Sanctuary. You know the place. That sacred area where you can be you. Just you. No judgment, no worries, no concerns. No, I am not talking about church. I am talking about the bathroom. Don’t pretend that you don’t know exactly what I am talking about. That sacred place where you can let loose. Make those noises that only your cat is allowed to hear, and that’s only because he is incapable of speech and vocalizing judgment. Recently I discovered that my office at work is directly across the hall from the “pooping bathroom”. Don’t look at that sentence as if I had typed it in Elvish… You have used that bathroom. The highly sought after private bathroom that gives you the comfort of home.
No one wants to poop in a stall within an occupied bathroom. Just think back, to that one experience that was so horrific, it has made you poop shy for life. Maybe it was in high school, maybe in a busy mall bathroom, or even in silent library. “OhMyGod,” you think to yourself. “I can’t go with these people in here! What if I make loud noises? What if I make the bathroom smell? They may see me or recognize my neon pink shoes when I leave?! It’s social suicide.” You contemplate sitting silently until they leave, but it seems they are doing the same thing. It’s now a pooping standoff. This is the most awkward moment of your life thus far. So you go with plan B: distraction. You begin coughing, tapping your foot, and rolling and unrolling the toilet paper – anything to cover the sounds of what is happening in stall #2.
My office at work is located in an distant part of the hospital, and it’s even more obscure when wandering the halls at 2am… and it is directly across from a single bathroom. Over the past month I have noticed a pattern of people sneaking away to this bathroom. Now, in their defense, my office has been unoccupied for about 4 months… thus, they are not used to sharing that hallway with anyone. Still, I have heard things that can’t be unheard and every time I leave my office, the smell that permeates the hallways is like getting punched in the face with a diaper. The other day, there was a poor soul locked away in the pooping bathroom. The noises coming from under the door sounded like a cross between food poisoning and World War III. Shortly thereafter, I was paged to another part of the hospital (to save a life of course!). As I exited my office, so did the occupant of the pooping bathroom. It was a nurse I worked with… all 102 lbs of her. I am sure I gave her the look of “How the fuck did that much noise come out of you?? Impressive!” And after the very brief, yet very awkward meeting, she scampered off with a look of sheer terror. It’s been over a week. She refuses to make eye contact with me. I would not be surprised if she quits her job in order to avoid me for the rest of her life.
I apologize for my lack of written communication. In the past month I have quit my job, moved to Nashville, started a new job, and had to update my plans for taking over the world. You see, things here in the south don’t quite work the same as they do up north. So my life had to be updated accordingly.
Now, since I have moved, I have done nothing but judge those around me and question my choice to move. The people here are a strange breed. And to top it all off, they don’t get me. At all. My sarcasm and blatant lack of “ladylike qualities” have certainly gotten me a couple of wide eyed stares. You would have thought that people in the south would LOVE a woman who says “FUCK” a lot. Anywho, I have decided to enlighten you about the south with the use of my cynical observations.
People DO “mosey” here. Mosey: Verb, to move in a leisurely, relaxed way. In other words, people take their goddamn sweet ass time to do anything and everything. Absolutely nothing is rushed and no one cares if you are on a schedule or time crunch. This is has caused me to scream profanities on more than one occasion. This seems to be most ubiquitous at stop signs. People of the south ACTUALLY stop at stop signs. And ACTUALLY wait the full 2 seconds before pushing on the accelerator. This has caused me to spew so many curse words in succession; I may have, at one point, summoned Beetlejuice and Satan simultaneously.
When driving south, there should be a big fucking sign that says “Welcome to the bible belt… turn back while you still can!” The other day, I was approached by a woman who looked to be 107 years old. She walked towards me in a parking garage, her eyes lit with rage. Confused (and slightly excited), I waited for her to scurry her way across level 5 and I was thoroughly disappointed when she didn’t slip and break a hip. She quickly went into a rant on how I should not be allowed to drive my car in public due to the nature of my car emblems and bumper stickers.
I tried to explain that just as she could be offended by my Darwin Fish, I could also be offended by a Jesus fish. Yet I did not feel the need to approach every Bible Thumping Christian on the road. She proceeded to tell me that she clearly needed to pray for me. My response: “You can pray for me, I’ll dance naked in the woods for you.”
Most vocabulary, verbiage, and adages do not make sense to me. Such as:
- A “buggy” is a shopping cart.
- If someone says “I’ll carry ya there”, they actually mean “I’ll show you where that is”, and it’s no reason to become defensive in thinking someone is going to touch you. Automatically taking the ninja stance is probably not necessary. I only wish someone would have informed me of this before I frightened that sweet little old man with my Kung Fu impersonation.
- “Y’all” is singular, “All y’all” is plural, and “all y’all’s” is the plural possessive.
- If you hear a southerner announce “Hey y’all, WATCH THIS!”… You should start videotaping because they’re about to become famous on YouTube.
- If there is snow in the forecast, even a state away, it doesn’t matter. School will be cancelled, the whole city will be on alert, and your presence is required at the local grocery store to purchase milk, eggs, and other things you already have in your home…. Just in case of a snow-pocalypse.
- “Fixinto” is a word. And no matter your education level, you will use this daily. As in “I’m fixinto go to lunch.”
With all that being said, welcome to the South. Please set your clocks back 150 years.
No seriously. Wait. What? Why in the hell do you have stars on your cheeks and a Tweety Bird on your neck?
Don’t get me wrong. Body art is something that is very personal, but just like everything in life, if I think it’s ridiculous, I will make a joke out of it. Usually I would assert the position of “Oh you have tattoos? Let me remove all my clothes.” Luckily for me, my boyfriend has quite the assortment of ink, none of which include Looney Tunes, Calvin and Hobbs, or something randomly picked off the shop’s wall on his 18th birthday, so this is a hypothetical letter to the man who just decided it was OK to hit on me while I am at work:
I am calling you Raul because I just happen to think that is a funny name. What about me quietly typing at my desk said “Please come interrupt me”? Or tell me how “I gots it goin’ on”? I must warn you, I am most lethal when I am calm and smiling. Yet, if you feel the need to show off in front of your “bro”, I cannot stop your stupidity. Though, I have the sudden urge to hit you in the face with a Clue-By-Four, this was even more evident as I walked away. You must have misinterpreted me quickly evacuating the area as an invitation to follow me and continue rambling about your stupid life.
So….again….for the 9th time, I will NOT be attending this “thang” at the bowling alley. And as for that Monster Energy tattoo on your shoulder… It really tells me what I need to know about your addiction to meth and predilection for poor life choices .
Try me asshole, I define unstable.
Today while perusing my FaceBook, I was bitch slapped with reality. Here I was writing about hating babies and using their tender bodies to make a stew, but a good friend was out there and he desperately wanted to start a family. I contemplated that maybe he was just hoping to start a good recipe collection as well, but I am certain I am wrong. This about HIM, not me.
Adam and I met in middle school, WAY BACK IN THE DAY ya’ll. Even then I knew he was meant for great things. Clearly he was a patient and tolerant person. He was friends with me after all, and that is no easy feat. He kept me awake through English class and we laughed while hanging out with mutual friends. He was the most kind spirited person I had probably ever had the pleasure of knowing. As the years went on, as they do, our lives went in different directions. Thanks to the joys of FaceBook, I was able to stay in contact and follow his life. And one day he fell in loooovvveee. **Cue the song “Unchained Melody”**
Adam met Eric about 7 years ago, and in the most fabulous of fashions, he proceeded to slam the door on the love of his life on the first date. Literally people, not figuratively. Adam was set up on a blind date and had one of those terrific freak outs when he saw this man on the other side of front door. He slammed the door out of disbelief. He stood there shocked, like someone who had just opened the door to see Publishers Clearing House. Yea, I would have paid to see it too. When I play it out in my head, there is also a shriek when he opens the door. Like a 13 year old girl at a Justin Bieber concert. And maybe he faints…. Speaking of fainting, why do fairy tales make fainting look so romantic? I’m sure that shit hurts. Gravity doesn’t fuck around. I digress.
As a social worker, I have to legally supervise adoptions and every time I am moved. This Grinch’s “small heart grew three sizes that day”. When love is shared, love grows. These two amazing people have more love in their pinky fingers than most people have in their whole body. During this holiday season, please look around at those you love. Your family. Your friends. Realize that each relationship is a blessing. I am writing this because I believe with every fiber of my being that these 2 amazing people deserve to have all the happiness in the world. They deserve a family. They deserve to love a child. They deserve to raise that child. They deserve sleepless nights, 3am feedings, and changing shitty diapers. They deserve to have that child hit puberty and hate them for no reason. They deserve to have that child come back to them at 20 and tell them “sorry” for being such a brat at 14. And they deserve to look at their beautiful family and know love.
Promote love people…. Promote love.
I am asking that all of you check out the following links. Pass the information on. Send them love. Or just say “Hi”. About 50% of the connection process with expectant mothers is through self-advertising. The more people that that know that they are adopting, the better chance of a connection.
If you know of, or meet an expectant mother who is looking to place a child in adoption, please pass along the toll free number (1-888-899-4338), email address (firstname.lastname@example.org), or the adoption counselor’s phone number (1800-869-1005). Please instruct her to state that she is interested in connecting with Eric Evans and Adam White.
Adoption Profile: http://www.centerforfamily.com/Resources/ericandadam.pdf
If you know me at all, you know I hate babies. #babiesareassholes is probably my favorite hashtag. And by “hate”, I mean, I usually hate the screaming, smelly, poor parented toddler who you would rather beat with a stick rather than cuddle. I never understood the fascination with babies. I love when my friends have kids, well, because THEY are happy. And I am happy for them. But as for the “awwww, I just want to smooch it”…. nope not me. I have always thought babies looked like small, emotionless aliens. They smell, can’t make facial expressions, and their heads resemble Dan Aykroyd in Coneheads. I am in constant fear when holding one that I will drop it and somehow it will land perfectly on that soft spot and it will explode like a grapefruit. Yet, unlike a grapefruit, I can’t offer to buy the owner a new one at Whole Foods tomorrow morning. Or I could, but we probably wouldn’t be friends anymore.
So today while talking to my friend Abby about the joys of menstruation and birth control, babies were apparently the next topic on the discussion list.
Me: My baby space is FUCKING killing me. God damnit! Eve was a bitch. She ate that apple and I have to pay? What the shit?!?
Abby: Get on Depo, you won’t get cramps.
Me: Depo makes you gain weight, right? That’s the last thing the world needs. I’m already pissed off that I have to deal with this every month. Let’s just add 10 pounds to the equation and people can make bets on how quickly I kill someone for a piece of chocolate.
Abby: Some people gain weight, I lost weight…. years ago. BUT…. No periods!
Me: Yea that would freak me out. I like the period…ya know…to know..for sure. It’s like a miserable safety blanket. A crampy, nasty, miserable safety blanket.
Abby: **laughs** I guess. I don’t feel anything kicking, so I’m good….right?
Me: If YOU have a baby, it will probably lay silently, plotting the world’s demise… Wringing it’s tiny, creepy hands together like Mr. Burns.
Abby: Very true.
Me: Then, without notice, it would spring out from inside you. Like that creepy thing from the movie “Aliens”…. Give us the finger… And hopefully kill Justin Bieber on daytime television.