Swamp Thing
Yesterday morning, as I was cleaning my bathroom, the doorbell rang. Now, for most folks, this is a non-event -- for me, however, it is an apocalyptic intrusion on my daily routine. If I'm not expecting company, I do not answer the door. I don't take kindly to unexpected visitations.
So I was cleaning away, and happy to be doing so, I might add, when the doorbell rang, which produced the expected shrill shrieks of excitement from my boy. I went into automatic panic mode, as usual, and tore out of the john, Mr. Bubbles circling my unkept head in a frothy, almost holy halo, and loudly whispered to my son to be quiet.
Shhhhhhhh! Ohmygod, SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Be quiet, son, for there be unwanted visitors among us! ShhhhhhhfuckshithellSHHHHHHHHH!He would not comply. He kept shouting that it was "DADDY! IT'S DADDY, MOMMY! DAAAAA-DEEEEEE! Waaaaaaaa-AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!! DADDY!" And the more frantic I became, the louder his shrieks. I offered Pop Tarts, I offered Gummi Bears, I offered him a Harvard education and a BMW. He declined, and none too politely. As his shrieks grew louder, I knew that I had no choice but to answer the godamned door.
Warily, I approached the French door that separates the living room from the foyer and peered through to the front door's frosted window. I could tell immediately that the behemoth standing on my front step was not my husband.
Terror seized my very soul as I watched the looming shadow bend forward, ostensibly to peek into my home, then step back and ring the doorbell again. And again. So many thoughts rushed through my frazzled mind: Police? Dear lord, could it be the cops? I do have a sixteen-year-old, after all. She rides in cars with friends now, you know, friends who, although very nice, are still kids. Snippets of eleventh grade driver ed films depicting laughing youths, speeding tires, and sickening metal-crunching-on-metal slow-motion images danced in my skull. Tears began to well as I imagined the worst, but quickly dried up when my next insanely ridiculous scenario emerged...Oh, saints preserve us! It's G__ from across the street, and he's doing his yearly charity run and wants me to match or beat the $60 I sponsored him with last year! Shit! I can't very well tell the man that my generous sponsorship was due to my being mildly intoxicated, thus feeling exceptionally altruistic, and my husband, unfortunately, did not find my generosity endearing whatsoever. I can't say to G__, "G__, I'm very sorry, but the last time I sponsored you, I'd been hosting a lovely barbecue, and had been drinking Corona, you see, and well, you caught me at a vulnerable time, and, um..."
Weary of my own racing mind, I bravely answered the door, Clorox Bleach Pen gripped tightly in my left hand. At first, I was grateful to see that it was not a cop, nor the pleasant yet annoying G__, but that quickly turned to horror when I realized just who the beast before me was --
the meter man.
I loathe meter men. Apologies to any of you who might be meter men or women, but I just really hate you. You come unannounced, for one thing. Secondly, you refuse to give up and go away regardless of the fact no one answers the door despite your ringing the bell fifty times. Thirdly, you might be an ax murderer. Fourthly, oh,
fourthly...You track mud and dog feces throughout my spic and span home. Yes, you certainly do.
So I let the fucker in. And the fucker, although not an ax murderer, thank goodness, proceeded to track great gobs of mud and dog feces throughout my freshly washed hardwood floors. And over my freshly washed kitchen tiles. And down my freshly vacuumed stairs, over my family room rug, through the exercise room, and back again.
I didn't know what to do with my rage. I was so enraged, I actually hallucinated, saw stars and red and decapitated Teddy bears...
I did the only thing I
could do to release my rage -- I stabbed the fucker repeatedly in the eyes with my Clorox Bleach Pen.
No, I didn't. But I wanted to.
My boy, though, being the son of Ms. Lori the Obsessive-Compulsive Clean Freak, said to the fucker: "You made a
BIG mess all over Mommy's floors!"
The stupid fucker Swamp Thing bastard didn't even acknowledge his dirty deeds. Didn't even muster a weak apology. That's when I lost it. I stabbed Swamp Thing in the eyes with my Clorox Bleach Pen over and over and over again until he ran screaming from my home.
I feel no remorse.
Angels and Demons
Well, goodness, went to register my son for kindergarten yesterday, and was told that he needs
another MMR inoculation. This news, of course, pleases me to no end.
The old battleaxe will be positively thrilled to see me again, as I will her. Mayhap I should attempt to engage her in a deep, intellectual conversation about the many virtues of Miller's “The Crucible,” but I have a sinking suspicion the witch will shriek “NEVER AGAIN!” or “REMEMBER SALEM!” or worse, begin babbling in Latin while her eyes roll back in her head. That would frighten both myself and my son, and we can’t have that.
I’ll just smile politely and point at my son’s immunization records with my middle finger or something.
Let’s see, what else…OH! I received a lovely letter from Dr. Tony Attwood (one of the world’s leading experts on Asperger’s syndrome) last night in reply to one I’d sent earlier this month regarding his ultra-fine and bodaciously righteous book
“The Complete Guide to Asperger’s Syndrome.” Totally surprised and delighted me that he would take the time. Also, he’d said something in his letter that completely validated certain frustrations I’ve had for years vis-à-vis the miserable lack of competent clinicians in my area. Dr. Attwood is someone I very much admire, not only for his wonderful work and expertise in the area of AS, both pediatric
and adult, but for his unrivaled passion for the subject and obvious compassion and understanding.
I wish he were my daddy.
Oh, god, I didn’t just write that, did I?
Apparently, I did.
Pretend you didn’t see it, and we won’t speak of this again.
An Open Letter to the Old Battleaxe Receptionist at my Kids’ Pediatrician’s Office
Dear Battleaxe,
Although I realize that this letter is a fruitless attempt at working through my disdain for old battleaxes who are:
1) Ignorant of Italian opera singers
And
2) Ugly, bereft of common courtesy, void of intellect beyond that of an empty can of Green Giant corn niblets.
I feel that I must try, Battleaxe, I
must try, if only to somewhat quell the burning obsession to ruminate that I unfortunately suffer with. You see, when I feel that someone has been rude, unjust, or just plain battleaxe-y, it eats me up inside. I think about people like you, worry over people like you, and oftentimes mentally kick myself as regard my not saying the right thing at the right time, e.g., knocking your balding, badly permed skull into submission with a sarcastic retort or stinging affront.
There is no existing court that would convict the likes of you, and that is unfortunate. You and your ilk should be required to stand before a jury of your peers who will deliberate on your wicked behavior, and once a guilty verdict has been passed, a stern but affable judge who has forty years’ experience in proper decorum law, will sentence you to death by hanging. Or, if you throw yourself on the mercy of the court, a more lenient punishment requiring you to undergo behavioral therapy consisting of two weeks in the stocks, followed by a good old fashioned scarlet letter A -- which, of course, stands for “asshole” -- tattooed upon your forehead.
Alas, this court will only ever exist in my dreams, but due to my enormous imagination and thirst for rectification, I shall hereby call
my court to order…
Abridged Fantasy -- wouldn't want to strain your already weak neurons, now would we?Conan O‘Brien: All rise for the honorable Judge Ms. Lori.
Gavel: Bang bang.
Judge Ms. Lori: You may all be seated. Will the prosecution please call your first witness.
Prosecutor: Larry Young, is it true that at approximately twelve-thirty p.m. on March fifteenth, your wife, Judge Ms. Lori, approached the reception desk with the intent to make known your children’s presence in the waiting room?
Larry: Yes
Prosecutor: And is it true, Mr. Young, that your wife behaved in her usual gracious manner?
Larry: Yes.
Prosecutor: Now, Mr. Young, would it be fair to say that the battleaxe at the reception desk caused your son undue stress when the battleaxe, inpatient with your wife’s apologetic explanation as to why your son would not comply with the
allegedly required urinalysis, bared her teeth, retrieved a pee receptacle from some mysterious pee receptacle drawer beside her desk, and shrieked, for all to hear within the waiting room, “BRANDON! YOU MUST GO IN THE CUP!”
Larry: Yes.
Prosecutor: I have no further questions.
Judge Ms. Lori: You may call your next witness.
Prosecutor: Brandon, how old are you, son?
Brandon: This many!
Prosecutor: Tell me, Brandon, did the mean old battleaxe scare you?
Brandon: YES! I didn’t want to go pee-pee in the cup, even when Mommy promised me TWO candy bars if I did. But the scary monster lady didn’t care that I cried oh-so-many-tears.
Prosecutor: I see. Now, did your mommy say that it was okay if you didn’t go pee-pee in the cup? That it was okay, because your big sister, Veronica, wouldn’t either when she was your age?
Brandon: Absolutely. It was explained to me that the doctor wasn’t concerned with the lack of a urine specimen. Apparently, a urinalysis is necessary only in cases of obvious health concerns, or suspected atypical conditions,
not in routine well-visits for toddlers.
Prosecutor: My goodness, Brandon, you have an extraordinary vocabulary for someone your age!
Brandon: I like Pokemon!
Defense: Objection!
Judge Ms. Lori: Overruled.
Prosecutor: Brandon, did your mommy, in order to appease the old battleaxe as well as to avoid further public humiliation, then coerce your daddy to take you into the bathroom while she finished filling out ridiculously unnecessary paperwork -- paperwork that had been filled out time and time again for the past ten years, thus causing your mommy extreme agitation?
Brandon: Yes. But Mommy also tried to be nice to the scary prune-lipped harridan… When the battleaxe was talking to her cohorts about Italian opera singers, she was so obviously putting on airs, she forgot the name of her supposed favorite -- my Mommy, in an effort to be helpful, butted in their conversation with “Oh, do you mean the blind one?” and the battleaxe turned toward Mommy with a scowl and said icily, “Blind? What ever do you mean?” And Mommy replied, “Andrea Bocelli? The blind tenor?”
The battleaxe ignored Mommy, then shoved some weird electronic signature thing at her, without explaining what it was, and when Mommy just stood there, perplexed and embarrassed, the battleaxe said sarcastically, “Um…You
sign it?”
Defense: I object!
Judge Ms. Lori: Fuck off, bucky. Court is in recess. Actually, I think I’ll just adjourn altogether.
Defense: Your Honor! This is unconscionable! What about my client’s right to due process?
Judge Ms. Lori: [
grabs crotch]
Here’s your due process, counselor. Think I’ll skip right to the verdict. Foreman, what say you?
Jury Foreman: Guilty on all counts.
Judge Ms. Lori: Good enough for me. Will the defendant please rise? I sentence you to two weeks in the stocks, whereupon the good citizens of Rochester, New York may freely pelt your miserable old face with wet sponges and the contents of Nic Tahou’s Dumpster. Following two weeks of stocks and public-pelting, you shall be tattooed on the forehead with a garish red “A,” so administered by Big Fat Sweaty Joe, premier tattoo artist and ex-Marine of questionable mental capabilities.
May God have mercy on your soul.
Sincerely,
Ms. Lori
P.S. I enjoyed gloating when the doctor good-naturedly confirmed my belief that the urine specimen was of no great importance. My son did not have to pee in the cup despite your wholly irrational and possibly traumatizing demands. Oh, and the next time you try to appear knowledgeable about something you are painfully ignorant of, might I suggest you simply nod your head and feign interest instead of opening your wrinkly anus of a mouth?
Stumbled Upon, and Sickened
I rarely write of personal happenings regarding family or friends, and if I do, it’s only about good things, birthdays, marriages, graduations and the like. Although I have in the past alluded to hurtful behaviors on the part of acquaintances or family members, I have always been as discreet as possible. I don’t believe in using my blog as a whipping post, no matter how badly someone has hurt me.
Today, however, I will be blunt, I will be insulting, and I will enjoy every minute of it.
While Googling my name this morning, a formerly obsessive practice that I’d nearly given up due to my not publishing in fifty years, I came across
this .
If you go to about the middle of the page, you will see this paragraph:
“That's right- Stephen King signed this! Best of all, this copy belonged to L Lynn Young (who contributed a story)- at the end of her story (we purchased this from her brother), she added two lines to the story, initialed it, and dated it 12/6/03."Yes, the seller is referring to
my brother. That rotten, no-good bastard.
The winning bid was $290.00. To my mother, however, it was priceless. I'm sure she hasn't yet realized it's missing from her bookshelf.
In the immortal words of Whitney Houston: Crack is wack.
Indeed.
EDIT: Sorry for the broken link...All fixed now...
Rotten bastard.
Pissed Off, Yet Amused (Pused?)
Why won't the "New Blogger" keep me signed in? Big pain, especially considering my DSL is running approximately 27 kbyomamas, half the speed of dial-up, and it takes about ten minutes to sign in here. I feel hatred.
I can't even visit my favorite blogs or MySpace pages because the DSL is so slow, it won't load pages, no matter how many times I hit refresh.
So that's why I haven't been visiting or commenting on your blogs, people. And that's why I'm stinking drunk on screwdrivers before noon. All right, maybe not "stinking drunk," but I am buzzed off of the two I indulged in. I rarely drink during the week, let alone before noon, so this is unusual for me. But it's been a rotten couple of weeks regarding Internet speeds. I'm only human. I can only take so much before self-medicating, you know?
I am not happy when my Internet experience is a slow, painful one.
I'll mention this to my shrink, whom I will be seeing at five this afternoon. Perhaps she'll offer some advice pertaining to fucked up DSL and how drunken, frustrated people with Asperger's might overcome compulsions to throw the computer across the room. But I doubt it.
Hey, a thought just popped into my head: What if, all of a sudden, I yelled "NOBBLE NOSE!" in the middle of our session today? Would the good doctor smile? Would she frown? Would she join in by shouting "BEHEMOTH BUTTOCKS"?
During our session last week, she laughed out loud (then quickly covered her mouth and apologized) after I told her how I regularly shriek "you dirty whore!" at my vacuum cleaner. I'm thinking she may laugh if I were to suddenly shriek "Nobble nose!" but one can't be sure of these things. Perhaps I should just keep my nobble nose to myself...
In other news, my boy answered the phone yesterday by saying, "Ohmygod! Who is this?"
He simply won't answer with the proper "hello?" It's either, "Who is this?" or "Yes, what do you want?" Now he's added "Ohmygod! Who is this?" to his repertoire. I'm at a loss. Yet highly amused.
Have a wonderful weekend, you bunch of nobble-noses.
Good Gossip/Bad Gossip: It’s All About Context, Stupid
I’m not ashamed to admit that I love celebrity gossip as much as the next American slack jaw. I was raised on tabloid news (thanks, Maw), and can remember devouring the weekly issues of The Enquirer, Star, and People, among others, before I even entered first grade. Celebrities
crave publicity, good or bad, which is all too evident by increasingly outrageous behaviors among the current flood of household names and wannabe household names (who, without controversy, would not even be known outside their hometown trailer parks or low-income projects). I'm all too happy to indulge them their idiocy.
As you may have surmised, this post will include many (many) parentheses. I’m just in that kind of mood.
(Mmm bop.) Okay, then. Celebrities + gossip = lifeblood.
If most folks don’t know your name -- at least
heard of your name, regardless of how ignorant they may be to the significance of your name -- then you are not a celebrity. Example: I know the names Tara Reid, Sienna Miller, and Pete Dougherty, but I do not know what movies, television shows or music genres they practice their “craft.” I just know their names, mainly due to gossip rags gossiping and ragging and doing them a favor by giving them their fifteen or twenty minutes. I enjoy reading about the stupid things the aforementioned (and most other celebrities) do or say. I smile at the gross lack of common sense many celebrities possess, laugh at their bedazzling, laser-bleached smiles captured by the paparazzo’s lens as they “covertly” cuckold, or fall down drunk, or expose their grotesquely manicured private parts while sitting in their limousines, legs positioned to gynecological specifications…All hilarious, all silly, and all requisite behaviors important to the continued buoyancy of their usually undeserved fame.
In other words, I truly believe that most celebrities, especially small-timers who have contributed nothing of artistic merit, have an intelligence quotient closer to a rabbit’s pellet than to the actual rabbit. I base this conclusion on two words: Paris Hilton. Now that’s one dumb bunny pellet, if you ask me. Ms. Hilton is perhaps
the dumbest pellet ever to be evacuated from a bunny’s ass in the history of lepus butt expulsions.
As my mentor, Forrest Gump, always says:
Stupid is as stupid does. And stupidity should be exploited for all it’s worth.
But.
I digress.
As usual.
Now, having said that I enjoy celebrity gossip, that does
not mean that I enjoy
all gossip. Couldn’t be further from the truth. While I get my kicks on celebrity Route 666, I hate -- HATE -- lip-flapping concerning folks I know personally (or even peripherally). When someone begins spouting juicy tidbits based on hearsay (or worse, information given in confidence) about
real people, my hands immediately curl into little quivering balls. I do not wish to hear the intimate details of Mrs. Knackslacker’s sex life, do not need to know that Mary down the street once “strolled” Joseph Avenue, or that Mr. Brown (who happens to be the president of the neighborhood association) has a teenage son who smears his own excrement on his bedroom walls.
I believe that most human beings of the non-celebrity genome pool deserve the respect and dignity to live their lives in quiet, anonymous pain, just as I do. I believe that gossiping about your neighbor, or your neighbor’s step-daughter’s husband’s neighbor, is injurious not only to the gossipee, but to all individuals. When one gossips, one is displaying behaviors better suited to pre-teen chimpanzees, if chimpanzees could speak fluent English while snapping bubblegum and rolling their eyes a lot. Yes, we may be descended from apes, but surely we’ve evolved somewhat during the last couple million years, yeah? When we lean close and speak
sotto voce of our neighbors/family and their unfortunate happenings, it cheapens man’s very existence; it minimizes our intellect, plants seeds of lurid titillation that only produce opiate crops of addictive, quasi-confidence boosting, mind-numbing spiritual apathy.
I never quite got the appeal, and so do not gossip. I don’t need to utter nasty things about others or divulge information given in confidence to boost my self-esteem, nor do I ever feel an urge to suck on the offered pipe, as it were. Yet…I can intellectualize the reasoning behind gossip, can understand why folks find it so intoxicating, and may have cupped my ear toward the buzzing stage whisper to my left, but only in instances of gossip pertaining to someone I care about. I will listen intently to the buzzing gnat, hone in on its position, then raise my quivering little fists and squash said gnat, no holds barred.
Which simply means that I will do one of the following, depending on how well I know and like the gossipee:
A) Stare glumly at the lip-flapper’s lips with the express intent of displaying my boredom
B) State my displeasure with lip-flapper’s flapping lips while staring (glumly) at their forehead
C) Call lip-flapper a fucking idiot while staring glumly at my quivering little fists
That doesn’t mean, however, that I haven’t bitched about another’s behavior to someone I trust. I have and do complain to trusted sources about someone’s vile, destructive, selfish behavior. Oh, you bet. Thing is, my trusted source isn’t the first to hear my complaints -- that would be the vile, destructive, selfish person himself. I much prefer to confront those who offend me, but if my confrontation proves fruitless, well then, off I go to my “bitching-board.”
Bitching boards are important for one’s mental health -- buzzing gnats, however, are not.
The moral of this rant should be obvious, and so will end it by saying only this:
Listen to your inner voice. If it buzzes, do me and everyone else a favor and squash the little bastard before it escapes your mouth, ‘cause believe me, if you don’t kill it, I most certainly will.
But, if you’ve got a lovely piece of gossip regarding, say, Ann Coulter’s true gender, then by all means, lay it on me, baby. Especially if you’ve got it on good source that he once posed for Blue Boy back in 1980, depicting acts of bondage and discipline. Please, just don’t show me the pictures, okay?
