The Adventure of a Lifetime, Now With More Lethargy

A man who drives a truck and fixes things arrives this morning to tinker with something. I don't remember what. A tank or a meter, or some other type of most boring word on the planet.

"You know where to go," I say with a wave toward the basement, where I've never been because nothing good has ever happened in a basement. Plus it's where all the boring things that I don't understand are stored.

Half an hour later he approaches me with some smug asshole blinky-light device. The Alex Trebek of poison gas detectors.

Man: Do you ever feel headachey when you wake up? Like a hangover?

Me: I knew it. This is my intervention, isn't it. Is Jeff here? Did I get Jeff?

Man: Do you feel sleepy alot?

Me: This is weird. It's like you know me.

Man: You know you have carbon monoxide coming through your vents at 25 parts per million?

Me: That's awesome! That's like, barely any parts!

Man: It's about half of what you'd find coming out of a tailpipe.

Me: Only half then? What are the side effects of that?

Man: Sleepiness and death.

Me: Huh. Well. This explains why I've gained so much weight this year.

Man: No it doesn't. It doesn't explain that at all.

Me: Or does it?

Man: No.

Me: *squinty eyes*

Man: Nope.

Me: *hopeful eyebrows*

Man: No.

Me: I've been breaking out on my forehead...

Man: No.

Me: My toes feel less bendy lately...

Man: No.

Me: Fine. Does it explain that gas smell down there?

Man: No, carbon monoxide is odorless. Wait. A gas smell?

Me: Yeah, like smoky gas. Mostly smoke, but I know there was gas too, because it made my tongue taste like perfume, so I closed the basement door and locked it. Cause petewy! I tell you what, it took about 15 York Peppermint Patties to wash that taste away!

Man: Well whatever that was seems to have resolved itself. The real problem is the lethal amounts of carbon monoxide.

Me: Okay. Can you fix it?

Man: Well, I turned the furnace off down there for now. Your [insert nonsense stuff I don't understand] hasn't been replaced since 1986. And your [award for boringest words ever] looks like it's original to the house. You have [yawn] leaking down through your [I wonder if there are any more peppermint patties?] and causing [oh my god, my dog looks so cute right now] to rust. It's pretty serious.

Me: Okay. So, how long until I can flush the toilet?

Man: I turned off the furnace. That's all. Not the water.

Me: So, no hot showers for....

Man: Just the furnace. The hot water is fine.

Me: So the Internet...?

Man: Still works.

Me: Can I still send texts from my phone?

Man: Yes.

Me: And the milk will stay good for how long if I don't open the fridge?

Man: I don't think you understand.

Me: It's just so boring, what you're saying. It's hard to even focus. Could you just summarize it? Or write it on this post-it and I'll read it later?

Man: Listen...I. turned. off. your. furnace. so. that. the. carbon. monox....

Me: Oh my God you're killing me right now. I think I just fell asleep and had a dream in the middle of that sentence. Don't say "furnace" ever again. So boring.

Man: Don't use the heat. No more hot air. Look at me. It's simple. No. More. Hot. Air.

Me: UGGHH SO BORING MY BRAIN HURTS.

Man: Just say it.

Me: Nah. Mah. Hah. Ah. *falls asleep*

Man: You can do this. Focus.

Me: Fine. No More Hot Air. NMHA. I'll remember it that way. It's a mnemonic device. NMHA stands for: No Man Has Apples. or Nancy Makes Hot Appetizers. Or None More Heat Air.

Man: Or, No More Hot Air.

Me: Hey! That's catchy! I'll remember that!

Man: You're really lucky we caught this leak.

Me: See, this is why I don't go down in the basement. Nothing good ever came from poking around down there.

Man: Besides detecting carbon monoxide and possibly saving your life? You know, carbon monoxide sinks to the ground, where your dogs sleep. Have your dogs been listless?

Me: Um...let me think.

Me: Maybe a little. It's hard to say, really.

Me: I suppose it's possible, now that you mention it.

Me: I cremated one last month. I wonder...

Me: *thinky face*

Me: I'm pretty sure she was dead.

Me: ...

Me: Pretty sure.

***

The best thing about living in an old house is that every day is a surprise and and adventure in survival.

Sometimes it rains pee in the hallway. The first time this happened I was like WHAT THE FUCK and I thought maybe it was the apocalypse or a house stigmata because whoever heard of such a thing, and I went upstairs to pack my suitcase because yeah, fuck that. But it turned out to be a broken pipe caused by somebody flushing a catcher's mitt wad of toilet paper down the toilet but you know what? Whatever, plumber. If my only luxury is 35 layers of tissue between my hand and my poop, then just let me be. I'll take a little pee rain now and then. That's why God invented buckets.

And sometimes my front gate opens, and sometimes it doesn't, and maybe it will be a climb over the wall and land in the hedges day, and maybe it'll be a use your key day. And maybe it'll be the kind of arid day where the gate shrinks and the little clicky metal piece doesn't even reach the other side and it becomes a swinging saloon door and I get to enter my patio like an old west cowboy. See? Every day is an adventure.

Then there are the rats. Rats like old houses. Lots of hidden holes and broken screens and old vines and stuff. Sometimes when I'm sitting outside, a rat will just walk by on a branch of a shrub next to me. Hello, Senor Raton! Make yourself at shrub!

Another fun part about living in an old house is remembering which outlets work, and which don't, and which ones make a BEZZERT noise and put on a tiny fireworks display and give you an electrical bitch slap and make you say nonsense things like Yeep!! and Shookaw!! and Whacha!! as your leg shoots out backwards in an involuntary donkey-kick when you go to plug something in. And then after a few years of this, some electrician tells you that your house is powered with cloth covered wires from the 30's and that you're lucky to be alive.

Hear that? Lucky to be alive. Like Evil Kneivel or Tom Daschle or Gary Busey. Not everyone gets pretty much constant life-affirming reminders from their house.

In which I dabble in cyberterrorism

My sister collects black and white posters of little kids in formalwear giving each other roses and kissing goodbye at train stations, stickers of kittens with captions like "Purrrfectly Meow-velous!" and "What a cat-astophe!" and hanging teddybear angels.

"Fuck this shit," says teddybear angel.

I, by contrast, have two aspiring actor wasps performing post-mortem improv in my living room, 25lbs of concentrated Astrolube that I'm saving for a ladies wrestling-slash-cancer survivor party, and a "don't ask don't tell" pile of termite dust developing in the corner of my bathroom.

A typical birthday card from my sister contains festive balloon-shaped confetti. Not to be outdone, a typical birthday card from me generally contains the phrase, "I'm so thankful your dad shot you out of his pisshole."

My sister displays framed glamour portraits of her daughter, unironically.

I, however, find these portraits offensive. In an effort to communicate my feelings about these glamour shots, I convinced a fellow guest at my sister's last dinner party to drape his testicles over one of them.

Then I stole my brother-in-law's phone and took a photo.

And texted the photo to their daughter, away at college.

With a *winky face!* emoticon.

Daddy misses you sweetie! ;)

Butterflyyyy kisses, after bedtime prayer,

stickin' liiiittle white flowers, aaaaall up in her hairrrr...

Two minutes later, my sister's phone rang, and after a brief conversation with her daughter, punctuated by shushes and reassurances, she got off the phone and turned to her husband:

Sister: Do you honestly think people want to see your balls, Dave?

Dave: Interesting question, honey. I honestly don't know whether people want to see my balls or not.

Sister: Well, let me tell you exactly who wants to see your balls. NOBODY WANTS TO SEE YOUR BALLS, DAVE!! NOBODY!!

Dave: That's kind of hurtful, but alright.

Sister: Especially not your DAUGHTER!!

Dave: Well, yeah. I agree. If there were a list of people who wanted to see my balls, she would be last on that list. For sure.

Sister: So why would you send her a picture of your testicles?!

Dave: Excuse me?

Sister: You know what? Stop drinking right now! Gimme your drink. You always get weird when you drink.

Dave: Okay just stop. Listen, I've made some bad decisions in my life, and I've done some questionable things, but never in my life have I thought to myself, "Hey you know what Dave? Go ahead and take a photo of your nuts, send it to your daughter. Show her you care." Not me, babe. Not this time. Move along.

Sister: It came from your phone, Dave. Your phone.

Dave: No it didn't, because my phone is right over... here. Okay, no it isn't. Someone took my phone. Who has my phone?

Sister: She's very upset, Dave!

Dave: Well, yeah. Your dad sends you a photo of his nuts, you're going to feel bad things, that's understandable!

Sister: She thought we were all taken hostage!

Dave: Taken hostage? By whom?

Sister: I don't know, terrorists?

Dave: Scrotum-texting terrorists? Seriously. That girl watches too much Special Victims Unit.

Sister: Well, she was terrified. She felt a lot of terror.

Dave: Well, she'll be okay. I'm sure there's a support group or something.

Sister: I don't know. 9/11 survivors maybe.

***

10pm in the quiet blufftop community of Pacific Palisades, California. A wispy tendril of a cloud slinks across the face of the full moon, but it's enough to diffuse the light, creating a few seconds of complete darkness. They seize their opportunity. The armed men file noiselessly from the back of a van and within seconds, they're inside.

Moments later, the sound of dishes crashing to the ground and startled screams reverberate through the warm summer night.

:::several minutes later:::

It's like Dickens, but swap out the ghosts for whale vaginas.

There comes a time in every blogger's career when she begins to ask the tough questions.

Perhaps she has a great idea for a post, and 20 minutes later she finds herself kneeling in the bathtub, wearing a pimp wig and a Cruella DaVille coat, holding a banana in one hand and an icepick in the other, fake blood dripping out of one nostril, as she contorts her face and sneers into the camera she's set on autotimer and positioned carefully on the toilet, and she begins to wonder, Am I still being authentic on my blog?

Am I trying too hard? she asks herself, as she peruses her iphoto archives and tries to remember which of her unpublished posts would have required her to pull a pair of Spanx over her head and peer over the pillow holding a lady's disposable razor.

I hate when nobody tells you your tag is showing.

We've all been there.

As writers of weblogs, it's natural to wax introspective from time to time. For example, I often worry, Am I being relatable?

My little buttercup, has the sweetest smiiiillle

*shuffle step, shuffle step, windshield wiper hands*

Are the images I post reflective of the maturity and substance that I strive for in my blog?

Shut up. I found them this way. Shut up.

Maybe these photos are merely a projection of my...(sigh.) Really? This again? Yes, we SEE the razor, Spanxhead. Good job. Go to bed.

(beeeep!) Hey Becky, I came by today. Your car was there but

you didn't answer the doorbell. Are you ok? You're probably out somewhere

enjoying the beautiful Spring day. Call me! (beeeep!)

As bloggers, at one point or another we all get to that point where we ask ourselves, "How will I ever connect with my Internet brethren if I can't take off the protective "mask" of objectivity and open myself up to speak from a place of pain, struggle, and redemption, and GOOD GOD is that... some kind of... disembodied whale vagina?"

This is precisely why labia majora were invented.

How did I get to this point? I used to write homages to my dead dad, and now I'm running around with Spanx on my head, looking like some kind of flesh-toned, control-top Snork.

I have opinions, things to share, feelings even, and yet I'm trying to create a post based around a photo of what might be a whale's vagina I found on the beach, for God's sake! WHY??!

Whyyyy??? (bangs fists on desk)

WHYYYYYY?? (collapses into a heap)

Whale's Vagina: You mean, you don't know?

Me: Wha?? Whale's Vagina, it's you!

Whale's Vagina: I'm here to help, my child. You want to post about the whale's vagina you found on the beach, but its meaning eludes you, is that right?

Me: I don't know, Whale's Vagina! I mean, there you were on the sand that day, this lonely, mysterious thing, presenting yourself upon the shore with no context, no history...

Whale's Vagina: Yes, yes, go on...

Me: There you were, leaving me to wonder, "Where did this whale's vagina come from?" and "Why doesn't that whale's vagina keep it real on her blog anymore?" Wait. What? Oh!

Whale's Vagina: You see it now, don't you. You wanted to write about me because...

Me: Because you... you are me, Whale's Vagina, and I am you. The both of us pointless and bereft of context.

Whale's Vagina: Yes, but if you remember, you were not always a metaphorical whale's vagina, Becky. Come, I'll show you. Follow me back in time, for I am...

The Whale's Vagina of Blogging Past

WV: Look, Becky, here you are in your mother's arms, a newborn baby.

Me: A Christmas baby, actually. Just like Jesus was, only back when he was born it was just called "Mas."

(absolute silence, save for a lone wolf howling in the distance)

Me: Sorry.

WV: Anyhow, there is very little information to be gathered from your baby books, as it seems they were never filled out until you were old enough to do it yourself, which would have been fine except for a comprehension disorder that your teachers described as an "inability to understand basic implied directions."

Right foot, check. Left foot, check. That was easy. What's next?

A lock of hair?? Well okay, but this sure is a weird memory book.

(takes out scissors, goes looking for the cat)

WV: By this point, Becky, you were already deep into what would be a lifelong habit of taking control of things that weren't your responsibility and then expressing your resentment in dramatic and confusing ways.

Look, there you are, 8 years old. Shh, let's listen...

***

Becky: Hey mom, I finished my BABY BOOK! You're WELCOME! I'll just put it here IN THE TOILET WHERE YOU WANT IT PROBABLY!

Mom: Hon, I don't want the book in the toilet. Give me the book.

Becky: What? Oh, I'm sorry, I can see you're disappointed that I DON'T FIT IN THE TOILET TOO!

Mom: Becky, get out of the toilet. C'mon.

Becky: Okay, I'll c'mon, right after I BURN THIS BABY BOOK UP. I just hope to God I don't burn my hand while I'm burning the precious memories. (holds baby book over the stovetop, realizes it's an electric burner, waits awkwardly for it to heat up, gets impatient, sticks it in the toaster, stares at mom while poignantly turning dial to "dark.")

Mom: Are you enjoying yourself? I hope you are.

Becky: Yep just tidying up, a place for everything and everything in its place, right?! (throws book in the trash, takes it out, tries to cram it down the disposal, it won't fit, sticks it in the microwave, sets the timer for 20 years, gets impatient, throws the book out the window. Waits for the reassuring sitcom hug that would never come. Calms down. Writes 20 page apology letter to mom, culminating with the full song lyrics to "Against All Odds" by Phil Collins.)

***

Me: Ha! Look at that. What a firecracker!

WV: Firecracker indeed! Smart too. They skipped you out of Kindergarten because you were mature for your age, gifted even, but then you proceeded to piss your pants in class almost every grade until middle school.

Me: Heh. That's right. I sure showed them. You can keep your "labels," Sister Mary Edna! You'll never "define" me!!

WV: Like most families in the 80's, you played lots of homemade games growing up. Games like "Throwing Dirt at Nana."

Me: Well, come on. A dollar bill in a birthday card? Kinda bullshit, right?

WV: There was also the game called "Dr. Becky and Her Enchanted Anal Thermometer of Wishes."

Me: He HAD a wish and he was RUNNING a fever. Two birds, one stone, really. Not a big deal.

WV: And of course, "Steamer Basket Robot Feet." Do you remember the jingle?

Steamer basket robot feet,

steamer basket robot feet,

steamer basket robot feet,

my feet are made of steamer baskets!!

Me: The day my feet got too big for those steamer baskets, man, that was a sad day.

WV: On Saturday nights, you and your parents and your brother would play a board game, like Clue or Sorry or Balderdash. You were raised with a strong love of language, weren't you. Shhh, let's watch...

***

Mom: Okay. The thing is, and the point of the game Balderdash, is to come up with a definition that seems so plausible, that your opponents will be tricked into thinking it's the real definition. Do you kids get it?

Becky/Jack: Yeah.

Mom: I don't think that you get it.

Becky/Jack: We get it!

Mom: Do you? (holds out card)

Becky: Sounds good to me!

Jack: Yeah. I think my friend Josh has one of those birds.

Mom: I'm so tired, kids. So very tired.

Becky/Jack: We'll do better. No more penises. Promise. Read the next one!

Mom: (Sigh.) Fine. The word is...

***

Me: *snort* Queachy. *snort*

WV: Moving on, you were quickly on the path to becoming the mature woman you are today...

Me: Queachy. *closes eyes, holds bridge of nose trying not to laugh* Give me a sec.

WV: ...and you eventually discovered boys. Your first boyfriend was a sweet blonde boy who loved to open mouth French. Sometimes he would French on your mouth, sometimes on your neck, sometimes on your forehead...

Me: ...sometimes with my ponytail or my backpack strap. Sometimes with the air next to my face. Sometimes with the window of the back seat of his mom's car as they drove away. Sometimes with his best friend Bruce. God, he was passionate.

WV: By contrast, your next boyfriend would come over on weekends and hold your hands and feet together, then put a pillow on your head and sit on it while you screamed.

Me: I was a cheap date!

WV: You're deflecting again. Is this getting too difficult? Difficult memories?

Me: Pshh. No. Your mom is a difficult memory.

WV: ...?...

Me: (armpit fart)

WV: Alright. As we see here, you had your heart broken over and over again, but you kept your chin up and handled it with grace and maturity each and every time.

Me: *deep royal curtsy*

Dear sir,

Might I respond to your proposed annulment.

I find it regretful that you do no longer wish to participate in

a relationship, although I respect your request and...

...always have the memories. Henceforth...

...dignitas et integritas. Hitherto...

(pushes up bifocals, stokes logs in fireplace, sips Brandy, licks finger, turns page)

In summation...

Warmest Regards,

Becky

Me: *looks up, mid-curtsy* Oh, you were being sarcastic. I didn't know you had my diaries. This is getting kind of uncomfortable now. I feel vulnerable. Are we almost done yet?

WV: You were a pretty well-behaved teenager, mainly due to your self-appointed position of Caretaker of Business and Upholder of All Things Right and Just.

Me: Yeah I was good, relatively speaking. I never smoked cigarettes, only had sex with boys if they gave me some kind of token of commitment like a lanyard or a frozen yogurt, and even then I'd make them stop halfway through for a dramatic thinking-about-things-and-poignant-gazing-out-the-window-while-listening-to-Alphaville's-Forever-Young moment of quiet introspection.

WV: You only got drunk a few times, and only very briefly experimented with pot.

Me: Oh, um. I don't want to talk about the pot. Seriously. Shhh. Please? Let's not...

WV: You'd get high and then spend hours creating these continuous single-line drawings...

Yeah. That just happened.

*drops mic, walks offstage*

Me: (Sigh.) That's not... exactly... the way I remember it looking. Are you sure this is mine? There were a lot of fake repros floating around the dorm, you know.

WV: And then of course, when you had finished drawing, you'd spend a few more hours finding all the hidden ducks.

Dude. When I'm creating, I'm not even thinking about ducks.

But the ducks are everywhere, man,

if you just open your eyes.

Me: Alright, I'm done, Whale's Vagina. I think I've had about enough. This is too painful. Take me back. Oh God please, take me back home. I don't want to see any more.

WV: You can't run from your past, Becky, if you want to keep it real on your blog.

Me: I don't care about keepin it real. Take me back. Take me back, now.

WV: As you wish. But very soon, you will be visited by another vision.

Me: Another one? Who? The Whale's Vagina of Blogging Present? WHO?

WV: I can't tell you. But you know them. You know them well. And they've been waiting, waiting a very long time for their chance to help you become a better blogger. Practicing, hoping, dreaming. It's their time, Becky.

Me: Heh. Well it's funny, but from the way you're talking, it sounds kind of like you're referring to...

Me: Oh. It's Keith and Chantal. Awesome.

***********************************************

NOTE: Hey friendishes! In continuing the theme of "keepin it real," Lazarus at The LG Report has interviewed me over HERE. Do click, if you're so inclined. I kept it clean. Pretty proud.

A meme is a wish your heart makes

Sister: Listen, it's okay. You have so many talents. You should focus on the things you can do, not the things you can't.

Me: I'm bad at everything. (kicks dirt)

Sister: No, not true, you're just feeling defeated right now. You're good at lots of things.

Me: Like cartwheels?

Sister: Right, cartwheels. But what I was thinking was something like, for example, your discerning attention to detail. You're an excellent judge of character, too, and a keen observer of the world around you. You're sensitive, punctual, and...

Me: Hey, remember that morning I made you all pancakes in the shape of two people having anal sex?

Sister: Right. I remember. You fed them to the kids. I had to teach them all what leapfrog was afterwards, to try to explain away what they'd just seen. But when I said you're good at things, I was thinking not so much of sodomy pancakes, but more along the lines of your intellectual assets, like...

Me: ...like my wordless impression of Scott Scanlon, the 90's Beverly Hills 90210 character who accidentally killed himself in Season 2 while playing with his father's gun? Because, not to brag or anything, but seriously. Spot on, right? (twirls imaginary handgun, insecure eyes, twitchy smile)

Sister: ...or your ability to remain calm in times of medical emergency. You can be a source of comfort during difficult moments.

Me: Yes, pillar of strength, plus yesterday I had a nostril-whistle with such incredible range that I performed almost five verses of Mariah Carey's "Vision of Love." I was all (finger on earpiece, eyes closed in concentration, up-down Diva hands) and my nose was all hewwwwwwwww! hewwwwwwww! and then I exhaled too hard and it was all hewwwwwWOOOSH!! God. I wish you'd been there.

Sister: Oh, me too. Definitely sad about that. My point is, don't feel badly about not being able to come up with a viral meme or a fun Tumblr idea. It's not for everyone, you know?

Me: I was making such progress though. I even learned how to pronounce meme! It's "meem" not "mey-mey" just so you know. And then I almost learned what a meme is. And then I found Tumblr on the Internet, which is not easy on account of it's missing the "e". Did you know that?

Sister: Yeah, the "e" is a huge hassle for young people. It's the most cumbersome of the vowels.

Me: And then I started doing some research; I read all of Courage Wolf...

then Pick-up Panda

And then I found Garfield Minus Garfield, which consists of Garfield comics with Garfield edited out, leaving Jon muttering to himself, alone and mentally deranged. It may be my favorite thing ever.

...and I figured, how hard could it be to create my own meme? Well. Very difficult, apparently.

Sister: I first realized you were kind of off-track when you told me about your idea for Impatient German Alpaca. What was his catchphrase again?

Me: You know, I honestly can't for the life of me seem to recall at this particular moment. Let's move on.

Sister: I remember now! It was...

Sister: ...and that was all he ever said!

Me: What else does an impatient German alpaca say besides schnell? I didn't have much to work with there, did I.

Sister: And Eminemone, the rapping water polyp?

Me: That was the most brilliant idea I've ever had, for about 30 seconds.

Sister: And Ostrichard Dreyfus? And, what was it, Holocaust Reductionist Barnacle? Haha!!

Me: Sensual Donkey, he was a good one.

Sister: I was partial to Unsolicited Parenting Advice Trout.

Me: I felt pretty good about Tough Love Personal Trainer Emu, myself.

Sister: Had you pursued it, you might have had something special with Sensitive Gorilla, too.

Sister: Although, I didn't really get your whole "Literal Animal Captions" idea. I don't know. Maybe it's just me.

Me: It's just you. Trust me. Those were comedy gold.

Sister: They're just saying hi. Is that it?

Me: Shh, wait. There's more.

Me: They're funny because it's TOTALLY WHAT THEY'RE SAYING!

Sister: What happened here? Looks like you got a little lazy with these last ones.

Me: Really? Why would you say that?



Sister: Just a feeling. I dunno.

Me: So, remember how I received all that positive feedback a couple weeks ago after I posted that photo of me holding a fake gun to my dog's head?

Sister: Um. No.

Me: Everyone thought it was so tasteful. People were emailing, begging for more implied animal violence. They just couldn't get enough!

Sister: Really? Cause I remember it differently.

Me: No they were like, "Bravo! This is just the kind of image that makes us all feel comfortable reading this blog today! Spare the gun, spoil the dog! Hooray!" I'm practically the next Cesar Milan, only I'm the Dog Shooterer. So I thought, you know what? I should just point my gun at stuff all day long, photograph it, and maybe start a Tumblr called "Pointing my gun at stuff, just 'cause." What do you think?

Sister: (incredulous eyebrows)

Vitamin C, huh? Vitamin C U in HELL is more like it.

You better wipe that smirk right off your face, coffee maker,

or I'll do it for you.

I'm gonna show you how we do things downtown, blades of grass.

I eat trees like you for breakfast.

Aw yeah. Shit just got real up in this bitch.

Sister: Alright. You done with the gun schtick? Time to put it away.

Me: Yes.

Sister: Good, becau--

Me: I meant yes, no I'm not done. My personal take on the Garfield Minus Garfield idea required that I use a gun. But I assure you, it wasn't gratuitous at all.

Sister: (wide eyes)

Me: What?!

Sister: (wide eyes)

Me: People get murdered in comic strips all the time. It's a very violent medium.

Sister: (wide eyes)

Me: Are you looking at me like that because I shot Cathy in the head? Or because I gleeked on your face a second ago? Which one? Hello?