October 2005 Archives

Unfortunately, the satisfaction was short-lived. When I arrived at work, I cruised through the parking lot and confirmed my suspicion that I possessed the most pathetic vehicle of all of the employees there. Between the lack of hubcaps, enormous dent that my ex-boyfriend tried to fix with metallic spray paint and a hammer, the now shattered windshield, plethora of other dents and dings, and finally, the chain license plate holder I installed in an attempt to "keep it real," it now appeared that I was actually driving what I have now dubbed "the shame machine." When I am arriving in the morning, I avert my eyes in the hopes that my co-workers won't notice who is driving one of the most miserable chariots to ever be used on a daily 2 hour commute.

When I got to my desk, I called the employee assistance program, which offers short-term therapy for the hirelings at my company. "What is the issue you are experiencing that you would like to talk about?" the receptionist asked me.

"I hate my car," I replied. The silence on the other end was deafening. But then, I was offered a same-day appointment. Perhaps the receptionist hated her car as well, or decided that my willingness to request therapy about my car was indicative of a greater mental illness.

I went to the therapist's office, and spilled my sad tale of woe. He looked at me quietly for a while, and then finally observed, "You seem upset."

Past tales of my car accidents:

So when my brother moved to New York, my mother was out of town, and my father refusing to care for the dog that had been adopted despite his protests, Zoe was foisted onto me. I'd never had a real pet before, and my experience with Zoe herself was limited. She joined our family around the time I discovered outlaw bikers and their drug labs, and soon after that, I moved out of the house. I steeled myself, bought an attractive black rubber bone, and invited the most hyperactive dog I have ever run across into my home.

Despite the fact that my workplace allows employees to bring their dogs in, I knew that this was not an option. Zoe, like the rest of my family, is neurotic and high strung, and doesn't interact well with others. So I went on craigslist and hired myself a dog walker. I wasn't sure how to pick one, but when Karen correctly identified 'The Popcorn Song' by Hot Butter on my voicemail message, I knew that she was the one. However, when she arrived at my house, I was less certain. Karen was a rotund woman, and took her dog-walking responsibilities far too seriously. She made me sign a contract, and then showed me her dog CPR training certificate. I started laughing, thinking it was one of those stupid gags that pet owners find so funny. Alas, it was no gag, and Karen was fully prepared to put her mouth over my dog's entire snout if the need should ever arise.

The Zoecam.

Karen was supposed to walk Zoe for 30 minutes each weekday while I was at work. However, after having my heart smashed into 10 billion tiny pieces, I decided to stay home sick one day, and neglected to call Karen and tell her. She arrived on time, said hello to me and took Zoe out for her walk. 14 minutes later she returned, out of breath, and with sweat soaked through both sides of her feces-colored t-shirt. "Would you like a glass of water?" I offered, unsure how to proceed. She nodded, her flushed face grimacing in desperation. Karen quickly regained her composure, and proceeded to regale me with the details of Zoe's bowel movement activities.

The next day, the same thing happened. This time, Karen managed to stay out for 16 minutes, and again returned drenched in sweat and on the brink of an agina. Logic dictated that if Karen walked the dog for an average of 15 minutes while I was sitting right there, it was unlikely that she was taking Zoe out for the requisite 30 minutes when I was at work. Fearing that Zoe's muscle mass was in danger of atrophying, I wrote Karen an email. I told her she could feel free to stand in one place and throw the ball to Zoe instead of walking her--it was Zoe who I wanted to get exercise, not Karen. Although it did appear that it was Karen who was more in need of it. I had always been of the belief that fit and fat were not mutually exclusive, but Karen, a professional licensed dog-walker who could not walk more than a few blocks without panting, was proving me wrong.

Karen wrote me a few indignant emails in reply, and I realized that arguing with a fat, bitchy dogwalker was not my idea of a good time. I decided to allow Zoe to suffer, but promised to make it up to her by taking her to the dog park when I got home each night. I learned that despite my love for Zoe, dogs are boring. They want you to throw balls to them. You have to pick up their doody. They sleep on your pillow when you are at work, despite not being allowed on your bed. Goddammit. They look at you mournfully a lot. They have the ability to make you feel guilty by wagging their tails and cocking their head in a certain way. And really, it was the guilt that I couldn't handle.

I'm lazy. Not quite as lazy as my professional dogwalker, but lazy nonetheless. Zoe is the sort of dog that would happily trot beside a long distance running, and at the end of their half-marathon, would wag her tail and indicate that she was ready for a walk. I knew I wasn't able to satisfy her, and it left me feeling inadequate.

Wondering what Zoe did all day, I trained my webcam on my living room, and left for work. I found myself unable to accomplish anything for the next few days, so busy was I refreshing a page every 3.5 seconds, despite having set the camera to update only once per minute. I quickly learned though, that the dog I once thought was filled with boundless energy was little more than a useless sloth, much like the rest of her family. Zoe slept, on average, close to 11 out of the 12 hours that I was gone from the house. Occasionally she would get up, get a drink of water, and slink back to her bed, the very picture of malaise. This only exacerbated my guilt. She was obviously, much like myself, clinically depressed and unable to function for much of the day. I couldn't help but think it was my fault.

After my boss caught me watching the dog-cam a number of times, I finally took it down. And after countless doleful looks from Zoe when I refused to throw her bone for her (again) or haul my fat ass off the couch to walk her, I decided that I was not yet ready for motherhood, and fobbed the dog off on my friend Kim. When I see Zoe now, she looks at me not mournfully, but resentfully—for only she knows how inadequate I truly am.

"I've always believed that whatever I wear is fashionable and whatever somebody else wears is unfashionable."

When I was about seven or eight, my arms were greased in lard and I was deposited in a pen strewn with sawdust and the instructions to go catch one of the half-dozen pigs that were also in the pen. Always a dutiful girl, I caught the pig and won a blue ribbon. I’m not sure if that was the exact moment that fell in love with the Town and Country Fair, but it certainly had a deep impact on my psyche.

I think I always loved the fair. The town I grew up in was dull and suburban, and the yearly fair offered unheard of delights, often deep-fried. Sometimes, the excitement was more than I could handle. One year, my brother and I, as well as my friend Nicole, were being fed chicken soup in preparation for our trip to the fairgrounds. Nicole was notable only in fact that she was the child of two of our neighbor’s children, one of whom, at the age of 18, impregnated the other (who was 13), thus resulting in Nicole’s older brother. In an attempt to impress Nicole, we were having a burping contest. I, buoyed by my win in the ‘Pig Scramble’ as the event with the lard was called, was determined to win. I summoned a tremendous burp, and aimed it the general direction of my brother’s ear. Unfortunately, it was far more spectacular than I had imagined, and I vomited. On my brother’s shoulder.

My mother cleaned us up and dropped us off at the midway, confident that a few rides on the Zipper would calm our respective stomachs.

When I was a young teenager, my mother told me that every year, one or two girls from my town would disappear when the fair left town. I don’t think she implied that the carnies were kidnapping or murdering these girls, but that their prospects in town were so limited that leaving with a man who hustles children into hucking darts at balloons seemed appealing. Based on what little I knew of the teenage pregnancy rate in my area, it seemed entirely feasible. It was at the fair that I first became acquainted with heavy metal—and these carnies were the first real (read, not pre-pubescent) metalheads I had ever seen. I began categorizing girls I would see at the mall as “girls who would run away with a carnie” or “girls who wouldn’t.” I hadn’t decided which camp to pitch my tent in yet, at that tender age.

Sadly though, I didn’t receive any offers. Apparently, the carnies recognized me as a “girl who wouldn’t” before I had even decided. My friend Tracy and I would go to the fair every year, and ride the Zipper over and over, hoping that one of the carnies would offer us some sort of narcotic or pharmaceutical. They never did though, and we had to content ourselves with the free rides that they offered us, and stuffing our faces with cotton candy.

I still try to go to the fair in my hometown every summer, but sadly, I missed it this year. Missing the carnival because you are in Jersey—now that’s class. Luckily though, I still have my rawdog thong from a few years ago. I look at it, and I think of home.

"I don't want you writing for Playgirl," my grandmother insisted as my family and mother looked on, snickering.

"Well what else am I going to do with my time?" I questioned. "I might end up sleeping around."

"You already ARE!" My grandmother replied.

Unable to properly respond to this unfounded claim, I sputtered, "Well, I need a hobby!"

Ever ready with an argument, my grandmother quickly replied, "I thought you were thinking about taking sewing classes!"

--

Yesterday, I was shopping for underwear with my mother. As I am often wont to do while shopping for lingerie, I raised my hands to the heavens and cried, "What am I going to do with the rest of my life?"

My mother turned to me and cheerfully replied, "Pornography, probably."