The Sword and the Stone(r)

Everyone has that one stoner friend. You know the one- he's well into his 30s by this point, but still gets high daily. That guy.

My stoner friend and I were pretty close friends back in our teens, but as we've come into adulthood, we've sort of drifted apart. Part of it has to do with the fact that he moved out to the West Coast several years go, but besides that, I have two fucking children and don't usually have time to listen to a grown man ramble excitedly for hours at a time about pot legalization. Sure, after all these years, I still consider him a friend, but now he's that friend. That friend who never really grew up. That friend who decides to up and move to California on a whim and inexplicably live in a van for a year. That friend you only hear from once in a great while.

It had been a few years since I'd spoken to him. Between the 3 hour time difference, my busy schedule, and his penchant for sleeping until noon, there just haven't been many opportunities to chat and catch up, so I was surprised on Wednesday to see his name pop up on my phone. Naturally I was curious as to what was going on with him that merited an outright phone call after almost 3 years of barely a text.

First, he informed me, there was good news! He would be interviewing for a job back home, so he may be moving back East. But, he warned me ominously, that wasn't the real reason for his call. He needed to talk to me about what had happened and he knew I was the only one who would believe him:

Stoner Friend: I had a dream last night that a bunch of people were possessed by demons.

Me: Ok... I mean... was I one of them? I don't really understand what you're getting at here.

SF: No, no. It wasn't you. But, like, they were chasing me man. And then one of them grabbed my leg and then EVERYTHING WENT BLACK.

Me: Alright. Well I'm sure that was kinda creepy. Still not sure why you needed to talk to me about it though.

SF: Because I think there was something in my room. A demon. I've never felt evil like that before. It jarred me awake and my leg was hurting where the demon grabbed me and I was really scared and I couldn't go back to sleep. I knew you would believe me. I'm kinda scared to go home.

I entertained this conversation for a while and tried to talk him down. I definitely asked if he was high when he had this dream (he swears he was not), but otherwise, I think I was a pretty good friend about not being condescending to him. I even listened when he went off on a 10 minute tangent about a Star Wars theory he heard recently and kept insisting that I "YouTube it" even though I'd made it clear that I barely give enough of a fuck about Star Wars to even listen to him talk about. After that I had to get going and pick up my kids. Then shit got REALLY weird in text messages:

SF: Maybe it has something to do with the random sword I found by a dumpster recently. I thought it was cool and wondered why anyone would leave a real sword out by a dumpster. I plan to bring it back to the dumpster from whence it came when I get a chance (you guys, I swear. This is the VERBATIM text message I got from him, along with a picture of the aforementioned sword).

Me: Well, haunted demon sword certainly makes for an interesting story if people ask why you're leaving California.

SF: I just thought of something else. I had pretty bad gas yesterday and in the dream the demon told me "IT SMELLS BAD. YOU SMELL BAD".

You guys. It's ridiculous enough that this 34-year-old man found a sword propped up against a dumpster and thought "SCORE" and took that shit home. That, of itself, would be enough of a reason to question this man's rational thinking skills. Like if you, a grown adult with a normal home and possibly a kid or two, went into your friend's house- not even in the context of having a priest who is well-versed in exorcisms in tow- and he told you "let me show you this bad ass sword I found by a dumpster the other day", you would be reevaluating that friendship right there on the spot.

This isn't just a 34-year-old man who brought home a dumpster sword, though. This is a 34-year-old man who brought home a dumpster sword and became almost immediately convinced that it was not only possessed by a demon, but that he managed to anger that demon with his rancid farts. Apparently, much in the way you would release a genie from a lamp by rubbing it, you release a demon from whatever dumpster object it's chosen to possess by farting near it.

That, my friends, is your brain on drugs.

It's a TRAP!!!

Back when I was in my teens and early 20s, I remember being regularly annoyed by my brother's inability to do simple tasks. Actually, that's inaccurate. It was his inability to do "woman" tasks. The best example I can give of this was the time he asked me to make him a hot dog. Seeing as how he was a dick to me like 95% of the time, obviously I told him to make his own fucking hot dog. "But I don't know how", he said. And so I gave him a simple explanation for a simple task- "Put them in some water and boil them for a few minutes". But as it is with men, he put a fantastic amount of effort into trying to convince me that he literally could not figure out how to boil water. First, he poured water into a frying pan. Then, when I showed him which pot to use, he turned the faucet as high as it would go and held it under the water and let it overflow for several minutes before I finally snapped "what the hell are you doing?". "I don't know how much water to use", he told me. "Enough to cover the hot dog", I explained. And so he turned the water to barely a drip and held the pot there for 5 solid minutes, asking every few drops "is this enough?". It went this way with every step of the excruciatingly simple task of boiling a hot dog, until my sister gave up and made it for him.

At the time I refused to cave because of course you know how to fucking boil water, you imbecile. And then I got married and realized that my brother was a) simply not a good enough an actor to pull off "too dumb to boil water" and b) carrying on a long standing tradition of men making the task of ASKING THEM TO DO A TASK so infuriating, that you really would rather just do it yourself.

Caitlyn's last day of preschool was yesterday. Rodolfo is bringing his parents from Peru to spend the summer with us while she is out of school. In preparation of that, I've been toiling away, cleaning and organizing the house to be ready for their arrival this Thursday. And so last night when April told me she wanted to bring Caitlyn to a water park with her today, I asked Rodolfo to get her bag ready for the morning, while I organized some things in the kitchen.

I'm a seasoned veteran now when it comes to dealing with feigned stupidity, so I didn't dare simply tell him where she would be going and expect him to figure out what that meant in terms of "get a bag ready". I gave him a short list of what to include- a bathing suit, a change of clothes- including socks and underwear-, a towel, flip-flops, sunscreen, her waterpark pass, and money for lunch.

First he assured me that she did not have any clean clothes. Since I organized her closet 2 days ago, I knew this was bullshit. Still, I had to explicitly tell him what she should wear TO A WATER PARK and practically give him the longitudinal coordinates in her closet to find "any one of the 10 summer dresses hanging up in there". Then, he could not find her bathing suit. This led to a heated argument in which he complained that I had left a basket of clean laundry in her room that has not been put away, and maybe if I had done that, her bathing suit would have been easy to find. He then spent 5 minutes rifling through the DIRTY laundry, all the while complaining that this bathing suit was simply impossible to find. In case you were wondering, there wasn't ONE, but TWO clean bathing suits in that one basket of laundry that he would not check under protest of my not having put it into her drawers.

He managed to find the towel himself, completely forgot the sunscreen and water park pass, and then launched into another rant when he could not track down her flip-flops. I told him to check under the couch. They were not there. I told him to check under her bed. Not there either. Apparently they had evaporated into thin air. He decided she would instead wear sneakers. To a water park.

This entire process (during which I ended up finding literally every single thing besides the towel myself) took him around 40 minutes. To put a few things in a bag. Next time I think I'll just do it myself.

Shit My Dad Says... The Hobo Equation

I don't think it needs to be mentioned yet again, but hey- you guys remember how my dad is like 87% hobo, right? In case you are wondering how I figured out that percentage, it's a very complicated Algebraic formula including the following variables:

v= number of days per year spent sleeping in your vehicle
c*= number of clothing items you own to the power of the number of layers you wear over each other, so as to be able to take one off daily and not appear to be wearing the same clothes as yesterday
s= stank (this variable has a direct relationship to c*)
g= number of gullible family members you can coerce into free living accommodations
t= number of teeth you currently have (Hobo Bill has the incredibly low score of 3 on this variable, drastically impacting his overall score)
f= your general ability to make even the most basic of financially responsible decisions.

Let's talk about factors v and f today. Vehicle and finances. I mean, I suppose when you're the type of person who prioritizes buying scratch-offs and foot long hot dogs at 7-11 over paying your rent, you can't really be expected to make sound financial choices. That said, one might assume that my dad's perpetual poorness would be directly reflected in his choice of vehicle. And for the most part, it has been. He's had a number of 200,000+ mileage metal shitboxes. Some he got for free. Some he "financed"- and by that I mean he talked a friend or family member into believing he would make payments on a car he wanted to buy from them, and then got pissed off when they actually, you know, expected him to make the payments.

There have been times when my dad has been without a car, but he's done a pretty good job of basically stealing cars from people over the years, and almost always has some sort of vehicle. The last car he had was something he was "making payments" on to some guy he knows. Last I heard, he still owed the guy $1000 or so of the $1500 total he was supposed to pay and was pretty pissed that the guy wouldn't leave him alone about it.

So. What do you do when you don't have money to pay the guy who sold you your car, you're behind on your rent, your car insurance check bounced and your car needs a bunch of repairs you can't afford?

I feel like you guys know my dad pretty well at this point, so I'm going to do this multiple choice:

   a) work overtime and get back on track (HAHAHAHA)
   b) panic as you realize you are in way over your head and turn to your old friend the lottery for   comfort
  c) trade in the car you still owe money on and finance a nearly brand new car for 7 years

Did you guys say b? You overestimated my dad's concience. He doesn't actually care that he can't pay any of his debts. Dear old dad somehow managed to trade in his car for a 2012 Ford Focus.

So now he has two cars to pay off. And he has to pay for full coverage insurance, even though the bare bones insurance he used to have lapses basically every time it's due. It's a weird thing, the way my dad thinks of his car insurance. Most people think of their policy in terms of years. My policy, for example, is valid from April 2014-April 2015. My dad doesn't do that. He told me that his new car is insured "I'm not exactly sure... I think it's for the next two months". He treats his car insurance like an about-to-expire gym membership.

I also have to say, I don't feel bad for anyone who finances him a car when they inevitably get screwed over. You don't even need to get into the black hole that is his credit report to know this is not a man you can trust to make timely (or any) payments. As I said before, he has THREE teeth. My infant officially has more teeth than him. I just think that when someone with three teeth walks into your establishment and tries to convince you that they can afford the payments on a spankin' new vehicle, you have to realize that if they can't afford plastic teeth, they definitely cannot afford basically anything. Except maybe applesauce.

In any case, my immediate reaction when he went into full-on bragging mode about his new car (I feel like it's important here to remind you that he's bragging about owning a Ford Focus), was to scold him for being an idiot:

Me: But dad, aren't you still paying off the other car?
Dad: Yes.
Me: Well isn't it a problem that you now have to pay off 2 cars?
Dad: It's a 2012.
Me: Yeah, I get that. Except for the part where it gets repossessed in 2 months and then you have no car at all and you still have to pay off your old one.
Dad: No, I'm going to pay it.
Me: HOW?
Dad: Well, my old car needed 2 catalytic converters. Those things are like $1000 each. I couldn't afford that. This car is NEW, so it won't need any repairs.
Me: So you couldn't afford to repair your old car so you just bought a new one?
Dad: That wasn't the only thing. My old car didn't have any gas in it and I didn't have gas money. This one came with a full tank.
Me: ::dead::

So yes. My dad thought it was a good idea to buy a new car because HE COULDN'T AFFORD GAS OR REPAIRS FOR HIS OLD ONE. I guess it's a good thing those Ford Focus's run on broken dreams.

A Dating Profile for Dear Old Dad

I'm dealing with some difficult shit right now. Rather than talk about it, I've decided to make fun of my dad some more. It's like meditation for me:

I've said it before and I'll say it again- my dad is kinda the worst. He's been calling a lot lately- and by that I mean when he has money to put minutes on his prepaid phone. Because he is a grown man with a prepaid phone. No offense to prepaid phone users or anything, but unless you're artfully dodging a handful of baby mommas/bill collectors/lawyers, a grown up should have, at the very least, a monthly cell phone plan. You ain't gotta be fancy and pay Verizon $100 a month. T-mobile will set you up for a cool $35. That's the part that makes it especially sad though. Despite owing so much money to SO many people, he WANTS them to call him. He wants to self-righteously rant at them about how he can't afford to pay and that is... somehow... their problem, apparently. In fact, this whole rant today started out because he had given out MY phone number to one of his bill collectors (again) and I'm annoyed about it.

Anyway. I've decided I need to find someone to take him off my hands. He hasn't had a girlfriend since my mom left him 20 something years ago. I think it's time to take him into the new millenium with online dating! I mean, sure he claims he's "tried it" before. But only when E-Harmony is having a free weekend. Because those other dating sites? Girls send him DIRTY messages and pictures of themselves dressed like whores! He's not that kind of hobo. In any case, honesty is important, so I think I'll take care of his profile for him. I mean, everyone lies on their dating profile, but you can't really trust a sociopath to be even close to honest. If I want to find him a lady life partner, I'm gonna have to lay his true self on the line:

Name:
Bill. AKA Hobo Bill. AKA Tubby.

Description:
Surprisingly young looking for 60. I suppose it's easy to get fewer gray hairs and wrinkles when you refuse to deal with any of your problems and dump them on everyone you know. One place where his lack of responsibility might show though, is right in the chompers. His teeth. He has none. I mean, fake teeth are totally expensive and he had some this one time but then he bit into a really hot slice of pizza while walking through a parking lot and accidentally spit them out onto the ground and then they got run over (what, that hasn't happened to you?). Clothes and feet are always sparkling clean with the scent of bleach though. Maybe a little faded, but it's totally worth it. Also, sometimes he wears multiple layers of clothing at once, so as to be able to remove the outside layer daily and have on a clean outfit. By the time he gets to that innermost outfit, he's fresh as a goddamn daisy.

Likes:

• Not paying for anything, ever
• Gambling
• Berating people who are just doing their job
• Sensationalized news stories
• Welfare fraud
• Talking about himself and greatly exaggerating absolutely every aspect of his existence on this planet as a human being
• Bleach
• Using the ER as a means to get his blood pressure medication
• Bahama Mamas (the giant hot dogs from 7-11, not the drink)
• Feeling 100% justified in stealing from his employer because "I had no money to eat with" even though he's totally getting food stamps

Dislikes:

• Paying for anything, ever
• The government- judges in particular because WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE, JUDGING HIM???
• Immigrants, because they are totally stealing all the CEO jobs he would have if they just went back to their country. And also because they get pissed when he sleeps in his car outside their 7-11 store.
• Gays. "I don't hate gay people. I just think they shouldn't be allowed to get married or have kids because then the kids will be gay because they will only see gay stuff and think that's normal"
• Legitimate welfare recipients. Oh, you think you're SO important just because you're not using this money to buy scratch-offs!
• AIDS (please see also: Gays. Because it's totally their fault, you guys).

What He's Looking For:
A lovely lady to take care of him. And by "take care of", obviously I mean fuel his gambling problem while providing a free place for him to live a life of luxury. He'd also really like it if you didn't mind him being enormously ungrateful for all of this. In fact, I'd say any expectation of graciousness on his part whatsoever is probably going to be a dealbreaker. He's also really like it if you wouldn't mind him sitting on your couch unbathed about 90% of the time, while he watches Fox News and dozes in and out of conciousness while loudly snoring.

So ladies, message me if you'd like to meet him, and I'll let you know when he has minutes on his phone.

Shit My Dad Says... About Welfare

We've established that I was really poor as a kid. Welfare poor. The major reason for this was my dad. My useless, transient hobo with a gambling problem dad. It took my mom quite a few years to come to the realization that being on her own with 4 kids would actually be significantly easier than staying with him and trying to take care of us.

That said, we were still really poor. Except that single mothers of 4 kids can get help from the government instead of just living in a van and eating dinner out of vending machines like we did when we lived with my dad. And so we were on welfare, and food stamps, and eventually we were able to get into subsidized housing. You know, the projects. My mom still worked- mostly for our landlord to pay off our rent in the many years while we waited to get into housing we could afford. And then cleaning bars and homes and stuffing envelopes for our (by then) ex-landlord and a handful of her colleagues for 2 cents per envelope. Guys? Doing anything for 2 cents a piece is basically slave labor. I remember my mom staying up 24, 48 hours straight- sometimes longer- and making a whopping $25 for 2 straight days of work.

My point is that my mom busted her ass. Because she had to and because she would do anything for us. Because my dad didn't pay a single dime in child support, basically ever (the occasions he managed to collect unemployment where child support was taken out- much to his dismay- automatically, were like bonus time in our family). Because she couldn't afford child care and so she had to work odd jobs for next to nothing just so we could survive. I've always respected how hard she worked for us. As a parent myself now, it's really jarring to look back on it and see it from her perspective. As a kid, I knew we didn't have much money. I knew a lot of times I couldn't have something I wanted because we couldn't afford it. Hand-me-down clothes were the usual. Nothing about it seemed particularly hard for me as a child because it was all I ever knew. But now, as a parent? I look at how much I stress about making sure I can afford things that are luxuries- DVR and Christmas photo shoots- how I don't want Caitlyn to miss out on those things that aren't really going to hurt her in the long run- and I can't help but imagine what it must have been like for my mom to not be able to afford food and milk and diapers. Because, as the poet Eminem once said "these goddamn food stamps don't buy diapers". Preach, brother.

None of this is really the point though. We've already established that I hold my mother in the same regard as saints. Probably higher, actually. My point is that, through all of this- through quite literally nearly killing herself because she was taking care of 4 kids alone- my father always judged our lifestyle. On the occasions he came around (it was much less so when we were kids- I'm assuming because none of us had couches he could crash on yet), he always had rude comments about what my mom wasn't giving to us. Nevermind the fact that he hadn't contributed anything of value for the entirety of our childhood. He couldn't believe my mom had us living in the projects (apparently sleazy motels were much better)! He looked down at his nose at her for feeding us with food stamps (Oh, how she enjoyed those 1st of the month, 3 mile walks to and from the grocery store!). He particularly hated the fact that she was on welfare. He always thought himself far too good for welfare. Or maybe it just especially annoyed him because he was more likely to end up with an arrest warrant for not paying his child support when the money was owed to welfare. My point is that he would show up, and he would judge us. He would promise to get us out of such horrible conditions (and back into the shitty motels/homeless shelters we deserved!). He treated my mom as though all she was doing wasn't enough for his standards. Ironic.

Anyway. My dad stopped by for a visit a couple of weekends ago. I could tell he had some money in his pockets, because he wasn't using what I like to refer to as his "kill yourself" tone of voice for everything he said. I didn't even have to ask before he started telling me why. You guys? He's on welfare. And food stamps. And he is inexplicably getting rental assistance which has been approved through AUGUST. He is a 60 year old man who has never held a steady job, has pissed away every dime he's ever earned through his gambling addiction, has abused the kindness and asked favors of every single person he has ever known (his own children included), and passionately HATES "the system" for ever pursuing him for his obligations to his 4 children. And yet, he is happily abusing it now (and trust me, abusing is the right word. He openly admitted to winning $2000 on the lottery- he spent his WELFARE money on fucking lottery tickets!).

The worst part isn't even that he's abusing a service that he frequently judged my mom for needing while he contributed nothing during my childhood. The worst part is that he bitched about how inconvenient receiving welfare has been for him. You guys? Welfare asks questions. Like whether or not you are looking for a job. So RUDE! Also, he didn't even WANT welfare. He just wanted food stamps and rental assistance but they totally insisted on giving him welfare too. Ugh. And then, omg he totally had to sit in the welfare office for TWO STRAIGHT DAYS- he was even the LAST person they took on his second day of waiting- before they gave him a fucking free ride for the forseeable future. Tacky, welfare. So tacky. The customer is always right, you know. And the customer shouldn't have to wait 2 whole days that they definitely weren't going to spend at work, waiting around for your free money. And food. And housing.

Anyway. I digress. It's just that sometimes you are going through your own personal struggles. Real struggles, scary struggles, and you find you have to pull yourself up and realize that, well, you got yourself into this mess and you're just going to have to deal with it now. You'll be okay eventually. And then some jackass who is just begging to be dead to you comes to your house and bitches about how inconvenient he found his trip to the welfare office, and you have to hold yourself back from punching him in the face. On the upside, he did give me a red plastic Solo cup full of change though. Totally makes up for that whole "absentee father" thing.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Divorce Court...

Actually, that title is a lie. Of course it didn't really happen on the way to divorce court. That would be just plain tacky. And I like to be enormously tacky.

So here is the thing. Remember how I started dating that guy? Yeah. That guy got me pregnant. And so, while it technically did not happen on the way to divorce court, I was absolutely a proper hoodrat about it and showed up to divorce court pregnant with another man's baby. Not that anyone knew. But I knew, and I felt the ghettoness of my roots in that moment. You can take the girl out of the projects, I suppose...

Anyway. Obviously you have some questions. Questions such as "are you really that stupid?" and "so, I guess you aren't having an abortion then?". Let's get in to that, as I'm going to find a way to blame this all on my ex husband.

As for the question of my intelligence, well, let me assure you, you aren't the first to ask. And rightfully so. I won't get into the messy details, but let's just say I had a lapse in judgment. Let's just say that I was so cocky about my knowledge of my cycles and fertility signs after multiple rounds of IVF and years of tracking and trying to get pregnant, that I simply got cavalier about the whole thing. I simply thought I knew too much to have an accidental pregnancy. So yeah, ok, I guess I'm kind of fucking stupid.

As for the abortion question. I looked to my past, to my struggles to conceive and my loss of a much loved and terribly wanted baby and I could not bring myself to do it. Even if it was the most logical choice. And I assure you, I do realize it was the most logical choice. Even now I sometimes find myself thinking "wow... I wish I could have been a bit more logical when I made this decision". It's not that I regret it, exactly. I just didn't really take as much time as I should have to think it through. Truthfully, I knew I'd never go through with it anyway, no matter how much I may have been able to convince myself that it was the best option.

And so, for the official record, today I am nearly 16 weeks pregnant. The future is murky and scary, but in the end I know I will love this baby no matter what else happens. I know I will find equal parts joy and challenge in being a single mother (and no, that doesn't mean the guy just dropped off the face of the Earth, but my reality is what it is and I have to be prepared for that). I know that when Caitlyn hugs my belly and tells me she wants a baby brother, who shall be named Pocoyo and who she shall paint blue, she will get an immense amount of joy from having a sibling to love. I know that we will be a family, in whatever version works best for us. I know we will carry on and love each other and support each other and be happy. As for everything else? Well, fuck if I know.

Near Death Experience

Of a character. On a TV show. That I find infuriating.

Oh, I'm sorry, did you think this was going to be about me? Of course not. I do, in fact, have an announcement to make, but things have been crazy and busy and stressful, and I want to have the time to really sit down and write it out the way I want it. Now is not that time. Now is the time I'm typing this in the smallest window possible so my coworkers don't see that I'm not actually doing work.

Anyway. Spoiler Alert, obviously.

Can we talk for a moment about Grey's Anatomy? Or The Anatomy, as I prefer to call it. Specifically, I want to talk about Meredith and how much I want to watch her die.

I get it. The show has been on for quite some time. You can only really rework a character's storyline so many times. But the fact is, this shit is getting ridiculous. How many near-death experiences can one fictional character have before the show has to acknowledge the fucking absurdity of it and ACTUALLY kill her off? It's like watching fucking Final Destination. I can't even tell you how much I was rooting for her to really die this time.

Do you understand the lengths of absurdity and obnoxiousness this show had to go to, to get me rooting for the TITLE CHARACTER's death? KILL THAT BITCH NOW. I can't even anymore with her. She's not even likeable to begin with, and I'm really sick of the fact that she has the fucking grim reaper on her back at every single season finale.

I mean, I suppose, if they did decide to try to stretch it across a few more seasons, they could find a few more ways for her to almost-die. Maybe in the series finale, the world will end with a Day After Tomorrow-style flood and ice age.  But I fucking swear the last scene would be her doing voice-over about death, and you would see her hand reach out from under a mountain of snow and then they would just cut to black.

Is Meredith Grey the devil? Is she, at the very least, some kind of witch?  Because, bitch, please die already. Nobody even likes you.

Shit My Dad Says- Hobo Bill Strikes Again

My dad has officially worn out his welcome with every single member of my family except for me. I mean, he's worn it out with me too, but I'm too nice to show it as blatantly as everyone else does.

In particular, my sister April recently decided that she couldn't deal with him anymore, told him off in spectacular fashion, and ignores him like 90% of the time now. That being said, when she was invited to come visit by our uncle that my dad is currently living with, she decided to make the 2 hour trip to visit our extended family. My dad told me that April would be visiting, and asked if I would come too.

I really didn't want to go. And so, I layered a little bit of truth and a little bit of exaggeration on him. I told him I couldn't really afford the gas and tolls to make the trip. And I couldn't, really. I'm a recently single mother, thank you very much. Sometimes I'm broke.

It got weird when my dad called me a few days later, and then again another couple of days after that, asking about my money situation. If I was okay. If I needed any money. I responded with the verbal equivalent of shrugging my shoulders. "Eh, you know. I'm always broke". The thing about my dad is that he's like Willy Goddamned Wonka in the Chocolate Factory when he has money. And by "has money" I mean, "is currently collecting unemployment even though he hasn't had a real, on-the-books job in like at least 5 fucking years, wait, excuse me? Why the fuck do you get to collect unemployment, because you just almost turned me into a Republican when you said that?". He gets all manic and jolly, but with a certain uneasiness where you know the facade could slip away at any moment. But hey, he's there, and he's smiling and he's got lickable wallpaper so I guess it's better than the LSD boat rides he likes to take you on when he's depressed.

Anyway. This past Wednesday he came to visit me after work. He shuffled in and I noticed he was carrying a plastic jar.

Ok. Side bar on the plastic jar. When I say plastic jar, what are you imagining, exactly? Maybe an old water jug, or some sort of Tupperware container? I mean, sure, I didn't give you a hell of a lot of context on "plastic jar", but I feel like those are the sorts of things that are going to pop into your head. What isn't going to pop into your head? THIS:

Yeah. That is a one gallon drum, previously filled with the blue cheese dressing of his former employer. Are you wondering what it's filled with now? Change. Specifically, it contained $142 in an assortment of quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies, and- AND- most importantly, half dollar and dollar coins.

Let me explain. This is not a normal change jar. Even if you put aside the fact that he chose a vat of dressing as his piggy bank, this is not an accumulation of $142 worth of the everyday loose change from his pockets over the course of a few months. No.

You know how if you offer a young child a choice between a $1 bill and 4 quarters, they will almost always pick the quarters? Because even though the value is the same, the quarters SEEM like more money to them? That is how my dad is. Except that he is turning 60 this year and he's still eternally fascinated by change. He will take his real, grown-ass man paper bills (that he seriously needs to pay his real, grown-ass man neverending debts), and go to the bank and trade them in for change. He will specifically ask for half dollar and dollar coins, because he thinks they are OMGSOCOOLOMG. He will say to the bank teller "Give me as many as you have! I collect coins!" You know the problem with "collecting" coins when you are too poor to live? You run out of money and then you are the fucking weirdo at the Walmart paying for deodorant in change out of a gallon sized jar of salad dressing.

When he started telling me the exact value of each denomination of coins in his jar ("I didn't have anything to do this morning so I counted them"), I started giggling like a maniac at his utter lunacy. Then he showed me his "collection" of $2 bills. In his wallet (where else would he keep a collection of MONEY? Der.). $14 dollars worth of $2 bills. You guys? Math, ok. That is SEVEN $2 bills. That + $50 in quarters = money aficionado right there. He even had another $2 bill at home. I mean, he could have totally just been bragging, but I believe him. People like him don't need to lie about their accomplishments. He even gave one of the $2 bills to Caitlyn, and, I mean, if he was lying about that extra one at home, that would mean he only possessed $12 in $2 bills, and really, what the fuck is THAT? Nothing, peasants. $14 is the minimum to gain notoriety as a collector.

It came to a point where I had to ask (again), "Why, dad. Why do you insist on cashing in your money for change?". Naturally, he had infallible logic on his side, once again:

Dad: You know, those coins can be worth a lot of money

Me: ...

Dad: No really, there's a 1964 blah-blah-donkey-fuck quarter that's worth $2! (I may have paraphrased).

Me: Oh yeah. $1.75 profit. Big money. How many of those do you have, by the way.

Dad: Oh, well, I checked all these quarters and there weren't any.

Me: So none then, collector?

Dad: The $2 bill I have at home is worth $10.

Me: ...

Dad: Some of the half dollars are worth $2 too.

Me: We just discussed this.

Dad: And you know, those silver dollars... you put 10 of those in a sock and carry it around with you. Anyone tries to mess with you, you can smack them in the face with it (you guys. This is not embellishment for the sake of the story. He literally said these words and did not understand for even a moment why they were insane).

Me: Oh dear sweet baby Jesus, save me.

Then he proceeded to dump out his entire jar of change and count it in front of me. When I wouldn't stop mocking his salad dressing jar, he told me his big plan for Christmas. Yes. In fact, his "big plan for Christmas" involves 1 gallon salad dressing jars (JARS- plural). And change. Naturally. He has 4 of them in his car, you see. And he's going to fill them all up with change and wrap them up in paper and a bow, and each of his GROWN ADULT OFFSPRING, WITH JOBS AND GODDAMN BANK ACCOUNTS AND A MODICUM OF NORMALCY DESPITE HIS VERY EXISTENCE, WILL RECEIVE A STINKY JAR FULL OF CHANGE FOR CHRISTMAS. I mean, isn't that the "spirit of the season" everyone always talks about at Christmas? Being broke enough to pay for things in change and then dousing your stress in high fat foods? Yup. Nailed it, dad. Fucking nailed it.

Anyway. Then he told me, since he knows I'm super broke, that I could keep his $142 in change. And you know what? I absolutely fucking kept it.

Dora and Diego are Pathological Liars. There, I Said It

Here is the problem. I usually blog at work, and work has been extremely busy. Even if you don't figure for the fact that my office moved last week and I've spent the last 6 work days inhaling paint fumes and cancer dust (because no one seemed to think finishing construction prior to our move was important), I've taken on a bunch of new responsibilities too. Responsibilities I'm currently ignoring so I can blog.

The thing is, I would theoretically blog from home. I've even tried it a few times. The way it usually plays out is that I get an idea, sit down at my computer and try to focus just enough so that it's mildly coherent. And then Caitlyn decides she wants to sit on my lap. I can handle that one of two ways: I can ignore her. This always ends with her pawing at me and whining and making me feel like an asshole because GOD, she just wants to sit on her mommy's lap, you fucking monster. And so I always arrive at option two within about 30 seconds, and I put her on my lap. She will then bang on the keyboard, insist we watch Youtube videos of Elmo or decide "I needa PAINT" (because my dad showed her how to use a paint document. And also because she never wants anything anymore. She always "needa".) and screech color choices at me until her masterpiece is complete.

Basically what I'm saying is that unless you want all my blog posts to be paint documents, I can't blog from home (what about when her dad takes her, you might ask next. Yeah. I wonder about that too. I'll let you know when it happens!).

Today I realized that it's been over a month since I posted anything, and yet, I still don't have more than 15 minutes to bang out a real post. It's annoying, actually, because I really do have a backlog of posts in my head. Anyway, consider this a fake post. Leave me lots of comments so I know you haven't all abandoned me.

The other night, a few of my Facebook friends and I decided to call out children's programming for all the lies they are telling our kids. We established the following creepy, weird or just plain outlandish lies our kids may believe based on what Dora and company are telling them (these aren't all me, so thanks to my lovely, funny friends, AKD, Mandy and Jessica):

• It isn't weird at all when inanimate objects talk
• 25 year old adults should still be attending school
• A co-ed group of 25 year old adults can share an apartment and no one is ever going to fuck anyone else (or get drunk)
• Baby jaguars make GREAT pets and definitely will not maul you at all
• Salt and pepper shakers are French, and produce cinnamon offspring
• There's nothing wrong with letting a 6 year old girl wander around completely unsupervised. Even when she's too dumb to get anywhere without a map
• 6 year olds can read maps
• All Latino parents don't pay any attention to their children and let them wander through alligator swamps and creepy forests with only a monkey for supervision
• Chinese children are raised by their grandparents, presumably because their parents are in a factory making Nikes 18 hours a day
• Little snotty bitch pigs are apparently endearing (there may have also been suggestions about making Olivia in bacon)
• EVERYONE WANTS YOU TO TALK ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS ALL THE TIME! EVERYTHING IS ABOUT YOU!
• All animals speak English and Spanish, regardless of what country or even CONTINENT they are on.
• "Gazelles are afraid of lions!" (No, gazelles don't want to get their throats ripped out. They  have absolutely no worries that the lion might jump out and say BOO)
• Medieval knights are selfish and whiny until their pet dragons remind them not to steal things
• Dino Dan "isn't" a paranoid schizophrenic
• Captain Hook is a little selfish about treasure, but if you ask nicely, he will totally share it with you. And he gets super butt-hurt if you don't invite him to your parties and shit
• If you are being mugged, saying the mugger's name 3 times and telling him no will make him snap his fingers and run away
• David Arquette makes a great parrot, and his career is doing JUST FINE
• If you put the absolute minimum amount of effort into finding something that has been deliberately taken/hidden from you, it will magically appear in the most obvious place ever
• Orange backpacks can bend physics and become anything you need them to be
• And purple backpacks contain anything you could ever need
• Your friends will just laugh at your whimsy if you have the most retarded ideas on the planet, EVERY SINGLE DAY
• You need a song for EVERYTHING
• People won't send you to a special school if you are mildly retarded and constantly step in buckets
• It's not even a little weird to wear the exact same clothes EVERY SINGLE DAY
• Or to dress your blue dog in pajamas, and to keep the same pedophilic haircut for 6 years
• Lance Bass didn't try hard enough to go into space. Pocoyo does that shit all the fucking time and he doesn't have astronaut training OR several million dollars
• Your friends won't make fun of you for trying and failing miserably
• Phineas and Ferb are independently wealthy children, or else their parents conveniently ignore the massive credit card debt they accumulate each day
• "Come inside, it's fun inside" doesn't sound sexual at all, Mickey Mouse
• Neither does "A bunch of bones inside me" (which I was pretty convinced was "I want your bones inside me" until my sister informed me otherwise... either way, really)
• Wonder Pets shouldn't die in a fire (really, we couldn't even say anything about how awful they are besides "should die in a fire", which, apparently children don't agree with).
• Uniqua is a name
• Uniqua and Tyrone would run with the same... let's say "group of friends" as Pablo
• UNDERWATER AIRPLANES
• You can only stalk someone and get away with it if you're voiced by Ashley Tisdale
• It is both completely normal to have a platypus as a pet and to lose him all the time
• Three kids on an island can play with child molester-esque men and there are no authority figures except a parrot
• Toot and Puddle is somehow not scat porn
• Your toys live inside your boombox, and come alive when you sprinkle magic on them (that's called an acid trip, DJ Lance)
• Orange spandex onesies are appropriate attire
• Trains with shifty, haunted painting eyes aren't creepy at all
• You should totally trust and be friends with people who look like giant butt plugs and dildos
• You can buy a new car for the bargain price of FREE, as long as you are willing to sing a song while you assemble it (and you can get 50 people to help as long as you give them a ride to the smoothie stand, which is exactly 50 feet away)
• All the pizza and smoothies are free, and somehow they are both thriving businesses (not to mention the fact that the pizza place is run by someone dumber than Twist)
• Siblings mostly get along except for minor annoyances
• Monsters are adorable, fuzzy creatures
• If someone is bullying you and you tell them they've hurt your feelings, they will be instantly remorseful and apologize
• You should reiterate absolutely every single thing you say at least 3 times (Seriously, kid. I'm not you. I don't have the attention span of a marble. I got it the FIRST time)
• Everyone will want to hug and be best buds after every disagreement. No hard feelings EVER
• Mommies and Daddies are always of the same race and the opposite sex. And happily married, of course

So, what did we miss? What lies are your kids learning?

Tales from Vacation- Shit My Dad Fucked Up

I think I've made it pretty clear that my dad is essentially useless. There is a time, though, when his lack of a permanent address works in my favor and he can make himself useful. And by "useful" I mean he goes from full-on parasite mode to some sort of half-assed symbiotic relationship with the people he leaches goods, services, and nights on their couch from.

What I'm saying is that I asked my dad to take care of my pets while I was on vacation.

I should have known better. Do you remember that one time I went on vacation, and when I came home he informed me that he was kicked out by the relative he was staying with at the time and he had all his shit at my house and expected me to let him live there for a while? Yeah. I definitely should have known better.

Anyway. So my dad's current ... let's call it vocation ... is driving a taxi in tourist trap/Jersey Shore locale, Seaside Heights. He works overnights because that is when all the drunks want to be carted around, obviously. I didn't anticipate this being an issue. He told me he would come over in the morning and walk my dog and feed both of my pets when he got out of work. His taxi job is a solid hour and 15 minutes from where I live, but he always makes a show of how much he loves driving, so again, I figured it would be fine.

Cut to a couple of days into vacation. I had called him once or twice to check in, and he told me everything was fine. On this day though, he called me. We had the following conversation (and yes, in case you were wondering, pretty much everything I said, I was shouting at him, hence the all caps):

Dad: Hi Jaclyn. You really need to let your friend know not to lock your cat in the bedroom.

Me: What are you talking about?

Dad: Well, whoever else is coming here must have locked her in the bedroom and she pissed all over your bed (PISSED ALL OVER YOUR BED???????????????? FUCKING REALLY DUDE. THIS IS NOT SOMETHING YOU BRING UP CASUALLY AND WITHOUT A DROP OF GUILT).

Me: THE CAT PISSED "ALL OVER" MY BED? ARE YOU KIDDING ME????

Dad: Well I guess whoever was in here locked her in there.

Me: YOU WERE THE ONLY ONE THERE- NO ONE ELSE IS GOING TO MY HOUSE!

Dad: Oh, really? I figured you had Nadine or someone else coming too.

Me: NO!

Dad: Oh. Well, someone else was definitely in the house, Jaclyn. It wasn't me. The bedroom door was open when I left. Someone must have broken in. Did you leave your windows unlocked?

Me: SOMEONE BROKE IN, NOT TO STEAL ANYTHING, BUT TO LOCK MY CAT IN THE BEDROOM? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

Dad: I don't know. It had to be someone else though. Maybe it was the landlord. Maybe Joey was barking and he came in to check on him.

Me: NO ONE ELSE WAS IN MY HOUSE.

Dad: Well, Joey got out of the kitchen- he was walking around the house when I got there. Maybe he pushed the door closed. You know how he does that sometimes (bold-faced lie. I can't tell you of a single time when my dog pushed a fucking door closed. NOT A SINGLE TIME).

Me: JOEY DIDN'T LOCK THE CAT IN THE BEDROOM EITHER! MY MATTRESS IS LIKE 6 MONTHS OLD AND NOW I HAVE TO THROW IT OUT- CAT PEE STINK NEVER GOES AWAY!

Dad: Oh don't worry, it's fine. I cleaned it, and I'm going to wash your sheets and your mattress cover.

Me: Cleaned it with what (this was a legitimate concern, because his idea of "washing" anything means soaking it in bleach. Even his feet. I wish I were kidding)???

Dad: Oh, I took some rubbing alcohol and wiped it on the stain.

Me: REALLY? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? RUBBING ALCOHOL? MY ENTIRE BEDROOM IS GOING TO SMELL LIKE CAT PISS AND RUBBING ALCOHOL! WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU USE FUCKING RUBBING ALCOHOL?

Dad: Well, I figured you didn't want me to use bleach.

Me: MY MATTRESS IS RUINED, ISN'T IT?

Dad: It's fine!

I got off the phone with him and ranted to everyone for 10 minutes about what an incompetent douche bag he is. Everyone agreed, naturally. After that, I tried to put it out of my mind and enjoy the rest of vacation, but in the back of my head, I was constantly wondering what the hell I would be going home to. This was especially true a couple of days later, when April called him to ask about HER cat and HER house (because he agreed to catsit for her as well) and he informed her, completely ignoring her questions about her own home/pet, that my house was "a disaster" and that my dog had gotten out again and broken something. I was not exactly looking forward to going home after that:

The first thing I noticed when I walked in my door was actually the LACK of mess. My dad is a known slob and he doesn't usually have the courtesy, even in someone else's home, to not throw his clothes and garbage everywhere, so the fact that things looked relatively uncluttered surprised me. He must have realized how pissed I was about the mattress. Ah, the mattress. I needed to assess the damage and decide if I was sleeping on the couch tonight and how much I could afford to spend on a new one.

Again, I was shocked. "Pissed all over your mattress" is pretty definitive, I would say, to indicate that something has been ruined beyond repair, but surprisingly my mattress looked (and smelled!) fine. There was a small yellowish stain that smelled a little like the rubbing alcohol he used to clean it, but it looked like the mattress pad kept the pee from soaking through to the actual mattress surface. So far, so good.

The relief I felt knowing I wouldn't have to throw my mattress away disintegrated immediately when I walked into my kitchen and realized that, just 3 weeks after moving in, I could say for sure that I wouldn't be getting my security deposit back when I move out:

Me: Dad, what are those dark spots on the floor?

Dad: Oh, that's where Joey peed.

Me: I thought you said he didn't pee in the house. And why does it look like it seeped completely under the (very expensive looking) tiles? How long did you leave it there before you cleaned it up?

Dad: Oh, that was my fault. He peed on the floor twice, but those were the days I didn't get back here for like 20 hours or something like that.

Me: 20 HOURS? WHY DIDN'T YOU COME BACK FOR 20 HOURS?

Dad: Well I ran late at work.

Me: 20 consecutive hours late? Why didn't you tell me if you thought you couldn't do it every day?

Dad: I'm not saying I couldn't do it- I didn't mind- I just couldn't get here for a while!

Me: I could have sent someone else to at least take him out that day! That pee is under the tile and I'll never get it out. I'm going to lose my security!

Dad: Oh, come on. Your landlord isn't going to notice that!

Me: I noticed it the SECOND I walked in here!

Dad: I wouldn't worry about.

Me: Of course you wouldn't.

At this point, I asked about his "disaster" comment and he told me that the dog had knocked over Caitlyn's toy shopping cart and that the removable front piece came off. He realized after telling April that my shit was broken that it was actually completely fixable. It's sort of ironic. The two things he focused on- the mattress and a broken fucking shopping cart toy- were the very least of my worries.

Most of the destruction he caused was dog-related, but not in the way you might think. It wasn't the dog destroying things so much as it was him not paying a single second's worth of attention to the detailed instructions I gave him before leaving. For example:

• Joey had not been groomed in a while. He smelled pretty funky and his hair was too long with a few small knots that needed to be cut out. What can I say? I've been busy. Before I left, my dad insisted he was going to give Joey a bath. I told him that I appreciated that, but because Joey had some spots on him that were matted, I'd prefer he didn't. You see, I explained, when those spots get wet, then dry again, they tighten up and cause him pain, like his hair is being pulled, so I'd prefer to wait until I was able to give him a haircut before giving him a bath. "I'll give him a haircut!", my father insisted. Since I groom Joey at home, I directed him to the grooming kit I own and told him that he was more than welcome to give him a haircut if he had the time, knowing full well that he would absolutely not bother and hopefully just leave my poor dog alone. Of course, when I got home, he had given Joey a bath and no haircut. Which led to the next 5 problems on this list:
• Since I just moved, I had emailed my landlord a few days before vacation to let him know about a couple of small issues I was having, one of which was that my bathtub was clogged up, and also to let him know that my father would be at my house while I was away (it's a condo complex, and I don't know how nosy the neighbors are yet, so I wanted to let him know just in case anyone asked him who the old, homeless-looking dude was). He couldn't send someone to fix my tub until Sunday, the day after I left for vacation, which was fine, because my dad would be there to let them in. I spoke to my dad on Sunday evening, and he confirmed that all was well and that my bathtub was unclogged. Then he promptly gave my ungroomed, hairy dog a bath in there. He didn't even bother to wipe the dog hair out of the tub, despite claiming that he cleaned everything with bleach the day I got home (he made a point of telling me this because he wanted to prove that all my complaints about the overwhelming bleach smell I hate are exaggerated and that I wouldn't have even noticed if he hadn't pointed it out). My tub is now clogged again.
• I purchased a cute frog-shaped bath mat for my new house. It was only a few days old when I left. When I came home it was filthy and caked with soap and dog hair to the point of nearly gluing one of the frog's eyes shut.
• One of the first things I did after being home for a little while was get in the shower (to use my freshly reclogged bathtub!) and clear the road skank off of me. While in there, I noticed that half my bottle of body wash was gone. This was a brand new bottle. I believe I bought it on the same trip to Walmart as the bath mat. Anyone who uses body wash knows that a bottle usually lasts a couple of months, so I had to ask why so much was gone. Well, isn't it obvious? He used it to wash the dog (which also explains what was caked onto my bath mat)! Why would he use so much, you might wonder? Well, he was leaning over the bathtub and he couldn't really reach, so he just poured it onto him! Which leads us to...
• When I finally did get around to giving Joey a haircut last night, I found that, while the fur I was cutting off was certainly soft from the half gallon of body wash used to clean it, the stuff closer to his skin was matted to hell and covered in dandruff. Or maybe it was just dried up body wash. I also found a couple of scabs where he had clearly chewed his skin raw, probably because he had a reaction to the body wash, or, at best the fact that the body wash was not properly rinsed off of him. Oh, and the fur around his nails was pink, also seemingly blood-stained from him chewing them raw with itch. I also feel it's important to mention that I had not ONE but TWO full bottles of dog shampoo in my bathroom. One was in the medicine cabinet and the other was under the sink. But, I mean, who would look in literally the only two places I could store something in my bathroom for dog shampoo when there was a full bottle of body wash at his disposal! Vanilla and honey scented bloody paws are awesome!
• Another fun note from Joey's grooming last night- his dick was caked in piss. This has literally never happened before. I mean, I've certainly seem the remnants of drippage and the ends of his fur in that area, but I can't imagine a reason that the entire area was caked in a sticky, piss film. I have to assume leftover, unrinsed body wash was to blame because there is literally no other explanation. My POOR DOG!

And lastly, just to prove how deliberately he does things for spite:

• After the cat piss incident, he promised to wash my sheets and mattress cover. Which he did, but cat piss is a hard stench to get rid of, so my first thought was to smell the sheets, which he had left at the foot of my bed. "Don't worry", he assured me, "I put like 5 times more detergent than I was supposed to. The smell is gone". He was mostly right. The piss smell was gone. I can't say the same for the chemically Gain smell that I'm pretty sure I'll never get out (I really don't like chemically smells. I get unscented things whenever I can). And that is when I thought about it. I don't own scented detergent. Which wouldn't be that big a deal except for all the warnings and signs posted in the laundry room about the fact that the washers are high efficiency washers and using detergent that isn't labelled as such, along with using too much of any detergent, can break them. There are literally at least half a dozen signs specifying what kinds of detergent are safe to use, and noting that you shouldn't use more than 1/4 cup of even those high-efficiency detergents. So. Instead of using a reasonable amount of the HE detergent that I had, and maybe running it through the washer twice, he went out of his way to buy a scented detergent that wasn't safe for the machines in my laundry room and use it at 5 times the normal amount needed for a regular washing machine. He saw and ignored the signs, despite the fact that he must have realized that I would be responsible if he broke one of these expensive machines. Of course I asked him why he wouldn't just use the detergent I had, and again, he didn't see it (just like the dog shampoo). He saw the signs, he said, he just didn't bother to read them. Why would he? It's not like he's responsible for anything.

So. If you are thinking I should be more grateful, no matter how much of a bumbling idiot he is, that he was trying to help, maybe you need to read through this again. In fact, check here and here and here and here and here again too. I think I've learning my lesson this time. Nadine, you are officially on notice for dog sitting next time.

Shit My Dad Says- About Moving

I moved to a new apartment yesterday. I could write this post in the way you might expect. I could say I'm tired and that moving is bullshit and that I'm lucky to have friends and family that I can count on. But really, anyone who has ever moved anytime ever already knows that it's the worst thing ever (especially when you inflict it on people you love). In fact, I think that whole Guantanimo prison torture thing would have been a lot worse if they had made the prisoners help random, disorganized strangers move out of their second floor apartments as opposed to waterboarding them.

Anyway. I'm going to give you something a lot more entertaining than me just bitching about my sore muscles and vagina that decided to start bleeding at 1:30 in the morning the night before the move, when all my period-catching products were boxed the fuck up and my husband had already moved out and there was absolutely no way I was waking up my 2 year old to make a run to Walmart. I'm going to give you a new story about my dad:

When we last left my dad, he was an asshole, a deadbeat, and a hypochondriac, but I wonder if I've mentioned that he is also utterly insane and without a single drop of common sense. The thing is, I know plenty of people who lack common sense: they say dumb shit without really thinking it through and then feel embarrassed when you point out their huge faults in logic. Honestly, everyone has those moments. Sometimes you will think of something that sounds like the most amazing idea ever in your own head, and then instantly feel like a short-busser the moment someone calls you out on your dumbassery.

The problem with my dad is that logic doesn't exist in his world. All his ideas are the very best ideas and when you point out all the reasons you aren't going to do whatever ridiculous thing he's trying to convince you to do, he desperately clings to the ways you could make it work, patching up the holes with half-assed "solutions" that are just as illogical as the original idea.

I moved yesterday, a Wednesday. On Monday, my dad came over because he wanted to "help pack". This is the point where you wonder if I'm a complete dumbass who left myself only 2 nights after work to pack up my entire life. I absolutely had packing left to do, and was packing up right until very late Tuesday night/Wednesday morning (I was getting ready to go to sleep when Shark Week hit, actually), but by the time he showed up on Monday, around 85% of my stuff was already boxed up and stacked in my living room.

You know in cartoons when someone gets a good idea and a light bulb pops up over their head? It's always like that with my dad. I can see the nonsensical thoughts forming in his brain when he has an idea he thinks is brilliant. Except I always imagine a middle finger instead of a light bulb. Because fuck you, logic. Such was the case on Monday evening. He had been in my house for less than 10 minutes when I saw him looking around at my boxes, metaphorical finger forming over his head. Then he said it:

Dad: You know Jaclyn, if I were you, I wouldn't use these cardboard boxes to pack all your stuff.

Me: ... What do you mean? What else would I use?

Dad: Well, if I can make a suggestion... (Because he thinks the fact that he moves constantly makes him some sort of expert, despite the fact that he never moves anywhere permanently, so his worldy possessions always fit into a- his car or b- a storage unit that he won't pay the monthly rent on and will eventually lose. So basically he's always starting out with nothing to even move).

Me: Well dad, as you can see most of my stuff is already packed.

Dad: I'm just saying, if it were me, let me tell you what I would do.

Me: Oh boy.

Dad: No seriously. Think about it. You are just going to throw all these boxes away anyway. If you bought a bunch of storage trunks you could keep them and use them forever.

Me: I have at least 30 boxes here. I would need at least as many trunks. What the hell would I do with 30 storage trunks? Also, I'm not buying 30 trunks.

Dad: Okay but you can use them for other things besides storage. You could use them as furniture!

Me: ...

Dad: I'm serious!

Me: (at this point I've assumed he means I could use one as a toy chest and maybe a ghetto coffee table, because what the fuck else are you going to do with a fucking TRUNK? Well, friends, LOTS of things, as it turns out). Well... I could use one or two for a toy box but what the fuck would I do with the rest? Also? I'm NOT buying a bunch of storage trunks and even if this made any sense, I ALREADY PACKED 85% OF MY BELONGINGS!

Dad: Well think about this! You could stack a bunch of them and put cushions on them. YOU COULD MAKE A COUCH out of them!

Me: I HAVE A COUCH. Also? Constructing homemade furniture out of extra storage trunks is fucking retarded.

Dad: I think it's a good idea.

Me: Even if it was a good idea, you seem to be suggesting that I should not only throw out my current couch so I can... I don't know, hot glue a bunch of trunks together and put cushions on them, but that I should unpack everything I have already packed so that I can put it into trunks instead.

Dad: I'm just saying. That's what I would do.

Me: Of course it is.

These are the kinds of ideas he has all the time. Naturally, my mom and Nadine had a field day with this one in particular. Nadine suggested saving the boxes so he could make himself a house. My mom thought the cardboard would be great for dressers.

Seriously, you guys? I'm going to be so sad when I can't assemble a new couch out of my moving boxes. So. Sad.

Catholic Guilt Only Works If You Are Catholic

Every time I'm about to post something that I think will be offensive to a lot of people, I like to preface it with a warning. It would seem, though, that those are always the posts my readers like best. Also, I suppose "a lot of people" is relative. Even if 50% of my readers were incredibly offended and started some shit in the comments, that would only be like 6 people, and that's closer to a bar brawl than the sort of viral, internet,  hate-filled shitstorm I keep imagining. Anyway. This is one such occasion. Consider yourself warned.

In my last post, I told you guys that I'm moving. Without my husband. The thing of it is, we have actually been separated for almost 3 months now, but as I also mentioned, he had refused to move out, so I went out and found a place on my own.

You would think after being separated for months, with him asking for a reconciliation more than once and me refusing each time during that period, that Rodolfo would not have been shocked when I told him I'd found a new place to live. But of course, he was shocked. It was a little over a week ago that I told him I'd be moving at the end of the month, which gave him a solid 2 and a half weeks until I left. It isn't a ton of time, I realize, but again, I'd like to reiterate how he should have not only been expecting this, but also preparing for it.

Rodolfo's immediate reaction was to tell me how much I'd screwed him over, and to heap on serving after serving of guilt about the financial and logistical ruin our break-up would cause him. He decided in less than 5 minutes that he would also need to move, because, despite making more money than I do, somehow he simply can't afford a 1 bedroom apartment. He informed our landlord the very next day that we would be leaving on August 1st.

Yesterday afternoon, Rodolfo called me to let me know that he had spoken to our landlord, who informed him that we would be losing 1 month of our 1 and a half months security deposit, because we did not give "enough" notice before our move. Now, I could absolutely go off on a tangent here about the fact that we signed a one year lease that did not have an automatic renewal clause 3 years ago and were never asked to sign a new one after it expired, which would make our current situation month-to-month. I could point out that even if we were basing it off the old lease, there is not a single word in that lease that specifies what our landlord considers "enough" notice. I could rant about the fact that he just arbitrarily decided to keep our security for reasons he made up right there on the spot. But you know, that isn't what this post is even about. I simply brought it up because I think I know the real reason he decided to keep our security, and it's definitely not about notice:

So. Last night comes and I'm making dinner. Actually, I had just finished making dinner. The dog was in his cage and our food was on our plates (our = mine and Caitlyn's. Rodolfo was at work), sitting on my kitchen counter. I had just set out to wrangle Caitlyn into her high chair so we could eat, when I heard a knock at my door. I ignored it. A minute later there was a second knock and I knew she wouldn't go away until I talked to her.

It was our downstairs neighbor. I should mention that our landlord is her son. She and her husband live in the apartment downstairs and their son owns the house. I opened the door and she asked if she could come in. I told her that I had been packing and my house was a ridiculous mess. "Don't worry", she told me. "I'm not here to look at your apartment, I want to talk to you". Ugh. Backed into a corner, I let her in. I should also point out that while I was distracted talking to her at the door, Caitlyn had let the dog out of his cage and so I spent the entirety of the ensuing conversation swatting him away from our dinner. I think it's important for you to have that as a part of this visual as a whole. This woman saw that our dinner was sitting on the kitchen counter, uneaten, and did not even offer to come back at another time. Nope. Saving a person is something you need to do right away, I guess.

Apparently, Rodolfo had mentioned to her that the reason we were moving is because I had decided to leave him. And when I say she was there trying to "save" me, let me assure you that I do not mean she came there with the intent of helping me get out of my marriage. There were no questions about my safety or finances or emotional well being. No. She had a different agenda. She was there to intervene on behalf of Jesus.

Her first words after she walked through my door, were to tell me how upset she was. "Feel my heart- it's racing", she insisted. At first, I thought she was upset because we had been friendly tenants, on good terms with them, and they always took the time to play with Caitlyn and Joey when they saw them. I thought, when she told me she was upset, that she was expressing some sort of sadness because we would be leaving.

Her next words, though, cleared that misunderstanding right up. "You know, 2 of my sons are divorced and it really hurts me. What religion are you- Catholic or Protestant?". Oh. None of the above, thank you very much, but I did make the unfortunate distinction that "well, my father is Catholic, but I'm not religious". "Well," she said, "if your father is Catholic, he's really going to suffer if you get divorced".

She then proceeded to ask me if Rodolfo and I had sought out the counsel of a priest to help deal with our marital issues, and when I made it clear that that would never happen, she suggested a non-religious counselor. I thanked her for her suggestions and even gave her a little hope so that maybe she would leave me the fuck alone "well, we aren't technically getting divorced yet. We are simply spending some time apart to see what our next step is". That was a mistake. She latched on to her mission to get me to stay with my husband, despite never having asked a single question about WHY I left (maybe he was beating me, lady. What if that were the case? Oh, that's right, Jesus still wouldn't approve of a divorce).

Once she thought there was a chance, she spent the next 5 minutes or so telling me how bad it will be for Caitlyn when Rodolfo and I split up. "Children who live with both parents are much better off- it's bad for them when the parents aren't together. Those children aren't as well-adjusted". That right there? The fact that I responded with a polite "well, my mother was a single mother, so I don't agree with that"- that might have actually proven to me the existence of a god. Because maintaining my decorum in that moment and NOT telling her to go fuck herself? That was patently miraculous.

After that she spent a few more minutes Catholic-guilting me. She explained to me how much easier it would be to fix this problem if I were religious, because "then you could just pray and God would help you". She told me that, when her son split with his wife, he wanted to go to counseling but she said no. Then, when she decided she wanted to go, he had already found another woman. Another woman who interacts with his children, even! Tragic, really. I mean, what kind of family values are those?

After each argument she made, she would stop talking for a moment and look at me expectantly, as if she was waiting for the moment when I would realize she was right and thank her for saving my soul from eternal damnation. About 10 minutes in, after repeatedly making it clear that she did not approve of my choice, no matter the reason or my own personal belief structure, she realized that, alas, she would not be able to get me into heaven, and finally left, obviously dejected.

I'm going to try to not turn these last few paragraphs into religion-specific hate. That being said, this is why I hate organized religion (Yup. Contradictory like a motherfucker). I managed to maintain my composure because she's a nice woman and I know she meant well, but in my head, I spend the entire time screaming "who the FUCK do you think you are?" at her.

Okay. And really, WHO THE FUCK DOES SHE THINK SHE IS???? She's not my fucking grandmother or my best friend or a trusted confidante. She didn't give a flying fuck about my reasons for leaving or my well-being. All she cared about was her own personal belief system, and cramming it down my throat as hard and guilt-riddled as possible.

And then it occurred to me. Is this why I'm getting screwed out of my security deposit? If my husband and I had found a house like we had originally planned, would it have been all sunshine and puppies and rainbows and prompt return of my fucking money then? I sort of think maybe it would have been.

I really wish I hadn't taken the high road during that conversation and instead shown her the exact same level of respect she showed me. You know, none. Nadine seems to think I should have told her I was a bisexual Muslim and I was leaving Rodolfo for another woman that I had been cheating on him with for the entirety of our marriage. God, that would have been so fantastic.

In a completely unrelated note, why did I spend half my train ride today thinking about "The Human Centipede", a movie which I have never seen and never ever ever want to see? I'm going to put it right out there and say I blame Jesus.

Gymmy Buffet

I've been trying to lose weight. I believe I've mentioned it before. I've gone back and forth with it, losing and regaining the same 10lbs or so for years, but when I realized that I was just weeks away from my 30th birthday, it occurred to me that I couldn't keep fucking around like that.

I gave myself an extremely short-term goal- I wanted to lose 8 pounds in the 3 weeks I had until I turned 30, so I've been going to the gym a lot. Mostly it's been fine, but I almost stabbed some bitches the other day. Let me set the scene for you:

I showed up on my lunch break, like usual. This means I only had 20 or so minutes to work out. Twenty minutes, when you are working with what I've got, really isn't much time to make an impact. It's certainly not enough time to deal with the level of bullshit I dealt with that day.

I was feeling pretty tired, because I had my shot the night before and it's been wiping me out. Still, I felt the need to do at least a little cardio, so I jumped on a treadmill and figured I could spend 10 minutes there and 10 minutes using a few of the weight machines.

While I walked on the treadmill, I noticed a couple of things. First, there was a small group of girls wandering around with one of the trainers. They giggled and chatted and had him take pictures of them while the stood on the windowsill near the treadmills in yoga poses. It was strange, but they were young and bimbo-y enough that I didn't think much of it. I also noticed that all the girls were wearing nametags, but I didn't care enough to actually look and see where they were from. I assumed it was some sort of women's college or something doing a pathetic excuse for a field trip.

The next thing I noticed was much weirder. The layout of my gym... it isn't exactly cramped, but it's certainly not a large space either. Half the space is the mirrored, lady-gym exercise class area and the other half is evenly split between cardio equipment and weight machines.

There was a class going on and I glanced toward the back of the class while I walked. Sometimes I do this. Sometimes I want to see how the other people like me, the ones who hide in the back of the class, are doing. Back when I was young, I was somehow more insecure but simultaneously more game to try out a class. Now? Not so much. I've tried two classes. One was a toning class that I really enjoyed but never went back to because I don't usually have anyone to watch Caitlyn during that time. The other one was a cardio class. I made it less than 10 minutes into that one and gave up (though this was about a week before I went into the hospital in January, so maybe it wasn't just that I couldn't handle it).

And everyone keeps saying to try Zumba. How Zumba is SO. MUCH. FUN. Lady Gym likes to play infomercials for Zumba during the Zumba classes. When I first signed up, I really wanted to check it out. My white girl, rhythm-deficient insecurities, however, would not allow me do it alone. So I recruited Nadine to go to Zumba class with me. Well, true to form, I was running late and showed up 10 minutes into the class. Nadine spotted me from across the room and immediately stopped Zumba-ing and walked over to me. "I'm done, Jaclyn. I look like the Pillsbury Doughboy doing Zumba". And that was all I needed to hear. No one wanted to see TWO Pillsbury Doughboys embarrassing themselves like that. Zumba was now dead to me.

I'm off track here. Way off track. My point certainly isn't about the Pillsbury Doughboy, though, now that I think of it, this segue is kind of genius (thank you, Nadine). Because at the back of the class area, where there was a class going on at that very moment, were two tables full of catering trays.

Yes. You read that right. At my gym. Where I go to lose weight. Was a fucking BUFFET LINE.

I'm insecure. I have very little willpower. Did there really need to be a buffet at the gym? It was worse, probably, for the girls like me at the back of the class, struggling to keep up while the smell of food wafted up their noses. I don't know. Maybe I was just overreacting because I've been sticking to a fairly strict diet and feeling a little sensitive? Actually, no. No fucking buffet at the gym. That should be a fucking rule. If they want to put up signs about the fact that they will ABSOLUTELY NOT make an exception for you if you forget your card, then I think they should have a no fucking buffet rule.

Anyway. My ten treadmill minutes were up. The treadmills face the window, so I didn't notice the chaos that had filtered in behind me. I stepped off and turned to face 40 nametag clad women just milling around, using the weight machines, the elliptical, the spot on the floor directly in front of the locker room, as their hang out space.

I found a machine that wasn't being used as a chair and sat down. As I worked out, I started feeling really fucking annoyed. Who were these bitches? Didn't anyone teach them any manners? Also, did they know what a bunch of assholes they all looked like, clad in yoga pants and tank tops, lazing around like they were at their high school gym, sitting in the bleachers hoping not to get a 0 for the day because, hey, at least they changed? I was not there because I had to be, and they were fucking up my shit.

Hostility breeds curiosity sometimes for me. The question of "who are these bitches" was getting to me. I imagined then that this MUST be some sort of bullshit college trip, because grown women don't act like they are still in high school.

That's when I noticed it. The nametags. They all had the name of my gym on them. And the name of the person. And their titles. "Manager", "Trainer", etc. These were EMPLOYEES of the gym, sent from other locations, apparently to have some sort of meeting and a fucking buffet lunch.

Dear Lady Gym,
    You are one gentle misstep away from dead-to-me status. Do not pull some shit like that again.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, I DID reach my goal. I'm down 10 pounds in 4 weeks. I mostly attribute it to there not being buffets most days at the gym.

Adventures in Shitting

I live in Northern New Jersey. It is not even remotely an exaggeration to say that I live within 10 miles of at least 4 different malls (and if we were to add another 10 miles, I could probably double the number of malls). I'm not a big fan of malls, generally, but sometimes I have to drag myself to one of them.

Any time I have to make a trip to the mall, I weigh the pros and cons and decide which one will get me in and out the fastest. When you spent 4 years of your life working in a mall, let me assure you that you don't spend a single second longer than absolutely necessary inside one of those motherfuckers. Let me break down the choices:

1. The Closest Mall: Also the rich people mall with the good movie theater that I will only go to on Sundays (when the rest of the mall is closed) because otherwise it takes half an hour to find parking. I generally avoid this mall like the plague, because I can't stand the traffic and the rich-bitch stores.

2. The Second Closest Mall: AKA the mall in the same town as the first mall, like 3 miles down the highway. A nicer mall, with less traffic, easier parking and significantly less hoodrats bussed in from the nearby ghettos. A fat girl store, which is convenient and Old Navy and Children's Place, so I can get inexpensive clothes for Caitlyn, that I will be less annoyed about when she stains them after wearing something for less than 5 minutes. Also, a little carousel that never has a line. This is my mall of preference.

3. The Third Mall in the Same Town: I'm not even kidding: This is an outlet mall with a Target attached. I only ever go here if I need something from Target, but I make an effort to steer clear of it because I don't need fucking discounted, outlet store Nikes, so it's basically a waste of my time.

4. The Mall Where I Used to Work: It's the ghetto mall of the 4, but I know the good spots to park and where all the stores are, so I never have to look for anything. There is also a Dairy (Diarrhea? What?) Queen and the place where I get my hair cut. Pretty much I go here to get my hair cut and never ever set foot in the store where I used to work, lest I have to waste 20 minutes talking to my ex-coworkers and pretending like I care about their lives.

So. I needed to go to the mall last week (At first I wrote "weekend" and then I realized that no, you literally could not pay me to go there on a Saturday). We ended up at mall #1. The snooty douche, traffic clusterfuck mall. I can't remember exactly why I chose that mall on that day, but it was, in fact, a weekday, so it was slightly less enraging than usual.

We did our shopping. I found a really cute dress to wear out for my birthday celebration this weekend. After that, we stopped by the food court and grabbed some dinner. Then I realized that Caitlyn needed a diaper change.

If there is one thing I will absolutely give this mall all the props for, it is that is has the nicest family bathroom I've ever seen. Actually, let me clarify. It's not just a bathroom. It's a family "lounge". There are curtained off areas for breastfeeding, a tv playing cartoons and toys and sinks and counter space galore. It's truly fancy. Adjacent to the family lounge is the actual family bathroom. And even that is cool. There's a regular sized toilet and a toddler sized one. They've truly thought of everything.

Anyway, Caitlyn needed a new diaper. And mommy had to take a shit. Off to the family bathroom we went! The changing tables are in the lounge area, so I decided to go to the actual bathroom first and take care of my needs first, for once. I locked the door behind me and sat down.

After a moment of trying to prematurely flush my toilet, Caitlyn noticed the little kid toilet. She's a pro at taking off her diaper anyway, so obviously she wasn't going to wait for me to be done to try this thing out. So she took off her shorts. And her diaper.

I'm wondering at this point, if I've mentioned Caitlyn's tendency to want to be completely naked while she lounges (please note that I did not say "uses") on her potty? The fact that we were in a public restroom did nothing to stop her determination to get naked for potty time. Once that diaper was off, she pulled off her shirt, then sat down on the floor next to me to pull of her shoes and socks. I mean, who PEES ON THE POTTY while wearing shoes and socks? Me, actually. I pointed this out to her while she stripped down, trying to reason with my 2 year old, who was now sitting bare-assed on the floor of a public fucking restroom. Did I mention that I was taking a shit? Yeah. There was nothing more I could do.

Just then, the door of the bathroom burst open. There I was, sitting on the toilet taking a shit, my naked kid sitting on the floor next to me, presumably contracting Public Restroom Floor Syphilis, in the fancy mall with the snooty people and the broken fucking locks. It was a middle-aged man and his probably 8ish-year-old son. Of course. Neither of them felt the need to close the door after realizing I was in there, in case you were wondering. Nothing makes a trip to the mall complete quite like having to lean over mid-dump to reclose the door of a room that smells like your ass in front of a couple of strangers who have absolutely no courtesy whatsoever.

Anyway. Caitlyn decided after that to spend 5 or so seconds sitting on the kid toilet, very blatantly NOT actually going to the bathroom, before she milled around naked while I finished my shit, and one other person (who DID close the door behind her, at least) walked in on us.

At that point, I wanted nothing more than to get some clothes on my kid and high-tail it the hell out of there. So I grabbed her, COMPLETELY NAKED, and walked into the lounge area with the necessary counter space to get her off the damn floor, trying to explain to the other families, including the second person who walked in on us, that I was not, in fact, a total weirdo who lets her kid wander around mall bathrooms naked.

I think we need to stick to the ghetto mall, where the bathrooms are just bathrooms, and no one is hanging around directly outside the door to witness your naked toddler/taking a shit shame.

So, You Think You are Having a Heart Attack

I should clarify. I didn't think I was having a heart attack. I thought that my MS meds ate through my aorta and my heart was about to explode. Or something. Anyway. Chest pains.

I know that logically, you should not wait 2 weeks to visit a doctor if you are having chest pains. I also know that my neurologist's office is a fucking pain in the ass to get on the phone. And Dr. Google always has good ideas about what is ailing me.

In any case, if you are wondering what you should do if you believe you are having a heart attack (or a mutilated aorta), I'm going to give you a step-by-step guide based on my experience (I feel the need to apologize in advance to anyone who finds this post through Dr. Google and is looking for actual advice. GO TO THE FUCKING HOSPITAL. THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU ARE LOOKING FOR):

1. Ignore. I mean, you have been working out a lot trying to reach your goal of losing 8lbs by your birthday which is only 2 weeks away. Your muscles are probably just sore from all that activity (I mean, it is kinda weird that the only sore muscle you seem to have is in your upper left chest, but whatever).

2. Skip the gym for a couple of days. This is the gold standard for heart attack diagnosis. If your chest still hurts after skipping the gym, you are obviously dying.

3. Decide you are obviously dying. God, not before the end of the work day though, you lazy bitch. This can clearly wait until after 5:00pm.

4. Send a nonchalant text to your estranged husband on the train ride home. Does he think you should go to the ER for "this chest pain thing"?

5. Make babysitting arrangements. Obviously you aren't dragging a toddler to the ER.

6. Stop at Wendy's on the way to your aforementioned babysitting arrangements. Do you realize how long you will be in the ER? It's dinner time, you are starving and you won't be home until midnight. Also? Do you even understand how shitty that "heart healthy" diet is that they will obviously put you on after your shredded aorta is diagnosed? Priorities, people. This is the most important step. You must stop at Wendy's (McDonalds or Burger King are fine too, as long as you are soaking up as much fat and sodium as possible before your big trip to the ER- you are going to need your energy!).

7. Chat with your brother-in-law for several minutes about his plans for the evening. Your kid LOVES spending time with her cousin and uncle!

8. Finally head over to the ER. Don't be discouraged when the woman behind the reception desk spends 2 full minutes ignoring you while she hole-punches name badges. Chest pain is like an express ticket to PROCEDUREVILLE and you will be on your way any minute!

9. Skip triage. Go directly to the place the paramedics bring their ambulance patients! You are rolling in style now (literally. They won't let you walk, so you have to make the 50 foot journey by wheelchair)!

10. Take off your shirt for that EKG. God, your tits are looking old! It's okay though. The other 3 people in the room don't seem to notice.

11. Your EKG is normal. Time to start waiting! It's been a busy day in the ER, so your gurney is rolled next to the food trays and refrigerator, directly across from the guy who picks his nose continuously, the entire time he is in your sight lines.

12. "Take deep breaths" for at least 5 different people so they can listen to your lungs. Tell the exact same story 5 separate times- did you think people WROTE THINGS DOWN in the ER? You silly girl!

13. It's been 2 hours and your chest is still hurting? Well you are in luck- PERCOCET!

14. Try not to doze off while listening to the woman next to you chatter on the phone about how she has no signal and she had to borrow the hospital's land line and she can only make local calls and the battery is almost dead on this phone, but somehow she has enough power left to make 3 more 20 minute calls after that, where she tells everyone she has ever known (with the exception of her sister and fiance, as she noted to one lucky caller, because she had not been in touch with them yet- WHO THE FUCK WERE YOUR FIRST 4 CALLS TO, YOU DUMB WHORE?) about how she can't BELIEVE her gynocologist missed her internally bleeding ovary-because- ISN'T THAT HER SPECIALTY??? Also wonder why she keeps pointing out that "several friends already offered to come, but I told them not to bother because I'm going to be SUCH bad company!". You know what, lady? Agreed. You are fucking terrible company. Also? I hope no one else in this fucking ER actually needed to call someone besides their top 5 besties- you know, like their husbands or mothers or sisters- because you've been hogging the only land line in this cell reception dead zone for at least 2 hours. Also, you are a cunt, which is probably why your ovary is exploding.

15. Since percocet has done literally nothing for you, and your heart and blood tests have all been normal, your doctor informs you that he suspects acid reflux and will be bringing you something for your stomach to see if that helps. "Is it pills or something nasty I have to drink?", you may decide to ask. At this point he will lie to you and tell you "It's a drink, but it actually tastes really good. I had to drink it once".

16. After another hour of waiting, they finally bring you your "GI Cocktail". The nurse informs you that it contains "Maalox, Lidocaine and... blah blah blah other stomach stuff". This is another lie. Based on color, consistency, volume and taste, I suspect the actual contents are as follows: Horse semen, shampoo, grape flavored Triaminic.

17. Spend 15 minutes trying to choke down your "cocktail". Gag repeatedly. Feel surprised that even after the numbing effects of the horse semen kick in, the taste and texture are still so blatantly revolting that you can barely manage to drink it at all. After making it through 90% or so, declare "fuck this" and refuse to drink anymore.

18. Wait around and find that your chest pain is starting to subside. Feel dumb that you spent the entire night in the ER for what amounts to heartburn and a really big fart.

19. Take your first full dose of MS medication (if you do not have MS, I suggest something equally likely to cause "flu-like symptoms". Maybe go around licking some of the other patients). You don't know this yet, especially since you've mostly handled it really well, but the 5 hours you'll have left to sleep by the time you get home will be considerably disturbed when you wake up shaking with chills from your high fever, and aching from head-to-toe.

20. Get discharged without so much as a prescription for Nexium or a suggestion to take some extra-strength Maalox. "Follow up with your regular doctor" or some shit.

Your heart attack is now complete. Enjoy being tired as fuck at work tomorrow (because really, you can't call out and say "well, I thought I was having a heart attack but apparently I just had a really spicy burrito, so I'm just going to stay home today").