I Can’t Heeeearrrrr You, Part 1

It’s my own fault. I didn’t learn to be careful what to wish for until too late.

I spent most of my youth pining to be deaf. I used to steal my father’s hearing aids when he was out cutting the lawn so that I could experience the feeling of the appliances in my ears. I still remember exactly how the world sounded while I listened with the aids—there was a delicate, metallic whooshing overlaying the sounds of my world: the television I could hear from the other end of the house, the lawn mower buzzing outside, the central air purring through ducts. I made my own secret hearing aid out of a non-working transistor radio for those times when my daddy’s “ears” weren’t available. I’d strap that sucker inside the front of my bra and pop in the ear phone, and voila! I was a deaf girl.

I had half a dozen deaf childhood friends—which I now find odd—and they all had the battery pack/amplifier that they wore on their chests and double wires that connected to their ear molds. I really, really didn’t like that they were special, and that I wasn’t. So. I wished. And play-acted. Until I really didn’t have to anymore. Too late to take back that shit.

I have been hearing impaired for so long that I can’t recall what it is like not to have to ask people to repeat everything, not to miss ninety-nine percent of any movie that isn’t closed-captioned, not to grin like a fucking moron most of the time because I’m pretending that I hear what’s going on around me.

My darling BFF, Lisa, posted on FB today the question, “How many times is it appropriate to say ‘what?’ before you just nod and smile because you didn’t hear or understand a word they said?” Shit. I don’t even say, “What?” most of the time anymore. I just watch people’s body language and project happy-face if a person looks like she’s telling me something exciting and positive, or shoot the old concerned-countenance if a person seems to be relating something negative. Every now and then I get it wrong. So. If I’ve rejoiced at the news of the gruesome decapitation of one of your loved-ones, I’M SORRY. It sucks, but I just didn’t hear you.

The Grammar Guru in Me Has Gone Gonzo.

I. Have. Fucking. Had. It.

Is it so very freaking difficult to use the proper rules of standard-freaking-English? I realize that English is no longer the national language of our dear country, but shouldn’t it take decades for English to go the way of Latin?

Or is English already dead?? I am beginning to believe so. Exhibit A: American Idol, this evening.

First, young Haley sang (loosely used) an unreleased Lady Gaga number. (The song should STAY unreleased for eternity if that performance is any indication.) The title of the song is “You and I,” which is gag-worthy in itself. To add hate-mongering insult to brain-murdering injury, OF COURSE I is used incorrectly. The pronoun I  is only used when it is a flipping subject. If it is the object OF something, then the object form, me, must be used. So, when Haley screeched ovah and ovah and ovah, “…about you and I,” my spleen burst into flames. Thank God I don’t need it.

Thennnn, after Haley warbled her second song—an interesting take on The Animals’
“House of the Rising Sun”—my dear, lovely Jennifer Lopez, the Most Beautiful Woman in the World according to People magazine, said, “That song has never been SANG that way before.” Immediately, Oxford English Grammar declared her “NOT the Most Intelligent Woman in the World.” And my charred spleen fell out of my ass. I am SO sending the medical and upholstery-cleaning bills to Ryan fucking Seacrest.

Exhibit B: Honda. The humongous car corporation has a new television ad, which contains this phrase scrolled in gargantuan letters across the screen: To Each Their Own! Raise your hand if you know what is wrong with that!! Anyone? Anyone? Goddamned BUELLER? If the execs at Honda tell the bazillions of viewers watching American Idol that it is okay to use the plural pronoun “they” with the singular antecedent “each,” then how can lowly English teachers like me undo the spleen-exploding damage? I mean, Jesus, I know the Japanese are famous for fucked-up English like “please follow hand ladder watering, in order to prevent slip and fall down to get hurt,” (from a swimming pool rules sign), but Mother of Godzilla! When will it stopppppppppp?

Chicken of the Sea

Well, hell. I am pretty bummed that the US government wrapped up and shoved overboard into our oceans the carcass of Osama-Used-to-Been-Laden. I know, I know. Cain’t build a shrine if thar ain’t no body to worship. Although even if Looney-Laden’s body were to be available for eternal viewing, there would still be NOBODY worth worshipping.

But, the decision to honor Muslim religious rites isn’t the cause of my discontent. Most religious rites suck ass anyway, so I say fuck all of ‘em. (Whoever came up with the idea of grieving family members viewing bloated, cold, dead people who have permanent clown make-up deserves eye-gouging and testicle-twisting because I’ll bet you it was a man.) I just think having his holey-ness (once the fishes get to him) under the sea taints all my future dinners at Red Lobster, even more than that God-forsaken BP fuck-up. All seafood will now and forever have an—I don’t know—rotten-mother-fucker taste to it. Anyone who eats future crustaceans will in effect be ingesting radical meat-o’-Muslim.

When the sharks that get ahold of corpse-Laden start washing ashore with the frozen expressions on their toothful little faces reserved only for those in the throes of rocket-powered diarrhea, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Trump bin Laden Sheen

The world may be a better place without Osama, but wouldn’t it have been far sweeter if bin Laden had been throwing a little tea party for asswipes on Sunday? I can just imagine the scene:

Inside a million-dollar compound in Pakistan—unnoticed by local political leaders and officials of the military academy within walking distance—a banquet table, draped in a dainty floral-patterned silk, overflows with scones and jam, buttery tea biscuits, iced lemon cakes, and delicate China cups brimming with café au lait.

The Donald leans slightly forward as Osama tops off Trump’s beverage. The “winning warlock” gently chews a petit four. Osama wiggles a teapot in Charlie’s direction.

“More tiger’s blood for my favorite infidel?” Osama inquires. Sheen declines with a slight wave.

“No. No more for me. I’ve got to go drain my torpedo of truth as it is.” He spots a twelve-year-old girl hesitating in the doorway. “Excuse me,” he says to his fellow fuckers, “Gotta go grab me a goddess.” On the way out, Sheen playfully flips the Donald’s hair.

“Goddammit, Charlie. It took five hours and six stylists to get that right this morning. Now I’ll never be president,” Trump seethes.

“Oh, comb on, Donnie. If I can get my career back after all the lies CBS has spread about me, then you can bounce back from a little follicle fuck-up. We shall overcomb!” Sheen explodes with laughter at his own dumbassness. Trump executes an inverted facelock elbow drop, and the two celebrated dipshits soon end up naked and grappling on bin Laden’s linoleum. Just as Osama strips his pastel striped dress over his head to join in the gay old time, a team of Navy Seals in night-vision goggles drops in for a treat. They shoot anything that even remotely resembles a dumbass.

And the world lets loose a collective sigh of relief.

Fade to black.

You Know What Sucks? LipoSUCtion.

I admit it. I’ve had liposuction. It hurt like a mother, but it did do exactly what the doctor claimed it would. It “reshaped” my trouble areas. The only thing is that the new shape is more Quasimodo than Barbie. Never did the physician tell me that once I had fat sucked out of my squarish hips and my inner thighs—which I always wanted to have a space between while my feet were together the way cheerleader legs have—that fat cells would sprout up in places I’d never had them before.

In case you’re not familiar, here’s how liposuction works in twenty easy steps:

1.)    Anesthesia is administered, but apparently it is only the “twilight” kind which doesn’t deaden a goddamned thing but makes you “forget” the pain. My ass.

2.)    Incisions are made in areas near the suction sites. The surgeon skillfully slices your tender flesh open with something mother-fucking sharp. I remember thinking, “That son-of-a-bitch is using something mother-fucking sharp to slice the tender flesh of my…private area, which I clearly did not give permission for him to do.” What I actually said was, “Ouch. Ouch. Ouch,” while some gloved hand repeatedly slapped mine away.

3.)    A very long, straw-like canula (from the Latin word for reed because the canula is hollow and large like a reed instrument such as a fucking clarinet), is threaded into the incision and down to the suction site where it is then jammed over and over and over into tender flesh to hack away large portions of fat-cell-filled tissue and to suck them out. The contents are vacuumed into an extra-extra-large Ziplock bag. The canula is mother-fucking sharp.

4.)    There is no attempt at actual cosmetic shaping because the surgeon is too busy viciously slashing as if he is angry with the fat or with you or with all of humanity.

5.)    Once the carnage is over, the incision sites are stitched, and compression garments are heaved up over your vacuumed areas.

6.)    You are sent home high on some drug, your incisions leaking excess saline tinged with your blood, which you deserve to have stain and ruin the car’s upholstery if you forgot to bring old towels.

7.)    You are in sweaty delirium and scathing pain for days and days until you go back to the doctor to have him take out your stitches, which is akin to having some son-of-a-bitch stick needles into your inflamed bruises and then rip them out really fast.

8.)    You continue to wear the compression garments for several weeks, and you may or may not get used to peeing through the cut-out hole in the girdle.

9.)    Finally, the day comes to remove all the bandaging and to view the new you.

10.)  There is lots and lots of cussing.

11.)  You are all lumpy and green and yellow and not at all svelte like those brochure thighs in the waiting room.

12.)  You wait patiently for years for the brochure thighs, which never materialize.

13.)  Meanwhile, your sides grow considerable handholds, which flop over the elastic waistbands you now are forced to wear.

14.)  Your upper back has folds.

15.)  Your upper gut looks like it’s expecting. Triplets.

16.)   No clothes of any kind ever fit correctly again.

17.)  You no longer fit into the “apple” or the “pear” category. You are one of those bumpy, misshapen gourds that comes out only at Halloween.

18.)  You never wear a swimsuit to the beach for the rest of your life without someone calling for a marine rescue.

19.)  There is still no space between your thighs when your feet are together.

20.)  The only thing that sucks more than liposuction is that you have no one but your own sorry fat ass to blame.

Oh, God. We’ll ALWAYS have Paris.

Jesus. When ugly old Humphrey Bogart snarled out of his overbite the words, “We’ll always have Paris,” to his torn-between-two-lovers dame in Casablanca, NEVER did he imagine the heinous association that would forever taint the word “Paris” four decades later. Mona Lisa, the Eiffel Tower, even buttery croissants cannot redeem their homeland because any mention of its name conjures up that other Paris. You know. The one with the pocket pooches. The one with the mouth-breather stare so utterly blank that there simply can be no other explanation than this: Fred Flintstone lives inside her hollowed-out carcass, working the controls like he used to on the dinosaur down at the rock quarry. Or maybe the little bird inside Fred’s camera needed a new job. Whatever. There is clearly no one home inside that vapid blight. Her show wasn’t called The Simple Life for nothing.

Why is this skinny sack o’ money constantly in the fricking news? The possibilities:

  1. She has a new reality series coming out, so we all need to know exactly when to tune in to see her keen mind working about as fast as dead mule. With ankle weights.
  2. She has been arrested, and we all need to tune in to see her spend a harrowing eleventy seconds in jail.
  3. She has to appear in court to testify about the “scary” incident of waking up to find that she was in no danger whatsoever because some stalker tried to break into her “mansion,” but her “security team” dispatched his ass in less time than she’s spent in jail.
  4. Some stalker (i.e., skank she screwed, who probably expects lots of money) has “assaulted” her current boyfriend (i.e., skank she is currently screwing, who probably expects lots of money)…and it was surprisingly caught on tape! Just like that time she screwed that skank who then sold the tape to the tabloids because he expected lots of money! That’s fucking news. Literally.

Why doesn’t she just go away? How does she continue to perambulate to and fro even though I am positive L.A. uses those pesticide trucks to fog its neighborhoods? And do you suppose she ever flits around the room like a balloon when her security team lets all the air out of her at night? Just asking.

C*nt Never Could

Holy shitwads, y’all! Gwenyth Paltrow appeared on Chelsea Lately—the only late, late night talk show with a woman behind the main desk—a couple of nights ago. This is, apparently, BIG news. Or the uproar could be that while on the show, Gwynnie called her grandmother a really, realllllly nasty name for the female genitalia. In case you are too chaste to know what the word is, then I’ll give you a hint, and perhaps you’d like to tell me what the fuck you’re doing reading this in the first place. Hm? Nothing? Mm-hmm.

For you sheltered mama’s boys, the word that Ms. Paltrow said begins with a “c.” It rhymes with “cunt.” Do you think you have it figured out? I’ll give you a sec. Thaaaaaat’s it. Yeah. Gwyn called her own grandmother that derogatory name because she was trying to riff off some stupid shit that Chelsea said about her grandma, which wasn’t even funny like 90% of what Chelsea says.

Well, my grandmother could kick both their grandmas’ asses in the kitchen; she smoked Marlboro Reds for sixty-five years; and she said things like, “Cain’t never could,” which means “Stop yer fucking bitching and whining and saying, ‘I can’t,’ and just do the goddamned thing I told you to do.” Whatever she told me to do generally concerned picking shit out of the garden in the Georgia heat and then shelling it for dinner as if I didn’t have better things to do in the air conditioned den where the t.v. was. “Peas cain’t shell themselves,” she’d bleat. To which I’d think, “Cain’t never could, you fucking peas.” I never said anything out loud, or I sure as shit wouldn’t be here whining today.

The thing that gets me about Gwyneth Paltrow’s c-word utterance is that every damned body is so shocked. Is there really anyone who still believes in the sparkling, studio-spun celebrity persona? Rock Hudson screwed boys, people. The jig’s been up for years. Gwyneth does not shit diamonds or have gold for blood. She isn’t immortal, as far as I know, and she calls her grandmother a cunt. She is one of the greatest actors I’ve ever seen, but since when does pretending well mean you’re better than everyone else? Shit. If that’s all it takes, where’s my fucking limo?  I’ve been married four previous times. Don’t tell me I cain’t act.

Plumbfucking Plumbing

I have a problem with my plumbing, and, no, I do not mean that plumbing. Although at my advanced age, I could technically be talking about that plumbing. But I’m not. You don’t need to know the status of my goddamned vayjayjay. I’m talking about plumbing. You know: water issues in my house.

The first problem is that the water pressure in the kitchen sink used to be about as strong as the stream of an 80-year-old with a bowling ball for a prostate. Then the phenomenally gifted maintenance staff at our complex fixed it. Now when we turn on the faucet, water firehoses out with intermittent jackhammer bursts of nuclear power. The sound is especially pleasing.

My bathtub’s pressure, on the other hand, changes with its temperature. I can choose freezing-ass dribbles or a scalding-ass spray. Neither one can rinse the dry off a cotton ball, but clean is so overrated anyway.

Another fabulous feature of my bathroom is the unintended bidet. You know what a bidet is, don’t you? You in the back? No? Has your head been up your ass until now? Maybe if you had a bidet you would know these things because it would have washed your head out of your ass.

That’s right. A bidet is a separate potty-looking thing that shoots a plume of water up your ass so that you don’t have to sully your hands or precious sensibilities with toilet paper like the little people. My father had one installed in his master bath once, and I thought, Oh, how cute. His-and-her toilets for the couple who can’t bear to be apart for even one shitting second. Literally. And then I used the weird looking toilet because I didn’t know it was a bidet, and water shot all up my…wait. I said I wasn’t talking about my goddamned vayjayjay. Nice try.

Anyway, my current toilet has a vicious pressure when it’s flushed. Water blasts out of the front at the speed of light, and I swear I don’t have a single wrinkle in the privates anymore because of the defacto laser treatments. And the shock of an unexpected tepid torpedo of H2O to the pelvis-y area is an extra little wake-up call each morning. It’s difficult to go back to sleep once your loins have been bitch-slapped. Plus, it’s hard to argue with the supreme clean of a sand-blasted genital. Wait. What? Am I talking about my…Dammit.

Houston, We Have a Problem

I blame America. If it weren’t for the pervasiveness of our national language, Spanish, I would not have to be assaulted daily by clueless minions of the service industry who toss off that overused phrase for which life imprisonment in the hold should be the minimum punishment: “No problem.” Oooooo. I just want to pummel within a millimeter of death anyone says those three little syllables.

I thank the waiter for bringing my food. “No problem.” I tell the girl who let me in front of her in line how much I appreciate her kindness. “No problem.” I hand the doctor my entire life savings to pay him the ten-fucking-thousand dollars I owe him for a ninety-second surgery. “No problem.” Well. I’m thrilled as holy hell that no one has to put forth any effort on my part these days.

The phrase, “No problem” is the ugly twin-sister of the Spanish answer to “Thank you.” Gracias for the taco. De nada. Gracias for the boost over the border fence. De nada. The Spanish phrase means literally “of nothing” or “It was nothing.” In other words, “I didn’t have to expend any unnecessary energy to do that for you. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done it.”

Every time someone hurls a “no problem” at me, he/she is really saying that I’m not worth his/her spending any real time/money/labor/thought. Every “no problem” is a personal diss, which just gets my goat. And I have a problem with that.

F***ing, C***sucking Cockroaches

The number one thing in the world I hate, despise, and abhor more than poverty, illiteracy, prejudice, torture and unwanted facial hair COMBINED: sonofabitching, buttfucking, asslicking cockroaches. How DARE there be a cutesy cartoon version in Wall-E!? I officially detest Pixar’s art department for implying that those godforsaken cretins could have any redeeming qualities.

It’s painful even to write about the motherfuckers. But! I was just fishing for topics, and the universe—bitch that she sometimes is—threw one my way. Literally. I went to my closet to find a cord for a hearing aid device, and I pulled down a box from the top shelf. I haven’t visited that box since we moved it here from Cucaracha Villa, the rental house we shared with four million roach bastards last year. When I retrieved the box, I knocked down an old make-up container, which had a partially opened zipper.

A millisecond later, I spied out of my eye corner a ginormous, black behemoth scurrying across the closet carpet. My usual spastic fit ensued, which my husband and daughter noted with the blithe expressions of flush septuagenarians nursing juleps on the fucking veranda. You know, they could have moved their asses because that cocksucker isn’t going to kill itself.