as in dollars? and cents?

So I went to the post office today to overnight my application to Bennington. Because February is stupid and only hath 28 days except in leap years, which 2007 isn't, and March 1 comes sooner than it seems like it should. I'd initally gone to the post office to mail this application on Saturday in what I consider morning-time. Apparently not everyone considers 1:45 to be so early in the day, though. Apparently they consider that to be 45 minutes after closing time.

I wound up going to the post office before work today. I had a feeling the place would be packed with old people. Probably because it's always full of old people. (Because it's in Turtle Creek, also known as the Least Happy Place On Earth.) Somehow I managed to beat the 12 random old people who each wanted to buy exactly five stamps. I just had to stand behind the one guy mailing 37 things that need to be stamped individually with specific instructions. And this dude SPRINTED into the builing because he saw me coming. With my one envelope. Dick. I spent the whole time his 37 pieces of mail were being stamped thinking of a way to remove some of his hair so he could wake up to Voodoo Surprise tomorrow. When I finally got to the counter, I said, "I need to overnight this." The guy behind the counter, whose name was Bob, looked at me guiltily--almost afraid, really.

"Do you know how much it costs?"
"Not nearly as much as spending the rest of my life in this pothole we call a town," I did not say. "No. How much is it?" I said.
He sighed and then whispered, "It's...$14.40."
"As in dollars? And cents?" I also did not say. "That's fine," I said.

I filled out a form, signed my name three times, and my application will be in someone's hands in Bennington guaranteed by Wednesday. And all because I'm willing to let my children go hungry for another night. According to Bob.

What kind of financial hardship do I look like I'm under that $14 would be such a stretch? If I'm overnighting something, obviously it's important. I don't overnight birthday cards. To college admissions offices. Seriously, Bob. What the hell. I know I'm in a post office in Turtle Creek in what is apparently the middle of the day to people who get up before noon, but I can't look like I'm so pathetic that I will balk at sending my important mail if it's a whopping $14.

There's no place like anywhere but here. There's no place like anywhere but here.

do my incisors look large to you?

I have a theory. It would be easier for most people to admit to being a werewolf than to having eaten McDonald's for dinner. I base this theory on extensive research in my car tonight eating dinner cloaked in a fog of shame. Also in a much less metaphoric, literal fog outside the car. But mostly the shame fog.

It was probably the fog that made me feel like I was doing something terribly wrong, combined with the fact that I was doing something bad. So I parked over in the Sad Loser section of the parking lot. (If you're wondering, it's over by the trees. Because trees don't judge. Or talk.)

Appropriate parking is Step One in eating McDonald's for dinner in your car. The next step is to straw your drink and eat some french fries. I don't know how McDonald's makes their fries so good, and I probably don't want to know, either. But I do know that they are so good, eating a handful or three before chowing down on your sandwich of choice is so good it's like foreplay.

Then you look around, sending out "don't park next to me -- I will bite you" vibes to all the cars that go by. Then you unwrap the sandwich, your pupils dilate, your eyes glaze over, and you are temporarily insane until you've finished. A lapse in memory is not uncommon. When you're done, all that's left is a wrapper, maybe some lettuce carnage, and a smear of condiment down one side of your mouth. And the sinful, intoxicating smell on your hands that no soap can remove. Only time erases a Big Mac.

As I shoved the empty cup into the bag of trash I later smuggled into my office building like a ticking bomb, I wondered if being a werewolf would be not only easier to admit, but more socially acceptable.

No one would ask questions if every night I disappeared, only to reappear a half-hour later, hair matted, clothes disheveled, fingernails caked in grime, bits of fur between my teeth. Granted, that's mostly because no one would notice, but really, how do you begin that conversation? You'd just talk around it, like weight gain and bruises.

Only when I began giving out lucky rabbit's feet for every gift occasion AND as contributions to pot luck dinners would someone consider saying something. Then they'd decide against it, figuring ritualistic bunny slaughter is some weird Scandinavian tradition. You can do anything you want as long as you say it's a tradition vaguely related to your lineage. Sweden has an entire holiday celebrated by putting lit candles on your head. (Or, more specifically, the oldest daughter, which I am in my family.) If I showed up to work on December 13th with candles on my head, it would have been a charming cross-cultural experience. If I put candles on my head on December 14th, though, it'd be "lock her the fuck up."

Similarly, if I showed up at work with Big Mac sauce on my face, it'd be much less socially acceptable than if I walked in holding the severed head of a deer. Especially because around here, those are up on 3 out of 4 walls.

cat piss + tires = no one goes to bed happy

A few weeks ago, I got snow tires for my car. A good thing, because it's been snowing here for about four days now, and we have a total accumulation of "just enough to get into your socks because you insist on wearing clogs every day, you Scandinavian freak."

So I drove around with the tires in my trunk for about a week and then decided to finally take them out before I went shopping. Because I have my priorities. So I set them on the porch, went shopping for a few hours, came home, put the tires in the basement, and then had a nice evening. Then I went downstairs to get a drink. And oh, god, the smell. It was like I'd stepped into a parallel universe where everything was a litter box.

Even though I am an animal lover and I love cats (the non-evil, non-retarded ones, that is, and yes, I have known mentally retarded cats) I immediately thought of all the things in my kitchen I could use to kill the goddamn stray cat that had sprayed all over my fucking tires.

So I had to unwrap (because the guys at the garage had considerately tied a nice little knot in each bag over each tire) every single tire and then sniff my hands in order to figure out which bag had been violated. Of course, it was the last one. Is there any way this could have ended differently, factoring in how hilarious my friends will find this? Meanwhile, I'm still angry two weeks later.

I spent the rest of the night positively livid, spraying Febreze, lighting candles, and muttering about the things I could do to that cat with a blunt object.

i think "don guitar and the texas fan club" once opened for hank williams

My darling darling readers, (now I think the total might have busted right into the double-digits) I have forgotten you for so long. But I'm pretty sure you've filled that aching void with actually having a life, so I won't actually apologize.

Today I got a nice email from a guy in Texas. No, really. My friend Shirley (Mrs. Spag to my fellow Woodland Hills alumni, if you can really call us that) is from Texas, so I knew not everyone there is a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal. After all, a lot of them moved to DC.

Here's his note, which I am sharing here because, well, who's going to stop me?

"So, if you ever need a grandparent, please consider this an application, you need a resume let me know, the wife and I will tend to it. I love your blog. My wife occasionally mentions a funny lady whom she loves and I've never heard of (so I don't recall the name) who talked about being a "delicate flouwah" in a very Florida/Jewish sort of accent. I never heard of the woman but you and your mom remind me of her. You're such delicate flowers. Maybe she needs parents, we'll apply for that position too. I don't read blogs (that is so lame) but ok, I read yours once in a while when I need a little boost in my morale. I don't update my own, I seem never to feel inspired and I'm busy with other things, but I did log in so I could comment on yours. You're terrific, I couldn't be more proud of you if you really were my grandaughter and I wish my daughters and grandkids could meet you. "

Several reasons why I like this guy and his entire family. First, he began with "So," which I think might be actually encoded in my DNA. (That might be the most esoteric half-joke I've ever made, as it requires a working knowledge not only of the somewhat-recent translation of "Beowulf" by Seamus Heaney, but also of my Swedish ancestry.) Moving right along.

Second, he said nice things about me and he's funny. (Being funny counts twice, by the way.) Grandparents are in short supply these days. Especially cool ones. I have but one grandma -- but trust me, she's awesome. Which brings me to my next story.

I spent the weekend in Alexandria with my mom visiting relatives. Both my parents are from Alexandria, and my mother's family is still mostly in the area. (My father's family, in case you were wondering, is either dead or unfortunately still alive.)

My grandmother cracks me up, and not just because as matriarch, she could probably have me killed. If you're wondering what she's like, just imagine me but with a slightly cleaner vocabulary and thin. I know it's a stretch on both parts. But we're both hairy, so that counts for something in the "I probably wasn't adopted" column. As we were taking our bags down to the lobby of her building on Monday morning, a man passed by and they exchanged good mornings before he walked outside. The door had barely closed when she said, "I've been trying to flirt with that man for the past two months, but so far we haven't gotten past the weather." This reminded me of several of the "I can't believe my grandmother just said that" conversations we've had. Among those are her thoughts on why most men should be kept locked underground, why Viagra is bullshit, and why you should always have a pillow around when you have sex. (Just a very small sample there, as I'm sure you've already guessed.)

And on to why I should be careful when drinking Mai Tais. (I've amended this ruling from my earlier decision that I should never drink Mai Tais, because the further away from semi-drunken incidents you get, the more apt you are to remember just how good that drink was in the first place.) So after our celebratory dinner in Old Town (one of my aunts got a big fat promotion, so a good number of family members converged on an unsuspecting Thai restaurant that will probably never be the same) we were walking down the street to our cars. (No, I wasn't driving. You know me better than that. For shame.) I was talking with my cousin Ben, who is a couple years older than me, about our aunt Liz's boyfriend. Everyone really likes him, which is good, because the two of them just bought a house and will be moving in together in January. I suspect a Christmas proposal because I have a feeling he'll do it in front of the family. I said something to the effect of just wanting to meet someone who isn't psychotic, referring of course to the last couple of complete whack jobs I've dated. Ben said he'd like to meet a woman who doesn't talk much. Then he laughed and said, "No, not really."

I said, "Of course not. Except, exactly that." Then, not thinking, I said, "God, my last girlfriend..." and then I knew I'd just crossed a line I couldn't uncross. Not that I'm hiding anything from my family, and not that I think they'd be horrified. It's just not something I really wanted to do. So I said, "Oh, shit."

Ben looked at me and said, "We just sat at a table that was talking about three-legged dogs on rooves, clocks that turn on by themselves, and half-retarded people running down the street yelling 'Batman.' Do you really think a lesbian is going to suddenly become the exciting new topic? Compared to the average day on Hickory Street*, you're boring." I didn't have the heart to tell him that I'm actually bisexual. Not that it would have lessened his point, really.



*Hickory Street: The street where my mother and her five siblings grew up in the Del Ray section of Alexandria, where everyone, and I do mean everyone, was completely insane. From CaCa, the schizophrenic Alzheimer's patient who'd "get loose" down the street to the infamous three-legged dog that wouldn't come off the roof of a house to the rooster that just showed up one day and wouldn't leave my mother's house, you cannot make this shit up. It has to be genetic.

victory, well done, extra pickles, no mustard

What an awesome week for America. And an even awesomer week for Pennsylvania, who finally decided to throw their Santorum-stained sheets in the wash. On the "heavy" cycle. With bleach.

And yet I'm still amazed that anyone, even his mother, would vote for Satan-orum. A man who hates women so much that he wrote an entire book on why we shouldn't have jobs. (Seriously.)

I'm pretty sure that after the man has a beer or two, he starts talking about why we should not only overturn Roe v. Wade, but if we could revoke women's suffrage, the country -- nay, the world -- would be a better place.

Tuesday was my first experience with the electronic voting machines. I was a little worried about the elderly people around here voting with them and that they'd somehow accidentally all wind up voting a straight Whig ticket, but I can honestly say that it's more difficult to order a sandwich at Sheetz than to vote with one of those things.

But really, this is so much more delicious.

where no woman has gone before

From time to time, I find myself in a men's bathroom. Not for any illicit reason. Unless peeing is illicit. I'll have to consult my social conservatism handbook on that one. But sometimes, a girl has to go pee with the boys. This doesn't bother me at all, as I grew up in what I now realize was a rather bohemian household, but at the time seemed quite normal.

So last weekend, I went to see "After Mrs. Rochester" with my father. Interesting play -- stirred up thoughts on being a writer versus being a parent and the idea of perfection of the life versus perfection of the work. But that's a much more serious discussion to have somewhere far away from the salty-meets-sweet combination of silliness and near-constant political vitriol that is this blog.

So, at the play, there was a line for the ladies room just prior to the performance. I say it was a line, but it was really more of a collection of female persons in a hallway, all facing different directions as though they were posing for the cover of their CD. In an episode of "South Park."

I asked the woman I was closest to -- who was facing southwest, I believe -- if this was the line for the bathroom. Considering the way the other people were assembled and the habit women have of standing around a bathroom waiting for their friends, I did not think this was a silly question. She looked at me as if I'd just asked her if she were waiting for a bus. "Yes," she said, "it is." She said it so coldly and slowly that I had the time to narrate "she said" in the middle of her sentence.

I should mention that this play was being performed in the Braddock Carnegie Library, a building which, though it is a building, is my father's favorite child. Consequently, I know it fairly well. Not well enough to direct a tour, but well enough that I know where the other bathrooms are. It had occurred to me that I ought to take a collection of people downstairs if this modern-art assembly was actually a bathroom line, but because of the aforementioned exchange where I narrated a not-so-nice woman, I decided they could all fuck off. It only takes one to ruin it for the rest of the class. Or line.

So I turned around and was getting ready to walk downstairs when a man said, "No one's in the men's room." I heard the tiniest snort behind me and I decided that if it was going to bother that woman, I'd go pee in the men's room. I turned around and asked if anyone would rather go before me, because, after all, it was a line. Also, I wanted to get a look at that woman's face. It occurs to me now that she probably looks like that all the time.

So I went in, I peed, and I came out. There was a different guy standing outside and he said, "Wow! Going in the men's room!" Guys are usually surprised. Once, at a truck stop at about 3:00 AM, I walked out of a men's room (the women's room had been vandalized and was nauseating to the point that even I couldn't use it) and I made a guy nearly jump out of his skin. I think he got out three "Oh, miss, I am so sorry"-ies before I convinced him that it was in fact I who was in the "wrong" room. But never have I previously experienced what happened to me last Saturday night.

The same guy said, "All right!" and clapped me on the shoulder as I walked out the door. Women tend to chat with strangers, especially in a bathroom, and my understanding is that men generally do not. In fact, they go out of their way to avoid contact with men they don't know, especially in bathrooms, and carefully calculate buffer zones between themselves and their fellow urinators. (Tearooms would be a whole different category with a decidedly different code of conduct. Which I also know a little something about. Don't ask.) My point is, men don't high-five each other for peeing, so I have to conclude that he was applauding my apparent bravery for going pee in a room that has a picture of a person wearing pants painted on the door.

I guess next time I'll just use the bucket in the janitor's closet.

i hope there's an afterlife because i want my slave-owning bastard relatives to be able to watch little scenes like this while they roast in hell

Sometimes, I really hate white people. And then immediately after that thought, I look down at my arm and say "God damn it!"

Over the weekend, Mom and I stopped at the grocery store after we'd done some shopping (by which I mean we made fun of things at Pier 1 -- what the hell is up with their latest stuff? Usually I love their things, but we saw silver and gold teddy bears. The fuck? We decided to leave during the brief window that comes between us both cracking up and the manager asking us to leave).

So we're at the home grocery store. Everyone in America knows what I mean -- there's the grocery store you go to that's close to your house, and then there's another one, maybe even in the same chain, that's farther away, but nicer in some respect. Maybe it's cleaner or better-lit or has a wider, fresher selection -- maybe all three.

Our home grocery store is the Giant Eagle in Braddock Hills. I don't want to give anyone the impression that I think this store is ghetto -- it's not. It doesn't have the huge variety of the Giant Eagle at the Waterfront, and sure, the bank branch in it has been robbed a couple times, but whatever. This is Pittsburgh. Every bank has been robbed a couple times. I've been going to this grocery store for over 20 years and some of the same people have been working there the entire time. Pretty much everyone who goes to this store has been going there for that long, if not much, much longer.

My point is this -- unless you're under the age of 2, this isn't gonna be your first time there.

So I'm standing at the deli counter waiting for my turn and talking to the lady in front of me and her kids. (Side note -- having one random little kid start talking to you out of the blue is awesome. Having her little sister grab your hand while you're talking is like a religious experience.)

Including the deli staff, the only other white woman around was an extremely sour-faced old bat with hairdresser hair. You know what I mean -- the short, blue-white hair done in ridiculous curls and then sprayed with some kind of sealant so it lasts until next week when she goes back to the hairdresser and "gets set."

So, Sour Face is before me. It's cool. The lady with the kids left, and I smiled at Sour Face. She gave me a weird look and then ordered the deli girl around like she thought we'd all been transported to a tobacco field in South Carolina around 1837. Part of her orders included "I don't want the slice on top." I have no idea why. Maybe she has OCD or schizophrenia and the voices in her head don't like their lunch meat exposed to too much air.

So, as the girl grabbed the entire stack of bologna and weighed it, Sour Face gave me another look. This one I understood immediately, because I've seen it on many an old white bitch in my life. It's the look that says, "Oh, these silly Negroes!" and it's usually followed by a giant spike in my blood pressure. I gave her a look of my own and I don't think it's the one she thought she'd be getting back, because she immediately started studying a stack of Ham Off The Bone.

"I didn't give you the one on top," said the deli girl as she flipped a decidedly flaccid- and anemic-looking slice of bologna back into the case, which I think showed a great deal of self-control, because the temptation to flip it into Sour Face's hair and say, "Don't worry, it's on the house," must have been absolutely overwhelming.

I exchanged a look with the deli girl, which sent Sour Face into some sort of palpitating state -- perhaps the vapors -- and that pleased me to such an extent that I nearly forgot what kind of turkey I wanted.

And just for the record, if the deli girl had whipped that bologna at that old bat, I would have told the manager that Sour Face did it to herself.