Hi is enough.

Growing up, my Nana had about 6 DVDs in her house and no cable. That meant myself and my brother spent our formative years watching the same movies every weekend in a rotation. In my Nana’s collection was: Fern Gully (a child’s cartoon film about deforestation in the amazon that was equal parts campy and depressing), every single Austin Powers movie, The Santa Claus, Nightmare before christmas, and Beetlejuice.

I found out too late about a Beetlejuice pop up bar in Manhattan once and mourned for months on end. My nonstop whining about the missed experience gave Rosana an idea for a Christmas present- tickets to the live Beetlejuice broadway play.

She kept it a secret until the day before, and I was truly shocked. The day of the play, I wore a full blown dress and spent an hour trying to create an age appropriate look with the CVS makeup I had on hand. I had been very seriously depressed for the entire month of December, so wearing makeup and showering were leaps and bounds beyond my usual daily routine at that time. I felt energetic and excited for the first time in months.

We got dinner first at a restaurant that was VERY quick to refill our wine glasses, and I miraculously made it through all three courses without spilling any on my outfit. I was tipsy, and walking through midtown at night on Broadway made me emotional. I had honestly forgotten what happy felt like.

We spent $50.00 within the first 10 minutes of arriving to the theatre on two giant refillable red wine “collectable” tankards. Once we sat down, I realized I hadn’t even bothered to look up any reviews or previews of the play online. I had seen the Beetlejuice movie 50,000 times, and if it was even half as campy as the movie I knew, I would be a satisfied customer. As the curtains opened, I squeezed Ro’s hand and looked forward to watching a play where I knew exactly what was going to happen and sing along with all the words I already knew.

Boy was I wrong.

The first thing that clued me into the fact that this version of Beetlejuice might not be exactly like the movie was that the play began at a funeral, Lydia’s mom’s funeral to be exact. The mom is never mentioned in the movie, you just know the dad is the primary caretaker. After the funeral based intro, the couple (Adam and Barbara) die in a different way than they do in the movie, albiet a hilarious one…another red flag.

I was still hopeful though, how much more could they change? Beetlejuice was still portrayed as a gross demon, and the green, black and white color theme was still very prevelant. The songs were catchy and the actors were hilarious. I was laughing so hard during Beetlejuice’s prologue that I didn’t realize I had finally managed to spill some red wine on my outfit.

Then, while I sipped on my second $25 liter of wine, the stage lights went from bright and colorful to grey and gloomy. I was getting closer to drunk than tipsy at this point, and had NOT clued into what the main theme of the play was yet.

At first I thought I misheard the actress playing Lydia. She can’t be saying “Dead mom”… can she? Who writes a song called “dead mom?” As I was trying to work out what was going on, Rosana realized what was happening. The amount of sheer terror on her face as she whipped around to look at me was enough to confirm that what we were about to experience was going to be emotionally distressing.

Here’s the thing. Sometimes in life, when you least expect it, you are forced to listen to a 5 minute song all about your specific version of childhood trauma, with your very unprepared partner, while way too wine drunk in a theatre.

If the song was simply about how much Lydia missed her mom, I probably would have gotten teary eyed and whined to Rosana about it later, but that wasn’t the point of the song. Lydia sings the song because she is BEGGING her mom to send her a sign. Turns out- the entire play was about Lydia summoning Beetlejuice so she can find her deceased mother on the other side and make sure she’s okay.

I didn’t see that one coming and it got me.

Since December 11th 2001, I have asked my mom for a sign.

A sign she’s okay, that she’s out there somewhere, that she made it somewhere nice, and safe. somewhere sunny and warm. That she has her long hair back and has enough space to jump around to Shania Twain. I need to know she’s up there in the sky somwhere, or here, or somewhere I can find her eventually.

I have asked for big signs: messages written somewhere for me to find, visitations in my dreams, full spectral apparitions.

I’ve also asked for little signs, such as: “if I roll these dice and they’re both fours I’ll know you’re okay.”

I’ve gotten angry and given up for months at a time, swearing to stop asking for something that isn’t possible from someone who no longer exists. I’ve gotten desperate, screaming at the air that it’s unfair, that she’s a bitch for ignoring me, for leaving me here. But, I always end up searching for her again in moments of silence. Before bed, in the waiting room at the doctors office, sitting at the bus stop waiting for the 64 bus.

“If you’re okay, squeeze my hand. I’ll know its you.”

“If you can hear me, leave me a note on this post-it. I’ll put it on my dresser before bed. Nothing big, just hi. or a smiley face”

“If you’re out there help me calm down. Please help me catch my breath. Just for a little while. I’m freaking out and I need you”

“If you’re alright, slam my bedroom door. All you have to do is slam it shut. It’s okay, I won’t be scared”

I thought I was the only one out there who did this. I felt stupid, and alone, and crazy. Hearing the dead mom song both traumatized and freed me. It made me realize maybe I’m not the only one spending the last 5 minutes before I fall asleep searching the darkness for a familiar face or leaving post it notes around my room for dead people to write on.

Needless to say, I lost it at the theatre. The college girls sitting to my left probably thought I was psychotic, but Rosana did a good job muffling my sobs with her sweater while she force fed me popcorn to try and counteract the wine.

The rest of the play was phenomenal, despite triggering years of trauma. I left the theatre hungover physically and emotionally.

I don’t know if I will ever get a sign, and maybe just like Lydia in Beetlejuice I might accidentally summon a demon in my pursuits, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep trying.

If you’re out there – get back to me when you can. I’m here. I’ll be waiting.

A note would be nice. Just hi is enough.

Post playlist:

“Dead mom” – Sophia Anne Caruso

“over you” – Miranda Lambert

C*nts on Bikes

I was MADE for Ireland. I am a huge fan of rainy, cold weather, and I will eat anything that is served to me in stew form. I’m also a huge fan of winding roads, and being outside in an area that doesn’t smell like warm trash and pee.

While living here, I have developed some positive hobbies, and also started treating my body as something more than a vehicle for extra-large sides of fries at 3am. I realized that my quarantine body wasn’t gonna fly at my impending wedding, and that if I wanted to buy my wedding dress anywhere other than Walmart, I would have to start eating vegetables —ones other than the ones in my ramen.

So we bought bikes. I love biking. I used to bike to and from work every day in Brooklyn, dodging crack heads simply standing in the dead center of the street singing loudly, as well as car doors opening into the bike lane without a CARE IN THE WORLD, PLEASE LOOK FOR BIKERS. I thought, if I can navigate biking around our local druggy Rahul, who slept in the middle of Manhattan Avenue every day, and the teenagers who would step blindly into traffic from the sidewalk, I can bike in Ireland. I confirmed this with the bartender at one of the local pubs, who scoffed at our worries about the “main road” in our town.

“MAIN road? There’s one car that’ll drive past, maybe, just tell them to fuck off.”

Armed with the knowledge that I can just tell the local folk to “fuck off” if they come too close to me, I began biking daily. Our town is so damn picturesque —just picture the Irish countryside (we both know you’ve seen it in the movie Leap Year with Amy Adams), and you have what our town looks like. We began biking 10-20 miles on the weekends, through neighboring villages and fields. We went out to the biggest pub a town over, and after chatting with some locals for a bit, one of them yelled, “I know why you seem familiar, you’re the cunts on the bikes!”

I got to the point where I had even trained myself to breathe through my nose while biking. This was necessary to my survival as I was swallowing so many bugs whole while mouth breathing and biking that I was sure I was going to have some sort of adverse reaction. For every mile I biked, I swallowed about thirty bugs. I was lucky if they simply flew into my eyeballs, blinding me, rather than flying directly into my throat, where my tonsils should be. I knew I should have kept my tonsils; they would have come in handy deflecting flies back out of my damn insides. But now I breathe through my nose like a god damn professional. Take that, BUGS.

I was loving biking so much that Ro and I planned a bike trip from our little town in central Ireland to the Cliffs of Moher. We bought side saddles for the bikes, bike racks for extra storage, and brand-new helmets. I looked and felt like Lance fucking Armstrong. Maybe not looked, but I certainly had a helmet and tight pants.

What I wasn’t prepared for were hills. I forgot about hills. Brooklyn is relatively flat and without very many steep slopes. The most I had to deal with were alarmingly high speed bumps. We had done some moderate inclines in our weekend bike trips, but nothing that really threw me. The first leg of our trip to the cliffs was to a town called Adare, and was fairly easy. We were feeling confident and completely numb below the waist.

The second leg of our trip was to the city of Ennis. Ro had warned me there would be a “steep incline” towards the middle of the three-hour journey. I told her to “look at my thigh muscles, do my THIGHS look like they’re concerned about the incline?!” She didn’t respond. I took that as a resounding no. Your thighs do not look concerned.

Cut to: me, beat red, dry heaving, bent over my bike handlebars midway up a hill that is almost a perfect 90-degree angle to the ground. Turns out- my thighs SHOULD have been concerned. My ass was throbbing in pain, my legs were burning, my lungs felt like they were on fire, and I was FURIOUS at Rosana. How dare she not tell me this would be hard? Or help me peddle. Or carry me and my bike up the hill herself.

“WHEN THE FUCK. ARE WE GOING TO REACH. THE TOP OF THIS DAMN HILL.”

“So soon- we’re almost at the end!” Ro assured me, but as she finished her sentence, another biker came whizzing down the road the opposite way, yelling, “ALMOST HALFWAY THERE GIRLS!”

I held back tears. Forced my ass onto the VERY hard bike seat. and committed to lugging myself and my 20 additional pounds of storage gear up the nightmare of a hill at the rate of a snail with a limp.

What felt like four and a half years later, we made it to the top, and eventually on to Ennis. I have never smelled worse or looked more like Santa Claus with a sunburn. Not only did I have rosy cheeks, but my entire face seemed to be swollen, and the color was inhuman.

The next morning, we started the final leg of the trip. We thought we had hit the worst of it. Surely nothing could be worse than a 90-degree incline for thirty minutes. Unless that incline lasted the entire fucking leg of the trip.

We biked uphill for the remaining 2 and a half hour journey to the Cliffs of Moher. Rosana injured her knee. I injured my pride. We ended up walking our bikes up the hill for the last twenty minutes after I nearly passed out. No one told me the town of Doolin was at the top of a god damn mountain.

I mean… I guess I should have figured out that the Cliffs of Moher would be …. at the top of a cliff…. BUT STILL, SOMEONE SHOULD HAVE WARNED US.

Eventually, we reached the peak, where we could see the ocean, the cliffs, and the town below, where a warm shower and even warmer bottle of wine that sat in my backpack awaited us. I had truly never been so relieved.

Not to sound like your 6th-grade honors ELA teacher, but I felt like that fucking bike trip was a metaphor for this past year. It was unexpected, and really, REALLY fucking hard in some places. It took us in directions we didn’t see coming, and kicked my ass for the majority of the time, but we got to where we needed to be.

I lost my temper, the feeling in my ass cheeks, and Rosana lost her ability to stand on her left knee for more than a couple of minutes, but we were able to enjoy the destination so much more because of how hard we worked to get there. I think all of the garbage we have been through in 2020, the deaths, the trauma, the PRESIDENCY, all led us to Ireland. To this tiny town in the middle of nowhere, with each other.

We might not have a working heating system, or a real knowledge on how to build a fire in our wood stove yet, but yer local bike cunts are here, and loving it, and we’ve fucking earned it.

Hard.

-Trigger warning: rape, abuse-

Hard: 1.solid, firm, and rigid; not easily broken, bent, or pierced.

I have been writing this post for about two years now. I come back to it, add, take away, add back in, and then convince myself it’s stupid. I’m attention seeking. I’m exaggerating. I don’t remember correctly.

Recently I read someone else’s post about a similar topic, I felt their courage, and it reassured me. I am more confident in what I remember, how I felt, how I still feel.

I have written this post over and over in my head. I have written it so its funny, lighthearted, and easy. I’ve written it with chunks missing, information hidden, so its digestable. I’ve decided to write it the way it is, hard.

18 years old- My boyfriend got me used bedsheets as a christmas gift. Used. Bedsheets. This was pretty typical. He twisted it in such a way that for a moment I actually thought it was generous, “it’s for your bed when you go off to college, so you will be sleeping on sheets we have sleeped in together.” I thought that was cute for about 5 minutes, until I remembered I spent about 200 dollars on his gift. He was never very generous. Always taking. No wasn’t an answer if you didn’t want to give him what he wanted to have. I learned quickly not to argue, to just close my eyes and go along with it. One time- one time I didn’t go along with it. I said no. He had pulled off the road while driving, into a strangers driveway. “They’re not home.” He said, smiling. I said no again. He didn’t care. He took anyway. Afterwards, he looked at me and said, “Wow, you really DIDN’T want to do that did you?”

21 years old- I was dating an alcoholic. Dating him is a loose term. I babysat him, on and off, for about three years. He told me he loved me. Most often he told me he needed a ride home from wherever he had blacked out that night. One night I had driven him home, and since it was late, I decided to crash at his place. He shook me awake around 5 in the morning. “Let’s have sex” he slurred into my face, his breath reeking of Sam Adams. I told him I was literally just asleep, and wanted to keep being asleep. He wouldn’t give up. For twenty minutes he told me “it’ll be quick, come on, you don’t even have to do anything.” I was tired of battling him after a while, so I said nothing eventually, stopped arguing. I laid there and faced away from him. I cried. He wiped a tear away from my face after he was done and passed out. I blamed it on the alcohol.

23 years old- He was a mutual friend I agreed to meet for drinks after work. I remember the beer hall, learning how to chug out of “the boot”, and baked pretzels. I was having fun. I was meeting my friend afterwards for a night out, but kept my eye on the time. At one point I went to the bathroom, and he asked for my phone. Thats the last thing I remember. At 3 am I woke up naked, in a hotel room with all the lights on, staring at the open hotel room door. There were pools of vomit all over the floor and the bed was wet. No one else was in the room with me. I had no idea where I was, or how I had gotten there. The hotel room door was wide open, anyone could have come in while I was asleep, seen me. I went down the front desk and learned that he had used my credit card to book the hotel room, and that I didn’t make a sound when he brought me in. The friend I was supposed to meet called and texted many times when I didn’t show, and my date had answered the phone telling her I was going to be staying out with him. He took a lot from me. Especially my diginity, I wasn’t enough of a person to him for him to remember to shut the damn door as he left me naked, covered in vomit, passed out on the bed . I didn’t leave my apartment for 48 hours once I got home. I didn’t know I had been raped until a therapist told me.

24 years old- He was a coworker. Someone I saw everyday. I was depressed after what happened at the hotel, and I met him very soon after. He was thoughtful, always buying my coffee, remembering 2 sugars and milk. He was a teacher, and great with kids. He told me he thought I was beautiful, and that I was great at my job. He made me feel better about myself, and cared for. We dated. After 3 months his behaviour changed. I COULD be beautiful, if I just went to the gym more. He bought me a gym membership and would become irate if I didn’t go everyday. I COULD be a great teacher, if I wasn’t so stupid, and followed his instructions more often. He went from thoughtful to controlling, buying all of my groceries each week to control what I ate, and taking me to the hair salon, paying to have my hair bleached blonde. He would show up at my apartment even when we didn’t have plans to hang out, and refuse to leave. If we got into a fight, he would lock my bedroom door so neither of us could get out. He took. He never conceded. When I didn’t want to be intimate, that meant I didn’t love him. Which meant I was cheating. Which meant I was a stupid whore. During one fight, he slammed me up against a wall by my throat. My friends held an intervention. It made me cling to him more. Eventually, he slammed his fist next to my head after I told him I wouldn’t sleep with him, and my dog bit him on the hand. hard. That was my wakeup call. I left my apartment for a friends house upstate and broke up with him from there. I waited it out because I knew he would show up at my apartment thinking I was home. I came home 4 days later. He did. He left potted plants. One for each day he had shown up at my door. I bolt locked the door every night until I moved. He invited me to his housewarming party a year later, when he moved into the same neighborhood I lived in.

Nothing about any of these events are unique to me. Every girl I know has similar stories. The first time I told another person I was raped was at planned parenthood, it was the first time anyone had ever asked. I said no but immedietly started crying. She asked me again, softer, and I said “I think so.” I second guess myself constantly. Always playing these events down. That’s why this post isn’t funny, or sparing of details. I’m done playing these down.

I have been raped. It’s been hard, and sad, and guilt ridden, and sharp, and pointy, and sometimes shows itself at times I am not expecting it. Sometimes it slithers into my thoughts and I don’t feel like a person worthy of respect. Or worthy of staying a brunette, even if someone prefers blondes. Or worthy of being able to say no, once.

I’m writing this to get it off of my chest, but also out of my damn heart. It has lived inside of me for way too long. Now, these truths live here. In this post, in the computer, in the abyss of the internet.

According to google, the definition of hard is:

hard

adjective

1.solid, firm, and rigid; not easily broken, bent, or pierced.

Being raped was hard. Living with this has been hard. Writing this was hard.

But as it turns out, I am way harder. Not broken. not bent. not pierced. Hard

If you read this, and you want to talk, I am here.

Slug Orgy

As is custom, I have locked myself and Rosana out of our home within a day of moving in. I have been locking myself, roomates, partners, and family members alike out of houses and apartments for decades. Superman had the abilty to fly, I have the ability to fully strand myself and those I love outside of our homes in a minutes notice.

We had finally made it to Ireland after an entire month of packing, organzing, stressing, and fighting with each other about which vibrators were “essential” to our trip abroad. We had set a fire in the wood stove, poured ourselves glasses of wine, and were finally beginning to feel settled in our small cottage. Before turning on some trash TV to wind down at the end of the night, Ro decided she would let the dog out one last time.

After about 5 minutes in the living room alone, I remembered what the landlord had said to us just before we arrived. “The cottage is nicknamed Zibbs cottage after the lovely man who lived here for 25 years, up until the day he died.” Immediately, I imagine hearing footsteps in the hallway. We had entirely rearranged all of the furniture and books he had left behind that afternoon, and I was suddenly sure we had awakened his spirit and Zibb’s ghost was about to come charging down the hallway yelling about how his gigantic collection of National Geographics should be displayed more prominently and not hidden in the cupboard.

I leaped up from the couch, making sure to do a quick scan down the hallway for any spirits resembling an elderly Irishman, and ran for the front door. As I am about to tell Ro that our cottage is definitely haunted and that we’ve disturbed the previous owner’s spirit by hiding his large glass sculpture of what can only be described as “an abstract penis”, I hear the door click behind me.

Let me set the immediate scene:

I am wearing: a tank top (it is 50 degrees outside), an old pair of sweatpants that have two very large, very prominant holes in both the front and rear crotch area, and absolutely no shoes whatsoever.

Ro is: standing in the pitch dark, wearing her house slippers, a sweatshirt, and an expression that is a combination of shock and deep, deep, rage.

“You did NOT just CLOSE the door behind you.”

As I turn back around to confirm that I had, in fact, closed the door behind me, I take note of the floor of the front patio. It’s moving.

Now- I had just had a couple celebratory glasses of wine, and hallucinated a ghoul in the house, but I do both those things pretty regularly. I had never began visualizing moving floors while drunk or scared before. Then a car passed and in the headlights I could make out why the stones were moving.

“Ro….slugs…so many slugs…why are there so many slugs?!”

Ro did not reciprocate my astonishment about the slugs, nor did she seem to care, as all she cared about was whether or not the door to our cottage had actually closed all the way.

“SARAH IS THE FRONT DOOR CLOSED? You know we have no key right? Or phone? IT’S THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, WE ARE IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY. What THE FUCK.”

Now, I would have loved to share in her panic about the front door, because at that time, I was in a panic about the plethora of slugs creeping every so slimily (no this is not a real word, yes it is pronounced “slime-ily”, you may use this at your own discretion) towards my bare toes.

Both of our phones- inside

Both of the sets of keys to the house- inside

Our shoes – inside

About 160,000 insects and bugs – three centimeters away from us in all directions

“You are going to have to go up to the estate, pray to god someone is awake, and then pray to a second and hopefully more forgiving god that they have a third spare set of keys to this damn house they can give us” Rosana yelled directly into my face which was currently focused squarely on the slug orgy happening all around me.

The estate we are staying on is about 10 acres of land, with a castle at the very top. Our landlords live in the castle. It’s all very pride and prejudice, except in this story Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth are two eccentric castleowners who seem to hate each other. (They deserve their own post, but that will come later, hopefully after we go “foraging” together as the woman of the manor has promised). My task now was to hike the mile long road up to the castle, in the pitch black darkness, on a path through the cow fields, with no shoes.

I took the task on happily, very ready to be where the slugs weren’t. I started my ascent up the path, and quickly slowed to a halt when I hit the gravel. I had forgotten the path was grass and pavement only up to a point, and then turns into a very rough, very sharp gravel.

I continued on, limping and tripping my way up the road, getting farther and farther away from any light source. Soon it was even darker than it had been near the house, and I was completely alone in the middle of the cow field. I then realized I had hit a fork in the road, and I had to choose a path. I couldn’t see what was down either path, but I knew the castle was at the end of one side, and the horse farm was down the other. The horses unfortunately wouldn’t be able to solve my problem about the house keys, so I needed to ensure I ended up at the castle.

I decided I would trust my gut and go with my instinct to turn right. Then I realized my “gut instict” had also convinced me there was a ghost in my living room and caused me to lock us both out of our home, so I turned left.

I could see the top of the castle in the distance behind some trees after another couple minutes, and although I was in IMMENSE pain from walking on the gravel and rocks barefoot, I was excited to be making progress.

Suddenly, about two feet in front of me, I saw a very tall, very large outline of what seemed like a horse? Except this horse was extremely thin, and his spine was curved in an unnatrual way. I stopped dead in my tracks.

It’s the slenderman. Obviously. What other tall thin thing would be lurking around cow fields waiting for unsuspecting victims to wander up a dark path with their labia hanging out of the holes in their sweatpants and rocks embedded in their feet.

I can’t even run- I thought. I am going to die here, killed by the slenderman, found with no underwear on and slugs mating on my corpse.

Then I had the bright idea to throw a rock at whatever was looming in front of me. Because a pebble would probably scare away the slenderman.

I tossed a rock, and it moved. Swayed is probably a better word to describe it. I tossed a second rock, and it swayed again.

I was running out of pebbles to throw within arms reach and could feel Ro’s anger growing stronger and more profound by the minute, so I decided to just run full speed past whatever was inevitably going to probably kill me anyway.

As I jogged barefoot past the creature, I glanced quickly in it’s direction, trying not to slow my pace. The adolescent pine tree that was being held in place by two wires and a piece of wood swayed in my direction.

Eventually, after a couple more minutes of a light jog that nearly crippled me with every step, I made it to the castle and found the owner still up in his study. He had a spare, and even offered to drive me back to the cottage after noticing my bloody toes. I told him that walking back would be my penance for locking us out in the first place. He nodded in agreement, before looking horrified at the sight of my bare thigh reflecting the hallway light through the hole in my pants.

I said my goodbyes, took a deep breath, and jogged back down the trail home with key in hand.

About two minutes into my jog, with my cottage in sight, I spot the outline of Ro’s giant curly head of hair hobbling up the trail, with our overweight dog being held like an infant in her arms.

“…Sarah….?” she yelled at my outline coming towards her, probably concerned that if it wasn’t me that it was one of the undead due to the limping and frequent groaning every time I stepped on another sharp edged rock.

I confirmed that I was not a zombie, and furthermore that I did manage to get a key. We quickly squished our way over all the slugs to the door to clean our feet and brush the many bugs out of our hair.

To the 5-10 people who might read this blog, who I have also locked out of homes and cars, please take my barefoot midnight jog as penance for all those times we paid hundreds of dollars for locksmiths, had to climb up fire escapes without shoes to break into open windows, or begged neighbors to lend us ladders or paperclips to pick locks.

This one was for you.

Apt. 3R

On March 11th me and my girlfriend had a conversation about taking some respectful space to make time for our friends to ensure we don’t become one of those couples who in desperation have to invite third cousins and girls who were in our college Lit. class 5 years ago to be our bridesmaids in the future. Then, on March 15th, the city went into lockdown and we were no longer allowed to leave our apartment other than for groceries. So much for respectful space.

Since quarantine started, four weeks ago, here are some fights we have gotten into:

1. Whether or not we were going to choose for our “son” on the SIM’s to become an artist or a spy when he “grows up.”
2. Whether or not cold pizza is an acceptable breakfast food, and whether or not she is allowed to look in any way like she is judging me while I eat it anyway regardless of what she thinks
3. Not warning someone ahead of time before farting really loudly, especially when it happens during a suspenseful scene in a horror movie and I end up screaming bloody murder over a god damn FART

We have hit some pretty significant milestones earlier than expected since we are now with one another for 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I finally had to poop in the apartment when she was home. Big steps in terms of letting Rosana know I have a fully functional bowel system. She has grown out her armpit hair because I asked her to, and I have grown out my leg hair, even though she very much did not ask me to, and has on more than one occasion mentioned that my very long leg hairs can now penetrate her leggings and poke her in the shins.

I have also given up on trying to be sexy (vis-a-vis leg hair) and/or look like a human around the apartment. I no longer wake up and apply my eyebrow powder to my ever dissapearing brows. Now, when I HAVE eyebrows Ro doesn’t know how to respond because my face suddenly has expressions and she is left to decipher what these new signals are. (Brows furrowed- either I am mad at her or still haven’t updated my reading glasses perscription since 2017, who’s to say).

While locked up I have had:

4 panic attacks

14 sleepless nights

1 night crying myself to sleep

4 straight days of an axiety attack

12 hangovers & subequent guilt about getting so drunk

and about 1300 glasses of wine

..but I have also had:

2 baths drawn for me complete with candles and bubbles when I was having a hard day

21 cups of coffee made and delivered to me, with the perfect amount of milk and sugar even though she thinks its a travesty that I am ruining the coffee in such a way

6 lectures about how she doesn’t care that my leg hair is now a category five weapon, or that my facial expressions will always be a mytery

8 hours of someone to watch John Wick 1, 2, and 3 with after I drunkenly bought them on amazon prime

and 4 weeks worth of Ro talking me down from my constant anxiety over the state of the world.

Around week 3 I started wearing clothes that honestly make it impossible to know if I have any body shape at all, or if I am just an amorphous blob under that XL unisex jumpsuit. Ro has started working out 2-3 times a day just to keep from playing sims for another 12 straight hours. But god dammit if there is one thing we have managed to be good at in this insane situation: it’s being together. Thank god for being stuck in isolation with someone who brings me coffee in the mornings and peace of mind at night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bomb threat

I’m going to start this off by saying if you are a member of my family- please skip this post. Especially if you are my dad. It’s for your own good.

Now that I’ve given a parental advisory: let me set the scene for you- I’m in JFK, hauling my extremely overpacked carry on behind me, aggressively glacing around at the TSA agents surrounding me.

“Don’t get mad- but I’m having second thoughts. I’m going to check my bag” I whisper into Rosana’s giant head of hair, knowing that she’s definitely going to be mad.

“NO. No, we are halfway through security, we are GOING to miss our flight. I have told you- it is FINE. The only things that you can’t have in your check in bag are guns, liquids, and food. THOSE things aren’t even going to show up on the monitor. Trust me”

Those “things” my girlfriend is referring to are the sex toys I have shoved into my bag for our romantic weekend getaway. I may have gotten over-zealous, and packed one toy for each seperate day of our trip…. just in case? I had honestly put so many different devices into my bag, that I didn’t even know what I had in there anymore.

We get to the front of the line, Ro puts our bags on the belt and yells “Trust me, its fine!” while going through the metal detector.

CUT TO– me, shaking and breaking out in rashes, in a special TSA room adjacent to the security line, after my bag has been flagged by TSA agents.

Rosana tried to whisper into the large TSA agent’s ear that it was just a couple sex toys, but she assured us, that no, she can’t take us at our word, because what if we are terrorists and this vibrator is actually a penis shaped bomb.

The two intimidatingly large TSA agents look me in the eyes, and ask me what’s in the bag. I say “….a couple vibrators? I think? Honestly I don’t remember.”

She opens the bag, and sifts through my clothes. “Where they at?” She questions as nothing penis shaped is popping out at her.

“I wrapped them up in sweaters…..” I explain as sweat drips down my forehead like I’m being interrogated by the god damn CIA. Honestly, having an actual bomb in my bag would have been preferable to this.

She starts unrwapping my seperately hidden labrynth of sweater dildos. The first one, a small pink one, she holds up and shows her partner. Then they place it in a bin.

The second purple one she unwraps, and then proceeds to tell me that MY vibrators are in GREAT shape! “Mine have been so overused, they’re falling apart, when this is done you’re telling me where to get one of these!” she yells into my VERY ashamed face.

“They just keep on coming! ok, this is it right?” the partner says as she sifts through the velvet bag I forgot I packed containing lube, Ben Wa balls, and finger vibes. At this point I’m blacking out due to a nice combo of over heating, embarressment and deep, deep shame.

“Yeah that’s it!” confirms Rosana.

“…..no. thats not it.” I mumble to the floor.

All three women look at me in suprise. One dildo is fun, two dildos are a party, but three dildos in one small carry on bag is a overkill.

The woman and her partner then collectively scoop out the biggest, widest, and most terrifying dildo I own.  It was brand new, neon pink, and required two hands to hold. I had packed it knowing full well there was no way in hell that thing was entering my mortal body, but wanted to challenge myself anyway. You know- your everyday couples bonding activity.

They looked at this monstrosity. At me. At Ro. and then back at the pink goliath of a toy.

“THIS IS YOURS?”

As I confirm that yes, the dildo that looks like it belongs in the posession of someone closer in size to Hagrid, was mine, Rosana bursts out laughing.

I, on the other hand, would have been happy to drop dead that moment instead of look at this TSA agent flopping around my huge dildo in her equally large hands for one more second.

I will say, after placing my small collection of sex toys back into my bag and wiping all the sweat off of my face, we had a lovely conversation with the agents about what companies sell the best toys, which ones are queer friendly, and what a “harness” is used for.

Here are my pro tips to you:

1. ALWAYS check your bag if carrying sex toys. vibrators’s will register as unkown electrical devices and possible bombs.
2. dont pack your scariest dildo on a weekend getaway- especially if it can and will be waved in your face by a TSA agent questioning which part of your body it can possibly be insterted into
3. keep your partner updated on the amount of sex toys on your person at all times, discovering 2-3 more toys than imagined is not a sexy suprise in an TSA bag check room.

Savor the Flavor

This year, my partner, myself, and her step family went up to Cape Cod for a wedding. We rented an AirBnB, which, on in the interior, looked like a 50 year old white womans vision board exploded. There were the usual crosses, three to four “Live Laugh Love” signs, and a couple throw pillows embroidered with lobsters surrounding bible verses.

Anyone I’ve dated, been friends with, or even sat next to on a subway will tell you I’m nosy. I read texts from afar with my freakishly good eye sight and have an implusive need to dig through cabinets and drawers in unfamiliar places. (Plz don’t report me to Airbnb my visitor score can NOT take another hit).

While sifting through one of the many white whicker end tables within Karen’s beachfront property, I located this cookbook:

The title “Savor the Flavor” immedietly made me think of every porn-stache I had ever seen and I was intrigued. I had some time to kill anyway while Rosana debated between two identical black blazers to wear out in the room next door.

Under appetizers was this gem:

OK PEGGI. Coming in hot with the slutty sauce.

First off, this is a book of recipes to help bring you closer to our lord and savior Jesus H Christ and you’re gonna go ahead and submit a dish basically named “whore sauce” ???? The fact that she slipped this past the priest at the River of Life Fellowship makes me kinda want to be her friend. Maybe it’s a test to see which ladies at the fellowship take a bite and are instantly smited by J. Christ himself.

If the slut sauce didn’t wet your appetite, don’t worry! There are more appetizers to choose from.

There is also:

Now, I don’t believe any single part of this dish qualifies it as a “salad.” Last I checked, 7-UP nor Jello were considered a vegetable. Maybe Loach Schwendeman should have helped coach his daughter in law in the basics of  the food pyramid so she was better able to identify what is an acceptable food to serve other humans. My favorite part of this recipe is where she asks her fellow god fearing chefs to “add mashed up cream cheese” and then immediatly “stir in pineapple and 7-UP” as if that’s a normal, non psychotic behavior.

Now, here’s where it gets ~dramatic~ . Loach himself submits the EXACT SAME RECIPE on the next page. He just mixes up the words “Jello” and “7-UP” as if no one will notice?!?!?

?!?!?!?!!? Loach. come ON. Let Sandy have this ONE THING.

Have you ever thought to yourself, “Man, I really wish I could pick an old penny up off the disgusting sidewalk and suck on it” – no? Well Roe Curiale sure has.

Apparantly, Roe thinks pennies taste like chilled mustard, tomato soup, vinegar, and Worsestershire sauce! In other news, I’m pretty sure this is EXACTLY what dirty street pennies taste like- so great job Roe!

Next up were the entrees:

The first entree confused me because it neither 1) contained foods with ANY nutritional value or 2) was an entree

Paula seems to be confused about whether a large package of ricotta and sugar constitutes an actual meal. I mean, listen, I would 1000% put this in my mouth, it sounds delicious, but I’m also certain I would clog every artery I have in the process of eating this monstrosity.

If you don’t want your blood to turn into Molasses, there is also:

Ingredient #1: Boston Butt.

What in the ever living fuck is a boston butt????? Is it a cow? Is it just an ass? Is it a cow’s ass? FILL ME IN

Incredient #2: can of Pepsi

You’ve again lost me here George. You couldn’t even splurge on some Coca Cola???

Ingredient #3 &4 : Mushroom soup mix and dry onion soup mix

..is this to add flavor to the already fizzy soda ass meat?

He follows that up with:

GEORGE. Stop putting second rate sodas into all of your recipes?? This recipe is essentially pancakes on crack. What is your cholesterol like?!

Last but not least- dessert!

No one even wanted to attach their name to this. For me- the most insulting part of this dish is where it says “Blend all ingredients together real easy.” Ew.

Also- does this not get chilled?? WHO is eating room temperature yogurt and sour cream?!

Or, after you’ve had your 7-UP salad and Pepsi Pork, you could round out the meal with some:

Just in case cookies weren’t unhealthy enough- why not CRUSH SOME CHIPS INTO IT.

Based on these recipes, the parishioners of this church wanted to meet Jesus sooner rather than later. Most likely in the form of death due to impossibly high Cholesterol.

Huge thanks to the lovely people of the “River of life fellowship”- you’ve now proved to me that God’s bounty DEFINITELY contains more second rate soda than I ever could have imagined.

 

Heirlooms

My mother was a very passionate, one may say, obsessive person. If she did something- she did it to the fullest extent possible. She didn’t throw on a last minute costume for halloween, she spent hours planning one out, and then wore a costume so thoroughly ridiculous it was borderline offensive. My unwilling father was always her counterpart, complete with makeup and accessories. She also always, even if it was unneccessary, wore fake tits.

Question: what does a Hasidic woman and double D breasts have in common?

Answer: nothing. at. all.

Reality: My mother wore the largest fake tits she could find to “cosplay” as a Hasidic woman on halloween in my formative years.

She would also show up to her friends events unrecognizable, dressed in full costume complete with a wig and accent, and act as a forgotten ex girlfriend out for revenge just to fuck with them.  She started going to kickboxing classes one day and liked it so much, she just went right ahead and became a kickboxing instructor.

She harnessed this intense energy and channelled it directly into filling our tiny home with knick knacks and stenciling. She compulsively collected figurines and paintings depicting one character in particular. What did my mother fill our small suburban home with you ask?

Clowns.

Specifically: Emmett Kelly clowns.

For those of you who had a normal, healthy, clown free childhood, Emmett Kelly is famous, depressed, clown.

Here is the first sentence on the wikipedia page for Emmet Kelly:

“Emmett Leo Kelly (December 9, 1898 – March 28, 1979) was an American circus performer, who created the clown figure “Weary Willie”, based on the hobos of the Depression era.”

And, apparently, the literal JOKER from BATMAN, has even referenced this horrifying character. On wikipedia (my gospel) it states: “In The Dark Knight, Heath Ledger‘s Joker character is seen waiting to cross a busy Gotham City street holding an Emmett Kelly mask, which he is later seen wearing during a bank robbery”

THAT’S HOW HORRIFYING THIS CHARACTER IS. A movie that drove the main actor so crazy he ended his life, emulated and referenced Emmett Kelly MORE THAN ONCE.

Now, we will set aside all my very visible character flaws that most likely stemmed from growing up surrounded by depressed portraits of clowns, and dive straight into my current conundrum.

In her will, my mother left me, YOU GUESSED IT, her collection of Emmett Kelly clown figurines and portraits.

Not just one ceramic figurine, but 30. Not one small 4×6 frame of this psychoctic clown, but a 14×18 inch nightmare.

Here’s the funny thing about death though, it makes you hold on to everything. I have held onto clothes that don’t fit me, sheets and blankets I hate, socks with holes, and old notebooks with barely a page filled just because they were my mothers.

And yet- how do I take these obvious portals to hell into my home and furthermore, how do I convince my partner not to leave me immedietly when I unload the multiple boxes of clown figurines into our very small New York City apartment.

On the other hand, how do I in good conscious, throw away my dead mothers clown collection.

There’s a sentence never before uttered in the history of the world. You’re welcome.

I have my mothers same obsessive energy, I have upwards of 30 plants in my home since I discovered succulents one year ago. I obsess over christmas gifts 10 months in advance and plan elaborate themes for any and every party I throw.  I have her sense of humor and her inability to take anything seriously.

And I do find the situation hilarious, in the sense that one day, my poor grandmother will get tired of locking these clowns into her spare bedroom and pouring the appropriate salt circles and praying the appropriate  prayers to keep those demons at bay, and I will be tasked with hiding them somewhere in my now cursed home.

But I also find the situation unbelievably sad. These fucking morose clowns, for some ungodly reason, were something my mother collected, spent time and money on, and are even something that are reminicent of the years when I got to see her, talk to her, smell her, or even just be close to her.

Now, I am forced to make a decision. Do I continue the tradition of traumatizing my future children with demon clown figurines in my shared living space, or do I recognize that my mother had horrific taste and I should sell and/or trade the figures for all the souls they most likely stole at one of my parent’s halloween parties.

This is the life of a child with a deceased parent. Everything that was theirs is now both treasured memorabilia and the biggest reminder they’re not here.

So, here I sit, googling “how much does an Emmett Kelly porcelain doll go for today” on one tab- and looking up prices (lowest to highest) of large used safes on ebay just in case I cave and take these spawns of satan into my god fearing home and I need a way to keep myself and my dogs safe.

Pray for me.

 

 

Keeping little humans alive

I have never been in combat, or spent much time in an E.R, but I have had a five year old get a bloody nose and sneeze at the exact same time, and I assume I was covered in the same amount of blood and body goop as a triage nurse or wounded soilder at that time.

Teaching is the weirdest and grossest job of all time, and anyone who tells you differently is lying. I have been bitten, licked, sneezed, puked and coughed on. I have had tiny fingers in my ears and in between my toes. I had one student spit directly into my mouth as I calmly asked him to get out from underneath another student. I have had strep throat three times in one year and I keep my hair up at all times in fear of the lice rampantly spreading from child to child. If I don’t shave my legs frequently enough I will have to field questions about the “prickly stuff on my body” all day.

That said- I love what I do. I laugh all day long, both at and with the tiny humans I keep alive all day. On more than one occassion I have uttered sentences I am sure no other human on earth has had to say, such as “No I don’t know what a slug would taste like with BBQ sauce” or “If you blow into his mouth very hard and at the right angle, the eraser that’s stuck in his nose will pop out.”

Things I have said to both my dogs and my kindergarten students:

1. “I don’t know WHAT that is, but it definitely shouldn’t be in your mouth”
2. “What did I say about licking people?!”
3. “I love you too but I need you to get off of my legs”
4. “If I see you eat one more thing off of the floor you’re gonna be in big trouble”
5. “…….is that pee?”

Teaching is also a very steep learning curve. I used to wear pencil skirts and blouses every day, only to realize sitting on the floor is 90% of the job, boogers are on every surface no matter how many times you clorox wipe the room, and pencil skirts rip VERY easily if you’re bending down to a six year olds level all day.  I once taught the digraph “sh” and the word family “it” in the same day leading to an entire classroom of children shouting “SHIT” at me during phonics. I learned the hard way that five year olds can and WILL eat three day old stepped on grapes they’ve found under their desk and seven year old boys need to be taught not to show other seven year old boys their buttholes in the bathroom because “Jeremy said that his was bigger than mine and that wasn’t fair.” I laughed at older teachers who told me you have to be mean the entire first week of school until I waltzed into a classroom full of third graders who told me I could fuck right off when I asked them to take out their writing notebooks. I aspired to be Ms. Honey all the time and ended up more like Ms. Trunchbell on occasion.

I work primarily with students who have learning or behavioral disorders, and they suprise me in both good and bad ways constantly. I had a six year old ask me what type of a “lover” I was and three seconds into me spitting the coffee I had just taken a huge sip of into my co-teachers face he followed that up with “dog or cat” and I was able to continue my day without exploding. There was also a time when one of my students found a snail in the dirt, proudly showed me her newest pet, and while I was saying “Wow, what are you going to name…..” she put the snail into her mouth and swallowed it before I could even finish my sentence. I googled “can snails kill children when ingested” and we continued on with recess.

On the other hand, I have been brought to tears by a student reading a sentence on his own for the first time or the time an entire class of students got up one by one and hugged me when I told them I was feeling particularly sad that day.

I’ll take occasionally running into a dried up booger on my “teacher desk” (A stack of crates hidden in the corner covered in school notices) over a desk job any day.