[AUDIO NOTE: I performed this piece this past weekend at Anna David's True Tales of Lust and Love (also starring Melissa Villasenor, Morgan Walsh, and Claire Titelman.) I highly recommend listening to this tale in all its mortifying glory -- it's better with the sound of an audience screech-laughing in horror. Here's the link to the recording of the show. (On iTunes here in the 11/12 show.) I'm the third story.]
[WARNING: This story is not for the squeamish.]
So I’m super pregnant. And with that comes all these horrible things. Like, I can’t feel my fingertips – haven’t been able to in weeks. It’s carpal tunnel, it apparently happens to pregnant women, and it’s shitty. My gums bleed when I brush my teeth, I’ve lost all the hair on my arms, I am down to one position in bed where I can sleep without my legs going numb, I’ve got this cold I’m not allowed to take anything for other than hot baths and pity parties, and there’s a parasite that lives inside of me that absorbs all of my nutrients. Or as my El Salvadorian housekeeper likes to say: “Your baby is stealing your beauty.”
So I’ve had this cold. It’s been going on for over a week at this point, which is ridiculous. Listen, if I go through all the trouble to be responsible and get the flu shot before flu season, I shouldn’t be able to get sick for ten days straight with anything. I should get credit for letting someone stick a needle in my arm in the back of a Vons next to the frozen food section.
A quick impression of the lady who just gave me a pedicure. She was like, “OH.” Held up my foot. “OH. THIS. OH. YOU NEED. OH. YOU WANT. OH. CALLUS. OH, CALLUS. I CUT, YES?”
That poor woman.
I know. She put on latex gloves. Nobody else was wearing gloves. It was embarrassing. She thought I had some kind of foot condition.
Did you tell her how you got those feet?
I just went, “Yes, please. I know. I’m sorry. It’s… it’s from sports.” And then she went, “SPORTS. OH. OH, BOTH FEET. OH.”
And then strapped on those gloves.
Yes. But look! Cute feet!
Cute feet. Pam, I don’t even recognize those feet.
Those look like someone else’s feet. Whose feet are those?
You know, I’ve never seen you with cute feet.
Yeah, I guess that’s true.
It is true. I’m used to “Feet that belong to a Ukranian man who’s been working in the trenches.”
OKAY, I GET IT.
Gross: Cal got coffee all over my table, laptop, purse and script.
Grosser: He did that by dipping his nasty-ass paws in my coffee and then flinging his feet around like he’s discovered a new medium with which to create his art.
Grossest: I learned this because when I just took a sip from my mug, I smelled kitty litter.
Are we currently starring in some kind of romantic comedy together? Or are you planning on auditioning for a Will Ferrell movie or something? Because our time together lately, if montaged with a kicky Katrina and the Waves song in the background, looks like something Touchtone Pictures would proudly present.
Maybe you’re mad about the other night, when I moved in my sleep and it scared you so much you fell off the bed. Obviously I didn’t mean to wake up with such a start, but I probably shouldn’t have pointed at you and laughed. I don’t even know if my finger was anywhere near you, since it was so dark I couldn’t see anything. But if you could have heard what I heard — me gasping out of a nightmare, you gasping in a kitty sound, and then thunk-BUNK! — you would be pointing and laughing, too.
dammit. i had written half of this entry when my browser crashed. i lost everything i had written, which is mostly about how fucking hot it is up in this motherfucker. the dvd player broke today. my computer keeps crashing. the bank outside the coffee shop says it’s 116. it’s hot, people. hot. so hot my cheeks are sweating. all of them. my eyelids are sweating. I’M IN MY HOUSE. the cats look like someone steam-rolled them. they don’t want to eat. ants have come into the house in search of any water, at all, and are happy enough to hang out in all the sinks and near the cat food or near the litter box and why is my life so gross?
We have been battling ants for the entire summer. This is nothing new. Every summer in Los Angeles, dehydrated ants make their way into our apartments and houses, coffee shops and restaurants, trying to find something to drink. Or at least, that’s what I thought. The ants seem to be uninterested in food (save for a horrible scrambled egg experiencewe had last month), and spend most of their time lingering around our pipes. They like faucets, drains, toilets, and… bodily waste. Any sign of a piece of cat food that has been licked or nibbled by a kitty becomes an ant swarm. I once found the largest ant invasion behind the photo albums — Cal had puked in the corner between the wall and the chest holding the frames. Hours later, the floor was black with frenzied ants. I almost passed out.
Even reading this again has made me ill.
See how he tries to make it seem like he’s the nice guy in this situation? That he changed his ways simply because he loves me? He’s very good. I’m not saying it’s all an act, but he’s trying to win you over, people. Playing the husband card. It’s still nasty. I’m not going to tell you how to vote, because I know you’re a decent person who understands why Dan and I are right, and my husband has made it so that I cannot look at Italian food the same way ever again. But if you think stee’s right? Dead to me.
When I first see the cover of Haunted on Amazon, I have to close my web browser. It is truly disturbing. When I buy the book, I keep it face-down because it makes me so uncomfortable. Whenever stee sees it accidentally turned face-up he says, “Fix your creepy-ass book.”
I start reading it in Toronto. “Do you want to come sit in the living room while you read it?” Wing asks. “So you’re not alone while you read the scary book?”