Good Times in the Rear View Mirror

My talented and gorgeous friend Rabbit is organizing a night for some of her female friends to get up and read what they’ve been writing. So today I’ve been going through the bits and pieces on my computer and come to the conclusion that everything I have is either too long for reading out loud or feels dated. Which means I’m going to have to come up with something written specifically for the reading. Oh joy.

I did come across this phone conversation between my sister and myself that happened many years ago, and which I wrote down afterward. Since I don’t think I’m going to do anything with it I thought I’d post it here for your entertainment. For clarity’s sake – my sister is the caller, I’m the depressed one…

“What are ya doin’?

“Um…laying face down in the bed…”
“You know it’s 2 pm. Did you call Mom and wish her a happy Mother’s Day?”
“I was sort of hoping to sober up first.” 
“That’s healthy. Did some drinking last night?”
I woke up at 10 am with all my clothes and my boots on, wondering who left the lights on. I’m pretty sure I’m still drunk. And I’m covered in cats so it just seems like it might be too much work to get up.”
“Feeling a little depressed are we?”
“Well, I think I had my first panic attack this week. And I’ve been doing a lot of drinking and dialing. Oh, and I chipped a tooth yesterday with my tongue ring.”
“You chipped a tooth? That’s pretty great! Is it in the front so you can go on Ricki Lake?”
“No. It’s a molar. But I do appreciate the enthusiasm.”
“And actually, that’s not your first panic attack. I remember your first one.”
“Yeah, you almost had to sit down in the middle of the street.”
“I don’t remember that. God, I am so redundant. I can’t even have an original depression.”
“Well, chipping a tooth is new…Maybe you should get out of the house. When was the last time you took the dog out?”
“Hmm..dunno…I have to get my nails done today, which means I can’t bring him with me. Right now he’s running around the house all filthy and crazed with no dog food, kind of like a welfare kid. But Lila knocked the cat food all over the floor so I’m just gonna wait until he eats that. So much easier than vacuuming.”
“That’s fabulous, really great. Wash him off and throw the ball for a minute. And maybe you should eat something, too. You’re going to be very popular at the salon. I wonder what ‘Drunk lady smells bad’ sounds like in Chinese.”
“I’m also on day 14 of my period because of the IUD I had put in right before I got dumped last week.”
“That’s crazy. I think you should call the doctor.”
“I’m sort of secretly hoping to bleed to death. You know, ‘cause then they’ll all be sorry when I’m gone.”
“Yes, that’s the mature way to handle it. I’m not taking the pets if you die.”
“You have to. And I expect a lot of crying at my funeral. And blame. I expect you to make sure there’s a lot of blame being thrown around.”
“All right, fine. But for now get up and wash your face and put some clothes on and go outside. And for God’s sake call Mom.”
Sigh. “All right. I guess I can die after the nails.”
“Yep. Smell ya later.”


More Conversations with Crazy Friends

I’m constantly (and unsuccessfully) trying to prove to myself and others that I’m not crazy. It’s a fine tightrope walk: behaving uber responsibly 80% of the time, and then totally bonkers the other 20%. This is an improvement, years ago it could have been 50/50. I haven’t had a boyfriend over the last 20 years that hasn’t got a warning from someone ahead of time. Some, if questioned, might even put the crazy quotient higher, but I choose to avoid those people whenever possible.

So I am always thrilled when I meet someone else who is walking that same razor’s edge. We recognize each other immediately and either have some kind of major blowout and then become friends later on, or simply immediately bond over mutual stories of retardation.

My friend S told me one such story today, which I felt I must share.

I have to preface this by saying that she is in program and has been sober for some time now. I didn’t know her when she was using but she says she was a crazed dilettante cokehead. Now she is sort of trying to decide whether she’s straight or gay while working her ass off in the world of styling and regaling the lucky few with her wonderful sense of humor.

S–: So I have a great story for you, you’re going to love this.

Me: Fabulous, bring it on.

S–: So my ex-boyfriend calls me at midnight last night, DRUNK. He’s slurring, he sounds like an idiot. I say, “Why do you call a sober person when you’re drunk? You know I’m going to ruin it for you.” And he says, “You been fooling around with any girls lately?”

Me: So he’s jealous?

S–: I don’t know. So I say, “Maybe, what’s it to you?” And he tells me that he ran into this guy we both know, that I don’t know all that well, and the guy told him he’s seen me all over town making out with women and that I’m a big dyke now.”

Me: So what?

S–: Well, I’m like, who is this guy to be talking about my personal life? What business is it of his? And my ex is harassing me about it, all wasted, and I’m like fuck you, I’ll do what I want. And I hang up the phone, and I’m PISSED.

Me: Uh oh.

S–: Yeah! So this morning, I’m in the street, I’m carrying a hundred bags and trying to deal with work and I can barely walk, but I still call the guy.

Me: Your ex or the other one?

 S–: The other one.

Me: So what did you say? 

S–: I start screaming at him: “How dare you talk about me like that, you don’t know what my life is about you nosy asshole, why am I getting calls in the middle of the night from my wasted ex because of your big fat mouth, on and on and on and ON.” I just GO OFF.

Me: Oh my God, you did not! So what was his response?

S–: I barely let him talk. He started to say he didn’t know what I was talking about, that he thinks I’m great, he would never do that, whatever, and I just hung up on him. 

Me: Wow. Bitch!

S–: Shut up! So I’m all fired up and I call my ex, and I say, “I gave your fucking friend a piece of my mind, that fucker.” And my ex says, “You IDIOT. He didn’t say anything to me, I never talked to him, you dumb, crazy bitch. I was just fishing for information!”

Me: Ruh Roh.

S–: TOTALLY! Now I’m mortified. MORTIFIED. Do you understand? Now I’m not just the crazy cokehead, instead I’m the crazy was-a-cokehead dyke who stands on the street screaming at people over the phone about shit that doesn’t exist!

Me: Did you call the guy back and apologize?

S–(flopping back in her chair and sighing): I sent him a text. I can’t deal, I’m so embarrassed.

Me: I always send emails the next day. Like, “Oopsy, sorry I was a total asshole/almost broke your hand/threw that drink/had a giant tantrum over nothing/whatever last night. Friendsies?”

S–: Does that work?

Me: Nah. They just say it’s cool so they don’t have to deal with me. They still hate me.

S–: Agh, horrible. Well, I love you.

Me: I love you too, you crazy fucking bitch.


It’s February and I’m full of hate…again.

I hate those coffee lids with the pre-made hole that slop coffee all over your hands and gloves while walking no matter how steady you try to hold the cup. What asshole decided these are better?

I hate being swaddled in so many layers that I can’t move my arms and bags just slide off my shoulders while I’m trying to steady my coffee hand.

I hate that in order to find my keys I have to pull off my gloves, find somewhere to temporarily house them (pocket, purse, shopping bag, wherever it is, it’s bound to be annoying), then dig around in my purse for 10 minutes with overswaddled arms, feeling for metal. And then inevitably the keychain hooks onto something else I’ve jammed in the overstuffed bag and it turns into a struggle that involves putting everything down in order to detangle.

I hate that to get food in tiny-aisled New York grocery stores we all have to bang into each other because we’re fat with so many layers.

I hate being cold.

I hate being in the dark all the time.

I hate all the grey people on Hoarders, refusing to get up out of the minutiae of their garbage and fix their lives and relationships. Their dowdy and ignominious choice of self-destructive form tortures me. And then I hate myself for watching it.

I hate that I’ll do things like sit on the couch and watch Hoarders instead of going to the gym, but the mere idea of putting on a ton of clothes to walk 5 blocks shivering to drone away on a treadmill enervates me.

I hate myself for not working out more.

I hate even the most benign requests for assistance at work. Figure it out yourself, goddamn it. You think anyone taught me this shit?

I hate getting up in the morning for work and resent that it cuts into the time I could be sitting on the couch resenting things.

I hate myself for whining when friends of mine have much deeper problems, such as no work at all.

This happens to me every year. I start out knowing that Winter is going to suck the life out of me and drag on well past its welcome, but I approach it with the highest of intentions. The holiday season finds me festive and full of warm thoughts. January, I just want to stay home but there are a lot of good birthdays so I brave the weather for loved ones. February and I just want to punch stuff. But I can’t, because I’m all jammed up in the same fucking coats I’ve been wearing for 4 months.

I hate that this is the only thing I have the energy to write about.

This Is What Happens…

…when cranky old rock chicks finally get fed up…

ME: So how are things going with X?
ME: Haha!
UFF: That fucking fat faggot? I’ll tell you how things are going. They’re NOT.
ME: Shit. What happened?
UFF: What do you think happened? He’s a fucking asshole, that’s what happened. I hate him. Those fucking bikers, they think they’re so badass. They’re all a bunch of pussies, that’s why they have to start their little clubs together, they can’t stand alone. I fucking hate him, and I told him so.
ME (laughing): Wow, harsh.
UFF: And then I hit him.
ME: You HIT HIM??? Are you nuts?
UFF: Yeah, I fucking hit him. Fucking faggot. I said, “How dare you lure me back into this bullshit with a promise that it would be different this time, then you TORTURE me again with your shitty behavior!” How DARE he! That is just NOT DIGNIFIED. So I slapped him.
ME: Oh my God. You are KILLING me! Then what happened?
UFF: He told me to never hit him again.
ME: So what did you do?
UFF: I fucking backhanded him with the same hand.
ME: You are completely insane. Weren’t you scared he would hit you back? He’s huge!
UFF (making the meanest face imaginable): I’d love it if he tried. Then I’d really kick his big fat ass.
ME: So I guess it’s over then?
UFF: Yes. Another fabulous relationship down the toilet.

DREW (calling from an attempted nap in the other room): You guys are gonna give me nightmares!

Gig alert!

I don’t usually post promo stuff, but Drew has a new band with singer Jamie Burke and they asked me to put the word out for their gig tomorrow. Drew is VERY happy with the music they’ve been doing, which means it will be rocking as he has great taste. And I’m sure there will be the usual horde of models to elbow through, which is good for you guys and ripe blog-fodder for my girlfriends.


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