Oh, boy. I know I bring things on myself. But I don't know if these things escalate this way with other people in quite the same way as they do with me...
I went shopping last week at The Loop with Natalie and my mom. So far, we had a great day finding Natalie a red shirt for "Red Day" at school, a book for me at Border's closeout sale, and a quick latte at Starbucks. When we were ready to head home, we all got in the car and I began pulling out of my parking spot in the lot in front of Starbucks.
I was halfway out of my spot when a huge white SUV started pulling into the empty spot next to me. However, the driver, a teenage girl, was pulling in too wide and was swinging her car in to mine as I was pulling out. She beeped her horn, and I thought, "Ummm, what the fuck, wait five more seconds and you can have two spots to angle your car in, hmmmkay, Driver's Ed?"
I beeped back and kept backing out, which was when she decided to keep going further so her mother could give me the double finger as they continued to pull in. I gave her the finger back, which was when the mother OPENED HER CAR DOOR AND HIT MY CAR WITH HER DOOR WHILE HER SUV WAS STILL IN MOTION!
Oh. Oh, HELL NO!
I pulled my car directly behind hers to block the SUV into its parking spot and got out of my car to assess the damage. There was none, but rather than just get back into my car and drive off, this hag was gonna have to hear my "shouty voice" first.
"UM, REALLY? YOU'RE GONNA HIT MY CAR NOW?!?!"
The woman, who was getting out of the car, jumped back in and locked the doors.
Oh. Oh, this will be fun. I love when people have the balls to do something from the safety of their car and forget they eventually have to, you know, leave the safety of it.
I stare down the woman sitting in the passenger seat. The daughter begins honking her horn in a loud stream of noise to attract the attention of other people (who will do nothing...seriously, when's the last time you got involved with a 300- pound woman screaming at some fitness skank in an SUV?)
"Get out of the car!"
Instead she makes the "International Sign For Fat". In case you haven't experienced it, a thin person sticks their arms out, Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man-style, puffs out their cheeks, and squints their eyes (the eye thing- is it an homage to Sumo wrestlers, also? In which case I call RACIST!). Honestly, the person doing the "ISFF" looks way more ridiculous than someone with 100 extra pounds on them. Which doesn't help their case.
"You need a smoothie", she continues. She pulls out a recyclable water bottle filled with brown sludge and begins talking about how you drink that instead of a meal and lose tons of weight. Only, she has to yell it because she is still too afraid to get out of the car and be my nutritionist.
Ooooh, it's time to get all chemical imbalance-y on her ass! I smile and give her two thumbs up.
"Hey, thanks for the advice!" I stop smiling and get closer to the car. "NOW. GET. OUT. OF. THE. FUCKING. CAR!!!!"
The daughter begins her "blare the horn" routine, and I wait for that to die down before I realize I am getting nowhere. It is time for me to get this bitch to make her own smoothie in her pants...
Once the horn stops I start slamming on the passenger side windows, palms open so my platinum wedding band bangs loudly on the glass.
As I am slamming my hands on the window I am screaming, "THE BIGGER TO KICK YOUR ASS WITH! THE BIGGER TO KICK YOUR ASS WITH!"
So, naturally the horn starts going again, and it has finally attracted the attention of The Loop rent-a-cop vehicle. Sadly, it's time to go.
I hop back in my car and drive away, but not before circling her car a couple times every time she tried to get out of her car, just so I could watch her scatter like a cockroach back inside her car. I'm an asshole. It makes me giggle.
As I drive away, I think about what I now call my "Kathy Bates in Fried Green Tomatoes" moment. I'm sure most people would be horrified. It looked like the people on the patio at Starbucks were! But I kind of felt, in a strange way, more powerful. I started gaining this weight 12 years ago from an anti-anxiety medication I was on. I have been off it for years, but the weight stayed on. I have spent so much time hating myself that it took some hilarious antic like this one to realize that other people may not like me, but I LOVE me. I think I am a HOOT! I thought I was a pretty cool chick for sticking up for myself and not just driving away. If it makes me look crazy, so be it. There are worse things to be than crazy. Like a doormat who takes it all without so much as mauling an SUV...
Monday, September 19, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
Are You There, God? It's Me, Moron
I just wanted to have not-hairy legs for church...
Sunday morning, I woke up extra early to get a shower in before the hour-long drive to my friend Shane's house. We were heading to church together later that morning.
As I have said before, I want to work on my spirituality and learn more about God in a way that is more meaningful than when I joke about how I am His favorite sitcom when I join a gym with donut frosting still on my mouth. Shane has offered to help me by taking me to church and answering any questions I have, and also by explaining the bible when I get lost reading it (I assume that will happen often).
However, even with the extra effort, I am still His favorite sitcom...
I cut myself shaving in the shower pretty badly, on the back of my calf. The blood was running down my leg but I assumed, like all the shaving nicks I have gotten, that it would stop bleeding by the time I got out of the shower. And after I hopped out of the tub and dried off, my leg stopped bleeding. Yay!
I quickly got dressed in khaki capris and a blue teeshirt. I brushed my hair, gathered my things, and headed out the door for the loooong drive up to what I consider the Boonies of New Hampshire (Seriously, if you can hit the Kittery Outlets instead of the mall to do a bit of shopping, you are freakin' faaaar away in my world).
When I finally got to Shane's place, coffees in hand, he met me at the security door and followed me up the stairs to his apartment. Which is when he asked me, alarmed, "What is all over your pants?!?"
"What? What do you mean? Where?"
"The back of your pant leg...is that...blood?"
Yup. Apparently, somewhere along the drive up, the cut re-opened and I had a hundred blood spots in various sizes on the bottom of my pant leg. Awesome.
I scooted into his apartment quickly and decided to try to spot-clean the dried blood off my pants before church. I headed to the bathroom, shut the door, and took my pants off to try to scrub at the spots on my pant leg with hand soap.
Yet another absurd occurance I will never share with my husband: I am standing in my ex-boyfriend's bathroom...without pants on!!!
Shane knocks on the door and just his hand appears in the bathroom, holding a small bottle of stain remover. "Shout it out, Angie!"
The Shout works well enough. The stains are now a light pink...they might even dry lighter! YAY! Crisis averted!!!
Until I realize all that thorough scrubbing and washing has made the trail of water rise all the way up to the back pocket of my khakis! DAMMIT! I can't have a wet ass in church!!!
...Which is how I came to have a wet ass in church. I managed to dry the pants about 60% of the way using my car's air conditioner on the drive to church...but still. I sat down in church to forge a relationship with God with one wet, slightly blood-stained pant leg. That really SHOULD score me some "Jesus Points" or something...
At the end of the service, as the band was playing while people were leaving, Shane looked at me thoughtfully and said, "You know, you should relax. You really dont look very relaxed."
Haha, nope, I didn't feel very relaxed or peaceful at that moment, nooooo.
On the way out, Shane had me fill out a new member card so I could get a welcome bag that featured a bible. Since Sophie Kinsella or Jennifer Weiner were not authors of The Bible, nor is it in the "Womens Fiction" section of a bookstore, I never thought to buy one on my own. I filled out my name and contact information, and checked off the box that said, "Today I have accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior". Hey, why not, right?
I brought the card to a man standing behind the table of welcome bags and he said excitedly, "Oh! You are accepting Jesus Christ as your Savior today?"
Wait, does something else happen to me when I check the box? Did I sign up for something? I thought you had to check it off if you were interested in learning more...but now my brain is flashing to that scene in "My Big Fat Greek Wedding when John Corbett gets baptized in a kiddie pool. This church is portable and currently held in a movie theater...surely there's no kiddie pool next to the concession stand, right? OH, whyyyy did I check the box before asking Shane what it even meant?!?!?! Obviously, the morning had already been too taxing on my brain so I cleverly responded, "Uhhhh...YEAH! Wait...Did I check the right box?"
Thankfully, I am pretty sure the guy caught my "deer in headlights" expression and said kindly (um, yet also a little slowly), "Well, when you were sitting there...and the pastor was talking...you felt God talk to you....and he asked you to let him into your heart........riiiight?"
"Uh, YESSSSS." Okay, so we know what checking that box means. Mystery solved.
I then got the welcome bag, containing several informational packets, a bible, a CD, a DVD, and a coupon for a free appetizer or dessert at T.G.I.Fridays. I just got how hilarious that is. Get it? "Thank God it's Friday?" Haha! I wonder if that was intentional...
Since Shane was headed to work after church, we parted ways at the theater. I checked off "Avoid Highways" and "Avoid Tolls" on the way home, so naturally the thing ignored me and took me through every tolled highway and left me scrambling for dimes while trying to drive. I tried to get off the highway, only to have the GPS lead me back to the highway to pay the same toll AGAIN. Once I ran out of change I got off the highway, spotted a CVS, and bought a bag of Combos and a Perrier as an excuse to get cash back in case I hit yet another toll.
I stress-ate the entire bag of Combos rapid fire while I slung a string of swears at the car behind me who wouldn't let me turn around because I was lost. I spent the next half hour on the back roads, blindly heading to my town using only the occasional road sign while the GPS intoned, in her Slavic accent, directions leading me to the nearest tolled highway.
I finally made it home, with one dried-stiff bloody pantleg, bloated from salty Combos and clutching a bible while yelling to Phill, "Your GPS is a total piece of SHIT!"
....Obviously, Shane did not realize the task at hand when he offerred to help me learn about God. He so has his hands full.
Sunday morning, I woke up extra early to get a shower in before the hour-long drive to my friend Shane's house. We were heading to church together later that morning.
As I have said before, I want to work on my spirituality and learn more about God in a way that is more meaningful than when I joke about how I am His favorite sitcom when I join a gym with donut frosting still on my mouth. Shane has offered to help me by taking me to church and answering any questions I have, and also by explaining the bible when I get lost reading it (I assume that will happen often).
However, even with the extra effort, I am still His favorite sitcom...
I cut myself shaving in the shower pretty badly, on the back of my calf. The blood was running down my leg but I assumed, like all the shaving nicks I have gotten, that it would stop bleeding by the time I got out of the shower. And after I hopped out of the tub and dried off, my leg stopped bleeding. Yay!
I quickly got dressed in khaki capris and a blue teeshirt. I brushed my hair, gathered my things, and headed out the door for the loooong drive up to what I consider the Boonies of New Hampshire (Seriously, if you can hit the Kittery Outlets instead of the mall to do a bit of shopping, you are freakin' faaaar away in my world).
When I finally got to Shane's place, coffees in hand, he met me at the security door and followed me up the stairs to his apartment. Which is when he asked me, alarmed, "What is all over your pants?!?"
"What? What do you mean? Where?"
"The back of your pant leg...is that...blood?"
Yup. Apparently, somewhere along the drive up, the cut re-opened and I had a hundred blood spots in various sizes on the bottom of my pant leg. Awesome.
I scooted into his apartment quickly and decided to try to spot-clean the dried blood off my pants before church. I headed to the bathroom, shut the door, and took my pants off to try to scrub at the spots on my pant leg with hand soap.
Yet another absurd occurance I will never share with my husband: I am standing in my ex-boyfriend's bathroom...without pants on!!!
Shane knocks on the door and just his hand appears in the bathroom, holding a small bottle of stain remover. "Shout it out, Angie!"
The Shout works well enough. The stains are now a light pink...they might even dry lighter! YAY! Crisis averted!!!
Until I realize all that thorough scrubbing and washing has made the trail of water rise all the way up to the back pocket of my khakis! DAMMIT! I can't have a wet ass in church!!!
...Which is how I came to have a wet ass in church. I managed to dry the pants about 60% of the way using my car's air conditioner on the drive to church...but still. I sat down in church to forge a relationship with God with one wet, slightly blood-stained pant leg. That really SHOULD score me some "Jesus Points" or something...
At the end of the service, as the band was playing while people were leaving, Shane looked at me thoughtfully and said, "You know, you should relax. You really dont look very relaxed."
Haha, nope, I didn't feel very relaxed or peaceful at that moment, nooooo.
On the way out, Shane had me fill out a new member card so I could get a welcome bag that featured a bible. Since Sophie Kinsella or Jennifer Weiner were not authors of The Bible, nor is it in the "Womens Fiction" section of a bookstore, I never thought to buy one on my own. I filled out my name and contact information, and checked off the box that said, "Today I have accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior". Hey, why not, right?
I brought the card to a man standing behind the table of welcome bags and he said excitedly, "Oh! You are accepting Jesus Christ as your Savior today?"
Wait, does something else happen to me when I check the box? Did I sign up for something? I thought you had to check it off if you were interested in learning more...but now my brain is flashing to that scene in "My Big Fat Greek Wedding when John Corbett gets baptized in a kiddie pool. This church is portable and currently held in a movie theater...surely there's no kiddie pool next to the concession stand, right? OH, whyyyy did I check the box before asking Shane what it even meant?!?!?! Obviously, the morning had already been too taxing on my brain so I cleverly responded, "Uhhhh...YEAH! Wait...Did I check the right box?"
Thankfully, I am pretty sure the guy caught my "deer in headlights" expression and said kindly (um, yet also a little slowly), "Well, when you were sitting there...and the pastor was talking...you felt God talk to you....and he asked you to let him into your heart........riiiight?"
"Uh, YESSSSS." Okay, so we know what checking that box means. Mystery solved.
I then got the welcome bag, containing several informational packets, a bible, a CD, a DVD, and a coupon for a free appetizer or dessert at T.G.I.Fridays. I just got how hilarious that is. Get it? "Thank God it's Friday?" Haha! I wonder if that was intentional...
Since Shane was headed to work after church, we parted ways at the theater. I checked off "Avoid Highways" and "Avoid Tolls" on the way home, so naturally the thing ignored me and took me through every tolled highway and left me scrambling for dimes while trying to drive. I tried to get off the highway, only to have the GPS lead me back to the highway to pay the same toll AGAIN. Once I ran out of change I got off the highway, spotted a CVS, and bought a bag of Combos and a Perrier as an excuse to get cash back in case I hit yet another toll.
I stress-ate the entire bag of Combos rapid fire while I slung a string of swears at the car behind me who wouldn't let me turn around because I was lost. I spent the next half hour on the back roads, blindly heading to my town using only the occasional road sign while the GPS intoned, in her Slavic accent, directions leading me to the nearest tolled highway.
I finally made it home, with one dried-stiff bloody pantleg, bloated from salty Combos and clutching a bible while yelling to Phill, "Your GPS is a total piece of SHIT!"
....Obviously, Shane did not realize the task at hand when he offerred to help me learn about God. He so has his hands full.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
We're Gonna do WHAT on That Trail?!?!
I did it. I am pretty sure I was almost serial raped and murdered by an overzealous gentleman in the woods, but I did it.
I walked/jogged the trail at Winnekenni Castle...It was not by choice.
It all started at Saturday's bootcamp. I walked into the aerobic room, ready to do countless squats and lunges with an 18-pound bar on my back (to warm up!). I got my little mat out and sat down while I heard rumblings of an outing for this bootcamp.
"Are we really going to Winnekenni?"
"Chris said we were running some trail."
"Are we running there?"
I maaaay have freaked out and started on my litany of excuses.
"Ummm, does Chris have a MEDIC on site? Is an ambulance going to follow my ass the entire time? Because otherwise, I AM NOT GOING. Also, mosquito season is unusually high this year...just sayin'."
I planned my escape with my friend Michaela. I told her if we drove there, I would just KEEP DRIVING. Michaela said, "Well, I need a ride there." Dammit! Now I had to go.
The trainer Chris walked in, and I am pretty sure I had on my "are you out of your damned mind" face on. I think I may give it to him a lot. Obviously, I have reason.
Before I could just agree to meeting and fleeing the scene, some older woman ran up to Chris and TOLD ON ME! TOLD! ON! ME! She literally pointed to me and told Chris I was gonna leave. Oh, I will GET her for that!!!
Chris came up to me and threatened to hunt me down and drag me to the woods, sooo I was persuaded to meet them at the trail.
We started off with a couple of warm-up circuits, and then hit the trail. Tim, another trainer, was apparently assigned to the, ahem, slow kids in the group. He tried to encourage me to run, but I was still in high-defense mode.
"After the first 300 feet, we are gonna start a jog, okay?"
"Ummm, how about this. If Chris looks back to check on me I will bounce my boobs a lot to make it look like I am running and we will call it even?"
"What's your name?"
"Angie. Or, Pain in the Ass."
So, as much as I didn't want to, I started a small jog when Tim told us to. And I walked. And I jogged. And I walked. And I felt a foreign presence behind me...
An older man was walking up behind us and started in on me THE ENTIRE JOG.
"Don't give up on yourself, I have seen 400 POUND PEOPLE do this, and the weight falls right off of them, you just gotta believe, don't quit! Believe in yourself! Get up every morning at 6:30 and do this! I am 67 years old and I am here every day!"
Sometimes God brings people into our lives to inspire us, to motivate us. Personally, I find God to have a love of dinner theater and wanted a little show to go with His heavenly hash ice cream on this sweltering day.
I quickly eyed Tim and thanked God that while he threw this old creepy guy at me, he also blessed me with the presence of a giant muscled dude no one would mess with. All I have to do is jog to keep up with him and thus will avoid getting murdered in the woods by this fat chick fetishist!
RUN ANGIE!!!!! RUNNNNN!!!!
Tim made sure there was enough distance between me and Creepy Guy. I think he got the hint when Creepy Guy was ahead of me and I pointed an imaginary gun to my head while looking at Tim. However, Creepy Guy PERSISTED.
At one point he was ahead of me too much and stopped to PRETEND TO TIE HIS SHOE while I caught up to him and then he kept at it: "You just gotta believe! You can do it! Don't quit! Do this all the time and it gets easier!"
Oh. My. GOD!!!! Make it stop!
Tim kept steering me away from Creepy Guy (by this point it should be evident that Tim's my new favorite!) but he would not go away. He finally left us alone when we were out of the woods (literally and figuratively) and joined the rest of the bootcamp group.
I told Chris about Creepy Guy, but all he said was, "Awww, that's so sweet how he was cheering you on."
"Um, really? NO. The only reason I jogged at all was to stay near Tim and not get murdered. Hey, did you guys hire him to chase me around?"
Allegedly, no. But it did get my ass in gear.
Angie's valuable life lesson #1: Until your fat ass loses a shit-ton of weight and looks normal enough to not attract the attention of the mentally ill, perform all outdoor exercise in a group led by a "Six Foot Muscled Wall of Trainer".
I walked/jogged the trail at Winnekenni Castle...It was not by choice.
It all started at Saturday's bootcamp. I walked into the aerobic room, ready to do countless squats and lunges with an 18-pound bar on my back (to warm up!). I got my little mat out and sat down while I heard rumblings of an outing for this bootcamp.
"Are we really going to Winnekenni?"
"Chris said we were running some trail."
"Are we running there?"
I maaaay have freaked out and started on my litany of excuses.
"Ummm, does Chris have a MEDIC on site? Is an ambulance going to follow my ass the entire time? Because otherwise, I AM NOT GOING. Also, mosquito season is unusually high this year...just sayin'."
I planned my escape with my friend Michaela. I told her if we drove there, I would just KEEP DRIVING. Michaela said, "Well, I need a ride there." Dammit! Now I had to go.
The trainer Chris walked in, and I am pretty sure I had on my "are you out of your damned mind" face on. I think I may give it to him a lot. Obviously, I have reason.
Before I could just agree to meeting and fleeing the scene, some older woman ran up to Chris and TOLD ON ME! TOLD! ON! ME! She literally pointed to me and told Chris I was gonna leave. Oh, I will GET her for that!!!
Chris came up to me and threatened to hunt me down and drag me to the woods, sooo I was persuaded to meet them at the trail.
We started off with a couple of warm-up circuits, and then hit the trail. Tim, another trainer, was apparently assigned to the, ahem, slow kids in the group. He tried to encourage me to run, but I was still in high-defense mode.
"After the first 300 feet, we are gonna start a jog, okay?"
"Ummm, how about this. If Chris looks back to check on me I will bounce my boobs a lot to make it look like I am running and we will call it even?"
"What's your name?"
"Angie. Or, Pain in the Ass."
So, as much as I didn't want to, I started a small jog when Tim told us to. And I walked. And I jogged. And I walked. And I felt a foreign presence behind me...
An older man was walking up behind us and started in on me THE ENTIRE JOG.
"Don't give up on yourself, I have seen 400 POUND PEOPLE do this, and the weight falls right off of them, you just gotta believe, don't quit! Believe in yourself! Get up every morning at 6:30 and do this! I am 67 years old and I am here every day!"
Sometimes God brings people into our lives to inspire us, to motivate us. Personally, I find God to have a love of dinner theater and wanted a little show to go with His heavenly hash ice cream on this sweltering day.
I quickly eyed Tim and thanked God that while he threw this old creepy guy at me, he also blessed me with the presence of a giant muscled dude no one would mess with. All I have to do is jog to keep up with him and thus will avoid getting murdered in the woods by this fat chick fetishist!
RUN ANGIE!!!!! RUNNNNN!!!!
Tim made sure there was enough distance between me and Creepy Guy. I think he got the hint when Creepy Guy was ahead of me and I pointed an imaginary gun to my head while looking at Tim. However, Creepy Guy PERSISTED.
At one point he was ahead of me too much and stopped to PRETEND TO TIE HIS SHOE while I caught up to him and then he kept at it: "You just gotta believe! You can do it! Don't quit! Do this all the time and it gets easier!"
Oh. My. GOD!!!! Make it stop!
Tim kept steering me away from Creepy Guy (by this point it should be evident that Tim's my new favorite!) but he would not go away. He finally left us alone when we were out of the woods (literally and figuratively) and joined the rest of the bootcamp group.
I told Chris about Creepy Guy, but all he said was, "Awww, that's so sweet how he was cheering you on."
"Um, really? NO. The only reason I jogged at all was to stay near Tim and not get murdered. Hey, did you guys hire him to chase me around?"
Allegedly, no. But it did get my ass in gear.
Angie's valuable life lesson #1: Until your fat ass loses a shit-ton of weight and looks normal enough to not attract the attention of the mentally ill, perform all outdoor exercise in a group led by a "Six Foot Muscled Wall of Trainer".
Monday, June 27, 2011
Don't Call it a Bucket List- I am not Jumping out of a Plane with Morgan Freeman
If I take after my mother's genes, someday I am going to be old and blind with arthritis. Apparently, that is the short list, if I get off easy. I really need to make a list of shit I would like to accomplish before I can't see what I am doing or move in order to do it...
- Get a tattoo. Small one.
- Shoot a gun. Small one?
- See London.
- See Paris.
- Get over fear of flying in order to see London and Paris.
- Visit Cape Cod and Nantucket, because it's really freakin' close and I never seem to get around to it.
- Develop some sort of retirement plan, other than "Phill works until the day he drops dead".
- Write a book.
- Lose a shit-ton of weight.
- Do a tough mudder or warrior dash event.
- Learn to wear heels without limping after 15 minutes.
- Get in a fistfight.
- Win fistfight.
- Learn to speak French all over again. I lost it.
- Master "smokey eye" makeup.
- Learn about investing...see also "Develop some sort of retirement plan..."
- ROCK. CLIMBING. WALL.
- Sex on the beach. Ssshhh.
- Dress like Joan from Mad Men. And look like Betty Draper from the neck up.
- Take Phill to China to see the Great Wall I told him he was an idiot for thinking still existed because they tore it down in '83 with David Hasselhoff present. Ooops.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Oh, Chimpy, Where Have Your Dirty Paws Been?
Natalie has a visitor for the long weekend-- her preschool's classroom mascot, Chimpy. Chimpy is a stuffed animal monkey. He is dirty, worn out, and his stuffing is so old he cannot sit up on his own. Natalie is supposed to dictate to me in a journal what she did with Chimpy over the weekend, and include a drawing and perhaps some pictures.
When Natalie showed Chimpy to her "Meme", the WASP in my mom deemed both Chimpy and his toothbrush, "Dirty...can I at least wash the toothbrush? And you are not sleeping with that thing, either, Natalie." So far, no welcome wagon for poor Chimpy.
The first evening, I was trying to get to sleep but had to come up with cool shit to do with this monkey. I didn't want this to be the lame visit of the class. We had been to a pool party that afternoon, and we were going to a birthday party and a cookout over the weekend, so at least we had places to drag this filthy monkey. I thought of the pictures I would be taking of Chimpy and started to giggle as I nudged Phill.
"Hey, you know what would be EPIC? If I posed Chimpy inappropriately for fun. You know, those pics wouldn't go in the journal, but I would love to pose him at a bar with a cocktail or something...HA, orrr surround him with a batch of Nat's stuffed animals, having an orgy! How hilarious would that be?!"
Phill replied, "Um, no. You are not going to do that. It is a children's monkey and that's wicked immature to do."
Whatever. His point may have been made better if he wasn't watching "Futurama" at the time.
"What if I pose him in Nat's doll bathtub, with rubber ducks over his little monkey private parts?"
"NO. Good night."
The next day, Nat and I were headed to her classmate's birthday party. It was a princess-themed party, complete with a "real princess" and pizza/tea party. The hostess of the party was a hilarious mom who served wine for the grown-ups, a birthday party first for me. It was officially the best party I had been to.
I dressed up Chimpy in a Build-a-Bear princess gown and had Nat take a few pictures holding a drag queen'ed up stuffed monkey at the party. And that was totally before the Reisling!
Once I had a glass of wine in my hand, I decided to feel out a couple of the other moms about Chimpy. Was I the only one who had childish thoughts about posing Chimpy in compromising photos? I decided to dip a toe in the water and mentioned to a couple of the moms that I would love to pose Chimpy with a banana daquiri, just for fun. One mom, while very friendly, is a little on the conservative side and more reserved in conversation. However, she told me the story of how she ended up at an Irish pub with some friends who posed Chimpy with a beer! HOLY SHIT! If the quietest mom in the class got Chimpy fake-drunk, what were the other moms doing?!
The other mom laughed at the story and told a story of her own about a stuffed animal in her family that had been posed in naughty positions with a Barbie. YAY! I'm not a total weirdo, this is just what moms do to let off steam over things like 26-year old stuffed animal houseguests that smell musty!
At the cookout the next day, I totally took a picture of Chimpy huddled up to my husband's Smirnoff Ice. That one is not making it into the journal. I also took a picture of Chimpy in Natalie's toy bathtub, complete with rubber ducks. That one just might make it...
When Natalie showed Chimpy to her "Meme", the WASP in my mom deemed both Chimpy and his toothbrush, "Dirty...can I at least wash the toothbrush? And you are not sleeping with that thing, either, Natalie." So far, no welcome wagon for poor Chimpy.
The first evening, I was trying to get to sleep but had to come up with cool shit to do with this monkey. I didn't want this to be the lame visit of the class. We had been to a pool party that afternoon, and we were going to a birthday party and a cookout over the weekend, so at least we had places to drag this filthy monkey. I thought of the pictures I would be taking of Chimpy and started to giggle as I nudged Phill.
"Hey, you know what would be EPIC? If I posed Chimpy inappropriately for fun. You know, those pics wouldn't go in the journal, but I would love to pose him at a bar with a cocktail or something...HA, orrr surround him with a batch of Nat's stuffed animals, having an orgy! How hilarious would that be?!"
Phill replied, "Um, no. You are not going to do that. It is a children's monkey and that's wicked immature to do."
Whatever. His point may have been made better if he wasn't watching "Futurama" at the time.
"What if I pose him in Nat's doll bathtub, with rubber ducks over his little monkey private parts?"
"NO. Good night."
The next day, Nat and I were headed to her classmate's birthday party. It was a princess-themed party, complete with a "real princess" and pizza/tea party. The hostess of the party was a hilarious mom who served wine for the grown-ups, a birthday party first for me. It was officially the best party I had been to.
I dressed up Chimpy in a Build-a-Bear princess gown and had Nat take a few pictures holding a drag queen'ed up stuffed monkey at the party. And that was totally before the Reisling!
Once I had a glass of wine in my hand, I decided to feel out a couple of the other moms about Chimpy. Was I the only one who had childish thoughts about posing Chimpy in compromising photos? I decided to dip a toe in the water and mentioned to a couple of the moms that I would love to pose Chimpy with a banana daquiri, just for fun. One mom, while very friendly, is a little on the conservative side and more reserved in conversation. However, she told me the story of how she ended up at an Irish pub with some friends who posed Chimpy with a beer! HOLY SHIT! If the quietest mom in the class got Chimpy fake-drunk, what were the other moms doing?!
The other mom laughed at the story and told a story of her own about a stuffed animal in her family that had been posed in naughty positions with a Barbie. YAY! I'm not a total weirdo, this is just what moms do to let off steam over things like 26-year old stuffed animal houseguests that smell musty!
At the cookout the next day, I totally took a picture of Chimpy huddled up to my husband's Smirnoff Ice. That one is not making it into the journal. I also took a picture of Chimpy in Natalie's toy bathtub, complete with rubber ducks. That one just might make it...
Monday, May 9, 2011
Should This Horse be Buckling at the Knees Like This? Or, Why I am Waiting on Surgery.
Well, it's Monday...and I have made some big decisions about not making any decisions.
I have thought long and hard all weekend. I would love to snap my fingers and be thin. So far, modern technology has only gotten as far as weight loss surgery. After a particularly nasty hour of a bootcamp class that has still left me unable to walk without a deranged limp, I thought this was going to be my only resort in order to get the results I want.
I weighed surgery against continued diet and exercise. Surgery, at first blush, always looks like the more desirable choice. It's faster. It may not be easier at first, but it seems to me it is easier than attending another "Please Lord, just let me die here on this smelly mat" class.
Before talking to anyone, I thought about my weight loss goals and what I wanted to do once the weight was gone. My answers included running a 5k and, maybe eventually, a 10k. I envy my athlete friends who can run 8 miles, 11 miles, even half and full marathons with regularity. I'd love to try a rock climbing wall. I'd like to try hiking...possibly with a little camping thrown in there, but let's not go crazy. Also, my friend Ashley keeps bugging me to get under 250 pounds so we can go horseback riding together. Actually, I am not even sure about that either, but it would be nice to say, "Um...are you out of your fucking mind?" without my main reason being not wanting to take down a majestic animal with all of my heft.
None of these goals really mesh with what I thought was my original goal, which was, "To be wicked skinny and hot and to never be called a fat bitch again!"
It is weird, but as time goes on at the gym, I realize that while I am excited about fitting into jeans that were once too tight, I take way more pleasure in harassing people by asking them to feel whatever new muscle emerged that week. This week, it's a bit of firmness above my elbow at the back of my arms. My arms are a source of hatred for me, and I am very proud of making people squeeze what is emerging just below the layers of fat. Before that, it was my biceps. Before that, my ass and thighs. Basically, if you are in my inner circle, I am going to make you touch me inappropriately to show off my new GLUTES!!!
I love the accomplishments I have made, however marginal. In January, I almost died after 1 minute and 30 seconds on the elliptical machine. Now, I almost die after 45 minutes. My goal is to almost die after an hour. As I lift more weight, try new machines, and work on new movements, I gain a very slight amount of confidence. It's teeny, but it is there, growing slowly. I won't get that kind of satisfaction from surgery.
I told my trainer this today, and I said that I couldn't quite place it, but it seems like surgery would be kind of an empty win for me, personally. I have a few friends who have had the surgery and they look amazing. Would I give anything to be that skinny that fast? Absolutely, I am not kidding myself here. But would it jive with the kind of skinny gal I am striving to be? The athletic one who can run miles, climb giant things, and not tranquilize horses using only the power of my fat ass? Not really...
My husband, Phill, can see the pros and cons of each side of my decision. He is supportive of whatever I choose to do, but says I can do all this after surgery, too. It would be like pushing the starting line a little closer to the finish line. It makes sense. My trainer calls it "cheating". From his view, it also makes sense.
So I have made some sort of compromise in my head: I am already paying for the training sessions, and the recovery time would eat into that. I might have to start over in some respects, while my body recuperates. I might be one of the lucky ones with nasty side effects that affect how I train. So, I have decided to finish the year of training before making any big decisions. If I work really hard and really pay attention to what I am eating, and still see no results, then next year it will be time to move on to more drastic steps.
Also, I read that after 10 years, most people gain weight back after surgery. I know I will be one of those people. Because while I will only be able to eat a certain amount of food, and certain kinds, believe me, one emotional upset and I will try to shove in whatever fits down there. Until I gain confidence and self-esteem through accomplishments that matter to me, and until I learn better responses to being upset, no amount of surgery is going to permanently fix me.
It is how I got here in the first place. Paxil was going to be the easy way out of my anxiety attacks, and instead I ended up 130 pounds heavier...and still panicking after I went off it. Rather than take another fast fix, I need to slow down and really work on the things that are standing in my way...so they won't stand in my way for the rest of my life.
...And then I can get back on the horse.
I have thought long and hard all weekend. I would love to snap my fingers and be thin. So far, modern technology has only gotten as far as weight loss surgery. After a particularly nasty hour of a bootcamp class that has still left me unable to walk without a deranged limp, I thought this was going to be my only resort in order to get the results I want.
I weighed surgery against continued diet and exercise. Surgery, at first blush, always looks like the more desirable choice. It's faster. It may not be easier at first, but it seems to me it is easier than attending another "Please Lord, just let me die here on this smelly mat" class.
Before talking to anyone, I thought about my weight loss goals and what I wanted to do once the weight was gone. My answers included running a 5k and, maybe eventually, a 10k. I envy my athlete friends who can run 8 miles, 11 miles, even half and full marathons with regularity. I'd love to try a rock climbing wall. I'd like to try hiking...possibly with a little camping thrown in there, but let's not go crazy. Also, my friend Ashley keeps bugging me to get under 250 pounds so we can go horseback riding together. Actually, I am not even sure about that either, but it would be nice to say, "Um...are you out of your fucking mind?" without my main reason being not wanting to take down a majestic animal with all of my heft.
None of these goals really mesh with what I thought was my original goal, which was, "To be wicked skinny and hot and to never be called a fat bitch again!"
It is weird, but as time goes on at the gym, I realize that while I am excited about fitting into jeans that were once too tight, I take way more pleasure in harassing people by asking them to feel whatever new muscle emerged that week. This week, it's a bit of firmness above my elbow at the back of my arms. My arms are a source of hatred for me, and I am very proud of making people squeeze what is emerging just below the layers of fat. Before that, it was my biceps. Before that, my ass and thighs. Basically, if you are in my inner circle, I am going to make you touch me inappropriately to show off my new GLUTES!!!
I love the accomplishments I have made, however marginal. In January, I almost died after 1 minute and 30 seconds on the elliptical machine. Now, I almost die after 45 minutes. My goal is to almost die after an hour. As I lift more weight, try new machines, and work on new movements, I gain a very slight amount of confidence. It's teeny, but it is there, growing slowly. I won't get that kind of satisfaction from surgery.
I told my trainer this today, and I said that I couldn't quite place it, but it seems like surgery would be kind of an empty win for me, personally. I have a few friends who have had the surgery and they look amazing. Would I give anything to be that skinny that fast? Absolutely, I am not kidding myself here. But would it jive with the kind of skinny gal I am striving to be? The athletic one who can run miles, climb giant things, and not tranquilize horses using only the power of my fat ass? Not really...
My husband, Phill, can see the pros and cons of each side of my decision. He is supportive of whatever I choose to do, but says I can do all this after surgery, too. It would be like pushing the starting line a little closer to the finish line. It makes sense. My trainer calls it "cheating". From his view, it also makes sense.
So I have made some sort of compromise in my head: I am already paying for the training sessions, and the recovery time would eat into that. I might have to start over in some respects, while my body recuperates. I might be one of the lucky ones with nasty side effects that affect how I train. So, I have decided to finish the year of training before making any big decisions. If I work really hard and really pay attention to what I am eating, and still see no results, then next year it will be time to move on to more drastic steps.
Also, I read that after 10 years, most people gain weight back after surgery. I know I will be one of those people. Because while I will only be able to eat a certain amount of food, and certain kinds, believe me, one emotional upset and I will try to shove in whatever fits down there. Until I gain confidence and self-esteem through accomplishments that matter to me, and until I learn better responses to being upset, no amount of surgery is going to permanently fix me.
It is how I got here in the first place. Paxil was going to be the easy way out of my anxiety attacks, and instead I ended up 130 pounds heavier...and still panicking after I went off it. Rather than take another fast fix, I need to slow down and really work on the things that are standing in my way...so they won't stand in my way for the rest of my life.
...And then I can get back on the horse.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
If You are the Fattest Person in the Room, That's a Red Flag...
For those of you who don't regularly follow my whiny yet amusing tales from the gym on Facebook, I joined a gym back in January and have had a series of highs and lows from trying to lose that last stubborn...um...150 pounds.
I enrolled in personal training sessions with my friend Ashley, and THOUGHT that they were working, what with a 16 pound weight loss, plus feeling firmer in places that used to only be flabby. So, when my trainer told me and Ashley he wanted us to go to the bootcamp being held in a few days at the gym, I was reluctant (um, hello, the NAME says it all, yes?) but decided I would give it a try. Ashley had school that day. Lucky bitch.
On Bootcamp Day, I showed up to the gym and watched skinny person after skinny person file into the room. Uh-oh. Surely I am not the only fat person doing this shit, right? I mean, why would my trainer tell me to do this if it wasn't fat-people-friendly? Where's my fellow twenty-something snarky fatties I can roll my eyes with ? We can make a nice corner in the back! At this point I was still holding out optimism...until I ended up on a mat alone. In the front.
As more people filed in, I tried to assess exactly how far behind I was going to fall in this class. Older women strolled in, and I thought, "HEY, maybe it'll be me and the old ladies! Surely they would break a hip before me, yes?"
Another older man walked in, and my first thought was, "Ahoy matey!" He was wearing denim shorts (DENIM! HOW does one move in DENIM? I am not even confident about my choice in UNDERWEAR for this class!), a tee-shirt, and sneakers. While the shorts were an unorthodox choice, the fact that it was accessorized by a bungee cord around his ass/groin was what really had me. I decided to silently name him Captain Bungee Pants. It was my only giggle of the hour!
Once the class got started I knew I was in trouble. After about ten minutes of grueling shit I can't even recall (I guess you need adequate oxygen to store memories.), I MIGHT have completely lost my shit, told the main trainer I was walking out, and then I MIGHT have stood up from my mat and spun around to look at my trainer and said, "This is bullshit and you know it. You KNOW I can't do this. Are you kidding me?" And then I might have cried. Maybe. For a minute. Or two.
I swiped at my eyes frantically as they told me...I don't know, I was too busy trying to breathe. Something nice with a "rah rah, you can do it!" theme. I took a couple (hundred, hyperventilating) breaths, and continued. I often joke that I don't care if I die during workout sessions like these, because then I will not have to return. This was the first time it was a serious thought. At least if I collapsed like a fat asshole on the little rubber mat, I would never have to do this shit again. I wouldn't have to worry about being fat. A ten-year battle with obesity would be over. I would not win, but I would not have to fight anymore, which is still a victory for me. The Charlie Sheen school of WINNING!
I am pretty sure the only thing that kept me going was the little pep talks from my trainer. At least, I vaguely remember hearing him saying encouraging things and then me trying harder. But I am also prrrretty sure I blacked out a couple times, so maybe it was the voice of God.
As I looked around, I saw my Golden Girls holding their own way better than I ever could. SHIT! I am the SOPHIA in a room full of BLANCHES!!!! An obese, crazy-story-telling, meatball-loving SOPHIA!
Since I was alternately trying to breathe and trying not to cry, I never noticed how Captain Bungee Pants fared. It's probably best for my self-esteem that I never know.
When the class was done, I scooted out as fast as I could as I told myself over and over, "You can cry when you get in the car...you are not crying here. AGAIN!"
I spent the following three hours crying, thinking, fuming, crying, thinking, spacing out, and crying.
Which is when I decided that come Monday, it couldn't hurt to call my insurance company to see if they cover weight loss surgery. And then, if they do, call the doctor to get more information. If I don't care about dying during my 80 bajillionth squat, I might care even less about dying from a surgery that will help me to lose enough weight so that I don't have to not care about squat-induced death in the first place! Yes, it is a deranged line of thinking. I might still be running on a crappy, hyperventilated oxygen supply.
We'll see on Monday.
I enrolled in personal training sessions with my friend Ashley, and THOUGHT that they were working, what with a 16 pound weight loss, plus feeling firmer in places that used to only be flabby. So, when my trainer told me and Ashley he wanted us to go to the bootcamp being held in a few days at the gym, I was reluctant (um, hello, the NAME says it all, yes?) but decided I would give it a try. Ashley had school that day. Lucky bitch.
On Bootcamp Day, I showed up to the gym and watched skinny person after skinny person file into the room. Uh-oh. Surely I am not the only fat person doing this shit, right? I mean, why would my trainer tell me to do this if it wasn't fat-people-friendly? Where's my fellow twenty-something snarky fatties I can roll my eyes with ? We can make a nice corner in the back! At this point I was still holding out optimism...until I ended up on a mat alone. In the front.
As more people filed in, I tried to assess exactly how far behind I was going to fall in this class. Older women strolled in, and I thought, "HEY, maybe it'll be me and the old ladies! Surely they would break a hip before me, yes?"
Another older man walked in, and my first thought was, "Ahoy matey!" He was wearing denim shorts (DENIM! HOW does one move in DENIM? I am not even confident about my choice in UNDERWEAR for this class!), a tee-shirt, and sneakers. While the shorts were an unorthodox choice, the fact that it was accessorized by a bungee cord around his ass/groin was what really had me. I decided to silently name him Captain Bungee Pants. It was my only giggle of the hour!
Once the class got started I knew I was in trouble. After about ten minutes of grueling shit I can't even recall (I guess you need adequate oxygen to store memories.), I MIGHT have completely lost my shit, told the main trainer I was walking out, and then I MIGHT have stood up from my mat and spun around to look at my trainer and said, "This is bullshit and you know it. You KNOW I can't do this. Are you kidding me?" And then I might have cried. Maybe. For a minute. Or two.
I swiped at my eyes frantically as they told me...I don't know, I was too busy trying to breathe. Something nice with a "rah rah, you can do it!" theme. I took a couple (hundred, hyperventilating) breaths, and continued. I often joke that I don't care if I die during workout sessions like these, because then I will not have to return. This was the first time it was a serious thought. At least if I collapsed like a fat asshole on the little rubber mat, I would never have to do this shit again. I wouldn't have to worry about being fat. A ten-year battle with obesity would be over. I would not win, but I would not have to fight anymore, which is still a victory for me. The Charlie Sheen school of WINNING!
I am pretty sure the only thing that kept me going was the little pep talks from my trainer. At least, I vaguely remember hearing him saying encouraging things and then me trying harder. But I am also prrrretty sure I blacked out a couple times, so maybe it was the voice of God.
As I looked around, I saw my Golden Girls holding their own way better than I ever could. SHIT! I am the SOPHIA in a room full of BLANCHES!!!! An obese, crazy-story-telling, meatball-loving SOPHIA!
Since I was alternately trying to breathe and trying not to cry, I never noticed how Captain Bungee Pants fared. It's probably best for my self-esteem that I never know.
When the class was done, I scooted out as fast as I could as I told myself over and over, "You can cry when you get in the car...you are not crying here. AGAIN!"
I spent the following three hours crying, thinking, fuming, crying, thinking, spacing out, and crying.
Which is when I decided that come Monday, it couldn't hurt to call my insurance company to see if they cover weight loss surgery. And then, if they do, call the doctor to get more information. If I don't care about dying during my 80 bajillionth squat, I might care even less about dying from a surgery that will help me to lose enough weight so that I don't have to not care about squat-induced death in the first place! Yes, it is a deranged line of thinking. I might still be running on a crappy, hyperventilated oxygen supply.
We'll see on Monday.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Get Your MoJo on at Momsandjobs.com!
I recently bumped into my college friend Felicia at a loud and crazy children's indoor playground. Amidst kids screaming (and possibly bleeding, but if they weren't our kids, who cares?), we caught up on what's been going on in our lives. Since my reply was a sweeping gesture of my kid hanging from my shoulders and other kids crashing into each other while telling her, "Uh, this!", her answer was way cooler...
Felicia works as the Operations Supervisor at Moms and Jobs, Inc. (MoJo). The company is a social venture that provides mothers living below the poverty line with jobs in the LogoWear industry. In addition to higher than average wages, MoJo provides free daycare for moms. Daycare costs are ridiculous, and it often costs more to send children to daycare than the paycheck a mom earns while their kids are in daycare. Because of this, single moms are a large part of the demographic of people living below the poverty line.
By purchasing an item (or several!) at momsandjobs.com/shop , you help to ensure higher wages for single mothers and the continuation of an amazing employment project.
The MoJo Infinity Scarf is gorgeous, as well as fashion-forward. The infinity scarf has become one of the hottest accessories, and purchasing this scarf will keep you both on-trend AND socially concious.
The MoJo's Charm for a Cure is an elegant hand-stamped necklace that is assembled locally by MoJo moms right in Lowell, MA. The purchase of this necklace helps raise money for ovarian cancer research.
Please help support my friend Felicia, who not only has a degree but a LOT of skills, by lending your support to an organization that is helping to pave a new life for hard-working moms across the country!
Felicia works as the Operations Supervisor at Moms and Jobs, Inc. (MoJo). The company is a social venture that provides mothers living below the poverty line with jobs in the LogoWear industry. In addition to higher than average wages, MoJo provides free daycare for moms. Daycare costs are ridiculous, and it often costs more to send children to daycare than the paycheck a mom earns while their kids are in daycare. Because of this, single moms are a large part of the demographic of people living below the poverty line.
By purchasing an item (or several!) at momsandjobs.com/shop , you help to ensure higher wages for single mothers and the continuation of an amazing employment project.
Please help support my friend Felicia, who not only has a degree but a LOT of skills, by lending your support to an organization that is helping to pave a new life for hard-working moms across the country!
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
"Princess" of the Cat People
While I enjoy making fun of living with my parents, occasionally I like to look outside of my immediate surroundings to find new and interesting targets for my ridicule. This is where my neighbors come in...
When Phill and I lived in our apartment, there was never a lack of entertainment provided by our neighbors. For example, "The Griswolds", as we called them, decided to go all out for the apartment's complex-wide Christmas Lights competition. 30,000 lights and numerous illuminated statues later, we could barely sleep at night from the glow. We were never so glad to see them move away. Especially when they used the flatbed trailer usually reserved for their ski-doos to tow away their sofa...while sitting on it.
Life in a house in a residential neighborhood does not often afford us the luxury of observing the best of mental illness at work. If anything, WE are that house. My dad has made his own front yard fencing using warped 2x4s and too much enthusiasm. My daughter decorated our front lawn with plastic flamingoes and stone owl statues, safely encased in the pigpen my dad inadvertantly made when he erected what I call "Fisher Price Little People Barnyard Fencing".
Imagine my delight when, as the months go on, it turns out we may not be the craziest people on the street. My next door neighbors have two cats and countless chickens. We have been following "The Chicken and Cat Saga" religiously for over a year now. You'd think the chickens would be more interesting than the cats...but the chickens don't run on LEASHES on a ZIP LINE in the backyard.
I will never forget the first time I was hanging out in my backyard when I kept hearing a strange "ziiiippp" noise. As I walked around to investigate, I noticed a black cat going batshit crazy back and forth across the neighbor's lawn. Occasionally, the cats get a break from the zip line to be walked around the neighborhood on their leashes. If we are outside, the neighbor brings the moody animals over to "say hi". However, saying hi for the cats is hissing and clawing, which is especially disconcerting when they are dressed for Halloween in angel costumes.
I assumed the family on the other side of us was normal. Big family, teenagers, their friends, etc.etc. The only thing that bugged me was their yappy dog and the equally yappy mother who would call the dog in at all hours of the night. If Phill and I slept with our bedroom windows open, we could hear, "PRINCESSSSS, PRIIIIIIINNNNNCESSSSSS!!" over and over. I hated Princess. Princess NEVER came when she was called. But at least the dog wasn't barking when it was off running around the neighborhood unsupervised despite our city's leash law.
This nightly "Screaming for the Dog" ritual has almost become just another nighttime noise to me, like crickets or cars passing gently down the street. "PRINCESS! PRINCESS!" I can almost ignore it now...but not quite.
Then, last week we uncovered a bombshell. My mother was outside when the cats on leashes came by to "say hi" with their owner. They got to talking about the animals in the area, and our neighbor mentioned the other neighbor's cat, "PRINCESS"!
Holy shit, do you know what this means?! Our neighbors have been trying IN VAIN for over 18 months to call in their cat at night.
Princess has her owners wrapped around her finger (paw?), because while the yappy dog is apparently stuck at home sleeping all night, this cat is roaming the streets while the owners bellow her name for hours each night for months...while expecting different results every time!
It's going to be another long summer...
When Phill and I lived in our apartment, there was never a lack of entertainment provided by our neighbors. For example, "The Griswolds", as we called them, decided to go all out for the apartment's complex-wide Christmas Lights competition. 30,000 lights and numerous illuminated statues later, we could barely sleep at night from the glow. We were never so glad to see them move away. Especially when they used the flatbed trailer usually reserved for their ski-doos to tow away their sofa...while sitting on it.
Life in a house in a residential neighborhood does not often afford us the luxury of observing the best of mental illness at work. If anything, WE are that house. My dad has made his own front yard fencing using warped 2x4s and too much enthusiasm. My daughter decorated our front lawn with plastic flamingoes and stone owl statues, safely encased in the pigpen my dad inadvertantly made when he erected what I call "Fisher Price Little People Barnyard Fencing".
Imagine my delight when, as the months go on, it turns out we may not be the craziest people on the street. My next door neighbors have two cats and countless chickens. We have been following "The Chicken and Cat Saga" religiously for over a year now. You'd think the chickens would be more interesting than the cats...but the chickens don't run on LEASHES on a ZIP LINE in the backyard.
I will never forget the first time I was hanging out in my backyard when I kept hearing a strange "ziiiippp" noise. As I walked around to investigate, I noticed a black cat going batshit crazy back and forth across the neighbor's lawn. Occasionally, the cats get a break from the zip line to be walked around the neighborhood on their leashes. If we are outside, the neighbor brings the moody animals over to "say hi". However, saying hi for the cats is hissing and clawing, which is especially disconcerting when they are dressed for Halloween in angel costumes.
I assumed the family on the other side of us was normal. Big family, teenagers, their friends, etc.etc. The only thing that bugged me was their yappy dog and the equally yappy mother who would call the dog in at all hours of the night. If Phill and I slept with our bedroom windows open, we could hear, "PRINCESSSSS, PRIIIIIIINNNNNCESSSSSS!!" over and over. I hated Princess. Princess NEVER came when she was called. But at least the dog wasn't barking when it was off running around the neighborhood unsupervised despite our city's leash law.
This nightly "Screaming for the Dog" ritual has almost become just another nighttime noise to me, like crickets or cars passing gently down the street. "PRINCESS! PRINCESS!" I can almost ignore it now...but not quite.
Then, last week we uncovered a bombshell. My mother was outside when the cats on leashes came by to "say hi" with their owner. They got to talking about the animals in the area, and our neighbor mentioned the other neighbor's cat, "PRINCESS"!
Holy shit, do you know what this means?! Our neighbors have been trying IN VAIN for over 18 months to call in their cat at night.
Princess has her owners wrapped around her finger (paw?), because while the yappy dog is apparently stuck at home sleeping all night, this cat is roaming the streets while the owners bellow her name for hours each night for months...while expecting different results every time!
It's going to be another long summer...
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