Day 23: Weekend Update: Out of wine

The tissue box on my coffee table

I thought about doing one of those "sharing a bottle of wine" posts, but I'm out of Chardonnay. Lucky you. You get to see inside my head after I've had a glass of water to drink.

One of the weird things about writing a blog like mine -- one that has no theme and is rarely updated these days unless it's November -- is that I can never predict which posts will get attention. (The only reason for writing a blog is to get attention. I can't think of any other reason, can you?) About 98% of the time I'm writing after midnight, so I write, revise, edit, and publish all within anywhere from an hour to three hours. I go to bed not knowing what the response, if anything, will be to the piece of my heart I spread on this blank page like peanut butter.

The weird thing is, I can write something I think is brilliant decent. Maybe even better than decent. Something that has several clever plays on words, and a few funny bits, and a touch of poignancy. I pat myself on the back and go to bed to dream of the three comments I'll see under the post when I wake up. In the morning I check my Facebook and the comments here and .... nothing. Not even a like. I have to look out the window and make sure I'm not the last person left alive on Earth. I'm not. 

And then I might write one that I'm afraid sounds like I'm a whiny, insipid bitch and that nobody will read to the end, and much to my surprise that will be the one that strikes a chord with you guys. Like last night's post about mean memes. So far, it's November's most popular post, going by the number of comments. (Most of them are on Facebook so they won't be archived here.)

I don't think that says as much about the post as it does how very sick we all are of the lack of civility in this country, a lot of it driven by what we see on Facebook and what comes out of the White House. It's demoralizing. It wears our skin thin. And yet we don't dare look away ... it's like weighing myself before bed and first thing in morning every single fucking day. I just can't look away.

Several people have asked me how Crow is doing. I wrote about how he injured his leg here. He's better, but he's still limping. He's off his heavy meds and his spirits are good. He keeps sneaking up the stairs when I'm up here at my computer, so he can lay on his bed next to my desk like he's used to. Tonight he got up here and Sassy was on his bed, so he came over to me and begged for pets. He doesn't usually do that, so I petted him, which meant Sassy came over for pets too. As soon as she did, he limped over to his bed and reclaimed it. Pretty tricky.

I think he's going to have to go back to the vet for his constant ear infections though. (I could have bought a Lamborghini with the money I've spent on vet bills for his ear infections. If anybody has a cure for chronic ear infections, please share it.) I'll have the vet look at his leg too. I think it just takes time to heal from an injury like that.

I was listening to the podcast I mentioned in the first post this month, 10 Things that Scare Me. I don't usually pay attention to the ads and announcements, but I finally heard one of the producers say they want people to share their lists on their website and it might end up on the podcast. So I'm going to do that and maybe I'll get on! If you write your own list, you should share it too and let me know.

I've thought about doing a podcast here, but I don't really know how to produce such a thing. And then I thought maybe a vlog, but it would be me sitting in a dimly lit room with the Netflix fireplace playing off to the side, the dog snoring in the background, my face lit by the screen of my little laptop, reading my little post. I dunno. It doesn't sound that appealing to me. Also, what do you look like after midnight? I don't think any of you need to see that.

I'm in the middle of Brittany Runs a Marathon. (See trailer below.) In a minute I'm going to hit publish on this post and watch some more of it until I fall asleep on the couch. I love movies where the fat, lazy, loser girl does something that turns her life around and suddenly she's not a fat loser any more. I guess I still hope I can change the inevitable epitaph on my tombstone. Like I'll write that book or get that cool job or ... hell, I don't even know any more. I'm sure as hell not going to run a fucking marathon. I guess I'll go with finishing that movie and going to bed before 3:00 am.

Day 22: A letter to a mean girl

The other day somebody posted this in a Facebook group for women that I belong to. A group of over 12,000 that exists to support women. Lots of women laughed. Lots of women said they were going to start doing this. Some said they already did do it. One woman said she's going to make a commitment to do it at least once a week. Well, I have something to say to the person who posted it and to all the women who thought it was a good idea.

Unacceptable Schitts GIF from Unacceptable GIFs

I'll start with this disclaimer before I start kicking some ass: Yes, I have real problems. I have real shit to deal with. I probably shouldn't spend my time or my energy giving this another thought. This is why my mom always said I think too much. On the other hand, it pisses me off that mean girls grow up to be mean women, and also I haven't written a rant this month yet, so tonight I'm going to tell you what I think about this shit.

An open letter to anybody who thinks this is funny:

What the fuck is wrong with you? In this scenario we have three women: a woman whom you perceive is rich and snooty; you, the woman who thinks another woman -- a stranger -- is rich and snooty and who furthermore wants to put her in her place; and an unseen woman who works in a grocery store and probably thinks you're pretty snooty yourself.

Let's start with the rich and snooty woman. How the hell can you tell if a woman you don't even know is rich and snooty? By the way she dresses? What if she just came from a funeral? Or a job interview and she really hopes she got the job because they're about to lose their house and she didn't make a point of smiling at your stranger face because she's preoccupied with her own life? What if she just likes to look nice when she goes out? My guess is she's just minding her own fucking business and doesn't even know she's offended you just because you decided she is rich and snooty and will be offended when you ask her where the almond milk is. And my other guess is that you've been watching too much Schitt's Creek, but really, mean girl, what made you decide this particular woman should be the target of your desire for comeuppance?

Can you tell by the items in her cart? Is she buying truffles, $25/pound wild salmon, thick Kobe beef steaks, a case of Champagne .... what the hell do these rich bitches eat that the rest of us don't? And what the hell is in your cart that makes you so fucking proud? I'll tell you what I judge: a cart full of Cheetos and Fruit Loops and hot dogs and Capri Sun and Wonder Bread and Coke and ... Get my drift? But hey. If your cart is loaded down with fresh fruits and vegetables, lean free-range meat, hearty whole grains, and just a bit of slave-free dark chocolate, you win a ham sandwich! Judge away.

Maybe you can tell by the obvious Botox in her non-existent frown lines? By the fact that her face doesn't move even when you ask her where the toothpaste aisle is, even though your entire plan for the day is to fuck with her world? Or maybe her face didn't move because she wasn't offended that you think she works in a grocery store. More on that.

Can you tell by the tiny teacup poodle with a diamond collar in her handbag? By the color of her hair, which looks gorgeous and just a little too natural? The color of her skin? Shall we go there? Yeah, I didn't think so. How the fuck do you tell?

One of my many part-time jobs is to shop for someone who could probably be considered rich at a grocery store where lots of people who are wealthier than I will ever be shop. I have to tell you, I don't even notice if the other women there look rich or not. I couldn't tell you if they're snooty or not either, although I can tell you sometimes one will butt in line at the deli so I assume she's either rude or impervious to my death stare or preoccupied or simply stupid. If I were dressed up for some reason and went there to shop for someone else (for food that I will throw away a week later, but that's another issue), might you think I was rich and snooty? Might you ask me what aisle the tampons are in?

I don't really want to talk about the second woman -- you -- because I don't like you, and I'm giving you more attention than you deserve, and I'm here to talk to your classist ass.

What about the third woman, the woman who works in a grocery store. The woman whose position in life is so low you certainly wouldn't want to be her. I mean, you'll let her ring up your purchases and bag your groceries -- unless she's lost her job because now you're doing all that for yourself. But no. Cashiers and baggers and stockers of shelves still have jobs in grocery stores where rich, snooty women shop. And apparently where you shop. Thank you, Jesus, you don't have to work in a grocery store though, right? You're not rich and snooty, but you're also not .... that poor.

(Ooops. Did I mention I grocery shop for a rich woman? Yeah, most really rich women don't do their own grocery shopping. Snooty or not, they have people who do that for them and it puts food on our tables.)

This reminds me of when men call other men by feminine names. You know, when men call boys "girls" and it's the biggest insult because no guy wants to be a girl. Nobody with a dick should fall so low as to be like a girl. And yet here we have women -- you -- doing it to other women. Pretending an alleged rich and snooty woman is someone who works in a grocery store because you think that's such an insult. Who is the real cunt here?

In conclusion, I think we've determined that the problem is not the alleged rich, snooty woman and it's certainly not the grocery store employee. The problem is you. The problem is that you decided today that you wanted to put someone down because .... I don't know why and I don't give even 1/3 of a fuck really. You've probably got a therapist and you still don't know what makes you happy. Obviously though it makes you feel better to insult two classes of women who never did a damn thing to you and who don't even know you with your stupid meme. Really. Fuck you. Jesus is not on your side here and he didn't even think rich people could get through the eye of a needle.

Schitts Creek GIF from Schitts GIFs

I am not defending rich people. I'm fucking sick of the greedy pigs and I think we should make them pay some taxes -- how about at my rate? -- and then eat them. But this isn't about that. This is mean girl shit that you should have put away in 7th grade. I've always hated this kind of behavior, and I'm embarrassed for you that you still think this is funny. Find another way to "keep things real." Like minding your own fucking business.

This rant has been brought to you by someone who is sick of the lack of civility in this country. Can I get an amen?

Sincerely,
Reticula

Day 21: Throwback Thursday: Nice Fresh Trout

It's been a long day, my friends. I worked and drove a lot and mopped a big room with a big mop. So tonight I chose one of my favorite posts from the past to share with you. It's a snippet from a conversation at karaoke night. A couple of you will remember it. I hope I don't bore you by posting it again or give you existential angst when you realize it's over six years old. And yet my vagina still smells like .... Oh, just read the post.

A karaoke snippet: Something smells a little fishy....

From February 22, 2013

Fishmonger*:  You know that's what the gay men say, don't you? Vaginas smell like fish.

Me: Vaginas do not smell like fish. My vagina does not smell like a fish.

Fishmonger: I'm just repeating what they say. And it's not all vaginas. It's just some vaginas.

Me: I'm telling you the gay men lie. What would they know about vaginas anyway? They don't get close enough to a vagina to smell one.

Fishmonger: But I'm not saying all vaginas, and maybe not under all circumstances.

Me: OK, maybe if she ate tuna or salmon and the fish smell came out in her .... you know.

Fishmonger: Well, as someone who has a lot of experience on both sides, I can vouch that some vaginas smell like fish.

Me: Mine doesn't. And I don't think vaginas smell like fish in general.

Maria*: (Who has just finished a production of The Vagina Monologues, quotes in a singsong voice.) "My vagina smells like .... rain!"

Me: That's it. Me too. My vagina smells like rain.

Maria: Not really though....

Me: Yes, it does. It smells like rain. It really does. (To Fishmonger) It does not smell like fish. My vagina smells like rain.

Fishmonger: It's not necessarily a bad thing. It can be a good thing. Sometimes vaginas smell like nice, fresh trout.

Me: Nice, fresh trout!!! You call that a compliment? OK, I'm calling in an expert. (I turn to Martini, who has for some reason not been listening to this vagina conversation.)  Martini, give us your honest opinion. Do vaginas smell like nice, fresh trout?

Martini: (long, thoughtful pause) I have not actually encountered that much trout.

Wait a damn minute! Are you saying I smell like a vagina? I smell like fish. Everybody knows vaginas smell like rain.     (Credit: US Department of Agriculture)

Day 20: Wordless Wednesday: Me when somebody drops a piece of chocolate

via GIPHY

Day 19: If we were sharing a bottle of wine again

If we were sharing a bottle of wine, I'd remark that there are differences between the generations that only I notice. For example, one difference between Millenials and Boomers is that Millenials say "motherfucker" a lot. It's almost like they use "motherfucker" as a pronoun -- the antecedent being "all people." Boomers not so much. We broke the ice by saying "fuck," a word many of our parents hated. Well, I hate that other word myself, and I wish my Millenial son wouldn't say it, but if I say something to him you know what I'll get back, don't you? Yeah, I'm not saying that either.

If we were sharing a bottle of wine and sitting in a rocker on my porch, we might hear the wind chimes from one of my neighbors' porches across the street. I would grit my teeth and you would laugh because my hatred of wind chimes is legendary. I should add that to my list of things that scare me. 11. A new neighbor will move in and hang a bunch of fucking wind chimes on her porch. Or will sit outside and watch football games with the volume turned really loud. Because I hate the sound of a football game on TV almost as much as I hate wind chimes. Well, maybe 45% as much. I spent too many years listening to football games all weekend long every fall and winter. It's the sound of family time slipping through the hour glass, never to return again.

The other day I was at my computer working in my office and I kept hearing this man's voice droning on and on. It was loud enough to break my concentration, but not quite loud enough that I could make out the words. I couldn't see anybody out the window, and it didn't sound like anybody else was talking. I live in a double brick house so it's unusual for me to hear talking outside from the back of my house unless my neighbor is on his patio right under the window. Finally I couldn't stand it any longer and I went outside to let the dogs poop and seek the source.

My neighbor across the alley was sitting at a table on his patio, all the way across his back yard, listening to a football game with the volume so high I could understand every word from my back yard. I could just see him through a crack in his fence. What the actual fuck? It was 40 degrees out there!

Since then he's been out there for several hours every day listening to a damn football game with the volume turned way up. This morning it was 35 degrees out and that fucking football announcer was droning away.

I will admit to you I have misophonia. I've written about it before when my neighbor was running a bug zapper 24 hours a day. The football games make me want to drive my van through my neighbor's fence and crash into his TV. If we were drinking that bottle of wine, you'd offer to top me off and then you'd change the subject.

If we were sharing a bottle of wine, I would ask you if you've ever heard of injecting semen into yourself to get rid of back pain like this guy in Dublin did. Because honest to god, I've had back surgery and before I let a doctor cut into my back I did every fucking thing I could to cure it myself. Yet I never once considered injecting semen into my arm. It's not really one of those "why didn't I think of that?" solutions.

Apparently he'd been doing it every month for a year and a half! And then this .... ummmm .... bubble of collected semen under his skin got infected. That's not why he went to the ER though. He went to the ER because his back hurt. I can not define irony any better than that!

Apparently his back felt better after he got to the hospital, so he left before the doctors could drain his semen .... from his arm. Oh how I wish I were really saying this to you in person. Drain his semen from his arm!

Don't try this at home, Millenials. 


Oh, yes, I did, motherfuckers! OK that, kids!

Cheers!