No Honey, That’s Jesus.

The following is an actual, honest to God, conversation I had with a Wal-Mart checkout lady last week.  I think it is an excellent representation of why I consider Toothlesstown, VA to be a gem among rural towns.

The Setting: I stand next in line at Register 12 behind a biker chick having a very personal, very loud phone call.  I am now close enough to the front of the line that I awkwardly smile and say hello to my checker who winces back. She looks shockingly like Karen Carpenter, but with more protuberant teeth.

Me: Wow!  You have really pretty eyes!

“Hello!  My name is Angie”: Well thank you!  That is just so niiice.

Me: [holds smile for another second then breaks eye contact to fiddle with keys]

Angie: [holds silence for 8 beats and then in a voice filled with portentousness and in the accent of Blanche Devereaux from the Golden Girls…] You know they say the EYE-YES are the WIN-DOWS to the SO-WEL! [Widens eyes to maximum]

Me:  Umm... yeah, I think I have heard that somewhere.

Angie:  I believe it is true.  AbsoLUTEly.

Me: [awkwardly] well then your soul must be very lovely.

Angie: [staring unblinking into my eyes with her serial killer stare] You know, I think you must be riiight.  Do you kno-ow, two yea-ars ago I had a ra-are brain tumor was in a coma for TWO-and-a-HALF months?

Me: Wow!

Angie: Ye-us.  Mah brain was so swollen that mah skull had to hang off of mah brain for TWO-and-a-half MONTHES.

Me: Well, you hair looks great.

Angie: [not missing a beat] Mah condition was so ra-are that only two cases have evah been reported in the United States.  I was given a two par-cent chance of livin’. 

Me: Well that is an amazing story, you must’ve had great doctors.

Angie: No honey, that’s Jey-sus

Me: [terrified smile]

It is finally my turn to check out and Angie starts scanning and bagging my food which I suddenly wish she was not handling for reasons I cannot explain.

Me: [Swiping my debit card] So… did you have cool dreams while you were in a coma?

Angie: Why no child, they weren’t dreams!  I went to heaven!

Me:  To heaven?  Really? 

Angie: Of co-ourse!  Jey-sus came to me and led me up to heaven where my grandma met me and wrapped me up in her aarms.   She’d been dead these fifteen whole ye-ars, God rest her.

Me: So… you really saw… Jesus?

Angie: Why, every day!  Jey-sus and I were tight up in Heaven!  But then you know after a month or so, he came to me and took me in his aarms and said, “Angie- it is not yet your tiiime.  I have a great-ar purpose for you.  YOU MUST GO BACK!  And so I did.”

Me: [Nodding so the Keeper of the Crazy Eyes wont attack me] That’s amazing!  And how lucky too, because it took all the mystery out of death!  You don’t have to be afraid of dying anymore and you don’t have to worry about having faith because you have already seen it all!

Angie: Oh, I nevah had trouble with faith!  Imma good Christian woman all my life.

Me: Really?  That’s cool.  I am more of a flip-flopper about the existence of God myself.  But thanks! 

Angie: [Stares at me in horror]

Me: Have a good night! [I flee into the night before she hands me white pajamas or offers me some Kool-Aid]

Chauvinism Chevrolet

        If we are Facebook friends, dear reader, you were there for the bitching, the endless whining, winging, and self-pity parade that was JOB HUNT:2012.  Confronted with the fact that I had maxed out my credit card like a white trash housewife with a case of Yuengleng and all-day access to QVC, I realized that my time as a care free (and paid) university student was over.  Adulthood had officially began.  I mean, I still live with my mom, but you know what I mean. And so, with the bright glint of optimism in my eye and spoon full of hope in my…  (pocket? Whatever) I started filling out job applications. 

       Then more applications.

       Then more. 

       Is my email working properly?  I should’ve heard something by today!

       Fifteen more applications.

       “Hello?  Yes, I applied to your company three weeks ago and I never got a call.  The job is still posted online and I have a stunning resume AND articulate letters of recommendation, so what is the problem?   *click*

       More applications.

       Twenty-eight more.

       More!  *weeps, rips out hair, screams irrationally at loved ones* and more!

       And 3 months later I had filled out over ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY applications for employment.  Apparently I am retarded and nobody bothered to tell me.  Or maybe it’s just that nothing about my previous work experience or first class education at a top ranked university has qualified me to do any of the following: be a secretary, a teacher, an assistant administrator, a phone operator, a customer service agent, an animal wrangler at Petco, a server, a shelf stocker, a maker of copies, a checker at grocery stores, a people greeter at a hospital, or even a babysitter.  It is a mark of my desperation that I was actually eager and desperate to be a babysitter.  I was cheerfully willing to clean snot as my full-time job for a child that I was not genetically obligated to love through direct motherhood.  That’s bad.

       Then, like a gift/punishment from Heaven, I received what was literally my second interview ever.  The first was for a job in the paint department at a Lowes located over an hour away from me each direction.  I am allergic to paint fumes, they make me stop breathing, but whatever- desperate times.  The next offer of an interview was for a company I shall call Chauvinism Chevrolet, a new and used car dealership located in the heart of ToothlessTown, VA where I now live. 

       I suspected something was deeply wrong with the job when my future boss informed me that diversity was key at Chauvinism Chevrolet with the following sentence: “In fact, we are so okay with people of every color and gender that we have hired eight colored people on staff, which is a lot more than the other dealerships in this town!”  Gosh.  That sure is great to know, but I don’t think I will be bringing my “colored” boyfriend to the company picnic this summer, ‘kay?

       My boss was all very amiable through my three interviews, and tried to be accommodating when I asked for a schedule that still let me run down and visit my boyfriend-of-un-disclosed-racial-decent on weekends, even though he drives a foreign car.  Then on my first day of work, everything went horribly wrong.  Bossman plopped me down in my office, put on his Serious Face (and by this I mean his regular expression) and told me in no uncertain terms that “this was a man’s business” and I would likely “never be respected” by my fellow salesmen or by the men in the service center.  “Even if you work here for years and try to prove yourself, there will be people here who look down on you, who will try to steal your sales and feel they have a right to because you are a woman.  You just need to know that up front.  Just toughen up your skin and check your emotions at the door.”  Lovely.

       The first task of the day was to meet the staff.  I had met Mr. Chauvinism (who owns the dealership and for whom it is named) in a previous interview, but at the time he refused to meet my eyes, even while we shook hands.  As every single employee told me later, he never looks at you because he is “always grumpy” and “hates everyone”.  “Don’t take it personal, it’s just the way he is,” they said.  Well super!  However, it is my theory that Mr. Chauvinism is not merely appallingly rude, but actually an alien in hiding like in Men in Black.  After working for over a month, I was forced to go to The Corner Office (which is always spoken of in hushed tones overlaid with doom) and for the very first time, Mr. Chauvinism looked me full in the face.  His eyes are huge, all black and very wet looking in his thin, grouchy face and he never blinks.  My soul sort of shriveled at the sight, and I feel sure he saw it.  If he looked everyone in the face like that eventually someone with less authority issues would mention it and his cover would be blown forcing him to return to his planet of origin!

       Then I met Bob, who looks like a mournful blood hound.  He sat me down and the first words out of his mouth were an explanation of how he did not like anyone at the company.  He did not like to socialize or speak to anyone.  He only went to the company get-togethers because he has to as a member of the management.  Then he launched in a beautifully devastating character sketch of every employee, out-lining their recent dramas, scandals, personal failings, and general lack of intelligence.  Never mind that I still know nothing about cars or what it is I am supposed to actually DO with myself now that I am employed, Bob just kept pouring out the juicy details with rich and descriptive adjectives, and after all, isn’t that the kind of thing that is really important to know as a new employee?  I like Bob very much.  Since the first day, he has adopted me as a sort of pet.  I think he finds my utter incompetence charming, or at the least, benevolently pitiable.  Anyway he doesn’t seem to hate me.

       Next I met Ron, my fellow used car salesman.  He is tall, paunchy, mid-fifties, and universally loathed by every single person here.  I didn’t get it at first, he seemed very nice and patient and helpful, if somewhat careless as to things like facts or tact.  Still, not a bad egg, yes?  No. To get into the details of his infamous crime would be to explain my job in way too much detail for anyone to stay interested.  Suffice it to say, he lied, deceived, and was generally a Mr. Smarmy-Face.  I wasn’t sure what to do to resolve the matter, so I went to Bob, my Car Sales Liaison and Ambassador, for advice.  He told me to take the issue up with Bossman, and so swallowing up my authority and daddy issues, I tentatively tapped on his door and tried politely to ask his advice.  Before I got even half a sentence out of my mouth, Bossman cut me off-

       “You gotta stand up to Ron, honey.  Pull up your big girl britches and deal with him!  I don’t have time to run around after your feelings.”

       “That was not what I was asking you to do, I am just trying to determine what I should-“

       “You just gotta say your peace to Ron.  Its time to be a grown up woman!  Just don’t start trying to wear the pants, he won’t like that and then you’ll be like Janice over in the Service center.  Jesus, that woman has a mouth on her and she’s always trying to relate to the guys in service.  A woman should act like a woman, you know what I mean?  Just be a lady, you know what I mean?  Glad to see you wear dresses.  Okay?  All clear?  Off you go.”

       “Erm… Yes.  Thank you.”

I work in a 1980’s sexual harassment video. 

My Funeral Plans

       Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, a day usually reserved for two things:

A) Being showered with ego-boosting gifts, balloons, and flowers and then devouring chocolates filled with what appears to be toothpaste.

B) Feeling so wretched and alone that one contemplates showering with one's favorite electrical appliance.

 

       I experienced neither.  Okay, not entirely true- I did get an Amazon gift card from my Boy who was out of town on business, and even though Match.com lists a gift card as #10 on the Top Ten Gifts Not To Give Women on Valentine’s Day, it is precisely what I wanted. One stack of movies and CD’s and one pair of alligator shaped socks later… I am a very happy girl!  It would be hard for any man to buy for this level of oddity, so I give him props.  What I mean to say was that instead of curling up on the sofa munching cookies with pink frosting to watch a girly movie and/or sobbing silently in the shower, I was at a funeral.  This is my third one altogether, and I still haven’t ever gone to one where I really knew the dead guy.  They have all been for obscure relatives so I am mostly there for the food and the reunion and because, for some reason, each funeral has been uniquely darkly hilarious in their own way. 

       This funeral was for my “Uncle Frank”, the cousin of my grandfather or something to that effect.  It’s not a side of the family that I have had any contact with but I have been curious about these people ever since my mother described them to me by renting the movie Next of Kin and declaring- “See that?  This is just like my father’s family”.  If you have never seen this movie, it stars Liam Neeson and Patrick Swayze as deep-south rednecks who start a blood feud with the Chicago mob when their brother is murdered.  An encouraging prospect, I thought.  My grandfather, mother and I made the 8 hour round trip together with my mother quizzing her father on the deeper scandals of the family.  Who was illegitimate, who broke up whose marriage, who was sleeping with whom at the same time as [blank], and who was suspected to have made who disappear … you know, the usual family stuff.  Each character had a colorful name like Peaches, Fast Charles, and Aunt Floozie (who apparently weighed 400 lbs., had a mustache, and drove a Harley, so I cannot imagine how that nickname came about).  I halfway hoped the funeral hall would be full of people without teeth and dressed in bib overalls, but alas!  All pretty normal looking little old people.  Except the lady who kept waving her hands in the air and screaming “Amen!” and “Praise Jesus!” at awkward moments. 

  

       The service was conducted by Reverend Kirk, who looked about 13 years old.  Reverend Repeat, I call him.  I suppose he was nervous to have to give a memorial to a packed room of 18 people because the man stammered and rambled his way through the entire service, forgetting his place and beginning again.  I had a flash of Death at a Funeral with the son mumbling “My father was an exceptional man” 17 times. Reverend Repeat read the passage from Ecclesiastes 3 twice in the service and then again at the grave side.  It is the “A Time for Everything” speech, and most people just skip to the “A time to live and a time to die” bit, but not Reverend Repeat.  We heard the whole damn thing, read with the utmost deliberation and the slowest possible pace.  For those of you who never bothered with the whole thing, here it is:

[Read the following as slowly as possible.  Pretend you are the spokesman for the Clear Eyes commercials for full effect.]

¹To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

 ²A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

 ³A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

 ⁴A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

 ⁵A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

 ⁶A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

 ⁷A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

 ⁸A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

 ⁹What profit hath he that worketh in that wherein he laboureth?

 ¹⁰I have seen the travail, which God hath given to the sons of men to be exercised in it.

 ¹¹He hath made every thing beautiful in his time: also he hath set the world in their heart, so that no man can find out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end.

[Now repeat in five minutes for no reason whatsoever.]

Question:  Just when is it a good time to cast away stones or gather them together?  The hell?

       
       The other scripture selections were similar, but with a lot more emphasis on how the body will decay over time, how disease will rack our minds and physical forms, how we will wither and our minds go astray, how we will lose strength and become nothing more than a useless “shell”, a burden upon our families.  I thought this was a breathlessly insensitive speech to give to a room full of people in their 70s and 80s, until I saw all the brochures for the home’s assisted living facility in the hallway.  Nice.

        
       The only thing worse than the scripture and the speeches was the music.  Dear God, the music!  I am not sure, but I suspect the entire repertoire (six loooooooong songs in all) was specifically designed to make the hearer long for the fires of hell in the hopes that they will not be sentenced to an afterlife of horrifically nasaled songs about “the gud Loooord bayby Jeysus” in heaven.  My mother and I could not look at one another with the risk of disgracing ourselves, but as soon as we escaped to the bathroom I turned to her and asked, “was I the only person who was jealous that Frank was dead one and didn’t have to hear the music at his service?”  

 

       In order to spare my family from having to endure a similar ordeal, I have decided to outline my funeral plans in advance right here, not unlike one of my favorite bloggers The Oatmeal did on his website (http://theoatmeal.com/blog/funeral).  No trebuchet or volcano for me, though it's not a bad idea... hmm... I'll get back to you.  As of now, here are my plans:

1) I shall be cremated.  I would like my ashes to be mixed with high quality glitter.

2) There shall be no viewing.  Dead people in boxes is always, always, ALWAYS creepy.

 

3) My memorial service shall be 1 part bragging about how awesome I was, 3 parts mad partying.  On second thought, don’t cremate me.  I want my skeleton at the party in a fabulous dress and with a hat tilted over my brow at a rakish angle.  Everyone must dance with my skeleton at least once.  There will be a sign up sheet so that my bones can be passed from person to person for part of each year.  When no one is alive who remembers me, donate me to a college so I can be part of fraternity pranks.  

4) I will write my own biography.  Reverend Repeat described how Uncle Frank was born in 1919 and got to experience the “Roaring 20s” and the dustbowl.  Since he was an infant in the 20s and grew up on the coast, I can’t imagine him hanging out in a speakeasy with flappers or trying to earn money picking oranges in California.  Try some real life experiences!  To this end, I will tell stories like the time I went to the alligator petting zoo in Mexico, the time I almost got eaten by a shark, the time a cabana boy tried to kidnap me in Honduras, the time I accidentally went to a gay orgy in the canyons of Utah, the time I went drunk mini-golfing.  So many great stories… 

5) I will request that each of my past lovers write letters to be read aloud describing how hot I was, how amazing I was in bed, and how I ruined them for all other women.

6) My oddest belongings will be auctioned off at the end of the evening, such as my rock egg collection, my rubber chicken, and my new alligator shaped socks!  All the proceeds will go to my mom, cause she's nifty.

7) The music at my service will most likely not be about “The Bayby Jeysus” and will more likely have to something like Hells Bells by AC/DC.  And of course we'll need some David Bowie in there somewhere.  More details to follow.

 

I hope and pray that these wishes are treated with respect and honored to the letter.  

Therefore, I, the undersigned, hereby certify that I am of sound (ish) mind and slammin’ body,

          -The Marauding Hippo

P.S. If you think this is bad, wait till you see my wedding plans.  For now just picture me on an elephant with bridesmaids and groomsmen waving palm fronds and singing to the tune of “Prince Ali”.  And that’s just the beginning! The reception will make Caligula blush...

Boy Story- Barney Rubble

       Another of my many (many, many) dating disasters was with Barney Rubble, so named because that’s exactly what he looked like; a short, unbelievably hairy, blonde little caveman.  With similar manners.  Not even his British accent was enough to save him, poor lad.  After my experiences with this man, I have composed the following tips for the fellas on how to ensure you do not get a second date.

1-      When you ask a girl out and she arrives as requested all dressed up and fancy, know that she is expecting dinner or a movie or something.  Ha!  There is no acceptable reason on earth to ask a woman out and conform to this silly convention, however.  Instead, you should make her run errands with you, including: making returns to stores, buying parts for your car, and doing your weekly grocery shopping.  If you ask her to carry your bags for you and she does, she is either very nice or very stupid.  Give her the heaviest bag.

2-      When you are leaving said grocery store a good two hours after your super fun date began, and you ask the woman if she is hungry, she will assume you mean to take her to a restaurant. But why do that when you are already at a store?  For good measure, you should let out a heavy sigh of exasperation while you turn around to go back through the grocery store doors.  Don’t wait for her, if she is hungry enough, she will follow you. 

3-      Frozen pizza is always classy on a first date.  Better still, if your date confesses that she is allergic to your favorite brand of frozen pizza and timidly requests another, go ahead and berate her for being a HUGE inconvenience, the silly bitch.  Make it clear that in getting Red Baron instead of Freschetta, this means she is going to owe you big time in the future. 

4-      Upon returning to your apartment to eat the frozen pizza, remember that you are as fearsome and majestic (and hairy) as a lion upon the wild Serengeti.  Give your date one small slice of pizza for politeness sake- the one that has the least toppings- and then go ahead and devour the rest of it as fast as possible.  Eating so fast you have tomato sauce all over your face like an 18-month-old infant is sexy.  Leave it there.   

5-      If your big evening plans involve cuddling up on a couch to watch a movie instead of paying to see one, don’t worry about having a large, expensive television.  The 8” screen is just fine.  Also try to have it at least 45 yards away from the sofa.

6-      If your face is covered in tomato sauce and you have not shaved in days thereby making your face about as soft as a wire haired bristle brush, this is the perfect time to move in for the snuggle!

7-      After the first hour and a half of the movie when she has rebuffed your cuddling attempts, feel free to get angry and turn off the movie before the conclusion, announcing that you are tired and it is time for her to go home now.

8-      It is perfectly permissible to send her repeated texts thereafter asking her out and you are allowed to become furious when she mysteriously doesn’t respond for no good reason.  Women, right?  You may now slander her to your mutual friends.

The Diagnosis

     Well, as my readers will be happy to learn, it turns out that I have neither stomach cancer nor an unplanned pregnancy (Huzzah!)

     While I was waiting for the Cursed Time of November to pass (see previous posts if you feel lost), I consulted many less-than-valid medical sources for advice.  This is admittedly a very stupid thing to do, but I am poor and without many options.  The results?  Scary. WebMD.com, a random nurse, my psychic wiccan grandmother, my child-of-a-nurse mother, and a pharmacist picked at random all swore that the only explanation for my prolonged upset tummy was that my gallbladder was being naughty. Now I have never hated an organ before but at that moment I hated mine with the fire of a thousand suns.  But probably just yellow suns though, not the really hot blue stars which- no, never mind.  Focus!

       I tend toward the anthropomorphic, so my attempt at fixing the problem was to soundly and unabashedly curse my gallbladder aloud, threatening it with pain and suffering if it did not shape up.  Since I was not really clear on where the gallbladder is located exactly or even what the hell it does, that was about all I could do on my end.  My dear sainted mother however studied up on what I should and should not be eating, even if it meant that Christmas (a holiday devoted to gifts and food and not much else) would have to be totally ruined.  Naturally, because this is how my life works, the diet for a happy gallbladder meant no sugar, no alcohol, no chocolate, no butter, no milk, no white flour, no pasta, or pretty much anything else that makes the holidays livable.  Instead I spent weeks trying out exciting new ways to incorporate radishes, turmeric, and kale into my diet.  (Note: a kale, apple, cinnamon, ginger, flax seed, ice, and soymilk shake is not actually half bad, even if it is a bit chewy out of the blender.)  This new and admittedly dramatically healthier regime replaced my previous diet of a hand full of peppermint flavored Tums every half hour, so I snatched at it and tried to make raw cabbage as festive and appealing as possible.  As it turns out, it is not possible to make cabbage festive.

     Then, just two days before Christmas Eve, I was saved by my new 12-year-old doctor.  Normally I would not trust the medical advice of a 5’2” woman sporting a hugely oversized sweatshirt decorated with an image of teddy bears wearing Christmas sweaters, who still has bangs over her forehead, and just wants to be called by her first name “Katy”, but she happened to give the medical advice that I wanted to hear.  It turns out that none of my organs were attempting to succeed from the union, as it were.  Instead, I managed to earn myself an actual ulcer- thus proving that the pressure of filling out grad school applications combined with having to move in with relatives in the middle of East Jesus Nowhere is a dangerous combination that can actually be hazardous to one’s health!  I was glad to know this because now I can legitimately complain about such things with medical proof to back up the incessant whining.  Also this means that people can stop telling me their nightmare gallbladder removal stories.  For heaven’s sake people, why would you ever tell someone that?!?

     Anyway, my magic solution is to pop two massive horse pills a day and then I can eat whatever the hell I want.  I have mixed emotions about this.  Well this week anyway- last week I pretty much ate my weight in flakey pastry, pie, and spiral baked hams without the slightest qualm.  But as we all know, January is Fatty Awareness Month and once I recovered from my flirtation with diabetes and alcoholism I began to regret the neat solution to my total lack of self control.  You see, I have tried my entire life to develop an eating disorder but so far I just haven’t had the will power to see it through.  I actually used to be mad that it was my dad who was my screwed up parent because girls with daddy issues just become promiscuous where as it’s the girls with the mommy issues who starve themselves to pretty.  Curse you Mother, for being awesome!  I remember one health class in Jr. High when my teacher was showing us the consequences of drug use.  She put up a picture of a normal looking woman in her 30s of about average weight.  Then she showed us a picture of that woman after just three months of crystal meth use.   She looked like one of those cows in the Amazon that has been skeletonized by a school of piranha.  Sure she had sores on her face and her teeth and hair were coming out, but that woman was coat rack thin in a matter of weeks!  To her despair, my poor health teacher saw my eyes lock with that of my friend sitting across the room, dawning hope shining from both our bright adolescent faces.  She nearly went into an apoplectic fit for a moment and then started feverishly lecturing (mostly to me) on the addiction rates, long term health problems, and emotional damage that come from drug use.  It was amusing to watch a long time educator of young minds suddenly realize that she just gave two 14-year-old girls the idea to become meth addicts.  Fortunately for her therapy bills, my neighborhood only had heroin addicts and I wasn’t too keen on the needles. Hmm…  I seemed to have deviated from my point… OH YES!

       So now I need a method to trick my body into eating healthy and getting skinny without removing my organs or turning to hard drugs.  Till now I tended to use food as my go-to reward system but I think it would prove counterproductive in this case (Example: you just lost 8 lbs.!  Congratulations, you get to bring home a key lime pie!).  So now what?  Dangerous back-alley surgery?  Hiring a full-time Food Slapper to literally knock things out of my hand before I put it into my mouth?  Exercise?  Oh, the horror!