This is probably how constipation starts in most people.

Today, I was being a dutiful daughter. My mom is going to participate with the church choir again after a year's hiatus, so she has started attending practices for the Easter Vigil mass. It so happens that these practices are on Monday nights, during the same time that Ben and I attend a class nearby. So, it only made sense for us to drop her off at practice, then pick her up after class.

Upon arriving at our drop point, my mother assured us that she would call me if her friend couldn't give her a ride home. I saw this as a moot point, since we would be out of class right around the time her practice would wrap, and I planned on driving her home, anyway. She insisted, however, that if her friend could drive her home, she would call me.

"I'm going to have my phone on 'silent,'" I warned her. "I don't want my phone to ring in the middle of class. I won't know if you've called until I leave the room."

"Well," she started as she got out of the car, "Don't you have a vibrator?"

Dead silence from Ben and me for a good twenty seconds. She continued to stare at me, with little to no affect on her face, waiting for my answer.

I looked in the rearview mirror, back at Ben, who looked as if he was going to either barf, start crying hysterically or pinch off the biggest loaf in the history of loaves.

---Sorry, no image available.---

"What?" was all I could eke out after the never-ending silence.

Now, Perla was getting a tad impatient. "You know," she said as she stood there, "Where instead of ringing, your phone vibrates to let you know you have a call?" This was said, mind you, with all the annoyance of one who is quite aware of such technology. It's quite funny, coming from the woman who is famous for hanging up the cordless phone, then pointing the same at the television in order to change the channel.


Seriously. You don't want to vex her. She will straight up bitch slap you.

"Oh, yeah," I replied, finally understanding what she really meant. "Sure. I'll have it on 'meeting.'" With that, she shut the car door and headed into her practice.

Within moments, I pulled away from the church to find parking for our class. Ben could hold his hysterics in no longer. I teared up a little from laughter, especially after we thought up some clever things I could (but never would) have said:

• "Don't I? Who doesn't?!"
• "Well, Ma, shit, does it really look like I need one at this point?" here, I'd be gesturing back to Ben, who would wave happily.
• "It's in the shop."
• "No, I put it in with our other donations to Goodwill."
• "No, not since you bitched about how high the utility bill was last month!"
• "Didn't you find it next to the gas mask and bottle of lube when you went through my shit last week?"
• "Not anymore. Ben's borrowing it. Right now. Give you three guesses as to where it is." Again, I would need his assistance in this scenario. Of course, it would end with "And honestly, at this point, I don't think I really want it back."

Just file this under the new label: Stories to tell the children grandkids absolutely nobody when we're older.

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Another lesson.

It's the middle of the week, and things couldn't be going slower. I've got less than three hours left at the office, and it seems like it took forever to get to this very moment...

As I typed the above statement, everything started happening at once. It is now 3:00, and I have an hour left here. In the past two hours, I have helped a patient apply for assistance through two different foundations, started rudimentary plans for starting a food pantry for the patients in our branch office, tried to get prescription authorizations: the usual.

But perhaps the most important thing I did today was listen to a patient's spouse fret over her husband's rapid deterioration. He has cancer, and he now weighs less than his own father did when he succumbed to it. She says he can barely stand now, let alone walk. Her tears are stubborn, like her, but they are there, hovering, waiting.

I look at him and see his mouth scrunched up, the lips curling inwards towards his mouth, as if he is in a perpetual scowl, or waiting for his insides to swallow him up out of existence. He sees my gaze and manages to eke out a small smile. I know it's a smile, because the twinkle in his eyes, although duller, is still there.

Their savings are dwindling; she spends hundreds a month on food, because his appetite fluctuates so greatly that whenever he has a craving for any food at all, she rushes to take advantage of those rare moments. She tells me how she could win an Oscar with the performance she puts up for him. She tries not to let the worry and fear show through on her face, especially when what he puts in his body won't stay there for very long, and he slowly fades.

Moment by moment, he disappears, and disappears, and disappears. She says it's not a matter of how anymore, but when, and she doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed when the next day comes, then the next, then the next.

This sturdy woman, shorter than I, forever clad in muumuus of varying purple shades, always bringing the staff Thank You cards, little deli trays, boxes of candy in gratitude, summarizes her life with her husband: a mix of anticipation and dread, hope and despair, everything and nothing. Their whole life together is no longer defined by who they were when they married, who they grew into when they raised children, or who they became in their careers. Their life is now defined by phone calls to case managers, scheduling scans and appointments, budgeting to afford prescriptions, gas, life. It's about calling the immediate family together to reminisce, to say goodbye without using the actual words. Their life is now about preparing for a future together, different than what they'd planned for before... dreading the time they know will come.

Then, a future apart... A future without each other.

A future alone.

I look at her. I can't see her without seeing him, and can't think of him without thinking of her. That day will come when I won't see him anymore. I may see her once or twice after that. Soon I won't see her, either.

After talking with her, and watching her struggle to keep a stoic face, and him struggle to, for her sake, pretend he doesn't see her struggle, it seems ridiculous for me to complain about time creeping by. It's trivial to complain about far away parking spaces, encounters with people who do stupid things, running out of diet root beer in the break room fridge. It serves no purpose, really, to get bent out of shape over something said by a loved one in a tone you don't quite grasp, or to worry, worry, worry about tomorrow, next week, next year. All that energy wasted, when it could be used to appreciate right now.

None of it makes sense, and it all makes complete sense.

I've spent the last hour typing this, and now it's time for me to clock out. I know I should probably end this post by tying things together, completing a theme, making it neat. But I can't worry about making it pretty, or comprehensible, or even the least bit good.

I'm just going to leave it as it is, go see Ben, get wrapped inside his arms, tell him I love him, and not think about anything but that. Tomorrow can wait.

Isn't that the point, after all?

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Tagged. Like a little Bitch. Again.

And now, as is my duty, I present to you my Report on 7 Songs I am Into Right Now:

"Trogdor," by Strongbad. Since Ben has been catching up on all seasons of Buffy, the reference to Trogdor in Season 7 made me all nostalgic. Besides, there's nothing wrong with "burninating the countryside." Or the peasants, for that matter.

"Curiosity," by the Jets. Yes, you'd think that maybe "Crush On You" or "You Got It All" would be the more popular choice in my noggin. However, recently, I've become quite nostalgic about the first nine years of my life, and how much I did enjoy that pink "Jet Set" jogging suit I had when we lived in Jersey, and my brother had the 12" single of this song. Does this bring down the man-quotient of said brother, now decidedly not a fan of the Jets? All systems go on that one.

"Jealousy," by Liz Phair. Oh, let us hearken back to high school, shall we? No, the real reason I queued this song up again recently was there was a whole internal debate on whether what I was feeling was jealousy or anger. After identifying the source of this wayward emotion, and listening to this song a couple of times, I decided it was anger. Pure, unadulterated anger. Thank goodness for that, huh?

"Rump Shaker," by Wreckx-N-Effect. Maybe it's the hypnotic sax in the background. Maybe it's the unabashed use of thongs. More likely it's Spring Break time in these parts, and for some reason, I always think of this song when Spring Break rolls around. Damn you, MTV marketing! For now, all I want to do is zoom-a-zoom-zoom-zoom and a boom-boom! Fuckers!

"Going Out Of My Head," by Fatboy Slim. I've been talking to Stumpy a bit recently, and this song always reminds me of her. Several years ago, on Valentine's Day, I took the boys with me to go see her and my old roommate D's dance troupe perform. Of course, the piece Stump was in involved several female dancers dressed up in Prohibition-era looking outfits, who, upon hearing this song, lose their minds, strip off their clothes, and start dancing around poles. By their own admission, this added up to the boys' best Valentine's Day ever.

"Cool Rider," by Michelle Pfeiffer off the Grease 2 Soundtrack. I can't believe I'm actually telling you this. Oh wait, yes I can. I got stuck in another Grease 2 craving cycle. This time around, it was this, "Girl for All Seasons," and "Charades" (wtf?). It's been an interesting couple of weeks. All I can say is that at least it wasn't a Rex Manning moment. I'm saving that for next month.

"Do Somethin'," by Britney Spears. You didn't think you could escape a list from me without a Britney reference, did you? Oh, how I miss old, non-bald, non-crazy Britney. But that's neither here nor there. Thinking about it just wastes too much of my energy. The reason this song has been on repeat lately is because it's the assigned ringtone for my little sister. And the way it came to pass is actually quite funny to me. Want to hear about it? Too bad, because here it goes:

About two years ago, right before Christmas, Lil' E was in town, and we went out to dinner with Danhole. On the way back from dinner, I have this song playing. Lil' E starts bopping around to it, and says she likes it, which is a rarity, because our musical tastes don't often intersect. This is even more surprising, because she does not have the patience for anything Britney or otherwise pop-related that I have. Pleased with this, I play it for her again, and she's singing along, dancing around in her seat. She finally asks "Who is this?" and without hesitation, I say, "Britney!" quite amused. E, on the other hand, falls very silent for the rest of the ride. Insert a Dave Chappelle "Gotcha, bitch!" here.

And there you have it. I can't think of anyone else to tag, since they've already been, other than Danhole. And the chances of him actually doing it are slim, since the last time he blogged was back in the way back. Which, of course, was a long friggin' time ago. Dammit!

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I always ruin things.

Okay, thought of something to write about.

The other day, Ben and I were at the Dirt Mall. Apparently, at the Dirt Mall way south of us that we never go to, they now have a little stage for either a live band, or... wait for it... karaoke.

I know, it's blowing your mind, the possibilities. I just heard Danhole's head exploding somewhere north of here.

Anyway, I think they were doing karaoke when we were there that afternoon. Either that, or their cover band sucks total ass. Regardless, there was a lady on stage, doing her rendition of "You Were Meant For Me," by Jewel.

I didn't particularly care for her take on the song, but it wasn't terrible; I'll give the woman credit, because she could carry a tune much better than I ever could. But, as I am wont to do, listening to a song, no matter the singer, took me back down Memory Lane. This time I went down that road to a simpler time, when Jewel was still living in her van, I wasn't up to my eyeballs in student loan debt, and no song could escape a rewrite by one or more of the Suspects.

Take, for example, "Santa Monica," by Everclear, which fell victim to myself and Amanda, aka the Sack, when we introduced the themes of a person's visage and the act of sitting into our new lyrics. I'm sure you can guess which words in the line "I am still dreaming of your face" were replaced in our version.

We did that shit all the time, mostly changing songs to be about sniffing glue, sexual innuendo, mad cow disease, and Sacky's half-Jew pride.

So, it should come to as no surprise to anyone that "You Were Meant For Me" did not escape this same fate. I shan't post the butchering we did to those two particular lyrics. But, I can at least tell you that one of the lyrics was modified along the lines of the Everclear one, and the part where she sings "I'm half alive, but I feel mostly dead" was, well, similar to the Everclear one as well. I guess some themes are more prevalent than others.


Heh-heh. Blog five!

Back to where I was originally going with this: we're walking through the Dirt Mall, and Ben puts his arms around me and stops to listen to the lady singing. As she's finishing the song, Ben leans in close and tells me that it's about us.

As romantic as the whole scenario was, what with us standing together in a sea of humanity, listening to a love song about people being meant for each other, all I could do was stand there, silently think about Jewel singing this song about oral sex instead, and burst out laughing. This effectively sucked any and all romance out of the Dirt Mall.

Needless to say, this required a maximum of explanation to effect a minimum of boyfriend ego bruising.

I told you I was always ruining shit!

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Thirty and flirty and... oh, who am I kidding?

I swear, my main mission for the day was two-fold: get through work without killing anyone, and ending my evening watching 13 Going On 30, because, well, dammit, the day's here, and I owe it to myself. I also miss seeing La Garfleck on my tele on a regular basis, but that's neither here nor there.


Oh, come on. You know you miss them.

Alas, things didn't pan out exactly the way I had hoped. I did manage to complete my workday sans casualties, but I didn't have the time to watch La Garfleck "spectacularrrr" (imagine Uncle Jimbo from South Park during the episode when he went to Mexico with Ned to get illegal fireworks, and you've got it). Oh, well.

I did, however, manage to have a great dinner whilst sitting in a booth behind who had to be the strangest couple I have ever witnessed eating together (ever), and across from a booth occupied by what I could only conclude was a rehearsal for one of those "real-life" dining scenes on Laguna Beach.

It did get weird, however, when Mr. Pretentious (half of the Strangest Eating Team Ever power-couple) started to talk louder, thus drawing the attention of the LBers. This somehow encouraged him and he started what I guess was his style of flirting, which consisted of him getting even louder and having his two-person conversation heard by the whole restaurant, along with openly mocking the LB Rehearsal Girls. The two LBers (and the rest of the joint) grew increasingly uncomfortable, while I was just glad Ben and I were sitting behind the guy, so he couldn't really turn around and engage us in his general dickery.

Did I neglect to mention that when the Eating Team got up in the middle of their meal to burn one, it was only then that I noticed that Mr. Pretentious looked to be as tall as Danny Devito, and his female counterpart was a fucking Amazon? Sorry I forgot. But enough of my Birthday Dinner Theater.

So, this is thirty. Not much different from twenty-nine, except I referred to myself as thirty today, and the reality of those words coming out of my mouth somehow startled me. I'm not sure why.

As long as I keep getting carded for R-rated movies, however, I think I'm good.

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Delaying the inevitable.

I know. I know. I've been MIA ever since the National Championship game. Suffice it to say, I watched the game, lost my voice by halftime, and took the next day off. I didn't even really get my voice back until I went back into work on Wednesday.



Because after all, victory... is exhausting.

Perhaps a more complete photo retrospective will be forthcoming. We'll see.

For now, I'm going to go dabble with this layout. Back in a bit.

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Like a Post-It Note, but far less convenient.

Last weekend, Ben and I went to the hospital to visit a friend of mine. He hadn't met this friend yet, and looking back on it, I was probably a bit of a nozzle for making him meet her in the hospital of all places (I mean, come on, you meet up at the movies, or for dinner, but while someone is strapped to an IV and has a commode chair somewhere within a five foot radius? Man, I am an asshole). However, I did promise to go visit her and bring her some good iced tea, and she really wanted to meet Ben, so there we were.

When we arrived at her room, she was just getting settled back into her bed, so Ben and I waited outside of the room, which was right near the nurses' station. We carried on a light conversation as a person we can only naturally assume was a patient's loved one approached the station to talk to the male nurse standing there. We weren't really paying attention to their conversation, what with being involved in our own "Where do you want to eat?" "I don't know. Where do you want to eat?" Yalta Conference.

That is, until we heard the Patient's Loved One (heretofore called the PLO, but not for the more obvious historical connotation) express concern over the patient's constipation.

To which, of course, skilled and couth male nurse replied, "Oh yeah. I'm going to give him some milk of magnesia, two enemas, and some prune juice."

Ben and I froze, physically and verbally. His face was stuck in the middle of an explosive laughter expression, while mine probably took on the Look of Chastisement (TM) (which usually comes with the Tone of Condescension(TM) and Finger Wag of Humility(TM) Accesory Packs, by the by).

But, wait! It gets better.

In the round mirror posted at all major corners of hospital floors to avoid likely collisions, I can see the befuddled look on the PLO's face. After a few moments, he says to the nurse, "Really? I didn't think it would do much good, what with all the other stuff you're putting up there."

We match PLO's look with our own, except we look anywhere but in his direction. A beat goes by.

"No, no," the nurse corrects, "He drinks the prune juice." Another beat, as super nurse signs a chart and declares, "I'm gonna clean him out!"

At this point, either I, or Ben, or both of us must pass out from holding in the hysterics. Luckily, my friend was comfortably placed back in her bed, so we rushed into her room to excitedly whisper to her tales of constipation and education.

Afterwards, we kept reminding each other that one of us needed to write this story down, because it was so fucking hysterical (well, at least to us. I realize a lot gets lost in translation). More than once this week, a conversation was ended simply with "No, no... he drinks the prune juice."

This happened almost a week ago, so in fear of losing it altogether, I decided to post it here. Also, how could I not share this jaunty hospital tale with you fine-ass people?

Yeah, that's what I thought.

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