Here we again (sigh)

 It’s been 14 (I think) years. And I am still a ruinous human. 

Mother’s Day is tomorrow and I am wallowing like a grade A chicken. Why else would anyone like me? Did I mention that I was ruinous?  I am actually fucking awful. 

Surprise, surprise. I suck at life. It’s wuch a familiar refrain someday soon someone is going to be like ‘okay we’ve had enough’ and I will float away. Happily 

Drowning in my own awareness. 

Who am I?

 Here we are. By we I mean myself and my id. There are no other parts of myself. I am solely an id. I am the human that Freud wrote about. I am driven by my basic instincts - as tragic as they are. Because even though I have been alive for this long it is in SPITE of my basic instincts. 

She, the id that my body hosts, is fractious. While my soul cowers - she hides, cowers, hides. My id however rages. Howls with moon. Seizes all of the inopportune opportunities. It’s how I know I am who I am. There is a chasm within myself. 

I always second guess myself. Always doubt every decision. If I didn’t know any better I would say I was dissociative - but that would afford me a certain amount of forgiveness. I deserve none of that. 

At every opportunity I choose the wrong choice. I relish wallowing in guilt. I would rather stomach pain that receive praise for the right choice. 

I’m trying to work off who I am, but I can never get far ahead of myself to get away.

I am always myself.

And it kills me. 

Bad Boy Tilly

Some days are just days where you need to run away and today was no different for Bad Boy Tilly. Named so not because he was a law-breaking ne’er do well the women fawned over but rather a rather embarrassing choice of snack as an infant. (Vaseline while non-lethal does create a mess.) 

No, Tilly didn’t live up to his name and commit some atrocious crime that required a life on the lam today. He, yet again, waved at that cute girl in his store who always waves at his friend and most certainly, not him. Today she saw him and rolled her eyes. Try as he might he did not manage to melt into the puddle he wanted to and awkwardly mumbled some excuse as she passed him by on the way to go out back and smoke with his friend. To make matters worse his friend just clapped him on the back and invited him out back with them with an empathetic chuckle. It would have been much easier to hate him if he would have outright laughed at Tilly or made some rude gesture, but no, he was always kind. It’s very difficult to hate kind people, take it from me. 

So here it is, a chilly spring evening after just turning twenty-one and following the advice of his hip older sister he came to the bar to ‘make friends and meet people.’ So far the only person he’s met officially was Olivia whom he let cut in front of him for the line to the bathroom so she could puke. She did kiss him on the cheek afterwards and now the smell of rancid beer and pretzels invades his every breath. No matter how hard he scrubs his face. 

Now uninterested in making friends, meeting people or imbibing the correct amount of alcohol to facilitate that process he just sits and contemplates the city air. 

The change in the wind with the spring has pushed the constant smell of dog food out of the air that the factory on the edge of town manufactures. The entire city seems to have taken one big sigh. And then they collectively coughed and hacked from the 1/2” of pollen coating everything. Nonetheless, it was a happy sigh. Everyone wandered around town with a pep in their step, with that renewed hope that spring seems to bring. 

Everyone except Tilly. Even though the air didn’t smell like dog food, even though the flowers were blooming, even though everyone in town felt hopeful for the first time in months, Tilly just wanted to run. Anywhere, as long as it wasn’t this exact spot, this exact city, this exact minute. 

But here’s the thing about Bad Boy Tilly, 

He wasn’t running anywhere. He wasn’t bad at all. In fact, he was very predictable.

I'm reasonably sure my woo-woo looks like a dead baby bird.

This is another one of those blog posts that tells you waaaaaay too much about myself but that's who I am so I'm rolling with it.

I do not, nor have I ever really, had much occasion to examine the morphology of other women's vaginas.

I've always assumed that theirs resembled mine and that mine resembled theirs and that we all walked around with similarly looking twats and all was right with the world. I even avoided all those pictures of Hollywood stars climbing out of their Porsches and Lambos with a short skirt and no underwear on because I figured 'I've got one too, why do I need to see theirs?'

Well then the curiosity bug jumped up and bit me.

For some reason within the last month I have managed to become self-conscious about it. Mostly because I did lots of investigating when I was trying, in vain mind you, to fish out the extra birth control ring I shoved in it in my Ambien stupor. So with an elaborate set-up of mirrors and flashlights to see if I could see inside it I got the occasion to look at it. Actually look at it.

It looks like a dead baby bird.

No, mine doesn't have a beak or those really superficial veins in it or eyeballs (Wouldn't that be super fun though!) but if you take the time to really consider it and think about it, it has that kind of greyish-pinkish pall that dead baby birds have. Especially once their feathers have started to grow in but haven't completely broken through the skin yet so its just all bumpy but you can still see where the feathers would be when they do finally grow in. (I'm not a natural blonde.)

But wait! This story does have a happy ending. I mean my vagina doesn't sprout wings and fly off somewhere but I am getting to a point here.

Apparently there is this new trend in women's health where women are doing craaaaaaazy things to make their nether regions look prettier for their partners. Here is what I have to say about that.

In my lifetime, my dead-baby-bird vagina's lifetime, no one has ever taken a look at my woo-woo and said 'You know what. I cannot make love to you because your vagina is simply not pretty enough.' And if someone ever did look at my vagina and say that, I'd make them wish that my vagina really was a dead baby bird because I'd go all Velociraptor on their ass. They'd wish for a little pecking and chirping. It is a sad state of affairs when our fellow women feel the need for vaginascaping above and beyond spending the minutes it takes to shave all of the hair off of that thing.

It is a vagina. It is supposed to look like a vagina and damnit you should be proud of it. You should thank God that he had enough good sense to bless you with your sex organs on the inside of your body where they won't get smashed all to bits by anyone with a vendetta against you or because you're a clumsy mother-fucker. I for one am. That's right. My vagina looks like a dead baby-bird and I'm proud of it.

I am preparing for my stint in Hell.

I am probably going to Hell. Who are we kidding? I'll be driving the bus to Hell.

The way I cuss and binge drink socially combined with my inherent belief that some people just deserve to die; I'm a prime candidate to spend eternity amongst the sinners and those doomed to roast ad infinitum. 

But I am starting to wonder if I'm beginning my endurance training for it now. Do you want to know the temperature of my office?

It is currently 80.4 degrees Fahrenheit in my office. Yes, that is right. 80.4 degrees. Everywhere I go it is HOT. At night, my room-mate who has absolutely zero circulation keeps it HOT in our apartment so I sweat, all night long. I wake up and the first thing I do is sigh because I'm suffocating in the heat. The heat of my own house.

The crazy thing is that I like the heat. I like it outside, when the sun is shining, and some kid named Pablo is bringing me a margarita, and I'm baking in the sun like a Thanksgiving turkey. That's the color I aspire to in my tanning - Thanksgiving Turkey. Well not really, but kind of. I do enjoy having a tan. Mostly because it is one of the few things I do well. It combines actually laying around, without pants, and sometimes drinking. Are you kidding? I should have a medal in tanning. I do all of those things superbly well.

Anyways I digress. Must I spend the rest of my dying days suffering everyone else's poor circulation and slow metabolism? Am I doomed to sweat every second of every day for the rest of my poor, pitiful life? Must I throw open a window every 15 minutes and shove as much of myself as I can get out the window to have a respite from the heat? (Which by the way is quite dangerous for me because I'm totally top-heavy and unless someone is holding on to my feet I'm a goner.)

I would think that maybe I'm having a hot-flash except for the fact that IT IS 80 FUCKING DEGREES IN MY OFFICE.

I wonder if anyone would notice if I took off my pants in my office...

I am in a pickle.

Normally I bumble through my life and somehow, maybe by the Grace of God, I manage to pretty much make it through unscathed. Then there are moments like now and the predicament I am currently in.

I've pretty much quit sleeping. That's really not that germane to this story except I need you to know why I am often in a drug induced stupor. Because I cannot sleep and also it's kind of fun.

Ambien is one Hell of a drug. It works. Very well. And I had the conversation with my doctor where I asked her if I would wake up in the morning with a Baby-Ruth stuck in my hair because I'd been sleep-eating and she says 'Nooooo. That's really rare.' She did not warn me however that once you take the Ambien you had better be where you plan on staying for a couple of hours because it is almost instantaneous stupor.

You need to take all of this into consideration right about now because I'm getting ready to tell you about the pickle I'm in.

I am on a steady birth control regimen (No, I'm not preggers. Thaaaaaaaat would be way more than just a pickle of a predicament.) and I would like to take this moment to thank the folks at Merck for coming up with this brilliant form of birth control where I don't have to remember to take a pill everyday, the NuvaRing. I'm not sure why I continue to take said birth control because my poor uterus isn't seeing much action these days but one can never be too careful so hence I am on said birth control. The convenience of not having to take a pill everyday is somewhat offset by the fact that when it is time to remove said device from your vaginal cavity you have to reach up there and get it. No big deal.

Except when you've put two in. And the second one has squished the first waaaaaaaaaaaaay up there and your fingers are just too damn short, no matter how far you can get your legs behind your head. All this because you decided to take your Ambien before you put your first ring in and then woke up the next morning and panicked that you forgot and went ahead and stuck the second one in. Fast forward an hour or so and you start to kind of have remembrances of maybe putting one in the night before but you aren't sure because you were in a daze from the Ambien and the only choice left to you is to go on a spelunking mission looking for one, or both, of them.

I'm no medical expert but I'm reasonably sure that they only want you to wear one ring at a time. (Is it considered 'wearing' when it's not on the outside of your person?) I'll probably actually have a stroke in the next couple of days unless I manage to get this thing out. And I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to get this done. This is just simply not one of those favors you can call in to your best friend(s).

'Hi Bestie! How's it going?'

'Good, how are you?'

'I'm in a pickle and I need your help with something.' (Notice how I don't say what it is. That would be favor suicide.)

'Sure thing. What is it?'

'Weeeeeeeeeeeell I might need you to stick your fingers in my vagina and fetch my NuvaRing.'

'----  uh. ---- Hmmmm. ---- ---- ---- You know Anna, I really gotta go. I have to go ---- do ---- things. But Good Luck!'

Maybe I should have just asked for a crochet hook instead.

This is why I need a boyfriend.

My campaign to keep placenta off the radio.

Yesterday I was on my way home and that annoying song 'Lightning Crashes' from that band LIVE (Which is really difficult to Google by the way. Go ahead and Google the word 'Live' and see where you get.) came on the radio and I've decided that it is not only annoyingly overplayed but also inane. Here's why.

The second line of the song goes like this: Her placenta falls to the floor.

Have you EVER seen a placenta? I have. And I get that this song is about his baby being born or abortion or something meaningful but for serious? Let me tell you what would happen if a placenta fell to the floor.

First, they're not small. It takes two hands to hold them. (I know this because my office is beside the anatomy lab and I ALWAYS manage to walk by when they're changing the fixative on the placentas. Guh-ross.) And they smell. And there is a lot of fluid. They're kind of like if you took one of those plastic bags from the grocery-store and put a liver in it. And then filled it with partially bloody, smelly fish water.

If this thing supposedly 'fell' to the floor then it would 'PLOP'. There's some accurate onomatopoeia for you. PLOP. Take a minute and think about the PLOP that would happen when your liver and fish-water filled grocery bag fell to the floor. Heaven forbid if there was still fluid in it because then it would dribble out and make a slippery puddle. And all the medical professionals in the room would slip and slide and fall down in a comical impression of ice dancing. Except for ice there would be nasty placenta fish water.

That is assuming that there are medical professionals in the room because why else would the placenta fall to the floor. Is there no one catching said placenta when it is shat from said lady's vagina? Or have they caught it and then placed it on a table? Why would you put it on a table? I get that they need to test it and what not but still.

'Here. Here is a lovely spot for this placenta to rest for the mean time. On this table.'

THROW IT AWAY. IT IS GROSS.

My main point here is that in no way should placenta be mentioned in this song. It by no means lends a certain amount of romanticism or gravity to the song. It's just gross. If the second line of your radio song perplexes the public so much so that they are no longer listening to your song but thinking about the sound that a placenta would make as it fell to the floor then you are not doing your job as a singer/songwriter.

But after that I did start thinking about the placenta growing legs, chucking up the deuces and walking the fuck out of the procedure room and that made me giggle. So there's that.