This topic has been hanging out in my "to do blogs" for a while.
So tonight I will begin my rant.
Several years ago I went to a funeral. No, no, it wasn't my first and has not since been my last. However, it was the funeral that brought me to terms with my take on the subject matter of this post.
I have lived long enough to understand that there is more than one way to cope. Be it coping with stress, trauma, sleeplessness, or death, people deal in tune to who they are. That means, of course, in regards to this post, that some people hold funerals, closed or open caskets, for their departed loved ones. Some people honor their deceased with a memorial service or by sitting shiva for 7 days. While others hold vigils or rituals while dancing and offering sacrifices. Human coping is colorful and judgment should be withheld while humans honor their dead; let them cope, man, let them cope.
That being said, however, since I'm a huge fan of respecting human differences, colors, and tunes, I'm going to gripe about how humans (quite often) forget about WHO HAS ACTUALLY DIED. What I mean is... for some mourners it seems that death erases human imperfection and replaces the human version of their loved one with an angel, or martyr, or some form of noble perfection. Like, suddenly, tah-dah, the departed was never guilty of jealousy, greed, hatred, exclusion, or deceit.
This is coping. I know this. The pain of loss is tremendous and many seek release from the grips of such profound emptiness by any means possible. I get it, I get it, I get it, in fact, I am not exempt or beyond coping (oh lawds, not by any means!!).
Because this is my place, I can say what I want to.
Martyring and shrining is not realistic! And not real, in certain terms, bothers me!
So I feel like this:
When I die, first of all, do not bury me. Please no. Donate whatever is viable, perform an autopsy to learn something (if applicable), and cremate me. Please. I do not want to be viewed in my coffin with clay on my face and formaldehyde in my plumbing. I don't want my children or grandchildren or ANYONE to be haunted by the image of dead me or the dead smell of me. No, no. Let the alive me resonate and haunt them. And besides, depending on how and when I leave this world, there may not be much left of me to view? Right? How awesome it would be if there was a someone who could benefit from my retinas (hopefully they will not have my classic, extreme myopic eye-ball), or my skin, or kidneys, or even my arteries for those poor folk who suffer from CAD. Yes! Maybe a few pieces of my heart or lungs or liver could supply a benefit to some form of humanity...
Selfishly, though, I want to live to be old. I want to witness the changing of times, the accomplishments and aging of my loved-ones. Hell. If there's a zombie apocalypse, I want to see it! I want to witness mankind transition from shit to sunshine; I want to be old enough to start smoking cigarettes again, eat whatever my old body can deal with and drink whiskey without worry! Yes! Aging is an honor, and I will be honored to make it to an old, wrinkly, and crazier version of myself.
What will be, will be. Whatever and whenever it is my time, I hope that parts of me will help parts of others.
Ok, ok, but, I have to spew forth more.
If one is to speak at my memorial service (because remember, there will be no viewing of my dead body and no wasting money and ground space on a coffin with burial accessories), I want them to honor and remember the REAL ME. The ME that they knew, complete with imperfections, flaws, and perpetual ill-fitting scrubs (too long, too tight, too big, too many holes). The jaded-me, the bossy-me, the throwing-my-cell-phone temper-tantrum-me, the potty-mouth-me, the bitch-at-my-husband-all-the-time-me, the too-lazy-to-take-a-shower-me, the not-visit-my-mother-and-father-enough-me, the cry-at-TV-animal-death-but-not-TV-human-death-me, the I'll-pretend-nothing-is-wrong-me, the TWO-faced-me (we all have a second face... you know this), the I-haven't-changed-my-bed-sheets-in-a-month-me, the I-love-whiskey-sours-every-night-me, the unsocial-me, the oh-hell-yes-I-will-pick-my-undies-out-of-my-butt-me, the Facebook-stalker-me, the rolling-my-mind's-eye-a-million-times-a-day-me, the I-don't-like-you-but-you-will-never-know-that-me, the I-know-your-game-me (but I won't tell... I'll keep it secret for my own reasons), the damn-at-least-my-ass-doesn't-look-like-that-me, the I-hate-managing-money-so-therefore-I-suck-at-it-me, the I-pick-at-my-fingers-when-I-am-under-stress-me, the THANK-GAWDS-for-my-Prozac-me...
Yes. Remember the real me. The ME that is guilty of sneaking away from the crowd to toot, the ME that doesn't care and toots in the crowd and lets others assume the blame, the ME that talks too loud when I get riled, the ME that is grateful that you cannot read my mind as you freak out about the needle I'm about to stick in your arm, the ME that laughs at the dipshit who spins out in the snowy median while driving like a douche-bag (This! How often do we see justice served? It's sweet and I savor it!), the ME that plays stupid, the ME that pulled my sisters hair when I was a teenager, the ME that forgot to pick a kid up from school, the ME that (shamefully) smoked cigarettes while pregnant, the ME that doesn't shave her legs for several weeks at a time during the winter, the ME that is tired of maintaining her chubby "bikini" zone, the ME that loves rain and snow storms and cloudy days, the ME... the ME that is flawed beyond repair, aged beyond innocence, experienced beyond ignorance, exhausted beyond inadequacy, fed-up beyond game-play, and humbled beyond conceit. Repeatedly.
...the ME that forgot to pick a kid up from school...
Yes... that ME. The ME that has an endless list of flaws, most harmless and some that need serious attention. The ME that identifies the good, of course, however, the good that wouldn't be notable if it weren't for my endless stream of flaws.
The ME that is mostly happy to have reached a point in life where I am OK with admitting my weaknesses and not feeling "less than" for doing so. I think it takes something to do that... not to brag. 😉
But mostly, for crying out loud, if you stand up to speak at my memorial service and you can not think of what to say, say the truth! If I bossed you around while we played Barbies as kids, say it! If it was me that told you Santa is not real, THEN SAY IT. If I stuffed my snot tissues under YOUR pillow during camping trips, reveal it! If I smacked the rump of a horse that you were riding bareback and laughed as it took off all barn-happy with you clinging for dear life, SHARE IT! If I got mad at you because you were skinnier and got cold faster while swimming, call my dead-ass out!
Please, please, please, world, keep it real.
Don't martyr-fy. Or shrine-ify.
Oh… how sad it is. I hang my head in grief and humiliation.
Seriously, I am not THAT old, but things are happening, the very things that I never imagined would apply to me.
Not such a big deal, now that I am here… I still feel valuable and valued and I am managing to swallow the lump in my throat… you know, that lump of realization that youth and outward beauty has decreased... Yeah, THAT lump. Regardless, I am handling this all better than I thought I would.
Do not get me wrong, it is not altogether pleasant, by any means.
So here I sit with this aging body. I know that I must approach certain things differently than I once used to. For example, stooping and/or deep bending at the knees. Shockingly, as of lately, I notice that once I am down, I cannot get back up in reverse; my knees have lost their torque. I find myself, embarrassingly, scrambling in such a way that only a chubby, middle-aged woman would do, to regain full height. Granted, I am certain that I could remedy this problem with simple weight loss and strength training, but… I will procrastinate until after I finish my nursing program. That is my new thing and my list is growing.
Another horror that I have stumbled upon are dark vinyl, pattern-less, sitting chairs. Do you have any idea what this means? It means that upon standing up from chairs such as this, I must check for butt and poot splotch. YEAH. I WENT THERE. My rogue-ass ovary has initiated overheating in my derriere and down-under region and I am pissed about it… Now I must constantly avoid certain sitting arrangements and if I cannot avoid sitting, then I must strategically raise with a butt-sliding motion to wipe the evidence of splotchy, female aging from the seat.
My rogue-ass ovary has initiated overheating in my derriere and down-under region and I am pissed about it…
MORTIFYING, MORTIFYING, MORTIFYING, especially when I forget the maneuver upon rising, OR if the maneuver fails altogether. I mean, how gross is it to see somebody’s butt and poot splotch?!? Who wants to sit there after THAT? *Sigh* And this whole mortification is based on my own witness account… Lemme tell you about it.
One day, long ago, when I was young and rarely humiliated by my youthful body (only by the occasional stomach growl or noisy escape of gas), I was working on a birthing unit as a floor clerk. The nurse’s station was set up galley style, with desks running up and down each side, connected by doctor’s dictation stations at one end, and central, fetal monitoring on the other. The clerk’s station was set up opposite the charge nurse’s desk and often the clerk and charge would push back on their roll-y, dark vinyl covered chairs and bump one another, back to back. Not a big deal, it was a normal occurrence. Well, on this one particular early morning, the floor was hoppin’ and babies were coming out of their mother’s left and right and the charge nurse had to take a patient until the day nurses arrived.
Bless her heart, this charge nurse, the woman of whom I sat back to back to and was in awe of her strength, knowledge, wisdom, and beauty… she was busy running to and fro, up and down from that awful, dark vinyl-covered chair. At one point, she hopped up to assist a patient and her chair slid next to where I was sitting, and that’s when I saw it: Butt and poot splotch. Honestly, I was so busy myself, I did not think anything of it until I heard the nurses to my left twittering and snickering and pointing at the chair. I made eye contact with the twitterers and snickerers and delivered to them an exaggerated cringe while I pushed the chair back to the charge’s station. I went back to my phone call, but I caught random snippets of their conversation and witnessed those nurses sharing the event with other nurses, all of whom acted cringe-y, just as I had. But most sadly? I never looked at the charge nurse the same, ever again. After bearing witness to her butt and poot splotch, I decided that she was the grossest woman EVER. *shakes head*
Pffft. Until now, of course. And DAMN how life comes back full circle and rubs our noses in all that we have once mocked!
And DAMN how life comes back full circle and rubs our noses in all that we have once mocked!
This new phenomenon has nearly destroyed me because I have always been a body perfectionist, especially in regard to cleanliness and female freshness. Like, I religiously wipe front to back, wash the poot daily with mild soap and rinse with a detachable shower head. A detachable shower head is mandatory for proper hygiene practices, I mean, how can a poot get clean and rinsed from a damn stationary shower head? That’s yeast, UTI, and bacterial vaginosis inbound STAT, like, right about the corner.… The oven must be carefully maintained and wrapped only in breathable cotton, not any of that nylon and silk (not even cotton lined!) sexy shit that men think is so great. No way, only the most natural for poot because stinky and itchy is NOT ACCEPTABLE. No excuses! That is how a female must roll. We must roll with clean and fresh butts and poots, always.
But. BUT. All the hygiene in the world will not stop that damn ovary from humiliating me with butt and poot splotch.
*Tears* here, peeps, mortified, shocked, embarrassed *tears*
And how many times has a young mind and body bared witness to my splotch? What must they think of me? What should I do about this, other than ingest herbals to combat overheating?
I feel like I should wear a sign (not really, C'mon, peeps), a sign that calls it out, like, “Hey! Please don’t acknowledge my splotch with disgust and disdain for what you think I MUST be, but instead, acknowledge the splotch for what it is and feel sorry for me. ‘Cause I’m not nasty or dirty… I’m just overheating, and my last ovary is serving endless Karma on a platter!” I like the idea of such directness, but, of course, it’s not so realistic...
I could always sit on a towel, I have seen that done many times by other splotch-suffering women. Or. Maybe they’re protecting themselves from the filth of the seat because they’ve spotted my splotch at some point?!?
I don’t even know what to do!
Perhaps I could start a movement or support group or something. Yes, because the youth with un-embarrassing bodies need to understand that… ultimately, us oldies are mortified, betrayed, embarrassed, and apologetic for the behavior of our bodies.
Please don’t disvalue us, because one day, if you’re lucky, you will BE us…
I do. I effing HATE the word panties.
Panties. Ok, so maybe that word is appropriate when writing a lusty, sensual story that involves "ripping off the panties" or "not wearing any panties" or, for gawds sake, "edible panties." Daily life, folks? Panties? No way, man... I don't wear panties, I wear frickin' UNDERWEAR. Underwear under my jeans, beach pants, yoga pants, scrubs, shorts or boxers. But UNDERWEAR nonetheless.
Panties are for bitches who tryin' to be sexy. Panties are for bitches who tryin' to hook a mate. Panties are for bitches who don't have periods.
So... long, long ago, before the nursing endeavor, I worked for this crappy factory that built crappy fixtures for mediocre department stores (i.e. Kohls, JCPenny, T.J.Max, etc.) I worked in the receiving department with a bad-ass, flaming-gay Peurto Rican and a few pot-heads. As the company went through cost-reduction transitions, the receiving department was slimmed down to just the gay guy and I and for a while, that all went fine ('nother story, 'nother time).
However, in the midst of all this stupid cost-reduction, the quality and assembly departments were experimenting with how receiving delivered raw materials to the lines. At one point during this quest, the bad-ass gay guy burst out laughing at a new "work order" and showed me what we would be consolidating, for the lovely assembly department. Prepare yourself, he warned through snarky laughs, for we would be gathering all the materials for the assembly of... mmm hmmm... PANTY SHELVES.
Yes. As simple as that.
Oh gawds. What has the retail world come to? The order wasn't even for Victoria's Secret (VS). The order was for JCPenny and up until the call out for PANTIE SHELVES came across our little, dusty, receiving desks, I hadn't thought about JCP since I had been a kid and my mother took me shopping for a Christmas dress.
And now the store wanted pantie shelves. Omygawsh, the gay guy and I came up with bottomless cracks and jokes about these panty shelves. We speculated and laughed ferociously over the visuals of what all would be allowed on the panty shelves and the demographics that would meander through JCP to view the panties on the Panty Shelves! Seriously, in our minds, JCP ordering Panty Shelves was no different than Sears or Lowes ordering Panty Shelves!
Point and case?
I HATE the word PANTIES. I hate the word hate, as well, but hate and PANTIES... man... they are like white on rice, or brown, whichever you prefer.
Photo credit: https://www.dementeddesignsoc.com
I changed the slang of my duuuuumb “whatever it was” to duuuuumb bleep.
I have given in, once again, to the stuffy constraints of society. *sigh* In order to be “accepted,” I must watch my mouth. For crying out loud.
I love profanity. Not always, there’s a time and a place, of course, but profanity expresses verbally that of which should not be expressed physically.
Ugh. I wish the world were a better place.
‘Nuff said, I guess.
In this house, we are all family. And this tiny house is packed.
As of right now, we have the hubby, self, middle off-spring with her hubby and child, youngest off-spring, Auntie Piper (dog), Uncle’s Willard and Walter (orange tabby cats), Auntie Tipsy (bi-polar, orca-cat that is deaf-ish in one ear and runs about with her head at a constant 45 degree angle), Brother Ip (goofy black cat), and Auntie Flower (sweetest, demonic black kitten EVER, and stinky, thus, FLOWER because she’s still learning how to clean her butt properly).
And then… Robot. Oh, dear, sweet, persistent, oblivious, TYPE A, Robot.
Dear, dirty, sweet, hardworking Robot…
Robot joined our family in December 2015 and the above pic is actually of our 3rd edition. Original Robot was an off-brand and was a complete bad-ass. Original Robot would vacuum my area rugs, leaving them looking fresh and raised, oh sweet Original. But, all that extra hard work eventually pooped Original Robot out, only after approximately 3 months. Considering I spent $150, I wasn’t too disappointed because my floors were cleaned every day, for three months straight. All I had to do was empty the belly.
Original Robot was a self-proclaimed pesky little brother. OMG. Aside from sucking up random cat toys, socks, dog blankies, and underwear, Original was notorious for traveling into brother’s room (youngest off-spring) and ganking toys…
Original would also venture into the bathroom and attempt to bully and mount Scale but to no avail. He would only end up stuck, calling for help. And scale? Scale just remained as is, though notifying me that Robot weighed 4.2 lbs…
But then, Original got confused and could not manage any longer. I knew it was time to retire him to the area in the basement, by the litter pool, where nobody cared about thoroughness or timely cleaning… Sadly, Original ended up stuck over top the sump-pump. He was never the same after that incident.
So then I went big, I got Roomba Robotfor a hefty price, complete with bells and whistles, which I don’t completely rely on yet. But I suppose bells and whistles are nice… *shrugs* In any case, Robot 2nd and 3rd edition are equally bad-ass, but in different ways from Original…
New Robot is a supreme sucker. I mean, he picks up all the little dirts, pets hairs, and danders. He collects mine and youngest off-springs ridiculous hair by the globs (like, almost beating out the bathtub drain globs!). And once, (true story!), he even destroyed my homework! When I empty New Robot’s belly, I find toothpicks, hair ties, bobby-pins, receipts, earrings, twist-ties, and many other unidentified debris. Also, New Robot runs around at top speed, man, watch out, and as he passes, you get fanned with a jet-stream of Robot air. The dude’s a worker.
Two day’s haul. Cringe-worthy, but imagine if Robot weren’t employed at all? Omg, the endless work I would have to do!
Enter Auntie Piper, a black lab mutt-mix. She’s an amazing doggie, smart and super trainable, but a doggie at that. And before she was a doggie, she was a puppy. You know what that means… poopies, pee-pees in and at all the inappropriate times and places. Not a biggie, because with mostly bare, wood floors, it was an easy fix.
… you know where I’m going with this. And YES, it happened to me. It’s not just that story you read on FB that’s been shared a billion times and the poster/sharer is not even acquainted with the Robot-Poop victim…
But it happens for real. Robot is diligent and does his job and runs over everything in his path. Including fresh dog shit. Fresh, smearable, retchingly awful smelling, dog shit.
The poop smears where indescribable. So indescribable, I didn’t even think to take pics, so you need to just trust me. I simply tossed Auntie Piper outside in her “punishment” pen (all of which she used only twice because she’s such a good girl) and I started to cry and gag and retch. Robot found the poop in my then spare room and dragged it EVERYWHERE! Poop was smeared on end-table legs, floorboard trims, sofa legs, footstool legs, scratching posts, nursing books, throw rugs, and just the WHOLE DAMN FLOOR IN GENERAL!! I was mortified, but what was really bad? The poop had dried because Robot had met the poop in the night, while we were sleeping, and upon waking, I discovered it by means of smell… following my nose and my dog (who was acting guilty about something). I wanted to have a melt-down but whatever steel-reserve (not the drink!) I had prevented me from escape. I had to deal. Yeah. I had to stop crying and shut up and deal.
After the floor and other smeared items were cleaned, I tackled Robot. Lemme just say, I called Roombaand begged for a replacement, of which they honored, even though initially they said that they wouldn’t. After I said to them, “would they have preferred I lied?”, did they agree to send me a new Robot.
Roomba Robot, regardless of how bad-ass, cannot survive dog shit without losing his mind. And there is really, ALMOST REALLY nothing worse at 0600 than a robot spewing forth a fanned stink of damp dog shit.
So help me!
Duuuuumb Bitch #4, Oblivious has arrived!
It all started with Duuuuumb Bitch #3, whom you can read about in Liposuction. In any case, I was hanging out with #3, as was our usual happy hour routine on Fridays after work (on weekends, of course, that I did not have my kids because we've already established that my off-weekends were my party weekends). We were sitting at a local sports bar enjoying happy hour and reflecting with one another about our weeks. We were looking forward to the evening and prospects of adventure once The Back Door opened (It used to be a real place, no joke).
In any case, a couple of friends that I worked with eventually joined us. I introduced them to #3... we'll call them Phil and Gary, for the purposes of this post and their anonymity. Phil was (still is, I am assuming) likely, gay (regardless of a peculiar obsession he had with a fellow female coworker) and as far as I knew then, Gary was straight. Both of these dudes were fun dudes to work with, sharing the same sort of cynical outlook on life that I do, and smearing everything with a dry layer of sarcasm. These dudes were pretty good friends with one another, as well, though I never did know their exact dynamics. But anyway, I knew #3 and these guys would hit it off because they were all older aged college students and were into that world, which was so foreign and unobtainable to me (still) at that point in my life.
I was right, of course. All "college" students, as I well know now, have common ground and can easily fall into smooth dialogue. I was slightly apprehensive because I did not want #3 to pass too much judgment on Phil for his underarm body odor (BO). I don't know what his deal was because every inch of his body surface was groomed and plucked and shaved, smooth as baby skin, but he reeked of onions, all of the time! And though this is irrelevant, he also had one of those body shapes where his head and super long neck were all one piece, like, the uppermost part of his neck simply had a face with hair. His neck, distally (assuming the head is proximal), gave way to funky sloped shoulders that went at an almost - 45-degree angle. Am I painting a visual here?? Like... an upside -down-funnel! He wasn't blessed in looks, I guess, but there were plenty worse, that's for sure (there is sooo much more to Phil, 'nother post, 'nother day). But anyway...
Gary, on the other hand, aside from being too petite and blonde for my taste, was an ok looking and smelling guy. I wondered if he and #3 might hit it off... It seemed that they were all three conversing well, so I daydreamed and smoked Camel Jades and sucked on a Bud-Light.
At some point, I was dragged into the conversation by both Phil and Gary, simultaneously. I remember them both, sitting together across the table from me, looking at me, then at #3, incredulous. They were asking me (both talking at the same time, but the message came across, primarily from Phil),
"Grace, did you hear what she said?"
"No, no," I remember saying perking up and leaning forward, figuring we were about to enter some GREAT camaraderie gossip. "What did she say... What did you say, #3?" I asked turning to her and after reading her face, I knew that she was uncomfortable with where the conversation was going. Phil or Gary, not sure which one, finally exclaimed, "Grace, she just sat there and talked about how great you are and that she is surprised at how smart you are for being un-educated."
There was a pause. Phil and Gary were looking to me with expectancy and #3 was distant, having closed herself off completely. I sat silent, reading everybody for a few more moments. And then I shrugged at the guys, "So?" I said. "I am smart, yeah, she tells me all the time how ---"
"-- Grace! Seriously?" This from Phil. "Do you NOT SEE WHAT SHE'S DOING? She's only hanging with you because she feels superior and "bigger" and more educated, which bloats her even more in her own mind, especially in comparison to you! She's weak and can only be with those that she considers less than herself!"
By this time, #3 was defending herself and denying Phil's claims, of course, while I sat numbly listening to it all go down. I still didn't see the big deal, I knew I was smart, just as I knew I was "uneducated." The point was moot to me. But what Phil said... I began to consider his point of view for a moment, while I remained disengaged from the battle that was occurring between the trio. The thought was ridiculous to me. I could not fathom how #3 would need to hang with someone that she considered "less" than herself, and choosing me as that person. I could not fathom that she needed to feel needed and admired, so, therefore, chose me to practice her inadequacies on. It made absolutely so sense to me. I did not view myself as "less than" in any such way. Therefore, at that moment, I pushed the thoughts aside, because I was such a duuuuumb bitch that I could not comprehend people actively existing on a level of need such as that of which Phil had placed on #3.
Yes, I'm duuuuumb bitch #4 here! Though I did not know it at the time, I had learned a valuable lesson that day; I learned that people DO, in fact, pray on their perception of weakness in others. People do this to build themselves or to confirm their own successes, because, for whatever reason, they still doubt themselves. I see this now, plain as stink on shit and, in fact, I can spot it quickly in other relationship dynamics, as well. But at the time of #3, Phil & Gary, the age of my mid-twenties, I was oblivious and naive to the fucked-up'dness of people. I was only beginning to scratch the surface of human dysfunction.
So, in short, I did not take offense to #3 telling people how smart I was for being uneducated because I took the words in their literal sense. I did not consider the source, nor the murky depths, of which the words were coming from. At that time, I could only see the world through my perspective, of which, at that time, was pretty type A or black and white. But on this day, the day of my personal duuuuub bitch thanks to Phil & Gary, I began to grow up and exercise a strength that I never knew I possessed. I'm an excellent judge of character, most times, but I still have to work hard to put myself into certain mindsets to get a clear view. Slowly, after that day, I began to see #3 in a different focus, and, as I recollect, the dynamics did begin to change between us ('nother story, 'nother time). I began to understand that through our fleeting so-called "friendship," #3 HUGELY impacted my life, not because she specifically taught me anything of value, but because of her dysfunction. For that, I am grateful Duuuuumb Bitch #3, because I am a smarter, more probing, person today.
Bam. Never in a billion years would I have thought that #3 had ever really served a functional purpose in my life, but, thanks to my bloggie adventure, I now see that she has. And still, on a certain level, I feel bad about exploiting #3's weakness to reveal my valuable life lessons. But I only feel a little bit bad. So I will move on.
Ok, so go back to the scenario with duuuuumb bitches #3, #4, Phil, and Gary. I want to wrap up that story, because, though I just explained how it affected my life, lemme tell you how that gathering affected #3's life...
So there sit the 3 educated persons, arguing about the passive-aggressive manner in which #3 complimented my brains. I came back to them slowly, and just in time, too, because the #3 was clearly under attack and was fighting back. Phil and Gary, were, in a sense, ganging up on her, but, for whatever reason at that time, even though I did not yet resent her for holding me in a lesser regard than her, I felt she deserved it. Possibly she had said something deliberately inappropriate to either of them (maybe she insulted Phil's onion scent), but I did not feel compelled to get involved, halt the argument, nor defend #3. The words exchange had turned personal and no longer had anything to with me.
Then, #3 said something along the lines of, "I don't need to continue this argument, I am a professor at blah, blah college. I don't need to stoop to your level. I'm finished." And then. Then Gary said it. He retorted with the come back of all comebacks, and one that dug #3 at every personal level of struggle she'd ever experienced. He said to her, "Well. About that. Blah blah college likely only hired you because they need to maintain a certain level of Hispanic demographic requirements. So yeah, you don't have that job because you deserve it, you have it because you're Mexican."
Ahhhh... the meeting was over. She stormed off to the bathroom crying, and Phil and Gary told me, in between back slaps and giggles, that they had to go now, for their work was done. They would be hanging out with me again in two weeks, but never with her again. And I should reconsider my place in her life. I laughed. I was in awe of what had transpired. How shocking for me to see humans actually express feelings and thoughts through verbal commands. I guess I had not been accustomed to that.
I finished my cigarette and beer and went to the bathroom to console my not-friend.
Omg. It was about a year later, when I gave #3 the friend boot, that I remembered the incident with Phil & Gary on that day and realized their words on a new literal plane... My relationship had drifted with both of them after the incident with #3... and I guess I can see why. I mean, for one, from their perspective, what kind of duuuuumb bitch sits around feeling proud because her "friend" praises her for being "so smart for an uneducated person...." and two... Two: Phil & Gary fueled one another and I was never at ease with the way in which they ganged up on #3, even though she had it coming. Bullying is never ok, though they were good at it and drove a much-deserved point home (Not about her being Hispanic **do not go there, this is not a post about race. Do not go there. We are better than politics**, but about how she was in general). However, I also knew I never wanted to be the receiving end of their point...
Until the day I die, I will be incredulous in the face of human dysfunction, though I am no longer oblivious to it.
So there you have duuuuumb bitch #4.
So, let's start with Duuuuumb Bitch #1, aka, Duuuuumb Bitch & the Spider:
- Duuuuumb Bitch #1 was talking to me, at a social gathering. We were getting along just fine, in fact, we (at least I was) were finding conversation easy and fruitful. We were chuckling over small-time atrocities (like husbands) and relating on levels that young moms do. Then, hubby came up behind me and smack-picked at my back and said, "Poochie, there was a huge spider on your back! I got it!" I was appalled, of course, because who doesn't suffer on some level from arachnophobia, and exclaimed (probably) with a colorful freak-out of profanity. Duuuuumb Bitch #1 observed this fiasco and then calmly replied to me (us), in between stuffy giggles, "Oh yes! I watched that spider crawl into your hair!" WTF, Duuuuumb Bitch?!? Regardless of what level you are on with a person, wouldn't MOST people take a stand against those that crawl on eight legs??? Needless to say, the evening ended with me paying attention to my husband, which is a rarity. Damn you, Duuuuumb Bitch #1...
And there's Duuuuumb Bitch #2, aka Duuuuumb Bitch & Barbie:
- Duuuuumb Bitch #2 and I, waaaay back in late 1970's, early 1980's, were playing Barbies, outside of the trailer I lived in, at the picnic table. She and I would always trade Barbie clothes, which I loved to do with her because she almost always had the better Barbie apparel. This was expected, of course, because her mother could afford a double-wide trailer and a generic Camaro (My mother drove a Buick Skylark). In any case, there we were, trading away. And though we were only 8 and 9 years old, Duuuuumb Bitch #2 would always make Barbie and Ken have sex. Rowdy, loud, ridiculous sex, that made me uncomfortable because I was afraid that the neighbors would hear and figure out what she was making Barbie and Ken do (my Ken and Barbie would only have sex in private). I told her to "Sssshhhh!" indicating my discomfort over people hearing what she was doing. Duuuuumb Bitch #2 stopped slamming Ken and Barbie together and looked at me with her eyes that peered out from beneath her huge, square, forehead. She shrugged and began throwing her dolls into her Barbie case. As she was doing this, she said, "You're so stupid. Even they..." (she indicated the brown with white trimmed single-wide across the street from my house) ..."say you're stupid. They watch you after you get off the bus, look around all secretly before you grab the hidden key from underneath the eaves on your shed.... You do it everyday, and they already know where your key is. They can get into your house anytime they want. They're right; you're so stupid." With that, she sauntered off on her tip-toes (because she always walked that way, which I now associate with a certain degree of A.D.D.) swinging her exquisite Barbie case and disappearing around the front of my white with brown trim single-wide trailer. I felt funny, watching her leave, because what she said was true, I did that, everyday, trying to be James Bondie about getting into my home, but also relieved because she held true to our trade and left the Barbie clothes that we'd exchanged. Funny (but not funny, peculiar) how we simply can not forget certain things... Of course her and I played together again after that, but her sister would always ash her fucking cigarettes into my hair at the bus stop in the mornings. Nobody would tell her to stop. Everybody at the bus stop would laugh and I would stand there... wishing to disappear. I would later shake my hair out, when nobody could see me. Bus stop bully. I guess the sister could qualify as a Duuuuumb Bitch, but I never bothered to think about her enough. You know... she was so awful, I simply blocked her out. Duuuuumb Bitch.
Duuuuumb Bitch #3: