Oh, it’s a whirlwind, chicks & dicks.  It’s not that I do so much, it’s that I piss & moan about it all . . . before, during & after.  I should be a happy camper, but am not particularly.  I never liked camping & am a nasty, sarcastic bitch, except when I’m laughing, but even then I’m usually laughing AT someone & I’ve been told that’s bad.

If you think this entry is about my desire to change, it is not.  Happy people are usually stupid people.  I have not lost enough brain matter to get there yet, but as my consumption of tequila increases I creep down the IQ scale.  I am deliriously happy about that because it keeps me from being the kind of jerk-off who lists an IQ on my Facebook page or hangs a paper on my wall stating that my kid is a Mensa member.  (Yes, miraculously, I know people who do both.)

I occasionally try to convince myself it’s bad to complain when I’m not dealing with the kind of trouble I see on HBO, my main source of connection to the real world.  But then some dipshit convinces me I really have been in the midst of nasty ass trauma & drama . . . and am perhaps lucky for it.

* * * * *

Kat Von D. entered my living room the other night on her tattoo program, the one that takes place in California, not Miami, “LA Ink.”  You don’t need to know about Kat or tattoos, or care about anything of the sort, to understand the following:

Kat came into work clearly unhappy.  (Dramatic music played in the background.)  Eventually she got around to telling her closest friends & employees that . . . da-da-da-dum . . . her cat (the kind with a ‘c’) had died the previous evening.  (It was a hairless cat, which is possibly not pertinent, though it supports my final analysis.)

She was sniffling and choking back sobs as she said that she’d never experienced a death & added:

“Wow, like now I understand my clients so much better, you know, than I did before.  Like, I see why they’re so emotional!” 

We’re talking about thousands of people who have come to her for tattooed pictures of deceased loved ones.

So basically she admitted never before understanding why anyone was so upset over death until HER CAT died. 

I know people love their animals.  Sometimes they even call them their “babies,” which is offensive.  Yes, I understand you might like them better than humans, sometimes for good reason.  But they’re not people, and they’re not infants.  We do not litter train human babies, we do not buy them rawhide bones.  (At least I hope you don’t.)

Kat Von D. is approximately 35 years of age, one of those lucky bitches who lives in la-la land, believing the world is a safe & secure place.  She is also a tremendous asshole, an egocentric maniac, missing any kind of human empathy. 

I am so fucking jealous.

It’s been a big week in Pamajama Land. I turned .

Someone had the nerve to tell me that “50 is the youth of old age.”

Oh. My. God. She seriously thought that would make me happy? Some statements are so incredibly

(circle all that apply)

bad, insensitive, stupid

they should smell like old cheese or your pubescent child’s feet, as a warning they shouldn’t be repeated, not ever.

Who the f*ck would ever want to be 50? I really never believed it could happen, didn’t even consider it. This is not a number that in any way jives with the person living inside my head.

In grade school I was convinced I would never make it to high school, couldn’t imagine being THAT OLD. It kind of jived with the idea that I wouldn’t dream of walking away from my mother in a department store because I was certain she wouldn’t bother searching for me if I was lost.

It’s the same reason I was afraid to ride my bike any further than a point where I could still see our house. I knew the bitch would tell people, “I used to have a daughter named Pam, but she’s gone now,” and then she’d somehow use it as a sympathy ploy for free stuff or maybe some kind of tax evasion.

* * * * *

There are oh so many issues I could broach here regarding this momentous occasion, but for now I will just touch on the shoes, the magnificently un-feminine sandals my mother possibly paid $7.99 for at a Kentucky Wal-Mart. She placed them in a manila envelope & spent $10.37 to mail them to NJ.

She got me good, told me a package was coming. I wanted cash & I got these:

I’m quite grateful that she can no longer shock me. So after we laughed & snorted & screamed amongst ourselves over all the reasons the shoes are disgusting . . . I figured what the hell, I’ll call Mom & thank her.

I did it in front of my husband & daughter so they would know what a spectacularly gifted liar I am, how the words roll off my tongue without hesitation: “Mom, I’m calling to thank you for the package!”

“Oh, what did you think?”

“Well, I hadn’t purchased my summer sandals yet, so it was really a fortuitous gift on your part!”

Then she tells me this:

“Well, they’re GREAT, I got myself a pair, and the best part is they’re WASHABLE.”

I said, “You mean you throw them into the washing machine or what?”

“Oh no, you can just wipe them down.”

She made it sound as if she’d never considered the idea that a pair of shoes could be kept clean.

But of course, most shoes are not made by the people over at the famous Taiwanese factory PAU, experts in cloying plastic. I’m guessing hot liquid (made from some kind of animal on the endangered species list (perhaps sea turtles)) is poured into these intricately designed shoe molds by 8-year olds.

I don’t wear a size 10, like the shoes she sent, I’m an 11. In actuality, these may be men’s shoes though. They are so ugly that I feel I’m dirtying my blog by placing them on the page.

* * * * *

There are no doubt people who would say I’m incredibly selfish & ungrateful, that many no longer have a mother. To them I say:

I’ve always had ugly dentists.

In high school my sister and I used to purposely go to Steak ‘n Shake and eat burgers with onions before check-ups. Dr. Hauserman’s breath was just awful, so we wanted to re-pay the favor. (In retrospect, the man put fillings in my mouth that would survive a nuclear attack.) I still remember his thick glasses and big yellow incisors bearing down upon me.

Who knew I would actually care about messing up the schedule of a tooth specialist if he happened to be great looking, like the new guy that bought the practice of my former dude (who was obese & had a stomach that made it necessary he extend his arms fully to do the job.

My normal sleep hours are something like 5-11 a.m. So when I have to be somewhere at 9 or 10 or 11 (or even 1) it can be a problem. I am late & miss appointments so often it’s embarrassing.

I missed a big appointment last week, a double or maybe triple time slot for 9 a.m. These people do not play.

Can you imagine, after calling our house and my cell phone, his receptionist (with a heavy German accent) called my husband at work to track me down? Did he do the right thing and say I’d been checked into rehab for drug addiction or maybe placed in jail for assault of a child, something that would allow me to maintain a semblance of self-respect?

No! He told them I was . . .

HOME IN BED AFTER A LATE NIGHT! THAT I’M “A HEAVY SLEEPER!”

Yes, I know it’s true, but come on! I didn’t even hear the phone ring until 12:45. Help me out here!

This new dentist looks like he should have his own show on VH-1 or Bravo or maybe even MTV. When he comes at me from above it’s kinda dreamy. This is potentially the answer for all dental phobics. The fantasy gets a little fucked up when his assistant appears out of the corner of my eye with a big plastic face mask, what could be a freaky S&M prop. Other than that . . .

Even with his intimidating good looks, I say stupid things because I figure

WTF? It’s a short life!

I told him the only thing more embarrassing than having him in my mouth is having my proctologist in my ass. Really and truly, though, I’m not sure that’s accurate. I hate my teeth. In general I’m pretty grossed out by (1) saliva, (2) bad breath, (3) spitting, and (4) mouth germs. Really, ALL OF IT! The whole french kissing thing is over-rated when you put it under a microscope. It’s the catalyst for a freakish acid trip, combine enough tongue, tartar and gingivitis and I could jump out a fucking window.

On the other hand, I’ve never been up close and personal with my own rectum. Don’t they all look pretty much alike? I mean, some chicks have GREAT freaking teeth! There is no f’ing way their butt holes are somehow spectacular. I simply refuse to believe it. Don’t forget, I’ve had a succcessful hemorrhoidectomy. My ass is quite up to par, thank you very much.

I couldn’t even allow him to give me nitrous oxide when he ripped a 30-year old cap out of my face with a crowbar because I remember being completely inappropriate the single time I had the stuff. And the oral surgeon wasn’t even attractive! I had such an urge to reach out and touch.

If I went with the gas I would really do it this time.

Pathetic!

* * * * *

Friday I had a regular doctor’s appointment at 2 p.m., one of the least favorite things I ever force myself to do, even though I absolutely adore the negative, unhappy, miserable fat man who told me yesterday he thinks maybe he should start smoking dope to deal with the stupid people surrounding him. Yes, that’s my doc.

I’ve stopped going to the gynecologist because I can, there are no prescriptions to fill. But my general practitioner is a different story. I tried to stop that too, but someone mentioned if you don’t continue taking thyroid medication you can drop dead.

Oh bother!

The highlight was peeing in a cup. Normally I don’t have to do this, but I guess the whole sugar testing/diabetic thing is supposed to be taken seriously. I couldn’t even figure out the mechanics of what I was to do, so I had to ask for help. “Where are the bottles? What do you want me to do? Where should I put it?” So embarrassing.

I managed to pee all over my hand and began laughing out loud behind the closed door. Here I have my hand in the toilet trying to catch the flow, I can’t bear the idea that my skin might actually touch the porcelain, and so of course it does. I wash my hands like an OCD wackjob. Then I notice the pen I’m supposed to use to write my name on the outside of the bottle. It has a paper flag attached about 5 inches wide, with the word P-E-N scrawled on it.

Seriously, I’m supposed to TOUCH THAT THING? How many other people peed in cups and chose to use the pen BEFORE washing their hands? I want to puke!

How is it that doctor’s offices tend to be such petri dishes, something so clear to me but evidently not to the medical personnel working in them? It’s like the toys in the waiting room! When my kids went to touch those things I’d scream with the intensity of a woman watching her toddler stick her finger in the butt-hole of a mangy kitty-cat at the park.

I’d taken a Xanax before the appointment and it gave me the ability to use that pee-wadden pen, then wash my hands once again before I used my sleeve to twist the door handle and escape my nightmare.

* * * * *

So how was your day?

Scott (my step-brother) called yesterday laughing like a hyena and talking like he’s been on 100-day meth bender. This is the norm, although he doesn’t even drink alcohol. He does, however, spend weeks alone in a truck. So when he finally speaks it comes out with volcanic force.

Occasionally he picks up some chick and spends a few hours feeding his need for human contact, but then he kicks her out and goes back to being the most kind-hearted, adorable, funny, anti-social freak I know.

He was calling to say that he told the pseudo brother-in-law Mike (my sister’s boyfriend who is married for the 5th time, yet engaged to sis) a big fat lie about buying his own truck, which in turn got Mike talking to him again. Talking so much that Mike called 7 times in a matter of 2 hours.

Somewhere in the mix Mike asked Scott, “Kin ah ask yew a question ‘n will ya tell me the Gawd’s honest truth?”

“Sure!” was Scott’s answer, although anyone who would believe him is nuts, since Scott is never completely serious.

Evidently the fact that I’d written on Scott’s Facebook page the words

“Scott Eric“

had come to Mike’s attention. Since I don’t always have shit to say I just put down anything to simply express the fact that I’m thinking of someone. After I’d written that, my niece wrote back “Pamela Jo.”  Amazingly, she gets it.

Cause it’s my name, fer goodness sakes. Nothing more.

Then I made the mistake of saying something else on my own page about my 50th birthday approaching and how I might just stand naked in the road for the purpose of trying to get truckers to honk their horns.  Utterly stupid bullshit.  You know, the kind of thing Facebook would die without.

Mike’s question to Scott was,

“Are you fuckin’ Pam?”

Scott’s reply:

“Pam who?”

Then he thought for a second and said,

“YOU MEAN MY SISTER?”

I’m kind of at a loss as to where I can even go with this from here. I knew Mike was a pervert, I knew his mind worked this way, but the absolute confirmation of same is icky and troubling.

There really are times I wish I was wrong about people.

I should acknowledge that from a different perspective this should be a compliment. I am nearing 50 and most of Scott’s chiclets are 35 or less. I have wings under my arms that resemble an owl, my skin bears the remnants of carrying two big ass babies, and Scott’s ex-wife is a Scandinavian bombshell.

So it might be a compliment if Mike didn’t have the IQ of a pork chop.

* * * * *

Then Scott mentioned that Mom has had pneumonia and went for an MRI recently. Does this mean I’ll be feeling sympathetic and send her a Mother’s Day card with a nice gift?

Aw, fuck it. I’ll spend the cash at the psychologist’s on Friday, trying to figure out why I am the most unforgiving person I’ve ever met.

I mean if Mom wasn’t so fucked up then my sister would think she deserved better than this piece of garbage she’s aligned herself with. She might be with someone normal, like a tax accountant. Her children might never have gone to prison or had sex with chicks whose parents were jailed for murder. This would play havoc with my superiority complex.

My brother, without my mother’s hideous interference, might have played for the NFL and be living the life of riley with a mansion in Miami. Can you imagine how hot it is down there right now, if I had to make that trip for the holiday, if he wasn’t dead? My husband could be forced to sit at the pool with hot, young cheerleaders.

My sister’s tax accountant might have an affair with one of them and she’d be devastated. My husband might be having a threesome with that motherfucking cheerleader and the wimpy tax accountant this very fucking second!

And since Mike was from Florida and I’d be really pissed off, standing on the side of the road trying to get truckers to honk their horns, that ugly bastard might have picked me up and we’d be together now, with me caressing his flaccid un-muscled skin and bad Harley tats.

So thanks, Mom!

Happy Mother’s Day!

I love nothing more than saying inappropriate things to my pre-teen and getting her eyes to light up in abject fascination.  Will it make her a stable adult human being when it’s all said and done?  I have no freaking idea. 

It’s like being the teacher in the 2-year-old room at the nursery and using lesson plans that include surreptitiously scratching their little noses with their longest digit.  “Listen, kids, if Grandma won’t let you watch that 6th hour of TV when she babysits, here’s what you do.”

It seems to me that having fun with your mother has got to be a step up from having a tight-ass rule your life, dampen your spirit and bore you to tears.  Certainly there’s got to be a middle ground, but that’s not my strong suit.  Neither is singing all the correct words to any song and damned if my bitchy little chick doesn’t mock me unmercifully for that.  So I need to keep her on her toes.

On April Fool’s Day I was desperate to find a prank at 4 a.m., as too many years have passed without observing what is no doubt the best American holiday of all.  My husband was asleep in bed, my daughter and I downstairs in the hallway after brushing our teeth.  She wanted to know if we were going to a scheduled activity the following day.  (Not that we ever make it since we stay up till 4 a.m.)

I knew the plans had been canceled for other adult (boring ass) reasons and figured I’d been handed an April Fool’s Day gift.  Unfortunately, coming from the midwest I have a shit load of rich black dirt in my frontal lobe (after years of detasseling corn at ungodly hours of the morning, which I’m sure is why I still refuse to get up at a decent hour). 

The end result is I am a plodding thinker, related to the mule family.  But in this instance I had to think fast, which does not always end up with the best result.  (It is why I cannot be expected to order meals from snarky waiters in New York City.)

Now don’t get pissed at me, all up on your high horse, but I told her someone died.  She’s a fan of horror films and scary stories, believing herself a descendant from the makers of  “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” and “Saw.”  She loves to pretend that she has testicles the size of basketballs, even though it’s so completely untrue. 

But when her guinea pig died she acted sad for a minute and then asked “Can I poke it with a stick?”  I mean, come on, this is a kid you can f*ck with just a little bit.

The alleged dead person in question is not a close friend nor family member.  (I do have ethical standards.)  It’s another mom, someone who teaches in the co-op we attend.  I said she’d been . . .  killed in a car accident. 

Rachel replied “Really?” and looked at me with those beautifully naive eyes of hers.  I hesitated a moment and then said, “Well, I didn’t want to upset you.  Are you okay?”  Her heartless reply: “Yeah, I guess so.”  So that’s when I jumped in with, “Aww, it’s a lie . . .  April Fool’s!”

She began screaming and laughing and chasing me through the house as I cackled with joyous abandon. 

Her father woke up and began shouting, “What?  What?”  For the most part we just ignored him, as this has become kind of a common occurrence here in the middle of the night.  I think she told him the next day.  Yet he still fell for it when I told him I’d cut myself with a knife and would he please bring home bandage materials from the pharmacy after he purchased his White Castle dinner.

Emergency preparedness is his bag and he immediately began re-thinking his plans and insisted he could not go to White Castle as his wife bled to death at home on the kitchen floor.  Then I began hearing the “Clink, clink, clink” of his brain waves and, just as he was about to get it on his own, I said the obligatory line: “APRIL FOOL’S.” 

I think it’s actually the 3rd time I’ve used that kind of thing with him, once including a ketchup prop.  The favorite was when I made Rachel run outside and scream, “Mommy’s not moving!  She changed that light bulb in the bathroom that she asked you to change last week and she fell off the chair!”  He came in to find me appropriately splayed out on the bathroom floor waiting for a chalk outline.  If only I hadn’t started to laugh.  The guilt ploy was such a bonus.

As I write this I am trying to figure out how I can get downstairs to the plastic wrap, bring it up and cover the toilet seat, so that when he gets up he splatters pee all over himself.  It’s a gag I’ve been wanting to pull for the longest time. 

Well, that and cover the entire door frame with the stuff.  In my mind’s eye he would bounce off it like a trampoline.  I’m guessing it has to be a little more complicated than my visualization.  Complications bore me tremendously, so IXNAY on that idea.  It would be easier just to bring an ice cube upstairs and place it in the midst of his underarm hair.  No lie, I would probably break his nose if he did something like that to me, yet he would not even get angry if I did it to him.

* * * * *

So I went to find the plastic wrap and we only have pink and purple.  The pink is now tightly wrapped across the top of the toilet.  I really, really, really hope Rachel does not get up and have to pee in the next two hours.

My sister’s boyfriend is so unattractive it’s hard to describe accurately.  It’s not that I hold that against him, it’s the fact that he thinks he’s hot that bothers me.  He combs his hair into this crazy David Cassidy style, wears gold chains on both neck and wrist, has massive Harley tats on his saggy, sallow, unmuscled skin, trims his fu manchu facial hair but doesn’t bathe.  He’s about 5’7″ and wears thick, dirty glasses.

You’d think he would be a little more understated & self-flagellating, considering that he’s still married to his fourth wife and on federal probation for the back child support he owes in 3 different states.  I had no idea this was even possible.  The amazing thing is that he found 3 women to sleep with him, let alone carry his seed.  The amount he must pay per month is about equal to what he makes in salary, sometimes more.  Yes, he’s a catch.  He and my sister are “engaged,” which I also think is a little tacky when it happens before the divorce.  She has no intention of marrying him, but did get his name tattooed on her ankle.  She seemed happy when she told me, “You can hardly read it.”

My husband is a lone wolf.  He does not have male friends who call and he does not sit in bars with pals.  (He might be much better off if he did.)  The only place Ray is really comfortable is in a bowling alley, where the reason for social contact is all about the ball, the reason to touch one another is all about the hand slapping.  Mike is a needy, social butterfly, who reminds me of a guy who works in a bowling alley setting pins & cleaning up beer bottles.  (These two are a match made in heaven.)

So Ray was kind of tickled when Mike started sending him daily texts that said, “Are you stel comin her [sic] ?”  [Translation: "Are you still coming here?"]  Some said things that essentially meant “Save me.”  After all, his boss is my mother.  He called and asked Ray for advice on handling my niece, asked him how he handled step-parenting my son.  (The one way in which my sister & I are completely alike is in the fact that you should protect your balls before making a single negative remark regarding our children, even if what you’re saying is true.)  We once mistakenly got involved in sending those ridiculous e-mail forwards of very bad jokes & nude body parts, but it got so out of hand with this creepy fucker that it was kinda scary.

My brother has told me great stories about fucking with Mike’s (soft like a bad potato) head.  There is no one I know who enjoys the psychological games you can play with a dimwit more than Scott.  I have always shared those stories with my husband, gasping with laughter.  The one time I didn’t think it was funny was when Scott called and told me that Mike had asked my sister if it was okay if he shouted ”Pam” during orgasm.  I still remember exactly where I was standing as I had to think it all through and eventually realize in this instance I was the dimwit.  Motherfucker got me for a minute!

Scott very nearly convinced Mike that our step-father drilled a hole in a wall and was watching my sister shower.  This was as payback for Mike’s continued repetitive statement: “Well, guess I’ll go home now and fuck yer sister.”  I’ve begged Scott to say, “I did her first & better,” but he won’t.  I also asked him to punch Mike in the face, but he wouldn’t do that either.  When we found out that Mom stayed in the house to watch the kids one evening & Mike came home & found her in his bed, the goofs were never ending.  Ray even joined in on the mother-in-law stuff.

The misspellings in the texts Mike wrote endeared him to both of us. We hooted in incredulity.  I was starting to really enjoy the guy!  As we drove there I actually said, “The only one I’m looking forward to seeing is Mike.”  That lasted all of 30 seconds.

It’s hard to describe my interactions with this guy because he’s like something from planet Venus.  I think he believes I owe him some huge amount of respect because he’s my sister’s man, or because he was part of the decision for her to take custody of her grandchildren.  Clearly, he expects me to be impressed by the rings he’s bought her, purchased in a pawn shop.  I know this because he often says, “Look at yer sister’s finger!  See what I gawt her?!”  I was unaware previously that you can only “trade up” at a pawn shop, but now I know.  This is not to knock used jewelry, just sayin’.

When you grow up with sick fucks you get a special gift for reading them.  I can walk into a room and immediately know who’s the freak of the bunch.  Well, it’s Mike.  This guy is a little Napoleon.  I think he stares at his dick in a mirror and is just so impressed & amazed that he has one that he thinks you should be impressed by it, too.  His vibe tells me there is a part of him who thinks I must be attracted to him, aren’t all women?  So he is constantly annoyed with me, confused by my actions, since I seem to (1) give him no respect and (2) laugh at him and (3) am so clearly just waiting for the dude to go away.  Yet he keeps waiting for me to stick out my tongue and beg to blow him.  That’s the kind of shit that goes on in this guy’s brain, I just know it.  Don’t ask me how, I just do.

My biggest issue is with his behavior around and toward the children.  When the big dog started nipping at my 4-year old niece’s dress flying in the breeze as she played on the new swingset Easter morning, Mike ran down the deck and began beating it with his fists.  He hasn’t bothered actually training the dog to behave properly.  The 2-year old stood looking at him from the deck, with a quizzical look on her face, like “Who the fuck punches a dog, you dumbass?”  He came back up on the deck and said something ridiculous about how he should have taken his rings off first.  It would sound stupid even without the southern accent that makes the words sound like I’ve been hitting the prescription drugs a little too hard.

Dogs are one thing, kids are another.  He knows that I’ve made mention previously about the fact that he should not be laying a hand on them.  So he intentionally will say things in my presence like “If you get out of that bed one more time I will beat your ass.”  Then he looks at me, just daring me to say something like “You fucking maggot, if I ever see you touch him I’ll crush your worthless, disgusting ball sack until it looks like you spilled a strawberry margarita down your pants.” 

Instead I am silent.  I follow the child into the bedroom, rock them to sleep & annoy the fuck out of the heartless bitches that are my family members, people who think you can spoil a child who’s already spent part of their life in foster care, a child whose father is in prison.

One day Mike will disappear.  The only thing I can do is laugh at him while he’s here.

If I was perfect myself, it would be a different story.  So many days I’ve been kinder to strangers on the street than I’ve been to my own son or daughter behind closed doors.  It’s easy to forget that fact, way more comfortable.

Mike was adopted.  When his brother moved out of the house, his mother told him his brother had died.  Somehow he later discovered it wasn’t true.  What kind of sick shit must he have grown up with, if this is just one example?

Life is so weird, no one gets out alive.

I grew up in Illinois.  During my senior year of college Mom introduced me to the derelict & useless motherfucker who would become her third husband.  She followed him to his home state of Kentucky, a place she often spoke of with abject disgust during my childhood.  Her imaginary competition, my step-father’s ex-wife, lived there & she believed it her job to eviscerate every detail of my step-sibling’s mother, including the geography upon which she maintained a home.  People in Kentucky were the stupidest people alive.

Mom has lived there ever since.  She doesn’t even get the joke.  (It’s just one of the many schizophrenic ways in which she took the basic tenets of our screaming mimi childhood and said, “Oops, changed my mind.”)

I’ve previously mentioned my first meeting with the man who would become my step-daddy, a devilish character straight from the 70′s tv program Hee-Haw.  We had lunch in a pizza place and he drank a pitcher of beer as he grew louder and louder, telling a story about how black men can fuck white women all night long.  Theoretically, white men cannot.  It’s all because black men have a lower body temperature.  I shit you not.  Mom sat at the table like a cheshire cat, the pussy who’d won the contest for finding the biggest dick.  No doubt, she was correct.

There have been times when I’ve considered the possibility that I should think of him in a kinder light since he does, after all, live with the biggest bitch in all the world.  He is mean to her because that’s what she likes, it’s the only way to control her nastiness.  But when I hear the stories of his cruelty it’s impossible to forgive him, even with that IQ of 38.

Quick bio: One of 14 children, grew up on dirt floors, no running water.  Stabbed by his sister in the back with a 10-inch kitchen knife, just missed his black heart.  Previously married to 300-pound Marlena, has 2 morbidly obese sons.  He is a bean pole with alcoholic dreams even when he’s not drinking.  Alcohol only intensifies his moronic flights of fantasy. 

Speaks in a manner that would have you believe his tongue is too big for his mouth, with a southern accent that is hillbilly extraordinaire.  Makes you go “HUH?”  Baptist minister for a short time, found all the parts of the Bible that support racism, homicide & treating your wife like shit.  Claimed to various family members (not me) he killed the black man who slept with Marlena before their divorce, plus that man’s wife (she was inconveniently present).  [Interesting side note: Marlena's mother and my mother's father developed a romantic relationship and lived together for 10 years before being killed in a car accident in 2004.]

Mom and the jackass divorced a few years ago but still live together. Long story.  He’s the only one evil enough that the stress of being with her hasn’t killed him yet.  For 20 years I never visited, not once. 

Every time they came to see me something awful would happen and I would remember why there are allowable exceptions to the overblown dogma that you love your parents no matter what.  So I don’t say it, I never write it, I don’t feel it.  It’s the one thing I never fake, the only way I’ve been completely true to myself.  

Then my sister moved to Kentucky with the promise of a job in Mom’s company (an entity which should be named Puppetmaster, Inc.)  She began as a truck driver, but then a year ago her 3 grandchildren arrived, straight from foster care.  Now sis works in the office with Mom, they’re together what seems like 18 hours a day.  Next, my niece got out of prison & headed in that direction to be with her babies.  My step-brother Scott is only an hour away.  

The house we grew up in now belongs to my deceased brother’s girlfriend, so home base in Illinois is gone.  I’m the one who pushed for her to have it.  Fuck me.

* * * * *

This Easter was my fourth trip down, my daughter’s second, my husband’s first.  Rachel hates it, Ray thinks he might want to move there.  He loves bowling alleys, is entertained by goofy people.  She would push the button on a nuke if it meant she never had to go again.  (She did have more fun with the kids this time & would assist me in kidnapping the baby.   She does lust after my sister’s unbelievable array of snack foods.)

I purposely avoid speaking much with Mom before making these trips cause just hearing her voice could talk me out of visiting.  But I decided to be nice this trip and took her not only an Easter bag of candy (since food is her heroin & she is more immature than the 2-year old), but also showed up with a box of the most delightful cupcakes you’ve ever seen. 

She even found a way to complain ABOUT CUPCAKES.  She kept mentioning how “grainy” they tasted, as she ate four over two days.  These things were as heavy as leather shoes, my niece kept saying she didn’t think she could eat a whole one (even though I thought that was utter bullshit).  Mom is a determined eater.  No matter the taste or calorie content or that the balloon procedure she had to reduce the size of her stomach sometimes makes her throw up.  My brother and I learned from the best.  I don’t know how in the hell my sister escaped . . . the cigarettes I suppose.

* * * * *

Mom only kept our house clean as children because her second husband, Scott’s father, was a clean freak.  He had such OCD he would wash himself to the point of being pink.  He died when I was 18 and in college.  I soon thereafter went across the country for 6 months.  Upon return it blew my mind to see that Mom’s cleanliness was only a chameleon-like reaction to him.  Perhaps it would have been better if husband #3 had the same affliction.  He does not.

She doesn’t even bathe regularly, doesn’t wash her hair too often.  Her house is such a disaster I cannot imagine anyone ever living in it again.  This is not because it’s not a nice house, it’s because of the damage her five-plus dogs have done. 

When I absconded with photo albums last time, the bottom one was her wedding pics and it was damp from dog urine.  Niiiiice, Mom.  If one of her kids had pissed on her shit she’d have killed us.  Supposedly the dogs are more loving, however, which makes them forgiveable.  Whatever.  You get what you give.  She says the dogs don’t judge her, they don’t ever say she’s fat.  I think they’re smarter than that.

* * * * *

Since my husband is famous for downplaying any & every event (which is good in the instance of Viet Nam and serious car crashes, both of which he’s handled quite well), I use him as my tester.  I’m known to be a bit dramatic, so I send him into situations and ask for his take.  It lets me know if I’m based in reality at all or if, as my astrologer tells me, I’m living in fantasyland 24/7.

When Mom came over to my sister’s Easter morning she brought her biggest, oldest male Boxer, named after the Stephen King character Cujo.  This dog is the father of my sister’s big dog, Socks, who is only barely 2 years old and just feeling his oats (or licking his balls).  As my sister knew would happen, Socks didn’t handle it well at all when another male entered his territory.  She had evidently warned Mom previously not to do such stupid shit, but Mom’s hobby is stupid shit, it’s part of her bone marrow.

So in the middle of Easter morn, pastel colors, small children, coffee on the deck & love in the air, Socks sunk his teeth into Cujo’s neck and splashed dog blood across the canvas.  My sister handles it all so well, as my niece and I and the kids are running for the front yard so as to avoid the cacophony of screaming canines.  Sis kind of gets off on being right.  She considers herself a little bit of a dog whisperer.  She doesn’t control them at all, but she sort of talks to them.  She loves to say “I told you so.”  For her it was a win.

Mom just kind of acts like it’s no big deal that we’re moving into Michael Vick territory on a peaceful holiday Sunday.  I convince her she should put the dog in the car and take it home, sending my husband along for the ride so he can see her dog house.  Sometimes it amazes me that he will do anything I suggest, doesn’t even question it.  So off they go.

After they left it struck me, the story I’d heard about Mom’s Chrysler 300.  I felt kind of bad that I’d set him up for something I wouldn’t have wanted to do myself, namely get in that fucking car.  I mean, it’s beside the point that Mom’s vehicles are always filthy and covered in dirt and dog hair.  She travels with a companion at all times and people don’t much like her.  She has decided she doesn’t like people either, I think as a response.  (If she told me one more time, “I don’t have time for that god damn Facebook,” I might have said, “Mom, you have no friends, why would you like something that highlights that fact?”)

So when Ray returned I apologized.  I asked him about the trip, namely “Was I exaggerating?”  His reply made me cringe, cause part of me wanted him to say “Yes, Pam, your mother is normal and I can’t believe you tell such lies about that sweet old woman!”  Instead he said, “Oh, it was exactly as you described it.”  Fuck.

I asked, “Did she put her seat belt on, so it wouldn’t ding continuously with you in the car?”  He said, “No, she didn’t.  It dinged the entire way.  That didn’t really bother me as much though as that enormous dog’s head so near my face.”  I’d forgotten that he’d be traveling with Cujo, who I’m sure was annoyed that Ray had taken his spot in the front seat.

I asked what he thought of the house.  He was kind of tickled by the way all five dogs followed Mom as she gave the tour, but he was pretty grossed out by the intensity of the smell in her bedroom.  The dogs all sleep with her.  He noted that the laminate flooring she’s putting down upstairs won’t do so well with the damp wood left to rot underneath. 

He got the giggles, like a guy remembering an acid trip, when describing the mangy cocker spaniel peeing on a throw rug as Mom & he watched.  His amazement wasn’t so much that this old dog was evacuating her kidneys in plain sight, more that he expected Mom to do something about it & instead she stepped over it & kept right on with the tour.  When they reached the living room he saw multiple puddles, both wet & dry.  At that point it all came together and made a psychedelic kind of sense.

(When I visited the following day the same dog peed on the indoor/outdoor carpeting in the sun room.  She didn’t clean that up either.)

He mentioned that the room Mom had built onto the house as an office didn’t seem to be very sturdy, he wondered who would build such a thing without putting the proper supports on underneath.  These are the kinds of details that escape me as I look at things like senior pictures and the heirloom pieces Mom is constantly pointing out, stuff that doesn’t mean shit to my sister or I.  I’m just fascinated that it all means so much to her, how physical things are more important than people in her fucked up head.

For instance, she brought a refrigerator from Illinois to Kentucky, a relic that is so dirty and old I wouldn’t want to touch it, let alone keep food in it.  She keeps it in the garage.  That’s how it got so filthy.  My grandparents never would have had anything in such disgusting condition.

Ray mentioned the garage.  He stated that there was so much dog food and bird seed in there that it’s no wonder about the

mice.

See, Mom mentioned that she’s had problems with rodents this past winter.  She had a few mice in her house.  I have no freaking idea how they escaped the dogs.  Then one day she got into her car and noticed a really bad smell.  When mom notices something with those horribly abused olfactory senses of hers, you know it’s fucking atrocious. 

So she went out to the shop and asked the guys there to find what she assumed was a dead mouse in the car.  Amazingly, people are willing to do these kinds of chores for her.  They found the dead mouse.

But they also found a nest of live mice.  They were living inside the $30,000 Chrysler 300.  Let me reiterate, in case your mind could not wrap itself around that last sentence: my mother had mice living in her car.

When she told the story, Mom really didn’t make it out to be a big deal.  Shit happens.  When you own 5 dogs & are an insatiable overeater it happens a lot.

* * * * *

When we stopped by to say good-bye I noted a dead mole, shredded & hairy, lying on the cement apron at her home’s entryway.  A gift from her best friends.  Mom said she’d already put it in the garbage can 3 times and they continued to retrieve it.  (Some of these dogs are as tall as men.)

Now, I know I can be dramatic and take things too far in my distorted brain.  I think about Legionnaire’s disease.  I think about snorting a mist of rodent turds when the air conditioner is turned on the first hot day of summer.  I find myself wondering what lives in Mom’s bed after the dogs run through fields and lick their balls and then her neck.

Not only do I never want to ride in that car again, I think it was incredibly insensitive that the doctor didn’t do a c-section & instead forced me to travel through her nasty ass vagina.

* * * * *

The woman is intelligent in odd ways. 

She told me how stubborn I was as a child & said I’m crazy to think she could have changed a single one of my decisions.  She’s big on the idea that my perceptions of her were created to escape my own responsibility. 

Her theory seems plausible until it gets fucked up remembering that if she tried to change my mind it would have been through violence, the way she accomplished everything: making dinner, carrying in groceries, cleaning the house.  Either she thinks the whole loving mother routine is for pussies or she’s just incapable.  Probably both. 

Still it jarred my reality.  I would so prefer to remember myself as a tough little bitch and not her victim.  She’s not the only one who’s said things that make me wonder about the huge blanks in my memory.  Pieces of me got lost along the way.  She’s probably right, I’m too sensitive & need to toughen up.  

Except for the part about the furry creatures.  No fucking way.

It’s not like I don’t know visits to my family will suck.  It’s never a question.  There will always be highlights and lowlights and I will never fit in.  My actions & opinions will be in direct opposition with the prevailing familial thoughts on most anything at all.

It’s especially noticeable with regard to children.  I miss my niece’s three, 2 girls & a boy, now aged 2, 3 & 4.  My hope is to convince them they’re perfectly wonderful, it’s the adults that are the problem.  It’s what my grandmother did for me.  I have no idea if it’s even remotely possible.

I miss my brother, Scott, the only person there who feels like real family.  (It makes sense that he and I are step-siblings and share no DNA.)  He’s nuts, too, but more of a richly flavored macadamia than a simple rancid peanut. 

He drives his damned bass boat so fast that I found myself counting it out & discovering I am now the same age Grandma was when she used to hold on for dear life as we all screamed “Go faster, Grandpa!”  I was holding my breath, just waiting to die.

* * * * *

The 14 hour drive seemed easy, since previously I’ve done it on my own.  My husband and daughter went this time.  He is always agreeable and she is almost always not.  However, she is the one who laughs at my snarky comments & understands them immediately.  I identify most closely with 12-year old girls (and the potty humor of 6-year old boys).  There was a tremendous amount of training involved to get her to this point & if she turns on me now I will be completely devastated. 

Pointing out fashion faux pas as I travel in my son’s green over-sized camos is both fun and paradoxical.  I think I even peed a little on my purse at that stop, yet it did not stop me from mocking others.  Dedication to the art is a necessary component.

I swear there was a female Keebler elf in an Ohio Cracker Barrel bathroom.  We could hardly contain our glee without pointing or jumping up & down.  Another chick looked incredibly happy with herself while wearing a patriotic track suit from 1990.  A good looking man walked in with a cowboy hat and boots.  You just don’t see that in New Jersey.  When I mentioned him to Rachel she called me a cougar.  Ick.

All this giggling & whispering may get my ass shot in a state that permits concealed weapons.

Please do not comment that I am mean or self-deluding.  I already know that.

* * * * *

30 miles from our final destination my sister & her boyfriend were waiting for us in a Sam’s parking lot.  He was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt which caused us to confuse him with the cart boy.  The red Harley between his legs was the clue.  It’s my sister’s bike, he just gets to drive it.  Most noticeable to me was the fact that they don’t wear helmets.

They carry that most important safety gear inside a box, for driving in states with helmet laws.  The sticker on the back was my favorite part:

“My nipples get harder than most men’s dicks.”  A true classic.

Watching my sister fly down the road at 60 mph, drinking a Big Gulp, under the total control of a man I wouldn’t want picking up my garbage, left me wondering in fascination.  How is it possible we came from the same parents, grew up in the same house & became such different people?  I know it happens, but damn.

I am terrified of most everything, practically cautious in extreme.  She loves to say things like, “Everybody dies some time.”  Part of me thinks her way sounds so much better.

She does not carry a purse, wears men’s jeans & sleeveless t-shirts, lets her short hair fly in the wind.  I often carry more than one bag (OCD impulses), tend to wear women’s clothing & am forever obsessing about the state of my hair even without the complications of Harley head. 

She is a chain smoker & I am allergic to cigarettes.  I used to complain but it caused so much damage to our relationship that I now block it out and say nothing at all, really it’s hardly noticeable when there aren’t two other people in the same small house doing it too (the boyfriend & the niece).  The kids live with it year round, so who am I to bitch?  (Well, I think we all know the real answer to that question.)

My sister has two enormous & poorly disciplined Boxers, I have to wash my hands every time I touch them.  I’m allergic to their saliva, which flies through the air without restraint.  I’m pretty sure that means I’m a big fucking pain in the ass.  Last time the male began biting me, so this time I brought tennis balls along.  He got so tired in the heat that he hid under the trampoline in the shade.  I discovered that I like playing with small canine horses when they’re not trying to eat me.

I scream like a banshee if my screen door is left open for 5 seconds because I do not want bugs in my house.  My sister leaves her patio door wide open for the kids & dogs, doesn’t bother making any effort to keep insects out.  They fly in, they nosh a bit on food left uncovered on counter-tops, they fly out.  It seems to work.

Her house is much cleaner than my mother’s. 

But this year Mom’s car was the mind boggling issue, the beautiful Chrysler 300, a vehicle she drives with no seat belt and a constant dinging warning sound.

Tomorrow’s entry . . .

It’s common knowledge among people who know me in real life that I ask a lot of freaking questions.  We’re not talking friendly chit-chat, it’s more like invasive interrogation lobbed at your head like a racquetball.  The more information you provide, the faster I think of things I want to know, subject areas I want to delve into further.  There is never enough time.

Some people like it, some are offended and hate it.  I’ve been asked if I’m a newspaper reporter or a member of a crime-fighting squad.  Personally, I would love it if someone showed such interest in me.  If memory serves correctly it happened just once and we were at the local Italian American Club during a repast.  The experience brought me to tears at several points, not because I was unhappy about it or the memories too painful to rehash, but because it made me realize how seldom anyone ever has shown such interest in my life. 

This blog entry talks about it a bit: The Twisted State of Conversation.  I think I was actually grateful.

It’s not that people avoid asking questions due to disinterest, they don’t ask because of some reserved belief that other people’s business is not their business.  It’s just not true.  We’re all experiencing similar funky shit cause we’re all living life.  Of course one has the right at any point to refuse to discuss themselves and that’s perfectly fine.  But from my study of human nature (mostly in bowling alleys) it seems that people are desperate to be heard and I like to think I’m providing a service.

Recently it’s come slamming into my awareness that everyone has a story, bar none, and often the story is so much more than you could ever imagine it would be.  My own life has been full of unexpected twists and turns, often hinging upon the mother I grade ‘F’ for “Fucking Failure.”  But in the long run, compared to most, I should receive a ‘W’ for “Whiner.”  It’s a difficult thing to acknowledge, a little embarrassing, but inescapable.

* * * * *

This conclusion has been cemented through my re-connection with several old classmates, due to the wonders of mighty Facebook.  Our farm town held only 3,000 people.  There were about 100 students per class.  We spent 8 hours or more per day in cramped desks, listening to boring teachers, for 10 or more years.  It seemed to me that I was the only person in the entire school who went home to crazyville.  30 years later I come to find out I couldn’t have been more wrong.  Unshared drama surrounded us all.

When I think of our attention focused on some idiotic historical figure or other, instead of sharing experiences and focusing on solutions to problems and comfort in numbers, it makes me want to puke.

From just three conversations I walk away with my mind unhinged.

* * * * *

First, it was Robbie, who lived two doors down Guthrie Street.  A cute boy in the class ahead of me, I don’t know if he & I ever had much of a conversation as children.  He was quiet, low-key, never one to look for attention from anyone.  (All traits I’m fascinated by since I was pretty much the opposite.)  I remember being told Robbie was adopted & then his mother discovered she was pregnant.   I’ve always loved this story, like something out of a fairy tale proving God is real.  You know, be a loving person and in return your dreams will all come true.  (I mean I know it doesn’t always work out like that, but even I get one positive thought per year.)

When we talked recently he told me he’s tried to find his birthparents, come close, but can’t quite pull together the final details.  He’s even written to one of my favorite TV shows that find people, but was turned away.  He raised 3 kids on his own after his first young wife died suddenly.  The outgoing, funny brother who was my age is long deceased from a car accident.  No one escapes untouched, but some are mauled so much worse.

All that’s enough on its’ own, but for me the ultimate piece of the story is that Robbie . . .

is psychic. 

As in he seriously believes when he walks into a room he can read the thoughts of others & has to block them out or would lose his mind.  (Holy shit.)  I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven, that’s how interesting I found this subject.  Fuck American History, to hell with Geometry, tell me more about what you’re hearing inside your head.

* * * * *

Next was Gary, a tall, blonde, farm boy adonis.  He was in school musicals, a star, the perfectly popular American athlete.  His smile had a fucking sparkle to it, that kind of guy.  We were not part of the same social scene, to say the least.  When he friended me I was confused.  In a million years I wouldn’t have expected to connect with him, but boy was I wrong.  He is one of the sweetest, most loving, emotionally present people I’ve ever met. 

So when he told me he needed intensive psychological treatment for serious depression after his divorce, I couldn’t have been more surprised.  As it turns out, women are not the only people with feelings.  Shazam!  (I knew that.)  Even guys who drive trucks & appear to have the world by the balls.  Fifteen years divorced, he has never re-married.

Several phone calls since our first connection, I wasn’t shocked to hear that Gary is currently in love with a Filipino girl he met on Matchmaker.com.  He’s met her whole family on-line.  They call him “Steven Segal.”  His heart is huge and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to make life easier for this woman and her daughter, even her extended family.  I hope it works out.

* * * * *

Third, I was most blown away by Susie.  She was someone I probably barely looked at in junior high, I seriously doubt if I gave her the time of day because that’s the kind of little bitch I was & still can be.  I believe she moved away in high school, purposely got pregnant at 15 & married to get away from her mother.  (Sometimes it seems like I just have to give away a little of my own shit to find out where the bodies are buried for someone else.)  This woman now looks barely 40, yet she has 2 grown children, several grandchildren, and 2 great-grandchildren.  Susie’s mom beat the crap out of her daily.  But that’s not the crazy part.

It’s bad enough in person, but in an instant message my typing speed completely overwhelms the victim.  I asked Susie, “Did you have any siblings?”  She mentioned her two sisters.  Then she said, “Oh, and I have a full brother who’s six years older than me, who I just met a few years ago.”  So I asked how that was possible. 

“Well, Mom and Dad left him in a bar when he was a baby and some people picked him up and took him home.  He was raised in a nearby town and we never knew he existed till my sister found his birth certificate.  Mom finally came clean cause she knew she was dying.  She called me home from Florida to tell me about him.”  I was stunned. 

As it turns out, the ”adoptive” family never did anything officially, just raised the boy.  When I asked if he was a ward of the state she said, “Oh no, back then they didn’t bother with stuff like that.  He’s still really angry at my mom, even though I keep telling him he was lucky he didn’t grow up with her.”

Then came the clincher: “They did the same thing to me, left me in the bar, but somebody brought me back.”

Here was this person I never spent a single moment being nice to during all the years I knew her. 

* * * * *

It brings tears to my eyes now, just thinking of how different it could have been for all of us.  Knowing you’re not the only one in a fucked up situation is probably the most healing possible scenario.  The secret causes the shame & that’s the most harmful piece of all.

We learn about fables and calculus and insects.  Children have gym class and recess and foreign language.  But so little time is ever put into human interaction and kindness, or how important it is to understand that everyone has a story, each person is deserving of our respect and attention, & the listener is the lucky one.  (Even when it’s the hot chick who makes other women jealous cause they don’t know she’s so miserable she can’t stand it, or the ugly ass man who would entertain you for hours with his humor if only you were willing to even look his way.)

It would make it just that much easier if we were aware right from the start that none of us are alone in this shit.

Recently we joined a co-op.  Families gather once a week from 9-3.  Unlike myself, the proactive, responsible mothers choose a topic in which they have some level of expertise, a subject both educational & entertaining.  Then they teach a class and “cooperatively” share their knowledge.  At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.  (Two families have already dropped out, leaving people in the lurch a bit.)

My position?  I’m on the cleaning crew.

A smattering of the folks involved include: a multi-talented polymer clay artist, an attorney, a ridiculously fit & flexible yoga master, an amazingly down to earth woman who earned her doctorate working on an AIDS vaccine, and a breast-feeding  guidance counselor (who was actually Roxanne’s first wedding client after her internet-ordination as a minister).  I so completely love it when I’ve pigeon-holed someone as a regular moron & then discover they’re not, in the process confirming  I truly am a jackass.

Even in my position sterilizing the nursery I must fight the devilish urge to shirk my duties.  Who would ever know if I really bleached the fingerprints & spit off tiny toys  

 . . . .  or not?

My 12-year old’s courseload is on the heavy side: Art, Yoga, Cooking (vegetarian cuisine which disgusts her to a place where I believe she wants to bring contraband beef jerky in her pockets and gnaw on pork chops during breaks), Lunch & Science.

I am a horrible person.

I do not kid myself, my awareness continues to grow in leaps and bounds.  I have oodles of knowledge about things of no importance (pop culture, obscure spellings, bizarre news items), and practically none in intellectual pursuits (mention Shakespeare or another haughty author held in high regard by academicians & my eyes roll to the back of my head.  However, I read everything Truman Capote ever wrote & would be happy to lead a discourse on ”In Cold Blood.”)

Most of all my lazy & belligerent attitude spells disaster.  “Commitment phobic” downplays what happens once I’m locked into even the things I WANT to do.  The 9 a.m. arrival time is nearly equivalent to asking me to snake your toilet or re-attach a severed limb.  My students would eventually be found playing near double yellow lines or hanging in the tops of trees. 

After years of fighting my own nature, I no longer volunteer to jump from cliffs or corral children whose parents may be standing nearby.  I have control issues that flash like the lights on a patrol car and the standard for reasonable behavior falls across such an enormous continuum. 

I am reminded of hated classmates when a child believes they are more adorable, intellectually gifted &/or worthy of special treatment than all others, as no doubt convinced by a self-absorbed mother.  Even worse is when the aforementioned parent is present & ignores behavior that would have been included in the script for “Problem Child” if only the writers had better imagination.

Coming from a dysfunctional wack-a-doodle family, it seems I have what some consider a heavy hand, unreachable standards, & ridiculous expectations.  Like I want the kids to decline from eating boogers (no matter how tasty or protein deprived) & never, ever, emit a high-pitched scream without accompaniment of a rodent or splintered bone (spiders are not rodents & gleeful best friends do not have pediatric orthopedic surgeons).  I’ll agree, my margin for error is slim.

* * * * *

But occasionally the cosmos grabs your groin, twists and giggles.  At 11 p.m. last night I heard the voice message: “We need you to teach the “Numbers” class for 3-5 year olds.  No one else can do it.”  I was the only slacker with flexibility in my schedule even though “assisting” this week with “Letters” and “Poetry.”  My lackluster motivation has been completely ignored.

I never went to bed.  It was the only way to assure gremlins could not disconnect my weak link to punctuality.  The perfect combination: A hopped-up nutjob with a class full of moldable minds. 

Upon arrival I pulled out the items I brought for my curriculum.  Two “friends” began to laugh.  “Pam, they’re 3!” 

Okay, so I tempered my expectations once I noticed the adorable little chick with her finger in her nose to the knuckle.  I wanted to heave when I remembered the affection small children have for sharing their own germs.  But more than half the class looked like they’d stepped out of a Mary Poppins movie: perfect hair bows, striped knit dresses & bright tights.  My favorite pattern contained wiener dogs wearing sweaters.  I could not fight the cuteness quotient.

It was fun & it was exhausting.  A captive & appreciative audience is the stuff of my dreams (mostly prison scenarios with tremendously grateful muscle-bound bald men).

I could have told these kids they were frogs and made them hop.  Actually, I did make them hop.  Does it get better than that?  Oh, it does.  They laughed at my jokes, the way my 24-year old used to when he was a tiny little thing who believed my lies & distortions. 

They agreed that it’s not a good thing when your name is “Pam” and it rhymes with “ham.”

When we went around the table telling our names and ages, then counting and shouting it loud and proud, Besamela claimed she was eight.  We took it for granted she was telling the truth, even as her grandmother in the corner sputtered something about the veracity of her answer.  When I asked the class which cost more, sneakers or a laptop computer, it came to a 50/50 split decision.  No one asked for the correct answer, so I didn’t give them one.

At one point Dominic appeared a bit annoyed with the goofballs.  As an oldest child myself I could completely identify with his frustrations.  Emily’s little sister, Abbie, had trouble with her scissors but was happy after chopping up 30 paper towels I held taught while dodging her shaky weapon. 

If only I used that much patience when dealing with my own kids more often.

In a stroke of genius I’d thrown the tape measure in my bag as I ran out the garage door.  These excitable little doe-eyed moppets wanted their height measured, along with their hair and their eye sockets.  We measured feet and fingers and shoulders.  Could I do it twice?

It escapes me how belly buttons became part of  the mix (mostly 1-1.5 inches).

Most importantly, all children were alive and accounted for at the end of the day.  To my own amazement I didn’t swear a single time, not even at their mothers. 

Without a moment’s notice I can go from happy as a motherfucker to angry as a bitch in a bar fight.  In this specific minute I’m so pissed off I wanna set things on fire.  An hour ago I had tears in my eyes from wild & depraved laughter, as I tortured the person who’s nicer to me than anyone else has ever been in this lifetime.

A random brainwave  is all it takes to switch my head from placid to manic.  I don’t even need to be consciously aware of what sets me off.  It feels chaotic, like trying to keep up with three freaking rings at the circus.  (Which I might add is total bullshit cause you just can’t do it.)

If only I could stick with a specific position on any given subject.  After I burn shit up the next word in my frontal lobe is something like ”Oops.”  You can’t change what you’ve done or just take it back.  This is especially true of relationships. 

My emotions are psychedelic and my husband is attempting to talk me off the roof.  I’m wearing a sheet for wings, raving about phantasmagoria.  He is monk-like and 90% non-verbal but committed to the cause.  His blank facial expression antagonizes me. 

Relationships are teeter-totters and he’s left me too long in the elevated position.  Sometimes (the third Thursday of October and 12th of March) I wanna be the grounded & sensible one, but who can compete? 

Here is a snapshot of today’s interaction:

First Call

Me: . . . you don’t have a temper.  Your mother must have been doing drugs that day.

Him:  Oh, I have a temper, I just keep it in check.

Me:  No, you do not.  Otherwise I would have seen it once in 17 years.  You’re disabled.

Him: No, I’m not.

Me: Yes, you are.  If you were missing a finger wouldn’t you say you were handicapped?

Him: Well, yes.

Me: OMG, I need someone to fight with me.  You are such a pussy, you can’t handle a simple argument.  You have no weapons.

Him: Oh, I have a weapon.

Me: There should be some spectrum between total complacence and shooting me.

* * * * *

Second Call

Him: I’m on my way home.

Me: Why so early?

Him: Because I miss you so much.

Me: OMG, that’s just disgusting.  (This was not a joke.)

Him: Can I bring you anything?  (Neither was this.)

Me: Ice cream!  (This screams volumes about my current mental health.)

* * * * *

Arriving Home to the Happy Housewife

Him: Kiss me.

Me: (Dodging Away) How gross do I have to be for you to want to be rid of me? (Laughing)

Him: You can leave.

Me: You can’t make me!

Him: I could push your buttons.  You get so mad, you’d hit me.

Me: What would you say?

Him: Oh, it would be easy.

Me: But it would be bad for our daughter to see me taken away in handcuffs!

Him: I would just buy her some more cookie dough ice cream.

Me: Like how many days do I need to go without a shower?  (Cackling begins) What if I started FARTING?

Him: Go ahead.

Me: (Hysteria ensues) In public!

Him: Well, I wouldn’t be there.

Me: But I wouldn’t do it without you.  Since you’ll never be with another woman again [he says this all the time, since I've ruined his opinion of females] how bad do I have to be? 

Him: I wouldn’t put up with just anything.

Me: (Laughing to the point of tears I try to speak.  When I realize the capability is available I belch instead, which makes me laugh so hard I really do fart.  This is perhaps the 3rd time in 17 years I’ve done this in his presence.  Aided by sugar-free products (for diabetic reasons completely ignored in relation to the aforementioned ice cream) I blast from my ass in rhythm to the explosive laughter emanating from my gaping blow hole. )

Him:  Oh my God.  You can’t stop yourself.

* * * * *

I send my sister a text message of the conversation.  I tell her he’s standing outside the bathroom door continuing to ask if there’s anything he can do for me (he was).  I knew she would understand because she divorced her second husband for two reasons: (1) He cheated on her with her best friend and (2) He was too nice.  She mentions the second reason far more often.

In my defense, I have told him to ignore me.  I have given him numerous tips on handling my particular brand of mental illness.  (I did spend 17 years in training with my mother.)  He has refused my advice time and again.  It’s like refusing to listen to an expert bomb diffuser and playing eenie-meenie-miney-mo instead.

* * * * *

Final Act

Husband prepares to leave house to walk a 5-mile trail, run some errands & buy me stuff.  Kisses me good-bye and says “I love you.”

Clearly I must stoop to even lower levels of depravity to obtain a reaction.  Any concerns regarding self-respect must be faced down and eradicated.

* * * * *

You only get 5 or 6 monster laughs a year.  If it takes something disgusting for a kick-start, so be it.  I never claimed to be classy.

Within the hour I was again so pissed I wished I had a bat to beat the shit out of something.  Fortunately, it had nothing to do with the guy who should have thrown my ass out on the street earlier today.

There was a point in time when I thought perhaps I was getting my shit together.  I was pretending.  However, as I tell him regularly, he picked me and I picked him.  So who’s the nut?

Realistically considering my level of effort, I should be living in a hovel, driving a Hyundai or riding the bus.  I should be wearing retro stained clothing from the discount rack at Fashion Bug and have a gray stripe 3-inches wide across my cranium.

It could still happen.

Dear Augusten,

Even as a girl of 9 I recognized my own natural proclivities.  I have a snapshot memory of standing at our back door, gazing outside, thinking “I want to be good, I do God, but being bad is so much more fun.”  How did I get that idea in my warped little head?  What bad things had I done that gave me so much joy?  I know I didn’t begin masturbating until 10 or 11, hadn’t yet become a binge eater, didn’t even know how to play craps.

I was never brave enough to be openly defiant or obviously wicked because I was way too afraid of (1) my mother, (2) getting punched in the face and/or (3) going to prison.  I stayed with the only other option available, sly and sneaky.  It’s unsatisfying compared with an in your face “Fuck you!”  but still beats being a kiss ass.

My brother Scott once told my mom, “Say ‘when!’” as he poured her a glass of milk.  She didn’t say it.  He kept going as it hit the floor and probably her feet.  As far as I was concerned, his balls were a gargantuan work of art and I wanted to bow to their mastery. 

It’s possible that this is the event which pushed me to touch my boyfriend Richard’s testicles when I was 12, as we made out in the park across from the swimming pool.  I even named them.  I wouldn’t clean out a drain to save my own life until age 35 cause it was just too gross, but I would touch hairy nuts because I so totally wished I had a humongous pair.

For the most part I’m still a sneaky bitch.  I want people to like me, such an annoying trait.  Makes no sense, convincing other people that I’m milk white, vanilla, sweetness and light, when the peeps who prefer such tastes are not even the kind I like!   As I get older and the duct tape on my alter ego’s lips wears thin, the more my true self pops up unexpectedly.  I’ve muzzled the wrong voice, nearly forgotten how to be completely honest.

The most dangerous time of all for my wimpy fake front is when I’m writing.  I’m so fucking brave when face to face confrontation is just a conceptual problem facing future me.

Letters to the editor were my first fire bombs.  Standing on the school playground or sitting in a seat at a town council meeting, no doubt my lips held a goofy grin that begged to be under-estimated.  When my concerns were ignored or blown off I started writing letters.  I cannot exaggerate the power available to anyone willing to say the truth out loud.  God, does it ever piss people off.

* * * * *

Since I met my husband’s family, particularly his sister and her daughters, I’ve been aware that they would not be impressed with (1) my history, (2) my thought processes, (3) my refusal to behave like a proper wife, (4) my unorthodox parenting practices, (5) my enthusiastic use of foul language, or (6) my love of all things inappopriate.  None of that mattered when we saw them only 3 or 4 days a year.

I would yammer on ceaselessly, entertaining their mostly silent potato faces with endless nonsensical tales, curbing any potentially controversial or revealing subject material.  From all outward appearance, they loved me.  The girls are now grown and each has an infant son, the youngest is pregnant with #2.  Both now live in New Mexico. 

Daughter #1 has been a focus over the past decade, ranging from her perfect high school graduation, on to her perfect college career, her perfect job, her perfect wedding (that we were not invited to because it was held atop a mountain or some shit), and now her perfect child.  Daughter #2 has taken mostly a backseat, but her husband (#2) is also maddeningly wonderful, her life beyond magical and her son a blonde baby Jesus.

I pride myself on being able to see the good in everyone.  I would, however, prefer to seek it out than have it shoved down my throat.

* * * * *

Then came ~you might have guessed~ Facebook: the daily updates, the status lines, the multiple mother/daughter interactions put forth for the world to suckle that sickly sweet syrup straight from Aunt Jemima’s teat.

Along with my attraction to negativity is an aversion to enthusiastic, energetic, happy motherfuckers.  I wish upon these poor, naive fools just enough pain and misery that they may have a more realistic view of the world.

They remind me of girls I went to high school with, girls whose mothers did their hair and said “I love you, honey.”  The same girls with fathers who would one day walk them down the aisle, look lovingly into their eyes during the father/daughter dance and then leave them a fat inheritance.  Of course the bitches were smiling toothy grins like crackheads with a huge hidden stash!

The perfect storm: positive peeps who spout bullshit & a written form of communication.  All this time I’ve presented such a nice, happy front, like I’m living with the seven dwarves.  Then with just a few comments I expose myself as the bitch bringing the apple to Snow White.

It’s not even entirely me, it’s mostly them.  Consider a recent status line from Sister #1, who holds a master’s degree in geology:

“Dream job is coming up with the names for paint colors… What’s yours?”

And, God so help me it’s true, this was one of the responses:

“Following birds around in the forest all day to find out what they do in their spare time.”

And this (please note the affected spelling of ‘shoppe’):
“Owning a dog shoppe and leading doggy day hikes in the mountains. ”

Commercial break necessary as I beat my head into the nearest wall in an attempt to empty my mind of these hideous images of goodness and light.  I mean, I wouldn’t even lead children on hikes unless it was to a candy store and they all had money in their pockets and promised to share it with me and the SHOPPE was down the block, a flat block with no hills.

Followed by this entry:

“. . . is puzzled.  N. took 2 90-minute naps today, with hardly a wimper going down or waking up (the norm is 2 60-minute naps with a few minutes of crying on either end).  Watch out everyone, I think the world may be coming to an end! =)”

And after months of restrained silence, my response (note false tone of sweetness & insincere use of ‘honey’:

“Oh honey, you take this stuff so seriously. I never could have told you in a single day what nap either kid took or for how long or possibly even where, although usually it was in my lap. “Schedule” is such an evil, evil word! So is “normal.” Eeeeyuch!”

Which initiated this obnoxious response:

“Aunt Pam – Fortunately, N. is MY child when it comes to scheduling and being organized… as much as any toddler is on a “schedule”, N. is! =) When he takes his 60-minute naps… they last 60 minutes plus/minus 2 minutes (literally, you could set your watch by it, it was amazing!).”

Oh no, she didn’t really say that did she?  Oh, yes, she did.  So my alter ego got involved and increased the smart ass factor (with an LOL to keep it breezy):

“LOL – Are there any graphs involved in all of this? A sun dial perhaps?”

And that’s when she came out with the fact that she’s clinically insane:

“Oh, there will be — graphs for sure!! (I’m an excel addict, any excuse I can use to organize my life in excel… right now I track exercise and how much water I drink in excel!)”

* * * * *

At about the same time her sister was writing this:

“I laid B. down an hour and 1/2 earlier than normal b/c I need him to wake up sooner today and he went right to bed!! He makes being a mom too easy (sometimes anyway!!)- Im super scared for the new baby though…”

You might be wondering, as I did, what is she scared about?  Well, she’s afraid this new one might be BAD.  The brilliant “Ashley,” who may be an expert on Dr. Phil (my educated guess) said:

“Just like the saying behind a good man is a good woman, well behind a good child is a good mommy!!! and I totally believe that!”

Michele, who gets her parenting tips from Oprah, agrees:

“i also agree with ashley. V. is the most laid back kid ever….its all about how you parent!”

First, let me say I would like to take a horse whip after that fucking Ashley, who dare use the “behind a good man is a good woman” line.  Reading it again gives me convulsions. 

It was all going along so obnoxiously until the thread completely died when I mentioned:

“HAHAHAHA . . . I am hysterical over the people who think it’s all about how you parent. That’s so funny! I know wonderful moms who got kids with a variety of fantastical personalities, some who jump from high places and shave their heads and can get into things better than any locksmith.”

Hey, don’t judge me!  I left out  my sister-in-law whose daughter has her master’s in education and whose son spent time in Rikers Island and beats his pitbull on purpose to make it meaner.

I think my take on pre-natal vitamins, which were making her “SUPER SICK with HORRIBLE HEADACHES,” bothered them more.  (Are you fucking kidding me?  Why not add flecks of rat poison to your hot cereal?) 

After 12 replies I wrote the following and again was the last to jump in on the subject:

“I would never take anything that made me sick . . . but then I’m a baby like that.  And a brat.  I’m pretty sure they gave them to me with Rachel and I never took’em. Yeah, I know, practically child abuse, right? She might have weighed 16 pounds instead of just 10’11. She is a little slow with the multiplication tables though, but I figure she can always be a pole dancer. YES, I’m going to leave that line there. I’m in the middle of a midlife crisis and I’m going to start acting like a 70 year old woman who eats pickles in the street and wears purple and farts in the grocery store and blames the person next to her.”

Can you imagine not responding to such a heartfelt reply?

Meanwhile, I’m wasting my insight on a person who would post this bullshit:

“ATTENTION!!!!!!!  DO NOT JOIN THE GROUP CURRENTLY ON FACEBOOK WITH THE TITLE “BECOMING A FATHER OR MOTHER WAS THE GREATEST GIFT OF MY LIFE!”  THIS IS A GROUP CREATED BY PEDOPHILES WHOSE AIM IS TO ACCESS YOUR PHOTOS OF YOUR CHILDERN (sic)!!!  PLEASE ROTATE THIS POST TO ALL YOUR FRIENDS ON FACEBOOK!!!!!!!!”

Which got the reply: “Great catch on that one, K.”

I need to return to my home planet as quickly as possible.

It’s true, my laugh can be obnoxious as hell, a hooting kind of cackle that’s embarrassing as shit if I hear a recording of my own voice.  However, my daughter seems to think it emanates only from a desire to personally attack her, as if I’m wielding a comedic weapon, trying to ruin her life with my joy. 

In the car tonight she lay back, turned on her side and covered her ears as if they were bleeding.  It’s just ridiculous. 

Plus, it wasn’t my fault.

I was on the cell talking to my brother Scott.  He was driving an 18-wheeler and regaling me with familial tales from the Kentucky front.  One story after another, the amusement and disbelief continued to build. 

It wasn’t enough that my mother’s third husband drove his pick-up truck into the ditch of their dry driveway once last week and blamed it on his dog.  Three days later he drove it into the ditch on the opposite side of the same driveway, a straight 200-yard path he’s maneuvered daily for 20 years.  A tow truck had to be called to pull him out.  Twice.  (No further explanation available.)

Would anyone really take a riding lawnmower for repair, pay a large amount of cash for the job, then allow it to fall onto the highway while transporting it home, more messed up than before you started?  Yes.

* * * * *

I was already laughing too loudly for Rachel’s taste when Scott informed me he’d been thinking and had the perfect answer for perking up my marriage . . .

taking a gourmet cooking class with my husband. 

It was then that I erupted into the kind of hee-haw that sends cats running for cover & makes my daughter long for a place of her own.

For some background, both Scott and this guy I’m married to are into cooking (they don’t have much choice cause nobody’s doing it for them).  Scott has a classier, more refined taste.  He was making a Cornish Hen just for himself the last time we discussed one of his menus.  Let me repeat, there were no guests invited.  He’d been off the road for 3 weeks and was moving in the general direction of metrosexuality, even while living in such serious backwoods that he does not get cell phone reception or an internet connection from home. 

I have never eaten a tiny bird with a special name, never considered buying it or even investigating such a purchase.  Scott grew up eating the same 7 meals I did, so I have no idea what happened. 

Here in New Jersey, Hamburger Helper Lasagna (with added corn) would regularly be on the stove if I didn’t put my foot down.  My extended Italian relatives would disown me.  I mean, they know I’m no cook but there are lines that cannot be crossed. 

Still, last week our household shopper brought home bologna and white bread.  He can’t seem to help himself.  He says I am haughty for insisting on serving chicken caesar salad or a nice pasta fagiole when people come over, claiming hot dogs and Ruffles are the perfect party menu.

If potato chips, ketchup or a can of ridiculously soft mixed vegetables can be added to the mix, the man who lives in my house becomes nostalgic for his Pennsylvanian youth.  That’s the type of  recipe he’d copy off his browser while sitting behind the Chief’s desk, wearing his police uniform & a sidearm.  (I’m desperate to ticket the whole freaking world but don’t have the power; he’s searching dinners that use Campbell’s soup as a binder.)

In the past six months or so I have cooked next to nothing.  It’s one more thing I’ve just given up on completely.  So the idea that I would go to a gourmet cooking class is snort worthy.  The only possible purpose of such a thing would be to find my husband a gay boyfriend.  I can only imagine how happy a nice guy might make him.  I’m not being a bigot here, I totally support gay marriage AND prostate massage.

But seriously, is there really a reason for ME to go to the class?  It seems that having a wife in attendance would only slow the courting process.

Especially because all the gourmet peeps would HATE me so completely.  My eating habits are pretty much that of an unhealthy 9-year old boy.  Do not put mushrooms on my plate or I must tell you their texture makes me think of penis, something you’re not supposed to bite.  Tomatoes make me gag, even the seeds left behind after picking out most of their pulp. 

Most vegetables sit along side the edge of my plate, ixnay on the zucchini, cucumber, cauliflower, & broccoli.  I don’t know anyone else who doesn’t eat watermelon, cantaloupe, peaches, nectarines, capers or eggplant.  I would no more eat sushi than take a bite out of a beached porpoise.  Meat with the slightest hint of pink is raw, I see no difference between bloody prime rib and a tampon.

Do I sound like a fucking gourmet to YOU?

I understand his point.  Scott thought maybe it would give R. and I something to talk about.  I think it would just be easier for Scott to call every Sunday and he and R. could discuss culinary technique and anal sex.

* * * * *

My poor daughter.  The laughter only increased.  I told Scott how Rachel was horrified by the sound of my voice, that she hates it so much when I laugh, when I’m happy, when I make a gleeful utterance.  He wanted me to ask her if she was crying, like she did when he drove us on a winding road through the Kentucky wilds at a rather fast rate of speed, crossing over the yellow line on more than one occasion.  So I asked her. 

She screamed, “NO!” 

Now that I think about it, she was pretty loud, too.  But if I’d drawn myself up into the fetal position and held my head the car would have left the road and then I couldn’t make fun of my step-father.

Scott then did me in completely.  In his deep voice with the drawling southern accent he managed to somehow remain serious as he said,

“Yeah, remember how awful that was when our parents laughed and laughed?  Oh man, I’d go up to my bedroom just to get away from the noise of them laughing so damned loud.  Man, it was terrible.”

The single funniest thing I have ever heard, made perfect with his quick, dry delivery.

The idea of his father or my mother happily annoying us with laughter was so ludicrous it took my breath away.  I mean Mom might wickedly chuckle after making someone so sufficiently miserable it momentarily satisfied her sadistic urges.  Scott’s dad would let out a sigh of relieved joy when Mom went away overnight for the State Bowling Tournament. 

But happiness instead of angry screaming expletives and/or an incredibly high misery quotient plus tears? 

No fucking way!

* * * * *

I still have a smile on my face as I think how lucky I am to have him in my life.  One single person who understands your perspective on the world makes everything so much better.

Somehow, somewhere, my written voice has been choked to death.  It was always a problem that I wrote and re-wrote to such a ridiculous extent, but now I don’t even begin. 

There seems to be a connection to Facebook, since I spend hours and hours looking at the page over at that idiotic site, the one where people say dumb shit in 12 words or less (or more commonly nothing at all). 

So what am I doing there?

I play games with fucking YOVILLE and FARMVILLE and MAFIA WARS, activities a person with an IQ of 50 could participate in as they dribble saliva down their chins and wait for the next institutional meal delivery to arrive at bedside.  As I do this stuff there is a constant running commentary in my brain, like an MTV highlight line, that says:

“I need to do something that makes money.  This is retarded. 

What the fuck is wrong with me?”

The answer is that this Facebook stuff is like crack for the masses, non-thinking hypnotic activities manufactured to put your mind in that subconscious zone most desired by advertisers.  Many of my fellow beloved bloggers are on Facebook and that makes it even easier to remain there, although I no longer read their blogs since I’m instead staring at an empty page appropriate for a monkey.  (Don’t get me wrong, I love monkeys.)

I miss reading blogs, at least some of them.  More than likely I need to weed my list down and then I wouldn’t be so overwhelmed by trying to keep up with too many.  We’re all a bunch of wordy motherfuckers and wading through 20 entries a day can overwhelm me to the point where I’m completely done in.  You’d think I’d dug 20 ditches instead of read 20,000 lines. 

How did people survive when they had to wash laundry by hand (often for families of 10 or so), hang it on lines (all that upper arm strength) and beat the evening’s meat with a hammer before coating it with some kind of crap meal and cooking it in a pan that later had to be scrubbed with a wire brush?

The worst part about Facebook is that everyone is so NICE and BORING there and not many people ever say anything politically incorrect or add much detail.  There are pages I visit where no one says anything at all.  What the fuck is that about?  Seriously, how is it possible that no one has something to say?  I ALWAYS HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY!  Does that mean I’m the fucked up one?  When I start commenting on someone’s page it often seems I’ve taken it over completely (SO NOT COOL!). 

Most inane posts lack even a hint of creativity and contain either (1) game scores or (2) stuffed animals more appropriate for a nursery than a grown human being or (3) virtual beating hearts or (4) terroristic threats of the sort like this one:

“If you love your daughter like I love my daughter and you’re willing to say it (WHICH MOST PEOPLE WON’T BE WILLING TO BECAUSE THEY ARE NOT TRUE LOVING MOTHERS LIKE ME) then post this to your wall for 45 minutes.”

I want to gut the people who post that shit, one of whom is my sister-in-law.  Her daughter does it, too.  The worst are the religious posts.  Honest to God, she put this on her page last week:

“WITHOUT GOD… our week would be: Sinday, Mournday, Tearsday, Wasteday, Thirstday, Fightday, Shatterday, Seven days without God – Makes one Weak! (If you are not ashamed of God, post this to your status.)”

Seriously, I need a divorce just so I’m not related to anyone who could have posted such nonsensical drivel.

But I can’t escape it, even my niece recently wrote: 

“For all of you that aren’t too proud to say thank you to your moms for helping you be the great person you are today… please copy and paste to your profile!  I expect to see this many times on my page! Some people no longer have their Moms here to appreciate! (But we can still say THANKS for their love and support!!!  If you love your mother and are willing to acknowledge that she made you into the wonderful person you are today post this.  Most people will not have the nerve or heart to post such a thing.” 

Now, mind you, this is the girl who grew up to have 3 children before she turned 23, who began using crack at age 15, who went to prison and had her children all taken into foster care.  Ahem. 

Let’s get real, her mom made a few mistakes along the way, just sayin’.

Did she really think I would post such utter shit to MY FUCKING WALL?!  I pushed the limit by leaving a message saying I’d be checking my sister’s status line to see if she was thanking our mother yet for turning us into babbling nincompoops.  (I acknowledge the lack of personal responsibility in that statement because my psychologist insists I have to.  Yes, that would be the psychologist who has not fixed me yet.)

So today there is a viral thing going around that asks you to post a picture of a famous person you think you look like as your profile pic.  A woman I know peripherally has posted a very attractive blonde woman, who I do not recognize, as her photo.  SHE LOOKS NOTHING LIKE THIS CHICK!  Every time I see the photo I want to ask (1) Who is that? and (2) Are you fucking serious, that’s what you see when you look in the mirror? and (3)  Are you fucking kidding me?

How wacked out is it that I can’t stand myself for not writing what I want to write?  How do I find that fine line where I am honest but not so honest that no one will ever speak to me again? 

There are two voices in my head (the loudest ones).  One is saying, “Who died and made you God?”  The other is saying, “Just fucking do it you big fat pussy.” 

As I’ve already told you, I’m not a fan of religious messages.