Sunday, August 22, 2010

Footnotes

(I've actually had to use footnotes for this post. OK, I didn't have to, but I remembered a dirty joke in the middle of writing this and just worked it in as a footnote. So there's just one footnote. I love dirty jokes. Clearly.)


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"What a fuckin' lump."

I couldn't stop thinking it.

That poor woman.

She was sitting on my couch heartily barfing her emotions out in the middle of a completely hysterical breakdown about the fact that her husband was fucking one of her coworkers.

Her face in general = bright red and heavily perspiring

Her eyebrows = so heavily knit together that I actually had a rather complete discussion with myself about whether a uni-brow is a hair pattern caused by genetics, or is simply a sign that someone has once had a breakdown during which they shoved their eyebrows together so tightly that they just...stuck

Her hands = wringing in her lap or thrown in one fashion or another at her face to cover it when she was belching out a new round of sobs or needed to wipe perspiration from her lip or deal with all of the other various and sundry other moments and fluids we have to take care of when we're having a breakdown

Her ass = shifting forward on the couch cushion if she was in angry mode, off to the side of the cushion as she suddenly swung into despair(1) and stared eerily off into a corner of the ceiling of my living room, tucked into the back of the cushion if she sat up straight and got all righteous about how great she was and how terrible her husband was and blah, blah blah. Oh, and her ass also kind of got all sideways and almost up in the air a few times when she was so overcome with emotion that she had thrown herself onto a pillow or another couch cushion.

I was something like 23-years-old and barely over a year out of heavy drug use that had started when I was in 6th grade. In other words, my head was approximately 1/32 of an inch out of my ass.

She was something like 45-years-old, had been married for over 20 years, had two teen aged boys she was rightfully very concerned about because of all of the marital upheaval, and had things like a career, savings account, more than five days worth of clothing and more than two pairs of shoes.

The problem was that I was renting (along with three friends) the house that was two doors down from hers. It belonged to her best friend who had just moved to Colorado. She had been used to coming to that very house - the house I was renting with my friends - every single day after work and having a breakdown about her husband fucking her coworker before she went home to be as present as she could be for her boys.

That poor woman. She just wanted her friend. I sat there and felt more and more ashamed of myself for not knowing what to say or do. For not knowing how to stop resorting to my angry stance of blaming her for me not knowing what to say or do. For thinking of her as a "fuckin' lump".

She eventually pulled herself together and thanked me for my time. She told me that, more than anything, she simply missed her friend. She told me she could tell I was uncomfortable and would not be back.

God bless her hysterical, devastated ass for that.

After she left I stopped feeling ashamed of myself and, for once, just accepted there were some things a person whose head is only 1/34 inches out of their ass is simply not prepared to do.

Like be a good friend.
Or deal with hysterical people.

Today you could come to my house and tell me you killed someone, have a breakdown about your husband fucking your coworker or have a breakdown about you fucking one of your coworkers, and I wouldn't bat an eye.

I would probably even tell you a dirty joke (or two) and share a little bit about how my mind works.

Obviously.

I mean, just look at that footnote shit down there. Jesus.


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(1) One of my favorite jokes is about the word despair.
A woman has a party and tells everyone to come dressed as the color of an emotion. Someone shows up in red for anger, another person shows up in green for envy, and so on. Then some guy shows up naked save for the pear on his dick. The conversation then goes like this:
Party Hostess - What emotion are you?
Guest - Despair.
Hostess - Despair? I don't get it.
Guest - Why don't you suck dis pear offa my dick.

(2) No, you didn't miss the little (2) somewhere up there in the post. This isn't really a footnote. But I just remembered another dirty joke that I love and am just pretending that this is a footnote.
Q: How do you make a woman scream twice?
A: Fuck her in the ass and wipe your dick on her curtains.

(3) I'm not going to end up with some sort of burning cross of feminism in my front yard over telling jokes about sucking pears off of the ends of dicks and women getting fucked in the ass, am I? Sometimes I've gotten into "trouble" with women for telling these jokes. I'm not sure if I care. OK, I don't care. Not one fiber of my entire being cares. But, then again, I do. It's confusing being female and as dirty minded, obnoxious and bawdy as I am.

(4) Have I ever told you I'm really good at doing things like writing little thank you notes? I also set a lovely dinner table, bake beautifully (especially things of the pumpkin variety), and can attend high-end formal events and fit right in in every single way. I even have extra special underwear I wear for those types of functions.

(5) That extra special underwear thing made me think of how people will talk about being "dressed up to the nines" when they are seriously formally dressed. But, I'm wondering, since I do that extra special underwear thing, shouldn't I say I am "dressed down to the nines"?

(6) I always have to say shit like I just did in (4) to make up for the fact that I just told those dirty jokes in (1) and (2) and the fact that I said I didn't care in (3). It's my way of trying to prove I'm not really that bad when it comes to being a woman.

(7) I hope I'm never mature enough to stop telling the jokes in (1) and (2), but continue to be mature enough to never tell either one of them at one of the high-end events I mentioned in (4). Unless I've been at one of those events for longer than 3 hours. At that point I usually find myself way out at the edge of the parking lot behind somebody's car, smoking a cigarette, and being at very high risk of telling one of the jokes in (1) or (2) to the first person who walks up.

(8) You really can tell me if you've killed someone. I've already had it happen once, and I handled it very well.

10 comments:

  1. I am a bawdy, dirty joke telling, unabashedly flirty feminist, I can relate.

    In fact I think some people are turned off by feminism because they think of a buttoned-up, politically correct no fun, androgynous manwomyn.

    As far as the friend stuff, head up your ass stuff, I think knowing what you are capable of and saying no are two of the most important lessons a woman can learn.

    Have I told you you're awesome?

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  2. "It's my way of trying to prove I'm not really that bad when it comes to being a woman."

    That's crap. Don't say things like that. 90% of the women I know would make those jokes and/or laugh at them, so wouldn't it be more appropriate to say "I'm awesome when it comes to being a woman"?

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  3. So I'm giving you a burning cross of feminism for that, bitch.

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  4. Ruby: I am awesome.

    Rass: Dis pear? Suck it!

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  5. In this corner: MG--slaying drugs, alcohol and countless pumpkin muffins with her trusty crowbar.
    In this corner: Rassles--brash Chicago-ite, word wrangler, with an awesomeosity level off the scale.

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  6. Barfing emotions. That is truly eloquent in a disgusting sort of way. Also, love the reference to your head being 1/32 of an inch out of your ass. In general Mongo, I just love you, who you were then and who you are now. And BTW, I am not phased by a confession of murder, lived it too. Takes much more than that to rock me to my core.

    Love it when you write. Please do it more.

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  7. Elder: Oh, but that conversation between Rass and I was completely complimentary and supportive. I promise.

    Zen Mama: The confession rocked me to my core, but I still handled it well. Thanks for the love.

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  8. I have torches now too, and fucking crossbows. SHIT IS GOING DOWN.

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  9. Light all the torches and fire all the crossbows you want right after you suck dis pear, whore. Bwa ha ha ha blah hysteria.

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  10. Mongo, I desperately hope I end up smoking a cigarette behind a car during a party with you.

    I think I will start using the nicotine patch to sort of prepare me, since I don't smoke but I am sure starting will be totally worth it because I love you fiercely.

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