Momnesia

Whatever possessed us to get a dog in the midst of an already chaotic time? Could it have been... Satan?

The good news: little Scrabble is almost completely housebroken after just two very tiring days. The bad news: I said “almost.” I didn’t think anything this small could pee more than a pregnant woman, but I’ll admit when I’m wrong.

I’m going to be a terrible mother, I can see from the way I treat the dog. Every time I he does something - anything - out of the ordinary, I think, “Oh, god! He’s going to die!” Or, when the more terrifying things happen: “Oh, god! He’s dead!” Just the first night we had Scrabble home, I thought he was dead. He’s kind of needy, so he sleeps in the bed with us. Okay, I’M kind of needy, so he sleeps in the bed with us. Anyway, he was snuggled up against me in the bed, fast asleep, when I woke up. I felt his little furry body next to me, and patted him. No response.

I patted him again and whispered, “Hey, buddy, are you asleep?” Which is utterly ridiculous of me.
I poked him. Nothing.
I patted Scrabble again. Nothing.
I scratched his belly. Nothing.

And then, I knew: In the middle of the night, I had rolled over on him and crushed the life out of him. I killed the best puppy in the world. I was a monster, and I was going to hell. With a strangled cry, I picked up his cold, limp puppy body. He raised his head and licked my face.

Oh. I’m an idiot.

I spent 10 minutes in the bathroom, sobbing, so that I wouldn’t wake Scott.

Is this normal for pregnancy? And when do I recover? I don’t think my mother ever has. Am I going to spend the rest of my life in perpetual recovery from the hourly heart attacks I give myself? No wonder I’m so tired! I’m on 10 all day long!

Scott: I just can’t wait to meet our child!
Me (laughing): I can.
Scott: Why?!
Me: ‘Cause I’m not ready to have it yet. I’m happy to wait the six more months.
Scott: But, still. I can’t wait to meet him. Or her.

He’ll see. We joke that we’re having a demon child, but I’m telling you: with Scott’s demon seed and my deviled eggs, that’s just a recipe for hellmonkeys.

I watched the movie “Big Fish” last night - or, rather, I tried to watch it. But the movie takes place during the fight by the father, played by Albert Finney, to live his life even though he has incurable cancer. There was a scene where he was comforting his wife. I thought, “Oh, how terrible it must be to have to watch the man you’ve loved for 30 years, the father or your children, die a slow and painful death.” And then I thought: “Soon, I’ll have a husband. Oh, god. One day he’ll die!” And the floodgates opened. I don’t want Scott to die. I realize that it won’t be anytime soon. Or, at least, one can only hope. I guess you never know for sure.

After about an hour, I got myself under control. I restarted the movie. Within five minutes, Albert Finney’s character had a stroke. I thought: “My father is about the same age as Albert Finney’s character. Oh, god. One day my father will die!” And then the floodgates reopened, and they wouldn’t stop. For three hours.

When Scott got home, he was... confused. And comforted me very poorly. I finally cried myself to sleep. Scott thinks I’ve gone insane. And, to be honest, I rarely cry like that. Not when I broke my ankle. Not when my grandfather died. Only once or twice in my life have I cried like that, and certainly never over something like a movie.

Scott called me when I was at work to inform me that I’d better enjoy the remaining seven months "because after the baby is born I’m getting my nuts chopped.”

We close at 7, but I’ve agreed to stay until 8:30 for a bride's father and their photographer. They’re late. I suspect they won’t show – typical – and I begin closing procedures. As I’m putting up a golf cart, I see him: Eeyore. He’s sitting in his minivan.

This man has been here 312 times preparing for his daughter’s wedding. I’ve nicknamed him Eeyore after the perpetually depressed donkey in Winnie the Pooh. The nickname captures his perpetual complaining, but it doesn’t begin to describe his severe case of obsessive-compulsive disorder that is becoming increasingly obvious. He’s measured the seating area twice, the pergola towers once, the – let’s just say that any draftsman could take his measurements and produce a NASA-worthy, topographically correct map of the entire 8-and-1/2-acre gardens to scale with only a slight margin of error.

I’m not in the mood to hear about the special lights heconstructed (using bubble gum and chickenwire, powered entirely by potatoes) to hang from the pergola. I’ve already heard that his daughter’s wedding dress was stolen by the lady who was supposed to complete the alterations, along with 10 other brides’ dresses, and about the ensuing court battle. I do not care that the wedding is just a giant fiasco spinning rapidly out of control and out of money. Don't get me wrong: I cared, at first. Five months later, I want them to elope. Eeyore comes inside. I smile and say, "Hello!" He does not smile back.

I do paperwork while he’s talking, and pray the photographer will arrive soon. I want to distract him – throw my shoe across the room and watch him chase it, like Scrabble, maybe. I’m considering just jamming the shoe down his throat when the photographer arrives. Or, rather, makes her entrance.

She’s on her cell phone, and walks breezily in, even though she is now 35 minutes late. She is dressed head-to-toe in the kind of batik-print, ethnic-inspired, flowing dress/robe/gown kind of thing they sell at department stores, which is to say that the inspiration is far from ethnic. Her hair is swept to the side in a deep part that forces her to cock her head to keep it out of her eyes. She doesn’t acknowledge either of us before she ends her conversation: “No, you called me. No, you called me. No! You called me!" Then she snaps shut her cell phone and slips it into her bag with a dramatic sigh.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, but I got a phone call at 5:30 from someone asking me if I could teach a class from 6 to 7. I said, ‘I can teach from 6 to 6:45, dahling, but I couldn’t possibly teach until 7.’ Then there was so much creativity flowing that I couldn’t cut it short."

She’s like a cartoon – like mad scientists smashed together Cruella DeVil, Marlene Dietrich, and Natasha Karloff. It's like listening to a community theatre production of “A Streetcar Named Desire” in Wichita. No one on the planet is born with a voice like that. It has to be cultivated.

Eeyore introduces us, and I hold out my hand to shake hers. Slowly, she extends hers towards mine, palm down, in such a way that I am unsure whether she intends to shake in return, or if she expects me to kiss hers. I opt for a brief, perfunctory shake and ask if they have any questions. When they say no, I explain that I’ll need to lock up and run to the post office for a few minutes, but that I’ll be right back. I have to get this mail out today, and it’s 7:27. I’m only a block away, so I can make it before they pick up.

“Ooh?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “You will not be escorting us?”

Escorting you? Are you kidding me? Your virtue is safe, your majesty.

“My goodness!” I exclaim to Eeyore. "I’d have thought you’d know every blade of grass by name, by now! I’ve never seen such a dedicated father.”

He beams. Yes! I’m out! It’s now 7:32. I rush out the door and get there just as the mail carrier is pulling away. Damn! I mail all 50 pieces and return to the gardens. It’s 7:45 and they’re still placing items in the golf cart. They only have two bags! I watch, discreetly, as they move the bags from one place to another on the cart...

After another minute, I shake my head and run inside to work on a spreadsheet. I finish at 8:20, and shut everything off. I clean the counter, straighten up the kitchen, check the bathroom, and file my daily paperwork. I hear the golf cart, and peek out the open door. They’re returning, right on time. Then, they turn around. I sigh as they circle the quad and reenter the gardens. Shit.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting on the steps, reading a book. I peek towards the gardens, and see them creeping towards the gate… and right past it. Finally, at 9:10, they return. I meet them, keys in hand.

“What did you think? Do we have any questions?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” her majesty places the back of her hand against her forehead. “I didn’t even think of you still being here.”

Obviously.

Eeyore pulls out a schematic map of the gardens. “This light, this light, this light, this light, this light, this light, and this light are all off. Do you know why?”

I glance at the map. I really don't know - probably because the bulbs are burned out, you fuckhead? I raise my hands.

“Those kinds of mechanical and any logistical problems are Beda’s domain. I wish I knew the answer.”

“Yeah, but…” he goes on to ask questions I can’t answer. I spend the next 10 minutes smiling, nodding, and giving the same answer: “You’ll have to discuss that with Beda. I simply don't know.”

Fiinally, he rolls up his map. The photographer hasn’t moved from her perch on the golf cart. She’s checking her cell phone messages, scrolling through her contacts, and is generally unconcerned with anything but herself. He begins to place things into his bag, meticulously arranging and rearranging them. They’re maps. Fold them, and let’s go, you mental patient.

At 10 p.m., I’m on the road home. Scott is pissed. "Why didn't you tell the to leave?"
I look at him. Is he serious?
"It's just not done, honey. This guy paid $2,000 to rent the place."
"Why do you always have to be the one to stay?"
"'Cause I'm the one on duty."

It's just as simple as that.

zzzz.... zzzzz.... zzzz....
I am blissfully asleep after yet another grueling 16-hour work day. I’ve had some insomnia since I got pregnant, and while I’m trying not to complain, I am pretty tired. But not today. I’ve slipped into the sleep of wonderland. I am floating, weightless.

zzzz...
zzzz....
zzzzz....
zzzzz....
...

A light explodes over my head and the bedroom door explodes inward!
“My god! I overslept!” shouts Scott from the doorway. I half sit up.
“What?”
I squint at him through sleep-crusted eyes. Then I groan and flop back down on the pillow. He’s sleepwalking again. I’d gone to bed and left him to read on the couch. He must have fallen asleep.
“Honey,” I ask rhetorically. “What time is it?”
“The clock says 8:15!” He nearly shouts.
Startled, I look over at the clock. I sigh. I flip the switch from the “alarm” setting to the “time” setting. It now reads 3:30. In the morning.
“It’s 3:30 a.m. You aren’t late for work.”
I cover my head with the blanket. The light is burning a hole in my skull.
There is a moment of silence, then I hear him rush through the bathroom, to the living room, and open the front door. Why?! Is there a Magic Time Man in the front yard? Why do we have 17 clocks in a 300-square-foot apartment if he doesn’t believe any of them? He sprints back into the bedroom, frantic and confused.
“It’s dark outside! I can’t tell what time it is!”
“How about 3:30 a.m.?” I mumble from under the blanket.
“I don’t know!”
I sit back up, blinking against the light of the giant fireball suspended over my head.
“You need to calm down and sober up.”
He stops at this, composes himself, and glares at me.
“I am perfectly sober,” he carefully enunciates.
Sure. I’m pregnant, not stupid.
“Baby, check the clock in the bathroom. That one is always right.”
He looks.
“It says 3:30.”
“Well, there you go. Come to bed. You have about 13 hours before you’re late to work. Again.”
He pauses, still uncertain.
“Honey, you’re okay. Turn off the light, and come to bed.”
“Okay,” he resigns. “But I’m going to smoke a cigarette first.”
Great.

There should be some reprieve between finding out that you’re pregnant, and experiencing the effects of pregnancy (of course, I am eight weeks along). But I guess my body going insane was the first indicator, anyway.

• My boobs are huge. I’m renaming myself Mt. Boobamunjaro. I can’t imagine what they’ll be like at 9 months. They’re going to have their own weather systems before the pregnancy is over.
• Dear God, the cramps. I might as well be having the baby now. I’m told that it’s my uterus expanding. Great. Like any part of my body needs to get bigger. Apparently, labor is an estimated 4 billion times worse. That’s okay. In my “emergency labor oh-my-god-we’re-having-the-baby-NOW bag,” I’m packing a rubber mallet. I hope Scott has the balls to knock me unconscious.
• My stomach is trying to escape. I think the plan is that I will get so frustrated by the indigestion that I will rip it out of my body. It’s a plan that just might work. “Oh,” said Jessica, a girl I work with. “That means the baby will have hair!” The “baby” is the size of a grain of rice. It has cilia, right now, not hair.
• I have to pee every three minutes, but the rest of my body can’t seem to clear itself out. I’m carrying around 23.7 tons of water weight. When I walk I can hear myself slosh.
  
• I’m sure it sounds like I’m complaining, and I am, but because this whole thing amuses me. It’s like I’m wearing someone else’s body. It’s a process from which I’m detached.

“But, you’re glowing!” Scott said, and God love him for thinking it.
“Honey, I’m not glowing. That’s the ever-present sheen of sweat I’ve gathered from dragging my pregnant ass around this hot-ass town.”

Everything seems so overwhelming. Yesterday, someone at work asked me how I felt. I said, “I feel pregnant. I want to beat everyone up and take all their food!”

Big laugh from the other mommies.

My mother has already sent me an email of directives. So I sent her this email:

We’ve decided on a theme for the wedding: Spingtime picnic. We’ve going to cover the tables with Astroturf and plastic flowers and bugs. The chairs will be covered with red and white gingham fabric, and we’ll all eat ham sandwiches and potato salad off of paper plates.

All of the party favors will be little boxes of chocolate covered ants. Remember the story Dad used to tell about eating the ants? That’s where I got the idea. Scott’s family comes from the McDow’s of the McDow peninsula of Ireland. It’s a farming community, and agriculture has always been a big part of their lives so we're bringing in some of old farming equipment as decoration: a plow, rakes, pitchforks, etc.

I may ask Kelli to break out her clogging shoes from middle school because Scott’s sister, Vivian, is going to do a caeli, which is Irish stepdancing, and it would nice if someone from our family could join in. Scott is thinking of having all the groomsmen wear bolo ties. I thought that it would be funny, since we have a country picnic theme, to come barefoot and with a pillow stuffed in my dress, and Dad could carry a shotgun. But I thought that might be too much.

Scott panicked. He sent this email to my mother:

Mrs. McGowen -

Your daughter has been smoking crack. The proof: her most recent email. However, we are going to have a very dignified wedding. You and I are going to see to that. There will be no Astroturf, no bare feet, no black bridal gown, or other crazy shit. I am glad to have an ally in this mess. Please help me make this wedding something your daughter will be proud of 20 years from now, since I plan to be looking at those photographs with her at that time. I am so happy to have you as a mother-in-law.

Let's synchronize our watches! Good luck!

Love, Scott

I got my first table 15 minutes after I got to work today. Just as they were sat, my contact popped out of my left eye. Then, one of the hostesses told me that I left on my headlights. I ran out into the pouring rain to turn them off. As I reached into the car, my left bra strap snapped. What the hell?

I stood for a moment, in the rain, making a silent apology for offending the universe. Then I went back inside. As I passed a girl in the kitchen - the new girl who made a mean comment about my very beautiful ring - she fell on her ass. Hmmm...

Shit like that happened all night long. Frankly, I'm surprised we all survived.

"That's cheap!" said Stephanie. "Geez, are you having your mom make it, or something? That is so ghetto."

Um, I'm not having my mother make it, but wouldn't that be nice - not ghetto - of her?

"So, what are your colors?" some new girl at work asked me. "Colors?" I said, completely confused. "Yeah, you know: the color scheme of your wedding. What color are the bridesmaids going to wear, the groomsmen, the decorations, the cake, the flowers, the -"

My head began spinning while I tried to take all of this in.

"I don't need a color scheme for the wedding. I'm going to wear a white dress - because my fiancee actually cares about that, not my first choice - and I'm just hoping that he shows up and says yes." The girl looked and me and then rolled her eyes. "Your wedding is going to look stupid." I grinned and said: "How would you know? You're not invited."

My manager grabbed my ass last night. Could've killed her. I've worked on the "Don't Grab Stacey's Ass" ad campaign for a year, now, but apparently I'm not reaching my target audience.

There was much confusion and uproar at work today. Scott worked at Restaurant of Evil with me - and, obviously, these other people - but I really keep my private life mostly, well, "private." Most people didn't even know that we were dating, and that was okay with me. I'm not up in there to make friends and have a social life. It's just a job.

Unfortunately, when one person screams in the alley, others are there to observe and participate. And one scream was all it took. The subsequent screams came from me - trying to get away from the horde of women slowly surrounding me and crushing the life out of me. God, just take the ring. I love it, but I'm not going to sacrifice my life for it. And yet, it is very important to me.

Hostess: Can I try it on?
Me (snort): If you can take it from me.

ED: You should learn to type.
Me: I type 55 words a minute. That's not that bad.
ED (as he walks away): In my day, every woman had to know how to type.
Me (under my breath): Yeah, well, now we have the vote.

Duane's film has something to do with - but does not actually include - gay porn. He and Scott are sitting on the couch talking about what he needs before he completes it.

Duane: Yeah, so if you and Stacey could record yourselves the next time you're having sex, that would be really helpful.
I whirl around from the desk I'd been cleaning and look at him. He can't be serious.
Duane: And if you could say things like: "Yeah, that's the good shit!" I'd really appreciate it.
I put my hand over my mouth and run out of the room in embarassment. I hear Scott and Duane laughing in the living room.
Duane: We're kidding!
Scott: Baby, come back!
I'm gathering beer cans from the bedroom. I come in with four or five in my arms.
Me: Jackasses.
Duane: Anyway, if you could just make a lot of noise, that would be great.
Scott is laughing his ass off.
Me: Well, I have a couple minutes right now. That's all it takes, right, honey?

My boyfriend decided to get a mohawk. I considered pitching a fit, because, as a rule, I think mohawks are sad attempts to get people to pay attention to the wearer. Also, because I like his hair the way he had it. But off he went. An hour later, the phone rang.

Me: Hello?
Duane: Heeeey. Is Scott there?
Me: Oh, hey, Duane. He went to get a haircut.
There is a pause.
Duane (tensely): What?
Me: Um...
Duane: Did he say how short?
Me: He said he was getting a mohawk.
Duane (with disbelief): No, he didn't.
Me: Yeah.
Suddenly, I realize why Duane's tense. His movie. Oh, shit. Scott's in his movie, and they've already shot a full day's worth.
Duane: Where. Is. He. Going.

We spend a few frantic minutes looking through the phone book, divide up some numbers, and start calling. Two phone calls later, I hear a car door slam. Scott comes prancing in, grinning, with his haircut. I hold back a grimace.

Me: Um, Duane called.
He goes pale.
Scott: Oh. My. God.

There is much cursing. When he gets Duane on the phone, there is much more.
I try to think of solutions.

Me: You can always wear a hat.
Scott: There has to be a better way.
Me: You could shave Scooby's hair off and glue it to your head.
He grins.
Me: You could wrap your head in a bandage like you have a head injury.
Scott looks at me with what I think is disbelief.
Me: What?
Scott: That's actually not a bad idea.
It's a stupid idea, meant to be a joke, but whatever.
Me: Hey, I'll even provide a real head injury, if it will help.

Scott: You have to get me up in the morning.
Me: Okay.
Scott: No, I have to get up. I have got to work on that damn paper.
Me: Okay. Don't worry.
Mwaaa-ha-haaaaaaa....!

The next morning, the alarm goes off.

Me: Scott, time to get up.
Scott: Mmmhmm.
I shake him.
Me: Come on, sweetie. It's time to get up.
Scott: Mmmhmm.
I shake him again.
Me: I'm going to steamroller you.
Scott: What's a steamroller?
Me: THIS!
Laying down, I roll over him, pause on top and wiggle, and roll off the other side. He barely moves.
Me: I think it's time for cat therapy.
Scott: Sure.

I run out of the room, grab my water bottle from the ironing stand, and turn it to "stream." I creep back to the room and stand in the doorway. Scott hasn't moved, and it is obvious that he has no plans to do so. Is this going to piss him off? Hmm. Too much fun to care. I aim for his head and shoot.

Squirtsquirtsquirt!
Scott (frantically grabbing the blanket to cover his head): Gaaagh!
I laugh maniacally and aim for his uncovered legs. Squirtsquirtsquirt!
Scott (laughing): Aaaagh! Okayokay!
I stop and give him a chance to relax. He uncovers his head. Fool! Squirtsquirt!
Scott: Agh! Stop it! I'm up!
Me: Told you.

Scott's beautiful painting fell off the wall and smashed the thermostat. Crap. Well, I might as well do repairs that I've been putting off forever. Like, I haven't had a key to my own doorknob for over a year. Actually, it might be two years.

Two days later, I strap on my mental penis and march over to Home Depot... and then end up going to Lowe's because I'm too afraid to make a left across Bobby Jones. Maybe the penis needs new batteries (ha ha...oh, nevermind).

Sales Associate: So, what can I do you for?
Me (To begin with, you can stop using that phrase): My thermostat broke and I need to replace it.
Sales Associate: Sure. We offer installation services. Let me get -
Me (interrupting politely): Oh, no, I'm going to do it myself.
Sales Associate (pausing, as though about to broach a delicate subject): Do you know how?
Consulting my mental penis...
Me: Yes.
I don't think I convinced him. Probably because I lied.
Sales Associate: Well, if you're sure...
MentalpenisMentalpenis
Me: (with a confidence I do not feel): i'm just looking for a recommendation on a specific model.

There is a brief discussion on what kind of system I have. He asks a few questions and I make up answers that I hope are right. I think he's just feeling me out to see how much I know. It begins to irritate me. I KNOW that I'm an idiot. He doesn't need to prove it to me.

Me: Really, it's just a normal electrical system with gas heat. Four wires. Two hands. One thermostat.
Yeah, touch my penis.
Sales Associate: Cool. Well, I think you can take your pick, then, as long as you don't get a heat pump system. I suggest a digital one. They offer a lot more control.
Me ($60! I only need that much control in my pantyhose); Well, the $8 twisty-knob one (twisty knob? Why did you even bring the penis?!) is looking pretty good.

I skip home to put it in. The old one pops right off. I open the new box.

What the fuck is this?

Three telephone calls and a day later, the thermostat is in a bag going back to the store. (sigh) I think I need a real penis.

I return to Lowe's. I need a thermostat, but the mental penis didn't work. I decide to pull out the big guns: the twins. Thank god I'm wearing a vee-neck t-shirt.

Me (after returning the first model): So, the last sales associate sold me a thermostat for a baseboard system, but I have a standard floor system with gas heat.
Sales Associate: Do you have a heat pump?
Heat pump? Oh, god. Lean forward! That always works! Look contemplative. No, smile! Uh...
Me: What do you think? Do I have a heat pump?
What. The fuck. Are you doing. You are an affront to all women.
Sales Associate (thinking hard about the wall of thermostats in front of us): Um, well, probably not. They're used more often up north.
Hey! Over here! Boobies!
Me (nodding like I even know what states are up north): Mmmm.
Sales Associate (reaching for two models - but not mine): I'd recommend a digital thermometer.
Good god, these are pricey. I could get breast implants for this - oh, wait, I don't need them.
Me: I don't need digital. I like something I can put my hands on.
Good christ. How did you even graduate college?
Sales Associate (leaving): Oh, well, just try this one. Should be great. Good luck!
He'd better be gay.

I go home (to a man always willing to look at my breasts). Open the box. Looking good. Wires and places to put wires. I have four wires. It has four - hey, why are there six places to put wires?!

((groan))

Two electrocutions and a near-decapitation later, I'm out of ideas. The places where I think the wires are supposed to go already have wires. The number of wires outnumber the remaining places to put wires. I am struggling to screw a part of it to the wall when, for no discernable reason, the thermastat snaps into three pieces in my hands.

I fume. It must be Lowe's fault. Sexist Lowe's. Sexist and gay Lowe's.

I return the thermostat. And go to Home Depot. I make the left across Bobby Jones without the penis.

I find a female sales associate and we look at thermostats together. I hate them all. She agrees that men designed them, we joke about our collective ignorance, and then she points to a digital one. What's the obsession with these overpriced pieces of - ooh, $23? I'll take it.

My tools lain out before me at home, I open the instructions. They're entirely in Spanish, except for the last two pages on each of which is printed in English: "THIS PAGE IS BLANK." Scott and I laugh like crazy and he insists we frame it.

I connect all the wires but the red one. There's nowhere to put it! AARGH! I need it! I don't know exactly why, but when I touch the old red and green wires together, the fan comes on. It's the only reason we haven't died of heat exhaustion the last three days.

I decide to shove the old red wire in beside the other, inexplicably-already-attached red wire. There is a sputter, a clang, and then the fan begins to whir. I flip the switch. It stops.

I look at Scott. He smiles, shakes his head, and goes back to his research paper. I leap off the step stool, do a victory dance, and sing, "I have to celebrate the thermostat. I have to praise me like I shooooooooooouuulld!"

Scott loves to have his back scratched, which is great, because I'll take any reason to touch him.

Scott: I must have been a cow in a former life because they love to scratch. My grandfather had a barn and the wood was just worn away from them rubbing up against it.
Me: Maybe you were a flea in a former life, and you caused a lot of itching.
Scott: AHAaaaah. And that's why I itch all the time.

Well, your psoriasis might have something to do with it...

MD: So, what did you do this weekend?
Me: Hung out with my boyfriend.
MD: Which one?

She cracks up laughing. I grin at her. I was dating a lot, but now it's just Scott. "You're a dork," tell her, still grinning. She gets on the intercom: "Admin, Stacey just said she hung out with her boyfriend, and I said: 'Which one?'" She cackles some more. I hear Janet giggling. "MD is not funny!" I sing - oh, and why is MD using the intercom when Janet is five feet away? Just then, ED pops his head in the MD's office.

ED: Okay, I'm leaving for the day. He nods at me. You're in charge.
Stacey (prancing out of the room): Dianne's fired!

Scott - having now moved in with me keep up, people! - cooked an excellent dinner of salmon, collard greens, black-eyed peas, and crab salad on toasted pita bread. I haven't eaten in two days - strep throat, again - and I'm starving. It's a wonderful dinner, and Scott has taken good care of me the last two days. We are sitting on the couch afterwards. We talk about our days. In a race between John and me to get rid of our inventory at the gift shop, I sold the last two shoe bags. I am the winner, and I took a joking shot of the shoe bag walking out the door, printed it at 8 x 10 size, and wrote on it: "John, thanks for the memories, XOXO, Love, Baggie."

Scott (laughs, and then): I'm falling in love with you.
Me: Are you sure about this?
Scott: Well, let me think about it.... YES.
Me: Well, that's very nice to hear, and I appreciate it.

There is some talk about why he might change his mind sometime in the future - my faults, etc. - and he laughs them all off. Suddenly...

Scott: Will you marry me?
Me (grinning): Mmmhmm.
Scott: Really?
He looks extremely happy. Deleriously happy. I stumble, mentally... Wait. Um...
Me: Wait. Are you serious?
Scott: Yes!
Me: Well, then, I'll have to ask you to give me time to think about it.
Scott (not so happy, now): Okay, then.
Me: I'm just not one to move quickly on these things.
Scott: Okay. I just feel like I've found my soulmate.
Me: It is very natural and easy to be with you.
Scott: It is.
Me: I've been proposed to before.
Scott: I'm sure you have.
Me: I had to turn them all down.
Scott (nodding): But you'll think about marrying me?
Me: Of course.

I know that it is supremely ungrateful to complain about being loved. So, I guess that makes me supremely ungrateful. But we've been dating such a short time...

But we have known each other for a while, and we've always been able to speak without fear.

Love... marriage... kids... wow. But with Scott, I'll still give it serious consideration.

Pulling up, I'm already upset. The parking lot is half empty. Lance had more family than this. Lance had more friends than this. They should all be here to support Sarah, goddammit. Maybe people carpooled from Sarah's. Most people have been sleeping there, anyway.

Walking up onto the porch, I spot Michelle, a girl I know from ASU. I feel relieved. We hug.

Me: Oh, it's so sad!
Michelle: I know!
Me: So sudden!
Michelle: Yeah, it was. How did you know Aunt Nomi?

Who the fuck is Aunt Nomi?!?!?!

A lot of funeral homes have more than one reception area... for more than one family... gosh, this funeral home is small, where the fuck is the office? Oh, just ahead. We'll check with them...

Seconds later, Scott and I are rushing through the lobby - past poor, old Aunt Nomi's grotesquely displayed body - from the office to a different funeral home down the street. I'm trying not to laugh, hiding my face in my sleeve. I hope I look sad. I suspect that I don't.

"Walk faster," Scott hisses.
I choke back a slightly hysterical giggle.

I race out the door towards the car. I hear Scott's footsteps stop on the porch. I glance back. He has stopped and has sympathetically taken Michelle's arm.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," he says.

I don't know how he manages to maintain his composure, but I can't. Uncontrollable laughter pours out of me the second the car door closes.

I'm so sorry, Aunt Nomi.

I'm on the phone with my mother, who mentions that she is on her way to the outlet stores, and can she buy my some underwear?

Me: Heck, yeah: bras.
Mom: What kind?
Me: Um, the bra kind?
Mom: Noooo. Do you want cotton? Satin? Lace? Leather?
Me (chortling at "leather"): Um, I want pretty ones.
Mom: Do you want padded? Push-up?
Me: Yeah, the higher the better. In fact, if you can find one that lets me use my boobs as earmuffs, that would be great.
Mom: My daughter: the weirdo.
Me: Mmhm.

We go through other specifics - underwire, etc. - before she asks me the question that will resound in my brain forever:

Mom: Do you like the kind that shows your nipples?

There is a long silence, while my brain thrashes frantically in search of something to hold onto.

Me: ... What?
Mom: You know, with the cut-outs.

My brain stops thrashing, shudders once, flops over, and dies. Surviving now solely on instinct, I grasp for something neutral to say.

Me: Well.... what if it gets cold?
Mom (laughing): I didn't think of that.

Carol: Hey, it's Carol.
Me: Hey! How are you?
Carol: Well, I'm - I'm not calling under good circumstances.
Me: Oh. Okay. What's up?
Carol: We're just calling everyone who were friends. But... last night... Lance passed away last night.
There is an interminably long silence. Lance. Dead. What...
Me (at my most articulate): What?
Carol: Yeah.
Me: What happened?
Carol: We don't really know. They did an autopsy this morning. It's alcohol-related. But we won't know until the toxicology report comes back in.
Me: Okay. How's Sarah?
Carol: She's... not good. I think she's sleeping right now - which is a good thing. But we're all over here right now... Jacob, Foster, Kara is coming by later.
Me: Okay. I'll be there as soon as I can. I'm watching a very destructive dog right now, and I can't leave him. He'll tear up the house. Can I bring anything?
Carol: No. Her church put together a lot of food, and we have drinks and ice over here right now.
Me: Alright. I'll see what I can do with the dog, and I'll be there ASAP.
Carol: Okay. See you later.

I'm stuck with the dog. Scott's old roommates won't take his mangy ass, even for a couple of hours. Better yet, I come back into the living room, and he's peed in a line from the kitchen into the bathroom.

What the fuck happened? He and Sarah split up over his drinking. Maybe he tried to stop again and his heart just couldn't take it. I haven't seen him for a month. I don't know how he was doing. I was going to get his new number and call him to let him know that I was still his friend, too (even though my primary loyalty is to Sarah, let's be honest). And I put it off too long.

My name is Stacey, and I'm a Wal-Mart friend.

At garden reception, Scott, Dwayne, and I are standing by the Rose Garden. Along comes these two adorable little girls, pushing a metal cart to their parents' barbecue stand. We all grin as they run past, gleefully unaware that what they're doing is generally called "work."

Scott: Hey, can I have a ride?
Six-Year-Old (with a world-weary sarcasm rarely seen outside of Monte Carlo): Um, I really don't think it will hold you. (She gives a thumbs-up sign) But have a nice day!
Dwayne and I burst into laughter as Scott's jaw drops to the ground.
Dwayne: Oh, man! You just got ripped by a six-year-old
Scott: I'm going to trip her when she walks past.
Me: I will strangle you with your own tie.
Dwayne: You're just mad that you got beat down by a little girl.
Scott: I'm going to get her back.
Me: You realize you're having a battle of wits with a six-year-old.
Dwayne: And you're losing.
Scott (hanging head): I am.

Me (laughing): Stop it.
Scott: You are beautiful.
Me (blushing): Stop it!

He's already sitting in the chair with me, because there's no longer any room to stand at the table. Friday's is packed, as usual, on F&B night, and we're all crowded at a table in the bar. He leans in an plants a trail of kisses from my shoulder to my neck. I try to laugh it off. How did we get to this point? We were talking, and laughing, and drinking and - oh, yeah. We were drinking.

Scott: I've always thought you were beautiful.
Me (hiding my face on his shoulder): Thank you.
Scott: I have a secret confession to make.
Me: Uh, oh. What?
Scott: I've always been attracted to you. I couldn't ask you out, though, 'cause you were dating the librarian. But I've always thought you were great.
Me:That's interesting. I've always thought you were GAY.
Scott: I'm bi. I use the gay thing as a front.

When I got home last night at 5 a.m., someone's dog had gotten into my garbage. There was smelly stinky garbage strewn all over my little yard. I thought: "Oh, hell, no," and went the fuck to bed. I resigned myself to getting it up at the crack of noon to clean it.

So I get up, drink some Diet Coke, start picking up around the house, and gather some garbage into a bag. Still wearing my negligee, I open my front door to toss the bag into the can, which is four feet from the door. My 80-year-old neighbor and her 50-year-old son are standing there.

Utter humiliation is an eye-opening way to start the day.

My mother, father, and I arrive at Joe's Crab Shack in Forrest Park to meet my professor and another alumn with whom I'm giving a seminar. We've never been there before. The parking lot is jam-packed. My mother and I remark that we might as well park over in the shopping mall lot and walk over. My father glides into an empty space right at the front door. My mother and I exchange exasperated looks.

Mom: You always get the best parking spots!
Dad (laughing): Hey, I don't know, just luck.
Me: He must have good karma.

Mom didn't get it ("car-ma"), but Dad and I laughed our butts off.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

One of my guests paid for their tab using a 1941 Mercury dime. I'm sure they didn't even realize it, but it's worth lots more. I kept it, and told Glenn about it later. I came upon him telling Aaron about it a couple of days later.

Glenn: Yeah, a Liberty dime, and it's worth, like, $5.
Me (walking up): Actually, I looked it up. Depending on its condition, it can be worth up to $50. And it's called something different - a Mercury dime, the Treasury department website said.
Glenn: Why?
Me: Because the figure is wearing a cap with wings on it. It's supposed to symbolize freedom of thought. I guess that wouldn't "fly" now.
Glenn and Aaron roll their eyes and walk away, shaking their heads, while I laugh at my joke. What's more funny is that no one else is laughing with me. It makes me laugh harder, while my co-workers walk by, probably wondering how I remember to dress myself in the mornings.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Food is piling up in the window, and no one really gives a crap until it's their food getting cold. With a sigh, I begin plowing through tickets, looking for an order I can run out. Aha! Table 106 for Daniel. I kale the plates ("No kale, no sale!" If only I was clever enough to think of that, maybe then I could be a manager, too!) and then Daniel - who is always flipping peanuts at me and has this infuriating Matrix-like ability to dodge the handsful of peanuts I throw back - is beside me.
Daniel: Hey, thanks.
Me: No problem. Do you need someone to follow you out with the other plates?
Daniel: Yeah, that would be great.
Me (pretending to walk away): Okay. I'll go find someone.
He punches me in the arm. Ouch, it actually hurt.

Me: Hi! I'm Stacey, and I'll be taking care of you today. What can I get you to drink?
Guy: Whatchoo got?
Me: We have Coke products - Coke, Diet Coke, Pink Lemonade, Root Beer, Mr. Pibb, and Sprite - sweet and unsweet tea, coffee, and a full bar.
Guy: You ain't got no Mountain Dew?
Me (Did I SAY Mountain Dew?): No, sir. We don't carry Pepsi products.
Guy: Why not?
Me (Who cares?): I don't know.
There is a moment of silence as he looks at me. Does he want me to make something up?
Guy: Will you go find out?
Me (What?): Sure. Can I grab you something to drink while I do?
Guy: No. We'll wait.
Oooookay. I walk in the kitchen, put some bread in the oven, restock the soup, and walk back out to the table.
Me: Apparently, Coke offers a better contract.
Guy: How much better?
Me (I DON'T KNOW! I MADE IT ALL UP! WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DRINK IDIOT?!): I don't know. It's a corporate contract. The individual restaurants aren't involved in the decision-making process.
Guy: Oh. Man, I really want Mountain Dew.
Me: I know, right? I wish we had it, too.
Guy: Do you have Mello Yello?
Me (Did I SAY Mello Yello?): No, sir.
Guy: But that's a Coke product. You said you have Coke products.
Me: Yes, sir. I did. But we don't have all of them. We don't have Dasani water, and it's a Coke product.
Guy: Hm. Well, I guess we'll just have two sweet teas.
Me (Finally!): Great. I'll be right back, and I'll bring some bread.
Returning, I put the teas and bread on the table. They've had enough time to memorize the menus, so I hope we can get this show on the road. I want to get them out of here.
Me: Now, do you have any questions about the menu?
They both look at each other and shake their heads.
Guy: No. We're ready.
Me: Great! What looks good to you today?
Guy:Whatchoo got?
There is a moment of silence as I stop and look up at them. What does he mean?
Me: Um, well, our soup of the day is chicken and wild rice, our catch of the day is halibut, and our featured item is our 22 oz. porterhouse. I recommend it with a sweet potato.
Guy: What else you got?

Weeeellll, why don't you READ THE MENU!

Chris: You said I could call whenever.
Me: Mmmhmm.
Chris: Are you sure about this?
Me: Mmmhmm.
Chris: I think that we can work through our problems.

Really? Are you going to stop trying to convert me to your particular brand of religion? Are you going to get off your stupid Everquest game every once in awhile? Are you going to stop assuming that I'm irrational because I have a uterus? Will you support me while I get my masters, and then my doctorate? I think the answers to all of these question is "No." Therefore, we can't work through our problems. They are ALL deal-breakers.

Me: I don't think so, Chris.
Chris: I think we can. Just think about it.
Me: 'kay.
Chris: Get some sleep.
Me: 'kay

Chris: I love you.
Me: Mmmhmmm.
Chris: Okay.
Me: 'night.
Chris: Goodnight.
*Click*

So, I called Tuesday afternoon. I called twice on Wednesday. I called on Thursday morning, before he would have been scheduled to leave for work. No answer, no return phone calls. Finally, Thursday afternoon, I get him.

Chris: How are you feeling?
Me: Much better.
Chris: Good.
Silently, I think: Yeah, no thanks to you, butthead.
Chris: What's wrong?
Me: Well, I'm a little irritated with you.
Chris (scoffing): Why?
Me: Because I really needed help on Monday.
There is a moment of silence, and then:
Chris (loudly): If you're going to get all mad at me because you were sick, you know, I've been on the road a lot this week, and really tired so not feeling too good myself. I offered to take you to the hospital.
Me: I didn't need to go to the hospital. I just needed some stuff from the drugstore and help getting up.

Blah blah, conversation devolves into him yelling at me, as usual, and me saying repeatedly: "I would appreciate it if you would lower your voice. I don't appreciate you speaking to me like that. Stop talking to me like that. You have no right to speak to me like that." Until, finally, I get some balls and tell him that he treats me like shit.

Chris: Well, you treat me like crap sometimes, too.
Me: When? How?
Chris (laughing): Oh, please...
Me: You know what? Whatever. Don't talk to me. I need my hairdryer. I'll be there to get it in a little while.
Chris: Fine.
*Click*

I get to his house about 45 minutes later. He greets me at the door and walks into the living room. I walk into the bathroom, unplug my hairdryer, and note that he has all of my stuff in a plastic bag. I pause: Do I want to have it out with him, or just let it go? Do I have to have a big breakup scene, or can I just tell him goodbye and stop returning his calls?

I peek down the hall. He's obviously avoiding speaking to me, and I really don't care. I don't mean that in a defiant way. I mean, I really feel nothing about it. I pick up my bag 'o stuff and walk out the door. As I back out of the parking space, he steps out onto the porch and gestures, palms up, communicating confusion that I'm leaving. I don't care, in the aforementioned manner. I keep going.

I hope that's the last I see of him. But he'll probably call me tonight. Can I pretend that I'm not home? And, for how long? Will that work for more than a week? Long enough for him to get the message that I don't want to see him anymore?

It's Monday at 4 a.m. I am awakened by a very. very. very. bad. feeling. Yes, I meant to put all those periods in that sentence. It was for effect. Now stop interrupting me and let me tell my story. So, it's 4 a.m. I'm asleep. But, suddenly, I awaken with a feeling of dread. No. It's more like OH MY GOD I'M FEELING DREAD. I'm very aware of having a stomach right now. I've never before felt with such certainty that, indeed, I am in possession of a stomach. But right now, mine wants out, and it ain't waiting. I lurch into the bathroom, slam my stupid ankle against the the doorframe, and barely make it to the toilet before vomiting violently.

I spend the next 12 hours by the toilet, sleeping on the floor with a blanket and pillow. I can't move more than 5 feet without being forced back to the toilet for one reason or another. I shiver, I sweat, I have painful stomach, abdominal, back, neck, and leg pains. My head is pounding. My skin is sliding off my skeleton. My ankle hurts, but I think that's from slamming it against the doorframe, yes? I suspect I have a something terminal. I can't call work because my telephone got cut off by mistake the day before and I can't get to phone. I can't call my boyfriend because he's out of town. I'm pretty sure I lose consciousness at some point.

At 5:30 p.m., the cramps subside enough for me to get brave and crawl - CRAWL - to the couch. I'm out of breath by the time I get there. I fall asleep immediately.

I awaken again around 7 p.m. I sit up. My stomach lurches, but stays put. I grab my robe off the floor, my blanket off the couch, and begin trying to get to the door. I manage. I feel a small victory. I step out onto the porch - did I really have the door open the whole night? I must have opened it earlier, trying to get to my neighbor's house - and pause. My stomach pauses with me. Another victory. I move to the stairs, step down, and do not compensate for the shakiness of my legs. I stumble and fall into the grass. A setback. I lie there, tired, and not entirely sure that I haven't shattered all the bones in my body. Slowly I struggle to my feet. I make it to my neighbor's porch, knock, and collapse onto a lawn chair.

She opens the door, sees me, and cries out in surprise. I hadn't realized how bad I looked, and probably - now that I'm thinking about it - smelled. She helps me inside, hands me me the phone when I croak for it, and rustles me some water while the phone rings at Chris's house. Water! Sweet nectar of the gods! I remember myself and sip. My stomach rumbles. I stop. Chris answers.

Chris: Hello?
Me: : Hey.
Chris: What's wrong? Are you okay?
Me: No. I'm really sick. I've been throwing up all day.

I was going to continue to transcribe this conversation, but in all fairness, I can't remember the way it went. But, very basically, it went like this:

Me: Will you bring me some medicine to help me stop throwing up?
Chris: No, I'm tired. But I'll come check on you tomorrow after work. I hope you get to feeling better.

Oh. How nice. Do you know where he works? At a PHARMACY. Anyone who has known me for more than a month should know that I don't ask for help unless I really really need it. Chris knows this. He says I'm being stubborn. I think I'm being self-reliant. But when the only part of my body I haven't vomited yet is my pelvis, I'm going to ask for help. To have someone turn me down... not encouraging. And if he claims to love me, and can't get his lazy ass over to help me... well, he's lying. Either to himself, or to me - and I don't care which.

Granted, I drank some tomato soup, fell asleep immediately on the couch, and didn't wake up until 8:45 the next morning. But I would have heard someone knock on my door. He didn't call or come check on me the next day.

Me: Now that those entree dishes are out of the way, can I offer you folks some dessert?
Man (this guy has more platinum on his teeth than any rap mogul you've ever seen): Yee-ah. Could you bring us some, uh, could you bring us some, uh.. uhh.. skrawberry limousine. Yee-ah.
Me (SKRAWberry? limouSINE?): Sure! One piece of Strawberry Limone coming right up.
Platinum Man (grabbing my arm as I turn to walk away. Word to the wise: Don't touch your server. Yo.): Naw, man. We want the skrawberry limousine.
Me (yanking my arm out of his grasp, much to his surprise): I'm sorry, sir. You'll have to show me what you're talking about.
PMan (showing me the table tent): Right thurr.
Me (smiling in what I hope is a friendly, not a condescending manner): Oh, see, you had me all confused! Yeah, that's pronounced "Strawberry Limone." I'll have a piece out in a sec.
PMan (insistent): Well, my friend said it was skrawberry limousine.

What, do I not work here?

Me: Oh, well, see, there's no "s" in the word.
PMan (looking at me like I'm stupid): But it's Freeeench.

Yeah, dude. That's how that works. At an Italian restaurant.