Blog It Out, Bitch Page 2

  What a loser. What could be lamer than that? I put back a Math & Logic puzzle book because it has too many math puzzles and not enough logic puzzles. It hasn’t yet occurred to me that the answer to my question could be: shopping for logic puzzle books.

  I'm about to leave when I decide to ask Flitwick if this ticket guarantees me a copy of the book later that night, but when I get to the table, there's a short Filipino woman trying to sign up. He's explaining about the ticket and the lottery and the festivities at 9pm in the tent outside, but she's just not getting it. Between her thick accent and his speech impediment, it's like watching two paraplegics compete in a potato sack race - not much is getting accomplished.

  “So, I can get book tomorrow?

  “Yes, at midnight. The festivities begin at nine p.m. We'll have prizes and treats and games.”

  Sadly, I find myself thinking what I would be missing on T.V. at 9 o’clock if I brought my ass back to Borders. “Then why sign say Saturday?” she asks.

  “Well, the festivities are Friday, but you can get the book at midnight.”

  “Then why sign say Saturday?” she repeats.

  I want to yell, "Bitch, cause midnight is Saturday! Now come on before someone I know sees me standing here!" But I don't. The useless exchange goes on for another minute or so, and I'm starting to think it's not so bad to wait and get the book next week when he’s finally done dealing with the lady and confirms for me that holding a ticket doesn't guarantee a book. Lovely.

  I high-tail it to my car. I'm disgusted by the whole process. Damn nerds. Stupid geeks. I'm halfway home before it hits me: I am a damn nerd, a stupid geek. Am I not just as excited to get my mitts on this book? Do I not know all the inconsistencies between the X-men comics and the movies? Did I not get just a tad giddy when handed my purple and gold ticket? What made me better than the overweight guys and the clock-challenged Filipino woman? I realized that the answer is absolutely nothing.

  Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go take a nap. I have someplace to be at midnight…er…nine.

  Please Don’t Let 2006 Suck

  January 2, 2006

  Entering the real world again is going to suck. I register for classes in two days and they start five days after that. With Kali being home on Christmas break, I've gotten used to getting up pretty much when I want to and going to bed whenever. I'd forgotten what it feels like to have to be somewhere by a specific time. I'm slowly remembering that it sucks.

  And worst yet, I'm pretty sure I'll need to work part-time while I go to school. Which, you guessed it, sucks. It’s not so much that I don’t want to go back to work. Well, it is so much that. But it's also that I know anything part-time is going to, yeah, suck.

  In a perfect world, I'd be able to put my child on the bus and go about my day of school and/or work and be home by the time the school bus returns. But, I know the world ain’t perfect. I'll most likely not find a job that will allow me to do that and not want to shoot myself in the process.

  Most part-time jobs will require weekend shifts and possibly holidays. Most part-time jobs will require me to do a whole bunch of shit I don’t wanna do. I should probably make a list. It will cut down on me applying to – and interviewing for – a bunch of crap jobs.

  So here is my list of things I refuse to say and/or do for money. No matter how much I love my house and want to pay the mortgage.

  I do not want a job where I am obligated to say the following:

  "Would you like to hear our specials?"

  "Yes, tonight is dollar draft night."

  "Do you have a penny?"

  "Have a nice day."

  "Welcome to...."

  "Can I start you off with something to drink?"

  I do not want a job where someone can be heard saying:

  "And coming to the main stage..."

  "Let me see some I.D."

  "Would you like to dance?"

  (Or worse yet, a job where there is music playing so loudly you can't hear anything and come home smelling of cigarette smoke.)

  I will not take a job where I am required to:

  Sweep, fold clothing, count out any kind of cash register, greet people when they walk in, watch people to make sure they're not stealing, sell people stuff, be nice when I don't want to, touch food, wear a name tag, and work on the weekends.

  Yeah. This is going to suck.

  Really?

  January 5, 2006

  I love my daughter more than anything in this world. I'm absolutely convinced that I love my child more than any parent loves a child. Even more than you love yours. What I have found over the years though, is that the older they get, the less fascinated you become with what they have to say.

  When they're babies and toddlers and just learning to talk, you hang on to every coo, every giggle, and every new word they utter. But between the ages of five and eight, when they're just getting into the swing of this talking thing and learning to string together thoughts and ideas to form stories, you start to realize that a lot of what they say just doesn't make sense. Your child is talking just to talk, and any good parent would learn to navigate through these conversations without hurting their child's feelings.

  Never underestimate the beauty of a perfectly timed, "Mmm hmm," people. Unfortunately, because I love my child so much - remember, much more than you love yours - I can't lie to Kali for very long and one day I had to come clean.

  "Mommy, I just saw my first ladybug in the house!"

  "Really?" I asked, totally transfixed on online banking and not really paying attention.

  "Yeah. Hey, that's the same thing Daddy just said when I told him."

  "That's because it's the standard response when parents aren't really listening to their children, honey."

  "Oh."

  This revelation has since prompted my child to ask, "Mommy, are you listening? I mean really listening?" before beginning any story. And it has forced me to get into the habit of stopping whatever I'm doing and listen to my child. Really listen.

  Death By Gordita

  January 8, 2006

  Approximately one week before my period is due several changes occur in my house. Not all of them bad. My breasts grow from a 36C to a D cup easily. Most of you are probably thinking that’s a good thing. Sometimes it is. It certainly looks nice, but it doesn’t feel so nice. If I sit still and close my eyes, I can almost feel them growing. Think David Banner turning into The Hulk, but sexier. They get sore, feel really heavy, and make sleeping on my stomach impossible and uncomfortable. Once my period comes they shrink back to their normal size. I guess they figure they won’t be seeing any action for the next five days so, what’s the point?

  Of course my husband notices, realizes what it means, and takes every opportunity to have as much sex as he can with me in the next seven days.

  I also get cravings for fast food and chocolate. Not just any chocolate. Usually Ben and Jerry’s, Everything But The… or Entenmann’s Chocolate Cake. Last night I craved Taco Bell which brings me to how I almost died.

  So, Donny says he’s running to the supermarket for snacks before we sit down for a season two Roswell marathon and he asks if I want anything.

  “Taco Bell, please.”

  “They don’t sell Taco Bell at Publix.”

  “Your point is?”

  He just sighs and leaves. Now before you think he just does what I tell him to, please remember that my boobs at this point are each the size of a small child’s head. He’s not going to argue with me for the next seven days if he wants to play with these puppies. He returns a few minutes later with two steak Gordita Supremes and to push aside any doubt that I’d be putting out that night, a pint of the aforementioned Ben and Jerry’s. I was in premenstrual heaven. We pop in the DVD, I grab a Sprite, and my Taco Bell, and it’s on!

  For those unfamiliar with the glorious Gordita, here’s the definition straight from their website: Warm, pillowy flatbread filled with seasoned ground beef, creamy pepper jack sauce
, crisp, shredded lettuce, a blend of three cheeses – cheddar, pepper jack and mozzarella, and fiesta salsa.

  In other words: a tortilla-wrapped orgasm.

  Usually, I’ll brush off most of the excess lettuce and tomato and get right down to the good stuff: cheese, steak, and sour cream. But I was a pig being led by my menses-fueled greed. I bit into it trying to get as much in my mouth as possible.

  I don’t know if it was the way I was holding it or how fast I bit into it, but two things happened at once. All the cold food at the top (tomato and lettuce) landed on my tongue. All of the warm stuff (steak, cheese, and sour cream) shot like a rocket to the back of my throat.

  Surprised, I inhaled. And then I started to choke. On reflex, I spit out as much as I could which amounted to most of the tomato and lettuce. Actually, I didn’t so much spit it out as I had to let it just fall out my mouth and onto the floor. My husband is just looking at me, mid-sip of his soda, like this is normal. Like I’m some fucking retard with a helmet who suddenly spits out her food all the time. (Note to self: check that husband hasn’t suddenly increased life insurance policy on my dumb ass.)

  The food is going down the wrong pipe, not sure which pipe, but I know it’s not the food pipe. My chest is burning as I imagine carne asada steak infiltrating my heart. Donny decides to get up off his ass, finally, and administer the ghetto Heimlich: slapping me on the back.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  I’m thinking, “Motherfucker, I’m choking. What does it look like?” But, of course I can’t say that because I have cheese and steak and snot coming out of my nose. This wasn’t a satisfying response for my husband because he asks, “Can you hear me?” as he continues to beat the shit out of my back. Like choking caused my ear drums to rupture.

  This continues for a few seconds more and I’ve lost all control of my bodily functions. I’m hacking and spewing food and I think I even farted. By the time it’s all over, the room is a mess and I feel like my nostrils are on fire.

  This, of course, didn’t stop me from eating the other Gordita a short while later (Don’t judge me!) or my husband from having sex with the woman he nearly killed with his rescue efforts.

  Stinky Hands

  January 21, 2006

  So I'm sitting at the computer in the study and Kali is on the floor behind me watching cartoons. After a while, I realize the whole room smells like lilac. I don’t pay too much attention because one of her stocking stuffers this past Christmas was some lilac lotion. But then, after another few minutes, the smell becomes overwhelming. It’s like a fucking lilac explosion. Without turning around I ask, “Kali, what are you doing?”

  “Putting lotion on my armpits.”

  “Ok, well, that's enough.”

  “Wait, I have to put some on my hands because today in school, Makayla said my hands stink.”

  This gets my attention. My head whips around. “What? Why would she say that?”

  Kali shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  “Come here.”

  She walks over to me and I start hugging her, wanting to kick little Makayla's ass. “Did you smell your hands after she said that?" I ask and Kali nods.

  “And did they stink?” She nods again.

  “Why were your hands stinking? Were you digging in your butt or something?”

  The question was purely rhetorical, intended to make her laugh, not feel so bad about her odorous digits, and forget about what a bitchbag Makayla was. Kali does laugh, but also answers, completely unaware of what a rhetorical question is.

  “No! I would never dig in my butt… at school.”

  “I would appreciate it if you never dug in your butt at all.”

  “My teacher says, ‘Never say never.’”

  Down With Deer

  January 23, 2006

  I'm afraid of deer. Everyone knows this. I am not embarrassed. Deer are gross. They are evil, stupid, little creatures who don't have the good sense to not run in the middle of the road. Unfortunately, there are a lot of deer where I live. It seems with the insurgence of strip malls and subdivisions in my neck of the woods, these little fuckers have been left uprooted. Sucks for them, even worse for me.

  New York wildlife, I'm used to: roaches, mice, rats, pigeons, cats, and dogs. For the purpose of this blog, however, we will limit this discussion to things that primarily roam the streets. That leaves us with rats, pigeons, cats, and dogs. It must be the New York mentality because a rat, pigeon, cat or dog crossing the road in New York will most definitely get its ass out the way should you suddenly slam on your brakes and honk your horn. They ain’t stupid. They may shoot you a, "Damn bitch, calm down" look and take their sweet time, but they will move. I'm convinced that any dead animal on the side, or middle, of the street in New York was the victim of intentional homicide. Hey, it's New York. That's how we roll.

  Now in the south, and I am referring to the cities I've lived in, an animal’s stupidity will get you killed and the most dangerous of these dimwitted animals are deer. I've lived in Atlanta for almost three years now and I can tell you every place I've ever seen a deer, dead or alive. I log that shit in my mental rolodex. When I approach that area again, I immediately slow down and do "the shake." Both are involuntary. "The shake" is this very quick, very violent shudder that overcomes me whenever I encounter a particularly gross animal, which are most animals. I cannot help it.

  I remember when it started. Over ten years ago, when I was living in Durham, I heard two stories that stuck with me. They were probably deer urban legends, but I didn't care. They seemed completely plausible.

  The first involved a lady who had just picked her kids up from school, a boy and a girl, and as usual they were arguing over who got to sit in the front seat. Instead of picking one, the frustrated mother instructed them both to sit in the back. A short while later she hit a deer, which landed smack dab in her passenger seat where one of her kids would have been sitting. The second story: A woman is driving home, on I-40, and hits a deer. It goes through her windshield, kicking violently. It kicks her in the chest a few times and she dies instantly.

  After I heard those stories, I was on deer alert whenever I drove at night and in rural areas. Then one day, I was driving to Raleigh, down a busy four-lane street, in the middle of the day, and a deer ran across the road right in front of me. I nearly pissed myself. The brazen little fuckers traveled during the day! No one had told me this. I have been on the red threat level ever since.

  I realize my fear may be a bit irrational and has led to some irrational actions. Such as: I used to drive down one convenient road to get to work every morning. I would leave my house at the ungodly hour of 5am. I was later informed that this is the time of day that deer are traveling from their resting place to their eating place or vice versa. Either way, the fuckers are out in full force. So, one morning I'm driving down this road and it’s still dark out. A deer runs across the road, in front of my car, very quickly. I have never, ever seen a deer run the way this one did. He had his body really low to the ground and was booking. It looked like the pictures of the greyhound on the side of the buses. (I swear to God, I just did "the shake" recalling the image. Thanks, guys.)

  After that morning, I started going the long way around, even if it meant that I had to leave the house ten minutes earlier. It was inconvenient, but I'd never seen a deer going the long way and out of sight, out of mind. That worked well for a few months until one early morning, I'm again on my way to work, when I see something up ahead on the side of the road. As I get closer, I realize it is five deer. And they weren't just standing there. The mofos were frolicking and shit.

  One of them looked like he was timing his sprint in front of my car, bobbing on the side of the road like his ass was about to jump double-dutch. But instead of jumping in between two spinning cords of telephone wire, he was going to jump in front of my car and kill me. I was too scared to even speed up, in fact, I went ridiculously slow. As I passed, I'm not even looking in front of me,
but instead turning my whole head to keep an eye on the deer. They, in turn, followed me with their heads as I drove by. Like, "What the fuck is her problem?" Needless to say, I shook violently the whole way to work. The other motorists probably thought I was having a seizure.

  The most irrational moment had to have been when we still lived in North Carolina. When our house in Atlanta was being built, Donny, Kali and I would visit once a month to check on the status. On one particular trip, we left in the evening - something I never liked to do - and I was driving. We had just gotten onto I-40 when I saw at least six deer on the side of the road.

  “Oh my God, oh my God!”

  “Nina, calm down.”

  “Oh my God.” By this time I’m shaking like a junkie. I reach over and lock the car doors. As if they would suddenly develop opposable thumbs and try to jack my ride.

  “You are retarded.”

  “Where's Kali?” I kind of squeal, as if they had developed opposable thumbs and wanted to kidnap my child.

  Kali responds in a calm voice, like she’s talking to a fairly stupid child. “I'm still right here. In the car.”

  Yes, I felt like an ass. But I still don't like 'em.

  My Mama on Myspace

  February 20, 2006

  My mother and I have always had somewhat of a weird co-existence. She had me when she was fifteen, and then eleven days later, she turned sixteen. I have vague memories of her playing handball wearing little short-shorts, tennis shoes, and long socks. She had an afro to rival Foxy Brown. I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I suppose every little girl thinks of her mother that way. My parents' teenage romance ended shortly after I was born. I often wondered what it would have been like to have had another sibling that came from both my mother and father together. Instead, I have siblings from their relationships that developed after they split.