Category Archives: Humor?

Welcome to the future.

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I’ve just read a blog post by the lovely and talented Edward Hotspur, it made me all introspective and thinky. He uses this service where your current self can send an email to your future self. I didn’t research the particulars, but it sounds like a pretty good idea. It made me think about what I would have said to myself now, if I wrote a letter to me a year ago. Other than “don’t drink the vodka,” I couldn’t come up with very much. This caused more introspective thinkiness.

I started this blog about a year ago, because I needed to do something that I was good at. Hear that? Yeah, that’s the sound of me tooting my own horn. I was really into it at first. I wrote everyday, sometimes twice a day..then people starting reading it and commenting…which was super cool…and continues to be…super cool. I thought “Hey, maybe I could make a living doing this, if I’m honest and passionate about the things I write about, people will be able to tell, and maybe someone will pay me to do something I love”. That hasn’t happened, yet. I’m not sure that it ever will. I’m ok with this. I do it anyway. This, I’m told, is what people do when they love something. I doesn’t matter if they get paid, if they ever find success, if they ever get rewarded, they just do. I am reminded of this everytime I log on to Facebook and someone that hates their life is encouraging me by posting a picture of a kitten with the phrase “follow you’re dreams” on it. What kittens and poor grammar have to do with finding my purpose in life, I’m not sure.

Hotspur’s post really screwed with my day. Instead of doing laundry and mopping the floor, I just sat and thought…well, that was after I had my own living room dance party, while the boyfriend napped on the couch, but the sitting and thinking followed. I kept going over what “then me” would have said to “now me”. I probably would have encouraged myself to keep trudging along and be a voracious writer. My current life got in the way of me going out and getting the life I really want. It’s hard to write everyday. I stopped being honest and passionate. I stopped writing about the things I really wanted to write about, because the people in my life that I was writing about weren’t amused by my honesty and passion. I got tired of hearing “This is embarrassing. You know, my friends and/or family read this?”. It took the wind out of my sails, I didn’t tell anyone to read it in the first place. I haven’t perfected my mind control skills yet, if I had, right now you’d be compelled to make yourself a bowl of chocolate ice cream and send me a hundred dollars. If people that I don’t know are reading my words, it’s not because I alerted them to the existence of the blog…it’s because you did. I was worried that I’d hurt some feelings. I made a conscious decision not to spill my innermost, private thoughts on the internet, for the reading enjoyment of at least five people. I’m kinda mad at myself for it. Then me is really pissed at now me.

I wrote a letter, it’s still in my head but once I get it on paper it’s going to say something like this: Dearest Scarp, Don’t drink the vodka. Don’t censor yourself, if they really love you they’ll forgive you. Take some of your own advice and be passionate. xoxo, Scarp.

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Psy is a moron.

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Sometimes I have tunnel vision.  I get so focused on what I’m doing that the rest of the world ceases to exist, then something happens that makes me take a look around and say “What the fuck is going on?”.  I had one of those moments today.  I was watching the “Today” show.  I use the term “watching” very loosely here…I mean it was on and I was walking past the TV.  I find it to be the least obnoxious of the network morning news shows.  It has nothing to do with what they report or how they report it, I think I just prefer the sound of the voices. That, and I really enjoy Willard Scott trying to coherently wish octogenarians a happy birthday.  I can’t decide whether the suits at the Today show have a really sick sense of humor and they get their rocks off by making us watch his brain slowly deteriorate into the consistency of strawberry jam…or he pre-games with Kathie Lee and Hoda every morning…and they all get Smuckered before the cameras start rolling.  It gives me great pleasure to know that even on the days when I can’t get my ass in gear…I’ll always be more alert that Willard.

Anyway, so it was usual mindless drivel, videos of dogs howling, and the anchors doing their best not to talk about the Middle East going to absolute shit. Then, they all started talking about the musical guest of the day and how excited they were.  They were raving about this dude, his name is Psy.  Have you seen him?  You have to have seen him. Well, if you haven’t..you’re very lucky…unless..of course you’re blind…and in that case…yeah, I’m an asshole.

The only way I can accurately describe Psy is…he’s what happens when a laboratory unsuccessfully combines the DNA of Richard Simmons, Fun Dip, and a nameless, rejected Pokemon character.  He was performing in “The Plaza”, as they call it, for hundreds of adoring fans (whom I would like to nominate for immediate euthanization).  I think he’s supposed to be a singer or something, but it sounded to me like he was reciting the P.F. Chang’s menu over a muzak version of “Who let the dogs out?”.  Psy is evidently spearheading a national movement to dress like Liberace while channeling the dance moves of your drunk Uncle Chuck at your High School Graduation party.   If you don’t have a drunk Uncle Chuck, you know someone that does. He’s the guy that brings his own beer coozie to every event and tries to mesmerize the ladies with his “shopping cart” swag once the Natty Light kicks in.

Every so often America goes through a strange, foreign, dance craze thing…it may be because I’m getting older, but this one is really painful to watch…more so than the Macarena.  What’s even more painful is the level of production that goes into a Psy performance.  He has an intricate wall of lights flashing behind him. I advise you not to look directly at the wall o’ lights…because…I assume that’s how he gains control of your mind and makes you believe he actually has talent.  There are also back-up dancers, I legitimately feel bad for them.  Can you imagine having to go through life knowing that your 15 minutes was riddled with the ugly shame of being “Psy Back-up Dancer # 3”?

Seriously?  What is wrong with people?  Yes, yes…we all need a little brevity now and again.  This isn’t brevity, this is stupid. Hey, fun fact: “Gangnam Style” actually means “dance like a jackass” in Korean.

I move that Psy and Kim Kardashian get their own reality show, where they are sent to a remote island in the South Pacific and we get to watch as they forget how to breathe.  So say we one, so say we all.

Get well soon.

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Keep in mind it hovers somewhere between 90 degrees and “Holy shit it’s hot!” here in sunny South Florida during the summer months.  I was curled up on the couch, wearing two sweatshirts, three pairs of socks, and some track pants I can assure you have never been near a track.  I don’t know why I have these pants, you may have noticed…I’m no Flo Jo.  I like to look as unattractive as humanly possible when I’m not feeling well…the pièce de résistance is the ill-fitting, sagging in the ass, navy “exercise” pants, with the racing stripes down the sides.  They scream “speed” as I assume the fetal position and pray for death.

“Mommy, are you sick?” I managed to respond with something other than a guttural noise, “yep”.  “Can we go to the park?”.  “No park”. “Scooter walk?”… “No scooter walk”. “Pool?”. “Arrgh! No, I’m not leaving the couch.  Please, find something to do and find it in your room!”.  At this point I was experiencing all of the pleasantries of the flu:  high fever, chills, sweating, aches, vomiting, runny nose, sore throat, and coughing up a yellowish/greyish/greenish substance reminiscent of alien afterbirth. Plus, I was wearing the pants.  The boy knew there was no chance of fun, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. “CanIhavesome chocolatemilk?”.

“Everything in my room is boring.  I want to watch Monster Trucks or torque trucks…in the mud on the internet.  T-O-R-Q-U-E…see?  If I can spell it I can watch it”.  I hate when he uses my words against me, especially when my words involve education.  I really just didn’t want to move.  He was doing his little spelling dance,  which is a variation of my little spelling dance.  I started doing it to keep him focused on me when I was trying to teach him how to spell his name.  Now, it would seem that I am unable to spell anything without it’s assistance. It’s much cuter when he does it, trust me.  There is nothing charming about a 30-something year old women marching in place and gesticulating like a Mouseketeer while trying to spell “acetaminophen”.  I didn’t have the energy to argue,  I turned on video of a truck pull and tried to pretend that I didn’t just willingly expose my child to the youTube ramblings of some inbred cousin-fucker at the county fair who thinks pulling stuff with a vehicle specifically designed to pull stuff is a spectator sport.  It makes no sense to me, none at all.

I debated leaving the couch for the comfort of my bed…but I knew that this would only result in the boy running into my room every six seconds to give me a report on the truck videos.  It’s nice to be needed, but…you know…not all the time.   If I weren’t sick he wouldn’t want anything to do with me, somehow, the first signs of a cold triggers his need to be an inch from my face.

“I’ll just get myself some chocolatemilk,” he chirped as he bounced into the kitchen.  I have been encouraging independence, but cleaning up a gallon of milk and store-brand chocolate syrup off of the kitchen floor was not on my list of things to do.  “I’ll get it,” I wheezed as I tried to beat him to the fridge. In addition to the possibiliy of a milk tsunami,  I didn’t want him to see that his favorite beverage was now being made with something other than Hershey’s.  He’s been consuming a lot of store-brand food as of late, so far he has not caught on to my clever ruse.  Much like every child in America with access to a television…he prefers to dine on cuisine that has a commercial featuring a cartoon character, a catchy jingle, and a ridiculously high retail price.  He’s been eating knock-off Lucky Charms…I think they’re called Happy Stars or something like that…for about a week.  What they really should be called is marshmallows, monosodium glutamate, and crack.

I got to the fridge before my son, threw open the door, and cracked a little smile.  The contents of our refrigerator is starting to resemble one of an actual family and not the cooling receptacle of a bachelor.  We finally have more than coffee creamer, beer, and a jar of pickles being kept at a consistent temperature.  We moved about a month ago, we’re no longer living with my folks.  I envisioned the sweet sound of independence to sound more like birds singing…and not a persistent cough, sporadic puking, and whining of a bored child…but whatever, I’ll take what I can get.

‘Twas the night before Kindergarten…

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“Lunch, pants, beer,”  I repeated to myself as I fumbled around the kitchen.  I couldn’t get the zip loc baggies open.  The grapes I was trying to corral were slipping from my clutches.  I’ve never had a problem with plastic sandwich bags before, it was clearly nerves. ‘ Twas the night before kindergarten…and I was a wreck.  I changed my mantra…”Beer, lunch, pants”.  The boy was in bed, and I assumed, blissfully unaware of how insane his mother was driving herself with selecting the perfect snacks to accompany his peanut butter and jelly sandwich for his first ever cafeteria lunch.

It’s a good thing children are short, and therefore their clothing requires very little actual ironing.  I’m not exactly domestic, but I was giving it the old college try…well, community college try, to make sure my son didn’t feel self conscious as he tackled this new thing called elementary school.  I only mildly singed some arm hair as I reached for my beer over the iron.

I don’t remember my first day of kindergarten.  I couldn’t tell you what I ate for lunch, what I wore, or what neurotic things my mother obsessed about the night before.  I know this logically, so I’m not sure why I was acting this way.

We had an orientation of sorts the Friday before.  We got to see his classroom, meet his teacher, and tour the school. When we walked into the school it was pretty clear that the boy wasn’t impressed.  “What do you think, buddy?” I asked, overly expressing, like a Mary Kay sales woman.  Those bitches must get a free case of Valium or Ripple with every lip gloss they sell, because they’re entirely too happy about make-up.  I couldn’t believe I was acting this way…I sometimes do the hyper-gleeful schtick, hoping that my excitement will somehow rub off on him.  “I think it sucks, Mom,” he replied…totally on to me.  “I don’t think I’m gonna do the kindergarten thing,  I’ll just hang out with Grandpa and…you know…be a rock star.  Rock stars don’t go to school or eat chicken nuggets.  We discussed this, remember?”  I did remember, we have discussed this…he’s right about the rock stars not going to school…but, I wasn’t quite sure about the nuggets.  Rock stars would almost have to eat nuggets, something has to soak up the Southern Comfort.

I ignored his disgust and showed him the music room, which was equipped with a bitchin’ blue drum set.  Blue, I was recently informed, is my son’s new favorite color.  “Look baby, they can teach you how to be a rock star  It’s the right color and everything,” I said, grasping at anything I could to make this a positive experience.  “I’m not a baby, and drummer’s aren’t rock stars.  But, it might be something I can work with”.  I was getting shut down at every turn, and cursing my brother under my breath.  My brother is our family’s resident musician.  He can actually play the guitar, very well.  I just get drunk, climb up on stage, and sing, poorly. Uncle Mike isn’t a fan of drummers, I’m not sure why…you’d have to ask him.  “No nephew of mine is going to beat on the drums like a moron,” were his actual words.  Soon after he said this, my boy got his first electric guitar and amplifier.  Do I think Uncle Mike thinks that all drummers are morons?  No, I think it was a rare emotional outburst prompted by my brother wanting to mold my boy into a loud, long-haired, anti-establishment, nugget of awesome.  Aside for the hair thing, he pretty much came out of the womb this way.  I’m going to pay for this,  it’s already started.

The first day of school went pretty much as expected,  everyone’s mommy is reprimanded by two separate police officers on the way in, right?  “No, mommy isn’t going to get arrested.  No, the police officer doesn’t mean it.  Just keep walking, pretend he isn’t there,”   I said, as I tried to get him through the door of the school before the officer caught up to us.  It’s the first day of school, there was an entire fleet of vehicles resting on the berm.  I figured there was some kind of allowance, a parking “hall pass”, if you will.   Yes, I am aware that a traffic cop can arrest you.  I am also aware that parking on the sidewalk is illegal.  No, you shouldn’t park on the sidewalk just because everyone else is doing it.  I was trying to show the boy the importance of arriving to school on time.  I decided to forego the lesson on the whole “being considerate of others” bullshit.  I dropped him at his classroom and kissed his forehead.  He wiped my kiss away and stated “Tomorrow, I’m taking that damn bus,”.  “That’s not appropriate language, pal.” I whispered.  “Whatever.  Tomorrow, we bus.  I don’t want have to tell my teacher you got arrested”.  He made a valid point

As I exited the school, the second very angry police officer I totally pissed off was waiting for me by my car.  “You do realize that because you parked on the sidewalk, that guy had to walk around you!?”  he yelled within two inches of my face.  “That guy?” I asked, as I pointed at the slightly rotund man huffing down the sidewalk.  I bit my tongue and smiled, I was fighting back the urge to demand that the man thank me for forcing him to walk a few more steps…because, well, he didn’t have the physique of a “walker”.   I’m not judging, but it appeared that exercise isn’t this guy’s thing.  The cop picked the wrong guy to make an example of.  He knew it.  He’d already chosen the hard-nosed approach and caused a scene…he had to keep it going.  I understood.  At the end of his tirade I looked at him. “Tomorrow, we bus,” I said, quoting my son.  “What!!!?”  Officer Asshole yelled.  “My child will be a bus rider from here on out,  I’d hate to be a danger to society or… guys…who…uh, willingly walk into oncoming traffic”.  I was taking a chance here, I never really think about things like this…they just come out of my mouth.

He made it a point to tell me that he was issuing me a verbal warning, and walked away to scold some guy driving a minivan.  This guy was trying to jump the curb, while on his cell phone…someone can always out-do you, if you give it enough time.  As nervous as I am about putting my little man on a big yellow bus in the morning, I’m going to allow him to spread his wings…just a little.  Tomorrow, we bus.

Walking contradiction.

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There were three people, other than myself, seated in the waiting room.  The old man kept getting up to annoy the receptionist.  I was actively trying not to make eye contact and pretending to be engrossed in my phone.  I could hear the glass sliding window open and close at two minute intervals.  “That young women is next, Mr. Levy,” the receptionist finally said. “Fantastic,” I thought.  I was the only person that could be classified as young in the room, and the receptionist had just thrown me to the geriatric wolves.  He sat down again, this time closer to me.  “This is ridiculous. I just have to have my prescription refilled, do you mind if we go ahead of you?”  he asked.  I did mind.  I minded a lot.  I looked up from my phone and smiled.  “I have to get back to work, I’m sorry.  I’m in a hurry, too,” I responded, hoping that would be the end of it.  Mr. Levy was not satisfied with my response, Mrs. Levy started to explain why I should let them go ahead of me.  I wasn’t listening.  I was trying to figure out why I had just apologized for making my appointment in the time slot before them and having a life. The nerve of me. I’ve always been taught to respect my elders, maybe that’s why I did it.  Mrs. Levy was talking about Bunko.  Bunko does not trump getting back to the office, even if it’s the last game you’ll be able to play with The Liebowitz’s before they take the train back to Jersey.

“What’s so interesting about that phone, anyway?  My grandson does the same thing.  Don’t you kids talk to anyone face to face anymore?”  I suspected that the Levy-ling was using technology as a way to ignore the prying questions from his grandparents, but I wasn’t going to divulge any state secrets.   “Why are you here, anyway?  You don’t have any reason to be depressed.  You need to find a nice young man.  My grandson Ira is studying to be a doctor.  I bet you two would hit it off, you could sit with each other and poke those stupid phones,” Mr. Levy announced, as he crossed his arms and sat back in his chair.  Mrs. Levy coughed loudly,  not because she was trying to clear her throat,  it was the “stop talking” cough.  She was motioning with her eyes to my foot, my left foot to be specific.  Her face was contorted in an expression of disgust.  Once she got her husband’s attention, they both sat staring.

Judging by their reactions, you’d think I had an artistic rendering of Wilford Brimley, Molly McButter, and John Wayne Gacy engaged in a sadomasochistic game of naked yard darts, tattooed from my knee to my toes. While this wouldn’t be a bad idea, I can assure you that my foot only sports a non-offensive, quatro-syllabic english word, written in a tasteful script.  It’s flanked by some old school pinstriping.  Why should cars get to have all the fun?  “What does that say?” Mr. Levy finally asked.  “It says contradiction,” I replied, thankful that he had stopped trying to take my appointment and introduce me to Ira.  “Why does it say that?” he inquired further.  “Because…”disaster”…would have been a bit too honest,”  I answered. “It’s on your foot!” he blurted out, still quite puzzled.  “I’m a walking contradiction,” I explained dryly.  I’m not the only person on the planet with deliberate, permanent scarring on my body.  People always seem to react to this tattoo strangely.  It was a spontaneous thing.  Had I thought about it for longer than a hour…I might have talked myself out of it.  But, I didn’t.  Unless I lose my foot in a terrible accident involving farm equipment it’s there forever.  I never considered the fact that I’d have to spend the rest of my life explaining it to people…who are nosey, judgmental, and don’t share my sense of humor.  It’s funny, anyone that can’t see that is an asshole…albeit not as large of an asshole as the women with the tattoo on her foot.  It’s ok, I’m not competing with anyone here.

The doctor finally came to rescue me “C’mon in, Sara.  Mr. Levy, Holly has your paperwork ready,” he said, ushering me in before Mr. Levy could get a word in edgewise.  I have never been so happy to see a mental health professional.  I am actively trying to manage this terrible thing called depression.  Mr. Levy is right, I don’t have anything to be depressed about, but still, it persists. I finally decided to go get some help, because trying to deal with it on my own is failing…miserably.  I wish I could just jump over a broom and make it go away, but, all of my efforts to “think happy thoughts” have been futile. Normal people can shake off the the blues. I am not normal…and this is more than the blues.  This is more like…the navy’s.  It’s not like what you see in the antidepressant commercials, where a little cartoon rain cloud follows you around all day, raining, and making everything gloomy.  I’d be stoked if a cartoon cloud floated above my head on a daily basis.  I’d be like “Hey, this is my cloud, Stuart.  Stuart, rain on some shit, make a rainbow, and then freak people out with your little cartoon eyes”. There is nothing cute about depression.  It’s something people don’t talk about…but, just because it makes people uncomfortable doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

If I had diabetes, I’d be free to speak about it in whatever forum I saw fit.  I don’t have diabetes.  I have a drill sergeant, with a 14 year old mean girl mentality, in my head with unsupervised access to all of my insecurities, yelling at me and pointing out my flaws…all the time. All the fucking time.  It’s awful.  Admitting to this doesn’t make me weak or crazy.  I’d be weak and crazy if I allowed it to take over.  I’m not going to let it win.  It almost did, I started to think that I was unimportant and life would be much better if I wasn’t here. I am aware that this is not the way a healthy person thinks.  I stopped doing the things I love, like writing.  People noticed, they started asking why I wasn’t posting to the blog.  I made excuses, I’m not doing that anymore.  The reason I stopped writing was because I was going bat-shit crazy and I was ashamed.  I was ashamed that life was kicking my ass and I couldn’t hold it down.  I was ashamed that I wasn’t strong enough to deflect the negative things that were being said to me, internalized them, dissected them, and ultimately believed them.  I’m not ashamed anymore…and furthermore…fuck you.

There are plenty of people in my life that have said “You’re fine, you don’t need those drugs,” I’m not fine, and yes I do.  I am the only one in my head, I know how mean I am to myself.  If you’d like to judge, go ahead. I just want you to have to proper tools, so you can judge intelligently.  I intend to move forward from this, and leave the negativity behind, where it needs to be.  If you are one of those people that doesn’t understand depression, I hope I’ve given you a description that you provides you the ability to assess what it’s like for a person dealing with it.  Yes, it’s all in my head.  I’m aware of that.  I didn’t invite it in for tea and crumpets, nor do I  want to spend the afternoon entertaining it with pictures from my summer vacation. It’s leaving, whether it wants to or not.

Wednesdays with Rodney

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Rodney called again today, like he does every week to check on me. Such a nice boy. I became acquainted with him about three years ago.  Every Wednesday morning, like clockwork, my phone rings. Recognizing the number on the caller I.D, I usually answer it  “This call is for Say-ra Car-pin-tar,  if you are not Say-ra Car-pin-tar, please hang-up.  If you are Say-ra Car-pin-tar, I need to ad-vise you,” blah, blah, blah.  My name is a grand total of five syllables, it’s not exactly a tongue twister, yet Rodney always seems to fuck it up.  The way he pronounces it makes me think he learned everything he knows about diction from a Speak & Spell. I have never actually seen Rodney, but if by happenstance I struck up a conversation with him in a smokey bar, I might assume that he had a different profession. His deep, monotone voice, automated personality and strange speech patterns are reminiscent of…someone who makes a living…I don’t know…sucking dicks in exchange for crystal meth.

Rodney has been my “account advisor” on a credit card account gone horribly wrong for quite some time.  He works for a law firm in the area that has been given the posthumous assignment of trying to get me to pay the money back.  I’ve always been incredibly honest with him.  “Yeah, I can’t pay you, Rodney.  It was looking good for a while, but not so much anymore.” I said this week.  I’m not lying, things were looking up.  I was given a raise and full-time hours at my current place of employment.  The raise I was planning on, the full-time gig was quite by accident.

The month of May has taught me many an important lesson, the most poignant? Humans are extremely flammable, especially when they are coated in gasoline.  I have a co-worker, who is a lovely woman with a charming British accent and two grown children.  Both of her children live halfway across the planet, one of them owns a farm and I assume, also has a charming British accent.  While working on the farm a few weeks ago, she decided to clear some brush by burning it.  The ground was moist and to speed up the process she added an accelerant,  everything was going to plan until the wind shifted, thereby causing her and the brush to burst into flames.  Can you say ouch? Yeah, it’s a terrible situation. I was asked to fill in for my co-worker while she tended to her daughter.

I’m not a monster, I was in no way doing a happy dance because someones life took a turn for the suck.  I wasn’t sitting around thanking the heavens that I was going to be able the capitalize off of misery, but I was glad that I’d be able to help out the nice people I work for and put in a few more hours.  I was kinda feeling like I was going to be able to get back on track, save some money and pay some things off. That feeling lasted all of 96 hours, it ended abruptly when my grandmother died.

My grandmother, in addition to being the woman that birthed my mother, was also my tenant.  She lived in my condo with her full time caregiver.  In exchange for not having to live in one of those boarding schools for old people, she helped me with the bills there.  Her passing has put me in a financial situation that “fucked” can’t begin to describe.  Thunderfucked doesn’t even cut it.  Yeah, it’s pretty bad.

I dealt with deafening sonic boom of reality crashing down on my face the way every 33 year old woman living in my body deals with stress, I drank a bottle of wine…then decided to file bankruptcy.  It seems like the cowards way out,  I don’t particularly like the thought of this.  There just doesn’t seem to be any way around it.  I keep reminding myself it’s like every event in life. Millions of people have done it before me. Millions of people are doing it right now, but for some reason I feel like it’s a private psychosis.  Weddings, babies, divorces…most of us have been through something like this…but we all tend to act like these events are life experiences that only we’re having when we’re going through them.

After speaking with an attorney, I found out…that I don’t have enough money to file for bankruptcy.  How fucking hilarious is that? I’m so screwed that I can’t even legally claim that I haven’t got a damnthing [intentional omission of space for comic effect]. I have to save money to claim I have none…is anyone else laughing at the irony here?

I probably should have kept this to myself, but then that applies to a lot of things in my life.  I decided to share.  For the past few years, I’ve been making myself sick worrying about financial obligations.   I’m tired.  I want out.  I know I’m not the only one that feels this way.  I concluded, in the company of both Ernest and Julio Gallo, that this is bullshit and I shouldn’t have to spend my whole life worrying.   While I will miss my Wednesday’s with Rodney, I know he’s only calling for one thing.  He’ll have to find someone else.

“Casual Friday” in Douchebagotropolis

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Picasso had his blue period, Hefner had his blonde period, and I am having my I can’t get shit on paper period, period.  I feel like every ounce of creativity has been sucked right out of me, this must be the way Britney Spears has felt her entire life. The usual 800 insane things bouncing off the interior walls of my cranium have been replaced with other things.  These thoughts are not entertaining, not even to me. I’ve been this way for the past few months.  This is strange and I’d like it to stop.  Incidentally, I’m so distracted I just walked into my own bathroom, turned on the lights, startled a little green lizard on the tile floor, said “Oh, sorry.  I didn’t know anyone was in here,” and closed the door.  I was halfway across the house to use the other bathroom when I realized what I had done.

Yeah, we have lizards here in South Florida.  Little ones, they’re always scurrying around and sneaking into the house.  We have big ones too. They don’t scurry and you’d notice right away if one of those sonsabitches walked into your living room…your first clue would be that your dog is missing.   I’m not sure if you have them anywhere else, I mean, I know that lizards exist elsewhere.  But, I’m pretty sure those places are not Iowa.  Iowans have potatoes, they’re slow moving and there’s a lot of really delicious things that can be done with the potato…lizards…not so much.

You can always tell a tourist here, because they’re leery of the lizards.  It’s ok folks, they don’t bite, well actually they do…just not very hard.  You have to have great hand/eye coordination to find that out.  Mostly our tourists are of the drunk variety, ergo, very little coordination at all.  I met some tourists of the Iowan persuasion this past week, they were neither intoxicated nor lizard-phobic.  Their names were Rusty and Big Hoss, well those probably aren’t their names at all…but it is what we called them.  Rusty might have actually been introduced as Rusty, or that may have been what was written on his t-shirt- it’s hard to say. Big Hoss was tall and did not bear any resemblance to the guy on Bonanza.  I’m pretty sure his name was Bob.  Anyway, he and Rusty were visiting one of the boyfriend’s friends.  They might have been two of the most polite people I’ve ever met.  Behind closed doors they could be card carrying members of The Third Reich…but on the surface they were gentlemen.  I’m still a little worried that they didn’t know what to make of the boyfriend, he is kind of a force of nature in the personality department…and he tends to give everyone a nickname.

We met up with them at an outdoor purveyor of dollar draft beers one night.  They did a lot of standing around and observing, at some point Rusty apologized to me for interrupting me in conversation.  This is either before or after I wandered away from the group and got up on stage to sing with the band (the guitar player insisted).  For the record, I don’t recall him interrupting me at all and even if he did, I probably wasn’t saying anything profound anyway.

A few days later we met up with them at the beach…this was weird day.  Initially, it was just me and 10 dudes on the sand.  There was enough testosterone surrounding me that I was afraid I was going to start sprouting chest hair through osmosis.  They all sat around ogling bikini fillers and I tried not to feel invisible.  It started to rain, and the lifeguards evicted us from the shore….something about lightning and danger…wussies.

The boys went back to the car and I took the opportunity to meet my friend Leah at the “World Famous Elbo Room.”   If you ever see Leah and I in a picture, looking like we’re having a fantastic time, we totally are. She is fun in flip-flops.  The Elbo is two-story building on a corner of A1A and a street you’ll never remember the name of even if I told you.  There’s an upstairs bar, a downstairs bar, and an outside bar. It’s a shithole, a very busy shithole.  If you get down this way I recommend you stop in for a drink, just remember they only accept cash and no one gives a rat’s ass where you’re from or how much money you make.  It only looks like it’s tourist friendly, it’s not. Also, if you ever come visit sunny Fort Lauderdale, please refrain from telling every sun-kissed blonde you meet that you’re “still wasted from the night before and your feet hurt from dancing.”  It’s probable that she lives here, has enough beer in her system to send you staggering to the nearest trash can to puke, and isn’t going to dance with you…no matter how much money you claim to make.

I’m told The Elbo Room is famous for being in a 1950’s surfer movie no one has ever seen.  It is not famous for its cleanliness.  It always smell like a whale’s unmentionables in there.  Charming, I know.  As we stood trying to decipher what the pleasant aroma was, a man struck up a conversation with us.  He looked normal enough, until he whipped out his iPhone and showed us a close-up photo of his crotch.  In the picture, he was fully clothed in khakis and a button down shirt, so it must have been “Casual Friday” in Douchebagotropolis.  Conversations like this send a normal person running in the opposite direction, I think you’ve figured out by now….this girl….not normal.  As Leah dragged me away from the creeper, I was in the midst of inquiring exactly why he had a crotch self-portrait in his phone while contemplating challenging him to a dance-off to see just how wasted he was, and she…was laughing.

The moral of this story is fourfold. The little reptiles are harmless.  Steve Jobs didn’t intend for you to use his phone that way, you filthy prick.  Rusty and Big Hoss are always welcome.  Thank you Leah.

Don’t pee in the pool.

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“I have to PEEEEEEEE!!!!,” my son shouted at me for the 86th consecutive time from the confines of the community pool.   It’s his new thing, announcing his need to perform basic human functions at a decibel that can be heard from anywhere in a 3 block radius.  I’m used to it, but the gaggle of condo commandos that had congregated under an umbrella at a table near the pool were obviously unnerved. They all turned to look at me, their skin permanently bronzed and leathery from years of retired-life sitting underneath a palm tree in the Florida sun.  I’m not judging, good for them…but holy shit, there’s this stuff…it’s called sunscreen…when applied liberally to the epidermis, it can help prevent you from looking like a talking saddle in a Hawaiian shirt.

As the sound of Frank Sinatra reverberated off of the buildings surrounding the pool, they asked to borrow one another’s reading glasses to inspect the “musicpod thing” one of them had ordered from “the inter-web”.  I dutifully grabbed a towel and escorted the boy to the bathroom.  His little dripping body was leaving a puddley trail of footprints the entire way.  I didn’t want them to think I was letting the boy use the pool as a giant urinal.  He giggled, pretending to be a Tyrannosaurus Rex making tracks to be discovered by a “Paweontowogist”  (that’s Paleontologist, for those of you that don’t speak 4 year old) as we strolled past the judging eyes of the Condominium Association Elite. The alpha male of the AARP members, a big guy, who used to be a New York cop, called out to me “Don’t let him have an accident! Hey, and when you gonna cut that kid’s hair? He looks like a fairy, for God’s sake,” as he gesticulated wildly.  I smiled and said “Never”.  It wasn’t the “I’m sorry my kid is interrupting your Sunday Jazz and incontinence breakfast” smile.  No, it was the “I’ve peed in your pool and I’m probably gonna do it again” smile.  They’ve done it too, everyone has.  Just because you stand around telling people where to park and yelling at kids for running on the patio doesn’t mean you’re immune to being too lazy to get out of the water when you have to go.  As far as his hair goes, I like it long and until my son demands that I shave it all off, it’s going to bounce off of his shoulder blades.

Ever since my son mastered the art of using a toilet it’s become quite the topic of conversation in my home. It’s like some mythical portal. If it weren’t for human waste and automobiles, the only thing the kid would probably say to me is “I don’t want to talk right now”. When he’s not using the can himself, he’s offering its services to anyone he thinks could benefit from taking a big dump.  We don’t entertain a lot, but last week during a family dinner he took it upon himself to tell my Aunt Lois that “if she needed to frow-up or had to poop, she could use his bafroom”.  Aunt Lois didn’t appear to be experiencing any gastro-intestinal distress, but perhaps he thought if there was a sudden issue he’d give her his blessing.  I’m always telling him that he needs to make our company feel welcome…his interpretation is totally not what I meant.

My mother is always quick to point out that “none of her children acted this way” in regards to the fascination with the toilet.  I’d like to point out that I have yet to visit the emergency room to have a french fry removed from neither my son’s left or right nostril, nor has a volunteer fire department been called to assist his safe extraction from the boughs of an extremely tall pine tree.  I’m not discounting my mothers parenting skills, I’m just stating the facts.

I’m not worried about his fixation, something else will take its place in a few months.  I worked with a girl who’s kindergarten aged son was obsessed with Justin Beiber a few years ago.  Every time the kid heard his music or someone said his name he would shriek and go into a trance-like state singing “Baby, baby, baby…ooooh” and do a little leaping jig.  Yeah, I’d talk about shit…using a bullhorn…on the courthouse steps with my son everyday, rather than have to endure that embarrassment.

This is an attempt to collect a debt…

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I was in my son’s room clawing through a large blue plastic bin, filled to the brim with tiny, plastic monster trucks. “I should just dump it out, that’ll make this easier,” I suggested out loud to myself. Make what easier, you ask?  I forget.  That’s been happening to me more often than I’d like to admit lately, I can’t seem to complete a thought without some kind of interruption.  My internal monologue just can’t keep up with the to-do list. Somehow, “find my car keys” gives way to “hey, where’d that bruise come from?” and in a spilt second turns into “I was just doing something…hmmm…what was I in here for? Oh, I know..fold the laundry.”

“Mommy, can you shut-up, please?  I’m twying to concentwate,” my boy asked as he sat atop a pile of stuffed animals.  “It’s not nice to tell people to shut-up,” I corrected. The sound of my voice was muffled by the hood of my sweatshirt, which had slid around the side of my neck and was actively trying to suffocate me.  “What? I said please,” I was surprised that he’d actually heard me. “Did you find the white car yet?” Right! The white car…that’s what I was looking for.  No sooner did I refocus when the phone rang, it was a bill collector.  My phone rarely rings anymore with someone I’d actually like to speak with on the other end.

After I was advised that this call may be monitored for quality assurance and this was an attempt to collect a debt, I started laughing.  Do I think owing someone money is funny? Nope.  Do I enjoy being badgered by some snotty bitch who’s just learned the correct way to use the word irrelevant? Not at all.  What’s humorous about this situation is that I knew exactly how it was going to end before she even finished verifying that I was, in fact, the very delinquent Sara Carpenter.  If you’ve never been lucky enough to have to politely decline that advances of a collection company…good for you…and can I borrow some money?

“Ms. Carpenter, why are you laughing? This is a very serious matter,” the nasal voice scolded  me.  Why is it that some people think that by putting on a head-set and sitting at a desk surrounded by three felt covered walls gives them all the powers of Grayskull?  Who are you to tell me what’s funny and what isn’t?  I saw terrifying footage of a news reporter being mauled by a pit-bull the other day…laughed my ass off.  Funny is a personal decision. “No, it isn’t.  It’s an unpleasant situation. Serious implies that the balance of the free world hangs in my ability to repay what I owe,” I replied.  Two can play this game.

“You do realize that while you’re laughing your credit score is being damaged by this unresolved amount due?,” the condescension continued.  “You have my account history in front of you.  My laughter is irrelevant.  I’m sure that you can see that my credit is already sufficiently screwed.”  “We don’t used that kind of language here.”  “What kind of language? English?  Well, my Latvian is rusty, but for the purposes of keeping with the professional nature of this conversation…I’ll try.”  “That’s not what I was saying,” she continued.  “Oh, right. You were saying that I wasn’t allowed to laugh, telling me which words I can use to describe my financial situation, and implying that I am blissfully unaware that I can’t pay my bills.“  “No, I believe you misunderstood me.  I’d like to help you resolve this matter, while I have you on the phone I’d like to update our records.  Are you working and if so, may I have the name of your place of employment?”  “My comprehension level in regards to the English language is rather extensive. I suggest you pay more attention to what you are actually communicating as your attitude is being perceived as combative, superfluous, and my personal favorite… condescending!”  “What?” “To recap: treating me like a moron is unnecessary and will only afford me the opportunity to prove that you are an idiot. Get to the point sweetheart, you can Google the big words on your own time,” and then there was silence.  No amount of “heellllooooo? Are you still there?” was going to get around the fact that I’d been hung-up on.  I hate being hung-up on, almost as much as I hate being told what’s funny and what isn’t. Perhaps she is anti-Google? Or maybe she didn’t like the fact that I wasn’t about to be brow-beaten by a twit with a script and a quota. The world will never know.

“Mommy, who are you using big worwds on this time?” my son asked as he balanced a ginormous, floppy, yellow stuffed chicken on his head.  “No one, honey.” “I fed the piggy $1.36 wast night, you can have it if you need it” he said as he motioned to his piggy bank.  It’s amazing what a child can absorb from under the security of faux poultry, he knows that when I break out the large vocabulary I’m usually talking to someone about money.  It’s not that I enjoy deflating the egos of collection company employees (well, that’s not entirely true).  I know they’re just doing their job.  What I find irritating is the repeated phone calls and the manner in which they communicate,  they’re all bullies.  I owe the bank money, I know that these people are supposed to try and get it from me any way they can. Receiving phone calls at 15 minute intervals from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. is not going to make large sums of U.S. currency materialize in my bank account.  Nor is giving them the phone number to my place of employment so that they may harass me while I try to earn the money to pay them back.

It’s not like I just sat back and let the debt accrue, there was a time when I made regular payments to this collection company to clear up the balance.  When it became too difficult to make ends meet, I had to suspend the payments.  I told them I’d reinstate them when I could…and I meant it.  Until that time comes, I will probably just have to ignore the 256 “Unknown Number” calls that come in to my phone an a daily basis. Oh, and if you get a call from a collections agent who uses the words “superfluous” and ‘irrelevant” to describe your financial matters…well, you can thank your friendly neighborhood Scarp.

The Adventures of Super Skank

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“Sum1 just told me ur bf is out wif sum super skanky blond,” I read through the glow of my cell phone screen.  I hate texting abbreviations.  Most of the time these messages send me straight to Google to research what the kids are saying, the meaning of this one was pretty clear “your boyfriend is out with some super skanky blonde”.  I was devastated. I felt like I had been kicked in the gut and someone was smothering my face with a pillow pet.  Super skanky blonde? Really? This is what it all comes down to? Harsh.  With everything that is going on in my life, I guess I just didn’t realize…this is all my fault.  I should have listened to the advice, should have done some things different. I replied “Ha! Good one. Thanks for your concern, but it’s not what it looks like,”. I was trying to save face…and improper spelling makes me go ape-shit. Now I’m stuck wondering.  Where do I go from here?

It all started a few weeks ago, I began to notice that I was being treated differently.  Even though I was aware that I was being handled with kit gloves, I wasn’t really sure of the reasoning behind it.  People have been speaking very slowly to me and smiling more.  Not people that know me well, but the regular strangers I come in contact with on my daily travels.  You may be saying to yourself “Golly, that’s weird. Why would that happen?  Did you have an accident, Scarp? A head injury, maybe?” Or you could be saying “This isn’t Mayberry.  I don’t used the word “golly”.  Quit trying to put words in my mouth, you pushy bitch…and get to the friggin’ point.” Either way, I appreciate you reading up until this point, so I will explain.  I have accidentally, with the help of a very well-meaning beautician friend, bleached my hair platinum blonde.  I say accidentally, because we were going for a golden tone.  What we got was…um…a lovely hue of safety cone orange.  Apparently, the only way to fix this…is to cry…and then add more highlights. My boyfriend, who initially tried to sway me away from the at-home hair coloring, was kind enough not to say “I told you so, go put a hat on”.

I am the super skank that he is parading around town, the nerve of me.  Evidently people don’t spend a lot of time looking at my face, I’m just hair and boobs with feet.  We were at a bar on Friday night (shocking, I know) and one of the regular lady customers, who is usually very friendly, kept giving us the stink eye.  I was half-heartedly trying to put together a viable scenario that might explain her behavior.  It was only half-hearted…because, as I have mentioned before, I don’t particularly care what people think of me anymore. At some point during the evening she bumped into me.  It was one of those accidental/on purpose collisions…at first she was defensive…and then her demeanor changed.  “Oh my God! I didn’t know you were you!” she apologized…”that’s why I was giving you a dirty look, I was just about to come over and tell you that he has a girlfriend,”.  While I appreciate everyone looking out for the sanctity of my relationship, I wish they were more observant…and used friendlier words to describe my new look.

I was fair-haired before…even though my Gravitar says differently (Mom and Aunt Lois, a Gravitar is the picture thing that shows up on my blog).  It’s the only photo I have of myself where I’m not making a stupid and/or drunk face.  For the record, I’m not always drunk or making a strange expression…just when there’s a camera around.   I’ve been this blonde before, on purpose, but that was many Scarp’s ago.  I had nearly forgotten how this shade of hair color (or colour…if yer European) changes the way people interact with me.  At any moment, I expect someone to slap a helmet on my head and start calling me “Mongo” because I’m getting so much unsolicited help.  I actually had a stranger offer to help me work an ATM last week…an ATM! It’s not a complicated electronic device.  Later in the week, someone else ask me if I was Swedish because “he detected an accent”.  I was born in Ohio and I’ve lived in South Florida almost my entire life.  Remember your history lessons in elementary school when they talked about the Swedish sailing the ocean and conquering the great peninsula of Florida? Yeah, me neither.  I don’t have an accent…there is no European sounding indigenous tongue sprouting from the swamps down here…because everyone is from somewhere else.  If I did have an accent, it would probably be New York-ish in origin…because…that “somewhere else” where everyone else is from is usually one of the Five Boroughs.

This little foray into the world of the very blonde is proving to be abundantly entertaining. I’m probably going to keep it going for a while, at least until my roots start to show and a people realize that I’m a fraud.  Maybe I can transition unsolicited assistance into unsolicited cash donations. In the meanwhile, if you see my boyfriend out with a hooker-esque looking bimbo…don’t be alarmed.