RSVP, Bitches

Recently, I had a very eventful pity-party.  I even brought out my best fat pants to wear for the occasion. Taking down all my valuables-trust, optimism, faith, hope and love, I opened the door to some questionable characters.

 I invited into my subconscious the likes of Worry, Dread, Guilt, and Guilt's good buddy, Shame. Trying to add some diversity,  I invited Motivation. The last time I saw Motivation was at the gym, but I didn't make eye contact since Motivation suspected I was flirting with Temptation. I also invited Motivation's besty, Pride. Pride is always a blast at parties but probably opted out due to that awkward run in with Bragging at my last pity-party.

 Since Motivation did not even bother to RSVP, I was not surprised when Motivation and Pride didn't show up at my pity-party. I learned later that they threw their own party at the gym on the same day as my party.

I was, however, surprised that Stress Induced Eating showed up since I did not invite Stress induced Eating, who brought a friend, Insomnia, a terrible bully. It's just gossip, but, these two are big enemies of Motivation and Pride. You do the math.

Since Stress Induced Eating, Insomnia, Worry, Dread and Guilt get along so well, they had a wonderful time. They stayed up until an ungodly hour, eating nachos and surfing the internet on my computer. They called up some of their out of town friends (Regret, Resentment and Negativity) and invited them to crash my pity-party. I heard that Regret, Resentment and Negativity refused to make the long drive, but I'm certain they are responsible for the T.P. in the yard.

Just when I didn't think things couldn't get any more out of control, Disdain showed up. Of course, Disdain doesn't go anywhere without Fear and Loathing. As you can imagine, these three had their way with all the guests at my pity party. Not even Animosity could compete for the spotlight.

The party began to lose steam. Eventually, Stress Induced Eating's ex, Sensibility, showed up, taking all the leftover nachos with them. Insomnia's ride, Guided Meditation, picked up Insomnia, Worry and Dread. They were running out of room in the car, so they decided to leave Relaxation at my house in trade for Guilt and Shame. Animosity hitch hiked, and Disdain went unconscious in the driveway next to an empty keg.

Fear and Loathing called Embarrassment to come get them. Embarrassment only came to a slow roll, and didn't even get out of the car, probably because Embarrassment wasn't initially invited.

Left in the wake of my pity-party were some empty bottles of Apology and a few cans of Hormones.  It could be months before I get the smell of Discomfort out of the carpets.

I won't soon invite any of those fools back to my place.

Wondering if there was any food left in the fridge, I found one slice of cold, Humble Pie, which I ate while I called up Motivation and Pride to see how their party was.

Shark Infested Father

He sat on a red crate which he had turned upside down into a makeshift stool, tinkering on the Harley with a concentrated lean. He called it "restoration", but it was surely tinkering, since his restorations never amounted to anything more than red crates full of Harley parts.

"God gave you that scar to keep you humble, so you wouldn't get too high on yourself."

My Dad's theory mingled with the cranking purr of the socket wrench in his greasy hand.

There was no obvious reason he would mention it, my scar, all these years later... Perhaps restoring the Harley was taking him down the gravelly road of Memory Lane.

I didn't feel high on myself. I felt humbled to a fault as I turned my attention to the reclusive, abnormal flesh hiding under my shirt. A gnarled twist of thick scar tissue, hidden from the light of day and the quizzical stares of rude strangers, my scar was my best kept secret.

"You should make up a bad ass story about how it happened."

Advice on lying seemed apt coming from him. He stuck his fat, gray hands into the guts of his iron horse. More cranking, more grease. More parts tossed into a red crate.

"...like a dog bite, or a shark attack."

A shark attack? The sun beat down on the red, cracked earth in our desert front yard. Miles from a man made lake, not to mention sharks.

I learned how to strategically hide my scar, and the truth, as I concocted outrageous stories about how it happened. Where it came from. At 21, my scar was the result of a violent bar fight; a stabbing. When I was 30, my scar was a badge of heroism after I saved those orphans from a burning school bus.

Tinkered to death, with its gas tank on the garage floor, the Harley was miles from being restored. He couldn't undo what he'd done.

He would never be able to put it all back together.

Straightening himself out,  he smeared his hands across his jeans and stepped over me like a doormat to get in the house, leaving me in the garage to swim with the sharks.

Sweet Jesus

In the margin of my Facebook page, there is a disturbing ad.
 I can deal with the Meth Hotline ad. I can deal with the Math Tutors,  Tough Mudders, and 2-for1 Car Wash ad. I can even deal with the Credit Counseling and Ultra Sound Techs Wanted. It tests my patience to no end to be forced to learn that Racheal Ray lost 43lbs, and no, I'm not at all curious to know how she did it.

Selected by Big Brother (or whatever internet behaviorist is currently watching my habits and trending) the ads are synced with my Facebook status updates by keyword. For example, a status update on Facebook that contains the word 'diarrhea' will yield customized ad results to include things like: Malaria Vaccine, Carpet Cleaning, Home Remedies for Stain Removal and an invitation to 'like' the Pepto Page.

Even at my lowest and most socially isolated, I don't think I would ever friend Pepto. At least not publicly. But, I would never friend Racheal Ray, either. So, I doubt that anyone really knows anything about my lifestyle since none of the ads shoved down my subconscious throat apply to me at all.

 Nevertheless, there is no escaping the very real sense that someone is watching me. Nothing like a little internet provoked paranoia.

After updating my status to include something about the upcoming Easter holiday, the ads in my Facebook margin flipped over like plastic digits on an old Baseball scoreboard.

"Go to Church Faster!" Seems a little bossy and judgmental to me, but it certainly got my attention.

Alright, Facebook. Don't make me go Jesus on your ass.

In my opinion, there are two things in this world that are things you just don't mess with. 1: Jesus and 2: God.  I also have personal feelings about using the phrase 'I hate you'. However, I've lived long enough (and been divorced hard enough) to admit that sometimes there is nothing left but Hate, so I'm willing to concede the Hate clause.

 But I will not budge on Jesus (and/or) God.

After closer review, it was discovered that my aging eyes had skewed the message and the ad actually reads: Go to Church This Easter!

Oh, well in that case.

Wait.

That's still not better. Is this really a commercial for God? On my Facebook page?

As if I can just go to the Market and get some Sweet Tart flavored jelly beans and some plastic eggs filled with Jesus and the Holy Spirit? Perhaps I can ask my husband to pick up some Body of Christ when he stops for milk on the way home, or stuff the kid's baskets with chocolate bunnies and Deliverance from Sin?

I would rather be invited to 'like' the Easter Bunny's Facebook page than admit that we are at a point in our Human existence that we are advertising church, and God on Facebook in the same tiny column as Racheal Ray and Pepto.

I hate that.

About Face

When I came downstairs, I hadn't rounded the corner before I heard him clear his throat. He sat at the dining room table, his otherwise beady eyes appearing abnormally large behind the thick, distorting lenses of his bifocals.

I'd grown to hate that sound, and the predictable manner with which he cleared his throat. I could anticipate it now; the short inhale, followed by a violent cajole of real or imagined phlegm. The self righteous side of me doubted his biological need to heft that throaty cough. No one has to clear their throat that often. Perhaps over the years it simply became a subconscious habit for him. Either way, his phleming habit was a great distraction to me. A rock, dropping in the still waters of my morning. 

He slurped at his coffee with a sound that irritated me perhaps even more than the throat clearing. A slurp is not a sip. 

Never looking up, he cloaked himself with anonymity behind the daily newspaper. Using the sound of the  gray pages crushing under his thoughtless hands as his cue to clear his throat. Again. 

I was invisible as I silently moved about the kitchen like a Breakfast Ninja. I didn't mind. I preferred him not to notice me. The cacophony of sound rising up from behind the newspaper made it impossible not to notice him. 

"Good morning, Asshole." The Ninja serves imaginary conversations with her cereal, which she takes upstairs to her room to enjoy beside still waters. 

New Kid On The Chopping Block

“Are you enjoying Bunko? Would you like to join our Book Club, too?”

Linda all but cried, “shotgun!” as she swiftly slid into the front passenger seat of Paula’s car. As the newest neighbor, I have learned that the front seat of the Bunko carpool is a rite of passage, and is not included in my HOA dues.

I only joined Bunko because I reasoned that it is essentially organized gaming in a stranger’s basement. It seemed a chance to ante up, and escape from reality under the cover of someone else’s wood paneling. As far as I’m concerned, I just joined Fight Club. Since I have consistently lost at Bunko, I was not inspired to sign up for more underground suffering. But, how could I delicately say that to the back of Linda’s head?
“To be honest, I just don’t read very much. So, no thank you.”

“Oh? You don’t enjoy reading?”

Either I just failed at politely declining Book Club, or Paula and Linda are having trouble understanding that no means no. Suddenly, I felt very vulnerable in the backseat.

“No, it’s just that I’m more of a writer. Does the neighborhood have a Writer’s Club?” I huffed with a nervous laugh.

“Writing? What do you write, exactly?”

It seemed a lot of interrogation for a five block drive.

“Well, currently, I’m working on my Memoir.”

“Oh! You have a story to tell!”

I assume everyone has a story to tell. Maybe that was a lot to assume of Paula. After all, she’s driving a Volvo.

She made eye contact with me in her rear view mirror.

“So, what is your intrigue?”

Five blocks isn’t enough time to forge close, personal bonds with your Bunko mates. I didn’t feel comfortable spilling my guts about my messed up childhood. I made an attempt at summarizing twelve years of horror into a short, single sentence.

“It’s a story about growing up with emotional abuse."

It’s five blocks. I’m driving my own car to Fight Club next month.

“And? What about it?”

Buy the book, Paula.

“Surviving it. Overcoming it. Living normally after abuse. Living. Normally.”

“And what was your salvation?”

“My ‘salvation’?”

I’m serious. If this turns spiritual I’m throwing myself into traffic.

“Yes, what brought you to ‘living normally’? What saved you?”

“Nothing saved me. I had to separate from my dad once I was old enough to choose to. I had to choose a healthy emotional life. So, I guess I am my salvation.”

I can’t believe I’m talking about this in the Bunko rideshare.

There was a tension in the car that hovered like a fragrance puck.

No one said anything as the Volvo pulled into my driveway. I thanked Paula for the ride, and Linda for inviting me. They answered with plastic smiles. I can't prove it, but I think Paula started backing out as my seatbelt dangled in the door.

So much for first impressions. I lost at Bunko, I am not joining Book Club and I’m writing about taking control of my own life.

There goes the neighborhood.