Monday, February 28, 2011

Unconditional Love? Yeah, Right!

If you are a dog lover like myself, then you'll be happy to know that there is a gadget out there that can translate your dog's barks and behaviors into words. Yep, if a wag of the tail or a lick on the face isn't enough to suggest "I love you," then you may want to invest in the BowLingual, the nifty little gadget that can bridge the huge communication gap between you and your dog. 

On the other hand, if you're a cheap ass like me, then allow me to save you the $213 you will have to fork out to purchase this lying piece of shit. 

I figured I knew everything about Kenora, my dog of fourteen years, but according to the BowLingual, I don't know Jack. 

To save you the heartache from learning what it is your dog is really thinking, allow me to demonstrate my *interpretation* of what the BowLingual (BL) had to say about the relationship between me and my furry K-9...

Me: I dread going to work and leaving Kenora by herself. Does she pine after me while longing for my return?

BL: Ahem. Ahhhh... no! Sorry!

Me: Really? You sure? Alright, then. *sigh*

When we're just hanging around the house and I look over at her to find her staring intensely at me, is she thinking about how much she loves me?

BL: Not exactly. Unless, of course, you are a Beggin' Strip posing as a human. 

ME: Wow, that was just cruel.

Sometimes, when I go out of town, I leave her with my friends, Sue and Terie. Upon my return, Kenora always gives me the cold shoulder. Is this because she prefers living with them over me?

BL: NO. It's because they have something you don't have: a cat. Cat shit is like crack for dogs. She is ignoring you because she is withdrawing from cat shit, so don't be so goddamned sensitive. Now go kiss your dog. 

Me: I love getting together with the girls, as does Kenora. Does Kenora get all wound up and excited because she feels a sense of camaraderie amongst my friends?

BL: Sure, if that's what you want to call it...

Me: You sure are sarcastic, aren't you? Tell me this... how many times a day does my dog think about me?




you do the math!

Me: Quit being such a douche. 

When Kenora looks at me, does she find me beautiful?

BL: Yes, of course she does...*sneer*

Me: Okay, that's it! Now you're just being a big fucking asshole. You know what, BowLingual? You have no clue what my dog thinks. We've been together long enough for me to know exactly what she is thinking...

 BL: Hate to break it to ya, but...

Me: Scew you! I'm sure most pet owners think this... but I know the bond between me and my dog is soooo strong, she would save my life if I were ever in danger. Yeah, that's right! And you know what else? Her heroic act would, no doubt, land us an interview with Oprah, or at the very least, it would get her featured on the cover of People...

BL: You think so? 

Me: No, I know so!

BL: Okay, prove it!

Me: Alright. I will! I'll play dead and then you'll see how loyal she is to me...

(grabbing neck in the universal sign for choking)



(falls to floor)

Okay, I'm dead....

"Kenora..." (one eye slightly opened)

"Mommy's dead..."


"Kenora, c'mon girl!!"

"Here, Kenora! Look!"

"LOOK OVER HERE, Kenora..."



BL: Pffft!

Me: Fine! Point taken. 

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

The Gift

I was approaching the end of Grade Eight, and still... nothing. I prayed to God—much like Margaret did—but, still... nothing. I prematurely lined my undies with maxi pads the size of small decorative pillows in hopes that their super absorbent powers would suck the lining of my uterus right out of me... but...still... nothing.

I was menstrually retarded, and it was a humiliating truth I had to face whether I liked it or not. I was tortured by all my friends coming to school and acting all smug while they waved their sanitary products in my face. While they were getting excused from gym class because of menstrual cramps, I was running to the bathroom between dodgeball sets to see if, by the grace of God, my vagina had finally taken pity on me by giving me the go-ahead to enter womanhood. The dumb bitch was against me. 

I know it's called the curse for a reason—as I would learn in later years—but at the age of thirteen and being the last of my friends to start menstruating, I considered it more of a curse not to have my period. It was like I was excluded from an elite group of girls who, with just one brown stain, had suddenly figured out the meaning of life. In just a couple of cycles, I was left alone in a world where it was assumed that the greatest stress in my day was whether I had authentic adoption papers for my Cabbage Patch Kid®, not whether I should forego wearing white pants to school. This, for me, was devastating. 

Like all things in life, that for which you desire the most—love, a great job, money—comes when you least expect it... 

I was playing Kick-the-Bucket in our cul-de-sac with a bunch of neighborhood kids. I had already made it to home base and was waiting for the rest of the kids to come out of hiding. As I was standing there, all of sudden, I felt it; the warm, slow, thick "blub." At first I thought I had pissed myself, but, no, this was different.

Suspecting my prayers had finally been answered, I ran home and locked myself in our downstairs bathroom. As I pulled down my pants, I kept reciting in my head, "Let it be it. Let it be it. Please, God, let it be it!" Little did I know, I would be uttering these exact words on several different occasions later in my life.

There it was. It...was...IT!

"MOM, come down here! Mooooooooom! HURRY-UP!"  It was a simple request that came out as a shrilling scream due to my overwhelming excitement.

My mom, in a state of sheer panic, came to my beckoning. Within seconds she was outside the bathroom door. The urgency in my voice must have lead her to believe that I had severed my femoral artery while shaving my legs, what with me being a novice groomer, and all. 

The force with which she banged on that door was more suggestive of a mother trying to rescue her children from a burning building than a mother who was about to witness her daughter's first period. 

"What,  Rachel? What is it?" Bang, bang, bang. "Let me in!" Bang, bang, bang. "The door is locked!"

Shit, I locked the door. With my pants and my espresso-colored stained undies around my ankles, I waddled to the door like a Japanese geisha in training.  

Upon opening the door, she entered, out of breath from having raced down our entire staircase in only four swift steps. 

I didn't have to say a word. She just looked at me, saw the look on my face, and then looked down at the evidence I had been so proud to have discovered seconds earlier. 

"Ooooh, darling," she beamed, cupping my face in her hands. "You're a woman!!!"  

And with these words, I started bawling. She thought I was crying over the fact that I thought my vagina, quite possibly, was excreting shit. Little did she know these were tears of joy. 

"There, there, Rachel! Don't cry," she said, trying to console me. "This is normal!"

Like she had to tell me this was normal. I'd been feeling abnormal for months, fearing I'd been afflicted with some sort of syndrome that would render me androgynous. Damn right, this was normal. 

The next day, I went to school feeling proud, mature, and quite confident that all of my friends would know just by looking at me. They did not. I had to tell them. In detail. 

Unfortunately, having had their periods for all of two months, my friends were not the least bit excited by my news. It was, like, "Welcome to the club," *eyes rolling* "How did you do on that math test?" 

It was, to say the least, anticlimactic.  

After school, I went home to find my mother waiting for me. She had a gift for me. 

"This is just a little something to welcome you in to womanhood." 

What could it be? A tennis bracelet? A Swatch watch? A diamond encrusted chastity belt? 
She handed me a Gund® stuffed animal. It was a pig. Named Hamlet. 

This is where the story gets a little confusing for me...

By giving me a stuffed animal, was my mother somehow suggesting that I was on some sort of precipice, in danger of falling out of her reach forever? Was Hamlet her last-ditch effort at holding on to her little girl? 


Was this gift symbolic? After all, it wasn't so much a stuffed animal, as it was a stuffed animal that was, well... a pig. Was my mother trying to tell me something?

"Here! Here's a pig. Yeah, you might be excited about this monumental moment now, but just you wait until once a month, every month, you feel like you actually morph into a pig. You will bloat up, fat as a pig. You will eat like a pig. You will feel disgusting and dirty like a pig, and people won't want to be around you. Because, guess why? You'll be a pig!"

Was this her way of saying...

"Welcome to womanhood!" 

Hemlet Pink Pig - Gund®
"Oink, oink!"

Saturday, February 5, 2011

"You're Offensive!"

Frick! I hate not being able to sleep. Sorry for the Christian swear word, but I've decided to tone down my use of "fuck" in this blog as a result of having some "You're Offensive" votes at the bottom of my posts. It's probably just my brother trying to get a rise out of me, but what if it's one of my mom's friends? She told me she had encouraged some of her friends to visit my blog.

I'd hate to make my mom look bad, and by bad I mean worse than what I made her look on Christmas Eve when she invited some of her British friends over for dinner, and I proceeded to get "a little drunk" and use every curse word in the book short of the c-word. Here's a little bit of advice: British people don't take kindly to excessive swearing, even when you try to do it with a British accent. They don't think it's funny but, instead, see it as being mocked by someone with the verbal standards of a truck driver.

Sorry Mom.

Back to not being able to sleep. Word, this sucks. Sorry for the Mormon version of the word God, but I am also trying to refrain from using blasphemy in my posts. Blasphemy and sacrilegious references upset certain members of my family, and the last thing I want to do is alienate myself from my family. I mean, it's not like I want to come across as an atheist or anything, but I will admit, I have questioned my faith on several occasions in the last couple of years. All it takes is a few unfair blows, and, I'm sorry, but anyone in their right mind is going to question the existence of God, even if it's just an intsy, tinsy, little bit.

Yeah, yeah, I've heard the argument for having blind faith, but you can't tell me it wasn't blind faith that made all those poor people drink Kool-Aid in the Jonestown Massacre. Look where blind faith got them. Oops, this may have come across as sacrilegious, but my honest intent was to show that I am a critical thinker. If God exists, why did he give me a brain if He didn't intend for me to use it?

For the record, I think, deep down, I believe in God because, even though I am stupid, I am not that stupid to question His existence while doing something that really scares the shit out, say, flying. Sometimes, I've contemplated praying, "Dear God, please make this plane crash," just to see if it's really God who has a hand in what actually happens to the plane. Considering the outcome could be quite catastrophic, however, I always chicken out at the last minute, and I end up saying the prayer that has become a ritual for me... "Oh, God, please, I beg of you, make this plane land safely."

God—I mean word—there I go again, rambling off on some tangent. But back to me not being able to sleep... Jesus Christie, (this doesn't count as blasphemy because I intend Jesus to be pronounced as Hayseus, like the boy's name) I could really use some wine. Wine helps me sleep, so why should I be ashamed if I use it on a regular basis to achieve this?  Yes, I know, some people would consider this alcoholism, but I have many  friends who rely on Ambien to sleep, so what's the big difference?  I don't recall any scripture telling us that Ambien was the first miracle. No, IT WAS WINE...Jesus turned water into wine, and I imagine He did this to help us sleep. Not that I entirely believe that He really did this because I'm pretty sure you need grapes and something about fermentation to make wine, but who am I to question the Bible?

Shit—I mean crap—there I go again with the sacrilegious bullshit...I mean crap...bullcrap! I'm going to stop now before I offend too many people, but allow me to say this:

I suspect the reason I can't sleep is because I actually do care if I have offended anyone. Most of the time I write in hopes to make people laugh, because if there is a God, I believe he gave us humor to get through the really fucking, shitty times. I am not a saint and have never claimed to be. I love my family, and I am sorry for all the times I have disappointed them, but I suspect they know me well enough to take this post with tongue-in-cheek. As for everyone else: please accept my sincere apology if I have ever said anything overly offensive. If you are unable to forgive me, then please, ask yourself, "WWJD?" My guess? If He really loves me, He will laugh and forgive.

Unless, of course, He is British.


post script: My mother is British, which makes me half British, so I have bragging rights. TTFN. (Ta, Ta for now.)