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Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Fetal Alcohol Island

I haven't written for a while because nothing interesting has happened to me. Except that Barack Obama won, which happened to everybody. I can't even begin to express how thrilled I am to have an intelligent leader again. Now I'm going to have to find something else to be annoyed about besides politics. I'm sure it won't be hard.
I'm seeing a new chiropractor. The first time I went to the office I noticed a giant poster of falling leaves with an italicised caption that read " Without Chiropractic, fall comes early"
Chiropractic controls the seasons? Chiropractic Care prevents untimely tumbles?
Then I saw another poster of a waterfall that said," Every drop of intelligence is a treasure to be cherished."
What?
When I see this kind of stupidity I always imagine the discussion marketing and design executives must have had before giving the go ahead to print or produce thousands of something with an idiot slogan. In a company large enough to produce a series of cheap posters, surely it took the agreement of several individuals to go to print, several people said," Sure that makes sense. Lets go ahead with that."

Today I went and as I was waiting for my appointment I spied a book called " How to adjust your cat". It had illustrations of how to crack your cat's back. The font for the instructions was sort of goofy like a spoof-book, but nowhere could I find any real irony or the overboard sort of "I'm just kidding!" tongue an cheek quality that you would expect from a joke book. It just seemed to be really sort of technical illustrations and instructions for how to give your cat a chiropractic treatment, which sort of stuck with me. I mean, I couldn't stop thinking of a cat getting that neck twist thing on the table and the mewly fuck-you sound it would make. It would be the sound that would really make it funny.
Then the chiropractor showed me a chart and said something about how I'm having "catabolic" problems, which completely distracted me from anything else he said after that. I am indeed having Catabolic problems today.
I did pay attention when he said I am allergic to milk products, because that may signal the end of my marriage. You may know that jeff and I met on the internet, but what you don't know is that one of his deal breaker questions was whether or not I liked cheese. He asked me in the first 10 minutes. I thought he was joking,and I didn't even think it was really that funny of a joke, but I've discovered it's actually kind of a big deal for him. I put cheese on a lot of things in this house that others maybe wouldn't think to cheddar up. I don't know if we'll break up, but it certainly won't help with the tension.
But the new milk-free diet is fine. I've been on diets that restrict what you can have so severely that all you can do is drink water and chew on your own hand. You may lick the salt from the tears running down your face for dessert. As long as you check their glycemic index first.
Thanks natural chiropractor!
I'll spend 200 dollars on supplements that I'll take for one week and then cave spectacularly with a Chicago style pizza. At that point, I have failed, so I will push the bottles of vitamins into the back of the medicine cabinet pretending that soon I will go back on the regimen, really detox from all this chocolate. Then six months later we will move, and I will try to sneak them into the Goodwill giveaway bags so Jeff won't see. Let the handicapped deal with my vitamins of failure.

Speaking of the handicapped, last week we went out on child free date night courtesy of my mother in law, who drives up here to sleep on our couch, change the babies diapers, clean our kitchen and fold our clothes. Oh and tell me over and over how pretty I am. I might be the only woman in the world who secretly longs to have her mother in law move in with her.
So we went to Club de Ville, which is still a pretty mellow bar and sat down on a long bench outside to try to drink enough so that we wouldn't freeze to death. I went wingman with my friend Megan on a "whore lap" around the bar to see if there was anything cute( there wasn't)and when I got back I saw that our group on the bench was enhanced by two, a 30-ish Mary Lou Retton with something distinctly fetal alcohol syndrome about her features who was gyrating on the lap of a young man who beamed as though he had just won the Pussy Lottery.
Now, I am no prude. If anything, I think the world would be a better place if there was much more sex and less violence. I am also no judge of slutty behaviour. Our species evolved with one overwhelming drive- reproduction. Men shouldn't be the only ones allowed to admit they enjoy it.
However, even I felt some desire to censor our neighboring lovers. As people stared and muttered " get a room!" they pretended to do it in every position imaginable. I haven't seen so much clothed humping since my high school guidance counselor's office. And it went on and on. Until I really thought in all seriousness, you should get a room. As she laughed hysterically bumping on his privates like a trampoline, I began to see his delight turn into torment. Maybe he lived with Mom and couldn't bring her home. Maybe she lived on Fetal Alcohol Island. Neither of them looked like the caliber of individual who anyone would employ or extend credit to, so maybe all they had was this cold outdoor patio to hump on. Which was probably for the best, since after that kind of build up the actual intercourse would surely be a disappointment.
They looked like they were having more fun than anyone at our table, that's for sure. Our only fun was watching them out of the corner of our eyes while pretending to be sick of it. Really, it was fascinating. I hope that retarded people will hump and give pretend blow jobs the next time I'm in line at the pharmacy or the DMV.

Ruby is beginning to potty train, which means we all make a big deal out of going to the bathroom and talking to her while she sits on the potty and reads Jeff's Benefit's Manager Weekly. After 10 minutes I have to drag her from the bathroom to put another diaper on. Only once has this resulted in a tiny stream of urine and when it did we went ballistic, screaming and high fiving and covering her little hand with about 25 doggie stickers. Then nothing.

We bought her a Princess potty, which she loves and tries to take into bed with her at night.

I wish there were adult potties that celebrated themes I am interested in. I would appreciate, for example, a Lost potty. Mine would have to have Saiid, and the polar bear on it.
A zombie potty would be pretty cool, if it had that zombie baby from Dawn of the Dead and the zombie dogs from Resident Evil.

I would also enjoy a potty that played contemporary jazz as I peed in it, you know to encourage me to do it again. Or a little electronic voice that said as I sat down, " Damn, you have the ass of a twenty year old! You are still WAY too hot for your husband!"

Jeff's potty would have Ben Bernanke and the members of the Senate sub Committee on the financial crisis, which has now eclipsed Spongebob as our family's most watched TV experience.

3 comments:

  1. I wish this author was in my coterie of friends, she is beyond most any of the other tripe out in this virtual void . . .

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  2. Cece--is that you? I'm going to Katie's tommorow night... come!

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  3. You could use the jazz potty for Kegels! Maybe we should invent it?

    OH MY GOD-- THE WORD VERIFICATION FOR THIS COMMMENT IS "VAGSTE!!!" I am secretly convinced that word verifiers can read my mind-- this is more proof/

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