Vacation, all I ever wanted

It's coming up on exactly 1 year since my last vacation. One whole year, people. That is a year full of Mondays. A year full of commutes. A year of setting my alarm. A year of Friday nights where I had to sit at my desk until 9:00pm.

NINE O'CLOCK.

PEE EM. On FRIDAY.

A year of eating lunch by myself, a year of bad office coffee, a year of the maintenance guy being in the ladies' room every single time I had to pee, a year of reading press releases that are so boring they made the mid-term election voter guide seem like a Crichton novel in comparison. A year of trying to plan outfits that are casual, but not so casual that they could be interpreted as inappropriate... and cute, but not too cute, because no one wants to waste their cutest outfits on work, because inevitably by the end of the day you feel crumpled and vaguely sweaty, and there is no chance of your cute outfit being revived for more exciting purposes.

And since that all feels a little dismal, and since I'm dying for a vacation, I've decided to reminesce about last year's vacation in Costa Rica.

Ah, Costa Rica.

Last year on Thanksgiving I had lobster dinner instead of turkey dinner. On the beach. In Costa Rica. This year's Thanksgiving is probably going to be a little lackluster after all that. So I'm just gonna go ahead and live in the past for a moment.

One of the first little towns I visited was La Fortuna, home of the Arenal Volcano. Here is a photo of the Arenal Volcano:

What I really love is the little sign pointing you toward the volcano. As if you might be standing there thinking, "Ok, I know there is a volcano around here somewhere... my guide book said it was in this general vicinity..." Because, hello! It's right in front of your face, and it's a fecking giant volcano!

La Fortuna is also home of this, which makes me giggle for reasons I cannot fully explain:

There is a lot of super fun stuff to do around La Fortuna -- volcano hiking, rappelling down waterfalls, whitewater rafting, horseback riding, karaoking with locals -- and I took advantage of all of the above.

Here I am looking stylish in my helmet, hideous Tevas, and crotch harness as I prepare for rappelling:

I wish I had actual pictures of me rappelling and whitewater rafting, because how badass, right? But sadly I didn't have a waterproof camera, so you'll just have to imagine me looking badass swinging from a rope and paddling a raft.

Here I am looking fetching in a large tarp atop a horse. You will notice a common theme in these photos -- me looking uber chic, classy and well-coiffed:

We rode our horses part way to the next town, Monteverde. Now, I had been told all I would need for my Costa Rica trip was a bikini and some sunglasses. Well, that was horrible advice. Because Monteverde is located in what they call a cloud forest. A cloud forest happens when you are so high in elevation that you have reached, like, another layer of atmosphere: the layer of atmosphere where the clouds live. Clouds like it there because it's cold. Girls in bikinis do not so much like it there, and I was forced purchase a puffy black jacket, which became part of my ever-more-stylish repertoire of activity-appropriate clothing.

In the cloud forest there were trees and vines:

And colorful birds that were hard to see:

And coatis, which were freakish, overly friendly cousins of the racoon:

And me looking sexy in a puffy jacket and ill-fitting helmet:

Actually, the helmet was for purposes of ziplining. Ziplining is an activity whereby you fly through the forest canopy, like, a gazillion miles up, on a cord, whilst peeing your pants:

After the Monteverde cloud forest pants-peeing experience, we took a long van ride to the port town of Quepos. Except our van broke down for a few hours, so we were stuck at this little road-side stand for a while. But actually it was really pleasant -- shady, right near a stream, and populated by an adorable little boy who occupied himself by singing karaoke to the Spanish music station that was playing on the TV.

Here are me and Beth, fellow traveler and tiny Texan, by the stream:

And here is my karaoke virtuoso boyfriend. He was aDORable, and totally pretended to be all shy when he realized he had an audience. But that only lasted about 30 seconds before he really turned on the charm:

We also stopped at an open-air market on the road to Quepos, but the only thing I reeeeeeally wanted there was not for sale:

Quepos itself was kind of eh, but really close by is the Manuel Antonio National Park and beachal area (yes, I did just say "beachal"), and that was aaaaamazing. I stayed for a couple of days at a hostel right next to the reserve, and this was the view from my hammock:

There were also butterflies the size of my head, which was frightening when I considered what other prehistoric-sized insects might be lurking about, waiting to carry me off to their giant webs or nests or dens or whatever. This butterfly had little see-through windows in its wings -- it was like nothing I'd ever seen before:

Furthermore, there was a lot of drinking. Drinking of tropical drinks with tiny umbrellas:

Drinking of beers on boats (WARNING: gratuitous bikini shots):

Drinking of beers in oceans:

And, finally, there were some of the most beautiful sunsets ever:

So, that is what I was doing exactly one year ago. And while picking my nose at my desk is pretty far up there on my list of all-time favorite activities, I would be enjoying it a lot more if there were a hammock, or a tiny umbrella, or a giant butterfly, or some Spanish-language karaoke involved.

Eau d' Febreze(R)

You know what is the best scent ever? Febreze. Now, I've never stood in a rose garden at dawn while a light, dewy breeze tickles my nose with the satiny scent of a thousand different buds and blossoms. I'm pretty sure that would smell okay. But Febreze? I'm willing to bet Febreze is way better. Febreze is like cocaine, except for your nose. Wait. I mean... I don't know, I've never done cocaine. I guess what I'm saying is, from what I hear, Febreze is a lot like cocaine -- it goes up your nose and you can't get enough of it. Except I don't think you can OD on Febreze, because if that were possible I'm pretty sure I'd be sitting in an urn somewhere by now. Because to me, Febreze is the olfactory equivalent of a glass of champagne, a deep tissue massage, and a really excellent blow job all rolled into one. So I want it as frequently as possible.

(Incidentally, I'm always worried that people will think I'm a coke-head, even though I've never done cocaine. I happen to have a very itchy nose, so I'm always walking around, rubbing my nose, which is what coke-heads do on TV. I especially try to resist rubbing my nose when I've just come out of the bathroom, so as not to invite suspicion. But then as soon as I think to myself, "Self, don't itch your nose," my nose gets all itchy. It's like hearing the word "yawn" and then trying not to yawn yourself. You are totally trying to resist the urge to yawn right now, aren't you? HA!)

Anyway, I think Febreze is heaven-sent. Or heaven-scent, since I love a good pun. So when I saw that they have Febreze-scented laundry soap and dryer sheets, I about spotaneously combusted with joy. (Is combusted a word? Or should it just be combust? Hm.) Fresh laundry? Delightful. Fresh laundry that smells like Febreze? Transcendant.

BUT WAIT, THAT'S NOT ALL. I got the stroke of genius to put the Febreze dryer sheets in strategic places throughout my apartment, completely banishing unpleasant odors! I stuck some of the little guys in my closet, which tends to smell like an elderly, flatulent, chronic halitosis sufferer is buried under the floorboards. The other day I was sitting at my desk at work thinking, "Wow, there is a very pleasing aroma around here, I wonder what it is." Then when I went to lunch, the lovely smell followed me. Because sometimes I'm slightly dumb, it took me all day to realize that the heavenly smell was me! I smelled like Febreze! And not old closet stink!

So, in all of my geniusyness, I put a dryer sheet inside the garbage cupboard. I thought this was an inspired idea -- cover up 5-day old pizza smell with Febreze! Except now I have this kind of weird olfactory dysphoria where I can't tell if my laundry smells like fresh garbage, or if my garbage smells like rotting laundry.

Finally, something to put on my buttbrush

If having kids means I am required to purchase something called BUTT PASTE, I think that is reason in itself to go ahead and have my ovaries replaced with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Or something else that is equally as comforting and non-troublesome.

Also, I have posted three times today. Can you tell I am so bored at work that I'm ready to spoon my eyes out?

DIY blasphemy kit

My BFF Emily and I are both recovering born-again Bible-thumpers, so I can always count on her to exchange eye-rolls and smirks with me whenever one of our still-thumping acquaintances does something particularly Jesus freak-ish. (Like our engaged friends who vowed not to kiss until they got married. Because that's what Jesus, who apparently was made of injection-molded plastic from the waist down, would do.) It's always more fun to have someone else to blaspheme with.

Today, Emily sent me a link to this awesome site where you can create your own church sign. This is hours of diabolical enjoyment. Here are a few examples of my handiwork:

Now go forth and create your own blasphemy:

http://www.churchsigngenerator.com/

Orbit-uary

I don't know if you remember the moment when you found out that there wasn't really a Santa Claus. Or that there was no Easter Bunny laying delicious chocolate eggs outside your front door. Or that the Tooth Fairy was just your mom. Or that Milli Vanilli were just a couple of pretty-boy, no-talent charlatans. These are the kind of shocking revelations that shake us to our very core and make us question everything we've ever known.

And that, my friends, that is how I feel about Pluto's planetary status being revoked. It hurts my heart.

I feel like that was one of the basic things we were taught as kids -- there are 26 letters in the alphabet, 2 + 2 = 4, the capital of Rhode Island is Providence, "i" comes before "e" except after "c," and Pluto is the smallest, coldest, cutest planet of the 9 planets in our solar system. Now I'm like, "What? 2 + 2 = Texas? HUH? The capital of Rhode Island is butterscotch pudding?! 'I' comes before 'e' except after 3.1415? Whaaaaa?" Nothing makes sense anymore. I mean, I don't know that much, but now I'm not even sure I know what I know.

I just think it's sad that a bunch of bully scientists decided to gang up on Pluto all of a sudden. What did Pluto ever do to THEM? Meanies.

(Illustration of Pluto being kicked out of the solar system):

I know, I know. That was SO lame. But I couldn't resist. Heh.

Because, Feck Driving

As I near the 10th anniversary of my driver's license, I feel it is an appropriate time to examine my relationship with Driving. In the last few years, my relationship with Driving has been sort of, well, rocky. But I can remember an earlier time, a more tender time, a time filled with wonder when my relationship with Driving was new, and (who knows!) we could go anywhere together.

It started out very innocently... a parking lot here, a trip around the block there. But before too long, Driving and I were inseparable, spending all our time together. I couldn't keep my hands off the steering wheel! And finally, inevitably, I was ready to go all the way. With the gentle coaching of my driving instructor, I did it... on the freeway. I felt excited and nauseous and certain of my own imminent death and invincible all at once. I almost passed out when the instructor made what must have been his favorite joke: "Ok, and next time we learn how to make a u-turn on the freeway." Except I didn't know it was a joke, because he was foreign and had an accent, and for a second I thought maybe this dude didn't know the FIRST THING about driving in America, and holy shit, he was going to kill us both! Except I probably thought "holy heck!" or something far more innocuous than "holy shit," because at that time I was a C! I was a C-H! I was a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N (I-A-N!) and I knew Jesus would strike me down with acne if I were to speak any poisoned words of the devil, even if I only spoke them in my head.

Before long I dominated the freeway with my Driving, and I'd go flying along in my 1983 Toyota Celica convertible*, blonde hair whipping in the wind and a flurry of whoops and hollers and marriage proposals trailing behind me on my way to the beach, or along a winding road in the hills, or on my way to the House of the Lord where I would sing His praises, amen. Man, did I love Driving. I loved Driving with a love I thought would never die.

But you guys, I think that love might be gone forever. I mean, I get behind the wheel and I'm just going through the motions -- half the time I'm practically comatose. Now Driving is demanding more and more of my time and money, and what do I get in return? A sore back, a trucker tan, a responsibility to remain sober way too much of the time. I just feel like this relationship has become completely one-sided. And now I find out Driving is in cahoots with Carbon Dioxide to sweat us all off the planet? Oh, hell no.

That's why on Sunday, after having driven nearly 400 miles in the course of one week, a normal week, a week wherein no special trips were taken, I finally said "FECK DRIVING," and decided to take the Metrolink for the first time ever. And you know what? It was awesome. And weird. But mostly awesome.

See, there must be something about the way I look or my aura or my pheromones or something that makes strangers want to talk to me. Because I made no less than three new friends in the course of an hour on public transportation yesterday. And I'm not complaining at all -- I love talking to strangers, and the stranger the stranger the better. Barring, of course, creepy rapist/murderer types, which none of my new friends were.

While I was waiting for the train at the Covina Metrolink station, this adorable, smiley Japanese kid kept asking me questions about riding the train (I pretended like I had all the answers and never let on that I was totally new at this, too). Finally, still smiley, yet now somewhat frantically smiley, he came over and asked if I could help him buy his ticket because his English wasn't so hot and he couldn't figure out how to do it. How cute is that? So I was like his guardian train angel.

Later, on the Red Line, this really cute pregnant lady sat next to me. It wasn't until a crazy guy came on the train and was shouting meaningless obscenities that preggers made friends with me. She turned to me and told me that the problem with LA is that people are too much in a hurry, and they're too selfish, and they swear too much. And the whole problem would be fixed if people would just, like, help old ladies across the street and stuff. I found out that she's pregnant with her 3rd kid, and she's separated from her (verbally) abusive husband, though they're still technically married. And she's going to take the Greyhound to Georgia to visit her family... and truth be told, she's thinking of moving there because a change of scenery might be just what she needs, you know? So then we were BFFs and she patted me on the knee when she left and gave me blessings from god.

Pretty much immediately after that, an older man with a cane fell almost comically into the seat vacated by preggers. He gave me a sheepish laugh and shrugged his shoulders, and then proceeded to make statements that I was completely incapable of understanding. I think because he was speaking a combination of broken English and Crazy Old Man. I was able to figure out after a while that he was trying to tell me he spoke French, except he was saying something like, "I espeak Francey." He later tried to convince me that he also spoke German and Russian, so apparently it's just his English that's a little spotty.

But, new friends aside, taking the Metro was a very zen experience. My right butt cheek didn't cramp as it usually does when my foot flits back and forth from the gas to the brake during an hour+ of LA traffic. (Otherwise known as a visit to the "L.A. Festival of Traffic" -- (C) baddminton.com). And it didn't matter that I completely zoned out the whole time, because there was no risk of me drifting across a freeway and causing a massive pile-up. It was wonderful, and it's made me realize that maybe it's ok if I take a break from Driving for a while. Maybe I don't need Driving as much as I thought I did -- it's not healthy to be that co-dependent, anyway. So, here goes...

Dear Driving,

It's been real, but I've met someone new. I mean, you had to have seen this coming. You and Carbon Dioxide have been cavorting around behind my back for all these years... did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you think I wouldn't get even? Well, I've got news for you -- I've discovered Riding. And I think Riding and I are going to be very happy together, maybe happier than you and I ever were. I mean, I could never be completely over you, and I know I'll still need you sometimes. But I'm pretty upset right now, and I think it's best if we take a break. I'm so SICK of shelling out hundreds of dollars a month to support your filthy gasoline addiction. Do you know how many beers I could get for the price of just one tank of gas? Beers that I could actually drink, guilt-free, if I didn't have to worry about YOU! I just feel like you're being really selfish. Riding never asks me to stay sober. Riding also never asks me to park, and don't even get me started on THAT.

I mean, yes, it's going to be hard. Especially late at night, and also around the holidays, when Riding won't be there for me as much. But I think this is for the best, for everyone involved. See you later, Driving. Keep in touch.

Your friend,
Becky



* I use the word "convertible" here to refer to a vehicular state of being in which there was no "top." My car wasn't actually "manufactured" this way... it was more the result of a whim of one of its previous owners. So even though there was mold in the back seat, there was still the desired effect of long, blonde hair whipping about in the breeze on sunny California highways. Think the opening credits of "The Hills," except way, way, way lower budget.

Puppy love

So, last September I was feeling the tiniest bit lonely, and I was also frequently bored at work. Which was a bad combination because the boredom at work led to me pretty much camping out at www.1-800-save-a-pet.org, where I would spend hours clicking on pictures of dogs and reading about their "special needs" and plotting how I would scoop them all up and take them home with me where we would frolick in the back yard together and then watch TV marathons of "The Dog Whisperer" in one big, furry, slobbery heap on the couch. Because if I had a houseful of puppies to come home to, it would surely be impossible to be lonely. There would be too much cuddlin' and wrasslin' and lickin' and general mayhem to even consider being lonely.

So one Saturday, I just happened to be in the general vicinity of my local Petco, where the pets go, and oh, huh, isn't that funny, they coincidentally happen to have pet adoptions at Petco on Saturdays. So I convinced Emily, who was with me, that maybe we should just poke our heads in, just to see what was going on, because they were just right there, the puppies and the kitties, just across the parking lot from Target, and what was the harm in just going in and saying hello to them? None! Of course, none.

Upon walking into the Petco, our voices shot up about 42 octaves because Ooooooooohhhhhh!!! The puppiiiiiiiiiies! They were soooooooo cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuute!!!! And ohmygod look at the tiny tiny kitty! It only has THREE LEGS!!!! AGGGGGGhgggggghh! So we basically just died for about twenty minutes from cuteness and fuzziness overload.

And eventually we noticed the teeniest, most excited little guy who was hoppinghoppinghopping much higher than should be possible for a little tiny dog, Olympic-record-type hopping, and you could just see that he was thinking, "Pleaseohpleaseohplease come talk to me and be my verybestfriend! Look how high I can jump! Isn't it awesome! Huh!? Huhhuhhuh!!!?"

And so, wooed by the hopping, I went over to say hi and pick the little guy up, at which point he snuggled into my arms and asked me with his little doggie eyes to be his mommy. And the evil pet adoption people, seeing that I was weak, knowing that I was in puppy love at first snuggle, sensing my 1-800-save-a-pet addiction, ganged up on me to convince me that I needed to give this springy little wigglebutt a home. They even offered me a discount on the adoption fee -- I could pick up a new best friend for just 40 bucks. Bastards.

Except in reality there was very little arm-twisting, and it was not at all coincidental that I happened to show up at Petco, where the pets go, on a pet-adoption Saturday. I knew that the hours of online pet shopping had by this point rendered me completely powerless against a pair of little brown, pleading puppy eyes.

And that is how I came to adopt my little dog, whom I re-named Uncle Rico because I couldn't bear for him to go on living as "Tigger," his previous and totally lame moniker. Also, I had been contemplating getting a Beta fish a few months earlier and had settled on calling the fish Uncle Rico, because I thought the "Napoleon Dynamite" character of same name was fantastic. Then I decided having a fish was boring and stupid. I had been disappointed to not have something to call "Uncle Rico," though, because I thought it was an excellent name for a pet. So of course when I adopted my little guy, who was clearly a natural-born athlete, someone capable of throwing a football over them mountains, it was obvious that he must be known henceforth as Uncle Rico. If coach woulda put him in fourth quarter, they would've been state champs.

Of course now he has any number of nicknames: Rics, Ricmeister, Ric-a-lic, Turdbutt, Ric-o-la, Idiot Dog, Fatty, Rictastic, Piglet, Mister, Puppy, Nutball, Dumb Dog, Munchkin, Richard, Kitty, and Poopy McCrapsalot.

But even from day one, we were completely bonded. That first night, we took him to The Press for a celebratory beer, and my buddy Katie said that when I left to go to the bathroom, little Rics became distraught and kept looking for me until I came back to the table. AWW! After that day, I've been completely cured of my online pet shopping addiction.

Anyway, my whole point in telling that story was just so I could post some pictures of my adorable Uncle Rico. So here ya go.





Sleepy Rico in Em's lap





"You're going to want to make a right at the next intersection."





"Noooo, I love YOU more!"





Dude, Rico is magic. How did he DO that??





Snuggling is definitely what he does best.

Little Lewis Turns 21: Part I

So, I have this younger brother, Little Lewis. Except you probably wouldn't believe we were related unless you were presented with irrefutable DNA evidence and the sworn testimony of a forensics expert, because we are so, so, SO different. He basically is the embodiment of everything I stand against. Consider the following:

Little Lewis enjoys country music. Like, car radio pre-sets enjoys it.

Little Lewis owns "Cowboy Up" paraphernalia. In case you have never seen any Cowboy Up-related paraphernalia, I have given an example, below:

I'm sure I don't need to explain to you how hideous this crap is, as you are probably cringing in your seat and maybe throwing up a little bit in your mouth at this very second. When I found said Cowboy Up-related paraphernalia on Little Lewis' person, I sneered, "Oh my god, you are so 909." LL didn't know what being 909 meant, which was obviously further proof of his 909-ness.

Little Lewis is a fan of organized religion. A #1 fan. Like, if the Christian Community Church were a baseball team, Li'l Lewis would have season tickets behind home plate, hats, t-shirts, one of those giant foam fingers, penants, a coozie (inside of which would be some kind of non-alcoholic beverage, perhaps Yoohoo), and a ball signed by all the members of the Holy Trinity plus Dr. James Dobson, Billy Graham AND Pat Robertson.

Little Lewis is a republican. No, actually... he's a Republican, capital "R." Like, pro-war, pro-Bush, pro-clubbing baby seals -- the whole bit.

Now, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the only thing worse than a Republican is a Born-Again Republican... but I'm telling you anyway. Ahem: the only thing worse than a Republican is a Born-Again Republican. Who is your brother. Because then you end up receiving a keychain from them for Christmas that has the following image on it:

And then when you smirk so flagrantly your mom can practically hear it, she will turn to you and say, "*SIGH* -- Jesus doesn't just save the USA, Becky." Except she probably won't call you Becky, because I'm betting that's not your name.

Anyway, those are just a few of the ways in which Little Lewis is SO not me, so the opposite of me, so completely and entirely the antithesis of me that I fail to understand how when we are in the same room we do not cancel each other out and just disappear off the face of the earth forever and ever, amen.

SO, I was filled with delight when Little Lewis' 21st birthday rolled around a couple weeks ago.... AND all his of-age friends were out of town... SO! I could finally get my claws into the little Puritan and show him how much fun Irish car bombs and lemon drops and red-headed sluts can be!! Hooray!

Of course, when he found out what I was planning, he said to me, (and I quote), "Ok, but I'm not going to do anything immoral." (WHAT!) But then he redeemed himself a moment later by saying, "Ok, but if I'm making out with someone you can't stop me." So maybe we really are related after all.

I rounded up some fellow sinners to take the kid out and show him how a 21st birthday is done. Our first stop was the IO West for a little improvisational humor and a lot of damn cheap beers. (It should be noted that when Little Lewis was telling me what he wanted to do for his big day, he said that he wanted to see a comedy show, and that it should be "clean." hUh?) (It should also be noted that I have been seriously missing out by not spending more time at the IO, as it is a) super cheap, with super cheap drinks ($2 PBRs!!) b) hilarious c) features a handful of F-list semi-celebrities and d) is TEEMING with hot dudes. Hot dudes who are FUNNY!)

Anyway, here are some pictures of us at the IO. You can tell which one Little Lewis is by his tongue, which appears to have a life independent from the rest of his self. And it is actually photographic evidence that the two of us are indeed related, because we both have the same horrifying spawn-of-satan eyes.

But in case you can't tell, it goes Emily (drunk eyes), Little Lewis (Lucifer eyes), Madeleine (ginormous baby-blue eyes), Me (pupils of fire), Marcy (four eyes).

Stay tuned for Part II, in which much bull-riding is done by all.

Cutting edge

So, I've been seeing commercials for a product called the "Venus Vibrance" -- perhaps you've seen them, too. The VV is a razor... a razor that is battery-powered... a razor that is battery-powered and VIBRATES. Does this seem like the worst idea EVER to anyone else?

The commercials conjure up images of giddy, shiny-legged teenage girls, but all I can picture when I hear the words "battery-powered vibrating razor" is those same girls sobbing openly over the shredded carnage that was once their lower limbs.

Here is a picture of the ill-conceived death stick also known as the Venus Vibrance. Note how they try to distract you from its evilness with the cunning use of pink:

I'm pretty sure that "gently exfoliates" is marketing code for "hacks off a layer of dermis like a rabid lawnmower."

I guess this is how it's supposed to work -- the vibrating action stimulates your skin so that the hairs stand up, thus making them easier to shave. According to Gillette, users of the VV report a "soft massaging sensation" from the razor. Uhhh...? Now I am as big a fan of massage as the next girl, but there are just certain things that shouldn't be involved in the massaging + tender flesh equation. Like battery acid. Or shards of glass. Or, I don't know... RAZOR BLADES.

And do they really expect us to take a battery-operated device into the shower with us? The shower is slippery and dangerous enough as it is... why put oneself at risk for electrocution? I will keep my battery-operated devices right where they belong, thankyouverymuch -- in the top drawer of my nightstand.

The stitches come out

So, on Wednesday I went back to the discount doctor to get my stitches taken out. I personally think it was too soon to have them out, but whatever, he went to, like, online med school and knows better than me.

As I was getting out of the car, I realized to my horror that I had forgotten my book. ("In Cold Blood" -- I highly recommend it.) This was absolutely tragic, as now I would have nothing to distract me from the running, jumping, screaming hoard of wildebeasts all hopped up on Coke and chocolate that was inevitably occupying the waiting room. God DAMN it.

I could hear the shrieking as I walked out of the elevator, and my suspicions were confirmed. Children. Children piled on top of children. Children spilling out into the hall. Multiplying before my eyes, like the bunnies in that one MasterCard commercial.

I have to make it clear that I don't dislike children, usually. I think they're a hoot and a holler, and I often have the urge to borrow someone's kid and take it to the park where we would swing, and eat ice cream from the ice-cream man, and build things out of sand. (Of course, at the thought of having my own kid I am overwhelmed with sweat and start to hyperventilate a little... maybe that's something I'll grow out of.) But when I am trapped in a tiny, smelly waiting room with roughly a thousand misbehaving children, I cannot help but picture myself kicking them and then laughing maniacally as they hit the floor with a thud.

I gently elbowed some kids aside and wedged myself into a corner of the waiting room, where I had over an hour in which to observe the following:

A woman with 6 children who was so pregnant I kept waiting for #7 to shoot straight out of her loins. (Which worried me, because I was directly in the line of fire. If I were her I'd probably seal my business off with some duct tape or something.)

A child, maybe 4 years old (who can tell?), turning pages in a National Geographic about sea life and shouting "Nemo-Shark!" over and over. And overandoverandover. (actually, that was a little bit cute)

A crazy old lady wearing a big-brimmed straw hat with fake flowers super-glued onto it, a denim shirt with a giant Mickey Mouse bedazzled in silver on the back of it, and velcro shoes. And these weren't ironic velcro shoes, mind you. They were being worn in complete earnest.

A mom whose daughter kept picking up her baby brother from his stroller, shoving her nose in his diapered butt crack and saying loudly, "Wheeeeew, yeah, he poo pooed. I think he needs to be changed. Stinky stinky!" GOLD STAR TO YOU, little one. Don't think the rest of us haven't noticed -- that is why I am melting your mother's skin off with my fiery stare as she sits on her gargantuan ass not doing anything about it.

A super old dude, probably eleventy-two or so, reading an issue of Every Woman magazine.

One of the six kids I first mentioned, we'll call him #4, had a neck tattoo. Now, I have a hard time believing a 6-year-old has a REAL neck tattoo, but this thing looked absolutely legit. I'm pretty sure he just got out of juvey for popping a cap in some 1st grader's ass on the tetherball court.

Butt-sniffer girl started singing, at the top of her lungs, "I BELIEVE IN JEEEEESUUUUUS!" except she had some weird lisp-y thing going on, so it sounded like, "I BELIEVE IN GZEEEESZSHUUUUUUSS!" Just that one line, loudly and continuously. Then, when she tired of that, she moved on to "HAAALAAAYLOOOOOOOOYAH!" Again and again and again, infinity.

I think the nurses could tell I was about to go fetal and start rocking and humming, so they called me back to see the doctor. He snipped my stitches, which kind of hurt, and then he put tape over the cut. TAPE. Doc, should you really be taping up your patients? Is that what they taught you at www.YouCanBeADoctorToo.com? I'm not made out of construction paper and pipecleaners, asshole.

Luckily, I don't have to go back there EVER AGAIN. Except in my nightmares.

The shart heard 'round the world

A couple of years ago I was living with my ex-boyfriend in Australia. I mean, he wasn't my ex at the time, but he is now. Anyway. This was a very relaxed, responsibility-free time in which we had little else to do but loll about on the beach, play pool, watch "The Simpsons," and consume a small ocean of beers. We never fought, except when we were both sauced out of our minds... so the next day neither of us would have the slightest clue what we'd fought about the night before. We decided if neither of us remembered, it didn't really happen.

Apart from all the lolling and drinking and fun-having, a major contributing factor to my contentment with this boyfriend was our shared point of view toward bodily functions, namely farting. I realize I am among a small percentage of women when I say this, but I am pro-fart. Farts make me laugh -- my farts, your farts, dog farts -- they are all funny to me. You can fart in front of me; I won't be grossed out. Yeah, I'll say, "Ewwww!" but I'll say it laughing. And if you are able to produce a particularly loud, or musical, or well-timed fart, my eyes will grow wide with awe and I will say, "Woooow" as I discover a newfound respect for you.

Not only were my ex's outbursts of the bowels funny to me, but he also found my flatulence charming. It was an integral part of our courtship, and one of the things I remember most fondly about him. And it's a damn good thing, because we could have made a quesadilla the size of Brazil with all the cheese we were cutting. A steady diet of barley, hops, and malt will do that to you.

One particularly lazy Sunday morning (and by morning I mean 1pm or so), we were in the kitchen discussing what we should make for naked brunch. Suddenly, amidst discussion on the merits of fried versus scrambled, my being let loose a triumphant, trumpeting, window-rattling sonic boom of a fart. The reverb is still traveling across the Indian Ocean, I'm sure of it.

My ex picked himself up off the floor, his hair disheveled by the gale force wind. Feeling his manhood threatened to the point of extinction, he had no choice but to retaliate with whatever fury his inner recesses could muster.

It was a fart-off... to the death.

He braced himself with both hands on the kitchen counter, slightly bent at the knees, his stance just a little bit wide. A look of intense concentration overcame him, and I imagine that the face of a suicide bomber, about to die for what he believes in, must look much the same. With great effort, he squeeked out a mediocre (at best) poot... but the effort was just a little too much. Out onto the kitchen floor lept the tiniest, most cheerful little turd you have ever seen.

I went absolutely blind with laughter. Even now I just had to take a minute to recover from a fit of spastic giggles.

Winner, and still champ: Yours Truly

Cease and de-cyst

So, for the last decade or so I've had this lump in the back of my right thigh. Okay, it's a cyst... but I hate the word cyst with the white hot passion of a thousand burning suns, and I feel like when people hear "cyst" they will automatically think I have the cooties. Let's be honest, having a cyst is not exactly good game. But saying you have a lump sounds slightly less disgusting, and it implies that whatever it is might be cancerous, which doesn't gross people out as much as it makes them feel bad for you. I know, I know... I'm diabolical.

Anyway, this thing had been growing slowly and ominously for the last several years, and finally my doctor decided they should take it out, just in case.

So on Wednesday, my mom (she DEMANDED to come) drove me to my doctor's office so I could have the surgery. What you have to understand is that my health insurance blows. BLOWS. BUHLOOOWAHS. I am only authorized to see doctors who set up shop in the grungiest, most germ-infested offices: offices that smell of 3-day-old soiled diapers, with carpets that have not been vacuumed EVER, framed (probably forged) licenses askew on the walls, magazines from 1989, and a minimum of 23 screaming, wild children who take turns thrusting their sticky hands into my purse, pulling out items, and handing them to me while their parents nap in nearby chairs.

When they called me into the operating room (after an hour and a half of sitting with the demon-spawn), the nurse said, "Ok, so just undress from the waist up and put this on," indicating a paper half-gown thingy. I stared at her for a full minute before I said, "Sooo... from the waist UP?" She stared back. "Aren't you having something done with your... to your..." and then, very quietly, "breast?" That bitch was gearing up to slice and dice one of my perfectly good hoots! Now it was clear why they had me sign the paper that said: "No matter how badly we fuck you up, you promise not to sue us." These people could not tell their asshole from their elbow.

Finally everyone sorted themselves out, and the surgery seemed to go okay, despite the doctor not giving me enough anesthetic at first. I had to say, "UM, THAT HURTS." Which further deteriorated my wavering confidence in this dude. After several minutes of him digging around back there and me repeating "don't puke" over and over in my head, he triumphantly held up the cyst for me to see. GROSS. It was about the size of those little rubber bouncy balls you had as a kid, and I will spare you the details of what it looked like.

He stitched me up, had me get dressed, and gave me some instructions. AND THEN, in a little plastic jar, inside of a sandwich baggie marked "BIOHAZARD," he gave me back my cyst. What. The. Hell. Apparently, my insurance company, in all of its blow-iness, was too cheap to pay for the doctor to transport my cyst to a lab for testing. So I had to take it to the lab myself. On the way home, I kept picking up my BIOHAZARD, examining it, and then putting it back down in disgust.

My mom said, "Call your dad and tell him that we're on our way. And that we're bringing dinner."

INAPPROPRIATE.