When the Fu Shits, Wear It

I'm not going to recover from the indignity of the 84th Annual Family Reunion anytime soon, in case you were wondering.

That's not me, fyi.

(Yes, you read that correctly:  84th.  Annual.  For reals.  Dan's family, not mine, in case you had a moment of doubt.  I have four first cousins, because we like our Family Tree to fork.  Dan has 52.  *cough*)

The Big Moment was held at Lake Ontario, which I was assured repeatedly would be Exactly Like The Ocean.  

It wasn't.

Then I was accused of snobbery for pointing that out.

(Excuse the crap out of ME for trying to educate these people.  Fine... be stupid forever, see if I care.)

Ocean.

Lake Ontario.

But what do I know.

Don't get me wrong, it's a big-ass lake.  Biggest one I ever done seen.  And if I hadn't had it in my head that it would be exactly like the ocean I probably would have been super impressed and excited to see such a big lake.

Instead, I was let down.

And sulky.

And pouty.

And said shit like, "That's nothing like the ocean."


Because I'm 5, apparently.

That's not like the ocean!  That's a fucking lake!

I don't go lake swimming for the very reason that if I step on something squishy, I'll die.  Seriously.  So I hung out with the rest of the anti-lake swimmers and created enough sweat to fill my OWN lake.  Food was eaten, minutes were read (oh yes, they were... they take this family reunioning quite seriously), officers were voted in, eyes were rolled (okay, just mine... but that totally counts) and then it was time to pack up and go.

And that's when it happened, the Suck It Up Nancy moment that Karma was waiting for.

It went exactly like this, only in slow motion:

There are no trash cans at the park where the reunion was held, so basically you have to take all your crap back home with you.  (Who ever fucking heard of such a thing???  Ewwww!!)

SO.

Dan's mom had brought a plastic table cloth, plastic forks and spoons, and paper plates, which we determined could just be folded up together, tied into a bundle, and taken home to be disposed of.  (Which totally makes sense if you're an uncivilized Okie and have never seen a garbage can.  No offense to civilized Okies, of course.)

As we were folding up the table cloth with the dirty dinnerware inside, a large seagull, who had just eaten a buttload of something greenish purple and nasty, flew overhead.

I had my nose wrinkled up (I mean, eww... I was touching other people's food) and was folding the corners of the table cloth together with a look of pure disgust evident on my pouty face.

"Yes, boss!  I'm on it!!"

At the precise moment that my hand reached for the final corner, the load of poop the seagull had been saving for just such an occasion landed on the back of my hand, dripped down between the folds of my thumb and forefinger, and instantly stained my skin green.

Long story short, I had to walk through the entire park and down to the lake that was clearly not an ocean to rinse seagull poop off my hand.  Without soap.  In slimy lake water.  (Did I mention that?)

Oh, and in case you were wondering?

That shit doesn't wash off.


On the drive home, Dan's mom, who hadn't been privy to my 2 hour long bitch fest about the lack of ocean-ness of Lake Ontario asked sweety, "So what did you think of Lake Ontario?  It's like being at the ocean, isn't it?"

"Oh yes," I answered enthusiastically, with my hand still redolent of au de birdshit, "It was majestic!  Amazing!  Incredible!"

A Migraine's Journey into Day 3

Migraine:  Day Three.

There has to be someone I can blame for this, right?

Has to be.

Naturally, I choose Dan.

I just realized it looks like he has no teeth.  He has teeth.  I swear.  I'm shallow enough that I wouldn't be with him if he didn't.  Sad but true.  Toothless is a Deal Breaker.

If ever there were a man capable of triggering a three day migraine, it's this one.

I've spent this week sneezing my ass off, blowing my nose, sweating like there's no tomorrow, and laying awake half the night because it's too hot to sleep.

You can see how this is all Dan's fault, right?

I have horrible allergies (Dan's fault... seriously) and have spent the past few weeks sneezing like it's my JOB.  One day last week I was toodling through the grocery store when I kept catching something white floating in front of my face out of the corner of my eye.  I kept batting at it ineffectively, like it was an annoying fly, to no avail.  There it remained, blurry and ever present right before my very eyes.

When I got in my car I checked the mirror to see what was going on.

As it turns out (and trust me when I say that NO one will find this shocking IN THE LEAST) after spending the morning blowing my nose, a thin piece of toilet paper attached itself to my nose ring and was waving gaily in the breeze as I ran my ohsoverypublic errands.

God damn DAN.  Moving me to the wilds of Northern New York where hay abounds, the one damn thing I am so allergic to that it gives me asthma...

I'm beginning to think he's trying to kill me.

Is there something in my nose?  

I had to go to the doctor on Tuesday, which just plain sucked.  I hate going to the doctor.  Hate it.  But since I only saw her once, a year ago, she informed me in no uncertain terms that if I plan on living much longer through the help of pharmaceuticals, I need to show up and let her look at me.

Fuckety fuck fuck fuck.

DAMN you, high blood pressure!  (Dan's fault.)

DAMN you, hypothyroid!!  (My grandmother's fault... but also Dan's fault, just because.)

For starters, I had to step on the scale.

The scrawny little male nurse made clucking noises as he whisked the little weight bar farther and farther up the scale, shaking his head and writing shit down.

"You've gained 13 pounds since you were here in September of last year," he informed me, looking at me accusingly as if I'd done it on purpose just to disappoint him.

When my doctor came in, she told me, in hard core Brooklyn-ese,  that I'm too pretty to be this fat and too old to be gaining this much weight.

She seriously did.

(Newsflash:  When  I see a doctor, I expect a lot of hand holding, sympathy, and fun drugs.  Not cold hard truth, tough love, and a slap on the wrist when I request Valium, Xanax, Vicodin, and Ambien.  Just so you know, NEW YORK.)

Here's what she actually said:

"Now about ya weight.  You ah still goahjuss but youah fillin' out a bit and plumping up, am I right?  You don't wanna be like that, not with that face.  Youah showtinin' ya life, ya know... at youah age you can't affowd to gain weight like that."

Dan, calling me after appointment:  "What did the doctor say?"

Me:  "She said I'm fat and old."  (Translation of the above Brooklyn-ese, as heard through my California ears.)

Dan:  "She did not."

Me:  "She did.  She really did.  And she said I'm too pretty to be this fat."

Dan:  *long pause*

Me:

Dan:  "I'll pick you up after work and we'll go out to dinner."

See?

SEEEEE?


DID YOU ALL SEE THAT?

Me:  "I'm fat."

Dan:  "Let's go eat."

THAT'S WHY I'M FAT.

(I know... this was supposed to be about my migraine.  I'm getting to that.)

We went to a groovy little all natural foods restaurant and I ate the best freaking grilled chicken sandwich I've ever eaten, ever, in my life, and topped it off with not one, but TWO frosted sugar cookies, which are my favorite thing in the whole world.

When I woke up the next morning, I was even fatter.

And I had a headache.

Despite brushing my teeth twice, my tongue was still a brilliant shade of red, caused by the loving attention I paid to the crimson frosting on the sugar cookie(s) I devoured the night before.

SOOOooo red.

Red.

Red food coloring.

Hmmmmm.

Oh yeah... red food coloring triggers my migraines.

Which is why I don't drink red punch, red Crystal Lite, eat red Jello or red jelly beans or red anything, actually...

Except for red frosting on crispy, buttery, homemade sugar cookies.

They were shaped like watering cans and were sooooo yummy.

Oh, sugar cookies with dark red frosting... I hardly knew ye.

Friggin' DAN.


Me, to Dan:  "Thanks to YOU, I've had a migraine for three days now."

Dan:  "Why is that MY fault?"

Me:  "Remember when I told you that my doctor said I was fat and old so you took me out to eat?  And then you said, "Do you want dessert?" so I got two red frosted sugar cookies?"

Dan:  "Yeah... ?"

Me:  "THAT's why it's your fault."


Men are so stupid.

Testify!

He's going to make it up to me tonight by plying me with Bloody Marys and indulging me in my drunken hilarity.  (I'm hilarious when I'm drinking.  HILARIOUS.  Dan is the best drunken target EVER.)

That'll teach him.

Who's sorry now, DAN?

Have a groovy weekend!!

Do something I totally wouldn't do and then tell me about it!!

Who's the beyotch NOW??

A little over a year ago, as I was being forcibly dragged across the continental United States and transplanted in a remote corner of northern New York, I made the ballsy statement, "I'm going to make New York my bitch."

It was my little way of making the best of a horrible situation.  

(I mean, what better way to fit in with the Amish than to decide to make them your bitch, yes?)

At the exact moment that I made that statement, unseen forces in the Universe started laughing their asses off.

Jesus, wiping his eyes and trying to catch his breath:  "Whooo... that was a good one! Oh my God, "I'm going to make New York my bitch."  Haaahahahahaaaaa!  I'm gonna pee!"

Karma:  "She's my favorite."

Jesus:  "Right?  I have some great video of her for the next Christmas party.  Hysterical."

Karma:  "Ooh!  Did you get the one where she almost beat herself to death because a leaf fell on her head and she thought it was a bat?  Wait til you see what she does when I drop a beetle into her hair!!"

I'm beginning to think that part of the reason the Universe likes to fuck with me so hard is because I find stuff like this so damn hilarious.

Judging by yesterday and this morning, I'm thinking it's a slow week for the Universe.  With nothing better to do, it's decided to have a few laughs at my expense.  

(In fact, just now, when I looked outside?  The clouds were forming a distinct "LOL" formation.)

Yesterday I drove an hour to my house cleaning gig, spent 5 hours sweating and cleaning (during which time a large beetle fell into my hair and I proceeded to slap the shit out of myself on the off-chance it was actually a rabid bat), then drove the hour home.  

*Sidebar:  Shut up about the bats.  They have found three cases of rabies in our county and I'm positive it's spread by bats.  Just because it was found in two raccoons and a bunny (I know, right?  I can't imagine anything more horrible than a rabid bunny) doesn't mean it didn't start with the freaking bats.  I am ever vigilant.

"It's just a little bunny rabbit!"

But first, I had to stop at the store.

Because a woman's work is never done, don'tcha know.

I ran in to the store, grabbed food stuffs for dinner, and ran back out to my car...

only to discover a giant freaking Suburban parked in the Compact Car ONLY space next to my cute little HHR, effectively making the option of me actually entering my vehicle from the driver's side door virtually impossible.

Mother.

Fucker.

I fumed.

I steamed.

I yelled a very bad word.

I threw a mini tantrum.

People walking by cut a wide berth away from the crazy lady having a meltdown and screaming at the SUV.

I had to climb into my car through the passenger's side door and promptly become a contortionist,  which is never pretty.

I was touched inappropriately and partially violated when my gear shift gained intimate knowledge of my lady parts.

My right foot got stuck and I had to pry it over my head to get it under the steering wheel.

I accidentally set off my panic button, calling even more attention to myself.

I may or may not have cried on my way home.

This just in:  I'm never going to the Price Chopper again, which now makes two grocery stores that have kicked my ass and made me their bitch.

When I finally got home, my first course of action was to strip off my hot, sweaty, dirty clothes and fling myself face down onto my bed, allowing the fan to tickle away the disgustingness of my day.

MMMMMmmmmmm...

I've got to tell you all, it felt sooooo gooooooood.

Like, making soft little almost sex noises good.

"Oh baby... yeah... right there.  That's the spot.  Come to mama..."

As I was moaning into my pillow, a loud knock suddenly startled me from my reverie and booted me out of my happy place. 

My dogs started barking like assholes and I shot off my bed, trying frantically to find something to put on to cover my obscene and sweaty nakedness.

I threw on a tank top and a pair of capri leggings (sorry, Misty, but I had no other choice but to wear them as pants at that precise moment) and answered the door.

My landlord was standing there, looking a little flustered.

Casually, as if he just hadn't heard me talking dirty to my fan, I said hello and equally casually, as if he didn't think I was a giant freak, he handed me my rent receipt.  We made awkward small talk and finally said our good-byes.

As I was in the process of shutting the door, I looked down just enough to notice that in my haste to dress myself, I'd put my tank top on at a crooked angle (it was a tank with thin straps, just to give you a better visual) and not only was one strap dissecting my right boob, but the right boob was also partially hanging out under the right arm pit, which, due to the fact that I don't know how to dress myself, was somewhere in the middle of my chest.

I slunk into my bedroom to assess the damage in the full length mirror and that's when I discovered the icing on the cake:

The back of the tank top was all rolled up, exposing about 6 inches of back fat.

Fuck me hard.

I feel a draft...

Really, Universe?  Really?

Moving right along...

This morning, I was awakened at 6 a.m. by the loud sound of what appeared to be someone dragging something heavy back and forth across the gravel driveway.

Maisy hurled herself at the window, barking like the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels.

Dan, rousing himself enough to bellow:  "Maisy!  Be quiet!  Get down!"

Me:  "Why the hell should she be quiet?  If they're going to move their shit at 6 in the morning and wake me up, they can listen to her bark."

Dan:  "What are you talking about?"

Me:  "Don't you hear that noise?  What the frig are they doing?"

Dan:  "Who?"

Me:  "Those stupid assholes who just moved in.  What the hell?"

Dan:  "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?"

Me:  "Jesus, Dan... are you telling me you can't hear that?"

Dan:  "Hear WHAT?"

Right at that second another loud rumble shook our house and was followed by a crack of lightning, followed by more loud rumbles.

*crickets*

Dan:

Me:

Dan:  *snicker*

Me:  "If you love me, you will never mention this again."

Dear New York,

I am, indeed, your bitch.

Uncle.

Love,

Dani