A funny, quite conducive to anecdote-ing thing happened to my mother and me last Sunday. Actually, it happened to Mom first and not with me simultaneously. This should be funny later.
It began a typical Sunday, Mom sleeping in until the decadently gluttonous hour of 7:04 A.M. and me talking myself out of bed, arm twisted, around 9:45. Upon arrival to the overstuffed second hand armchair in our living room (Mom calls it a ‘den’ and I am like, not everyone grew up in the North, Mom. It’s a living room to anyone you would ask here. Sheez, you confuse my friends with that ‘den’ business, they never know where to sit!..Anyway, I digress).
So ANYWAY, when I am in the chair in the living room before 10, I feel like a very attentive daughter, going out of my way to be awake at the same time as Mom and visually accessible to her, something I feel gives me Consideration Points with her. So mostly I assume when I get up early, Mom is going to give me some latitude on, say, unloading the dishwasher or making me get dressed and go to the grocery store while I am still in my underthings. She knows I am a slow starter in the morning, but the effort I put forth by getting up earlier than I would have were she not home shows that, God help me, I do try.
That being said, I was understandably perturbed when she called for me from her bathroom. Hey Dev, you gotta come ‘ere. She said it in a way that said, ‘I am your mother, get up and come here,’ but also in a way that said, ‘You won’t want to miss this.’ But she didn’t say the latter with enough mustered gumption to indicate giddiness, so I didn’t feel the curious excitement that may have better prepared me for what I was about to see in a high cupboard in my Mom’s bathroom.
What we had found rhymed with ‘vertigo(s)’ and, coincidentally, dredged up the same nauseated, up-too-high feeling. Oh…wow! I said. OH NO, there’s a DOUBLE-SIDED ONE! Aw no, what does that mean?! Yes. Stowing away in my mom’s high bathroom cabinet, all this time, was one battery-operated neon orange dildo and one obsidian black double-sided dildo (almost two feel in length, I hypothesize). In the four years that my mother has lived here, she has never once checked that cabinet. Can you imagine?
Here’s my thinking on this: 1) Does one not, at some point, say to themselves, Hey, didn’t we (I say ‘we’ because, really) used to have an 18 inch double-sided black stallion dildo? I swear we bought that. I mean, it must be four years now since I’ve seen it…but I remember, now, thinking that this is something I wouldn’t normally buy but that that was the beauty, that I was treating myself because I had just come from that self-motivation seminar in Tahoe and was determined to undertake my interests no matter their level of unorthodoxy. It doubled as a confidence builder! Hm. (Oh well?)
So, really, how could you leave it?
Second: If I had the gumption and enough bleach to sterilize the entire emo generation, I would probably brandish those dildos as really gross, interesting-but-affective-nonetheless weapons. Just think about it: you are a petty crook who breaks into houses and takes nominal things. So, you case this house and you see that only a single woman lives there so you decided to do her place. You break in and somehow, miraculously the dog hasn’t heard you so you start going for the electronics and as you cross into the kitchen, something phwapps you on the head, right behind the ear. There’s no mistaking that dense rubbery heaviness, everyone knows it instinctually…did I mention it is slick and gooey? Yeah. How gross would that be?! I mean, really think about it. My neurons react in such a way that I would feel the object and it’s moistness and register the force and size of it and deduce, to my chagrin, that it was in fact a double-sided slippery dildo, and I would commence throwing up into my pantyhose mask.
That’s fucked up but affective. So, those are our options at the present moment. Mom says she doesn’t even want to throw it away in our garbage cans. I can’t say that I blame her, those garbage men aren’t trained to handle things like this. Plus, I don’t need dildos spilling onto the street from our garbage bags as the neighborhood looks on and thinks, ‘I thought they were mother and daughter’. An even worse successive thought is, ‘They are.’
That is my tale of satire for the moment, but life doesn’t hand you better gems than that. The world deserves to know. And if I can make even one parochial churchgoer blush, than that is all I could ever have hoped to attain.
Also, I’m pretty sure the dildos are still up there in the cupboard. We haven’t come up with a solid plan of action yet and I don’t think it takes mentioning that this situation is not something to be underestimated because…ew.
As ever,
Trippy Miss
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Ta-Tas and the Nomenclature Acceptability of 'Eskimo'
What is it about breast cancer that takes the spring out of everyone's step?
For serious. I feel like the inclination to gasp at the utterance of the aforementioned bad ju-ju comes from years of morbid conditioning. Cancer, and it's association with silent death, has become such an acidic and daunting word that those six little letters just bustle about bullying baby animals and throwing their hammy thunderthighs around everyone's cluttered workspace. And to be frank (because that's not my given name), I'll be DAMNed* if I going to let it ruin the naturally sunny disposition of my loved ones and their pets.
Last week my godmother (Gm), an opulently mezmerizing blossom of a human being, was diagnosed with breast cancer (See! Right there. Your bosom quivered just a little. You don't have to feel ashamed, mine did too, by design, when I was told by my mom over the phone). In the span of (carry the 4) like a week and a half, Gm has already been diagnosed and de-lumped (she was fortunate enough not to have to lose her breasts). Speaking of lumps and lump harbingers, what ever happened to mashed potatoes? You don't hear much about them anymore...hm. Anyway, I digress. When Mom told me that Gm's biopsy had come back positive, I was at a loss for words...but not in the way you might think. I stood there, in my apartment's living room with the half-finished Taj Mahal puzzle and the Optimus Prime pinata, and thought, "This is sucky. I am bummed. Shouldn't I be bummed? I should be bummed so I'm probably bummed. I'm majorly bummed. Ok, I'm definitely as least minorly bummed. Yeah. Wait...what? What am I saying? I feel fine, I'm about to pick up my skunky dro, listen to MMJ and eat like REALLY good leftover tortellini. So what the shit?...damnit, what am I going to say that sounds convincing that I am worried that she may die? That is something I'm supposed to convey for sure. But I'm not worried at all. Sure, it has the potential to be scary and more than a little uncomfortable and painful, but I have no doubt that she will be fine and resplendent as ever for a very long time." So I said, "Shit." I said it as somberly as possible because I am a terrible liar.
Now before you associate me with self-absorbed crasshole, let me state my feelings about it all: Gm held me the day I was born. She has been an irreplaceable part of my life for twenty-one years. She is my third parent and the thought of her having to endure even one moment of discomfort, physically obtrusive or otherwise, quite literally makes me ill. So, for that aspect of it, yes, that is why cancer can be deemed terrible sight unseen. But the notion that she won't be around to be MY children's Gm is like telling me that George W. Bush is actually Jesus H. Christ, it's laughable and ridiculous.
So, anyway, that little inner monologue (which, by the way, was all happening while I was on the phone with Moms) made me realize that maybe the connotation I glean from the word 'cancer' doesn't make me as emotionally void as I originally assumed it must. I never associated cancer with death because it does seem like a silent killer, if that makes one damn lick of sense. There is no gruesome outward manifestation that comes with cancer and I'm a very visual person. There are associable aspects that come with some forms of treatment (ie hair and weight loss, anemia, so forth and so on) that hint at the war being waged just inside the revolving door, but I don't jump to those from the word 'cancer' itself. And because it is treatable, albeit not always (and by not always I mean nowhere NEAR enough) successfully, I certainly don't jump to imminent death. So I guess that is why I get a little befuddled when people do automatically sprint right to that association. And that's really all I have been trying to wonder about for the last nth number of paragraphs.
On a lighter note, because I am a goofy asshole by nature, I offered Gm the only thing I had to offer that turned out to be exactly right for the occasion: any or all of my cumbersomely over-sized breasts. If you don't know me, you think I am being sarcastic. And as Beatrix Kiddo would say: any other time you'd be 100% right, but this time...you're 100% wrong. Huge knockers are a huge pain in the ass. And neck. And shoulders. And back. However, I would never change my body without a DAMN good reason and this would be exactly that. As I told Gm in her Get Well note, I have enough ta-tas to endow a small Inuit village and they are hers should she ever desire them. Notice I didn't use the term 'eskimo'. Did you notice? Where did that word come from anyway? There's no way that that is the accepted nomenclature...right?
Ok, so that was my little tete-a-tete with that bastard cancer and its underhanded societal attack. That fuck. He ain't gonna get my lady.
Thanks for your ear, you'll be receiving it back shortly,
Trippy Miss
For serious. I feel like the inclination to gasp at the utterance of the aforementioned bad ju-ju comes from years of morbid conditioning. Cancer, and it's association with silent death, has become such an acidic and daunting word that those six little letters just bustle about bullying baby animals and throwing their hammy thunderthighs around everyone's cluttered workspace. And to be frank (because that's not my given name), I'll be DAMNed* if I going to let it ruin the naturally sunny disposition of my loved ones and their pets.
Last week my godmother (Gm), an opulently mezmerizing blossom of a human being, was diagnosed with breast cancer (See! Right there. Your bosom quivered just a little. You don't have to feel ashamed, mine did too, by design, when I was told by my mom over the phone). In the span of (carry the 4) like a week and a half, Gm has already been diagnosed and de-lumped (she was fortunate enough not to have to lose her breasts). Speaking of lumps and lump harbingers, what ever happened to mashed potatoes? You don't hear much about them anymore...hm. Anyway, I digress. When Mom told me that Gm's biopsy had come back positive, I was at a loss for words...but not in the way you might think. I stood there, in my apartment's living room with the half-finished Taj Mahal puzzle and the Optimus Prime pinata, and thought, "This is sucky. I am bummed. Shouldn't I be bummed? I should be bummed so I'm probably bummed. I'm majorly bummed. Ok, I'm definitely as least minorly bummed. Yeah. Wait...what? What am I saying? I feel fine, I'm about to pick up my skunky dro, listen to MMJ and eat like REALLY good leftover tortellini. So what the shit?...damnit, what am I going to say that sounds convincing that I am worried that she may die? That is something I'm supposed to convey for sure. But I'm not worried at all. Sure, it has the potential to be scary and more than a little uncomfortable and painful, but I have no doubt that she will be fine and resplendent as ever for a very long time." So I said, "Shit." I said it as somberly as possible because I am a terrible liar.
Now before you associate me with self-absorbed crasshole, let me state my feelings about it all: Gm held me the day I was born. She has been an irreplaceable part of my life for twenty-one years. She is my third parent and the thought of her having to endure even one moment of discomfort, physically obtrusive or otherwise, quite literally makes me ill. So, for that aspect of it, yes, that is why cancer can be deemed terrible sight unseen. But the notion that she won't be around to be MY children's Gm is like telling me that George W. Bush is actually Jesus H. Christ, it's laughable and ridiculous.
So, anyway, that little inner monologue (which, by the way, was all happening while I was on the phone with Moms) made me realize that maybe the connotation I glean from the word 'cancer' doesn't make me as emotionally void as I originally assumed it must. I never associated cancer with death because it does seem like a silent killer, if that makes one damn lick of sense. There is no gruesome outward manifestation that comes with cancer and I'm a very visual person. There are associable aspects that come with some forms of treatment (ie hair and weight loss, anemia, so forth and so on) that hint at the war being waged just inside the revolving door, but I don't jump to those from the word 'cancer' itself. And because it is treatable, albeit not always (and by not always I mean nowhere NEAR enough) successfully, I certainly don't jump to imminent death. So I guess that is why I get a little befuddled when people do automatically sprint right to that association. And that's really all I have been trying to wonder about for the last nth number of paragraphs.
On a lighter note, because I am a goofy asshole by nature, I offered Gm the only thing I had to offer that turned out to be exactly right for the occasion: any or all of my cumbersomely over-sized breasts. If you don't know me, you think I am being sarcastic. And as Beatrix Kiddo would say: any other time you'd be 100% right, but this time...you're 100% wrong. Huge knockers are a huge pain in the ass. And neck. And shoulders. And back. However, I would never change my body without a DAMN good reason and this would be exactly that. As I told Gm in her Get Well note, I have enough ta-tas to endow a small Inuit village and they are hers should she ever desire them. Notice I didn't use the term 'eskimo'. Did you notice? Where did that word come from anyway? There's no way that that is the accepted nomenclature...right?
Ok, so that was my little tete-a-tete with that bastard cancer and its underhanded societal attack. That fuck. He ain't gonna get my lady.
Thanks for your ear, you'll be receiving it back shortly,
Trippy Miss
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