Nothing Ruins a Friday Like a Call from The Health Department

You've spent an entire day at work. You've avoided inoculating yourself with various pathogens. You haven't even sprouted a 3rd arm from hanging out in the radiation waste closet. But you're walking out of the building and Voila! your phone buzzes and you've got a voicemail. And who is it?

None other than the county Health Department.

Damn, look what a few beers and the odd glass of wine on a Friday night will get you. It didn't even taste raunchy but alas it was. You'll know better next time.

I'm making it a policy to interview everything going in my mouth from this point forward. At least this way I'll be informed when I call the nurse at the Health Department back. They always want so much information.

But then again it's not as if the real live living entity will parade out to answer my questions about being disease free. That would be awkward.

Me: Do you have a last name?

Him: McDonald

Me: Are you clean and disease free?

Him: Cluck cluck ba-cock cluck

Me: Will you make sure that the kitchen personnel cook you thoroughly?

Him: Cluck!?! Ba-COCK! CLUCK ClUCK!!!

Me: Oh yeah. Sorry about that. It's just that I just got hurt the last time I did this and I don't want to feel that pain again. I have to be wary.

Him: Cluck?

Me: Oh I got Salmonella from your brother Ted. Old man McDonald needs to keep his chickens clean.

My Best Friend

My best friend just died. My best friend Special.

Special, who loved me when I knew no one else did. When no one else found me fit for consumption Special was there. Waiting on me, happy to see me.

Special, who sat by my bed and barked when neccessary to warn me of things that went bump in the night. Who wagged his tail when I got home to remind me that he loved me.

My best friend who protected me from all the evil in the world, even the evil exes. My best friend who used to run at night just because he wanted to be free for just a few moments of his life. Who loved his family without abandon. Who knew that they loved him. Who deserved all the love the world could ever offer and hopefully knew that the people that loved him tried to fill him up with love. Over and over again.

Special Dog, I love you. I'm glad you're free of your pain. May your soul wander the neighborhood of happy neighbors with full bowls of ramen noodles and lonely female dogs. May your soul lay in the sunshine and scrub your face on the freshly mown grass to scratch that one irresistible itch. May your sould be serenaded constantly by redheads who sing your praises in multiple languages. May your soul find that aggravating cat who was your brother and who also secretly loved you. May you find him in the great afterlife and may you two wait your wait for the rest of your family together. Tell Chocolate to take it easy on you. You deserve it.

But know this:

I'd still kick anyone out who was blaspheming you, again. You may not have been my dog from the get go but by damn, you were my dog at one point. You slept in the floor of my bedroom and snored. No one will speak ill of you. Not then and especially not now.

I love you Special. My eyes burn as I write this because I've cried so much. Mostly because I didn't say goodbye. Because I had the best laid plans to come and see you and once again I've let you down. Now I beg your pardon. Now I rely on your forgiving, unapologetically kind nature and know you'll forgive me as you always did.

You truly lived up to your name Special. You truly were a Special dog. And I miss you. And I love you. Please wait for me.

Anna Gray Feels Sorry for Boys

The transition from teenager to adult is a rough time for everybody. Some of us are lucky enough to ease gradually into adulthood and transition well. Those of us with vaginas.

Girls are groomed to be adults our entire lives. We play with dolls and in miniature versions of vinyl-sided houses complete with shutters. We watch our Mom with admiration and strut around in her clothes in a hurry to grow up. Even those of us that were awkward and wore skater jeans and t-shirts fell into the woman mold easily enough.

Boys on the other hand, not so much. Granted I guess you could argue that they never really grow up. Motorcycles, speed boats, and giant tv's become the play things of grown men but they're still very much toys. 'Big Boy Toys' and all.

Think about a boy you know, or knew, when he was 20. How he was so confident in his manhood but still sat on the bus talking about video games. Some of them grow out of it, thankfully. These men become sex symbols and send women into apoplectic fits. Thank you Don Draper. But those that don't, still they're awkward. Women spend their entire adult lives searching for an adult and rarely if ever do we find one. We find boys in men's bodies that still play video games and are just awkward. There really is no other way to describe it. Awkward. So much so sometimes you just stand and watch. It's like a train wreck. There's so much carnage but you just can't look away. They flounder and fall and tumble and teeter their way into adulthood. Even the ones that are successful are often socially inept and backward. They stand around in dad jeans and windbreakers and guffaw at their friend's tawdry jokes that haven't been funny since 1992.

I can't begin to imagine why there are so many of them like this. I'm not a man; I don't know. I imagine it has something to do with not maintaining a self-questioning, self-doubting, self-critical constant dialogue with yourself that has been drilled into who you are since you were able to toddle about on two feet.

Don't take this the wrong way. Men, you're what you are for a reason. I doubt it's going to change anytime soon. I'm just saying that after spending the last 8 years on college campuses I've noticed a trend. I'm sorry you don't transition better than you do. And I feel a little bit sorry for you in that regard.

The Test Results Are In

For the last several days I've been a bit ill. Rather than regale you with the details let's everyone assume that I've been in severe distress of the gastrointestinal kind. Yesterday I went to the doctor and had a day full of 'Gee. I've never done that before.' and other general inappropriateness. It's kind of like being on your period except for the fact that if you get tired of your period you can remove your uterus. It's much more difficult to remove your intestines. And if you're wondering they won't remove your uterus without cause. I asked last year and they got surprisingly ill about it.

Anyways, long story short, the doctor's office calls me today to tell me that my blood work was normal and that my white blood count is good. Which means I don't have an infection. Which means it's probably cancer. Or someone has poured salt on me and I'm turning inside out like a slug. But most likely, it's cancer.
Now I'll have to have chemotherapy and my hair will fall out. And the only men I'll ever get then are the sickos that have bald-chick fetishes and are psychologically and emotionally stunted because they spent their formative years scraping calluses off of grandpa's gnarly feet and now are compelled to find someone to take care of. Not to mention that my hair is really the only thing I've got going for me. Well that and my skin. I do have great skin. I also have a melon for a head, which doesn't lend itself well to baldness.

So I say to the nurse on the phone: 'So we (I like to say 'We' so that they feel involved in my decision making process. I feel it makes them more dedicated to my wellness.) still don't know why I'm sick?' She then says 'Are we doing other cultures?' 'Yes. You are doing cultures.' (I said 'You' there because I'm not doing anything but dying, obviously.) 'Oh. We don't have those results yet.' 'So everything is not normal then is it?' 'Your bloodwork is.'

Great. I'm giving birth to Sigourney Weaver's Alien; it is literally crawling around in my abdominal cavity kicking the shit out of my spleen and using my stomach for a trampoline while swinging from my small intestines like a chandelier, but my blood is normal. So much so that the doctor's office felt compelled to call and tell me. Aren't I the lucky one?

I just wanted to inform you, blog readers that I'll probably be dead soon. And if I don't die, I think I can save my eggs but they'll have a better chance of being viable if they're fertilized. So if any of you have an in with George Clooney or any other super-successful and/or talented, attractive, (they must be attractive) men that are interested in being a father please have them email me. I figure we can practice the old school way until my chemo so my ovaries get the idea and start making eggs. But please let them (the applicants for future fathers) know they may end up as a single parent.

I figure my chances of getting hit by a bus have exponentially increased due to my proximity. Plus I'm clumsy. It doesn't bode well for survival of the fittest any way you frame it.

The Stupidification of the Middle Class

I think I read somewhere or heard somewhere that America is slowly polarizing. Economically speaking of course. The middle class is apparently dissolving and people are either moving up or down, whichever the case may be.

I could see this as actually happening. But the purpose of this post is not to discuss the obfuscating economics of the country. The only way I ever understand what the Federal Reserve Board has to say is when I use that translating tool thing on Slate.com. For serious, check it out.

I want to discuss the melding of the American intelligence into a quagmire of general idiocy and stupidity. I'm not talking about politics.

I'm speaking of the honest-to-goodness stupidity that is invading our general lives. No one can spell anymore. For example, a sign on the bus under a picture of a guy who clearly has caused some trouble on the bus says this, exactly:

This man is band from riding.

Yes. You've read correctly. This man obviously has a pair of cymbals, a harmonica, two different drums and a bicycle horn hidden somewhere under his windbreaker.

I'll need you to answer your phone and bring bail money.

So at the bus station there is this weaselly little guy who sells drugs and thinks he's a bad-ass. He's clearly not a big-time drug dealer because he doesn't dress nice enough to be a big-time drug pusher. Also, he has exactly zero friends.

Oh, he knows everyone. It's not that he lacks acquaintances. They all grimace when he comes over to talk to them. They see him coming and casually, and sometimes not so casually, turn and go the other way.

For some reason, homeboy has decided that we need to be friends, He and I. This will not happen.

One day a while ago he walked over to me and just stood there. Like a lump on a fucking log. Walks over and just stands there. He's too cool to walk over and say 'Hello' or something else cordial and interrogative. No, he's got panache. He thinks he can just invade my personal space and I'll be besotted with adoration. Don't think so. I say, 'Can I help you?' (Because I wanted it to be obvious that he and I were never going to work. And I wanted it to be clear that I would like him to back out of my personal space so I went with a hypothetical question.)

Not only is he rude but he's also stupid. He says 'Yeah, I want a cheeseburger with pickles, ketchup and some fries.'

I roll my eyes and turn away.

Then there was today.

Dude walks over and starts talking to me. I didn't even make eye contact or pause the iPod, so I have no clue what he said. But it began with, 'We find ourselves together again.' Yes, obviously I came here to see you. It couldn't be that I take the same bus at the same time every weekday and you've seen me here at this spot at this time for going on 3 months now. But you clearly have no life so you just hang out at the bus station and sell drugs. He finally meanders away and tries this game on someone else. Then the bus rolls up.

Do you know that this fool has the gall to come back and fucking touch me? He wanders over while I'm in line for the bus and starts smacking my hand with the back of his.

We do not touch people we do not know.

If this was someone else I might just let it slide but you know, I think I could actually take this fool. He's not that much taller than me and you can look at him and know that he's a punk bia-tch. The kind that'd be prime ass-bait in prison. He's part of the tribe of people that act hard and buck up against everybody but then get their ass handed to them once the guy they've pissed off finishes pommeling them with one hand tied behind his back. Bad news bears I tell you. Bad news bears.

Needless to say that causing a fight at the bus station maybe wasn't the smartest thing for me to do. But the cops have told me that if you come and get me they won't press charges. They'll just let me walk with a reprimand and their sincere thanks for handling this situation.

Man, I'm going to be a hit at the bus station in the morning.

I'm a mess. Just let me be.

Today, at work, I sobbed in my office for a solid two hours.

I won't regale you with the details of why I sobbed in my office for a solid two hours but let's just say I'm having a rough day.

A really rough, rough day.

(But I did stick to my diet and eat my good, healthy lunch. Only because there were green beans involved. Without the green beans I'm pretty sure I would have lost my shit completely.)

I find that I'm the kind of person that walks the line kind of shoddily while still managing to get it done. For the most part I'm a semi-functioning adult type person with some serious emotional issues. But then somedays, I just fall the fuck off the tight-rope. Then comes the nose-dive into the moat of muck that surrounds my emotional stability. While I'm down there I usually take a couple of days to wallow around in it. Get myself good and covered. Just to convince myself that indeed, I do want to be out of the muck. There is no good that comes out of muckraking. Especially when you're the one in the muck being a rake.

I don't know why I don't cop to it. If I would come to terms with my eventual lapses of sanity I would be much happier. Hell, if I could see them coming I could just prepare for them and at least warn people.

'I'm sorry Anna cannot come out to play today. She's going to blow a gasket in about 3 hours.'

Knowing about your shit and doing something about it are two completely different things. I heard that in an episode of Grey's Anatomy and I swear to God I'd tack it up on my bathroom mirror if it didn't make me look like a total loony tune. But it's true.

I'm grateful to everyone in my life who realizes this about me and loves me anyway. It's rough sometimes and I realize that. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry.

You'll have to excuse me. I must go. I have an appointment for my mud muck wrap.