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The day after I didn’t win the 550 million dollar Power Ball

29 Nov

So last night my boyfriend and I went to two different stores that “felt right” and bought $10 each worth of Power Ball numbers.  Each $10 purchase came with a free set of numbers.  That meant 12 chances in all.  Despite the fact that I was told I would be more likely to either get attacked by a shark or contract a flesh eating bacteria than win this particular Power Ball drawing, I was still fairly convinced I was going to win.  I started thinking about what I would do with the money.  Donations!  Real Estate!  Traveling to all the places!  A new pair of sunglasses since I broke the ones I found last year!  So, so many possibilities.  Needless to say I did not win $550 million.  After the shock wore off I went to sleep.  And now here I sit, at my computer, the day after I didn’t win the 550 million dollar Power Ball and you know what? Despite the huge shock and letdown of last night, I feel basically the same as always.  I will tell you about my morning.

First, I woke up in my normal bed with those comfortable flannel sheets and a $45 Bed, Bath and Beyond comforter that should have been replaced about 2 years ago.  There was no Egyptian silk. There was no expensive leather headboard.  Just the unadorned metal bed frame that I inherited from my sister-in-law in 2005.

Second, I looked down the bed to find my two cats lying there, sleeping.  The same old striped cats I’ve had for two years.  No fancy hairless cats.  No trained lion cubs.  Just Clark and Grete, snuggling with the free straw that came with a soda last week that they fell asleep playing with at 4am, approximately 5 hours after I didn’t win the 550 million dollar Power Ball.

Third, I poured myself a cup of coffee from my BRAUN coffee maker with the beans I bought last week.  No special Fair Trade beans flown in specifically for me from a farm in Honduras after paying a more than fair price to the farmer herself.  There was no fancy Italian espresso machine equipped with my very own Barista where my coffee maker used to be.

Fourth, I made myself a piece of toast and I ate it dry.  Dry toast.  No caviar.  No butter directly from the Hudson Valley.  No compote.  Just bread that I toasted too long so it was more like a dry rye-flavored cracker.  Again.

Fifth, I sat down at my computer and started reading the news.  I Googled myself just to make sure that the internet didn’t know something about my 550 million dollar win that I did not.  No such luck.   As usual the only person by my name that came up was the much-cooler-than-me designer of really crazy looking metal jewelry that looks more like torture devices than anything else.   I looked at pictures of lion cubs and thought about what could have been.  I read a depressing article about Courtney Stodden and felt happy I wasn’t her.  Then I started writing this blog post.

The following is what I did not do this morning because I did not win the 550 million dollar Power Ball:

1.  I did not pay off the mortgage on my parent’s house.
2.  I did not pay off all my school loans in full with a little note enclosed that said “if you thought you were going to charge me $20,000 in interest over 10 years you thought wrong.  SUCKERS!”
3.  I did not buy my friend Clayton an apartment complete with a private karate studio like I promised to do if I won the Power Ball.
4.   I did not buy new sunglasses to replace the ones that I found for free at the bar but which cracked in my bag last month.  I will just continue feeling thankful that I have dark brown eyes and therefore am not as sensitive to the sun as my blue or green-eyed brethren.
5.  I did not contact a travel agent to figure out exactly how I could travel to every single place.  Every.  Single.  One.
6.  I did not plan how to take 10 of my closest friends out to a really nice dinner instead of working my bar shift until 4am.
7.  I did not hire someone to write my thesis.

So, I guess today, the day I am still not a multi-millionaire is basically the same as every other day in which I am not a multi-millionaire.  I’m procrastinating, same as always.  I’m drinking too much coffee, same as always.  I’m playing imagination games, same as always.  I’m warm and happy and have all the things I need (except sun glasses) even if they are maybe a little bit rattier than I might ideally like, same as always.  So, I guess it’s not so bad.  Until the next time the Power Ball gets really big.  Next time I am totally going to win.  Next time I will write a blog post called “I totally won the Power Ball” with no content at all except maybe something that looks like this: skdjfblksdfhkhsfd!!!!! because that’s what it looks like in my brain when I get too excited to string words together into a sentence.  Just wait.  It’ll be totally fantastic.

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Protected: One Lawyer, One Gym Goer, Both Assholes.

13 Nov

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Let the freak out attacks continue

8 Nov

I feel compelled, in this blog post, to acknowledge that I know that I am freaking out about things much less BIG than not having heat and electricity, or having my house washed away or burned down, or not having access to food, or having lost friends or loved ones. I am sitting here in my lit and warm apartment, my cats meowing hungrily (they are totally thrown off by the time change and subsequent early darkness and think it is time to eat, it isn’t), and with home-cooked food in the fridge.  All that being said, I am freaking out.

I have just recently articulated to myself, and now to all of you, the fact that I am completely and totally self-sabotaging.  Not to the point where I am incapable of being a reasonable human being in the world, but to the point where if I don’t do something I will be bartending forever… not that there is anything wrong with that but it just isn’t for me.  For example, I am really bad at applying for things.  Like, really bad.  I will find a job or an internship or a program and be like

Yea!  That is perfect for me!  Wow!

And then I will go for a run and have an imagination adventure where I get that job or internship, or get accepted into that program, and I am so super awesome at it that the head promotes me, or moves me somewhere really cool, or tells her friends about me and then all of a sudden I am this really fantastic and successful person with this job that I love and everything is great.  Only then I look at the qualifications and see that I need relevant experience.  Don’t have it.  Unless they need someone to shake some cocktails.  And then I look at the recommendations and I fall short.  Who would want to write me one?  What professor would I ask?  What professor would even be willing to write it?  Would they even remember me?  Do they know enough about me to make it work?  Do I even like them?  Does a recommendation from my boss at the bar count as a professional reference?  And then I sit there and stare at the computer and then I decide,

Okay, maybe I will do it tomorrow.  I will send out the necessary emails and put myself out there.  Can’t hurt to try, right?

But then tomorrow comes and goes and then the deadline is past and, voila!, I have not applied and there I am imagining what could have been rather than what could be.  Or, another example!  One of my friends will be like

Oh!  Hey!  This is perfect for you and I know someone who would hook you up and you should so totally email them and drop my name!

And I’m like sweet.  So I look into it and it seems great and then, guess what?  Don’t reach out.  Think about how cool it would be.  Then get nervous about not being a good fit.  Or doing something stupid and having it reflect badly on my friend.  Or I worry that I won’t interview well and that I own absolutely zero business/business casual clothing.  And then I’m like,

Well, let me sleep on it and email them tomorrow

And then guess what? Tomorrow comes and goes and I don’t do it.  I sit there and feel bad about how I’m not doing it but I still don’t do it. And then I realize my friend has put herself out there by offering to put me in touch with someone and I am the asshole who doesn’t follow through.

Or!  This!  I am like inches away from getting my master’s degree and all I need to do is write one thesis (70 pages) and one final paper (20-25 pages) both very manageable and both things I can do, and what happens?  I get so distracted by learning all of the things that I fall into this black hole of information, most of which is not relevant to what I am theoretically working on.  And then I have piles and piles of papers that I have mostly read and lots of blank pages.  Or!  Lots of pages that are written but may or may not be connected to the other pages or the overall theme of whatever project I am working on.  This is a problem I have never had before.  Usually, if nothing else, I can sit on my ass for 8 hours a day, 6 days a week and knock out whatever it is I need to knock out.  But now?  No.  And then I am like

Great, here I am with almost this degree that will make me feel, if not be, more qualified to do something other than pour a pint of beer and what am I doing?  Obsessing over farmer’s rights, downloading Ever Note so I can save everything that ever seems interesting and read it later (but really I read it right away) and downloading real crime books on my Nook (okay, that last part only happened once, about 15 minutes ago).

But then I think

Okay.  How about this?  How about I just finish my thesis and then I travel and try and get my head on straight.  And then I realize I don’t like to travel alone and basically all of my friends are doing things and therefore can’t fuck off for a few months.  And also, I get very stressed out about money and I have to pay off the loans I took out to finish this degree I can’t seem to finish but has to be finished in 5 years otherwise all my work was for naught.

And so now it has been 30 minutes and rather than working on an application for a really cool language program in India, or a conference in Switzerland, or a scholarship to do research, I am writing this blog about how I am incapable of doing anything.  And now I am going to publish this blog, read my newly downloaded nonfiction crime book, and occasionally stress about how I am not doing anything productive.  And then I will go to work until 4am.  Maybe I’ll see you there.

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Basically the most awkward shift EVER

5 Nov

In honor of my favorite day of the year, Marathon Day (basically a national holiday in Rebekah-land) I switched my normal Sunday day shift for the evening so I could stand on my corner in the cold, screaming my voice raw and clapping my hands so hard I bruise them.  Man, I love Marathon Day.  But this year there was no Marathon Day.  No waking up in the morning like it’s Christmas, jumping up and down on the bed screaming “Marathon Day! Marathon Day! Marathon Day!”  No frantic run for coffee before the elite runners fly by.  No crazy costumes.  Instead, I woke up a little late, played around the house, went for a run and did the laundry.  Then I went to work, or tried to anyway.  Besides all the other effects of Sandy, the F train is running a little…er…slow.  I waited on the elevated train platform for 40 minutes, arriving at work at 8:30 for my shift that was supposed to start at 8.  Damn.  I finally got there and the bar was dead.  Like, dead dead.  We’re talking crickets.  I figured it would eventually pick up.  It didn’t.  What did happen was probably the most torturous, awkward and uncomfortable shift I have ever worked.  Curious?  Read on.

At approximately 11PM a tall brunette walked into the bar, ordered a Guinness and took a seat.  She sat right in front of my dish washing sink which, as events unfolded, became problematic.*  About 10 minutes later, a shorter blonde woman came in and walked right up to the brunette.  This is what happened (names changed because I think that’s what people do in situations like these):

Blonde:  Morgan?

Brunette:  Yes.

Blonde:  I’m Allison.

Morgan (awkward silence): Do you want to chat?

At this point, readers, I figured this was an internet date.  I mean, why else would two people who clearly did not previously know each other have this sort of awkward introduction at a bar?  Well, I will tell you.

Allison:  Chat?   About what?!?  You ruined my life.

Um.  Okay.  So now my interest was piqued.  Having done all the dishes trying to figure out whether these two ladies were on a date, I had no other reason to hang out right in front of where they were sitting.  (Why did you fail me, dishes?!  In my one time of need!)  I positioned myself slightly down the bar, standing near my only two other customers who also happened to be the only other customers in the bar for the rest of the night and who also happened to leave me about 10 minutes later.  Alone.  In what I can only imagine is something akin to hell.  I eavesdropped on the next bit of the conversation.  From the bits and pieces I got, Allison’s husband was sleeping with Morgan.  Not only was he sleeping with Morgan, but Allison had gone on a business trip only to come back and find out that (1) Morgan was basically living in her house while she was gone and (2) at some point during the stay Allison’s 7-month old baby was in the bed with her husband and his side piece.  The two women then sat there talking for about 30 more minutes, with Allison trying to explain to Morgan why what she was doing was wrong but how Allison doesn’t really blame Morgan but instead blames her lying sack of shit husband (not a direct quote) and Morgan saying that part of the problem was that Allison wasn’t having sex with her husband and that’s probably why he looked elsewhere.  Allison then told Morgan that the reason they hadn’t been having sex was that Allison had given birth to 2 children in the previous 3 years and was basically either pregnant or breast feeding at all times.  Also, she was tired.  At this point, dear readers, I would like to interject two points.  One, I was very unclear as to why Allison was sharing with Morgan any details at all of her sex life (or any other portion of her life, for that matter) with the woman her husband is banging and two, if I ever found myself in that position I would take the opportunity to live out a dream of mine:  pouring my drink over someone’s head in a public place and storming out.  The conversation was painful to hear.  And then, it got worse.

Enter the lying sack of shit husband.**  So just to be clear, we now have the husband, his wife, and the woman that the husband has been sleeping with behind the wife’s back.  And me.  Alone.  At the end of the bar with wine and disbelief.

The conversation then devolved into the weirdest thing I have ever witnessed.  And it went on and on and on.  And then on some more.  The husband, Brad, called Allison a crazy bitch, accused her of raping him, accused her of slitting her wrists and then pulling her sleeves up to show Morgan the scars.  There were none.  Apparently, or according to Allison anyway, this had all happened in the middle of a drug-related melt down on the part of Brad.  Morgan spent most of the time laughing nervously while Allison kept saying “this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, why are you laughing?!”  Morgan then talked about the number of people she was sleeping with at the same time she was sleeping with Brad which then sent Allison into a rage about whether or not they used protection which Morgan “wasn’t sure about” but Brad assured her they were.  I am fairly certain Allison got tested for everything today.  I know I would have.  I kid you not, this went on for 2 hours.  Two fucking hours.  I was sitting at the far end of the bar, staring at a full glass of wine with my hood up, whispering to myself in a lame attempt to cover up the awkwardness.  Brad noticed and yelled down the bar “to” me in a bullshit attempt to acknowledge the horrible scene I was witnessing.

Brad:  Ugh, she’s wearing a hood!

Me:  I am trying to block everything out.  Just pretend I’m not here.

Brad:  No, you should hear this.  It’s hilarious.

Me: (silence…scowl) Um, yea.  Not so much funny from where I’m sitting.  I think I’ll get some fresh air.

I only lasted outside in the cold for like 3 minutes. I came back in.  It was still going on.  Eventually, Allison stormed out but only after she had paid for all of their drinks.  Brad then turned to me and said

Brad:  Well, she should pay for them, she’s been pulling all the money out of my checking account.  $40,000 this week!

Me:  I do not feel bad for you.

The adulterous couple then stayed for another bit, rehashing the evening with Morgan claiming that she wasn’t really sleeping with a million other people, including an Australian for those who care, and Brad making sure that his crazy bitch of a wife hadn’t ruined his awesome new relationship.  At 5 minutes to 2 I finally kicked them out.  I was secretly wishing they would ask me for my opinion so that I could look at them dead in the eyes and say “I think you two are possibly the worst human beings I have ever had the misfortune of sharing a space with” but they never did.  Assholes.  And they were lousy tippers.

Also, this experience was SO MUCH WORSE than I could ever capture here.  There was so much more awkwardness.  So much more horrible.  Oh, like when Morgan decided to tell Allison that on her and Brad’s 15th anniversary when Brad said he was working late he was actually screwing her.  Oh, and also when Morgan recounted a dream she had about Allison and how she had given Allison a hug and then they were friends and it was great and can’t they be friends in real life too?  And also the time Brad told Allison he married the wrong woman and she poisoned everything she touched.  And when Morgan assured Allison she would be fine because “she’s still young and attractive and has nice clothes.”  Nice clothes.  Seriously.  Okay, I’m done.

*You see, non-bartender readers, I have to spend a lot of time at the dish washing sink because I have to spend a lot of time washing dishes.  Even if there are only 3 people in the bar I somehow manage to rack up dozens of dirty glasses.  I think we have a poltergeist.  This means that if there is an annoying person or an incident of some kind in front of my dish washing sink, there is no way for me to avoid it.  I have to stare at it all will I dip my hands into scalding hot chemical water.

**When he walked into the bar I literally almost yelled “this guy?  All this hubbub over this guy?!” but I restrained myself.

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The day I beat an ambulance by foot

1 Nov

On Tuesday evening, the day after Hurricane Sandy hit, I went for a run.  The subways were still out and I was dying to see Lower Manhattan without lights.  I hoofed the 3 miles over to the Brooklyn waterfront, seeing downed trees and scattered debris on every side street.  I reached as close to the water as the Parks Department would allow, stood on a big block, and just looked.  What a strange sight it was. The city that never sleeps, dark.

The following day I decided to take a different route.  I was interested to see what kind of damage had been done to Prospect Park, a place I have run through countless times in all kinds of weather.  My boyfriend pointed out that running through the park, what with all the severed branches and uprooted trees, was probably not the safest thing.  What if the wind blew and a branch fell?  What if a tree, already dangerously leaning, lost its last bit of support from the soil and toppled over?  I decided to run alongside it, glancing in every now and again to see how different it looked.  So, I set out.  I ran towards Atlantic Avenue, made a turn on Flatbush and started running uphill towards the park, dodging walkers and trick-or-treaters along the way.  The traffic was insane.  I had seen photographs of highways turned parking lots all over the East Coast.  I had, myself, taken a photograph near my house with cars lined up for miles in the middle of the day.  Who knows how long the rush hour drivers on Flatbush had been trying to get where ever they were going but I’m sure it was hours.  Then I heard it:  a siren.  I looked over my shoulder and saw an ambulance for New York Methodist hospital trying to make its way through the mess.  I kept running, expecting the ambulance to overtake me any second.  I figured people would pull their cars to the side, allowing space for the ambulance to get through.  Only, people didn’t.  I stopped and looked, the ambulance wasn’t really getting anywhere.  People were just sitting, stubbornly, not willing to give up their hard-earned space on the road, ignorant to the existence not only of the ambulance, but of the person requiring immediate medical care.  There was nothing for me to do, I kept running.  I got a few blocks further and realized that, again, the ambulance had not overtaken me.  A man driving a Senior Care ambulance turned on his lights, got out of his vehicle, and directed the Methodist ambulance through a busy intersection.  The ambulance, finally, passed me.  I started running again and quickly overtook it.  This happened several more times.  Me stopping at a light, the ambulance passing me, me getting the okay to go again, running up the hill, and easily passing the ambulance by foot.  It was heart breaking.  I could only imagine the frustration of the EMTs trying to get to their destination, and the anguish being felt by the family of whoever it was that needed such urgent care.  I couldn’t believe that, after what this city has been through, people were so concerned with getting where they were going that they were able and yet completely unwilling to allow the ambulance to pass.  It was crazy. I stood on a corner next to another woman, in shock.  We looked at one another and just shook our heads, she couldn’t believe it either.  I thought about whether there was anything I could do, tried to imagine myself directing traffic.  Every scenario I thought up ended in disaster, an even bigger traffic jam and me squashed in the middle of the road being cursed by angry drivers.  I continued on.   As I finished my run up Flatbush and saw the ambulance pass, only to get stuck in the mess that is Grand Army Plaza, I quietly voiced the hope that it could get where it was going on time and that none of my loved ones need urgent care over the next few days…they might not be able to get it.

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One Year Blogiversary!

25 Oct

Hooray.  I did it.  One full year of blogging.  I had initially intended on going through all the search terms that got people to my blog and listing the most amusing ones here, but, instead, I will recap a conversation I had with my mom yesterday.  Enjoy.

……ring ring……

Mom:  Hello?

Me:  Hi, mom!

Mom:  How’s my Bekah?

Me:  Oh, I’m good.  I actually called to ask you for some advice but first, guess what tomorrow is?

Mom:  What??

Me:  My one year blogiversary!

Mom:  Really?  Happy blogiversary, my Bekah!

Me:  Speaking of ‘versarys, happy anniversary Mom!

Mom:  Your blogiversay.  Congratulations!

Me:  Mom?  Um…isn’t today your wedding anniversary?  It is October 24th, right?

Mom:  (Silence.)  You know what?  It is!!  Your father is going to play cards with friends and I am going to dinner with the ladies!

Hysterical laughter.

Me:  (Between giggles.) Hey Mom.  Remember that time I called you and wished you a happy birthday and you didn’t even remember it was your birthday?!?

Mom:  (More laughter.)  I do!

Me:  That was funny.

And this, dear readers, is why my Mom and Dad are awesome.  And also why I have a hard time remembering anyone’s birthday.  So when I forget yours, don’t be insulted.  I come by it naturally.

So, happy (one day belated) anniversary, Mom and Dad.  And happy blogiversary to you, blog.  You’re cool.

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Riding the Subway, Living the Dream

8 Oct

Today I was sitting around thinking about my love/hate with the New York City public transportation system.  As any good New Yorker does, I have lots of complaints about the system’s shortcomings.  It runs slow basically all the time but especially when you’re in a rush.  Because of snow.  Because of rain.  Because it’s too hot.  Because someone didn’t drink enough water and passed out.  Because of train traffic ahead of us.  Because of a police investigation at 34th street.  Despite all the frustration some of my funniest, or at least most memorable, New York moments have happened on the subway. Let’s climb into the way-back machine and walk through my most favorite ever subway experience.

Thanksgiving weekend 2007. I was on the subway on my way to work the night shift at my bar.  It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving and I was weighed down with bags from spending a good 4-5 days at home in New Jersey.  I smelled something funny and looked over and saw a guy huddled in his seat eating what appeared to be heated up Thanksgiving leftovers.  Okay.  Not my most ideal venue for eating but whatever, that’s cool.  I went back to staring blankly through the window into the darkness of the subway tunnel.  All of a sudden I felt something small hit me.  Then again.  And again.  I looked down at the floor and saw, rolling around, a few green peas.  I turned around and saw that the man with the leftovers was sitting there, staring at me, holding a plastic spoon in his hand and methodically launching his overcooked peas at me across the near-empty train car.  I was stunned.  I looked around, trying to see if anyone else had (a) been the victim of assault by pea or (2) had seen what was happening and could give me some clue as to the best way to respond because this guy was clearly a little looney.  No one seemed to have noticed.  I got hit in the forehead with another pea.  I said, loudly, and to no one in particular

Hello?  Anyone?  Does anyone see what is happening here?

An older lady who I had previously thought was sleeping lifted her head ever so slowly, looked at me, looked at the man, looked back at me and said, calmly,

He’s flicking peas.

I threw my hands up in the air, sending a pea that had gone unnoticed on my shoulder tumbling to the floor.

Yes! Exactly!  He is flicking peas!

And then, at a loss of what to do I looked back at the window, catching the man’s reflection in the darkness and watching to see when he might launch his next attack. My stop couldn’t come soon enough.  I grabbed my bags, looked over my shoulder in utter disbelief, and hustled off to my job.  I arrived at work a few moments later, anxiously awaiting the opportunity to share my experience.  I greeted my co-worker, wished her a happen belated Thanksgiving.  She smiled for a second and then screwed up her mouth and said,

Um…what is in your hair?

Clearly, it was a pea, nestled safely into one of my braids.

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The day my cat convinced me to never have children

2 Oct

First off I would like to apologize to all my millions and millions of fans out there for the time between my last post and this one.  I was busy not fasting for Yom Kippur and hearing about my grandmother’s week long stay at a dude ranch in the Catskills, which she found out about in an AARP catalogue which is, and I quote, “an organization for old people.”  Her words, not mine.  For those of you who are wondering, she did not ride a horse but she did take a photo standing near one.  She also played a lot of bingo.  She will not be going back next year.

And now on to the subject at hand:  cats.  I have two of them, Clark and Grete.  Grete is named for the great Norwegian marathon runner Grete Waitz who passed away last April, a few weeks before I brought home the kitties.  Clark is Clark because, hey, why not?  So there are a lot of things that are awesome about my cats.  (The following is not an exhaustive list.)

1. Snuggly.
2. Warm.
3.  One time when I was crying Grete sat on me and purred and it made me happy.
4.  Clark jumps really high.
5.  When they find a fly and then everything is crazy!
6.  I think they eat bugs.  I don’t like bugs in the house so this is great.

There are also some things which are not awesome.

1.  Scooping the box out is pretty gross.
2.  Also, changing the litter.
3. Basically everything having to do with the box.
4.  Then there was that time they ate something they found and proceeded to vomit everywhere.
5.  Also the time we fed them later than usual and we walked into the room to find a puddle of cat pee in the middle of our path.
6.  Clark loves breaking glasses.  I mean loves it.

Today, however, was basically the epitome of  the downs of cat ownership.  Just for a little information, I have noticed over the last few days that one of the cats has, shall we say, loose movements.  I got worried.  So I went to the vet down the block (so convenient!) and asked at what point I should get worried enough to do something about it.  The girl behind the counter told me if it kept happening I should bring a stool sample down.  Ew.  I really hoped it would stop.  And then today as I was getting ready to head into the city I heard it.  It sounded like this:

Scratch, scratch, scratch.  Gurgle…gurgle..gurgle.  Scratch.

And then the smell.  How can something that big come out of an animal so cute, small, and furry?  And then the favorite animal maneuver:  walk funny and then proceed to rub butt against floor which, subsequently, has to be mopped because gross.  I took a deep breath with my head out the window and investigated the box to find exactly what I knew I would find there after the noises I had just heard.  I called the vet.

Me: Hey, so, I came in yesterday because one of my cats has been having…cough cough…diarrhea for the past few days.  I am pretty sure I know which one it is.

Vet Tech:  This has been going on for a few days?  Okay, just bring down a stool sample and we’ll run some tests.

Me:  Oh, okay.  So, how should I get it down there?

Vet Tech:  Just wrap it in some tin foil and bring it on down.

Ugh.  Ew.  Ew ew ew.*  I did a dance of disgust, made some choking sounds, glared at the offending cat, sent some texts requesting support, and then I did it.  I took a LARGE piece of tin foil (sorry, environment), wrapped runny cat shit in it and brought it down to the vet.  So, that happened.  And now, after dealing with the less-than-solid stool of another creature, I have decided I will never have children.

*I know one of my readers specifically is all “whatever, that’s nothing!  I deal with animal poo all the time!  Diarrhea, shmiarrhea.”  And to you I say this:  You = rock star; I = pussy (no pun intended).

On Todd Akin and Other (Unrelated) Things

20 Aug

This blog is going to be about the following three things.  First, I would like to share with you all a search term that led a potential reader to my blog that I found both funny and sort of infuriating.  Second, Todd Akin.  And third, a quote that  I read in The New Yorker this past issue that I found especially interesting.  I really think that if you don’t feel like hearing my rant on Akin, you should just skip down to the quote at the bottom, labeled “Part III: The Quote” for your convenience.  Also, there is no reason behind the order of the post.  It’s just how I felt like doing it.

Part I:  The Search Term

Okay, so if any of you read my post from yesterday, you will understand my astonishment when I went to look at my site stats to figure out what kinds of search terms are getting people to my blog and one of them read

up skirt shots reddit

Ugh.  Really?  I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I will hope that this person was (a) looking for an article about how awful this specific SubReddit is or (b) was actually looking for the SubReddit but upon reading my blog post decided to forgo looking at unauthorized and demeaning pictures of women and girls and become a decent human being.  I highly doubt either of those things to be actual possibilities but, hey, a girl can dream!

Part II:  The Idiot

Now I am going to weigh in, ever so slightly, on Todd Akin.  So, for those of you who have been living under a rock, the 6-term, Tea Party-backed congressman from Missouri said the following thing yesterday, as quoted in a New York Times article:

If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down. But let’s assume that maybe that didn’t work or something: I think there should be some punishment, but the punishment ought to be of the rapist, and not attacking the child.

He then quickly claimed to have “misspoke” and tried to make it better by saying this:

In reviewing my off-the-cuff remarks, it’s clear that I misspoke in this interview, and it does not reflect the deep empathy I hold for the thousands of women who are raped and abused every year.  I recognize that abortion, and particularly in the case of rape, is a very emotionally charged issue. But I believe deeply in the protection of all life, and I do not believe that harming another innocent victim is the right course of action.

He has empathy for women who are victims of violent crime yet he has no empathy for women who find themselves pregnant by their rapists because that would be victimizing an unborn child.  You can’t have your cake and eat it too, Akin.  And, misspoke?  Is that the best he could do?  The thing is, that Mr. Akin is not the first person to make a remark like this.  Statements just like his have been made in the past by Pennsylvania Representative Stephen Freind, North Carolina Representative Henry Aldridge, Dr. John C. Willke, and Arkansas politician Fay Boozman who was, at one time, the director of the health department in Arkansas.  I really want to just be like, “wow, how stupid can you get?” and move along with my day but then I realize that these people are in actual positions of power and they, as well as some of the people who listen to them, actually think they are speaking the truth even though once they realize how bad it sounds they try as hard as they can to pretend they didn’t mean it.  (I swear, if I ever read somewhere that some asshat rapist tries to deny paternity of a child by saying that due to a women’s natural trauma-secretions the baby in question can’t possibly be his I will have a full on fit.)

Here’s the thing that’s really scary about it.  After Akin “misspoke,” Republicans and Democrats alike could not distance themselves from him faster.  Everyone across the board saw this specific statement as heartless and horrifying.  Romney told the National Review,

Congressman Akin’s comments on rape are insulting, inexcusable, and, frankly, wrong.  Like millions of other Americans, we (he and Paul Ryan) found them to be offensive.  I have an entirely different view…What he said is entirely without merit and he should correct it.

How do you correct something like that??  As Meg Ryan said in When Harry Met Sally, “You can’t take it back.  It’s already out there!”  The thing is, as pointed out in this Huffington Post article, Romney’s running mate, Paul Ryan actually doesn’t hold opinions that far off from Akin, he just knows how to package his beliefs in a less infuriating, less “out there,” way.  According to Michael B. Keegan of HuffPost,

Rep. Paul Ryan not only opposes abortion rights for rape victims, he was a cosponsor of a so-called “personhood” amendment that would have classified abortion as first degree murder and outlawed common types of birth control. Ryan has also bought into the “legitimate rape” nonsense, cosponsoring legislation with Akin that would have limited federal services to victims of “forcible rape” — a deliberate attempt to write out some victims of date rape and statutory rape.

So there’s that.  Also, Romney claims that he is not opposed to abortion in cases of rape, but if he is elected president he will work to overturn Roe v. Wade, putting decisions about abortion in the hands of individual states.  It seems that therefore, he is giving individual states the ability to make all forms of abortion illegal, regardless of circumstance.  If that’s the case, then when states make a decision about, say, abortion in cases of rape there wouldn’t be a damn thing he could do about it if he did disagree with the state which, at least in this current iteration of Romney, he supposedly does.  And, unless he’s really stupid which I don’t think he is, he is well aware of that fact.  It’s great that people are getting all up in arms about this because what Akin said really was demeaning and insulting and wrong and all manner of other things.  But the thing is, I don’t see a huge distinction between the shitty science that Akin and company have referred to and some of the studies and statistics I hear Republicans site to justify their anti-choice stances.  Also, in a lot of these cases when politicians and pundits and whoever else make statements about the rights of the unborn child, they are immediately discounting the rights of the woman.  We cease being human beings and instead become vessels for the unborn.  Akin is an idiot, but sadly he is not even close to alone in his beliefs.  Okay.  Moving on (for now).

Part III:  The Quote

In the August 13th and August 20th edition of The New Yorker there was an article by Adam Gopnic called “I, Nephi:  Mormonism and its Meanings.”  It was a review of 4 books that have been published in recent months that was spawned, I would imagine, by the fact that Mitt Romney is Mormon and a lot of people find Mormonism baffling. I have to admit at this point that I didn’t read the entire article because, although I consider myself a curious person, I am not currently terribly curious about Mormonism.  I did, however, come across this quote that I found interesting and figured I would share with you all.

…almost every American religion sooner or later becomes a Gospel of Wealth….The astonishing thing…is that this gospel of prosperity is the one American faith that will never fail, even when its promises seem ruined.  Elsewhere among the Western democracies, the bursting of the last bubble has led to doubts about the system that blows them.  Here the people who seem likely to inherit power are those who want to blow still bigger ones, who believe in the bubble even after is has burst, and who hold its perfection as a faith so gleaming and secure and unbreakable that it might once have been written down somewhere by angels, on solid-gold plates.

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My No Good, Very Bad (Fluid Filled) Day

13 Aug

Is that blog title a copyright infringement?  I kind of feel like no because it is only a small portion of the title of the kids book but I also kind of think I am only saying that to make myself feel a little less like Fareed Zakaria.  If you have any insight or opinions, kindly leave them in the comment section below.  Thanks.

And now, on to the blog post!  As I have done before, I would like to preface the actual telling of this tale by saying that if you think girls are made of raw cookie dough and scotch, you probably should skip this post.  I refuse to feel badly for the men-folk out there who read this post despite my warnings and then complain to me about how they wished they hadn’t read it.  It’s happened before.  You know who you are and you have been warned.  Very well.

So yesterday before 2pm, about 1/4 of the way through my bartending shift, was a really shitty day.  Like epically, epically shitty.  Nobody died or anything so don’t go getting that idea.  It was just one of those days where nothing of consequence really happens but all of the non-events just generally blow.  It all started at 12am the night before when I decided to go to sleep rather than watching an episode of Friday Night Lights with my boyfriend.  I was trying to be responsible.  So, I got myself all ready and got into bed.  Generally, I am a very good sleeper.  One game (or part of a game, let’s be honest) of sudoku and I am sleeping like a baby.  But not that night.  I played a game, then another, and another.  Midnight turned to 1am…2am…3am.  I listened to my kittys running around the room with one of their favorite toys:  a wrapped straw.  I got annoyed at the noise it was making, got up, and hurled it down the hallway.  They brought it back and continued with their game.  At some point, I fell asleep.  And then, at 8:30, I awoke with a start.  Wide awake!  So, I went down the hallway to the bathroom to discover the thing that every woman hates to discover first thing in the morning.  Leakage.  God damnit.  Well, that’s okay.  Actually, looking back, I didn’t feel like it was okay in the moment, to be entirely honest.  I looked in the mirror to see an angry Rebekah staring back at me.  A Rebekah who wanted to rip her ovaries and uterus out of her body and then get back into bed and sleep soundly, and cleanly, for the next 10 days.  I decided instead to seize the moment and do the thing I had been putting off all week — I would wash my hair!  For those who know me, I have incredibly thick hair practically down to my ass so washing it is really nothing to sneeze at.  Afterwards, I felt much better.  I started packing for my upcoming trip to visit my Aunts in Pennsylvania.  I decided it wise to pack my back-up running shoes instead of my actual running shoes for a myriad reasons that I don’t feel it necessary to go into at this time.  I went over to the line of shoes outside my bedroom door, picked up my back-up pair and…what is that smell?  Ew!  What’s running down my arm?!  CAT PEE!  I stood there in disgust and disbelief, called to my boyfriend who was in the room presumably playing a game of backgammon on his phone.

Peeeeeeeeeee-eeeeeeete?  Will you come out here for a sec…?

I was trying to sound relaxed but I imagine there was a serious degree of panic and murderous rage in my voice.  I can only imagine the face he opened the door to.  The next 10 minutes saw me and Pete with bleach and paper towels, him calmly cleaning, me angrily cleaning and cursing the kittys at every opportunity.  It sounded something like this.

Me:  Stupid kittys.  Why do they do this?  No one else’s kittys ever pee on things.  Carrie’s kitty, she doesn’t pee.

Pete:  Actually, I’m pretty sure Carrie said she has gotten pretty adept at cleaning cat pee smell out of laundry, so…

Me:  (Stewing in silence at being proven wrong.)  Well, whatever.  These ones are the worst.  Why do they have to be such assholes?  Right now I hate them so much I wish we never got them.*  Ew!  Ew!  A drip!  Oh god.

Once the cleaning was complete, and I had sufficiently scoured my arm so I felt about 75% as clean as I did when I got out of the shower, Pete and I headed off, with packed bag in tow, to the bar.  Going to a bar job when you are already in a bad mood and having a bad day is not something for the faint of heart.  But I persevered (in all honesty, I didn’t have much of a choice).  One of my customers ordered a Chelsea Hop Angel.  It immediately kicked.  Had to run down and change it.  Ten minutes later, someone else ordered the Kelso Pils.  It kicked.  Had to run down and change it.  Then the same fool who ordered the Chelsea Hop Angel ordered his fourth Brooklyn Lager and, wouldn’t you know it?  It kicked.  Had to run down and change it.  By this point I was so frustrated that I was storming around the walk-in fridge imagining that I was hearing a strange humming and that something in there might explode at any moment and wouldn’t that just figure?  I went to change the third and, as it turned out, final keg of the day and, in my haste to avoid death or dismemberment by walk-in fridge disaster, I didn’t put the sankey in properly and BOOM!  Beer geyser!  It was everywhere, but mostly it was everywhere on me.  Dripping down my face.  Stinking-up my hair.  Soaking into my clothes.  I was dripping and I was furious.  I stormed upstairs and stomped into the bathroom, likely alarming my few customers on the way through.  I took a quick sink-shower, praising myself for the choice to go make-up free at work that day.  No running mascara for this girl!  I went back behind the bar and begrudgingly served the offending beer to my normally-offensive sometimes customer.  Even he knew to keep his mouth shut (actually…he knew after I told him talking to me was probably not in his best interest at that particular moment.  Whoops).

Then, 2pm came around and as fast as the bad day started it came to a grinding halt.  I ate some snacks.  I threw some darts (4 bulls!).  I made some money.  And then I headed back to New Jersey for the first leg of my vacation.  And that’s where I sit right now.  At my grandpa’s old desk, looking forward to the week and hoping that I am a few good laughs away from my crappy day.

*I would like to say at this juncture that this is a sentence that leaves my mouth every now and again.  Truth is, I love the kittys.  I think they are the cutest kittys in the world and if you let me I will show you a picture of Grete in a bag.  I just wish they wouldn’t piss on my things.

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