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Monday, December 7, 2009

New Boobies

During an argument about whether Ruby's cookie would be eaten before or after dinner-

"Mommy you not being good. You not going to get any presents from Santa."
Me- "What if I ask Jesus?"
"No, youre not sharing."
Me-"Mommy wants a new pair of boobies for Christmas. Tell Daddy."
"No, Santa Claus is all out of boobies."
"Where did all the boobies go."
She gestures to the people walking down the street. "All dose guys got your boobies. Now Santa and Jesus are all out of boobies. You just have to keep your tiny ones."
Thanks Santa.

Go Home Now.



I am 34 years old. I do not resemble the girl in this photo. Not at all, not ever, not in the grocery store, not at home. Even if I dressed up in pigtails and a short skirt, dyed my hair black and adopted a snarky-sexy-but-trying not to be look,I don't resemble this girl.

Every few months I go through a period of time when I experience extreme anxiety if i have to leave the house. For no reason, apprehension begins to rise somewhere to the left of my concious thoughts about 2 hours before I know I have to go out, until about a half hour before the event. I cancel the plan-if it's cancel-able. If not, I suck it up, but feel slightly disoriented as I drive around and eager to return home.
It's not anything specific I'm afraid of, I'm not worried about a flat tire or a terrorist attack, it's just a little voice that grows louder with each minute.
"go home."
and then
"GO HOME>"
and later
"GET HOME NOW!"
I resist it, and usually after a few days it goes away again.
My mother spent three years unable to drive herself anywhere, maybe it's hard wired in me to respond to stress this way.
The grocery store is a big trigger of this type of craziness for me. I've been putting off the trip for a few days
"NO GROCERY STORE. GO HOME."
but once you are out of milk or coffee it's critical. I remembered something else.
"I'm out of fish oil. Maybe that is why i am anxious."
Because, if you don't already know, fish have extremely relaxing oil in them. They squeeze it from them, or shear it from their scales, something, anyway they retreive this oil from the fish and I take it and it calms my brain down. All the fish in the big, calm sea, floating around with cholesteral-free heartsrelaxed about the future, dealing with the grocery store just fine,thank you. Except nemos dad. He had a problem with his oil.
If i make myself go to the store for coffee, milk and fish oil then I can also get some abortion milk. I have to strike little deals with myself, as if I am a toddler, to physically move myself to the car.
Abortion milk is made by a company called PromisedLand. It's the creamiest,most delicious chocolate milk that has ever been produced. i call it abortion milk because the owners of the company donate a large amount of the profits to Pro-Life causes( Get it? PROMISEDLAND?)
So every time I buy it I'm supporting a cause I vehemently disagree with, probably providing the money to buy the life-size blown up photos of fetuses they carry. I do it anyway, i go against the moral center at the core of my being, because this milk is so good. I usually have to drink the entire thing in one day to hide my shame.
When I walked into the store to get Coffee, Milk, Fish Oil and Abortion Milk an old couple pounced on me. I had felt them following me from the parking lot.
Not cool.
(GO HOME NOW.YOU ARE BEING FOLLOWED)
The little man hopped over to me.
"HEY THERE NOW-HEY THERE-" he yelled-deaf, hostile, I couldnt tell yet.
"He likes your outfit!" said the little wife. They were like grey haired elves these people.
"HEY NOW, YOU EVER SEEN A SHOW CALLED NCIS, COMES ON ON TUESDAY NIGHTS?"
"It's our favorite show."The wife smiled up at me.
"No." I said.
"YOU LOOK JUST LIKE ABBIE WITH THAT SWEATER! YOU KNOW ABBIE? TUESDAY NIGHT."
"Yeah, I dont really watch TV, but thanks, I'm sure she's very pretty-"
"YOU SHOULD WATCH THIS SHOW!THIS GIRL, SHE LOOKS JUST LIKE YOU, SHE WEARS A LOT OF BLACK-"
"Very goth, she wears a lot of, you know spiked dog collars and stuff like that," said the wife, grabbing my arm because I am giving the cues-the glance away quickly, the small steps backwards, the tone of voice, that say-I gotta go!
"SHE HAS A NECK TATTOO!" he spits at me."YOU DON'T HAVE A NECK TATTOO BUT YOU LOOK JUST LIKE HER!" I look down at my tan cashmere cardigan, olive green skirt and cowboy boots, not your typical housewife but not even close to dog collar S & M goth either.
Just what are you old people watching, anyway?
"Thanks, i'll watch it. i will, thanks,"
"TUESDAY NIGHT!" he calls after me, and the wife lets go of my arm.

GO HOME NOW.
I got my groceries,went home and swallowed my fish oil. I'm not floating on a soothing sea, drinking abortion milk, looking up pictures of Abbie and wondering what kind of crack Mr and Mrs. NCIS were smoking.
It's ON TUESDAY NIGHT!
Somewhat mystifying sign posted at the World Famous Sausage Restaurant

WHOLE DEER PROCESSING

SKIN DEER
(white tail and axis) 25.00
PIECES W/BONE .70/LB
SKIN LARGE
(elk,mule,fallow,etc.) 40.00
SKIN LARGE 60.00
(buffalo)
ADD JALAPENO .30/lb

So now I know where to take my dead mule if I don't feel like skinning it/adding jalapeno to it myself.
The sign on the front door said "THE HORNS WON'T BE THE ONLY THING YOU ARE PROUD OF IF YOU LET MEYERS PROCESS YOUR ANIMAL."
Okay. I've lived in Texas all my life, yet I still find it's tiny towns fake-documentary surreal. We waited in line for almost an hour at this restaurant/deer processing plant on Saturday to eat a plate of what was touted as the best barbecue in Texas. It was down the street from a Christmas tree farm in Elgin Texas, about an hour from Austin.
When we finally reached the front of the line and got our food, it was disappointing. Everyone who grows up in the South has a "Barbecue-ometer", an inner gauge that never fails you, no matter how far north you travel. Like a compass, the Barbeque-ometer points true and straight, instantly assessing what is on your plate. This food was, maybe, a 4 out of 10. Why the long line, Elgin? Even the McRib scores a five. People from small towns always seem kind of dim to me, though.( Sorry residents of Lampasas, Copper Cove and Sugarland,TX-maybe there are hidden,unrecognised geniuses among you. All I know is that it seems like you all voted for Bush on the way to process your dead mule and get your hair done)
The Christmas tree farm was all right. We have traditionally been the parents who take Ruby along to whatever grown up party we are invited to, she loves running around making small talk about real estate and taxes over cocktails even if she's the only person under three feet tall in sight. With the exception of The Week We Had To Go To Chuck-E-Cheese Twice, we almost never do "kid" related activities.
Lately, though, we've been trying to expand our repertoire. I thought that "Santa" might be there.
He was not, but that didn't keep Ruby from telling me-
"Mommy, you aren't being good. Santa's not going to bring you presents."
Me-
"Oh really? What am I going to get instead?"
"The zombies gonna come and put you in the trash can! Then you get a stocking with doo doo in it." Then she cracks up.
I really hope she is wrong about that.
After she petted some farm animals and I stuffed a bunch of tree cuttings off the floor and under my coat( What? They're just going to get thrown away!) we went home and put her to sleep so we could watch a movie Jeff had picked out called "The Wrestler."
I feel an enormous amount of trepidation when contemplating watching one of "Jeff's Picks"
"That looks depressing." I say.
"No, it will be sad, but redemptive." He will say.
I don't mind heartbreaking stories if there is a light at the end of them, some message of meaning or hope or closure. Invariably, though, "Jeff's Picks" do not provide me this emotional catharsis. They drag on and on, characters experiencing drab,unending misery until the very last frame. Dark,foreign films about how pointless life really is, indie flicks about the eventual death and extinction of your very soul. Take Synechdode,New york. I could look up the right spelling of that word but I will not. Phillip Seymour Hoffman whines and moans as he drags his sorry ass through 2 1/2 hours of hell, contemplating death and the complete lack of meaning to his life. By the end of the movie I was ready to put my head in the oven.
So Jeff recorded the Wrestler on the DVR. For weeks I've been refusing to watch it.
"That is going to be depressing." I said.
"No, it will be fine. It won all kinds of awards."
So we watched it, and sure enough, it ripped open a chasm of emptiness and despair in my very soul.
Not to ruin this movie for anyone, but there is no redemption in the Wrestler.
"Wait for it. It's coming."said Jeff.
"It's not coming. Can't you see that?"
"It's going to get better."
"The only thing that would make this movie better is if someone would hand that guy a barrette." I said." Get your nasty, Motley Crue hair out of your face Jackass!" I yelled at the TV. Because, and I have said this before about Braveheart, if you are a man with long, unwashed, bleached out barbie hair, pull that shit back in a ponytail, please. Just watching them run around, doing battle or wrestling or whatever with that shit hanging in front of their face makes me compulsively brush imaginary hair out of my own face for the long two hours I have to endure it. The only "redemptive" moment in the Wrestler is when he is forced to pull back his hair in a hairnet when he takes the humiliating meat counter job.
"Oh thank god," I sighed. And for a few clean, breathable moments I felt relaxed. then he cuts his finger off, goes crazy and spirals down into despair, all the while flipping his long blond hairdo back and forth, in and out of his eyes as they stream tears of resignation until his final desperate suicidal wrestle jump.
Thanks, Jeff!