscar in my bathroom for free. Normally I'd say no to an offer like this - what the hell, is he crazy!? But I spent a lot of money on the cat so saving on the ball tying would be great. He came over. Shot Oscar up with Special K. Oscar ran all over the place, bumping into stuff, a wild look in his diluted pupils. Then, he just dropped dead. But he wasn't dead - yet. Just heavily sedated and primed for cutting. My friend shaved 'the area,' and everything was over in just a few minutes. Oscar eventually woke up and I thought everything would be fine.
The next day I thought my bed was on fire, but it was Oscar's hot, feverish body pressed up against me. He didn't look good at all. So much for saving a few bucks. I drove him to the vet who damn near took the cat away from me because of my 'poor decision making.' And of course I spent way more fixing Oscar than fixing him properly in the first place.
Oscar stuck around for a while - he was about 6 when he got nailed with this horrifying intestinal/stomach/colon problem. I'm a firm believer that you don't spend thousands of dollars prolonging a miserable animal's life. There are too many others out there that need saving. Since this was my first experience with euthanasia, I took Oscar into the vet, plopped him on the counter, told the receptionist who I was and what I was there for, and then ran out in tears of hysteria.
Cat #2: Sophie.
If you read The Rapist, then you know about Sophie already. My gray and white life saver. She was around 3 years old when I adopted her from the rich lady and hung out with me for about 6 years. She got struck with liver disease, and I'm not kidding when I say she turned yellow. She did. It was awful. And I was devastated. This time, a friend came with me and we sat with her until all the breath was done blowing out her sweet little face.
Cat #3: Beaker & Cat #4: Grendle.
I decided to give the SPCA a shot cuz I can't stand those animals being stuck there and killed every few minutes. They sent me to a foster home that had a pair of orange tabbies for adoption. They were really cute. Grendle was shy but Beaker seemed affectionate so I took them home. Grendle was dead within a few days and I was down more than $800. Somehow no one knew that he was dying of liver failure when they handed him over to me. Thanks a lot.
Beaker immediately developed an ear infection, which I thought would be no big deal to cure. Wrong. Nearly $2000 and 6 months later I was still watching him walk around the house with his head cocked off to the side, unable to balance himself. Eventually, in tears, I took him back to the SPCA, and you know what the guy at the desk said to me?
"So, you just don't want him anymore? Is that the reason you brought him back here?"
I was so livid my friend had to hold me back from punching him square between the eyes. Bastard.
Cat #5: Merlin & Cat #6: Regan.
A couple of my parents friends were going to build a new house and move to Ireland for a year, so their 2 Maine Coons needed a new home. I went to see them and was sold. Regan was a tortoiseshell poof ball and Merlie a 30 pound beast the color of a Creamsicle. I had to muscle up to get that bad boy in the car. I felt like I was really doing a good deed, though, because Merlin's name had been something like Prince William Wordsworth Wilmington III or something crazy. He does have a regal look about him, but come on.
Everything was fine for a few years until I noticed Regan breathing heavily. She was only about 6 years old. Turns out, she had congestive heart failure and wasn't going to come home with me. The vet warned me against being in the room with her when she was put down because with heart problems "there's a lot of gasping." There was no way I was going to put myself through that, so I sat there with her for a long time and said my final goodbyes. She was a great kitty with a funny square mouth and I miss her all the time.
Cat #7: New Kitty.
I adopted New Kitty from the most reputable shelter in the area - a gorgeous, no-kill place. She was a short-hair tortoiseshell and super sweet. Merlin tolerated her just fine. He's really too big to care about anything other than himself. After about a year, though, New Kitty's personality started to change. She'd attack me every time I walked by (yes, she had claws), and she was starting to bite. Not nibble. Bite. It was vicious and I was starting to relate to the stories of people being afraid of cats because of a nasty attack. New Kitty was only 10 pounds, but she was a bad ass.
One night she was up on my bed and I purposely wasn't looking at her because I knew she'd jump me. She jumped me anyway, dug her claws all the way into my arm, then her 2 front fangy teeth. I pushed her off the bed with a loud "NO!" and my finger pointing at her and you know what she did? That little bitch jumped back up on the bed and shredded my ass.
The next day she was on a ride back to the shelter.
Today, I only have Merlin, but he's more than enough. He's now 39 pounds, a real kitty heifer, but he's a great cat. He doesn't even care that I got a fish tank - all that entertainment, wasted. My friend who goes with me to put my cats down once knew she had to start making jokes or I'd drowned myself in red wine.
"You know, you could start a business, considering the crap luck you have with cats. My sister's cat is 22, incontinent, blind, deaf, shits outside the litter box, but refuses to die. One day with you and that cat would finally succumb. Hey, you should start a Kitty be Gone website. Got a cat you want to get rid of? Tired of that pesky pet hair? Call 1-800-KTY-BGON."
As harsh as it sounds, it was the perfect thing to pull me out of my funk. And, once you've 'killed' as many cats as I have you start to get a little numb about it. I tell myself that the cat, while alive, had a much better life with me than anyone else, and there are millions of others out there needing a good home.
If I ever have a cat live past 10, I'm writing Guinness. Merlie's pushing that now, so keep your fingers crossed. Otherwise, you'll probably see me down at the shelter again, casting my shitty luck on the next unsuspecting victim.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)