Let’sPretendThisNeverHappened

Let’sPretendThisNeverHappened

(AMostlyTrueMemoir)

JennyLawsonTHEBLOGGESS

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LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationData

Lawson,Jenny,date.Let’spretendthisneverhappened:(amostlytruememoir)/JennyLawson.

p.cm.ISBN:978-1-101-57308-2

1.Lawson,Jenny.2.Journalists—UnitedStates—Biography.3.Humorists,American—21stcentury—Biography.I.Title.II.Title:Let’spretendthisneverhappened.

PN4874.L285A320122011050662070.92—dc23

PrintedintheUnitedStatesofAmerica13579108642

BOOKDESIGNBYNICOLELAROCHE

AlthoughtheincidentsinthisbookaresubstantiallyasIrememberthem,thenamesandcertainidentifyingfeaturesofsomepeopleportrayedinithavebeenchangedtoprotecttheirprivacy.~JennyLawson

WhiletheauthorhasmadeeveryefforttoprovideaccuratetelephonenumbersandInternetaddressesatthetimeofpublication,neitherthepublishernortheauthorassumesanyresponsibilityforerrors,orforchangesthatoccurafterpublication.Further,thepublisher

doesnothaveanycontroloveranddoesnotassumeanyresponsibilityforauthororthird-partywebsitesortheircontent.

Penguiniscommittedtopublishingworksofqualityandintegrity.Inthatspirit,weareproudtoofferthisbooktoourreaders;however,thestory,theexperiences,andthewordsaretheauthor’salone.

ALWAYSLEARNING PEARSON

Thisbookisalovelettertomyfamily.It’saboutthesurprisingdiscoverythat the most terribly human moments—the ones we want to pretendneverhappened—are thevery samemoments thatmakeuswhowearetoday. I’vereserved theverybeststoriesofmy life for thisbook . . . tocelebratethestrange,andtogivethanksforthebizarre.Becauseyouaredefined not by life’s imperfect moments, but by your reaction to them.Andbecause there is joy inembracing—rather thanrunningscreamingfrom—theutterabsurdityof life.I thankmyfamilyforteachingmethatlesson.Inspades.

Iwanttothankeveryonewhohelpedmecreatethisbook,exceptforthatguywhoyelledatmeinKmartwhenIwaseightbecausehethoughtIwasbeing“too

rowdy.”You’reanasshole,sir.

Why,Yes,ThereIsaMethodtoMyMadness

Contents

Introduction

IWasaThree-Year-OldArsonist

MyChildhood:DavidCopperfieldMeetsGuns&AmmoMagazine

Stanley,theMagicalTalkingSquirrel

Don’tTellYourParents

Jenkins,YouMotherfucker

IfYouNeedanArmCondom, ItMightBeTime toReevaluateSomeofYourLifeChoices

DrawMeaFuckingDog

And That’s Why Neil Patrick Harris Would Be the Most Successful MassMurdererEver

NoOneEverTaughtMeCouchEtiquette

JustYourAverageEngagementStory

ItWasn’tStew

MarriedontheFourthofJuly

There’sNoPlaceLikeHome

ASeriesofHelpfulPost-itNotesILeftAroundtheHouseforMyHusbandThisWeek

TheDarkandDisturbingSecretsHRDoesn’tWantYoutoKnow

IfYouSeeMyLiver,You’veGoneTooFar

MyVaginaIsFine.ThanksforAsking

PhoneConversation IHadwithMyHusbandAfter IGot Lost for the EightyThousandthTime

AndThenIGotStabbedintheFacebyaSerialKiller

ThanksfortheZombies,Jesus

MakingFriendswithGirls

IAmtheWizardofOzofHousewives(InThatIAmBoth“GreatandTerrible”andBecauseISometimesHideBehindtheCurtains)

ThePsychopathontheOtherSideoftheBathroomDoor

AnOpenLettertoMyHusband,WhoIsAsleepintheNextRoom

JusttoClarify:WeDon’tSleepwithGoats

StabbedbyChicken

ItWasn’tEvenMyCrack

Honestly,IDon’tEvenKnowWhereIGotThatMachete:AComicTragedyinThreePartsDays

I’mGoingtoNeedanOldPriestandaYoungPriest

AndThat’sWhyYouShouldLearntoPickYourBattles

HairlessRats:FreeforKidsOnly

AndThenISnuckaDeadCubanAlligatoronanAirplane

YouCan’tGoHomeAgain(UnlessYouWanttoGetMauledbyWildDogs)

EpilogueTheEnd(Sortof)TrueFactsAcknowledgments

Introduction

Thisbookistotallytrue,exceptforthepartsthataren’t.It’sbasicallylikeLittleHouseonthePrairiebutwithmorecursing.AndIknow,you’rethinking,“ButLittleHouseon thePrairiewas totally true!” andno, I’m sorry, but itwasn’t.Laura Ingallswas a compulsive liarwith no fact-checker, and probably if shewasstillalivetodayhermomwouldbesaying,“Idon’tknowhowLauracameup with this whole ‘I’m-a-small-girl-on-the-prairie’ story. We lived in NewJerseywith her aunt Frieda and our dog,Mary,whowas blindedwhenLauratriedtobleachalightningboltonherforehead.Ihavenoideawhereshegotthe‘andwelivedinadugout’thing,althoughwedidtakehertoCarlsbadCavernsonce.”And that’s why I’m better than Laura Ingalls. Because my story is ninety

percentaccurate,and I reallydid live inadugout.1The reason thismemoir isonlymostly true insteadof totally true is that I relishnotgetting sued.Also, Iwantmyfamilytobeabletosay,“Oh,thatneverhappened.Ofcourseweneveractuallytossedheroutofamovingcarwhenshewaseight.That’soneofthosecrazy things that isn’t quite the truth.” (And they’re right, because the truth isthatIwasnine.Iwassittingonmymom’slapwhenmydadmadeahardleft,thedoorpoppedopen,andIwastossedoutlikeasackfullofkittens.Mymommanaged to grab my arm, which would have been helpful if my father hadactuallystoppedthecar,butapparentlyhedidn’tnoticeorpossiblythoughtI’djustcatchup,andsomylegsweredraggedthroughaparkinglotthatI’mprettysure was pavedwith broken glass and used syringes. (I learned three lessonsfrom this experience: One: that vehicle safety in the late seventies was notexceptionalforchildren.Two: thatyoushouldalwaysleavebeforetheofficialsarrive, as the orangeish sting of the medicinal acid applied by a sadisticambulance driver will hurt far worse than any injury you can sustain beingdraggedbehindacar.Andthree: that“Don’tmakemecomeback there” isanemptythreat,unlessyourfatherhasbeendrivingfourhourswithtwoscreamingkidsandhesuddenlygetsveryquiet,inwhichcaseyoushouldlockyourdoororatleastremembertotuckandroll.I’mnotsayingheintentionallythrewmeoutofamovingcar,justthatanopportunitypresenteditselfandthatmyfatherisadangerousmanwhoshouldn’tbetrusted.)2Did you notice how, like, half of this introduction was a rambling

parenthetical?Thatshit isgoingtohappenallthetime. Iapologize inadvanceforthat,andalsoforoffendingyou,becauseyou’regoingtogethalfwaythroughthisbookandgiggleatnonsequitursaboutHitlerandabortionsandpoverty,andyou’llfeelsuperiortoalltheuptight,easilyoffendedpeoplewhoneedtolearnhowtotakeafuckingjoke,butthensomewhereinhereyou’llreadonerandomthingthatyou’resensitiveabout,andeveryoneelsewillthinkit’shysterical,butyou’ll think, “Oh, that isway over the line.” I apologize for that one thing.Honestly,Idon’tknowwhatIwasthinking.

1.Ineveractuallylivedinadugout.ButIdidtotallygotoCarlsbadCavernsonce.

2.WhenIreadthesestoriestofriendsI’malwaysshockedwhentheystopmetoask,“Wait,isthattrue?”during themost accurate of all of the stories.The things that have been changed aremainly names anddates,butthestoriesyouthinkcouldn’tpossiblyhavehappened?Thosearetherealones.Asinreallife,themosthorriblestoriesaretheonesthatarethetruest.And,asinreallife,thereverseistrueaswell.

IWasaThree-Year-OldArsonist

CallmeIshmael.Iwon’tanswertoit,becauseit’snotmyname,butit’smuchmoreagreeable thanmostof the thingsI’vebeencalled.“Callme‘that-weird-chick-who-says-“fuck”-a-lot’” is probablymore accurate, but “Ishmael” seemsclassier, and itmakes awaymore respectable beginning than the sentence I’doriginally written, which was about how I’d just run intomy gynecologist atStarbucks and she totally looked right pastme like she didn’t even knowme.AndsoIstoodtherewonderingwhetherthat’ssomethingshedoesonpurposetomake her clients feel less uncomfortable, orwhether she justgenuinely didn’trecognize me without my vagina. Either way, it’s very disconcerting whenpeoplewho’vebeeninsideyourvaginadon’tacknowledgeyourexistence.Also,IjustwanttoclarifythatIdon’tmean“withoutmyvagina”likeIdidn’thaveitwithmeatthetime.IjustmeantthatIwasn’t,youknow...displayingitwhileIwas at Starbucks. That’s probably understood, but I thought I should clarify,since it’s the first chapter andyoudon’tknow thatmuchaboutme.So just toclarify,Ialwayshavemyvaginawithme.It’slikemyAmericanExpresscard.(InthatIdon’tleavehomewithoutit.NotthatIuseittobuystuffwith.)Thisbookisatruestoryaboutmeandmybattlewithleukemia,and(spoiler

alert)intheendIdie,soyoucouldjustreadthissentenceandthenpretendthatyoureadthewholebook.Unfortunately,there’sasecretwordsomewhereinthisbook,andifyoudon’treadallofityouwon’tfindoutthesecretword.Andthenthepeopleinyourbookclubwilltotallyknowthatyoustoppedreadingafterthisparagraphandwillrealizethatyou’reabig,fatfake.

Okay,fine.Thesecretwordis“Snausages.”Theend.

Stillthere?Good.Becausethesecretwordisnotreally“Snausages,”andIdon’tevenknowhowtospell“leukemia.”Thisisaspecialtestthatyoucanusetoseewho really read the book. If someone in your book club even mentionsSnausages or leukemia, they are a liar and you should make them leave andprobablyyoushouldfriskthemasyou’rethrowingthemout,becausetheymay

havestolensomeofyoursilverware.Therealsecretwordis“fork.”1

IgrewupapoorblackgirlinNewYork.Exceptreplace“black”with“white,”and “NewYork”with “rural Texas.” The “poor” part can stay. I was born inAustin,Texas,which isknownfor itspopular“KeepAustinWeird”campaign,and since I’ve spent my whole life being pigeonholed as “that weird girl,” Iendedupfittinginthereperfectlyand-lived-happily-ever-after.The-end.Thisisprobablywhatwouldhavebeentheendofmybookifmyparentshadn’tmovedusawayfromAustinwhenIwasthree.IhaveprettymuchnomemoryofAustin,butaccordingtomymomwelived

inawalk-upapartmentnearthemilitarybase,andlateatnightIwouldstandupinmycrib,openthecurtains,andattempttowavesoldiersonthestreetuptomyroom.Myfatherwasoneofthosesoldiersatthetime,andwhenmymomtoldme this story as a teenager I pointed out that perhaps she should haveappreciatedmygettinghimoff the streets like that. Instead she andmy fatherjustmovedmycribawayfromthewindow,becausetheywereconcernedIwas“developing an aptitude for that kind of trade.” Apparently I was reallydistraughtaboutthiswholearrangement,becausetheverynextweekIshovedabroomintothelivingroomfurnace,setitonfire,andranthroughtheapartmentscreamingandswingingtheflamingtorcharoundmyhead.Allegedly.Ihavenomemory of this at all, but if itdid happen I suspect Iwas probablywaving itaroundlikesomekindaawesomelypatriotic,flamingbaton.Tohearmymothertellit,IwasviciouslybrandishingitatherlikeshewasFrankenstein’smonsterand I was several angry villagers.Mymother refers to this asmy first arsonepisode.I refer to itasa lessoninwhyrearrangingsomeoneelse’sfurniture isdangeroustoeveryone.We’veagreedtodisagreeonthewording.Shortly after that incident, we packed up andmoved to the small, violently

rural town of Wall, Texas. My parents claimed it was because my dad’senlistmenthadended,andmymomfoundherselfpregnantwithmylittlesisterandwantedtobeclosertofamily,butIsuspectitwasbecausetheyrealizedtherewassomethingwrongwithmeandbelievedthatgrowingupinthesamesmallWestTexastownthatthey’dgrownupinmightchangemeintoanormalperson.Thiswas one ofmany things that theywerewrong about. (Other things theywerewrongabout:theexistenceofthetoothfairy,the“timelessappeal”offakewoodpaneling,thewisdomofleavingathree-year-oldalonewithastrawbroomandafurnace.)If you compared the Wall, Texas, of today with the Wall, Texas, of my

childhood,youwouldhardlyrecognizeit,becausetheWall,Texas,oftodayhas

agasstation.Andifyouthinkhavingagasstationisnotthatbigofadeal,thenyou’reprobablythekindofpersonwhogrewupinatownthathasagasstation,andthatdoesn’tencouragestudentstodrivetoschoolintheirtractors.Wallisbasicallyatinytownwith.. .um.. .dirt?There’salotofdirt.And

cotton.Andgin,butnotthegoodkind.InWall,whenpeoplerefertoginthey’retalkingabouttheCottonGin,whichistheonlyrealbusinessinthetownandislikeafactorythatturnscottoninto...somethingelse.Ihonestlyhavenoidea.Different cotton, maybe? I never actually bothered to learn, because I alwaysfigured thatwithindaysIwouldbeescaping this tinycountry town,and that’sprettymuchhowmyentirelifewentforthenexttwentyyears.

Thosethingsonthebackcoverarecottonballs.Noshit,y’all.

Ouryearbookthemeoneyearwassimply“Where’sWall?”becauseitwasthequestion you’d get asked every time you told someone you lived there. Theoriginal—and more apt—theme had been “Where the fuck is Wall?” but theyearbook teacher quickly shot down that concept, saying that age-appropriatelanguagewasimportant,evenatthecostofjournalisticaccuracy.WhenIwasaskedwhereWallwas,Iwouldalwaysanswerwithavague“Oh,

thatdirection,”with awaveofmyhand, and Iquickly learned that if I didn’timmediatelychangethesubjecttosomethingtobreaktheirtrainofthought(Mypersonal standby: “Look!Seamonsters!”), then they’d ask the inevitable (andoften incredulous) follow-up question of “Why Wall?” and you were neverentirelysurewhethertheywereaskingwhythehellyou’dchoosetolivethere,or why anyone would choose to name a town “Wall,” but it didn’t actuallymatter,becausenooneseemedtohavealegitimateanswerforeither.Unfortunately, pointing out sea monsters was neither subtle nor believable

(mostly because we were completely landlocked), so instead I begancompensating for Wall’s beigey blandness by making up interesting butunverifiable stories about the small town. “Oh,Wall?” I’d say, with what Iimaginedwasasophisticatedsneer.“It’sthecitythatinventedthedogwhistle.”Or, “It’s the town thatFootloose was based on. Kevin Bacon is our nationalhero.”Or,“I’mnotsurprisedyou’veneverheardofit.Itwasthesceneofoneof

themost gruesomecannibalistic slaughters inAmericanhistory.Wedon’t talkabout it, though. I shouldn’t even be mentioning it. Let’s never speak of itagain.” I’dhoped that the lastonewouldgivemeanairofmysteryandmakepeoplefascinatedwithourluridhistory,butinsteaditjustmadethemconcernedaboutmymentalhealth,andeventuallymymotherheardaboutmytalltalesandpulledmeasidetotellmethatnoonewasbuyingit,andthatthetownwasmostlikelynamedaftersomeonewhoselastnamehappenedtobeWall.Ipointedoutthat perhaps he’d been named that because he was the man who’d inventedwalls,andshesighedimpatiently,pointingout that itwouldbehardtobelievethatamanhadinventedwallswhenmostofthemcouldn’tevenbebotheredtoclose the bathroom door while they’re using it. She could tell that I wasdisappointed at the lack of anything remotely redeeming about our town, andconceded halfheartedly that perhaps the name came from ametaphoric wall,designedtokeepsomethingout.Progresswasmyguess.Mymothersuggesteditwasmorelikelybollweevils.Isometimeswonderwhatitwouldhavebeenliketohaveachildhoodthatwas

not likemine. Ihavenoreal frameofreference,butwhenIquestionstrangersI’vefoundthattheirchildhoodgenerallyhadmuchlessbloodinit,andalsothatstrangers seem uncomfortablewhen you question them about their childhood.But really, what else are you going to talk about in line at the liquor store?Childhoodtraumaseemslikethenaturalchoice,sinceit’sthereasonwhymostof us are in line there tobeginwith. I’ve found, though, that people aremorelikelytosharetheirpersonalexperiencesifyougofirst,sothat’swhyIalwayskeep an eleven-point list of what went wrong in my childhood to share withthem.AlsoIusuallycrackopenabottleoftequilatosharewiththem,becausealcoholmakesme less nervous, and also because I’m from the South, and inTexasweofferdrinkstostrangersevenwhenwe’rewaitinginlineattheliquorstore. In Texas we call that “southern hospitality.” The people who own theliquorstorecallit“shoplifting.”Probablybecausethey’reYankees.I’mnotallowedtogobacktothatliquorstore.2

1.“Fork”isnotreallytherealsecretword.Thereisn’tactuallyasecretword.Becausethisisabook,y’all.Notafuckingspymovie.

2. Author’s note: My editor informs me that this doesn’t count as a chapter, because nothing relevanthappens in it. I explained that that’s because this is really just an introduction to the next chapter andprobablyshouldbecombinedwiththenextchapter,butIseparateditbecauseIalwaysfindit’snicetohaveshortchaptersthatyoucanfinishquicklysoyoucanfeelbetteraboutyourself.Plus,ifyourEnglishteacherassignedyoutoreadthefirstthreechaptersofthisbookyou’llalreadybefinishedwiththefirsttwo,andinanothertenminutesyoucangowatchmoviesaboutsexy,glitteryvampires,orwhateverthehellyoukids

areintonowadays.Also,youshouldthankyourEnglishteacherforassigningyouthisbook,becauseshesoundsbadass.Youshouldprobablygiveherabottlefromthebackofyourparents’liquorcabinettothankherforhavingtheballstochoosethisbookoverTheRedBadgeofCourage.Somethingsingle-malt.You’rewelcome,Englishteachers.Youtotallyoweme.Wait.Hangon.ItjustoccurredtomethatifEnglishteachersassignedthisbookasrequiredreading,that

means that the school district just had tobuy a tonofmybooks, so technically I oweyouone,Englishteachers.ExceptthatnowthatIthinkaboutit,mytaxdollarspaidforthosebooks,sotechnicallyI’mkindofpayingforpeopletoreadmyownbook,andnowIdon’tknowwhethertobemadornot.Thisfootnotejustturnedintoagoddamnwordproblem.Youknowwhat?Fuckit.Justsendmehalfofthemaltliquoryougetfromyourstudentsandwe’llcallit

even.Also,isthisthelongestfootnoteinthehistoryofever?Answer:Probably.

MyChildhood:DavidCopperfieldMeetsGuns&AmmoMagazine

I’vemanagedtopinpointseveralkeydifferencesbetweenmychildhoodandthatof pretty much everyone else in the entire fucking world. I call these points,“Eleven Things Most People Have Never Experienced or Could Have EvenPossiblyImagined,butThatTotallyHappenedtoMe,BecauseApparentlyIDidSomethingAwfulinaFormerLifeThatI’mStillBeingPunishedFor.”

#1.Mostpeoplehaveneverstoodinsideadeadanimal,unlessyoucountthattimewhenLukeSkywalkercrawledinsidethattauntauntokeepfromfreezingtodeath,which Idon’t,becauseStarWars isnot adocumentary. Ifyou’reeasilygrossed out, I recommend skipping this entire section and going straight tochapterfive.Ormaybegettinganotherbookthat’slessdisturbingthanthisone.Likeoneaboutkittens.Orgenocide.Still there?Good for you!Let’s continue. I remember as a kidwatching the

CosbyfamilypreparedinneronTVandthinkinghowodditwasthatnoonewascovered inblood,because thiswasa typicalnight inourhouse:My father, anavid bow hunter, would lumber inside the house with a deer slung over hisshoulder.He’dflingitacrossthediningroomtable,andthenmyparentswoulddissectitandpulloutalltheusefulparts,likesomesortofterriblepiñata.Itwasdisgusting,butitwastheonlylifeIknew,soIassumedthateveryoneelsewasjustlikeus.TheonlythingthatseemedweirdaboutittomewasthatIwastheonlyperson

inthewholehousewhogaggedatthesmellofthedeerblood.Myparentstriedtoconvincemethatblooddoesn’thaveasmell,buttheyarefuckingliars.Alsotheytoldmethatmilkdoeshaveasmell,andthat’sridiculous,andI’mshockedthattheirlieshavespreadsofar.Milkdoesn’thaveasmell.Blooddoes.AndIthink I’m so sensitive to the smell of a deaddeer because of the timewhen Iaccidentallywalkedinsideone.IwasaboutnineyearsoldandIwasplayingchasewithmysisterwhilemy

fatherwascleaningadeer.I’mgoingtointerrupthereforasmalleducationalexplanationaboutwhatit

meansto“cleanadeer”:

“Cleaningadeer”forpeoplewhoaresensitivemembersofPETAYougetsomewarmwaterandtearlessshampooandgentlymassagethedeer.(Lather,rinse,butdon’trepeat,eventhoughthebottlesaysto,becausethat’sjustaploytosellmoreshampoo.)Blow-dryonlowheatandhot-glueabowtohisforehead.SendhimbacktothewoodstomeetaniceJewishdoe.Gotothenextchapter.

“Cleaningadeer”forcurious,nonjudgmentalreaderswhoreallywanttoknowhowit’sdone(andwhoaren’tPETAmemberswhoarejustpretendingtobecurious,nonjudgmentalreaders,butwhoreallywanttothrowbloodonmeatbooksignings)Cleaning a deer consists of tying up the arms and legs of the deer to aclothesline-like contraption, making it look as if the dead deer is acheerleader doing the “Give me an X!” move. Then you slice open thestomach,andallthestuffyoudon’twantfallsout.Likethegenitals.Andthepooprope.

“Cleaningadeer”forpeoplewhocleandeerallthetimeIknow,right?Canyoubelieve therearepeoplewhodon’tknow this shit?Weird. These are probably the same people who call the poop rope “theintestines.”Weallknowit’sapooprope,people.SayingitinFrenchdoesn’tmakeitanylessdisgusting.

Anyway,mydadhadjustfinishedcleaningthedeerwhenImadearecklesslyfast,ninja-likeU-turntoavoidgettingtaggedbymysister,andthat’swhenIran.Right. The fuck. Inside of the deer. It tookme amoment to realizewhat hadhappened,andIstoodthere,kindofparalyzedandnotninja-likeatall.Thebestway I candescribe it is that itwaskindof like Iwaswearing adeer sweater.Sometimes people laugh at that, but it’s not an amused laugh. It’smore of aninvoluntary nervous giggle ofwhat-the-fuckness. Probably because you aren’tsupposedtoweardeerforsweaters.You’renotsupposedtothrowupinsidethemeither,butthatdoesn’tmeanitdidn’thappen.I’dliketothinkthatmyfather threwthatdeeraway,becauseI’mprettysure

you’renotsupposedtoeatfoodyou’vewornorvomitedinto,butwhilehewashosingmeoff hewas alsohosingoff thedeer, somyguess is that he appliedsomesortofafucked-upGrizzlyAdamsversionofthefive-secondrule.(Foodonthefloorisstilledibleaslongasyoupickitupwithinfiveseconds.Unlessit’speanutbutter;thenthefive-secondruleisnull.Orifit’ssomethinglikedrytoast,thefive-secondruleisextendedto,like,aweekandahalf,becausereally,what’s going to get on dry toast?Nothing, that’s what. God, I could write a

wholebookonthefive-secondrule.Thatshouldtotallybethefollow-upbooktothisone:TheFiveSecondRuleAsItAppliestoVariousFoodstuffs.Brilliant.ButnowI’veforgottenwhatIwaswritingabout.Oh,yeah,throwingupinsideadeersweater. Right.) And that’s why I still suspect that my dad took home thehorriblydefileddeersweatertoeat.ExceptIdidn’teatit,becauseafterthatthesmellofbloodmademegag,andtothisdayIcan’teatanymeatthatI’veseenorsmelledraw,whichmyhusbandcomplainsaboutall the time,butuntilhe’swornadeersweaterhecanjustshutthehellup.Hesaysit’sallinmymind,butit’s totallynot,andI’veevenofferedto takesomesortofblindsmell test, liketheydidinthePepsichallenge,whereheholdsbowlsofblooduptomynosesothatIcanprovethatIcansmellblood,buthewon’tdoit.Probablybecausehe’skindofanalaboutourbowls.Hewouldn’tevenletmeuseoneforthrowingupinwhenIwassick.Hewasall,“Vomitbowl?Whousesavomitbowl?!”andIwasall,“Iuseavomitbowl.Everyoneusesavomitbowl.Youkeepitnearyouincaseyoucan’tmakeittothetoilet,”andhewasall,“No,youuseatrashcan,”andIwaslike,“Yousickfuck.I’mnotthrowingupinatrashcan.That’stotallybarbaric.” Then he yelled, “That’s what normal people do!” and I screamed,“That’showcivilizationbreaksdown!”AndthenIrefusedtospeaktohimfortherestoftheday,becausehemademeyellathimwhileIwasvomity.DidyounoticehowIjustskippedrighttohavingahusbandeventhoughthisparagraphissupposedtobeaboutmychildhood?MyGod,thisisgoingtobeaterriblebook.Butbothstorieshavetodowithbloodandvomit,sothat’skindofimpressive,ina way that’s really less “impressive” and more just kind of “sad” and“disturbing.”

#2.(Onthelistof“ThingsMostPeopleHaveNeverExperiencedorCouldHaveEven Possibly Imagined but That Totally Happened to Me,” in case you’veforgottenwhatweweretalkingaboutbecausenumberonewaswaytoolongandneedstobeeditedorpossiblyburned.)Mostpeopledon’thavepoisonoustapwaterintheirhouse.Mostpeopledon’tgetlettersfromthegovernmenttellingthemnottodrinktheirpoisonoustapwaterbecausedangerousradonhasleakedinto theirwell. In fact,mostpeopledon’tget theirpoisonous tapwater fromawellatall.Concernedrelativeswouldquestionmymotherabouttherisksofmysisterand

mebeingexposed toall that radon,butshewavedthemoff,saying,“Oh, theycouldn’tswallowiteveniftheywantedto.They’dthrowitupimmediately.It’sthattoxic.So,youknow,noworries.”Thenshe’dsendusofftobrushourteethwithitandbatheinit.Mymomwasabigproponentofthe“Whatdoesn’tkill

youmakes you stronger” theory, almost to the point where she seemed to bedaringtheworldtokillus.Thistheoryworkedwellformysister,whohasneverbeen sickaday inher life, and isoneof thoseAmazonianwomenwhocouldsquat inafield tohaveababyand thenpick thebabyupandkeeponhoeing,except also the fieldwouldbeon fire, and she’dbeall, “Fuckyou, fire!” andwalkthroughitlikethatscaryrobotinTheTerminator.Andalsoherbabywouldbe fire-resistant, and would be karate-chopping the flames like a tiny badass.I’ve tried to have this same level of pioneer toughness, but every couple ofmonthsIhaveatotalbreakdownorcatchsomekindofweirddiseasethatonlyanimals get. Like the time I got human parvo, which totally exists and is nofuckingpicnic.OrthetimewhenIwasbrushingmyhairandheardapopinmyneck,and Icouldbarelyevenbreathe ithurt somuch.Then Idrovemyself towork and I almost passed out from a combination of the pain and the not-breathing,andwhenIgotthereIhurtsomuchIcouldn’tevenmovemymouthto talk, so I wrote, “I HAVE BROKEN MY NECK,” on a Post-it, and mybewilderedofficematedrovemetothehospital.TurnsoutI’dherniatedadisc,and the doctor gave me a pamphlet on domestic abuse and kept asking mewhethersomeonewashurtingmeathome,becauseapparentlymostpeopledon’therniatetheirdiscssimplyfrombrushingtheirhairtoohard.Iprefertothinkthatmostpeoplejustdon’tbrushtheirhairasenthusiasticallyasIdo.

#3.Most people have runningwater. Imean,wemostly had runningwater,exceptwhenwedidn’t,whichwasoften.AsmysisterandIwouldalwayssaytoeachother, “Youknow,younever reallyappreciateyourpoisonouswellwateruntilit’sgone.”Inthesummerthewaterwouldoccasionallystopfornoreasonwhatsoever,andinthewinterthepipeswouldfreeze,andwe’dbeforcedtofilluppotsofwaterfromourcistern,andthenwarmtheicywateronthestovetobathe in. It’s even less glamorous than it sounds. I once pointed out to mymother that the water from the cistern was slightly brown, and that it didn’treally seem like the cleanest way to wash your hair, but she sighed atme indisappointment, saying, “It’s pronounced ‘beige.’” As if the pronunciationsomehowmadeitfancier.“Okay,”Icapitulatedgrudgingly,“thecisternwaterseemsslightlymorebeige

than the water from the tap,” but my mom just shrugged it off, becauseapparentlyshedidn’ttrustwatershecouldn’tsee.

#4.Mostpeopledon’thaveacisternorevenknowwhatacisternis.Someof

themsay that they have a cistern, and then they politely add that theword isactuallypronounced“sister,”andthenIjustnod,becauseIreallydon’twanttohave to explain that a cistern is actually an enormous metal can that catchesrainwater,sortoflikeanabovegroundwellforpeoplewhocan’tactuallyaffordawell.Butnoonewantstoexplainthat,becausehonestly?Who’sgoingtoadmittheycan’taffordawell?Notme,obviously,becausewehadawell.Onethatwasfilledwithpoisonousradon.

Thebackofthisphotosays,“1975—Jenny&herchickens.Adogkilledthemnotlongafterward.”Funny,Ifeelfine.

#5.Mostpeopledon’thave liveraccoons in thehouse.Mydadwasalwaysrescuing animals, and by “rescuing animals” I mean “killing the mother, andthendiscoveringshehadbabies,andbringingthebabieshometoraisetheminthebathtub.”Once,hebroughthomeeightnewbornraccoonsinabucketforustoraise.Whentheorphanedraccoonswerelittle,mymomsewedtinyJamsforthemtowear(becausethiswastheeighties,andJamswerequitepopularthen),andtheywereadorable,butthentheraccoonsgotbigenoughtoclimboutofthebathtubandprettymuchdestroyedtheentirehouse.RaccoonsaretotallyOCDandtheyaredriventowasheverythingthattheysee,whichyou’dthinkwouldmakethemsmellbetter,butitdoesn’t,becausetheysmellallmuskyandvaguelysour,likeone-nightstands.

PhotographicproofofRamboinhisJams.Alsopictured:TeenBeatmagazinewithKirkCamerononthecover,records,andVHStapes.It’sliketheeightiesthrewupalloverthisraccoon.Icouldn’teven

makethisshitup,people.

When the raccoons were old enough, we returned them all to the woods,except forone raccoon thatwekept as apet.HisnamewasRambo, andhe’dlearnedhowtoturnonthebathroomsinkandwouldwashrandomthingsinitallthetime,likeitwashisownprivateriver.IfI’dhavebeenthinkingIwouldhaveleft someWoolite andmy delicates by the sink for him to rinse out, but youneverthinktoturnyourpetraccoonintoatinybutleruntilit’stoolate.Once,wecame home to findRambo in the sink,washing a tiny sliver of soap that hadbeenanewbath-sizebarthatmorning.Helookedexhausted,andlikehewantedsomeonetostophimandputhimtobed,butwhenwetriedtotakeawaythelastbit of soaphegrowled at us, and sowe let him finish, because at that point Iguess it was like a vendetta, if raccoons had vendettas. Sometimeswhen I’mworking on an impossible project that I know I should just give up on andsomeone tries to take it away, I growl and scream, “THERECANBEONLYONE!”(which isbothweirdand inappropriate)but I think that that’sprobablyexactlyhowRambowasfeeling,withhissoapsliverandpuckeredlittlefingerscovered in radon water, and it makes me sad. But then I laugh, because itreminds me that right after the soap incident my mom insisted that Ramboneeded to live outside in a chicken cage “to protect him fromhimself.” I had

placedhimon topof thecage topethimwhenmy little sister,Lisa,whowasaboutseven then,whackedhimin thenose(becauseshewaskindofadickatthe time), and then Rambo flipped the fuck out, stood up on his hind legs,grimaced,andjumpeddirectlyontomysister’sface.Hegrabbedontoherearslikehewassomekindahorribleraccoonmask,andhewashissingandlookingrightintohereyeslike,“IWILLBRINGYOUDOWN,BITCH,”andmysisterwasscreamingandflailingherarmsanditwastotallyawesome.ThenextdaymydadtookRambotothefarm,whichI’dthoughtmeantthathe

actuallytookhimtomygrandfather’sfarmtolive,butnowthatIthinkaboutit,itprobablyhadless todowithgoing toafarmthanbuyingone.AndnowI’msadagain.ButthenIthinkaboutthefactthatmydadwasprobablypointingthegunatRambo,andRambowasprobablywearinghislittleJamsandwasall,“Hithere,mister!”andmydadprobably sigheddefeatedly,1 saying something like“Aw, fuck. Just goon, then.Here’s tendollars and some soap.”Becausedeepdownmyfatherisatotalsofty.Unlesshe’sinadvertentlykillingthemotherofabunchofbabyraccoons.Thenyou’dbetterstandthefuckback,becauseyou’retotallygoingtogetbloodonyou.

#6.Mostpeopledon’tgooutintothewoodstocatcharmadillossothattheirfathercanracethemprofessionally.Also,whenyoufindoneandpullitoutbyitstail,mostgirls’fatherswon’tscreamout,“Mindtheteeth!Thatonelookslikeabiter!”Probablybecausemost fathersdon’t love theirdaughters asmuchasmyfatherlovesme.Ormaybebecausetheydidn’tmaketheirdaughterspulllivearmadillos out of tree stumps. Hard to tell. Honestly, though, those girls aremissingout,becausethereisnothinglikeseeingyourfatherdownonhishandsandkneeswithfiveothergrownmen,screamingandslappingatthegroundtoscare their respectivearmadillos intocrossing the finish line first.Andwhen Isay, “There’s nothing like it,” what I mean is, “Holy shit, these people arefuckinginsane.”Usuallywhen I tell peoplemy dadwas aTexas armadillo racing champion,

they assume I’m exaggerating, but then I pull out his silver armadillochampionship ring (which is, of course, shaped like an armadillo), and thenthey’re all, “Crap on a crap cracker, you’re actually serious.” And then theyusually leave quickly. The gold armadillo championship ring would be moreimpressivetoshowoff,butwedon’thaveitanymorebecausemyfathertradeditforaVictorianfuneralcarriage.Andno,I’mnot joking,becausewhythefuckwouldIjokeaboutthat?ButIdohavephotographicproof:

Why,yes,thatistheshiningwinner’sringoftheArmadilloGlitterati.Alsopictured:MyfatherduringanunfortunateMagnumP.I.phase,confusedspectators,unnamedarmadillo.

#7.Mostpeopledon’thaveaprofessional taxidermist forafather.When Iwaslittle,myfatherusedtosellgunsandammoatasportinggoodsstore,butIalwaystoldeveryonehewasanarmsdealer,becauseitsoundedmoreexciting.Eventually, though, he saved up enough money to quit his job and build ataxidermyshopnexttoourhouse(whichwastinyandbuiltoutofasbestosbackwhen people still thought thatwas a good thing).My dad built the taxidermyshophimselfoutofoldwoodfromabandonedbarnsanddidaremarkablejob,fashioning it to lookexactly like aWildWest saloon, completewith swingingdoorsandgaslightsandahitchingpostforhorses.Thenhehiredabunchofguystoworkforhim,manyofwhomlookedtomeasiftheywerefreshfromprisonorjustabouttogobackin.Ican’thelpfeelingsorryfortheconfusedstrangerswhowouldwanderintomyfather’staxidermyshop,expectingtofindabaranda stiff drink, andwho instead found several rough-lookingmenmy fatherhadhired,covered inbloodandelbowdeepinanimalcarcasses. Isuspect, though,that the blood-covered taxidermists probably shared their personal flaskswiththebaffledstranger,becausealthoughtheyseemedslightlydangerous,theyalsowereinvariablygood-hearted,andI’mfairlycertaintheyrecognizedthatanyonestumblingontothatkindofscenewouldprobablyneedastrongdrinkevenmorethanwhenthey’dfirstsetoutlookingforabartobeginwith.

#8.Mostpeopledon’thavetheirchildhoodpetseatenbyhomelesspeople.WhenIwasfive,mydadwonaducklingformeatthecarnival.WenamedhimDaffodil, and he lived in the backyard in an inflatable raft thatwe filledwithwater.Hewasawesome.Thenhegottoobigtolivecomfortablyintheraft,so

wesethimlooseunderthenearbytownbridgesohecouldbewithalltheotherducks.Wesang“BornFree,”andheseemedveryhappyashewaddledaway.Amonthlaterthelocalnewsranastoryonthefactthatalloftheducksintheriverhad gone missing and had been eaten by homeless people living under thebridge.Itwasapparentlyabadneighborhoodforducks.Istared,wide-eyed,atmymomasIstammeredout,“HOBOS.ATE.MYDAFFODIL.”Mymomstaredback with a tightened jaw, wondering whether she should just lie to me, butinsteadshedecideditwastimetostopprotectingmefromreallife,andsighed,saying, “It sounds nicer if you call them ‘transients,’ dear.” I noddedmechanically.Iwastraumatized,butmyvocabularywasimproving.

Fromthebackofthephoto:“Jenny&Daffodil.Laterhewaseatenbyhomelesspeople.”

#9.Mostpeopledon’tshareaswimmingpoolwithpigs.Weliveddownwindfrom the (locally) famous Schwartzes’ pig farm, which is something somepeoplemightbeembarrassedabout,butthesewere“showpigs,”soyeah,itwaspretty fucking impressive.When thewindwasblowingfromthewest itwouldsmellsostrongthatwe’dhavetoclosethewindows,butthatwaslessbecauseofthepigs,andmorebecauseofthenearbyrenderingplant.Infact,thefirsttimemyhusbandcaughtawhiffhenearlygagged,andmymomnonchalantlysaid,“Oh,that?That’sjusttherenderingplant,”inthesamewayotherpeoplemightsay, “Oh, that’s just our gardener.”Thenhegaveme this look like“What thefuck is a renderingplant?” and I quietly explained that a rendering plant is afactory where they compost old flowers, because that sounds much morewhimsicalthan,“It’slikeaslaughterhouse,butwaylessclassy.”TheSchwartzeshadanenormousopen-aircisternthattheyusedtowaterthe

pigs,andonspecialoccasionswe’dgetinvitedovertoswiminthepig’swater.Thisisalltrue,people.

Right here iswhen people begin to say, “I don’t believe any of this,” and Ihavetoshowthempicturesorgetmymomonthephonetoconfirmit,andthenthey get very quiet. Probably out of respect. Or possibly pity. This is why Ialwayshave to clarify that althoughmychildhoodwas fucked up, itwas alsokindofawesome.Whenyou’resurroundedbyotherpeoplewhoarejustaspoorasyouare,life

doesn’tseemallthatweird.Forinstance,oneofmyfriendsgrewupinahousewith a dirt floor, and it’s hard to feel too bad about your tiny asbestos housewhenyouhave theprivilegeofowningcarpet.Also, inmyparents’defense, Inever really realized we were that poor, because my parents never said wecouldn’taffordthings,justthatwedidn’tneedthem.Thingslikeballetlessons.Andponies.Andtapwaterthatwon’tkillyou.

#10.Mostpeopledon’t filewildanimals.When Iwas about sixmy parentsdecidedtoraisechickens,butwecouldn’taffordarealhenhouse.Insteadweputsomefilingcabinetsinthegarage,andopenedthedrawerslikestairstepssothechickens could nest in them. Once, when I went out to gather the eggs, IstretchedontomytiptoestoreachintothetopdrawerandIfeltwhatseemedlikeamisshapen egg, and that’s because it was in the belly of a gigantic fuckingrattlesnakethatwasattemptingtoswallowanotheroneoftheeggs.ThisiswhenIranscreamingbackintothehouse,andmymomgrabbedariflefromtheguncabinet,and(astheescapingsnakewritheddownthedriveway)sheshotitrightin the lumpy part where the egg still was, and egg exploded everywhere likesomesortofterriblefireworksdisplay.Wefoundoutlaterthatitwasactuallyabull snake justpretending to be a rattlesnake, andmymother felt a little badaboutkillingit,butpretendingtobearattlesnakeinfrontofanarmedmotherisbasically likewaving a fake gun in front of a cop. Eitherway, you’re totallygoingtogetshot.Also,wheneverIreadthisparagraphtopeoplewhodon’tliveintheSouth,theygethunguponthefactthatwehadfurnituredevotedtojustguns,butinruralTexasprettymucheveryonehasaguncabinet.Unlessthey’regay.Thentheyhavegunarmoires.

#11.Mostpeopledon’thavetodevoteanentireyearoftherapytoasingleten-minuteepisode fromtheirchildhood.Threewords:Stanley, theMagicalSquirrel.Actuallythat’sfourwords,butIdon’tthinkyou’resupposedtocounttheword“the,”sinceitisn’timportantenoughtobecapitalized.Allofthiswillbefixedbymyeditorbythetimeyoureadthisanyway,soreallyIcouldwrite

anythinghere.Like,didyouknowthatAngelinaJoliehatesJewishpeople?Truestory.(Editor’snote:AngelinaJoliedoesnothateJewishpeopleatall,andthisisatotalfabrication.WeapologizetoMs.JolieandtotheJewishcommunity.)IwasgoingtowriteaboutStanleytheMagicalSquirrelrighthereonnumber

eleven, but it’s way too convoluted, so instead Imade it into the whole nextchapter, because I’m pretty sure when you sell a book you get paid by thechapter.Icouldbewrongaboutthat,though,becauseIamoftenwrong.ExceptabouttheAngelina-Jolie-hating-Jewsthing,whichisprobablytotallytrue.(No,that’snottrueatall.Shutup,Jenny.—Ed.)

1.Is“defeatedly”arealword?Asin,“Shesigheddefeatedlyasspell-checkimpliedthat‘defeatedly’isn’tareal word.” Fuck it. It’s going in the book, and I’m pretty sure that makes it a real word. Me andShakespeare.Makingshitupaswegoalong.

Stanley,theMagicalTalkingSquirrel

WhenItellpeoplethatmyfatheriskindofatotallunatic, theylaughandnodknowingly.Theyassuremethattheirsistoo,andthathe’sjusta“typicalfather.”And they’re probably right, if the typical father runs a full-time taxidermy

businessoutofthehouse,andshowsupatthelocalbarwithaminiaturedonkeyand a Teddy Roosevelt impersonator, and thinks other people are weird formaking such a big deal out of it. If the typical father says things like “Happybirthday!Here’sabathtubofraccoons!”or“We’llhaveto takeyourcar.Minehastoomuchbloodinit,”thenyeah,he’stotallynormal.Still,Idon’trememberanyof thekids fromCharles inCharge feelingaround thedeep freeze for thePopsicles and instead pulling out an enormous frozen rattlesnake that Charleshad thrown inwhile itwas still alive.Maybe Imissed thatepisode.Wedidn’twatchalotofTV.That’swhywhenever people try to tellme how their “insane father”would

sometimesfallasleeponthetoilet,oroccasionallycatchthehouseonfire,Iputmy finger to their lips and whisper, “Hush, little rabbit. Let me give youperspective.”AndthenItellthemthisstory:ItwasclosetomidnightwhenIheardmyfatherrumblingdownthehall,and

then suddenly the light switched on inmy bedroom.Mymom unsuccessfullytriedtoconvincehimtogotobed.“Letthegirlssleep,”shemumbledfromtheirbedroom across the hall.Mymother had learned thatmy father could not bedissuadedwhena“greatthought”hithim,butshewentthroughthemotionsofarguingwithhim(mainlytopointoutwhatwasnormalandwhatwascrazy,sothatmysisterandIwouldbeabletorecognizeitaswegotolder).Iwaseight,andmysister,Lisa,wassix.Myfather,agiantbohemianmanwho

lookedlikeadangerousZachGalifianakis,lumberedintoourtinybedroom.Lisaand I shared a roommost of our lives. Our bedroomwas so small that therewasn’tmuchroomforanythingotherthanthebedweshared,andadresser.Theclosetdoorshadbeenremovedlongagotogivetheillusionofmorespace.Theillusionhadfailed.I’dspenthourstryingtocreatesmallbastionsofprivacy.I’dconstructfortswitholdquilts,andbegmymomtoletmeliveinthegaragewiththechickens. I’dshutmyself in thebathroom(theonlyroomwitha lock),butwithonebathroomforfourpeople,andafatherwithirritablebowelsyndrome,

thiswasnotagoodlong-termsolution.OccasionallyIwouldemptymywoodentoy box, curl up inside, and shut the lid, preferring the leg cramps and quietdarkness of the pine box to the outside world . . . much like a sensorydeprivation chamber, but for orphans. My mom was concerned, but notconcernedenoughtoactuallydoanythingaboutit.Therearefewadvantagestogrowinguppoor,andnothavingmoneyfortherapyisthebiggest.Myfathercrouchedontheedgeofourbed,andLisaandIblinked,oureyes

slowlyadjustingtothebrightlight.“Wakeup,girls,”mydadboomed,hisfaceflushed with excitement, cold, or hysteria. He was dressed in his usualcamouflagehuntingclothes,andthescentofdeerurinewaftedaroundtheroom.Huntersoftenuseanimalpeetocovertheirscent,andmyfathersplasheditonlikeothermenusedOldSpice.Texasisastatethathadonceoutlawedsodomyandfellatio,butistotallycoolwithmengivingthemselvesgoldenshowersinthenameofdeerhunting.My dad held a Ritz cracker box, which was weird, because we never had

brand-name food in the house, so I was all, “Hell, yeah, this is totally worthwaking me up for,” but then I realized that there was something alive andmoving in the cracker box,whichwas disturbing; less becausemy father hadbrought some live animal in a cracker box into our room, andmore becausewhateverwasintherewasruiningsomeperfectlygoodcrackers.Letmeprefacethisbysayingthatmydadwasalwaysbringinghomecrazy-ass

shit. Rabbit skulls, rocks shaped like vegetables, angry possums, glass eyes,strangedriftershepickedupontheroad,a liveporcupineinarubbertire.Mymother (a patient and stoic lunch lady) seemed secretly convinced that shemust’vecommittedsometerribleact inaformer life todeserve this lot in life,andsosheforcedasmileandsetanotherplaceforthedrifter/junkieatthedinnertablewiththequietdignityusuallyreservedforsaintsorcatatonics.Daddyleanedtowardusand toldusratherconspiratorially that thisboxheld

ournewestpet.Thisisthesamemanwhooncebroughthomeababybobcat,letit loose in the house, and forgot tomention it because he “didn’t think itwasimportant,”soforhimtobeexcitedIassumedtheboxhadtocontainsomethingtruly amazing, like a two-headed lizard, or a baby chupacabra.Heopened theboxandwhisperedexcitedly,“Comeoutandmeetyournewowners,Pickle.”Almost as if on cue, a tiny head poked out of the cracker box. It was a

smallish,visiblyfrightenedsquirrel, itseyesglazedoverfromfright.Mysistersquealedwithdelightandthesquirreldisappearedbackintothebox.“Heynow,you’ve gotta be quiet or you’ll scare it,”my fatherwarned.And yeah, Lisa’ssquealmighthavebeenjarring,butmorelikelyitwasjustfreakedthefuckoutbyourhouse.Mytaxidermistfatherhaddecoratedpracticallyeverysparewall

in our homewithwide-eyed foxes, leering giant elk, snarling bear heads, andwildboarscompletewithbloodyfangsfromeatingslowvillagers.IfIwasthatsquirrelIwouldhavetotallyshitmyself.LisaandIweresilent,andthetinysquirreltentativelypeekedoverthetopof

thebox.Itwascute,asfarassquirrelsgo,butallIcouldthinkwas,“Really?Afuckingsquirrel?Thisiswhatyougotmeoutofbedfor?”Andtrue,Imaynothave said “fucking” in my head, because I was eight, but the sentiment wastotally there. This is a man who throws his kids in the car to chase aftertornadoesforfun,andwhooncegavemeafive-foot-longballpythonwhenheforgot my birthday, so the whole squirrel-in-a-box thing seemed kindaanticlimactic.Myfathernoticedthenonplussedlookonmyfaceandleanedinfurther, like

hewas telling us a secret he didn’t want the squirrel to overhear.“This,” hewhispered,“isnoordinarysquirrel.This,”hesaidwithadramaticpause,“isamagicsquirrel.”My sister and I stared at each other, thinking the same thing: “This,” we

thought to ourselves, “is our father clearly thinkingwe are idiots.”Lisa and Iwere bothwell versed in our dad’s storytelling abilities, andwe knew that hewasnotamantobetrusted.Justlastweekhe’dwokenusupandaskedwhetherwewantedtogotothemovies.Ofcoursewewantedtogotothemovies.Moneywasalwaystight,soseeingamoviewasoneofthoserareglimpsesintothelivesofthewealthyfewwhocouldsplurgeonsuchluxuriesasmatineesandcentralheating. These people in the audience, I felt sure, were the same peoplewhocouldaffordrealwintershoesinsteadofbreadsacksstuffedwithnewspapers.

Lisaandmeinthefrontyardinour(barelyvisible)bread-sackshoes.

When Lisa and I were practically bouncing off the walls from the sheerexcitementofseeingamovie,he’dsendusofftocallbothmovietheatersinthenearbytownandhaveuswritedowneveryshowingsowecoulddecidewhatto

see.We’dlistentotherecordingofthemoviesoverandovertogetitalldown,and after thirtyminutes of intense labor we’d compiled the list, andmultiplereasonswhyTheMuppetMovie was the only logical choice. Thenmy fatherwouldmerrilyagreeandwewouldallcheer,andhewouldbenddownandsay,“So.Doyouhaveanymoney?”MysisterandIlookedateachother.Ofcoursewedidn’thaveanymoney.Wewerewearingbread-sackshoes.“Well,”saidmyfather,withabiggrinspreadingacrosshisface,“Idon’thaveanymoneyeither.Butitsurewasfunwhenwethoughtweweregoing,huh?”Somepeoplemightread thisand think thatmyfatherwasasadisticasshole,

buthewasnot.HehonestlythoughtthatthetimethatLisaandIspentplanningamoviedatethatwouldneverhappenwouldbeagreatbreakfromwhatwewouldhavebeendoinghadhenotbroughtitup(i.e.,hot-wiringtheneighbor’stractor,or playingwith the family shovel). Iwonder if one daymy fatherwill get asmuchofakickoutofthisconceptwhenLisaandIcalltotellhimwe’regoingtopick him up from the retirement home for Christmas, but then never actuallyshowup.“But it surewasexcitingwhenyou thoughtyouwerecominghome,though,right?”we’llcheerfullyaskhimonNewYear’sEve.“Seriously,though,we’lltotallybe there topickyouup tomorrow.Noenemasandheartmedsforyou!We’regoingtothecircus!It’sgonnabegreat!Youshouldtotallytrustus!”Hetotallyshouldn’ttrustus.These were the very things running throughmymind on the night my dad

woke us up with the “magical” squirrel. My father seemed to sense I wasplottinganursing-home/circus-related revenge, andhis eyebrowsknit togetherasheattempted togainbackour trust.“Seriously, this isamagicsquirrel,”hesaid.“Look. I’llprove it toyou.”He looked into thebox.“Hey, littlesquirrel.What’smyoldestdaughter’sname?”The squirrel lookedatmy father, thenatus . . . anddamned if that squirreldidn’t stretchupandwhisper right intomyfather’sear.“Hesaid,‘Jenny,’”mydadstatedquitesmugly.Itwas impressive, but bothmy sister and Iwere quick to point out thatwe

didn’tactuallyhear thesquirrel saymyname,and that itwasmore likely thatthesquirrelwasjustlookingforfoodinmyfather’searhair.Myfathersighed,clearlydisappointedinhiscynicalchildren,ortheearhaircomment.“Fine,”hesaidgruffly,givingusa frustratedhuffand lookingback into thecrackerbox.“Littlesquirrel...whatistwoplusthree?”And thisamazing,magical,wonderful squirrel raisedhis squirrely littlepaw.

Five.Fucking.Times.ImmediatelyIrealizedthatthismagicalsquirrelwouldbemyticketoutofthis

tiny West Texas town. I would parlay this squirrel into money, toys, and

appearancesonTheTonightShow.IwouldcallhimStanley,andIwouldhireaCubanseamstressnamedJuanitatomaketinyleisuresuitsforhim.JustasIwasconsideringwhetherStanleywouldlookmoredashinginafedoraoraberet,myfathersmiledbroadlyandrippedopentheboxthatwashidingthelittlesquirrel.Stanley looked . . . strange. I dimly realized that his stomachwas huge and

distended,bowingoutlikeanenormousbeerbelly.“Juanitawillhaveherworkcutoutforher,”Ithoughttomyself.AndthenIrealizedthatStanley’stinybackfeetwereswingingawfullylistlessly,andthatmyfather’shandwasSTUCKUPINSIDETHEBODYOFTHESQUIRREL.“Holyfuck,youpsychopath!”iswhatIwouldhavesaidifIhadn’tbeeneight

yearsold.Freshbloodwasdryingonmyfather’ssleeve,andmymindstruggledtopiecetogetherwhatwashappening.ForabriefmomentIthoughtthatStanleythe Magical Squirrel had been alive up until only seconds before, when myfatherhadchosentogivehimsomesortofbizarrecolorectalexamgonehorriblywrong.ThenIrealizedthatthiswas,morelikely,asquirrelmyfatherhadfounddeadontheroad,andthathehadsliceditopenanddecidedtouseitassomesortofgrotesquehandpuppetculledfromtheverybowelsofhell.Lisagiggledandstuckherhanduptheassofthedeadsquirrel.Thestrainhad

been too much for her fragile little mind. At the age of only six, she hadsnapped.Assheshovedthefreshcarcassuptoherelbow,Imadeamentalnotetostartcheckingoutthebacksofmilkcartons,certainthatmyrealparents,whohadmostlikelymisplacedmeatamovietheater,mustbeveryworriedaboutmebynow. I assuredmyself that theywereprobably at aPETAmeeting,makinglarge donations in the name of their long-lost daughter. “Oh, she would haveloved this,”my realmotherwould sayconsolingly tomy father (thecount) astheyworkeddiligently to spread their successfulprairiedog rescuemission toneighboringcounties.Manyyearslater,mysisterhadadaughternamedGabi.Myfather(apparently

misinterpretingmyneedtobringupthedead-squirrelstoryeveryChristmasforthe restofmy lifeashomage tohappier times, rather than theeffectsofpost-traumatic stress disorder) decided he should bless his four-year-oldgranddaughter with the never-ending therapy that resulted from the talking-magic-carcass-in-a-box.He’dtannedaraccoonbody,placedthestiffenedcorpseinalargecerealbox,andhadhiddenitundertheguestbed(apparentlywaitingfor the perfectmoment to scarGabi for life), and then he forgot all about it.Weeks later, Gabi found the mutilated raccoon carcass under the bed and(thinking it tobeavery stiffpuppet)wanderedaround thehouseplayingwithhernew friend and freaking the shit out of the cat.She crept intomy father’sroom, where he was taking a nap, and quietly laid the dead raccoon on my

father’spillow,likeamessagefromtheGodfather.Thedeadraccoon’sshriveledpawgentlygrazedmyfather’ssleepingfaceasGabimovedtheraccoonclosersoitcouldgivehergrandfatheranEskimokiss.“Papaw,”shewhisperedsweetly,“wakeupandsayhewwo.”This is the point when my dad screamed like a little girl, and then Gabi

screamedat his screaming, and she threwher handsup, and thedead raccoonwentflyingacross theroominto thekitchenandlandedonmysister’sfoot.Anormalpersonwouldhavepassedoutoratleastyelled,“Whatthefuck?!”butatthat point in her life, flyingdead raccoons and screamingpeople in the housewereprettymuchnormal,soLisashruggedandwentbacktomakingherPop-Tart.Lisacalledmetosharethestorylater,andIpromisedtobuyGabiaponyfor

avengingus,butthenlaterIfeltalittlesorryformydad,becausewakinguptofind a dead raccoon staring at you through eyeless sockets as it caresses yourcheekisnotsomethinganyonewithhishighbloodpressureshouldhave togothrough.Thenagain,givingmeamutilatedmagicalsquirrelinacrackerboxiskindafuckedup,too,soIguesswe’reabouteven.

Asanaside,IcouldnotfindaphotoofStanleythemutilatedsquirrel(probablybecause no one ever thinks to take pictures of squirrel carcasses until it’s toolate), but I do have a picture ofmy dad bottle-feeding a baby porcupine in aspare tire, and that seems somehow fitting and slightly redeeming. I did,however, justnotice thatmydadisholdingtheporcupineupwithapaintstickandtherearepaintdropsallover the tire.Soit’sentirelypossiblehe’s feedingtheporcupinehousepaint.Unlikely,butstrangerthingshavehappened.

Don’tTellYourParents

Nearlyeveryweekendwhen Iwasakid,my father’sCzechoslovakianparentswouldpickupmysisterandme,anddriveusawaywiththemtotheirhouseinanearby town. My grandmother, whom we called Grandlibby, was one of thesweetestandmostpatientwomenevertogracetheplanet.Isuspectmostpeoplefeelthatwayabouttheirgrandmothers,butthiswasthesamewomanwho,whenpushed, would describe Hitler as a “sad little man who probably didn’t gethugged enoughwhen hewas little,” andwould say only of Satan, “I’m not afan.”Mygrandfatherseemedtoviewtheoverwhelmingcheerfulnessofhiswifeas

somesortofdare,andsetouttobalanceouthereffectontheworldbybeingjustgenerallyput-outabouteverything.Hewasharmlessunderthegruffdemeanor,butwealwaysgavehimawideberthashestalkedthroughthehouse,mutteringangrilytohimselfinCzech(probablyabouthowmuchhewishedhehadacanetohitpeoplewith).Grandlibbywouldalwayssmilelovinglyathimandpatientlyhumorwhatever itwas hewas pissed off about at themoment, as she quietlyshooed us all out of the room until he had time to watchBonanza and calmdown. I’mnot surehowmuchofher superhumanpatiencewas love,andhowmuchwassimplyself-preservation.According to family legend, when my great-great-great-aunt was in her

thirties,shesatdownatthebreakfasttableandherhusbanddroveanailthroughthebackofherskullandthenburiedherinthebackyard.I’vebeentoldthiswastotallykosheratthetime.Thebackyardburial,thatis.Notthenail-through-the-head thing. Nails in the head have always been frowned on, even in Texas.There’s no real proof any of this happened, but my great-great-great-uncle’sallegeddeathbedconfessiontokillinghiswife(andalsotosettinghisfatheronfireafewyearsbeforethat)wasconsideredfactinourfamily.Mygrandfathersaid thatafter theconfession,severalmembersofourfamilyduguphisgreat-auntandfoundthenailstillembeddedinherskull.Thentheyburiedheragain,without informing thepolice,because thiswasbeforeCSI:Miami. I’d pointedout that digging up a familymember’s corpse just to check for skull holes isalmost as bizarre as murdering someone with a nail through the head, butGrampadisagreedandmumbledgrumpilyabout“kidstodaynotunderstandingfamily responsibilities.” I sometimes wondered whether my grandmother was

thatinhumanlygood-naturedonlybecauseshewastryingtoavoidgettinganailinthehead.Idoubtit,though.Grampawasn’tthatgreatwithtools.Deepdownhewasagoodman.Youcould tellhefeltuncomfortablearound

children,butwedidn’tholditagainsthim,asthefeelingwasmutual.He’dhadaseriesofstrokesinhissixties,whichcausedhimtoblinkoneeyeinvoluntarily,andhebecameconvinced that thewomenof their churchwould thinkhewasluridlywinkingat them,sohebeganwearingdark-tintedRoyOrbisonglasses,which,accompaniedbyhis stoicdemeanor, thickold-worldCzechaccent, andhispenchantforwearingundershirtsanddarksuits,gavehimtheairofbeingthehead of a Mafia family. Neighbors treated him with a quiet respect, perhapsfearing that hemight put a hit out on them, andmore than once I heard himreferredtoas“TheTerminator.”Grampadideverythingathisownpace,aspeedthatmysisterandIreferredto

as“when snails attack.” It was most obvious when he was driving. He wasalmost legally blind, and the dark glasses were helping no one, certainly notanyone sharing the road with him. He tempered these limitations by drivingaboutthirtymilesunderthespeedlimitatalltimes.Mygrandparents’housewasonlyabouttenmilesfromours,buttheridetherewouldnecessitatesandwichespacked for the trip, and several books to keep us occupied. Once, on aparticularly slow journey, my sister realized that she needed to go to thebathroom, and I tried to convince her to hold it, but she couldn’t, soGrampaturned toward a gas station.He suddenly swerved, insisting that a cougar hadjustdartedoutinfrontofthecar.Wehadallseenthecougarhewasreferringto.Itwasadouble-widemobilehomethathadbeenparkedbythesideoftheroadforatleasttwentyyears.LisaandIcalmedourselvesintheknowledgethatevenifGrampadidrunintosomething,atthisspeedwe’dprobablyjustgentlybounceoff it.We often contemplated leaping out of the car and running the last fewblocks toourgrandparents’house, fairlycertain thatwecouldmake it there intime to try on Grampa’s spare hearing aids before they ever pulled into thedrivewayandrealizedweweremissingfromthebackseat.Ourgrandparents’housewaslikeCaligula’spalace,asmygrandfatherwastoo

distractedbybeing indignant at the existence of cats (whichhe trapped in hisbackyardandsenthomewithus),andmygrandmotherwastoosweettosaynotoanything.Sharpknives,chocolates,smallfires,late-nightcabletelevision...nothingwasoutofboundshere.Luncheswouldconsistoffriedeggsfloatingonsyrup,mashedpotatoesmixedwithwhippedcream,andhomemadeFrenchfriesdrippingwithlard.Fordinner,Grandlibbywouldmakeafewpansofhalf-bakedbrownies, resulting in a mushy brownie-salmonella-pudding concoction thatcouldonlytrulybeenjoyedwheneatenwiththefingers...rollingthedoughy

messintolargechocolatespeedballs.After every biteGrandlibbywould repeat hermantra:“Now, don’t tell your

parentsabout this.” Iwouldmumbleaquickassent, too jackeduponasyruphightodomore.Mysistermanagedanodasshesuckeddownapintofketchupstraight from the bottle. Grampa would wander in, muttering disapprovinglyaboutourpoorfoodchoices,andmygrandmotherwouldlookstraightathiminwide-eyedsurpriseandthenagreesincerely,asifshehadneverconsideredthatanall-taffybreakfastwouldbeanunhealthyidea.Thenshe’dsweetlythankhimfor his good advice, and go make him comfortable in his easy chair beforereturningtothekitchentoquietlysuggestthatwemakepeanut-butter-and-sugar-cubemilkshakes.Inevitably,mygrandfatherwouldreturnahalf-hourlateranddemandtoknowwhat thehellwasgoingon,andmygrandmotherwouldlookcluelessandadorableasshepretendedtounderstandforthefirsttimethatsugarcubesweren’t a garnish. Her innocent face was irreproachable and he’d sighdeeply, walking away, while muttering that she was becoming senile. Shewasn’t.Sheknewexactlywhatshewasdoingandhadperfectedtheartofdoingwhatevershewantedtodoinordertomakelifehappy,whileavoidingthekindsofargumentsthatledtonailattacks.Asthenightprogressed,mygrandfatherwouldgotosleep,andwewouldsink

further intoourownchildlikebrandofdebauchery.Our cousinMichelle,whowasayearyounger thanme,wouldcomeover, and thenightwould turn full-forceintothetypeofself-harmaffairthatonlyimaginativechildrenwithlimitedsupervisioncaneverfullyachieve.In spite of the fact that the entire housewas riggedwith safety inmind,we

wereabletoturnthistomeetourownneeds.Whereassomegrandparentswouldlay down those plastic mats in the bathtub to keep from slipping, mygrandparentshadtakenthisastepfurtherandhadcoveredallusablewalkwaysin the house with a thick yellow, plastic covering for the carpeting. We’ddiscoveredthatwhatkepttheplasticmatssowellanchoredtothefloorwasaseaofone-inchspikesontheunderside,juttingdownintothegoldshagcarpet.Oncewe had reached the highest plane of thought, reserved only for yogis andchildrendeepinthethroesofasugaroverdose,wewouldturnthematsupsidedown and practice walking over our homemade bed of nails. Being younger,MichelleandLisawererequiredtocarrylargeplasterurnsorheavyfurnituretocompensate for their smaller frames. I was allowed to walk without addedweight in light of the fact that I’d hadbothofmybig toenails shearedoff bybroken glass while wading barefoot in the swollen storm drains only hoursearlier. “Tell your parents you fell while I was reading you the Bible,”Grandlibbysuggestedhelpfully.

In themorningwewould go swimming.My grandparentsweren’t poor, buttheywerethetypeofpeopletosaveandreusetinfoil,alwayscertainthatanotherdepressionwasloomingaroundthecorner,sotheymetthechallengeofcreatinga pool for their grandchildren by salvaging three fiberglass bathtub shells thatsomeonewasthrowingaway.Wewouldplugupthedrainholesandfillthetubswiththegardenhoseoutside.Grandlibbywouldsubtlysuggestthatweallowthesuntowarmupthefrigidwaterinthetubs,butafteranightofoverindulgenceandgeneraldebaucherywecouldnotyetbegintotemperourselves.Weenteredthetubs,breakingthethinlayeroffrostthatwasbeginningtoformonthetopofthewater,ourlipsandfingersturningafaintblue,assuringoneanotherthatevenifthisdidleadtopneumonia,itwouldmostlikelystrikelater,duringtheschoolweek.Regardless of how dangerous the activity, Grandlibby would always be

standing nearby with a cherry Shasta, a first-aid kit, and a loving look ofpanickedresignation.AsIpreparedtoleapoff theroofof theirhouseontothecouchpillowsbelow,itoccurredtomethatthismightnotbeagreatidea,butIknewthatI’dbemuchmorelikelytohurtmyselfclimbingbackdowntherustybarbecue-pit chimney pipe that I’d used as an impromptu trellis. GrandlibbymurmuredsomethinginCzechoslovakianthatsoundedsuspiciouslylikecursing.Lisa’sadvicewasmuchmorehelpful.“Tuckandroll!”

ONEOFOURFAVORITEPASTIMESwastoroamtheneighborhoodalleys,lookingintrashcansanddumpstersforhiddentreasures.DiscardedChristmastrees,water-damaged books, three-legged chairs, love letters frommistresses, and stainedclothing:Thesewereallourpersonalbooty.BecauseIwasthetallestandhadthemost recent tetanus shots, I felt it wasmy duty to dig farthest into the trash,certainthatifIappliedmyself,onedayIwouldfindalargewadofcash,abagofmisplacedheroin,orpossiblyahumanhand.I knewmy hardwork had not been in vain the day I pulled out the stained

Playboymagazine, its pages stuck togetherwith (what I nowhopewas) driedorange juice.At agenine, thiswasmy first real lookat fullnudity thatdidn’tinvolve aNationalGeographic exposé.We brought themagazine back to ourgrandparents’lawn,andmycousinandIsettledoutintheyardtoexaminethesewomen,whoIwassurprisedtodiscoverdidnothavebreaststhatsaggeddowntotheirnavels,andwhoallseemedtohavenamesthatendedwithtwoe’s.Weturned to the centerfold, a well-endowed blonde called “Candee.” Grandlibbytriedtodistractusawayfromthemagazinewiththetemptingcombinationofaladderandanumbrella,butwewerewaytoosuckedintothePlayboytolistento

her suggestions that themagazinewas“rubbish.”Mygrandfatherpeeredatusfromthedoorandmutteredloudlytohimselfabouthowlittlerespectkidshadforlawnsnowadays.Ihavenoideawhetherheevennoticedthetorridmagazinewewereengrossedin,buthecontinuedtogrumbleashestalkedintothehouse,possiblylookingforsomesmallnails.“Hey,Grandlibby?”Iasked.“What’sa‘turn-on’?”Shepaledvisibly,lookingmildlyill.“Well,”shesaid...strugglingforwords,

“it’s...um...thethingsthatmakeyouhappy,Isuppose?”Iturnedtomycousin.“Myturn-onsareRainbowBriteandunicorns.”Michelle smiled back, her two front teeth missing. “My turn-ons are

Monchhichis.AndTubbleGum.”Grandlibbyissuedaterse,strangledlaugh.“Yeah.Icouldbewrongaboutthat.

Idon’t speak realgreatEnglish,youknow.Whydon’tyou justneveruse thatphraseagain,okay?”Sheexcusedherself togo into thehouse.Wecouldhearsomething that sounded like a prayer coming from within, but we were toofascinated with these women and their flimsy-looking (and ill-fitting) supportgarmentstoinvestigateanyfurther.Suddenlythebright,sunnydayeruptedintoaviolenthailstorm.Werantoward

the porch, covering our headswith themagazine. Grandlibby stepped outsideauthoritatively,withoneeyebrowcocked.“So.Youseewhathappenswhenyoulook at dirty pictures?” she intoned knowingly. “It hails. And do you knowwherehailcomesfrom?”sheaskedsweetly.“Cumulous clouds?” I volunteered. I had recentlymade aB-plus in science,

andIfeltmoderatelysurethiswastherightanswer.“No,” Grandlibby replied. “Hail comes from hell. The devil sent it because

he’shappythatyou’rereadingevilgarbage.”MichelleandIlookedateachother.Ithadseemedsuspiciousforahailstorm

to erupt on a perfectly clear day, but we sensed that Grandlibby’s logic wasflawed.Ifthedevilwashappy,thenwhywouldhesendhailtodistractusfromour newfound love of pornography? “Certainly,” we thought, “she must beconfused.”Butwhatdidworryuswas thefact that thehailstormhadoccurredonly seconds after we’d heard Grandlibby praying in the house. It wasdisconcerting.DidmygrandmotherhavesomekindofdirectlinetoGod?HadallthoseyearsoffunnelingmoneytoJimandTammyFayeBakkerfinallypaidoff?Weweren’tsure,butfeltitwasbetternottochanceit.IplacedthePlayboyback on top of the neighbor’s trash can, feeling that if we could no longerpartake in its wonder, surely the next dumpster divers would appreciate mygenerosityandcharity,qualitiesIfeltsureGodwouldadmire.Years laterIrealizedthatmygrandmotherhadbeenrightallalongabout the

magazinebeingrubbish,andIhappilybypassedtheglossybutshallowPlayboysfor her old, battered copies of Housewife Confessions and True HollywoodScandals, which allowed for almost no nudity but amuch stronger story linethanPlayboycouldeverdeliver.“Don’ttellyourparents,”Grandlibbysaidwithasweetgrin.Ismiledback.Shehadnothingtoworryabout.

Jenkins,YouMotherfucker

WhenIwas littlemymotherusedtosaythatIhad“anervousstomach.”Thatwaswhatwe called “severe untreated anxiety disorder” back in the seventies,wheneverythingwascuredwithFlintstonevitaminsand threats to sendme tolivewithmygrandmotherifIdidn’tstophidingfrompeopleinmytoybox.ByagesevenIrealizedthattherewassomethingwrongwithme,andthatmost

childrendidn’thyperventilateandthrowupwhenaskedtoleavethehouse.Mymothercalledme“quirky.”Myteacherswhispered“neurotic.”ButdeepdownIknewtherewasabetterwordforwhatIwas.Doomed.Doomed because every Christmas I would end up hiding under my aunt’s

kitchen table from the sheer panic of being around somany people. Doomedbecause I couldn’t give a speech in classwithout breaking into uncontrollablehysterical laughter as the rest ofmy classmates lookedon.Doomedbecause Iknew,withouta shadowofadoubt, that somethinghorribleandnamelesswasgoing to happen and that I was helpless to stop it. And not just the normalterrible things that smallchildrenworryabout, likeyour fatherwakingyouupwithabloodyhandpuppet.Thingslikenuclearholocaust.Orcarbonmonoxidepoisoning.Orhaving to leave thehouse and interactwithpeoplewhoweren’tmymother.Itwasmost likelysomethingIwasjustbornwith,butIcan’thelpbut suspect that at least some ofmy social anxiety could be traced back to asingleepisode.

WHENIWASinthethirdgrade,myfatherrushedinsideonenighttotellusalltocomeoutandlookatwhathehadinthebackofhispickup.Iwasyoung,butstillwelltrainedenoughtoknowthatnothinggoodcouldcomeofthis.MysisterandIsharedawary lookasmymotherpeeredguardedlyfromthe

kitchenwindowtoseewhetheranythinglargewasmovinginmyfather’struck.Itwas.Shegaveusa look thatmyfatheralwaysseemed to interpretas“Howluckyyougirlsaretohavesuchanadventurousfather,”butwhichIalwaysreadas“Oneofyouwillprobablynotsurviveyourfather’senthusiasm.MostlikelyitwillbeLisa, sinceshe’s smallerandcan’t runas fast,but she is quitegoodathidinginsmallspaces,soreallyit’sanyone’sgame.”Morelikely,though,itwassomethinglike“Christ,whywon’tsomeonehurryupandinventXanax?”

Usuallywhenmyfatherwantedustocomeoutsidetoseewhatwasinthebedof his truck, itwasonlybecausewhateverwas in therewas either toobloodyand/orviciousforhimtocarryinside,soweallstayedintherelativesafetyofourhouseandaskedaseriesofquestionsdesignedtoindicatethelevelofdangerof whatever Daddy would be exposing us to. We’d learned to interpret hisanswers accordingly, and had invented what we would later refer to as “TheDangerousThesaurusofMyFather.”

Anabridgedversion:“You’rereallygoingtolikethis.”=“Ihavenoideawhatchildrenenjoy.”“Putyourdarkcoaton.”=“You’reprobablygoingtogetbloodonyou.”“It’snotgoingtohurtyou.”=“IhopeyoulikeBactine.”“It’sveryexcited.”=“Ithasrabies.”“Now,don’tgettooattached.”=“Igotthismonkeyforfreebecauseithasavirus.”

“Itlikesyou!”=“Thiswildboarisnowyourresponsibility.”“Now,thisisreallyinteresting.”=“You’llstillhavenightmaresaboutthiswhenyou’rethirty.”

“Don’tscreamoryou’llscareit.”=“Youshouldreallyberunningnow.”“Itjustwantstogiveyouakiss.”=“It’sprobablygoingtoeatyourfaceoff.”

My fatherwas perpetually disappointed by our lack of trust, but I remindedhim that just lastweekhe’dbroughthisownmotheraboxhe’d filledwithanangrylivesnakethathe’dfoundontheroadonthewaytoherhouse.Hetriedtodefendhimself,butmysisterandIhadbothbeentherewhenmyfatherlaidthebox on the front yard and called hismother out to see “a surprise.” Then henudgedtheboxopenwithhisfoot,thesnakejumpedout,andmygrandmotherandIraninside.Lisaranintheoppositedirectionandtriedtojumpintothebedof the truck,whichwas incredibly shortsighted, as thatwas exactlywheremyfatherstoredtheskinned,unidentifiableanimalsthatheplannedtoboildowninordertostudytheirbonestructure.Thebedofmyfather’spickuptruckwaslikesomethingthatwouldhaveendedupinDante’sInferno,ifDantehadeverspentanytimeinruralTexas.Thismemorywasstillvivid inourmindsasmyfatherpushedusalloutside

into the cold darkness to showuswhatever horrifying booty he’dmanaged tocapture,shoot,orrunover.MysisterandIhungbacknervouslyasmymotherbracedherselfwithadeepbreathand leanedforwarduneasily tostare into theeyes of a dozen grim live birds,who looked as if they’d been driven through

hell.A few squawked indignantly, butmost huddled numbly in the corner, nodoubtshell-shockedfromthewindblownjourney,coupledwithbeingforcedtoshare the pickup bed with several animal carcasses my father had probablypickedupfortaxidermywork.Tothebirds,Iassumeitmust’vebeenverymuchlikeacceptingaridefromastranger,onlytoget in thebackof thevantofindseveralmurderedhikerswhowerebeingmadeintolampshades.Myfatherexplainedthatthebirdswerewell-behavedWisconsinjumboquail,

and my mother countered that the birds were, in fact, rowdy turkeys. Heexplained that he’d gotten them in trade for the rusty crossbow he’d broughthomeafewmonthsago,andtechnicallythebirdsseemedthelesserofthetwoevils, so she shook her head and went back to cleaning. My mother was awomanwho knew how to pick her battles, and she probably realized that thequails-that-were-actually-turkeyswouldbelessdangeroustoallofus.Those birds loved my father with a white-hot passion. They followed him

around, reverently, inwhat I can only imaginewas some sort of PattyHearstStockholmsyndrome,nodoubtstrengthenedby thesightofhimcarryingdeadanimals into the house every few days. My father was the only person theyseemedtotolerate.Asthemonthsworeon,theturkeysgrewbiggerandlouderandmore obnoxious, andwould roost on low tree branches, screaming atmymothereverytimesheleftthehouse.Myfatherinsistedthatthequailswerejusteccentric,andthatweweremisinterpretingtheloud,angrygobbling,whichhemaintainedwassimplythebirdssingingwithjoy.Heimpliedthatourresponsetothequailwasprobablyjustanindicationofourownguiltyconsciences,andmymotherimpliedthatheprobablyneededtobestabbedrepeatedlywithaforkin the thigh, but she said itmorewith her eyes thanwith hermouth, andmyfatherseldompaidenoughattentiontoeither.Asthebirdsgrewlargerandmeaner,IthankedGodthatwehadnoneighbors

near enough to witness the turkey’s behavior. I was already plagued withinsecurity and shyness, and the embarrassing angry turkey attackswere doingnothingformyalreadylowself-confidence.MysisterandI triedto ignorethewholesituation,whichwasdifficult,becausemyfather insistedonnaming theturkeysandtreatingthemlikepets.Petswhowouldangrilyrunatyouinafull-out attack, nipping at your tiny ankles as you ran in circles around the yard,screamingforsomeonetoopenthedoortothehouseandletyouin.Lisatriedtoconvincemyfatherthatthebirds(ledbyanunpredictableturkey

namedJenkins,forsomereason)wantedtoeatus,butmyfatherassuredusthat“quail don’t even have teeth, so even if they did manage to kill you, theycertainlywouldn’tbeabletoeatyou.”Isupposehethoughtthatwascomforting.“Doturkeyshaveteeth?”mysisteraskedhimarchly.

Myfather triedto lectureheronrespectingyourelders,buthegotdistractedtrying to calm down Jenkins,who had lodged himself on themailman’s hoodandwasviolentlyattackingat thewindshieldwiper,whilegobblingaccusinglyatthebaffledpostman.Welivedonaruralroute,soourmailmanwasfairlyusedtobeingbesiegedby

stray dogs, but he’d been utterly unprepared for an angry turkey attack andindignantlyyelled,“Youneedtolockthosedamnturkeysupifyoucan’tcontrolthem.”Myfather lifted the largebirdoff thehood,withmore thana little exertion,

andtuckedhimunderhisarm,saying(withasurprisingamountofdignityforamanwith a turkey under his arm), “Sir, this bird is a quail. And his name isJenkins.” I was surprised at my father’s elegance and poise at that moment,especiallyinlightofthefactthatJenkinswassnortingfuriouslyatthemailmanwhileshakingthelimprubberpartofthewindshieldwiperbladeinhisbeaklikeawhip.Iwasnotsurprisedwhenwefoundanoteinourmailboxthefollowingday, informingus thatwewouldno longerbeallowed to tapeaquarter toourletters in lieu of a stamp, and that all further packages would be left by themailbox rather than being delivered to the door. This was upsetting to mymother, bothbecause shehated tohave todrive into town tobuy stamps, andalsobecause themailman’s ideaof leavingpackagesat themailboxwasmorelikehimflingingourmailinthegeneraldirectionofthehousewithoutbraking.Theturkeysadaptedtothisbyquicklygatheringupthemailintheyard,whichwouldhavebeenhelpfulifthey’dbroughtittothehouselikeadog,butinsteadthey’d carry the letters around proudly, as if they were important turkeydocuments that my mother was attempting to steal from them. She’d try toconvincemysisterandmethatitwouldbeafungametotrytogetthemailfromthe turkeyseachday,butwedeclined,pointingout thatagoodgameofkeep-awayshouldn’tendwithbloodyanklesandthethreatofbirdflu.Itwas far safer for our social standing and physicalwell-being to avoid the

turkeysaltogether,somysisterandIbeganputtingtogetheradefensivestrategyto protect us from bird assault.Flashdance had just come out, and I tried toconvincemymomtobuymelegwarmers(bothtohelpmefitinwiththecoolkidsatschool,andalsotoprotectmylegsfromturkeyattacks),butsherefused,saying that wearing leg warmers in the Texas summer was a total waste ofmoney.InsteadIendedupjustenviouslystaringateveryoneelse’slegwarmers,who I suspected probably didn’t even have turkeys. Lisa and I attempted tofashionanklearmoroutofemptysoupcansthatwe’dopenedonbothsides,butmyfeetweretoobigtofitintothem,andLisa’sfeetweresolittlethatwhensheran,thetincanswouldclinkloudlytogetherandsimplyattracttheattentionof

theviciousherd.Shewasbasicallylikeatiny,pigtaileddinnerbell.Iconsideredtellingherthattheanklearmorwasn’thelping,butthatwastantamounttotellinga fellow zebra that he’s covered in steak sauce right before you both have tocrossaparkinglotfulloflions.Self-preservationisanarcissisticbedfellow,andIwasn’tproudofmyactions,but I comfortedmyself in theknowledge that ifLisa did fall prey to the vicious birds Iwouldwait aweek—out of respect—beforeclaiminghertoysformyown.Lisahadheardthatturkeysweresostupidthatifitrained,theywouldlookup

toseewhatwasfallingonthemanddrownfromtherainfallingintotheirnoses,sowebegantoprayforrain,whichwaspromptlyansweredbyafull-ondrought.Probablybecauseyou’renotsupposedtoaskGodtomurderyourpets.Weoftentalkedaboutsprayingthewaterhoseontheminordertoweedoutthestupiderones, butwe couldnever bringourselves to do it, bothbecause it seemed toocruel (even inself-defense)andalsobecauseour fatherwouldprobablyfind itsuspiciousifallhisturkeysdiedinafreakrainstormthathadapparentlybrokenoutonlynexttothegardenhose.Occasionally the turkeys would follow us, menacingly, on our quarter-mile

walk to school, lurking behind us like improbable gang members or tiny,featheredrapists.EvenatagenineIwaspainfullyself-conscious,andwasawarethatdysfunctionalpetturkeyswouldnotbeviewedas“cool,”soIwouldalwaysduck inside the schoolhouse as quickly as possible and feign ignorance,conspicuouslyaskingmyclassmateswhythehelltherewerealwaysjumboquailontheplayground.Thenotherstudentswouldpointoutthattheywereturkeys,and I’d shrugwith indifference, saying, “Oh, are they?Well, Iwouldn’tknowabout such things.” Then I’d slide into my seat and slouch over my desk,avoidingeyecontactuntil theturkeyslost interestandwanderedbackhometoshriekatmymotherfortheirbreakfast.ThisworkedperfectlyuntilthemorningwhenIduckedinsidetheschoollobby

alittletoosluggishly,andJenkinsblithelyfollowedmein,gobblingtohimselfandlookingbothcluelessandvaguelythreatening.Twootherturkeysfollowedbehind Jenkins. I quickly ran into my classroom as the turkeys wanderedaimlessly into the library. I sighed in relief thatnoonehadnoticed the turkeyexpedition, until an hour later, when we all heard a lot of screaming andsquawking, and we discovered that the principal and librarian had found theturkeys, who had somehow made their way to the cafeteria. They had alsomanaged to shit everywhere. It was actually a little bit impressive, and alsohorriblyrevolting.Theprincipalhadseentheturkeysfollowustoschoolbefore(ashadmostofmyclassmates,who’djustbeentooembarrassedformetopointout that they knew Iwas the turkey-magnet thewhole time), so he calledmy

father anddemanded that he come to the school to cleanup themess that histurkeyshadmade.Myfatherexplainedtotheprincipalthathemustbemistaken,becausehewasraisingjumboquail,buttheprincipalwasn’tbuyingit.Ahalf-hourlater,whenmyclasslineduptogotoPE,Ifoundmyfatheronhis

knees,cleaninguppoopinthelobby.Hewasunsuccessfullyattemptingtoshootheturkeysaway,quietlybutforcefullyyelling,“GOHOME,JENKINS.”Ifrozeandtriedtoblendintothewallpaper,butitwastoolate.Jenkinsrecognizedmeimmediatelyandranuptome,gobblingwithexcitedrecognitionlike,“OHMYGOD, ISN’TTHISAWESOME?WHOAREYOURFRIENDS?” and for thefirsttimeIdidn’trunscreamingfromhim.InsteadIsighedandwavedweakly,mumbling dejectedly, “Hey, Jenkins,” as my classmates stared at me inamazement.Butnotthegoodkindofamazement, likewhenyourunclesshowupatyourschoolinalimotoinviteyoutolivewiththem,andthey’reMichaelJacksonandJohnStamos,butyounevermentioneditbeforebecauseyoudidn’twanttobrag,andeveryonefeelsreallybadfornotinvitingyoutotheirslumberpartieswhen theyhad thechance. Itwasmoreof thebad kindof amazement.Likewhen you realize that not having the right kind of legwarmers is reallysmall potatoes compared to being assaulted by an overexcited turkey namedJenkins,whoisbeingscoldedbyyourshit-coveredfatherinfrontofyourentireschool.IthinkthiswasthepointwhenIrealizedthatIwaskindoffuckedwhenitcametoeverbecomingthemostpopularkidintheclass,andsoIjustnoddedtoJenkinsandmyfather(bothequallyoblivious to thedamagethey’ddone tomyreputation),andIheldmyheaduphighasIwalkeddownthehallandtriednottoslipinthefeces.All the rest of that day I waited for the taunting to come, but it never did.

Probablybecausenooneevenknewwhere tobegin.Orpossiblybecause theywereintimidatedbyJenkins,whoIlaterheardhadscreamedthreateninglyatthekindergartenersashewasforciblyevictedfromthepremises.Mysistertriedtobeblaséandpretendedasifthissortofthingwascommonplace.Sherefusedtolet itaffecthersocialstanding,andsoitdidn’t.Thissameconfidencecameinhandy a few years later, when she was attacked by a pig on the playground.(Thatstory’sinthenextbook.Youshouldstartsavingupforitnow.)I,ontheotherhand,gaveupcompletelyatevertryingtofitinagain.When other girls had tea parties on the playground, I brought out my

secondhandOuijaboardandattempted to raise thedead.WhilemyclassmatesgavebookreportsonTheWindintheWillowsorCharlotte’sWeb,Ididmineontattered, paperback copies of StephenKing novels that I’d borrowed frommygrandmother. Instead of Sweet Valley High, I read books about zombies andvampires.Eventually,mythird-gradeteachercalledmymotherintodiscussher

growingconcernsovermybehavior,andmymomnoddedblithely,butfailedtosee what the problem was. When Mrs. Johnson handed her my recent bookreport on Pet Sematary, my mom wrinkled her forehead with concern anddisapproval. “Oh, I see,” she said disappointedly, as she turned to me. “Youspelled ‘cemetery’wrong.” Then I explained that StephenKing had spelled itthatwayonpurpose,andshenodded,saying,“Ah.Well,goodenoughforme.”Myteacherseemedabitflustered,buteventuallytheprincipalremindedherthatmyfamilyhadbeentheonesresponsiblefortheGreatTurkeyShit-offof1983,andsheseemedtorealizethatherinterventionwasfutile,andgaveupwithoutfeelingtooguilty,becauseitwasprettyobvioustherewasnowayofturningmeintoa“normal”third-grader.AndIfeltrelievedforher.Andactually?Alittlerelievedformetoo.Becauseitwasthefirsttimeinmy

lifethatIgavemyselfpermissiontobeme.Iwasstillshyandself-consciousandterrifiedofpeople,butJenkinshadessentiallyfreedmeofthebondsofhavingtotrytofit in.ItwasalessonIshouldhavebeenhappytolearnatsuchayoungage,ifitweren’tforthefactthatitwasateachingmomentcenteringonapublicturkeyattackwitnessedbyallofthesamekidsthatIwouldgraduatefromhighschoolwith.Soonafterward,Jenkinsandtheotherturkeysdisappearedfromourlives,but

the lessons I learned from them still remain: Turkeysmake terrible pets, youshouldnevertrustyourfathertoidentifypoultry,andyoushouldacceptwhoyouare,flawsandall,becauseifyoutrytobesomeoneyouaren’t,theneventuallysometurkeyisgoingtoshitalloveryourwell-craftedfaçade,soyoumightaswellsaveyourselftheeffortandenjoyyourzombiebooks.AndsoIguess,inaway, I owe Jenkins a debt of gratitude, because (even if it was entirelyunintentional)hewasabrilliantteacher.Andalso?Totallydelicious.

IfYouNeedanArmCondom,ItMightBeTimetoReevaluateSomeofYour

LifeChoices(AlternativeTitle:HighSchoolIsLife’sWayofGivingYouaRecordLowtoJudgetheRestofYourLifeBy)

IwastheonlyGothchickinatinyagrarianhighschool.Studentsoccasionallydrove to school on their tractors.Most ofmy classes took place inside an agbarn. It was like if Jethro from The Beverly Hillbillies showed up in a Curevideo,exceptjusttheopposite.I purposely chose the Goth look to make people avoid me—since I was

painfullyshy—andIspenteveryfreeperiodand lunchhiding in thebathroomwithabookuntilIfinallygraduated.Itwastotallyshitty.Theend.

UPDATED:Myeditorsaysthatthisisaterriblechapter,andthatshedoesn’t“evenknowwhatthehellanagbarnis.”Whichiskindofweird.Forher,Imean.“Agbarn” isshort for“agriculturebarn.”It’s thebarnwhere they teachall thebollweevileradicationclasses. IwishIwere jokingabout that,but I’mtotallynot.You could also take classes inwelding, animal husbandry, cotton judging andcultivation,andanotherclassthatIdon’trememberthenameof,butwelearnedhow to build stools and fences in it. I’m fairly sure itwas called “Stools andFences101.”Noneofthisismadeup.

UPDATEDAGAIN:MyeditorsaysthisisstillaterriblechapterandthatIneedtoflesh it out more. I assume by “flesh it out” she means recover a bunch ofawkwardmemories that I’ve investeda lotof time in repressing.Fine.Myagteacher told us that once, years ago, a student was hanging a cotton-judgingbanner on the ag barn wall when he fell off of the ladder and landed on abroomstick,whichwent right up his rectum. The ideamust have really stuckwithmyteacher,becausehewasforeverwarningustobeconstantlyvigilantof

anystraybroomsintheareabeforegettingonaladder,andtothisdayIcannotseealadderwithoutcheckingtomakesuretherearen’tanybroomsnearby.ThisisprettymuchtheonlyusefulthingIeverlearnedinhighschool.Oh,andIalsolearnedfirsthandhowtoartificiallyinseminateacowusingaturkeybaster(butthatwasless“useful”andmore“traumatic,”bothformeandthecow).Thisiswhatwe had instead of geography. It’s alsowhy I can never get the blue piewhenIplayTrivialPursuit.

UPDATEDAGAIN:Myeditorhatesmeandisapparentlyworkingincollusionwithmy therapist, because theyboth insist that I delvedeeper intomyhigh schoolyears.Fine. I blame them for this whole chapter. Please be aware that you’llprobablyhavehorrible flashbacksofhigh schoolwhenyou read this.Youcanforwardyourtherapybillstomyeditor.

Let’sstartagain....Prettymuch everyone hates high school. It’s ameasure of your humanity, I

suspect. If you enjoyed high school, you were probably a psychopath or acheerleader.Orpossiblyboth.Thosethingsaren’tmutuallyexclusive,youknow.I’vetriedtoblockoutthememoryofmyhighschoolyears,butnomatterhowhardyoutry to ignore it, it’salwayswithyou, likeanunwantedhitchhiker.Orherpes.Iassume.Since I went to high school with all of the same kids who’dwitnessedmy

peculiarchildhood,Ihadalreadygivenupontheideaofbecomingpopularandperky,soinsteadItriedtoreinventmyselfwithaGothwardrobe,blacklipstick,anda look that Ihopedsaid, “Youdon’twant toget tooclose tome. I’vegotdark,terriblesecrets.”Unfortunately,themysteriouspersonaItriedtoadoptwasmetwithakindof

confused (andmildly pitying) skepticism, since the kids inmy class were allacutely aware of allmydark, terrible secrets.Which is really not how secretsworkatall.Thesewerethesamekidswho’dwitnessedtheGreatTurkeyShit-offof 1983, and who all vividly remembered the time my father sent me to ourfourth-grade Thanksgiving play wearing war paint and bloody buffalo hidesinsteadofthecustomaryconstruction-paperpilgrimhatstherestofmyclasshadmade in art class. These were the same classmates who owned yearbooksdocumenting my mother’s decade-long infatuation with handmade prairiedresses and sunbonnets, an obsession that led to my sister and me spendingmuchoftheearlyeightieslookinglikethelesbianlovechildrenofLauraIngallsand Holly Hobbie. I suspect that Marilyn Manson would have had similarproblems being taken seriously as “dark and foreboding” if everyone in the

worldhadseenhimdressedasLittleMissHeeHawinsecondgrade.

1980:Itwasalookthatscreamed,“Askmeaboutbecomingasisterwife.”

My classmates refused to takeme seriously, so I decided to piercemy ownnoseusing a fishhook,but it hurt toomuch toget it all theway through, so Igaveupandthenitgotinfected.SoinsteadIworeaclip-onearring.Inmynose.Toschool.ItwaslargerthanmynostrilandIalmostsuffocated.Still,itwasthefirstnoseringeverwornatmyhighschool,andIworeitwitharebelliouspridepast the principal, who I’d expected would lock himself in his officeimmediatelytostoptheTwistedSisteresqueriotsthatwouldsurelyensueatanymomentfromalltheanarchyunleashedbymynosering.Theprincipalnoticed,butseemedmorebemusedthanconcerned,andseemedtobetryingtosuppresslaughterashepointeditouttothelunchlady,whowasbewildered.Andwhowasalsomymother.Anditwasherclip-on.Mymom sighed inwardly, shook her head, andwent back to slicing Jell-O.

Neitherofusevermentionedtheincident(orworethatearring)again.

1990:Justasridiculous,exceptthistimeIwasdressingmyself.(Protip:Yourfaux-Victorian,emoself-portraitsingraveyardswilllookslightlylessstiltedifyoutakeoffyourSwatchwatchfirst.)

Havingmymomasthecafeterialadywasamixedblessing,becauseshe’dletmehideintheschoolpantryifIwashavingabadday,butwheneverI’dpassthecafeteria I’d hear her stage-whisper, “Sweetie, stop slouching. You look sodepressed,”andalltheotherkidswouldbeall,“Nicehairnet,Elvira’smom.”So,yeah,highschoolwasprettyfuckingawesome.Andalotofpeopletellme

that everyone has terrible high school experiences, and that’s when I say,“Really?Sothehighpointofyoursenioryearwaswhenyouhadyourarmupacow’svagina?”Thentheystoptalkingtome.Usuallyforever.Mysister,Lisa,never seemed tohaveanyproblems fitting in,anddistanced

herselffrommeasbestshecouldwhilestilltryingtoconvincemetojoinsomeschoolactivitieslikeeveryoneelse.Lisawasintrack,basketball,one-actplays,andhadmost recentlybeenelected tobe thehighschoolmascot,agiantmalebirdnamedWally.Wewereallquiteproudofher,asthecompetitionhadbeenstiff,andshetookhernewroleveryseriously,practicingbirdattackmaneuversinfullcostumeinthelivingroom.Whilewewaitedforourparentstogethomefromwork I’dwatchandgiveherpointersabouther technique.“Try to shakeyourbuttwingmore,”Iofferedhelpfully.“Tail feathers,” she clarified (with a surprising amount of condescension for

someonewearingbirdfeet),hervoiceslightlymuffledbythegiantbirdheadonher shoulders. “They’re called tail feathers. And if we’re giving each otheradvice,maybeyoucould stopwearingblackall the time?People thinkyou’reweird.”“People think I’m weird because I wear a lot of black?” I asked. “You’re

dressedaspoultry.”Lisa shrugged indifferently. “Thatmaybe true,but Iwaselected todress as

poultry, andwhen Iwalkdown thehall inmycostume tomorrow,peoplewillsmileandhigh-fiveme.Whenyouwalkdownthehalltomorrow,peoplewillspitandavoideyecontacttokeepyoufromputtingvoodoocursesonthem.”“Okay,firstofall,youcan’tevengetrealhighfives,becauseyoudon’thave

hands.Andsecondly,I’dneedtohavesomeone’shairornailclippingstoputavoodoocurseonthem.”“THIS ISEXACTLYWHATI’MTALKINGABOUT,”Lisayelled,pausing

herbirdroutinetocrossherwingsinfrustration.“Youshouldn’tevenknowhowtodovoodoocurses.It’sbizarre.WOULDITKILLYOUTOJUSTTRYTOBENORMAL?”“Oh,I’msorry....Couldyourepeatthatlastpart?”Iasked.“Ican’thearyou

throughYOURGIANTFUCKINGBIRDHEAD.”Lisahuffilypulledthebirdheadoffandseemedtobeworkingupalecture,but

Ireallycouldn’tstomachthethoughtofsomeoneinabirdcostumetellingmeI

needed to bemore focused on fitting in, so I lockedmyself in the bathroom.After a fewminutesLisahalfheartedly apologized through thebathroomdoor,probably because she realized that her hands were still covered in thick birdwings,andthatIwastheonlypersoninthehousewhocouldhelpherunziphercostume if sheneeded topee.Yes, it seemedcruel,but theseare the risksyoutakewhenyouchoosepopularityoveropposablethumbs.It’sprobablyalsowhyBigBirdisalwayssofuckingnicetoeveryone.Youkindofhave tobeniceifyouknowthatyou’retrappedinacostume,andthatyourbathroombreaksareatthemercyofpeople in thevicinitywhoown thumbs.Honestly, ifweever runoutofstraitjackets,wecouldjustputcrazypeopleinoldmascotcostumes.Plus,iftheyescapefromtheirmentalinstitutionsthey’llbejustashinderedasanyoneinastraitjacket,butwaylessscary.Andinsteadofshoutingatterrifiedchildrenat thebus stop, they’ll just look like charminglybedraggledMuppetswhoarelost and need a bath.Everyonewins. Plus, I think Imay have just solved thehomelessproblem.(Editor’snote:Nope.Notevenremotely.)Evenso, thewordsofmysisterwerestill ringing inmyears thenextdayat

school,andIdecidedtomakeanefforttofitin.Andthat’showthepeerpressureofasiblinginabirdcostumeledtomegettingmyarmstuckinacow’svagina.This is exactly why peer pressure is such a terrible thing. Frankly, this entirechaptercouldbeanafter-schoolspecial.TheweirdestthingaboutmygettingacowpregnantwhenIwasinhighschool

isthatIwasn’tevenenrolledinthatclass.1I’dtakenmostofmyrequiredclassesinmy first two years of high school, so I filledmy last two years with easyelectives.Ienjoyedart,butI’dalreadytakentheonlythreeartclassesmyschooloffered,somyartteacherallowedmetomakeupanewone.Ichose“MedievalCostumeDesign,” but I got bored after the first sixweeks and switched it to“Sequins! The glitteriest buttons!” Then my art teacher pointed out that theschool didn’t actually have a budget for sequins, and that I probably wasn’treadyforanadvancedsequinclassifIwasundertheimpressionthattheywerebuttons,soIjuststoppedgoing.InsteadIwasassignedtobeanofficeaide,andIspentthenoonhourmanningthefrontdeskofMrs.Williamson,thetemporaryreceptionistof the juniorhighnextdoor,whospenther lunchhourdrinking inhercar.Shewasanervous,divorcedwomanwhoalwaysleftincrediblyraunchynovels in her top desk drawer, andwho once toldme that house catswill eattheirownerwithinanhourof theirowner’sdeath.Shedisappeared less thanamonth after I started (I suspected she’d been fired, but I admitted that it waspossible she’d been eaten by her own cats) and had been replaced with anansweringmachine,sonoonereallyseemedtocareanymorewhetherIshowedup or not. I’d taken to spending that hour crouched underMrs.Williamson’s

abandoned desk, readingwhatever lascivious books she’d left behind, but I’djustfinishedherlastbookthedaybefore(aV.C.Andrewsnovelwiththereallygraphicpartsunderlined),soIwas innohurry toget to the juniorhighoffice.Instead I dallied in the ag barn, slowlypacking away the power tools and arcwelder.TheagteachernoticedthatIseemedabitshiftless,andofferedtoletmetag

along and help with the animal husbandry class on their trip to the localstockyard.Itwasasmallclassofboys,allwearingtightWranglersandcowboyboots, and (againstmy better judgment) I took a deep breath and said, “Whynot?”asInervouslyclimbedontothesmallbus.IlookedlikeaMetallicaroadiewhohadbeenwonbyWillieNelson’s tourbus, but theguysdid their best tomakemefeelathome,andseemedquietlyimpressedthatI’dvolunteertocomealong for the trip. It wasn’t until we actually arrived at the stockyard that Irealizedwewere there to learn about artificial cow insemination. The teachersuggestedthatIhelphim,sincemyarmsweresmallerandso“itwouldbelessuncomfortable for the cow.” Iwasn’t entirely surewhat constituted “helping,”butitbecameclearerasherolledashoulder-lengthrubbergloveupmyarm.Heslappedanopenthermosofsemeninmyhand,andsuckeditupintotheturkeybaster.This is probably the point when I should have just run, but there was

somethingaboutthewayhewasstaringatmethatmademestop.Itwasthelookofamanwaitingforagirltorunscreamingsohecouldhaveagoodlaughatherexpense.Orpossiblyitwasthelookofamanwhowonderedhowhewasgoingto explain to the lunch lady that he had to give her daughter all that semen,becauseshewastheonlyonearoundwhocouldfitinthearmcondom.Hardtotell.Buteitherway,itseemedasifheexpectedmetobolt,andI’llbedamnedifIwasgoingtobejudgedbyamanwhocarriedsemenaroundinathermos.Andthat’showIendedupshoulder-deepinacow’svagina,squishingoutthe

semenbasterasabunchof teenageboyslookedon.ItwastheclosestI’devercome to doing porn. Suddenly the cow’s vagina tensed unexpectedly and Irealizedthatmyarmwasstuck.Iscreamedinvoluntarily.Theteacherpanicked,thinkingthatthesuddencontractionwasanindicationthatthecowwasgoingtositdownquickly,andtoldmetopulloutmyarmgently,becauseifthecowsatdown it couldbreakmyarm.Thiswasdisconcerting,bothbecause it soundedpainful,andalsobecause“Ibrokemyarminacow’svagina”isnotsomethingyoueverwanttohavetoexplaintoanyone.Iyankedmyarmout,andthecowlookedbackatmeindisgust.Andthat’swhenIrealizedthatInolongerhadtheturkeybaster.This is the pointwhen I’d like to say that I grittedmy teeth and said,“I’m

goingbackin,”withthefocuseddeterminationofBruceWillisfromthatmovieI can’t remember the name of. The one about Armageddon. (Editor’s note:Really?It’scalledArmageddon.)ButinsteadItookadeepbreath,heldmyheadup with what little dignity I could muster, slowly peeled off my glove, andwalkedaway.Noonecalledmeback,probablybecausenoneofthemcouldfindan elegantway to say,“You left your turkey baster in that cow’s vagina.” Orpossiblybecausetheyrealizedthatthefirstonetospeakupwouldprobablybeelected to takemy place. I’m assuming someonewent back in to retrieve theturkey baster (for the cow’s sake, at least), but I don’t know, because I didn’tstickaround to see. Instead, Iwalkedoffandwaiteduntil the restof theclassfinally showedup. Iwasbraced for the teasing tobegin,but itneverdid.Theguys looked a bit pale and shaky, but laughed at one another as they madebovinajokes,andmyagteacherpattedmybackreassuringlyaswegotbackonthebus.Wereturnedtotheschooljustasmysisterwaswalkingoutofthegymfrom

pep-rally practice. She was still dressed as Wally and was waving her tailfeatherswithpanache.Shesawmeandsloweddowntowalkbesidemetowardtheschool,andaswewalkedinsilenceIrealizedthatwecouldnothavebeenamore awkward-looking couple. “What’s up?” she asked carefully. “You lookweird.”“Itookyouradviceabouttryingtofitin,”IsaidinavoicecalmerthanIwould

havesuspected.“And?”sheasked.“And I got my arm stuck in a cow’s vagina,” I replied, staring off into the

distance.Lisapausedmomentarily,andglancedatmewithwhatIassumedwasalook

ofdisappointment.Orpossiblyshock.Itwashardtotellwhenshehadthatbirdheadon.Thenshewalkedonbesideme, staring stoically into the surroundingcottonfields,asifaresponsetomystatementcouldbefoundthere.“Well,”shesaid,pausingtofindtherightwords.“That’llhappen.”Shesaiditwithaquietsense of dignity, as if a small, wise Morgan Freeman were inside the birdcostumewithher,feedingherlines.“I almost lost an arm,” I added conversationally, a slight hint of hysteria

creeping intomyvoice.“Ialmost lostanarm insideacow’svagina.” Itwasaslightexaggeration,butatthispointIwasalmostdaringhertocallmeout,asIhadbeguntoregardafairamountofthisasherfault.Shenoddedcarefully,herbeakbobbingupanddown,seemingdeterminedto

keepupanormalconversationaltone.“Insidethecow’svagina,yousay?Well,that’s just . . . that’s fascinating,” she said, in the same way someone might

remarkthattheweatherwasabouttoturncold,orthathorseslacktheabilitytovomit. “So”—she paused—“it’s possible you might have misunderstood myadvice.”Iglaredather.“Butstill?Thesearethemomentshighschoolmemoriesaremadeof,right?”SheheldupherwingsanddidwhatI’massumingwasherbestversionofjazzhands.“Yayformemories?”shesaidweakly,andsomewhatapologetically.AndthenIpunchedher.Butjustinmyhead,becausefrankly,startingmydaywithmyarmstuckina

cow’svaginaandendingitdeckingsomeoneinabirdoutfitwastoomuchevenforme.Butinawayshewasright...youshouldenjoyandappreciateyourdaysin

high school,becauseyouwill remember them the restofyour life.Likewhenyou’reinprison,oryou’regettingmuggedatgunpoint,youcansaytoyourself,“Well,atleastI’mnotinhighschool.”Highschoolislife’swayofgivingyouarecordlowtojudgetherestofyourlifeby.Iknowthisbecausenomatterhowshitty itgot, I couldalways lookbackandsay, “At least Idon’thavemyarmstuckupacow’svagina.”Infact,that’skindofbecomemylife’smotto.It’salsowhatIsaywhenI’matalossforwordswhentalkingtopeoplewhoaregrievingthelossoftheirgrandparents.“Well,atleastyoudon’thaveyourarmstuckupacow’svagina,”Imurmurhelpfully,whilepattingtheirarmconsolingly.Andit’suseful because it’s true, and alsobecause it’s such a jarring sort of image thattheyimmediatelystopcrying.Probablybecausetheyrecognizeitasoneofthegreat truisms of life. Or maybe because most people don’t talk about gettingarms stuck up cows’ vaginas during funerals. I don’t really know. I don’t getinvitedtomanyfunerals.

Therearenoknownpicturesofmewithmyarmstuckupacow’svagina,butmyparentsowntonsofpicturesofmysisterdressedaspoultry.Idon’tthinkIneedtotellyouwhothefavoriteinmyfamily

was.

ADDENDUM:WhenIfirstwrotethischapterIrealizedthatpeoplewouldhaveahardtimebelievingit,soIlookedupmyformerhighschoolprincipalandsenthimthis(abridged)e-mail,whichreallyonlyprovesthatIshouldn’tbeallowedtousee-mailafterI’vebeendrinking:

...I’vebeenthinkingofwritingaboutartificialcowinsemination,buttheproblemisthatmymemorysucksand I can’t rememberall thedetails.Probablybecause Iblocked itout.Orbecauseof all thedrugsIdidincollege.ThisishowIrememberit:Shoulder-lengthgloveandaturkeybasterupthecow’svagina.Iwould

haveswornthisishowwedidit,butIknowthepreferredmethodnowadaysistodoitrectovaginally.Am Imisremembering?Because I’m fairly sure I’d remember if I hadmy armup a cow’s rectum.Then again, I’m having to ask my high school principal the details of getting a cow pregnant, soobviouslymymemoryisnotentirelyreliable.Doanypicturesofthisstillexist?Irealizethisisprobablytheweirdestrequestyou’veeverreceived

fromaformerstudent,andIapologizeforthat.I also apologize for sendingyou an e-mailwith theword “rectovaginal” in it. I can assureyou I

neversawthatcomingeither.

Hugs,Jenny

Immediatelyaftersendingthee-mailIrealizedhowinappropriateitwas,andsoIcalledLisaandsaid,“So,Imayhavejustsentourhighschoolprincipalane-mailwiththeword‘rectovaginal’ init,”andshewasall,“Whois this?”andIwaslike,“No.Seriously.That.Just.Happened.”AndaftershestoppedbangingherheadonherdeskshepointedoutthatIhadlearnednothingfromheradvice,andsheagreedthatIshouldprobablycallhissecretarytoaskhertodeletethee-mailfromhisaccountbeforeheopenedit.Itwastoolate,though,becausehe’dimmediatelyopened itand replied to it,andseemedentirelyunfazed.Also,heassuredmethatpracticallynoonewasdoingitrectovaginallybackintheearlynineties,whichistotallytrueonsomanylevels.Healsolookedforphotographs,butnever foundany,probablybecausenooneever takespicturesofunderagegirls with their arms up cow vaginas. Most likely because those pictures aremorelikelytoendupinevidencelockersthaninbooksaboutgoldenchildhoodmemories.

1.Editor’snote:No.That’snotevenclosetotheweirdestthingaboutgettingacowpregnantinhighschool.

DrawMeaFuckingDog

DISCLAIMER:Myagentandeditordon’t love thischapter,because it’saboutmedoingdrugs(poorly)anditdoesn’treallyfitwiththerestofthebook,butIpointedoutthatdruggieswilltotallyrelatetoit,andnondruggieswillfeelsmuglyself-satisfiedwiththeirlifechoiceswhentheyreadit,so I’mbasically hitting all the demographics.But then they said that it’s just too rambling andconfusingtobearealchapter.Theymayhaveapoint.Thisiswhythischapterisn’tarealchapteratall.It’sabonusstorythatyoucanskipsoyoucanfeellikeyouaccomplishedmoretoday.Oryoucanunderlinepartsandwritenotes toyourself inall themarginssopeople in thesubway thinkyou’re either really smart for reading a textbook on the subway, or just rich enough to usehardbackbooksasPost-its.Youaren’tallowedtojudgethischapter,though,becauseit’snotarealchapter.AsaPost-itnote,however,itisprettyfuckingimpressive.

Special note to any teenage children Imay one day have:Anyonewho does drugs is amoron.Don’t do drugs. They will kill you and make your boobies fall off. It happened to your auntRebecca,andthat’swhyyou’veneverheardofher.Butwekeepherboobiesinaboxtorememberher terrible lesson, and if I ever even smell pot on you I will put them on you while you aresleeping,andyouwillwakeupwithadeadwoman’sboobiesonyourforehead.Now,skiptothenextchapter,becauseI’mabouttostartwritingabouthavingsexwithyourfather.

PREFACE:Thereisn’treallyapreface.IjustwantedtoseehowmanyparagraphsIcouldfitinbeforeactuallystartingachapter.

PREFACEADDENDUM:Four.Theanswerisfour.

IwaseighteenthefirsttimeIdidacid.Anditwasawesome.Andhorrible.AndalsoIwaskindofanidiot,becauseI’dmanagedtounintentionallywaituntiloneweekafterIcouldlegallybechargedasanadultfordrugpossession.MyfriendJimhadbeendoingacidsincehewasfifteen,andIwascaptivated

with his stories of LSD experimentation, including his recent drug-inducedepiphany that the one thing that brought all of mankind together was ourcommonpossessionofnipples.“Imean...weallhavethem,right?”heaskedme feverishly. “And what possible reason is there for men to possess theseuselessbodypartsunlessit’sanundeniablesignthatmenandwomanarealloneinthisgiant,cosmicsoupthatwecalltheuniverse?!Menandwomen...we’reall the same! It’s all relative!” He’d called his epiphany “The Theory ofRelativity,” until someone pointed out that that already existed, and so he

grudginglychanged it to“Jim’sTheoryofRelativity.”At the time I thought itwasbrilliant,butatthetimeIwasalsodrunk.Iwasboth terrified and fascinatedby the idea that therewas awholeworld

knownonlytoacidusers,andIwascompletelyintriguedbytheaccompanyingdruglingothatJimsonaturallybandiedabout.Ilongedto“haveaconnection”in thedrug trade,and I felt that theonlywayI’dbeable touse thisphrase ingood faith would be to sleep with a pharmacist or to meet someone whooccasionallysoldspeed.ThelatterseemedeasierandlesslikelytoendwithVD.AndalsoIdidn’tknowanypharmacists.Jimoncetoldmeaboutthetimehewaswaitingathishouseforsomefriends

topickhimupsotheycoulddropacidtogether.Hedecidedtogetaheadstartand took three hits while his mom was watching TV in the other room.Unfortunately,hisfriendshadalsodecidedtotakeacidalittleearlyandfoundthemselvescompletelyhighanddrivingtoJim’shouse,whichwouldhavebeenextremely stupid and dangerous except that they were actually sitting at thediningroomtablejustthinkingthattheywereinthecar,soitwaslessdangerousandmorejustreallystupid.Andtheystayedatthattableforthenextfourhours,because none of them were willing to get out of the car, since no one knewwhere the brakeswere. It was basically the longest car ride in theworld thatdidn’tactuallyinvolveacar.Meanwhile,Jimbegandoodlingonaphonebookinhisbedroom,andhe’d just finisheddrawinga littlestick figurewhen the littlestickfiguredudecametolifeandsaid,“Dude.Drawmeafuckingdog.”This is when Jim realized the drugs had kicked in, and when Jim’s mom

walkedinabitlaterandanenormouseagleflewpastherandlandedonhisbed.Jimtoldmethatthestickfigurestartedscreaming,butJimignoredhim,becausehewashigh,butnotsohighthathedidn’trealizethattalkingtoadrawingonaphonebookwouldprobablylooksuspicious.Jimnoticedthathismomwasstaringathimwarily,butatthispointhewasso

high that he couldn’t remember whether he’d asked her a question that shehadn’tanswered,or ifshe’daskedhimaquestionthathehadn’tanswered,buthe thought itwouldbeweirder to followupwhatever questionhemight haveasked her with another question, especially since he couldn’t remember thequestionhehadn’tactuallyaskedherinthefirstplace.Sobasicallytheyjustsattherehaving this reallyawkward staringcontest.Then the stick figurepointedout that if the eaglewas not a hallucination hismomwould know hewas ondrugs,becausewhatkindofguywouldbeall,“Oh,it’sperfectlynormaltohavethiseaglehere”?Jimlaughednervouslyandtriedtogivehismomalookthathehopedsaidsomethinglike“Wow.Theworldisaweirdplacewheneaglesmayormaynotlandonyourbed,right?”

But in reality itmust have said something closer to“Holy shit, I’m fuckinghigh,”because thenextdayJim’smomsenthimto the localpsychiatric/rehabcenter, which helped him find God and introduced him to narcotics far moreaddictivethananydrugshecouldhavefoundonthestreet.Whenhecamebackhe was all about lithium and Jesus, and when I mentioned that I really justwanted to try LSD, he rolled his eyes atme as if hewere some sort ofwineconnoisseurand I’d just asked thebestway tounscrewabottleofStrawberryHill.Druggiescanbe surprisingly judgmental. It’sprettymuch theonly socialcirclewherethesamepeopleyoujustwitnessedshootinghorsetranquilizersuponeanother’sbuttswillactuallylookdownatyoufornotbeingascoolasthem.Unlessmaybe there’s somesortofhorse-enema-fetish social circle,which I’mnotsureexists.Holdon,letmechecktheInternet.Ohholyshit.Donotlookthatup,y’all.Luckily, though,whenyourunwithdrugcrowdsyoueventuallyrun into the

perfectdealer,andformeitwasTravis.Hewasalong-hairedblondguyinhislate twentieswho lived at homewith his parents.He always seemed to knowsomeonewithdrugsbutseldomeveractuallyhadanyhimself,whichmakeshimnot reallyadealeratall,butwhenevermy friendsand Ineededpotwecalledhim,becausehewastheclosestthingwehad.Hewasmorelikethemiddlemanwhoprotectedus from the “real dealers,”whowe imaginedwere large, angryblackmenwithpiercedearsandpagers,whowouldprobablymakefunofus.Todeath. Also, inmymind the angry blackmenwere all badasses and they allcarriedswitchbladesthathadnameslike“CharlieFirecracker.”(Ididn’tactuallyknowanyblackpeopleatthetime,whichIprobablydon’tevenneedtoclarifyherebasedonthisparagraphalone.)AguyIknewhadahouseontheoutskirtsoftownandofferedtohostasmall

LSDpartyformeandseveralotherpeopleinourgroupwho’dneverdoneacidbeforeeither.SowecalledTravisandaskedhimtobringoverenoughacidforsixofusthatnight.Travisarrivedandtoldusthedrugswereontheirway,andaboutfifteenminuteslaterapizzadeliverycarpulledup.Thedeliveryguycametothedoorwithamushroompizzaandanuncutsheetofacid.Thedeliveryguywasinhislateteens,abouttwofeetshorterthanme,andvery,verywhite,buthedidhaveapiercingandapager (whichwasvery impressive,because thiswasstill back in the early nineties, although probably the pagerwas just used forpizzaorders).HisnamewasJacob.Travis toldmelater thatanyonecouldbuyacidfromJacobiftheyknewthe“secretcode”tousewhenyoucalledthepizzaplace.AtthetimeIthoughtitwasprobablysomethingallcloak-and-dagger,like“Onepepperonipizza,holdthecrust,”or“Alargecheesybreadandthebirdfliesatmidnight,”but in reality itwasprobably just“And tell Jacob tobringsome

acid,”becausehonestlyneitherofthemwasveryimaginative.JacobsoldTravistheacidforfourdollarsahit,andthenTravisturnedaround

andsoldittousforfivedollarsahit,whichwasawkwardandalsoapoorprofitmargin.WeeachtookahitandTravissaidthatforanothertenbuckshe’dstayand babysit us to make sure we didn’t cut our own hands off. This wasn’tsomethingIwasactuallyworriedaboutatalluntilhementionedit,butnowthatthe thoughtwas implanted inourheads Ibecameconvinced thatwewouldallcutourhandsoffassoonasheleft,soIhandedhimaten.Traviscautionedusthat if we thought the house cats next door were sending us threateningmessages, they probably weren’t. And he warned us not to stare at the sunbecausewe’dgoblind(whichmighthavebeengreatadviceifithadn’tbeenteno’clockatnight).“Ridethebeast...don’tletthebeastrideyou,”ourwisesageadvisedus.Secretly,Iwasworriedthattheacidwouldn’taffectmeatall.I’dsmokedpot

before, but I’d never actually felt the full, dizzying pleasure thatHigh Timesmagazinepromised.Idevelopedallofthesideeffectswithfewofthebenefits.Whilemyfriendssprawledoutonpapasanchairs,overwhelmedbythefactthatnothingrhymeswith“orange,”IateanentireboxofNillaWafersandbecameparanoidthattheneighborswerecallingthecops.“Schmorange!”I’dyell,whilecompulsivelysprayingairfreshenertodampenthesmell.“Schmorangerhymeswithorange!Nowwillsomeonepleasefuckinghelpmepushthisrefrigeratorinfrontofthedoor?!”Nooneeverhelped.MyinabilitytogetstonedwasprobablyrelatedtothefactthatIwasneverable

toholdthesmokeinmylungs.Alotofpeoplesaythatcoughingwhenyou’resmoking pot gets you higher, because itmakes you suck inmore smoke, butthosepeopleareliars.I’dtakeadragandtheacridsmokewouldhitthebackofmy throat like a red-hot poker, and I’d start hacking like an emphysemic coalminer.Whoalsohadtuberculosis.And. . .Idunno. . .birdflu.What’sworsethan tuberculosis? Whatever that is, I sounded like I had that. Also I wasconstantlyinhalingstrayseedsintomywindpipe,andnoneofmyfriendsweresober enough to even pronounce “Heimlich,” so every hit was like playingRussianroulette.EachinhalationbroughtonseveralminutesofspasticcoughingwhereI’dsprayeveryonewithwhatI’msurewerelaceratedchunksofmylungs.Iwasprettymuchthemostunsexydruguserever.“Allrightthere,DocHolliday?”someonewouldask.“Coughing like that makes you higher,” I lied, my voice sounding like I’d

swallowedagravelslushee.“You’resupposedtocoughashardasyoucanuntilyoufeellikeyou’regoingtothrowup.IthinkIreadthatinRollingStone.”And

by then everyone else was so high that it sounded plausible, and so they’dintentionally cough, and thewhole carwould be filledwith flying spittle, andtheneventuallysomeonewouldalmostmakehimselfthrowup.Andthenwe’dlaugh.Becausealmostthrowingupiskindoffunnywhenyou’revaguelyhighandcoveredwithotherpeople’sspit.EventhoughIseemedmostlyimmunetopot,Istillneverturneddownajoint,

sinceitgavemyhandssomethingtodoinsocialsituations.Iwasstillpainfullyshy,andwouldhaverathercostarredinaTijuanadonkeyshowthantohavetomakesmalltalkwithsemi-strangers.Thebeautyofmarijuanaisthatitinstantlybrings people together. Twominutes earlier you’re standing with strangers inawkwardsilencebecauseyoubroughtupdildos,andthensomeonewhispersthatthehostess’sbrotherdiedinadildoaccident,andyoufeelterribleaboutbringingupsuchasensitiveissue,butalsoreallycurious,becausehowdoessomeonediefromadildoaccident?Unlessmaybeaboxofthemfellonhishead?Butyou’reafraidtoask,becauseyoualreadyfeelbadenoughforbringingupthesubjectofdildos,whichmayhavesomehowkilledaman,andyouinwardly tellyourselfthatyoushouldn’tevenbebringingupdildosatpartiesatall,butyouknowyouwon’t listen, because next time there’s a lull in the conversation you alreadyknowyou’regoingtoblurtoutsomethingaboutthegirlyouknowwhosebrotherdied fromadildoaccident.And thenyou’ll remember that that girl is thegirlyou’re actually talking to at the time. And then, just when it gets so terriblyuncomfortable that you consider stabbing someone in the knee just to distracteveryonesoyoucanrunaway,someonepullsoutabaggieofpot—andsuddenlyit’s all cool. You’re standing shoulder to shoulder, watching the ceremonialrollingof the jointwhilepeoplegive rolling tipsand reminisceabout flavoredrolling papers and proffer treasured Zippos. (Note: proffer. It’s not “offer” or“prefer.” It’s a combination of them, and it’s a real word that you can use inScrabble.Andnowyoucan tellpeople thatyou’rereadinga totallyredeemingeducational book and not just one about dildos killing innocent men. You’rewelcome.)Individualswhoonlyminutesbeforemighthavedisdainfullyplacedaprotective layerof toiletpaperover thehostess’s toilet seatwerenowcheerilysuckingonajointmoistwiththesalivaofadozenstrangers,anddetailingtheirbotchedcircumcisionasifwearealloldwarbuddies.IntheinterestoftruthinessIshouldpointoutthattherewasonetimewhenI’d

actuallyfelttrulyhigh.I’dsmokedsomeMexicanweedwithmyfriendHannah,whomI’dbeendrawntobecausewebothhadapenchantforwearingbabydolldresses, purposely torn stockings, and combat boots. We both had completecontemptforeveryoneelseinthetownwhofollowedtheherdmentalityandwasafraid to be unique and individualistic like us, the twoGoth chickswhowere

dressedexactlyalike.When Hannah was a kid she’d had this Betsy Wetsy doll that she carried

aroundeverywhere.Youweresupposedtofeedherwithabottleandthenshe’dpee,butHannahwouldalways justpryoffBetsy’sheadand fill herup toherneckwiththegardenhose.Shealsodecidedtoskipthewholediaperthingandwould simply squeezeBetsy’s distendedmidsection, and a half-gallon of fauxpee would squirt out of Betsy’s rudimentary plastic urinary tract onto theneighbor’s bushes. “She takes after her father,”Hannahwould explain. “Runsrightthroughher.”EventuallyBetsy’sneckholebecamestretchedoutfromherheadbeingpulledoff somuch, and thebodywas lost, butHannahheldon toBetsy’shead,possiblyasareminderthatsheprobablyshouldn’thavechildren.Then Hannah got older, and we went through this stage where we madeeverythingpossibleintoabong:Cokecans,lightbulbs,melons.Thenonenightwe used the baby’s head as a bong. (I’m pretty sure that’s the only time thatsentencehaseverbeenusedinamemoir.Onewouldhope.I’dcheckitoutontheInternet,buttobehonest,thatwholehorse-enema-fetishstuffscaredtheshitoutofme,soI’mnotevengoingtolook.)WepokedsomeholesintothetopofBetsy’s head, covered itwith awire screen, lit the pot, and sucked the smokethroughBetsy’spinkrosebud lips.Aftera fewhits I realizedIwasgigglyanddizzy and nauseous . . . and totally high. Hannah cockily claimed it was herexceptionalMexicanmarijuana, but I suspect itwas the toxic fumes from theburned plastic of Betsy’s soft spot. Regardless, it seemed worth theaccompanyingcancerrisk,becauseitwasthefirsttimethatIactuallyfelthigh,andIdidn’twanttotakeanythingawayfromHannah,becausehonestlythiswaskindofthepinnacleofbongcrafts,andIthoughtitwouldbelikethefirstguyLeonardodaVincishowedtheMonaLisatoasking,“Why’sitsosmall?”AndthiswasprettymuchexactlywhatwasgoingthroughmymindthenightItookacidfromthepizzaboy.Wow.Thisisareallyconvolutedstory.Iblamethedrugs.Anyway,Iwaitedtwohoursfortheacidtokickinandfeltonlymildlydizzy,

andIbegantoresignmyselftothefactthattheonlythingthatmightevergetmehighwasBetsy’s burning scalp. Then suddenly things felt different.My bodystartedtoacheandgettight,andIfiguredIwaseitherabouttostarttrippingorIhad the flu. I asked Travis and he assured me that this was normal and wascausedbythestrychnine.AndIwasall,“Uh...strychnine?Like...thestuffinratpoison?”andTravisnonchalantlysaid,“Yeah.Theyaddalittlestrychninetoget theacid tobondwith thepaper,and itgivesyoumini-convulsions,but it’snot enough to kill you, so chill out.” Then I was like, “I’M PRETTY SUREYOU’RENOTSUPPOSEDTOTELLSOMEONEONLSDTHATTHEY’RE

HAVINGCONVULSIONSFROMRATPOISON,TRAVIS,”butIdidn’tsayitoutloud,becauseIwassuddenlyafraidmyshoutingwouldgo intomy tongueinsteadofover itandthenitwouldswellupandI’dchoketodeath,andthat’swhenIrealizedIwasprobablyhigh.ThenIgotdistractedbecauseIcouldhearthisringingsound,andIkepttelling

theotherpeopletoshutupsoIcouldfigureoutwhatitwas,buttheyweretoobusy licking thewalls because they said the texturewas exactly like licking ajawbreaker. I considered pointing out that it was exactly like licking ajawbreakermadeoflead-basedpaint,butthenIrememberedthatwehadalljustingestedratpoison,soIfiguredthedamagewasdoneatthispoint,andthatifwesurviveditwouldonlymakeusstronger.ThenIheardtheringingagainandIstartedcreepingaroundthehouseonmy

knees, because I thought maybe I could get under the sound waves of mydrugged-out friends, who were now freaked out at the revelation that no onecould ever see their faces in real life because “mirrors couldn’t be trusted.” IwonderedwhetherTravis thought tohide thekitchenknivesbeforewebegan,andIwasgoingtofindhimandaskwhentheringingstartedagain.Traviswasstruggling to pry a can opener out of a girl’s hands, and he yelled, “Couldsomebodyanswer thegoddamnphone?!”And that’swhen I realizedwhat theringingwas.That’salsowhenIrealizedtheamazingbeautyoftheringingphone,asoundI

nowknew the soberworldwouldnever truly appreciate.Even the idea of thephoneseemedsomehowmoresignificant.“Itcouldbeanybodyontheotherendoftheline,”Ithoughttomyself.“ItcouldbeMr.T.OroneoftheThundercats.”Thepossibilitieswereoverwhelming.Ipickedupthereceiverandlistenedtothesoundofthestatickyemptinessacrosslong-distancelines.“Uh...Hello?Travis?”askedthemanontheotherend.Me:“No,thisisnotTravis.IsthisaThundercat?”“Who?”askedtheman,whoseemedreallyveryannoyed.“Ithinkwebothhavethewrongnumber,”Isaid,andIstartedtohangup,but

then the not-Thundercat started getting all shouty, but I couldn’t reallyunderstand him, and I thought that he was probably just angry at the suddendisappointingrealizationthathewouldneverbeaThundercat.ThenIsuddenlyrealizedthatitwasentirelypossiblethatIwasn’teventalkingtoanyoneatall,andthatperhapsthiswasallahallucination.MaybeIwasn’tevenonthephone.MaybeIwasstandingheretalkingtoanapple.Oragerbil.ThenIrealizedthatifitwasagerbilitwouldprobablysoonburrowintomyearandeatmycochlea,soIdroppeditonthegroundandwalkedaway,andTraviswasall,“Whowasonthephone,”andIwaslike,“ItwasnotaThundercat.Itmighthavebeenagerbil.

Doesmyearlookokay?”This is when Travis probably should have just turned on the answering

machine,butIthinkhe’dactuallytakenahitofacidhimself,becauseheseemedtobemelting,andit’sbeenmyexperiencethatmostsoberpeopledon’tdothat.And then I started throwingup. I said,“Wow. I think I’mgoing to throwup,”andTravissaid,“No,youjust thinkyou’regoingtothrowup,”andthenIwaslike,“God, that’sa relief.”And thenI threwup.OnTravis’s feet.ThenTravisgavemeamostlyemptybagofSunChipstothrowupinto,andIsat inadarkroom and threw up—a lot. Like, somuch that I suspected Iwas throwing upthings I’dnevereveneaten.Travisputona singleof theDoors singing“L.A.Woman,”becausehesaiditwouldhelp,anditactuallydidhelp,inspiteofthefactthatthewholehouseseemedtobedissolving,haunted,andfilledwithhairygoblins.Also,Iwasprettysurealltheclosetshadsmallfiresgrowinginthem,andevery time theDoors tapewould reach theend, Iwouldstart throwingupagainandTraviswouldhearmeandhavetorewinditandstartitagain.Thisbasicallyhappenedeveryfiveminutesforthenextfourhours.ButsomewhereinbetweenthetimewhenIwasstompingoutimaginarycloset

firesandthetimewhenIfinallyfellasleep,Ididapparentlyhaveafewmomentsofclarityand inspiration. Iknow thisbecausewhen Iwokeup later,next toabagofsulliedSunChips,IsawthatsomeonehadwrittenabizarrediatribeaboutSmurfsonthewall,anditwasinmyhandwriting.AndalsoI’dwrittenmynameseveraltimesonthewallpointingtoit,becauseapparentlyIdidn’twantanyoneelse to take credit for my discovery that the Smurfs were actually peacefulbisexualcommunists.Andthat’swhenIrealizedthatdrugswerebadandInevertook them again.1 Then I left and decided to get all new friends, but first Iscratchedoutmynameonthewallandreplaceditwith“Travis.”Isuspectedthathe might try to pin it back on me, so I dotted his name with a heart, sinceeveryone knew that Iwas not the kind of person to dot i’swith hearts. Thenagain,technicallyneitherwasTravis.Iwasprobablystillalittlehighatthetime.Anyway,mypoint is thatdrugs are abad idea, unlessyouuse themonly to

distractpeoplefromembarrassingdildostories.Andalsothatasidefromallthevomitingandparanoiaandembarrassingmyself,itwasactuallykindofcoolinretrospect,althoughreallynotatallatthetime.Muchlikelife.Also,youwishLion-O the Thundercat would call you, but instead you spend a lot of timeunnecessarilyworryingaboutgerbilsgettingstuckinsideofyou.Whichisalsokindofametaphorforlife.Areally,reallybadone.

1.Exceptforpotafewmoretimes.AndonetimeIaccidentallydidcocaine.AndalsoIdidacidacouple

moretimes,butIneverdiditagainatnight,soI’mprettysurethatdoesn’tcount.Youknowwhat?Nevermind.

AndThat’sWhyNeilPatrickHarrisWouldBetheMostSuccessfulMass

MurdererEver

Theweek after I turned twenty-one I hadmade a series of good decisions. Ihadn’t gotten drunk yet (because as soon as it was legal it suddenly lost itscharm), and I’d been really focused onmy anorexia,which is one of the bestmental illnesses to have, because at least you look hot while you’re starvingyourself to death. Except your hair looks like shit because it’s falling out inclumps, andyou findyourself lying awakeat nightobsessing abouthowyourhipbonesstickouttoofarandwonderinghowmuchitwouldhurttofilethemdownwithacheesegrater.Wait,didIsay“gooddecisions”?Let’sstartagain.The week after I turned twenty-one I was bored, sober, and dangerously

underweight in thatway thatmakespeople thinkyou’reonheroinordyingofcancer. Itwasnineo’clockatnightwhen Idecided Ineeded togetoutof thehouse,soIthrewonacoatanddrovetotheonlybookstorestillopenthatlateinthenearbytown.Mychildhoodloveofhorrornovelshadside-railedintoabriefflingwithwitchcraft.(WhichlastedjustlongenoughformetorealizethatnoneofthespellsandcharmsImadeeverworked.Whenitcalledfor“awhitecandlewavedovernewlybrokenseeds,” Iwouldshrugandwavemydad’s flashlightoverajarofpeanutbutter.Iwouldeventuallydenouncewitchcraftascompletelyuseless,buttobefair,it’spossiblethatitwaslessaboutthepotencyofthespells,andmorethatIwasjustareallybadcook.Plus,itwasthekindofpeanutbutterthatalreadyhadthejellymixedinit,whichwasarealtime-saver,butprobablynotexactlywhatthedruidshadinmind.)IwalkedbacktotheNewAgesectionofthebookstoreandforonceIwasnot

alone,astherewasaguythereaboutmyagewhowouldnotstopstaringatme.Also, he looked almost exactly like Doogie Howser, M.D. (Special notes forpeople reading this book who were born after 1990: (1) I kind of hate you.Pleasestoplookingsogoodinshorts.(2)DoogieHowser,M.D.,wasoneofthefirstshowsNeilPatrickHarrisdid.Itwasbeforehegotallhot.Nooneeverhadacrushonhimatthatpoint.Thenhecameoutoftheclosetandsuddenlyhewas

totallyhot,andeverygirlintheworldwantedtosleepwithhim.Thisisjusthowgirls work. We can’t explain it either.) The (probably unintentional) DoogieHowserimpersonatorwaswearingadenimvest,soIwasfairlysurehewasgay,butthiswasthenineties,soallbetswereoff.Hewouldn’tstopstaringatme,andeverytimeI’dpulloutabookhe’dcasuallyremark,“Oh,Ihavethatbook.”Itwasextremelyannoying, and I foundmyselfwishing therewasabook in thissection about tampons just to throw him off, but this was a small-townbookstore,soevenifatampon-witchcraftbookexisted,theyprobablywouldn’thave had it in stock. Then Doogie smiled, picked up an astrology book, andaskedmewhatmysignwas.Heswears that thisneverhappened,but it totallydid.AndtheentiretimeIwasthinking,“Thisguy’sprobablyastalker.”Hewasthinking,“I’mgoingtomarrythisgirl.”Mostlybecausehe’dhadadreamthathewasgoingtomarryagirlwearingacertaincoat,andwhenIwalkedintothebookstoreIwaswearingthesamecoatasthegirlinhisdream.(IshouldmentionthatthiswasthesamecoatI’dhadsinceIwasfifteen,whenmymomwasinthehospitalhavingaherniaoperationandshewassohighshewasall,“Jennyneedsanewcoat,”whichmyfathershouldhaverecognizedasdrug-induceddelirium,becausewenevergotnewcoats,buthetotallytookmeoutandboughtmethecoatandIwasall,“Oh,andIneedanewhattoo.”Andwhenwegotbacktothehospitalroom,mymomwasstillonmorphineandshewasall,“Hey,nicehat!”Thentwodayslatershesoberedupandwasall,“Thehell?I’munconsciousforonedayandsuddenlyeveryonegoescrazywithhats?!”)DoogieHowsernoticedmycoat fromthemoment Iwalked in thebookstore

andbecameobsessedwithfindingoutwhoIwas.Irefusedtotellhimmylastnameorgivehimmynumber,andItoldhimveryclearly,“Ihaveaboyfriend,”becauseIdidn’twanthimtostalkme.DoogieintroducedhimselfasVictorandsuggestedthatIwaswastingmymoneybybuyinganyofthesebooks,sincehehadthemallandwouldlendthemtome.IpointedoutthatIdidn’tactuallyhaveanymoneyandwasplanningonstealingthem.Thelastpartwasalie,butitwasone that he genuinely chuckled at, which was a refreshing change from theuncomfortablelaughterthatIgotfrommostmen.HetookthebookIheldinmyhandandputitbackontheshelf.“You’refartooadorabletogotojail.Cometomydormroomandyoucanstealthemfromme.”AndsoIdid.BecauseapparentlyI’veneverseenanyofthosemovieswhere

thedumb-asscoedgetsmutilatedbyaserialkiller.AndbecausenoonesuspectsthatNeilPatrickHarrisisgoingtomurderyou.Andbecausehemademelaughinspiteofmyself.AndbecauseI’dalwayswantedtohaveagaymalebestfriendwhocouldteachmeaboutfalseeyelashesandblowjobs.Moreofthelastone,really.

Surprisingly,Victorhardlytriedtomutilatemeatall,andheactuallydidhaveall the books he’d claimed to have at the bookstore. He also had the largestselectionofvestsI’deverseenamanpossess(three).Hewasonlyafewmonthsolder than Iwas,butheactedmucholderandmoresophisticated than anyonemy age, and we quickly became friends. He was one of the most ardentRepublicansI’devermet,butheconsistentlysurprisedmebynotstickingtoanyof thestereotypesI tried tofithiminto.HewasastrangecombinationofStarWars–quotinggeek,tattooedkungfuteacher,andpreppycomputerhacker.He was also the first person I ever met who had the Internet in his room

(Special note to those same people born after 1990: I know. Shut up), and Iimmediately used it to look at pictures of dead people, because I thought itwouldbeweirdtodownloadporninfrontofhim.Heseemedoddlyfascinatedwithme, in the sameway thatwatching car accident victims is fascinating. Iassumed he’d eventually realize I was not the kind of girl his conservativeparentswouldwanthimaround,buthewasstubbornandrefusedtobethrownbyanythingIlobbedathim.Webothattended the samesmall college in thenearby townofSanAngelo,

and I spent long lunches in his dorm room where we talked about life anddreamsandchildhood,andnothinghappenedatallbecauseI’mnotthatkindofgirl.Untilhekissedme.Andthenheconvincedmethathewasn’tgayatall,andwasveryconcernedtolearnthatIequatedgaypeoplewithvests.“Notinabadway,” I pointed out. “I just assumed that only gay men would be okay withwearingacid-washedvests.” (Years later,gay friendswouldpointout that thatsentencealoneprovesjusthowlittleIknewaboutgaymenatthetime,andthatIhadobviouslyconfused“acid-washedvests”with“asslesschaps.”ThenIpointoutthatI’veneverconfusedthetwo,becauseoneismuchmoredraftythantheother.Thenwealllaughandorderanotherroundandtoasttohowgreatitistohave fun, gaymale friends.Hint: It’s awesome.Go find some right now.Gaypeople are just like you and me, except better. Except for the ones who areboring,orareassholes.Avoidthem.)AfewweeksaftermeetingVictorhetoldme,“I’vedecidedI’mgoingtobea

deejay,” and I replied, “Well, of course you are. And I’ve decided to be acowgirl-ballerina,”butthenthenextdayhewashiredasadeejayatthebiggestrockstationinfourcounties.Itwasunsettling.Mainlybecauseitwasthesameconfident tonehe’dusedwhenhe casually said, “I’mgoing tomarryyouoneday.”Isnortedandrolledmyeyes,becausetherewasnowaythatwasgoingtohappen.Victorwaswealthy,andambitious,andamemberoftheYoungRepublicans,

and the exact opposite of the type of guy I went for. And also he was still

wearingavest.SoIlaughedathislittlejoke,buthedidn’tlaughback,andinthebackofmyheadIwasalittleworriedthathewasright.Inspiteofthefactthatwehadalmostnothingincommon,Ifoundmyselfcompletelyinlovewithhim,andhecasuallyaskedmetomarryhimalmosteveryday.AndIlaughinglysaidnotohimeveryday,becausehewasverydangerous.Notphysicallydangerous,ofcourse.Althoughonetimehedidpunchmeinthenose.Imean,technicallyitwasn’thisfault,becausehewasjustdoinghiskungfuformsandIwasstandingin his dorm room, thinking about how boring kung fu is, and then I sawsomethingonthefloorandI’mall,“Potatochip!”andIbentdownattheexactsamemomentVictorswungaroundintoaform,andhepunchedmerightinthefucking nose.Then I felt bad, because hewas so visibly upset at accidentallyalmostknockingmeout,andalsobecauseinthechaosoneofushadsteppedonthepotatochip.Oh,andanother timehegavemeasexconcussion.Ican’treallygointo the

details,becausemymotherwillprobablyreadthis,butbasicallyhehadabunkbedinhisdormroom(becausehe’sanonlychildandonlychildrenareobsessedwithbunkbedsforsomereason),sowewereonthebottombunkandI tossedbackmyhair inwhatIenvisionedwouldbea totalporn-starmove,except thewoodenbeamof thebunkbedaboveuswas too low,andso Iviolentlyhead-buttedthewoodplankandtotallyknockedmyselfout,whichisprettymuchtheleast sexy thing you could ever possibly do.Like, if I also lost control ofmybowelsthatwouldbeworse,butnotbymuch.ThenwhenI’drecovered,Victorwasall,“Sexconcussion,motherfucker!”likeitwassomethingtobeproudof.Basicallyitwaslikeautoeroticasphyxiation,exceptinsteadofbeingchokedyougetwhacked in theheadwitha two-by-four.And insteadofhavinganorgasmyou lose all muscle control and pee on yourself.Which I totally did not dobecausethatwouldbedisgusting.Ihardlyeverpeeonmyself.Butnoneof those thingswerewhat ImeantwhenIsayhewasdangerous. I

meantthathewasdangerousmentally.Foronething,hewasrich.Imean,otherpeoplemightnothavesaidhewasrich,buthewasthefirstguyIevermetwhoownedhisown tuxedo.He’d spent longsummerswithhisgrandparents in theruralcountryside, sohe felt as ifweweren’t sodifferent,butwhen I toldhimthatmyparentsdidn’tbelieveinair-conditioninghegavemethislooklikeIwassomesortof starving leperwhoneededa fund-raiser.Thedivisionbetweenuswasevidentevenwhenwe’dgooutforlunch.Hewouldorderagiantsteak,andI’dgetsomesortofweakpeasantbroth,becauseIrefusedtoallowhimtobuyme anything (and also because of the whole anorexia thing, which actuallycomesinquitehandywhenyou’retoopoortobuysolidfood).He was dangerous because he was different, and smarter than me, and he

wantedmetobeagrown-up.MymotherdecidedthatIneededtomarryVictorbefore I slippedback intomypatternofdatingpoor,mentallyunstableartists.About sixmonthsafterVictorand Ihadbeendating Icamehome to find thatshe’dpackedupmystuffandtoldusboththatIshouldjustmoveinwithVictor,sinceIwas“obviouslyalreadysleepingwithhim.”ThiswaswhenVictorandIbothgotveryquiet,andIwonderedwhenmymotherhadturnedintothecrazyparent,becauseIwasn’treallypreparedforbothofthemtobeunstable.ThenIrealizedthatthiswholescenariowaslessaboutmymom’sinstabilitythanitwasabouthersavingmefrommyown.Iwasprettysuremymom’sinfatuationwithVictorasmypotentialhusbandstemmedfromhowimpressedshewaswiththewhole“owns-his-own-tuxedo” thing,andIconsideredjust tellingher thathe’drenteditandthenchangedaddresseswithoutreturningit,butbeforeIcouldopenmymouthtoprotest,Victorslippedhisarmaroundmywaistandbeameddownatme,saying,“Totally.Youtotallyneedtomoveinwithme.”Isuspectedheandmymotherhadplottedthis,becauseIdidn’treallywanttomoveinwithhim,buthelateradmittedthathewasn’texpectingitatall,andthatalthoughhedidwantmetomovein,hewasafraidtodoanythingotherthanagreewithher,becauseheassumedmy fatherwould shoothim, in somesortofmilk-without-the-cowscenario.OnewhereIwasthecow,apparently.I toldVictorthathewasbeingridiculous, because althoughmy father did own several full gun cabinets, theonly weapon he actually used was a bow and arrow, because it was “moresportsmanlike.”ButthenIrememberedthatDaddyhadmentionedlookingatanewcrossbowjustlastweek,anddecideditwasbesttojustnotmentionthatatall.Victorfrownedandpointedoutthatmostpeopledon’townentirepiecesoffurniturededicated toweapons,and Ibegan tosuspectVictorwasnotactuallyfrom Texas. Then we both sort of stared at each other like we couldn’tunderstandwhatthehellwaswrongwitheachother.Thisprobablyshouldhavebeenmyfirstwarningofwhatmyfutureheld.Victor and Iwere still poor college students at the time, sowe renteda tiny

one-bedroom apartment in the worst part of town, and it was surprisinglywonderful. Except that the guy next door to uswas some sort ofmentally illhermitwhonever left his apartment, butwouldwave tome fromhiswindowoccasionally wearing pants. I’m not sure where the comma goes in that lastsentence, since “occasionally”modifies both “waving”and “pants.”As in, hewaved to me occasionally, and (on those occasions when he waved) he wasoccasionallywearingpants.Butheseemedtodoitwithlessofalurid“Look-at-my-penis” motivation, and more of a sad “I’m-simply-too-unstable-to-know-how-pants-work-today”sortofway.Afriendlybutbleary-eyedcoupleontheothersideofusseemedtobedoinga

boomingbusinesscookingandsellingcupcakes.Exceptreplace“cupcakes”with“meth.”“Cupcakes”soundsnicer,though.Unlessyou’rereallyintometh.ThenIthink you kind of lose a taste for cupcakes. Unless they’re meth cupcakes.Which honestly sounds awful, but would probably sell like hotcakes. Whichwouldactuallybeagreatnameformethcupcakesiftheyexisted.OhmyGod,thisbusinessplanwritesitself.Someonefindmeaventurecapitalist.Thefirsttimemymothervisitedusinournewapartment,sheseemedworried

thatshe’dmadeahugemistakeinpushingmetomoveout,butIreassuredherthat we were happy, and that (in a way) it was kind of an unorthodoxneighborhood-watchprogram,becausetechnicallythemethcookersandshut-inswere always at home to sign for our packages and to keep an eye out forneighborhood burglars (who we all suspected lived in the apartment directlyunderneathus). Itwasanuncomfortable, involuntarycommunity,butwewereyounganddidn’tknowhowmuchithurttobeshotyet,soweshruggedoffthedanger,andwebegantheprocessoflearninghowincrediblydifficultitistolivewith someone who is totally anal and slightly OCD (ahem . . . Victor). Andsomeone who is perpetually accidentally hot-gluing herself to the carpet, andwhoissortofmentallyunstable,butinan“At-least-I-still-remember-how-pants-work”kindofway(cough . . . that’dbeme).Victor remarked that comparingmyself with the sometimes naked hermit next door wasn’t exactly a strongmental-wellnessbenchmark,especiallysinceIoftenendeduppantslessmyself.Iraisedmy eyebrow at his seemingly seductive remark until I realized he wasreferringtothetimehefoundmehalfnakedbecauseI’djusthot-gluedmyjeanstothecarpet.Still,inspiteofeverything,Victorseemedtolovemeinastrangeandbizarre

waythatwasnevermoreevidentthanthedaythatheproposedtome.Butthat’sthenextchapter.(Aren’tyougladyou’renotpayingforthisbookbythechapter?Becausethen

you’dfeeltotallyrippedoffthatyoupaidforthischapterandthenitleavesyouhanging likePirates of theCaribbean II. I would never do that to you guys.Also,didyouknowtherearesomeplaces inRussiawhereyouhave topay tousethetoilet?It’snotreallyonthesamesubject,buthonestly,whatthefuck? Iwouldneverpay touse the toilet.That’s likepayingsomeone to letyou throwawayyourownlitterinthemalltrashcan.IfIevergotoRussiaI’mgoingtopeeonthefloorallthetime.)

NoOneEverTaughtMeCouchEtiquette

BeforeVictorcouldtellhisparentsthatweweremovingintogether,heinsistedthatIgomeetthempersonallyinMidland,Texas,whichwasafewhours’driveaway.Midlandisabigoiltown,andinmymind,everyonewholivedtherewassome sort of millionaire. Victor assured me that his family was not reallywealthy,buthekeptdrillingmeonhowtotellthefishforkfromthedessertfork,andthenwhenIwalkedintohisparents’houseInoticedthat theyhadagiant,fancyfloralcenterpieceonthetableandaskylight,andthat’swhenIstartedtohyperventilatealittle.Victor’sstepdadwasoutoftown,buthismotherwasverypolite,inawaythatmademefeellikeIshouldhaveworntinywhiteglovestomeether.Bonnie,hismom,invitedmetositonthecouch.AndsoIdid.Butwhenmy

back grazed one of the little couch pillows, Victor’s eyes widened at me inhorrorasifI’djuststabbedthefamilydogthroughtheear.Heclearedhisthroatatme, and I sat up quickly as he surreptitiously restraightened the pillow andwhispered,“Thosepillowsareonlyfordecoration.”Andthat’swhenI learnedmyfirstruleaboutrichpeople.Theyneverusetheircushions.Whichissortoffuckedup,becausethat’skindofwhatcushionsarefor.Bonnieexcusedherself tomixus somedrinksand, I imagined, to telephone

herhusbandaboutthelow-classdrifterthathersonhadbroughtintoherhome.“You’lllovethisone,”Icouldhearhersayinginmymind.“Shecan’tevenuseacouchproperly.Isuspectshemightbesomesortofahobo.”IpulledanxiouslyatVictor’sarmandwhisperedthatweshouldsneakoutnow

beforeIdidanymoredamage,andhelookedatmeasifI’dgoneinsane.“We’llleaveanote,”Iexplained.“We’llleaveanicenotesayingthatwesawamonkeyoutside,andthatweneedtocatchit.”“Are you high?” He looked suspiciously atmy pupils. “Seriously, calm the

helldown.She’sgonnaloveyou.Justdon’tsitonthecouchcushions.”I lookedathiminconfusion,andhepattedmyhandandgavemeastrained

smileashetoldmetorelax.ThenIsighedinresignationandsliddownontothefloor, sitting cross-legged, which was fine, because I was wearing jeans andhonestlyIfeltmorecomfortablethereanyway,andVictorwhispered,“Whatthe

hellareyoudoing?”andI’mall,“Dude.Ican’tdothis.I’mintimidatedbyyourfuckingcouch.Clearlythisrelationshipisnotgoingtoworkout.”Heanxiouslytriedtopullmebackupbeforehismothergotintheroom,butI

wasn’t worried, because it always takes a long time tomakeKool-Aid. “Youcan’tsitonthedamnfloor.What’reyou,seven?”“Dude.Youjustsaidnottositonthecushions.”“Thedecorativecushions,”heattemptedtoexplain,asheyankedmebackup

onthecouchnexttohim.“Obviouslyyoucansitonthecouchcushions.That’showcoucheswork.”“WHYDIDN’TYOUTEACHMECOUCHETIQUETTE?”IguessImayhavesaidthatabitloudly,becausewhenVictor’smomwalked

back inwith the drinks she gaveme a strange look, and I was so flustered Icouldn’t even think straight, so I quickly took a drink ofwhatwas theworstKool-Aid in theworld, and (after a small coughing fit) I realized that “mixeddrink”actuallyreferredtosomekindofwinespritzer,andnotadrinkthatyoumakefromamix.AfteritwasclearthatIwasn’tgoingtodie,shetriedtofilltheawkward silence by showing me pictures of Victor in his tux with lots ofdifferent girls, who all had good hair and formal dresses, and probably neverevenheard of bread-sack shoes.Victor kind of rolled his eyeswhenhismomwentonaboutall thedebutanteballsVictorhadgonetowiththesegirls,andInodded,tryingtolookpolitelyinterested.ThensheaskedmewhenIcameoutandIsaid,“Oh,I’mnotgay.I’mdatingyourson,”whichIthoughtwasprettyclear to begin with. Then Victor started coughing loudly and Bonnie lookedconfused, but then she got distracted, because Victor sounded like he’dswallowedhisowntongue,and thenrightafter thatVictorsaid thatweshouldprobablyleave.On thewayhome,Victorexplained that“comingout” iswhatdebutantesdo

when they reach womanhood. I told him that he sounded like a tamponcommercial,andherolledhiseyes.ThenIyelledathimforspendingsomuchtimeteachingmetheproperforktousewhenwedidn’tevenstayfordinner,andhewasall,“Youcouldn’tevenusethefuckingcouchcorrectly!”Hehadapoint,soIsighedandsat insilence,becauseit’shardtoarguewithconfidencewhenyou’vejustfoundoutthatyou’vebeenusingcoucheswrongyourwholelife.WestoppedatDairyQueenonthewayback,whichwascomforting,because

they give you onlyone set of silverware, unless you order the Peanut BusterParfait,inwhichcasetheygiveyouthatextra-longredplasticspoonsoyoucanreachthefudgeatthebottomofthecup.Andeventhenthere’sapictureofanice cream cone on the end of that spoon, just in case you get confused aboutwhatit’sfor.ThisiswhenIstartedventingaboutwhyDairyQueenisbetterthan

fancy restaurants, and Victor stared at me, fascinated, as if he were totallysurprisedthatnoonehadeverthoughtofthatbefore,orlikehewonderedwhatthe hell was wrong with me. It was a look he’d perfected in our last yeartogether.ItookadeepbreathandIleanedforwardtolookathim,grimly.“Look.Thisis

us.I’mtheDairyQueenicecreamspoon.Youaretheescargotspoon.That’swhythisisnevergoingtowork.”Victorpaused,thenleanedintomeacrossthetableandwhispered,“Fork,”and

Iwas all, “I don’t get it. . . . Is that how fancy rich people pronounce the F-word?”Andhesmiledcrookedly,likehewastryingnottolaugh,andsaid,“No.You eat escargot with a fork. Not a spoon.” And I yelled, “Exactly! This isexactlywhatI’mtalkingabout,”andVictorlaughedandsaid,“Idon’tcarethatyoudon’tknowwhatanescargotforkis.Ithinkit’sadorablethatyoudon’t.Andyouwill learnallof this.Oryouwon’t.But itdoesn’t reallymatter,because IhappentolikeDairyQueenspoons.”AndIsmiledhesitantly,becausehesaiditsoconfidentlythatitwashardnottobelievehim,althoughIdidsuspectthathewas justbeingnicebecausehedidn’twant togetdumpedbyagirl inaDairyQueenwho couldn’t even use a couch properly. That’s prettymuch theworstwaytogetdumped,ever.

ActualpictureofVictorandmeonhisparents’couch.PleasenotehowuncomfortableVictoristoevenbenearthecouchcushions.It’slikehe’spoisedtorunfromthem.AndatthispointIstillthinkI’mthe

crazyone.

JustYourAverageEngagementStory

WhenIwasinjuniorhighIreadalotofDanielleSteele.SoIalwaysassumedthatthedayIgotengagedI’dbenaked,coveredinrosepetals,andsleepingwiththebrotherofthemanwho’dkidnappedme.Andalsohe’dbeaduke.Andpossiblymystepbrother.Thenoneofuswouldgetstabbedwithabrokenwhiskeybottleand/orraped.TurnsouttheonlypartIwasrightaboutwasthatoneofuswasgoingtoget

stabbed.

ITWAS1996,andVictorandIwerestillincollege.Atnightheworkedasadeejay,andIworkedasaphoneprostitute in telemarketing.We’dbeenlivingtogetherfor about a yearwhenVictor decided itwas time to getmarried, and (just tomakeitallrock-starromantic)hedecidedtoproposeonair.Theonlyproblemwas that ifhewasonairhewouldn’tbe there tophysicallymakemesayyes,andso insteadhe took thenightoffandsetupa recording thatwouldmake itsound likehewascalling in to the radio show to talk to theguy filling in forhim.Heplannedonmyhearing theproposalonair,and thengettingdownononekneeandhandingmethering,buthehadnoideahowtogetmeinfrontoftheradio,sohesuggestedwegoforadrivesohecouldlistentohissubstituteontheradio.Andsowedid.Forsix.Fucking.Hours.

6:00P.M.—We’vealreadybeeninthecarforahalf-hour.I’mgettinghungry.

6:30P.M.—I’mhungry,butVictorrefusestopullovertoeat.

7:00P.M.—Victorisactingverystrangeandjumpy.Istarttosuspecthe’sgoingtokillme. I know this seems like an illogical jump tomake, since thiswas thesamemanwhocriedwhenhepunchedmeinthenoseoverapotatochip,butI’dalwayssuspectedthatVictorwasalittletoogoodtobetrue,anditseemedeasiertobelievethathewantedtomurdermethanitwastobelievehe’dwanttomarryme.

7:30P.M.—IpretendI’mgoingtopassoutifhedoesn’ttakemetogetsomethingtoeat.VictorisconvincedthatthemomentIleavethecar,hissubwillplaytherecording,soheinsistswejustgothroughthedrive-thruofTacoBell.

8:00 P.M.—Victor refuses to turn down the radio while we’re ordering ourburritos. Iassumehewants todrownoutmyvoice incaseIask thecashier tocall911.

8:30–10:30P.M.—Victordrivesincircles.Ihavetopee.Victorwillnotletmeoutofthecar.He’ssweatingalot.Idimlywonderwherehe’lldumpmybody.

10:30–11:30P.M.—Theurge togo to thebathroomhasnowgrownmorepressingthan the urge to escape. I begin to suspect thatVictor is trying to killme bymakingmybladderexplode.HesmilesnervouslyandIwonderwhetherIcouldmakemyselfpeeonmyself.

11:40P.M.—No,butnotforlackoftrying.

11:45P.M.—Fifteenminutestotheendofthesub’sshift.Victorisawreck.I’matthatpointofhavingtopeewhereyouthinkyou’regoingtothrowup,butthenyourealizeassoonasyouthrowupyou’regoingtopeeonyourselfanyway,andI start considering leaping out of the moving car, because even if I peed onmyself,thecoronerwouldn’tjudgeme,becausewhowouldn’tpeeonthemselveswhentheyweretossingthemselvesoutofamovingcar?Nobody,that’swho.

MIDNIGHT—Victor sighed and turned into the parking lot of our apartmentbuilding, and he just stared numbly at the dumpster in front of us, lookingdefeatedanddespondent,andthat’swhenIfeltreally,reallybadforhim.Iputmyhandonhisarmandhesighedmiserably,likehewasatotalfailure.Iwantedtocheerhimup,butitfeltweirdwantingtocheerupsomeonewhowaspossiblydepressedbecausetheydidn’tmurderyoucorrectly,andthat’swhenI thought,“Thismustbewhatloveis.Whenyouwanttomakeitlessdifficultforsomeonetomurderyou.”Andthat’swhenIrealizedthatIwasfartooinlovewithhimformyowngood,andalsothatIprobablyneededtherapy.ItwasalsowhenInoticedthathe’dsuddenlytensedup,andthathisownvoice

wasontheradio.AndthenIthoughtthatIwasdefinitelygoingtogetmurdered,becausethiswastheperfectalibi,sinceitwouldsoundlikehewasintheradio

studiowhentheyfoundmybody.ButthenInoticedhewaslookingatmeandgrinning crookedly, and I listened to theVictor on the radio talk to the otherdeejayaboutagirlhe’dmetandfalleninlovewith,andhowattheendofeveryshifthe’dplayedSting’s“WhenWeDance”ashissignoff,andasasilent“Iloveyou”to thatgirl.Andthenhesaid thathe’dgrownso in lovewithher thathewasgoingtoproposetoherrightthen.Onthefuckingradio.AndthenIturnedaroundandVictorhadsilentlyopenedmycardoorandwas

kneelingandholdingadiamondringsosmallthatIknewhehadactuallyboughtithimself.AndsoIsaidyes,partlybecauseIlovedhim,partlyoutofreliefthatIwasnotgoingtobemurdered,andpartlybecauseIknewhe’dneverletmeoutofthecartopeeuntilIagreedtomarryhim.AndthenIkissedhimandstillhestayedkneltdown,blockingmyexit.AndthenIaskedhimifIcouldgotothebathroom,andhegavemethispainedexpression,andIwonderedwhetherI’dfuckeduphisromanticmoment,but thenhestraightenedupandInoticedthathe’d accidentally knelt right in a pile of broken glass, which was awesome,because there’s nothing more romantic than a proposal that ends with youneedingatetanusshot.IrememberthinkingatthetimethatifIdidn’thavetopeesobadlyIprobably

wouldhavetoldhimthatweshouldwait,becausetruthfully,IknewIwasalittletoo broken to be married to anyone. But by the time I’d gotten out of thebathroomhe’dcalledeveryoneweknewandtoldthemIsaidyes.I tried to convinceVictor several times that he’dmade a terriblemistake in

proposing,butwheneverIinsistedthathewouldbebetteroffwithoneofhisolddebutantes,hedismisseditas lowself-esteem.EvenwhenIassuredhimIwaskindof insane, he brushed it off as an exaggeration onmypart, because he’dwitnessedmyminorpanic attacks andoccasionalbreakdownsandhewronglyassumedthatwasasbadasitgot.Thenonemorning,shortlyafterwegotengaged,IwokeupasVictorreached

overforme,andhestoppedsuddenlyandslowlysatup.Inacarefullymeasuredvoicehesaid,“Honey...?Didyou...didyoupeeinthebed?”And I was all, “WHAT?! Of course I didn’t pee in the bed!” And then I

thought,“Ew,DIDIpeeinthebed?”andIfeltaroundandIdidn’tfeelanything,butthenIsawthislargepuddleseepingslowlythoughthetopofthecomforterinto the valley betweenVictor andme. Then I screamed, “OHMYGOD, CATPEE!”andIthrewthecomforteroffmeandthecatpeesplashedeverywhere.Victorjumpedoutofbed,gaggingandshoutingprofanitiesatbothmeandthe

cat,andthenIrealizedthat—inspiteofhis totaldisgust in thinking that Ihadpeed on him—he had still struggled to maintain a calm and understandingdemeanor.BecauseapparentlyhethoughtIwasjustcrazyenoughtorandomly

urinate on him. And that’s when I thought that justmaybe we had a chancetogether.Still,IfeltsorryforVictor,becausehedidknowthatIwaskindofmentallyill,

buthealsothoughtIwasnaturallythin,sohewaskindofexpecting“crazy,”butIthinkhewasexpectinghot,sexycrazy.ThenVictorinsistedIstartseeingthecollege shrink, who coaxed me away from the anorexia, and I immediatelygainedthirtypounds,whichwasveryhealthy,butwhichseemednothotatall.Also, Isuddenlystartedeatingsolidfood,soIcosta lotmore thanVictorhadoriginallyexpected.Basicallyhegotareallyshittydeal.AndIwasevencrazierthanI’dleton.

ItWasn’tStew

It’s always seemedunfair tome that I’dhad so little time to ingratiatemyselfwithmysoon-to-bein-laws,whereasVictorhadayeartowormhiswayintomyparents’heartsbeforewegotmarried.Granted,ithadn’tbeeneasyforanyofus.Oneofthefirsttimeshe’dcometo

myhousefordinner,weweresittinginthelivingroomvisitingwithmymom.MymomandIwereonthecouch,andfromourvantagepoint,wecouldseemyfather tiptoeing into the room.He gesturedwith a finger to his lips not to letVictorknowthathewasbehindhimandalivebobcatwastuckedunderhisrightarm.Thisprobablywouldhavebeenmyexactworstnightmareofbringingaboyhometomeetmyparents,ifI’deverhadenoughcreativitytoimaginemyfatherthrowingalivebobcatontheboyIwastryingtoimpress.IassumedthatDaddyhad accidentally left a bobcat in the house, fallen asleep, realized his terriblemistakewhenhewokeupandheardVictor’svoice,andwasnowsurreptitiouslysneakingitoutthebackdoorsothatVictorwouldneversuspectthatwewerethetypeoffamilytokeeplivebobcatsinthehouse.Unfortunately,thatwasnotmyfather’sintentatall,andmyeyeswidenedinhorrorasmyfatherleanedoverandyelledinhisbooming,cheerfulvoice,“HELLOOOO,VICTOR,”whiletossingalivebobcatonhim.Mostpeoplereadingthiswillassumethatthiswasmyfather’swayofmaking

would-besuitorsterrifiedofhimsotheywouldalwaystreathisdaughtersright,but thiswasn’t even vaguely a concern of his.Hewould just as happily havetossedthelivebobcatonmymotherorme,ifitweren’tforthefactthatwe’dallbecomesuperhumanlyawareof the terrifyingsoundsofmyfather trying tobequiet.Inmyfather’sdefense, itwasasmallishsortofbobcat thatmydadwasnursingbacktohealthsohecouldreleaseitbackintothewild,ratherthanoneofthefull-grownonesfromthebackyard.Atthetime,mydadhadseverallargebobcatshewaskeeping,but theywere seldom indoors, and ifmymomfoundoneinthehouseshe’dshooitintothebobcatcagesoutsidewithabroom.IonceaskedmymomexactlywhyDaddykeptbobcats,andshesaiditwasbecause“hecollects theirurine.”Because,yeah.Whose fatherdoesn’t have some sort of acollection? (Also, for those of you not from bobcat territory, bobcats are likesmall,easilyunderestimatedtigers.They’llavoidconfrontationif theycan,butpush them too far and they’ll cheerfully eat your face off. They’re like tiny,

undermedicatedbadgersandshouldbeavoided.)EvenifIhadeverwonderedhowVictorwouldrespondtoagiantbeardedman

throwingalivebobcatonhim,Idon’tthinkIevercouldhaveforeseenhisactualreaction.Victor’sjawclenchedandhestiffened,staringwithwide-eyedshockatthebobcatandremainingperfectlystill.Then(impressivelyavoidinganysuddenmovements) he looked up at my father in bewilderment. Perhaps Victor wasexpecting to see a look of embarrassment from my father, who must’veaccidentallyspilledabobcatonhim,orperhapshethoughtmyfatherwouldbejustashorrifiedandshockedtoseeabobcatonVictor’slap,andwouldtellhimtoremainstillwhilehegotthetranquilizergun.Instead,mydadsmiledbroadlyand held out his hand to shake Victor’s, as if an unexpected bobcat weren’tsitting on Victor’s chair. (A bobcat, I might add, who was looking just ashorrifiedandpissedoffhimselfatbeingplacedinthisawkwardsocialsituation.)Victorkeptawaryeyeonthebobcat(whowasnowmakingthefrighteningsortofnoisesbobcatsmakewhentheywanttomakeitperfectlyclearthattheyarenothousecatsanddon’twantyoutosnugglethem),andthenVictorglancedatme,asifdecidingwhetherornotIwasworththis.Hetookadeepbreath,andthenturnedinslowmotioninhisseattoshakemydad’shand.“Henry,”hesaidtersely,noddinghisheadingreeting,thefearinhisvoiceshowingonlyslightly.Thenhe turnedback tomymomandkept talkingas ifnothingcouldbemorenatural.Itwasawesome,andIthinkitearnedtherespectofallofusrightthatmoment.Even thebobcat seemed to realizehewasprobablysaferwithVictorthanwiththelargemanwhowasalwaysthrowinghimonpeople,andsnuggleddownbesideVictortoglareresentfullyattherestofus.

(Disclaimer:Thesearen’tgreatpicturesofVictororofthebobcats.)

LaterVictortoldmehe’dbeentotallyfreakedoutbythesituation,butthathisdad had once owned a cougar named Sonny when Victor was a kid, so heassuredme that he understood that somepeople liked exotic pets.And itwasnice thatwehad this thing in common tobringus together, but thedifferencewasthathisfatherownedhelicopters,Porsches,andpetcougarsbecausehewaswealthyandostentatious,andmyfatherkeptwildbobcatsfortheirurine.Ididn’tpoint out those differences, though, becausewewere bonding.And because Istillcouldn’tcompletelyexplaintheurinethingmyself,althoughIwaslatertoldit’ssimplyanorganicwaysomepeopleusetofrightenpestsoutoftheiryards.Unlessthosepestsarebobcats,Iguess.Thenyou’refucked.For some reason,Victorwasveryconcernedaboutwhatmyparents thought

abouthim,andhefocusedonwinningtheirapproval.He’dwonovermymomalmostinstantlybyhelpingherrebuildanoldmusclecar,butmyfatheralwaystreatedhimasifI’dinexplicablyinvitedourCPAoverfordinner.Ifwe’deverhadaCPA,thatis.Victorattemptedtowoomyfather’sapprovalasamanlymanbyaskingmydadtoteachhimabouthistaxidermybusiness.Itwasanendeavorthatneitherofthemseemedentirelyexcitedabout,buttheybothpretendedtobehappytodoitformysake,inspiteofthefactthatItoldthembothIthoughtitwasaterribleidea.AttheendofwhatwouldbeVictor’sfirst(andonly)dayoftaxidermy,helookedphysicallyill,andmyfatherlookedbewildered.“What happened?” Iwhispered toVictor asmy fatherwent to go lie down.

“Did you throw up? Because almost everyone throws up the first time theymountsomething,”Ireassuredhim.“I’mprettysurethat’snormal.”“No,”Victoranswered,hisarmslungoverhiseyesas ifattempting toblock

out the images. “No, your dad had already mounted it. It just needed sometouchups. It was a black boar, and he toldme I could paint the inside of themouth,becausethat’sgood,quickbeginner’swork.”Itwas,actually,andIgavemydadpointsforgivinghimsomethingeasyandnongross.“And?”Iasked.“Ispentsixhourspaintingit.Sixhours.Withanairbrush.”“Wow.That’s . . . that’sareally long time topaintaboarmouth.Howdid it

turnout?”“It looked like . . .”He paused for amoment, staring grimly at the ceiling.

“YouknowwhenFredFlintstonedressesuplikeagirl?”“Oh.”Ibitmybottomliptoremainstoic,becauseIknewthatlaughingwould

justaddinsulttoinjurymoreinsult,andIpattedhisarmreassuringly.“So,whatdidDaddysay?”Iaskedcautiously.“Hedidn’tsayanything.Hejustlookedattheboarinsilenceandthenledme

away from it. I’ve never heard him so quiet. Then he askedme to string hishuntingbowforhim,andIalmostgotaherniadoingit.Hetookmeoutbacktotrytoshootit,andIalmostshotmyselfintheleg.Forreal.Ialmostshotmyself.Intheleg.Ithinkyourdadwasexpectingmetokillmyselfaccidentallysothathecouldtellyoutherehadbeenatragicaccident,andthenyoucouldjustmoveonwithyourlifeandfindsomeoneelsewhodoesn’tmakewildboarslooklikecheapmaleprostitutes.”I tried to convince Victor that my dad actually adored him, but then I

remembered that two weeks earlier my dad had tried to teach Victor flintnapping(theartofmakingarrowheadsoutofrockstheNativeAmericanway),andVictorhadbeendoingsurprisinglywell,untilhecuthimselfandhadbledsomuchwe started to suspect he’dhit an artery.“You sure youwant tomarryahemophiliac?”mydadhadwhisperedtomewhilelookingforsomethingtouseasatourniquet.“That’sahereditarytrait,youknow.”Itwaspossiblemyfatherwastryingtokillhim.Inafinaldesperateattempt,Victordecidedtomakeapresentformyfatherof

an authentic Native American medicine bag he’d made himself with a foundcoyote face, a dead turtle, and some braided leather for the strap.When he’dfinishedhismacabrehandicraftprojectheheld itup tome triumphantly,andIstaredattheeyelesscoyotefaceforamoment,andthenwentbacktoreadingmybook.“Isn’t thisawesome?”he insisted(somewhatmanically),andIshruggedhalfheartedly,allowingthat itdidseemlikethesortofthethingthatmyfatherwouldenjoy.Thiswasn’tsayingmuch,though,sincemyfatheralsoinexplicablyenjoyed picking up interesting roadkill, and creating mythical taxidermiedcreaturesoutofspareparts.VictorwaspissedthatIdidn’tsharehisenthusiasm,andhegrufflyanddismissivelywavedmeoff,pointingoutthatIwas“agirl,”and thus couldn’t understand suchmasculine endeavors aswinning over yourfuturebride’sfatherwithsuchamanlygift.“You’reprobablyright,”Iadmitted.“Itishardformetoappreciatethesheer

machismoinvolvedinamanmakingapurseforanotherman.”Thenheclarified(quite loudly) that itwasamedicinebag, and I replied,“Oh, Iwouldn’tknowaboutsuchthings.I’veneverevenownedanycoyote-facepurses,becauseIcanneverfigureoutwhichshoestowearthemwith.”ThenVictorglaredatmeandtoldme Iwouldn’t understand, and I agreed and blamed it all onmy vagina,since it seemed like that waswhat wewere both doing at themoment. ThenVictorsigheddefeatedly,kissedmeontheforehead,andtoldmehewassorryina rather unconvincingmanner. I suspect he said it less because he realized hewasbeingsexist,andmorebecauseIthinkhewasjustafraidtoarguewithmyvagina.Whichisaprettysmartmoveonhispart,becausemyvaginaiswily.

Turns out, though, thatDaddy loved his animal-face purse and hung it in aplaceofhonorfromthemantel,whereitremainstothisday.Victorhadwonmyfather’s respect, and all it had takenwas a dead-animal backpack. Iwonderedwhether therewas somesortof secret combination that I could try thatwouldmakeVictor’sparentsacceptmesowillingly.Itwasn’treallythattheydislikedme.Theyjustseemeduncomfortablearoundme.Theywerepoliteandkindbutbaffled.Itwasasiftheirsonhadunexpectedlyshownupwithanecktattoothatread “MAKE ME SOME BASKETTI.” They seemed dumbfounded, andconfused,andpossiblyevenhurt,buttheyalsoseemedtorealizeitwastoolatetodoanythingaboutit,andsotheyhesitantlycomplimentedtheunaccountablenecktattoothathe’daskedtobehiswife.Thiswasnevermoreapparentthanthedaybeforeourwedding,whenVictor

broughthismomandstepdadtomyparents’homesothattheycouldmeetandvisit before the wedding. My mother and I had convinced my father to stayoutsideinhistaxidermyshopuntilI’dhadachancetosoothethemwithalittlebooze and with reassurances that we were all actually quite normal, beforebringinginmyfather.Unfortunately,assoonasVictordroveupwithhisparents,myfatherheard themandwaved themallback toward theclearingbehind thetaxidermyshop,wherehehadstartedavery largefire.Anenormousmetaloildrumwasinthemiddleofthefire,andwasfilledwithaboilingliquid,thesteambillowingmyfather’sgrayhairashestirredthebarrelwithabroomhandle.ThiswasthepointwhenVictorshouldhavewaved,pretendedthattheycouldn’thearmy father, and thenquicklyusheredhisparents intoourhouse,but insteadhesmilednervouslyandhelpedhismother,whoseelegantheelssankintothedirtassheweavedinandoutofstraychickens.MyfathertoweredintimidatinglyoverVictorandhisparents,buthewelcomedthemheartilywithhisboomingvoice,evenashecontinuedtostirtheboilingcauldron.Mysoon-to-bemother-in-lawattemptedsmalltalkassheraisedaneyebrowatthestrange,bubblingliquidandaskedshakily,“So,whatareyoucooking?”Sheleanedforwardhesitantly,tryingtosmile.“Isit...stew?”Myfatherchuckledgood-naturedlyandsmiledkindlyandcondescendingly,as

one would to a small child, as he said, “Nope. Just boiling skulls.” Then hespearedastill-meatycow’sheadwiththebroomsticktoshowittoher.Thentheeyeball fell out of the cow’s head. It rolled toward them and stopped at mymother-in-law’sdesignershoeasifitwereattemptingtolookupherskirt.Thenmyfuturein-lawsstumbledbacktothecarandleftquickly.Iwouldnotseethemagainuntilthewedding.Still, theydidgrit their teethandgamely try toacceptmeinto thefamily,as

theyhesitantlywelcomedmeintotheirliveswithextremetrepidationandslow

movements. They treated me with respect, but also with an equal amount ofuneasiness,asifI’dbroughtwithmeadangerousinstabilitythatthreatenedtheirverylives.Itwasonlylater,asIwalkeddowntheaisleonmyweddingday,thatI finally placed and recognized the look inVictor’s parents’ eyes and numblyrealizedthatI’dseenthatexactsamelookonVictor’sfaceonce,longago.ItwasthenthatIrealizedthatIhadbecometheunexpectedbobcatintheroom.AndIknewexactlyhowterrifiedthatdamnbobcathadfelt.

MarriedontheFourthofJuly

VictorandIweremarriedontheFourthofJuly.ItwasalotlikethemovieBornon the Fourth of July, except with fewerwheelchairs and TomCruisewasn’tthere.Also,I’veneveractuallyseenBornontheFourthofJuly,becauseitlookskindofdepressing.Buttobefair,Irememberverylittleofmyownwedding,soit’s entirely possible Tom Cruise was there and I’ve just forgotten. This willprobablybeveryawkwardthenext(orfirst)timeImeetTomCruise.Onthedayofourwedding,VictorandIbothhadmisgivings.IhadmisgivingsbecauseIwasbarelytwenty-two,andimmature,andhadno

clue how to be someone’s wife, and, more important, because of what I waswearing(see“twenty-two,andimmature”).Inastrangetwistoffate,Victorhadboughtmyweddingdresswhenhesawitinthewindowofarentalshopthatwasgoingoutofbusiness.Itwasinappropriatelyvirginalwhite,beaded,bowed,andlooked like the sort of wedding dress that both Princess Diana and ScarlettO’Harawould have deemed “completely over-the-top.” Each of the billowingpuffedsleeveswaslargerthanmyheadandseemedtobestuffedwithnewspaper(I suspect it was the New York Times Sunday edition), and the hoop skirt,pushingout theyardsandyardsofwhiteruffles,dictatedthatIkeepanemptyfive-footradiusaroundmeatall times,becauseifanythingpressedagainst thebottomofthehoop,theoppositesideofthedresswouldsuddenlyliftupandhitmeinthehead.Itwasfancyandhigh-maintenanceandpureasthedrivensnow,andIwouldnothavechosenthatdressformyselfinamillionyears,butVictorinsisteditwas“some,”whichIthinkwaslessofaninsultandmoreofavisionhehadofthewomanImightonedaybecome.HewaswrongonsomanylevelsthatIstartedtolosecount.Iwasn’taloneinmydoubts,though.Victorhadmisgivingsbecausetwoweeks

earlier we’d had what I referred to as “a very bad date.” Victor was stillreferringtoitas“thattimeyoualmostkilledme.”(Sidenote:Henowreferstoitas “the first time you almost killed me.”) But Victor isn’t writing this book,mostlybecausehe’saterribleoverreactor.Thetruthwasthatwe’dbeendrivingdown some deserted country roads after sundown, as Victor was looking forsnakes.Onpurpose.He’ddevelopedafascinationfortheminthelastyear,andwasmakingmoney on the side by finding snakes basking on the hot, emptyroadsafterdark,capturing them, taming them,and thenselling themto fellow

snake lovers. He was great at recognizing the harmless and easily tamablesnakes, and listened to my warnings to never mess with the poisonous,aggressiveones,until thenightwhenwedroveuponavery large rattlesnake,whichseemedtohavebeenrunoverbyacar.VictorstoppedhistruckandItoldhimnottogetout,buthesaidhecouldtellthesnakewassquashedandtoldmetoholdthespotlightupsohecouldmakesurethesnakewasdeadandnotstillsuffering.Isuggestedjustrunningoveritagainafewtimes,butVictorlookedatmeasifIwerebeingridiculous,andheslowlygotoutofthecar.Iopenedmyowndoorhesitantly,butrefusedtogetout,standinginsteadontheedgeofthetruck’s floorboard and leaning over the hood of the truck, certain that otherrattlesnakes were probably lying in wait and planning a group attack. Victorlooked back atmewith frustration. “Come over here and bring the spotlight.You’retoofaraway.”“Oh,I’mjustfine,thanks.Pleasegetthehellbackinthetruck.”Heglared atmeand shookhishead. “Havea little faith,will ya?”Heknelt

downbesidetherattler.“It’sdead.Lookslikeitsheadwascrushed.”“Awesome.Nowgetthehellbackinthetruck.”Victorignoredmeasheputonagloveandstoopedtopickupthetailofthe

five-footrattler.“Weshouldbringthishometoyourdad.Hecouldprobably—OHJESUSCHRIST!”Itwasatthisexactmomentthatthe“dead”rattlesnakesuddenlystartedangrily

strikingatVictor’sleg.Uncoincidentally,itwasalsotheexactsamemomentthatIduckedbackintothetruck,takingthespotlightwithmeandleavingVictorinthepitch-darkblacknessonanabandonedroad,astheangryrattlesnakehewasholdingtriedtomurderhim.“BRINGBACKTHELIGHT,”hescreamed.“I TOLDYOUNOT TOGOOUT THERE!” I yelled angrily, as I quickly

lockedthedoors(forsomereason)androlledupallthewindows.Iwasworriedabout him andwanted to help him, but I couldn’t help but think that he hadbroughtthisonhimself.“BRINGBACKTHELIGHTORIWILLTHROWTHISDAMNSNAKEIN

THECARWITHYOU,”hescreamed,whichwassurprising,bothbecausehesounded very vital for someone dying of snakebite, and also because he’dwronglyassumedthatIhadn’tautomatically lockedall thedoors.Heknowssolittleaboutme,Ithoughttomyself.Itookadeepbreathandremindedmyselfthatalthoughhewasamachoidiot,

hewasmymachoidiot,andIrolleddownthewindowjustfarenoughtoputmyhandandspotlightthroughit,andsawVictorstilllookingverymuchaliveandmorethanslightlypissedoff.Turnsoutthatthesnakewasstillaliveandstriking,

but its mangled jaw was crushed and so it never broke Victor’s skin. Victorglaredatmewithterrifiedeyes,andputthesnakeoutofitsmiserywithashovelbeforewalkingbacktothetruck.After a minute to slow his breathing, Victor’s voice was only vaguely

controlled.“Youleftmealone.Inthedark.Withaliverattlesnake.”“No.Youleftmealone. In thecar.Fora liverattlesnake,” Icountered.“SoI

guess thatmakesuseven.”Therewasa longpauseashe staredatme.“But Iforgiveyou?”Isaid.“YOUALMOSTKILLEDME,”heshouted.“No,”Ipointedout.“Arattlesnakealmostkilledyou.Iwasjustaninvoluntary

witness.Iwantedto turn thecarbackonandtry torunover thesnaketosaveyou,butyou took thekeyswithyou.Plus, I can’tdrivea stick.Sobasically Iwould have died eventually too, exceptway more painfully and slowly fromstarvationandexposure.Ifanything,Ishouldbemadatyou.”Ihadn’tactuallybeenmaduntilIstarteddefendingmyself,butthenIrealizedthatIhadapoint.Ifanything,Ihadalmostkilledbothofus,butVictorwastooshortsightedtoseethatfarahead.“Youleftmealone.Inthedark.Withaliverattlesnake,”Victorrepeatedina

whisper.“Well,Ihadfaithinyou,”Isaidsweetly.Thisisoneofmyfavoritephrasesto

use in an argument, because it’s hard for someone to contradict you withoutblatantlyadmittingthatyourfaithinthemisutterlyunjustified.Iusethatonealot. In fact, it sounded so good I said it again. “I knew you could handle thatsnake.Sometimesyoujusthavetohavefaith.”And faith was exactly what I was trying to have in the week before our

wedding.Personally, Iwas terrifiedofbeing thecenterofattention in frontofotherpeople,andI’dwantedtojustelopeandgetmarriedintennisshoesinLasVegas by an Elvis impersonator, but Victor was an only child and his familydesperately wanted a real wedding, so I’d given up and gone through themotions.Iwasnevermuchofabig-weddinggirl,soIgavenothoughttounitycandlesandrehearsaldinners.MymomandImadeaveiloutofhotglue,mesh,andafloweredheadband,andwepickedoutacakeatthelocalgrocerystore.NeitherVictornorIwasreligious,somygrandparentsbribedtheirchurchto

letususetheirsmallsidechapel.Theweddinglastedanentiretwelveminutes,aswe’daskedthepreachertocutalmostalloftheJesusreferencesout.(“Jesusistotallyinvited,”weexplainedtothepreacher.“Wejustdon’twanthimgivingany long speeches.”)Thenwehada twenty-minute reception in thebasement,whichlookedjustlikeabasementexceptsomehowdrearier.Butatthechapelofthechurchwherewe’dsaid“Ido,”noneofthatseemedto

matter.All thatmatteredwasthatwelovedeachother.Andwhileourfamiliesmade theirway to thechurchdoorsteps toprepare to throwbirdseedatus,wehidintheemptychurchsanctuaryandImadeVictorpromisetolovemeforever.“Havealittlefaithinme,”hesaidwithaproudsmile.Inretrospect,Iprobablyshould have asked for something more substantial, like “Promise me you’llalwayscleanupthecatvomitinthehall,”or“Promisemeyou’llneveraskmeifit’s ‘that timeof themonth’ in themiddleof a totally rational argumentwhenwhatyoureallyneedtodoisjustapologizeandstopbeingsuchanasshole.”Butno,Iwasyoung,andnaive,andwishedforlove,andItriedtohavefaith

thatthatwouldbeenough.Sometimesyoujusthavetotakeitonfaith.

Ourofficialweddingportrait.Ifyoudidn’tknowusyoucouldalmostimaginethatwe’rewhirlingaroundacandlelitballroominsteadofstandinginfrontoftheSearsPortraitStudiobackdropatthemall.Still,therewasaLionelRichiesongplayingovertheintercom.Itwas“DancingontheCeiling.”

Itwaslikeeventhemallwasmockingus.

There’sNoPlaceLikeHome

Afterweweremarried, I startedworking inHR.Victorworked in computers.WeboughtasmallseventieshouseinSanAngelo,thesametownoutsideWallwherewe’dgonetocollege.Thehousequicklygrewfullofmemories.ItwasthehousewewereinwhenIbecameconvincedthatY2Kwasbasicallytheendoftheworld,andsoonNewYear’sEveof1999Ifilledupthebathtubwithwater,sowe’dhavesomethingtodrinkwhenthewaterfromthetapturnedintoblood,butmycatdidn’trealizeitwasfullandfellinit,contaminatingthewholething.ThenVictorlaughedatmydistress,whichreallypissedmeoff,because,Hello?I’mdoingthisforbothofus.Andthenheabandonedmeataquartertomidnighttogocheckonthecomputersatwork,andhewouldn’tevenloadtheriotgunformebefore he droveoff.Whenhe cameback a fewhours later, I’d barred thedoors with couches to keep out the looters. I was too tired to move all thefurniture,soIjusttoldhimthatdoorsdidn’tworkanymorebecauseofY2K,andthatheshouldjustgosleepunderhiscar.Eventuallyheconvincedmethattherewerenolooters,andsoIopenedawindowforhimtoclimbthrough.ThesewerethehappymemoriesIwasholdingontoamonthlaterwhenVictor

tookajobofferinHouston,andleftmebehindtosellourhouse.Hefoundusanewplacetolive,andheexpectedmetocometoHoustonwithinaweekortwo,butas soonas Ihadanopportunity to leave thesmallcountryarea I’dalwayswanted to escape, I suddenly realizedhowmuch I didn’twant to leave. Iwasterrifiedofeventhinkingof livinginabigcity,anddideverythingpossible tokeepfromsellingthehouse.Iparkeddirectlyontopofthe“ForSalebyOwner”signVictorhadleftup,andItoldmultiplepeoplewhostoppedby(afterseeingtheadsthatVictorhadputinthepaper)thatweweresellingthehousebecause“Ijustcan’tbeartoliveinahousewheresuchagruesomemurderoccurred.”Aftersixmonthsofwaiting,VictorstartedtosuspectIwasstallingandcame

to bringme toHouston, saying that we’d just leave our house vacant until itsold.On theverydayhecame,hehuffilypried the“ForSale”signoutof thegrilleofmycar(Iblamedthenonexistentgangsofhoodlumswho,I’dconvincedprospectivebuyers,roamedthestreetsatnightlookingforstraypetstoeat)andstuckitbackinfrontofthehouse.Twohourslaterthedoorbellrang,andVictorsoldthehousetoamanwho’djustbeenpassingby.Heplannedtogiveittohisdaughter and son-in-law, and startedmeasuring the front lawn for thewooden

wishingwellhewasgoingtoinstallto“increasethecurbappeal.”IfeltalmostassorryforourhouseasIdidformyself.After a few months in Houston I came to realize that there wasn’t much

difference between the two places, except for the change in traffic and theloweredincidencesofmyparentsshowingupunannouncedwithdeadanimalsinthebackofthecar.Butsurprisingly,Ifoundmyselfhomesickforbothofthesethings.Victortriedtoconvincemethatitwasawholenewadventurefilledwithsushi andmuseumsandculture and intimidatingcoffeehouses, and (muchas IhaddonewithWall)Igrittedmyteethandboreit,certainthatsoonwe’dleaveHouston and go back home toWest Texas.And,as before, thatwas how lifewentonforthenexttenyears.Everytimewe’dgobacktovisitWestTexasitwouldchangeabit.Thecotton

fieldsslowlygavewaytosubdivisions.Thetractorswereupgradedandnew.I’ddrivearoundourold townto find that thesnow-coneshackI’dworkedatwasreplaced by a parking lot. The skating rinkwas shuttered and abandoned, thesignfilledwithemptybirds’nests.ThebookstorewhereI’dmetVictorwasgonenow,andmygrandparents’homewassoldsoonaftertheydied.Eachyear,myfather’s small taxidermy shop grew until it became a true business, with analways-busyparkinglotbesidemyparents’home.OnedayIcamehometovisitandwasshocked tosee that theelementaryschoolI’dwalked toeachdayhadbecomeanalternativeschoolforpregnantteens,andtheschoolplaygroundI’dlived in each summer had been ripped out and demolished. My sister and IwalkedthroughtheaftermathoftheplaygroundtogetherandItookasmallpieceoftherubbletorememberitby.NowwhenIpassbytheschoolIlookawayandremember it theway itwas,with the dangerousmetal seesaws andmerry-go-roundsthateventuallydisappearedalloverAmerica.Allthatremainsofittodayis the memory, still echoing in my head, of the sound of my favorite swing,squeakingrustilyandcomfortingly,overandover,backandforth.Oneday,severalyearsafterVictorandIhadleftforHouston,wecameback

home to stay with my parents for the weekend and my mother proudlyannounced that San Angelo now had “some new coffee place” everyone wastalking about.We drove up to see what I expected to be some rural cowboycoffeeshop,butinsteadaStarbucksstoodlargelyonthecorner,lookingwrongandoutofplacenexttotheshopsthathadn’tchangedsinceIwasakid.“Oh,thankChrist,”Victorsaid.“CivilizationcomestoWestTexasatlast!”he

proclaimed.Itbotheredme.NotthatVictorequatedcaramelmacchiatoswithcivilization,

butthattherehadbeenaturningpoint,afinaltipovertheedgewhenIrealizedthatthesmalltownI’dalwaysexpectedtocomebacktonolongerremained,at

leastnotinthesamewayasbefore.Later thatnightIsatoutontheporch, lookingat thesamestarsI’dstaredat

whenIwastenandhadlongedtotraveltoplacesthatexistedonlyinmymind.TheywereplaceslikeEgyptorFrance,buttheyweretheEgyptandFranceofachild’smind,filledwithblurryvisionsofperfectpyramids,andwarmsands,andEiffelTowers, and something that people called “wine.”Theywere visions ofplaces that weren’t quite real, but that was long before I discovered that theromanticized places on themapweremore than just pretty pictures, and thatincluded things I couldn’thaveeven imaginedwhen Iwasyoung.Things likepoliticalunrest,anddysentery,andhangovers.That night I looked up at those same stars, but I didn’t want any of those

things.Ididn’twantEgypt,orFrance,orfar-flungdestinations.Ijustwantedtogo back tomy life frommy childhood, just to visit it, and to touch it, and toconvincemyself thatyes, it had been real.Victor could tell Iwas upset, but Icouldn’tfindawaytodescribeitwithoutsoundingridiculous.“It’snothing,”Isaid.“It’sjustthat...Haveyoueverbeenhomesickforsomeplacethatdoesn’tactuallyexistanymore?Someplacethatexistsonlyinyourmind?”Herockedwithmeonthefrontporchinsilence,notknowinghowtoanswer,

andeventuallyheputhisarmaroundmeand toldmeeverythingwouldbeallright,andthenhewentinsidetogetsomesleep.Hefoundmethenextmorning,stilloutsideinthesamerockingchair,andstaredatmeworriedly.Heaskedmegently,“Areyougonnabereadytogohomethismorning?”Irockedinsilence,andrealizedforthefirsttimethat“home”wasn’tthisplace

anymore. It was wherever Victor was. It was both a terrifying and anenlighteningrealization,andItookadeepbreathandthoughtcarefullybeforeIanswered.“Yes.I’mreadytogohome.”Itwaslikesayinghelloandgood-byeatthesametime,andVictorstaredoutat

the baseball field that had once been a cotton field. He quietly said (as if tohimself) that thememories of the placeswe’d been beforewere alwaysmoregolden-tinted in retrospect than they had ever been at the time, and I nodded,surprisedthathe’dknownmorethanhe’dleton.Hewasright,butIdidn’tknowifthatmadeitbetterorworse.Wasitworsetobehomesickforatimethatwasoncehome,butnowlivedonly inyourownmind . . .or tobehomesickforaplacethatneverreallyexistedatall?Icouldn’tanswer,so insteadIwentbackinsidethehousetopack.Forhome.

ASeriesofHelpfulPost-itNotesILeftAroundtheHouseforMyHusbandThis

Week

DearVictor:Thisbathtowelwaswetandyouleftitontheflooranditwasthelastcleanoneinthehouse.I’mprettysurethisishowtuberculosisisspread.I’mwritingallthisinmyblogincaseIendupdeadbecauseofyourcarelessness.

DearVictor:Thereisapileofbusinesssuitsforthedrycleaner’sthathavebeenintheclosetforfivemonths.Youworkfromhome.Thefuck,Victor?

DearVictor:Whyiscleaningupcatvomitalwaysmyjob?WasInotherewhenwepickedfromthejobjar?Isthereajobjaratall?BecauseI’dliketoredraw.Also,I’mawarethatyoualwayshavetocleanoutthelitterbox,butthat’sbecauseatanymomentmyIUDcouldfailandIcouldaccidentally get pregnant and then get that cat-poop pregnancy disease, and our babywould bebornwithnoarmsorlegs.Isthatwhatyouwant,Victor?Forourbabynottohavearms?Youaresoselfish.

DearVictor:Youmakeme sick.Why inGod’s namewouldn’t you just throw away the emptypizzaboxwhenyouweredonewithit?Areyourarmsbroken?DoyouhavesomesortofdiseaseIdon’tknowaboutthatmakesyoublindtoemptypizzaboxes?

DearVictor:Okay,IjustrememberedIwasthelastonetomakepizza,soIguessIleftthisboxout.Still,I’mleavingoutthenoteanywaysoyoucanlearnfromit.Bad,badVictor.

DearVictor:Idonotappreciateyourleavingpassive-aggressiveaddendumstomyhelpfulPost-itnotes.Infact,theyaretheoppositeofhelpful.Theyarejustbitter.

DearVictor:IfyouleavewettowelsonthegroundagainIwillstabyou.

DearVictor:Youcan’ttakeclothesoutofthedryerwithouttellingmeandjustdumpthemonthebedinaheap.WhenIfindthemthey’veusuallycooledoff,andthenIhavetoputthemallbackinthedryerwithacupofwater,andthenrerunthedryersoallthewrinklescomeout,andthensneakeach article of clothing out one at a time and hang it up. It’s called “a method,” Victor. Stopjudgingme.

DearVictor:No,actually,Idon’tknowhowtouseaniron.Becausewedon’townone.Howhaveyounever noticed this before?!Thedryer is our iron,Victor.Also, Iwould appreciate it if youwouldtalktomedirectlyinsteadofyellingatmeonaPost-it.ThesePost-itsareforeducationalpurposes.Nottodrawlewdcaricaturesofhandspointingmenacinglyatme.Also,you’resupposedtopointwithyourindexfinger.Thisisbasicpointingetiquette.

DearVictor:I’vepoisonedsomethinginthefridge.Goodluckwiththat.

DearVictor:I’msorry.IthinkImighthavePMS.Idon’tknowwhat’swrongwithme.

DearVictor:Thatwasanapology,youasshole!Nowtherearetwothingspoisonedinthefridge.Becauseyoudon’tknowhowtoacceptanapology.

DearVictor: I am so sorry you are sick. I swear Iwas just kidding about poisoning shit in thefridge.Imean,Ididleavetheyogurtoutfor,like,ahalfaday,butthatwasreallymorebyaccidentbecauseIwassodistractedbythewettowelonthefloor.Ifanything,youbroughtthisonyourself.Onceagain,Iapologize.

DearVictor:IloveyoubutI’mgettingkindofweakfromhunger,andIknowyousaidyoudidn’tpoisonanything,buteverytimeI takeabiteofsomethingyouleerandlaughsuspiciouslyandIhavetospititout.IcanonlyassumethisisprobablyhowGandhifeltwhenhewasn’tallowedtoeat.(Here’sahint:Hefeltstabby.)

DearVictor:Okay,firstofall,youdon’tknowthatGandhiwentonahungerstrikeonpurpose.Forallweknowhewasavoidingpoisoningtoo.Thepeoplewhosurviveare theoneswhowrite thehistory,Victor.Not the peoplewhodie of hunger because their husbandsmayormaynot havepoisoned all the food in the house. Except guesswhat? This is all going onmy blog, so I candocument this incasepeople findmyemaciatedbody later anddemand justice.Therewillbeareckoninganditwillbebrutalandswift.

DearVictor:Great.Nowwe’reoutofPost-its.I’mwritingthisonthetowelyouleftonthegroundthismorning, sinceweobviouslyhaveno respect for towels anymore. I’mgoing to thegrocerystoreformorePost-its,andI’mgoingtoeatunpoisonedTriscuitsstraightoutoftheboxwhileI’mthere,soIwillreturnfreshandrenewed.Also,thecatvomitedinthehallandIamnotcleaningitup.Ihavehadenough,Victor.Andsohasthecat.WhomI’massumingyoupoisoned.

DearVictor:ThecatandIareleavingyou.Youcanhavethedog.Also,I’vedecidednottogogetPost-itnotesafterall,becauseI’mnolongerspeakingwithyou,soI’mjustwritingthisonyourhandtowel.Youwillneverhearfrommeagain.

DearVictor:ThedogstartedwhiningwhenItoldhimhehadtostaywithyou,soI’mtakinghimtoo.

DearVictor:Yes,actuallyIwasholdingabagofdogtreatswhenItoldhimhehadtostaywithyou,but Idon’t think thathadanything todowithhis reaction.Also,we’re runningoutofdishtowels,sothiswillbemylastmessagetoyou.

DearVictor:Okay.Fine.Youcanhavethedog.Itriedtoputhiminthecarandhepeedonme.Youtwodeserveeachother.Iamwritingthisonthedogbecauseitseemedfitting.AlsoIcouldn’tfindpackingpeanutsforthebooze,soIjustdrankitall.YOUWILLMISSMESOMUCHONCEI’MSOBERENOUGHTOWAKEUPANDDRIVEAWAY.

DearVictor:Wow.That. . .reallygotoutofhand.I’msendingthiscatinasapeaceoffering.Iforgiveyouforallthestuffyouwroteonthewallsaboutmysister,andI’mgoingtojustignoreallthestuffyouwroteaboutmy“giantass”(turncatoverforrest)becauseIloveyouandyouneedme.Whoelse lovesyouenough to sendyounoteswrittenoncats?Nobody, that’swho.Also, Istapledapictureofusfromourweddingdaytothecat’sleftleg.Don’twelookhappy?Wecanbethatwayagain.Juststopleavingwettowelsonthefloor.That’sallIask.I’mlow-maintenancethatway.Also,thiscatneedstogoonadiet.Ishouldn’tbeabletowritethismuchonacatandstillhaveroomleftover.

Epilogue:Victorforgavemeandwealllivedhappilyeverafter,exceptforthecat,whohadtohavehislegamputated,butthatwaslessfromtheinfectionandmorefromhispoorcirculationbecausehewassofat.Hekindofbroughtitonhimselftoo.Butnowhe’slessfat.By,like,awholeleg.

(Disclaimer:Mostofthischapterwasexaggerated,exceptforthepartwhereVictorleftawettowelonthefloor.Thatshittotallyhappened.I’mstillworkingthroughit.)

TheDarkandDisturbingSecretsHRDoesn’tWantYoutoKnow

Iworked inhuman resources for almost fifteenyears at a numberof differentcompanies,includingareligious-basedorganizationwhereoneofmydutieswastoteachpeoplehowtobeappropriateandprofessional.Yes,Idoseetheironyinthis.Human resources is the placewhere people come to complain and/or shoot

peoplewhen they just can’t take it anymore. Choosing towork inHR is likechoosing to work in the complaint department of hell, except way morefrustrating,becauseatleastinhellyou’dbeabletoagreethatthatSatanisarealdick-wagonwithouthavingtotoethecompanyline.TheHRdepartmentistheplacewherepeoplestopbytosay,“THISISTOTALLYFUCKEDUP,”andtheHR employees will nod thoughtfully and professionally as they think tothemselves,“Wow.Thatistotallyfuckedup.IwishthatthispersonwouldleavesoIcouldtelleveryoneelseintheofficeaboutit.”WhenIwasinHR,ifsomeonecametomeaboutareallyfucked-upproblem,

I’d excuse myself and bring in a coworker to take notes, and the employeewould relax a bit, thinking, “Finally, people are taking me seriously aroundhere,”butusuallywedothatonlysothatwhenyouleavewecanhaveasecondopinionabouthowinsanethatwholeconversationwas.“WasthatshitascrazyasIthoughtitwas?”Iwouldaskafterward.Italwayswas.Sadly,HRhasverylittlepower in anorganization, unless the real executives areonvacation, andthenwatchout,becausealotofassholesaregoingtogetfired.TherearethreetypesofpeoplewhochooseacareerinHR:sadisticassholes

who were probably all tattletales in school, empathetic (and soon-to-be-disillusioned) idealists who think they can make a difference in the lives ofothers,andthosewhoofuswhostickaroundbecauseitgivesyouthebestviewofallthemostentertainingtrainwreckshappeningintherestofthecompany.Peoplewho aren’t inHR always assume that peoplewho are inHR are the

biggestprudesandassholes,sinceHRisostensibly1theretomakesureeveryonefollows the rules, but people fail to realize that HR is the only departmentactivelypaidtolookatporn.Sure,it’sundertheguiseof“reviewingallInternethistorytomakesureotherpeoplearen’tlookingatporn,”butpeoplearealways

lookingatporn,andsowehavetolookatittoosothatwecanprintitoutfortheinvestigation.ThisisalsothereasonwhyHRalwayshascolorprinters,andwhynooneelseisallowedtousethem.Becausewecan’tremembertopickupallthepornwejustcopied.ThisisjustoneofmanysecretstheHRdepartmentdoesn’twantyoutoknow,andaftersharingthesesecretsIwillprobablybeblackballedfromtheHumanResourcesAlliance,whichismuchliketheMagicians’Alliance(inthatIdon’tbelongtoeither,sinceInevergetinvitedtojoinclubs,andthatI’mnotactuallysurethateitherofthemexist).Regardless,almostimmediatelyafterstartingworkinHR,Istartedkeepingajournalaboutall thefantasticallyfucked-upstuffthatpeoplewhoaren’tinHRwouldneverbelieve.Theseareafewofthosestories:

Last month we decided to start keeping a file of the most horrific jobapplicationshandedinsothatwe’dhavesomethingtolaughatwhentheworkgottous.Wenowofficiallyhavetwiceasmanyapplicationsinthe“Never-hire-these-people-unless-we-find-out-that-we’re-all-getting-fired-next-week”filethanwehaveinthe“These-people-are-qualified-for-a-job”file.What’sthewordforwhensomethingthatstartedoutbeingfunnyendsupdepressingthehelloutofyou?Insertthatwordhere.

Today a woman came in to reapply for a job. She wrote that she’d quit lastmonthbutnowwantedherjobback.On“reasonforleaving”shewrote:“Thatjobsucked.Plus,mysupervisorwasadouche-nugget.”Shewasreapplyingforthe exact same job. I rehired her and reassigned her to her old supervisor,becauseItotallyagreedwithher.Thatguywastotallyadouche-nugget.

In the last twomonths, six separatemen filled in the“sex”blankon their jobapplicationwithsomevariationof“Dependsonwho’soffering.”Twoanswered,“Yes,please,”andonewrote,“No,thankyou.”Ihiredthelastonebecauseheseemedpolite.

This afternoonanapplicantwrote that she’dbeen fired fromher jobat a gas

station for sleeping on a cat. Everyone in the office read the application, butnoneofuscouldagreeonwhatthehellshewastalkingabout,sowebroughtherinforaninterview.WhenIaskedheraboutfallingasleeponhercatshelookedatmeandindignantlyreplied,“What?Ineverwrotethat.”ThenwhenIshowedhertheapplicationshesaid,“Car.MybossfoundoutIwassleepingonacar.Duh.WhywouldmybosscareifIsleptonacat?”“Um...whywouldyourbosscareifyousleptonacar?”Iasked.“BecauseIwastheonlypersonworkingthatshift.ButItotallywould’veheard

if anyone had driven up. I’m a very light sleeper. It’s not like I didn’t have aplan.”The lessonhere is thatsometimesyougetbrought in foran interviewjust to

settleabet.

TodayIinterviewedsomeonewhohandedmearésumésayingthathe’dworkedat Helping Hand-Jobs. I choked on my own spit and couldn’t stop coughing.Later I showed it to the interviewer in the next office. She told me that herbrotherhadworked thereoncebuthadquitbecauseall themanual laborhadgivenhimheatstroke.AfterIstartedcoughingagainsherealizedmyconfusionand explained that it was actually named Helping-Hand Jobs and was ahandymanservice.Neverunderestimatethepowerofpunctuation,people.

TodayIhadtotalktoanemployeewhoe-mailedaphotographofhispenistoawomaninhisdepartment. Iknewitwashispenisbecause it said,“This ismypenis,”inthesubjectline.Also,hisnamebadgewasclippedtohisbeltandwasclearly visible. I practiced saying, “Is this your penis?” over and over inmyoffice until I could say it without giggling, and then I called him and hissupervisorin.“Is this yourpenis?” I asked,as I pushed theprintoutof the e-mail over to

him.I think Iwasexpectinghim tobreak intoasweator try to jump through the

windowoutofembarrassment,becauseapparently I’d forgottenabout the factthat this was the same man who thought it would be perfectly fine to take apicture of his penis in the office bathroom to send it to a shocked coworker.Insteadhegrinnedcockily(nopunintended),saying,“Ithinkthebetterquestionis,Exactlyhowdidyougetapictureofmypenis?”

“Itwascaught inthee-mail filter.Thepicture,Imean.Notyourpenis.If, infact,thatisyourpenis,Imean.”Iwasflustered,buttriedtogaincontrolofthesituation againwith a deep, calming breath. “Did youmail a picture of yourpenis?”Heraisedaneyebrow.“WoulditmakeitbetterifIsaidIwasmailingpictures

ofsomeoneelse’spenis?”I’vethoughtaboutthatquestionforfifteenyearsandIstilldon’thaveagood

answer.InsteadIsaid,“Notreally.Givingacoworkerapictureofapenisissortof universally frownedon. It’s in the employeehandbook. Sort of. It’s betweenthelines.”“IsthereanythinginthehandbookaboutsomeoneinHRhandingyouapenis

pictureandaskingyouwhetherit’syours?”Icouldn’tthinkofanythingtosaytothat,soIjusttoldhimhewasfiredand

madea note thatweneed to update the employeehandbookwithmore penis-relateddirectives.

AsoftodayI’vehadtoaskfiveseparatemen,“Isthisyourpenis?”aftertheirpictures got caught in the e-mail filter. (Sidenote:When I read this to peoplewhodon’tworkinHR,theystopmehereandsay,“Really?Peopleactuallymailpictures of their penises atwork?”And I explain that yes, it happens at leastonce a quarter. If it’s an HR person I’m reading this to, they always say,“Really?YouworkedinHRfor fifteenyearsandyouonlyhadtoask fivemenabouttheirpenises?”AndIexplainthatno,IwrotethisinmyfirstfewyearsinHR,andthere’sanotheroneintheverynextparagraph.AfterthattheyjustgotsocommonplaceIstoppedwritingabouttheminmyjournal.IeventuallygottowhereIcouldsay,“Isthisyourpenis?”withoutblushingorgiggling.That’showmuch practice I had at handing randommen photos of their junk and askingthem to identify theirpenis. Ineveroncehad todo itwithavagina.Probablybecause women are better at not getting their e-mails caught in the firewall,becausetheydon’tusethesubjectline“Lookatmypenis.”Also,vaginasseemtohavelesspersonalitythanpenises,so“Isthisyourvagina?”wouldprobablybedifficulttoanswer.Ifsomeoneaskedmetopickoutmyownvagina’smugshotoutofalineupofvaginas,I’dbehelpless.Andprobablyconcernedaboutwhatexactlymyvaginahadbeendoingthatconstitutedaneedforitsownmugshot.

“Aretheseyourpenises?”This is a question I never thought I’d have to ask, because I’ve never met

anyonewithmorethanonepenis,butinthiscaseitwastwomentakingpicturesoftheirpenises,together,atwork.Theyhadn’tbeencaughtinthefilter,buthadinstead printed out the picture using the office printer and had accidentallyforgottentopickitup.Oneoftheguysjustnoddedquietly,buttheotherleanedover to look clinically at the photo before he pointed to the penis on the left.“Just this one,” he said. I thanked him for the clarification, because I didn’tknow what else to say. His friend looked at him, stunned, but I think it wasprobablyagoodlessonforhiminpickingthequalityofpeoplehispenis takespictureswith.Standardsareimportant,youguys.

LastweekI turneddownanapplicantwhohadmisspelledor leftblankalmostallofherapplication.Shecameinagainyesterdaywithalmosttheexactsameapplication,butwithadifferentname.Iturnedherdownagain.Todayshecameinagainandturnedinanotherapplicationwithanothernewname.Iaskedherwhethershewasthegirlwiththefirstname.Shesaidthatwashersister.Itoldher that I couldn’t hire her unless her namematched the name on her SocialSecurity card, and she asked for the application she’d just given me, andchangedhernamebacktotheoriginalone.Iturnedherdownagainandpointedout that everyone lies on their application but not usually about their names.When she left she said, “Okay. See you tomorrow.” I’m pretty sure she’s notbeingsarcastic.

This morning the HR director told us we were going to start hiringtransportationworkerstobuspeopletoourdifferentlocations,andaskedforacommittee tocomeupwithsomestandardinterviewquestions forouroffice touse. I asked whether we should screen them to see whether they believe thatthey’ll be savedduring the rapture, because if they do then they’re knowinglyputting the lives of the passengers at risk when the bus suddenly becomesdriverlessandspiralsoutofcontrol.Igotsomeweirdlooks,soIpointedoutthatwe technicallyworkatareligiousorganization, so it should totallybeokay toaskthat.Iwasnotallowedtojointhatcommittee,somyguessisthattheytotallyhired

alotofbusdriverswhoplanonleavingtheirbusesdriverless.Ibetthosedrivers

totally know they’re putting their passengers’ lives in jeopardy but just don’tcare. Which (based on what I’ve learned on religion through TV) wouldprobably be considered a sin. So I guess either way, our passengers will stillhaveadriverwhentherapturecomes.It’sgonnabeaprettynastysurpriseforthosebusdrivers,though.

Every HR department I’ve ever worked in has secret codes that no one elseknowsabout,andweusethemtotalkaboutyouwhileyou’restillintheoffice.Herearethecodesfrommylastjob:Tuckingyourhairbehindyourearmeans,“Thisbitchiscrazy.”Tuckingyourhairbackbehindbothearsmeans,“Totallyfucking crazy.” Absentmindedly wiping your browmeans, “I’m sorry.Does itlook like I have ‘dumb-ass’ written across my forehead?” Picking your nosemeans,“Someoneneedstocallsecurity.”Scratchingyourcrotchmeans,“Stealsecond.”Itworkedreallywelluntilwehiredanewgirlwhohadalotofnervoustics,andthenitjustbecametooconfusing.

Lastyeartheyinstalledpanicbuttonsunderourdeskssowecouldalertsecurityiftherewassomeoneviolentthreateningus.We’resupposedtotestitoutonceamonth, but security is always very slow to show up to turn off the alarm.Yesterdayourbosswasout, sowedecided topushall thepanicbuttons.Afterfifteenminuteswith no response,we decided to lie downon the floor andputsignsonourcheststhatsaidthingslike“I’vebeenshotinthehead”and“We’realldeadnow.Thanks.”Minesaid,“I’mstillalive.Ijustcamein,andIslippedon all the blood and now I’m unconscious and have a concussion. I reallyshouldn’tbeallowedtosleep.”IntruededicationtoaroleIactuallywasasleepwhen security showed up fifteen minutes later. They were not amused, andpointedout that itwouldbea smartmove tobea little lessbitchy to theonlypeopleinourbuildingwhowereactuallyrequiredtobringloadedgunstowork.Thenextdayweallgotyelledatbyourbossbecause“potentialjobapplicantscould have been scared off if they’d looked through the glass window of ourofficedoorandhadseenyouall lyingon the floor.”Ipointedout that findingbodiesonthefloorandnothelpingwassortofaninterviewthattheyhadfailedanyway,sotechnicallywewerekindofsavingtime.Hewasnotamused.

Atoneofmyjobswe’dhavedrillstoseehoweasyitwastosmugglebabiesoutof the building. One employee (usually a new hire, so that he or she wasn’trecognizable)wasgivenababyandeveryoneelseinthebuildinghadtostoptheperson fromsneakingout. Itwasapublicbuildingandnoneofourcustomerscould know thatwewere doing a supersecret smuggled-baby drill, because itmight seemunprofessional, so thatmade itharder. Itwasusuallya fakebaby,butyouneverknewwhetheritwouldbearealonebroughtfromhome.TodaywehadadrillandIstoppedsomeoneinthehallandwouldn’tletthemgoforfifteenminutesuntil securitycame,becauseIwassure itwas the fakebaby. It totallywasn’tthefakebaby.

This morning we were all praying with the bishop at work (which is legal,because it’s a faith-based organization, but also weird because I still don’tunderstandhow Igothiredhere, except thatweneed todobetterbackgroundchecks).Therewereaboutahundredofusinthehallwaywhenthebishopsaid—inthisreallyloudanddramaticway—“Oh,heavenlyFather:Hearourprayer!”Immediatelysomeguy fromengineering’swalkie-talkieblastsout,“COMEIN,CHUCK!”and Ihad towalkout in themiddleof theprayerbecause I totallysnortedandwasdrawingattention tomyself, becauseall I could thinkofwashowIbetGodwasonlyhalflisteningandthenwasall,“WTF?Didthebishopjust callmeChuck?” This is when I realized I was probably not getting intoheaven,unlessGodhasonehellofasenseofhumor,whichHeprobablydoesbecause,hello?He’smakingmeworkatafaith-basedorganization.Imean,He’snot forcing me work there, but I hear He kind of controls everything, sotechnically this is probablyHis fault. If anything, they should blameGod formaking me snort in the middle of the prayer. When I get fired I’ll have toremembertotellthebishopthat.

Last weekmy boss toldme to rewrite a twenty-page proposal on engagementbenchmarking.Iturneditinandhewroteanoteonthecoverthatjustsaid,“No,no.Notthis.”Ihadnoideawhathewanted,soIjustputitoff,andthenwhenhecame in this morning and told me he needed the final draft in a half-hour Iprintedout the exact sameoneas before, but this timeonprettier paper.ThisafternoonhebroughtthewholeteamtogethertotelleveryoneIwastheperfectexampleofbeingabletolistentoconstructivecriticism.

There’saverymeangirldownthehallwho’stryingtogetmefired.I’mnogoodwithconfrontation,sowheneverIsay,“Haveawonderfulday,”toheroutloud,I’mreallysaying,“BenicetomeorIwillstabyouinthefacewithafork,”inmyhead.Iwishherawonderfuldayatleastonceanhour.She’sstartingtogetparanoidandjumpyaboutit,butthere’sreallynothingshecando,becauseshecan’tcomplainaboutmewishingherawonderfuldaywithoutsoundingtotallyinsane. This is why you should never mess with nonconfrontational people.Because they’re too unstable to second-guess. And because they’re totally thekindofpeoplewhocouldsuddenlysnap,andstabyouinthefacewithafork.

Last month the general manager came in with his usual complaint that theemployment office wasn’t pulling its weight, because his area was stillchronicallyunderstaffed.Wetoldhimwewererunningbehindandgavehimthe“Never-hire-these-people-unless-we-find-out-that-we’re-all-getting-fired-next-week”folderandtoldhimtoletusknowwhichoneshewantedustocallinforinterviews.Hereturnedthefilethenextdayandhasnotcomplainedsincethen.

Todayat lunchmycoworker(Jason)wastellingmeaboutadocumentaryhe’dseenaboutthiswomanwhohadatinyupperbody,buteverythingfromherwaistdownwasenormous,andIwasall,“MyGod.Ibetherlabiaishuge,”andthat’swhenJasonputdownhisforkandsaidhewouldn’teatlunchwithmeanymore.ButthenIpointedoutthatscientificallyitmakessensethatherlabiawouldbeenormous. If Iwereher, I’d roll it upwithbinder clips.Or foamcurlers.Andthenonspecialoccasionsshe lets itoutof thecurlersandbingo:spiralperm.Totallyreadyforprom.“Hi,” Jason said, waving his hands in front of my face sarcastically. “I’m

eatingtunasaladoverhere.”“But just imaginewhat you could dowith it. If you got attacked you could

throwitonsomeonetoswatthemback,oryoucouldcatchchildrenjumpingoutofburningbuildings.Ibetit’sflatasapancaketoo,sinceit’sbeingsquishedbyherlegs.Youcouldputalanternbehinditandmakeshadowpuppets.It’slikeagiftnoonecaneveruse.ExceptIwouldtotallyusemygiantlabia.I’dentertainthewholeworldwithit.Becausethat’sthekindofpersonIam.Saintlike.IfIhadanenormouslabiaIwouldchangetheworldwithit.”

Jasonthrewhis tunasaladin the trash.“Sotheonly thingholdingyoubackis...howsmallyourlabiais?”“Well,it’snotlikeahandicap,”Iretorted.“Imean,Igetby.”Jasonwassilent.“I’dsayit’sroomy,butcompact.Likeaballoonvalance.OraHondaAccord.”Then Jason got all weird and yelled, “You aren’t supposed to tell me your

vagina is like aHonda Accord!WEWORK TOGETHER,” and I’m all, “Youbrought it up!” Then there was this awkward silence while I tried to lookpenitentandJasontriedtolookstern,buttechnicallyIwasjustthinkingabouthowagiant labiawouldbeagreat lapblanketoncoldnights,andJasonwasprobablywonderingwhataballoonvalancewas.SothenIwasall,“It’slikeatinycurtain,”andJasonwaslike,“What!?”andIjustsaid,“Oh,nevermind.”

Todayanapplicantwhocouldn’tpassthetypingtestblameditonmeforgivingher“atrickkeyboardbecausethekeysweren’tinalphabeticalorder.”Itriedtoexplainthatallkeyboardsarelaidoutthesamewayandshecalledmealiar.Iapologizedandtoldherthatifshewantedtobringinanalphabetizedkeyboard,I’dbehappytohookitupforhersoshecouldretest,andsheyelled,“I’MNOTGOINGTOPAYTOREPLACEYOURSHODDYEQUIPMENT.”SoItoldhertogoacross the street to the computer store, findanalphabetical keyboard, andhavethemputitonouraccount.Anhourlaterthecomputerstorecalledtoaskthatwestopsendingcrazypeopleoverthere.

Thisafternoonmycoworker,asweetbutshelteredgirlnamedCollette,calledmeinto her office. “Did you know that amputee porn is a thing? Because it is.Amputeeporn.”Shelookedlikeshemightbegoingintoshock,andIconsideredfindingablankettowrapherin.“Thisguy’ssupervisorfoundporninaprinter,sosheaskedmetocheckhisharddrive,andit’sfilledwithamputeeporn.”I apparently didn’t look shocked enough, because she looked at me and

slammedhertinyfistonthedesk,screaming:“AMPUTEEPORN.”Clearlysheneededanintervention,asshewasstuckinapornloop.Ipulleduponeofthepictures,aleglessnakedwoman.“Okay,see?Thisisn’t

evenamputeeporn.It’s just . . .badPhotoshop.Youcantellbecausethereareshadowswhereherlegswerebeforetheywereairbrushedout. Imean,it’sstilltotallyporn.It’sjustnotrealamputeeporn.”

Collettelookedatmewithsad,deadeyes,herinnocencescarredforever.“Sowhatabout this?”sheaskedas sheenlargedaphotoofaone-leggedgirl inabikini.“Isthisporn?Orisitnot?BecauseIcan’teventellanymore.Imean,itmustbeporn,becauseit’sinhispornfolder,butIjustdon’tknow.It’sagirlwithone leg, who’s waterskiing. Is it supposed to be empowering? Is itpornographic?IDON’TEVENKNOW.”Ididn’thaveananswerforher.Whenyoucan’ttellwhethersomething’sporn

ornotanymore,that’swhenyouknowit’stimetogohome.Ortoquit.Possiblyboth.

IT WOULD BE PARTICULARLY fitting (and easy) to finish this chapter with aparagraph about how I personally ended my career in HR because I lost myability to tell porn from real life, but that would be a lie, as I actually quitbecauseIwantedtogivemyselfayeartofindoutwhetherIcouldbeawriter.ItoldmybossthatIhadabookinsideofme,andthatIneededtogetitoutevenifI had to squeeze it throughmy vagina.Because that’s exactlywhat theworldneeds.Abooksqueezedfrommyvagina.But itmust havebeen aworthwhilebet, sinceyou’renowholding that very

bookinyourhands.Unlessthisistheyear2057,andyou’reapolicedetectiveholding this stained, unfinishedmanuscript as you stand over the body of thelonelyelderlywomanwhowasfoundpartiallyeatenbyherownhousecats,andthischapterendswithahandwrittennote thatsays,“Note toself:Findamoreupbeatway toend thischapter,becausebeingeatenbycats isdepressing,andalsoaterriblerunningthemetohaveinabook.Also,buycatfoodandpaytheinsuranceonthehovercar.”IfthisisthecasethenIapologizetoyouforthestateof my apartment. Please know that I was not expecting company, and that Iusuallyneverhavedirtydishesinthesinkorpartiallyeatenbodiesonthefloor.Icanassureyouthiswholedayisatotalanomalyforme.

1. Did you know that “ostensively” isn’t a word? Because I didn’t, and apparently I’ve been using thewrongwordformyentirelife.Apparentlythe“correct”wordis“ostensibly.”Ostensively.

IfYouSeeMyLiver,You’veGoneTooFar

*Spoileralert:Bambi’smomdoesn’tmakeit.

Okay,getprepared,becausethischapteriskindofdepressingandisaboutdeadbabies. I know.Ew. But they don’t all die, and in the end everything is fine.Mostly.Ifyoujustforgetaboutallthosedeadbabies.Orifyoucallthemfetuses.Callingthemfetusesmakesitfeelmoreclinicalandlesssad,butI’mprettysureIgettocallthemwhateverIwant,becausethey’remydeadbabies.Andno,I’mnotcalling them“babies” insteadof“fetuses”foranypolitical reason,becauseI’m actually totally prochoice and you can do whatever you want with yourbody,butstophijackingthischapter,asshole,becausethisisaboutme.God,youhaveaproblem.Also,myeditorisall,“WTFareyoudoing?Howareyougoingto build up suspense if you just gave away the entire chapter in the firstparagraph?Don’tyouknowaboutthesixelementsofdrama?”andI’mall,“No,butIknowthatwhenIgoseeasadmovieIalwayswantsomeonetoruninrightbeforethesadsceneandbelike,‘Okay,Bambi’smom’sabouttobiteit,butit’stotallygoingtobeokayintheend.Don’tfreak.’”Andthat’swhatIjustdidforyou.You’rewelcome.My editor just pointed out that I just ruinedBambi foreveryonewhohasn’tseenit,butIT’SFUCKINGBAMBI,y’all. It’s totallynotmyfault ifyouhaven’tseenBambiyet. It’sbeenoutforyears.Hey,haveyouheard about this new thing called “a sandwich” yet? It’s awesome.My editorsaysI’mbeingpurposelyfatuous.Idon’tknowwhat thatmeans,but itsoundsbad, so I’mgoing to gobackup to the top and add a spoiler alert. I’m like agoddamnsaint.So,howdoyouwritesomethingfunnyaboutdeadbabies?Answer:Youcan’t.

Sogetprepared.

I ALWAYS IMAGINED that when I got pregnant it would be awesome, andeverythingwouldgoperfectly,andI’dposeforallthoseartfullynaked,pregnantDemiMooresque pictures and put them all over my house, and suddenly I’dhavelesscellulite,andthenI’dgointolaborwhileIwasstandinginlineatthe

bank,butitwouldbeokaybecausethebabywouldgetstuckinmypantsleg,soit totally wouldn’t slam into the floor. Thank God for skinny jeans withmaternity panels;am I right? And thatwas basically exactlywhat I expectedwouldhappenthefirsttimeIgotpregnant.Inreallife,though,IfoundoutIwaspregnant,promptlygotsosickIcouldhardlymove,andthrewupintomyofficegarbage can all day long.At the time Iwas stillworking inhuman resources,teachingpeoplehowtoactappropriatelyatanonprofitChristianorganizationinHouston.That sounds like it’s a joke, but I assure you it’s not. Iwas actuallyreallygoodatpretendingtobeappropriate(whenIwasn’tthrowingupinfrontof largegroupsofpeople),but it started tobecomeobvious toeveryone that Iwas either pregnant or dying, so Victor and I decided to go ahead and telleveryone.Andeveryonewasthrilled,exceptforthecleaningladyatmyofficewhohadtoemptymytrashcan.Ihadalwayswantedtobeamother.Ididn’treallylikeotherpeople’sbabies,

butIneverconsideredthatajobrequirement,asIassumedthatmybabywouldbekick-ass,orwouldatleastquicklyturnintoakid.WhenIwaslittleIalwayswantedtohaveaslumberparty,butmyparentsweretoosmarttoeveragreetohaveone,andsoItoldmyselfthatonedaywhenIwasoldenoughI’dhaveakidand have a slumber party with her every night. That seems like a ridiculousreasonforhavingachild,butthereareworseones.Atmycore, though,wasaneed that Icouldn’tquiteverbalize. Iwanted tobepartofmyfamily legacy. IwantedtogiveachildthekindofmagicalchildhoodIwanted.Iwantedtoseeasmallreflectionofmyselfandthegenerationsbeforemeinanewface,andberebornagaintoo.IwantedtohavesomeoneIcouldbeatatScrabble.VictorandIpickedoutnames,boughtbabysweaters,andwonderedwhatour

liveswouldbelikeasparents.Iwasnervous,buttoosicktoreallyworry.Afewweeksbeforethesecondtrimester,VictorandIwentintothedoctor’sofficeforanultrasound.Ihadn’tsleptmuchthatnight,becauseI’dhadapanicattackandended up calling my sister at midnight, hysterically yelling, “OHMYGOD,WHAT IFTHEBABY’SAREPUBLICAN?”Then shehunguponmebecauseshe enjoys being unsupportive.Ormaybe shewasmad that I call her only atmidnightwhenI’mhavingpanicattacks.Idon’treallyknow.WhatIdoknow,though,wasthatIwasbracedtohearalmostanythinginthatexamroom.“It’stwins.”“It’striplets.”“It’saRepublican.”“It’sasmallbear.”Granted,thatlastoneseemedunlikely,butIwasmentallypreparedforalmost

anything—anythingexceptforwhatthedoctoractuallytoldus:Thattherewas

noheartbeat.Thatthebabywasdead.That“thesethingshappenforthebest.”AndthisiswhenIbroke.Itwasn’tobviousfromtheoutside.Ididn’tcry.Ididn’tscream.Iwentnumb,andthenIrealizedthatthiswasallmyfault.IfI’dgonetochurch, or believed in the rightGod, thiswouldn’t have happened. The examroomdoorwastheunluckynumberthatfallsaftertwelve,andI’dwantedtoaskfor another room but had been too embarrassed to say why. If I’d demandedanotherroom, thebabywouldstillbealive.Therewereamillionreasonswhythiswashappening,andallofthemwerebecauseofme.I numbly followedVictor down the halls, and for the first time inmy life I

seriouslyconsideredsuicide.IwonderedifIwouldbefastenoughtoslipawayfromVictorbeforehenoticedthatIwasgone.IwonderedifthebuildingwastallenoughtokillmeifIjumped,orifI’djustwakeup,brokenphysicallyaswellasmentally,inahospitalbed.IwonderedwhatIcoulddotonothavetoeverdealwiththis,becauseIknewIwasn’tstrongenoughtocomeoutwholeontheotherside.Victorseemed tosense that Iwasplanningonrunning,ormaybehewasjustonautopilothimself,becauseheheldontomyarmalmostpainfully,leavingmeno roomforescape.Wewenthome,andwhile Iwaited tomiscarry, IhadVictorcalleveryoneand tell themtonever,evermention this tomeagain.Noflowers, no “I’m sorrys.”Nothing. Because I knew that the onlyway I couldsurvivethiswouldbetoblockitfrommymind.AndthatmighthavebeeneasiertodoexceptforthefactthatIdidn’tmiscarry.

I continued to carry the baby for another month and then I had a nervousbreakdown. I’m still not sure what triggered it, but my coworkers found mecryinghysterically inmyoffice. Ididn’t even recognize the soundsashuman,andIrememberwonderingwhat thathorriblenoisewas,untilIrealizeditwasme, keening uncontrollably until I finally exhausted myself. Victor took mehome,andmydoctoreventuallyrealizedIneededthis toend immediatelyandperformed the surgery. There were complications from the procedure, and Iendeduphavingapainful,hemorrhagingmiscarriagethatnight.AweeklaterIwasdiagnosedwithpost-traumaticstressdisorderandputonanantidepressantthatmademesuicidal.Whichisnotreallyhowanantidepressantissupposedtowork, turns out. Victor foundme trawling online for suicidemessage boards,pulled my Internet access, and got me on another drug that worked. Mypsychiatrist worked with me until I was eventually able to leave the housewithouthavingabreakdown,andthenhemailedmea letter tellingmethathewasretiringsuddenly,whichI’mprettysureiscodefor,“You’retoofuckedupevenforme.I’mtotallybreakingupwithyou.”Butthatwasfine,becauseIwasbetterandstrongerandreadytotryagain.AndthenIgotpregnantagain.

AndthenIlostitagain.I switched doctors and demanded to be tested for everything in the books.

That’swhenIfoundoutthatIhadantiphospholipidantibodysyndrome,whichIcould barely even spell. I went home and looked it up on the Internet and itbasicallysaid,“YOU’REGOINGTODIE,”butthenmydoctortoldmethatitwasn’tthatbigofadeal.It’sarareautoimmunediseasethatcausesbloodclots,andworsensduringpregnancy. I toldher that Iwasprettysure that Ialsohadpolioand testicularcancer,andshesaid that Iwasn’tallowed to readWebMDanymore.IwasputonaregimenofbabyaspirinandIwasall,“Seriously?Fuckingbaby

aspirin?”Butmydoctorassuredmethatitwouldthinmybloodenoughtostophavingmiscarriages.Andthat’swhenIhadanothermiscarriage.Coincidentally,thisisthesametimewhenIscreamed,“FUCKBABYASPIRIN,”andmydoctoragreed to prescribe a heavy-duty treatment of expensive blood thinners, and Iwasall,“Hell,yeah.”Thenshesaid,“Here’syourgiantduffelbagofsyringesso that you can inject the medication directly into your bloodstream,” and Ithought, “Oh. I havemade a terriblemistake.”But by then itwas too late toback out, because I’d read all the Internet horror stories aboutwomen havingstrokesbecauseof this blooddisease, and I thought that perhaps all thebloodthinnerswouldhelpthepoliothatI’dalsodiagnosedmyselfwith,andsoItookadeepbreathandIstartedgivingmyselfinjections.Inthestomach.Twiceaday.Awesome. It’s basically like getting the treatment for rabies, except instead offiveshotsyouhavetogetsevenhundred.And aftermany,manymonths of shots I foundmyself pregnant again. This

time Iwasgetting further along than ever before.By the second trimestermystomachhadbecomeapatchworkquiltofbruises,andwhenIwouldpullupmyshirt for checkups the ultrasound techs invariably gasped in horror, until IquicklyassuredthemthatIwasnotbeingpummeledrepeatedlyinthestomach.They still gave Victor the stink-eye, though, which was actually a nicedistraction, since every time we had an ultrasound I would wince in terror,certainthatthebabywouldbegone.Butitwasn’t.Ikeptmyappointmentsandadamantly insisted thatnoneof themfallon the

unlucky-numberedday.Itooktocallingthatnumber“twelve-B.”Asineleven,twelve, twelve-B, fourteen.People thought Iwas insane,andIwas. (Stillam.)But I wasn’t taking any chances, and curing my worsening OCD wasn’t asimportant to me as the possibility that asking the cats to wish me luck waskeeping the baby alive. Once, as Victor drove me to work in the morning, IrealizedthatI’dforgottentoaskthecatstowishusluckandIdemandedthatheturn around immediately. He tried to logically explain that the cats didn’t

actuallyhavetheabilitytogivemegoodorbadluck,butitdidn’tmatter.Iknewthat the cats weren’t in charge of good luck. These were the same cats whowould stand inside the litter box and cluelessly poop over the side.Ofcoursethey weren’t controlling my destiny. I was controlling my destiny. I was justdoingitbyfollowingallthelittleOCDroutinesthatI’dpickedupthathadmadelifekeepgoing.Theywere,ofcourse,allthebizarrelittleroutinesthatmademylife incrediblycomplicatedaswell,but itwasamental illnessIwaswillingtolivewithifitkeptmybaby(whowe’djustbeentoldwasagirl)alive.WhenIwassevenmonthsalong,mycoworkersdecidedtothrowmeashower.

I’dvehementlyinsistedagainstit,becauseIknewitwouldinterferewithallofmy secret little rituals, but they were adamant and decided to throw me aninvoluntary surprise shower. One that just happened to be on the unluckilynumberedfloor.Igotintotheelevator,expectingtogotoabudgetmeeting,butIcouldn’t bring myself to press the unlucky-numbered button, so I did what Ialwaysdid,whichwastoridetheelevatoruntilsomeoneelsegotonandpressedthatunluckybuttonforme.Exceptthatnoonewasgettingintheelevatortogoto that floor.Because theywere all already in the conference roomwaiting tosurpriseme.Twentyminuteslatersomeonecamelookingformeandfoundmesittinghelplessly in thecornerof theelevator. I told themIwas justdizzyandresting, but I think it was probably pretty obvious I was more than slightlyunhinged.By the eighthmonthmy stomachwashugeand tight, and Ididn’thaveany

extra foldsof fat topinchaway that Icouldstick thesyringes into.Mydoctorinsistedthatalthoughtheneedleswerequitelong,theywerenotlongenoughtoactuallyreach thebaby,but Iwas terrified that Iwouldendup injectingbloodthinners into her head, and so I would yell, “MOVE, BABY.GOTOYOURLEFTORYOU’REGOINGTOGETSTABBED.”ThenVictorwouldpointoutthatmostfetusesdon’tspeakEnglish,butI’dbeentalkingtoheralotandIfeltsure she’d pickedup a fewbasic phrases. Ididworry, though, that she didn’tknowwhichdirection“left”was,andsoI’dyell,“Myleft.Notyourleft.Unlessyou’re facingmybellybutton.Then it’syour left too. Ifyoucanseemy liveryou’vegone too far.”ThenVictor lookedatmeworriedlyand Iwasall, “Youknow, you could help,” and hewas like,“What the fuck can I do? You haveobviously lost your mind.” Then I glared at him until he finally sighedresignedly,walkedaroundme,leaneddown,andshoutedattheleftsideofmystomach,“THISWAY,BABY.MOVETOWARDMYVOICE!”AndIsmiledathimgratefully,butafterIfinishedtheshotVictormuttered,“Ifthisdoesn’tworkoutwe’rejustgettingapuppy,”whichwaskindofacrazythingtosay,becausewealreadyhadapuppy.ClearlyVictorwaslosinghismindanditwasuptome

tokeepour family together.Meand thecats,whoweregrantingme luckonlywhenIspecificallyaskedforit,thatis.So,yeah...therewasalotridingonme.

Oneofhundredsofinjections.Ah,thesimplicitiesofmotherhood.

Time crept by until it was finally time to induce.Wewent to the hospitalmaternity ward, and Victor quickly turned the television up to drown out thewoman across the hall who was enthusiastically screaming,“JESUSGODKILLMENOW.”“She’spraying,”Victorsaidunconvincingly.Inatwistedsortofserendipity,theTVscreenbuzzedontorevealthebloody-

stomach scene from Alien, which should probably be banned from all laborrooms.Victor attempted to switch it, but I askedhim to leave it onbecause itseemedtofitthetheme.A nurse came in to start my IVs and told us that she was sorry about the

womanscreamingnextdoor,and thatshe’d toldher thatsheneeded tokeep itdown.Iwonderedwhatthenursewoulddoifthewomanrefusedtokeepquiet.Thenursewasapetiteblackwoman,butyougotthefeelingthatshecouldeasilydragascreamingpregnantwomanout into thestreet ifsheneeded to,andshestruckmeasbeingsomeonewhoshouldnotbetested.“It’sbecauseshe’sblack,”explainedthenursematter-of-factly.“Um...what?”Iasked,certainI’dmisheardher.“Theladyyellingintheotherroom.She’sblack,”thenursecontinued.“Black

women are always the loudest when they have babies. Screaming to Jesus,usually.Whitewomenaremuchquieter,rightupuntilthebabystartstocrown.Thenyoucan’ttellawhitewomanfromablackwoman.Asianwomenmakenosound at all.Quiet as church mice.We have to keep an extra-careful eye onthem, because if we don’t keep checking their hootchies they’ll give birth

withoutevenlettingusknow.”“Oh,”Imumbled,asI foundmyselfnearspeechless . . . lessfromtheracial

profiling and more from hearing a medical professional use the word“hootchies.”MostlybecauseI’mprettysure that thewordshewas lookingforwas“coochies.”Shemusthavenoticedmylookofconcern,becauseshepattedmyhandandsaid,“It’sokay.I’mblack,soIcantotallysaythatoutloud.Theothernursesonthefloorjusthavetothinkit.And,”sheaddedproudly,“I’vejustdistractedyou somuch thatyoudidn’t evennotice that Iput allyour IVs in.”Andshewasright.IhadtotallybeendistractedbyAsianhootchies.Andnotforthefirsttime.Victor knew I was scared, but I wasn’t so nervous about the pain. I was

terrified because the risk of stillbirth is somuch higherwith antiphospholipidsyndrome.Iwassofocusedongettingmydaughteroutofmybody(whichIstillviewedasaveritabledeathtrap)thatIhardlynoticedthepain.Victormurmuredsweet,supportivethingsinmyear,buttheysoundedsounnaturalcomingfromhismouththatIcouldn’tstopgigglinghysterically,andeveryonelookedatmelike I was the crazy one, and so I told Victor he wasn’t allowed to speakanymore. Then onemore push, and therewas silence.And then the beautifulsoundof crying. Itwasme crying.And then itwasHailey crying.My sweet,beautifuldaughter.Anditwasamazing.Itwasn’tuntilthatverymomentthatIactuallyletmyselfbelievethatIreally

mightbeable tobesomeone’smother.AsIheldher inmyarms,Victorcried,and Iwas filledwith somuchwonderment and awe that it felt as ifmychestwouldexplode.Then theepidural started towearoffand I remember thinkingthat itwould be nice if this baby’smotherwould come and take her so that Icould get some sleep. And then I remembered that I was that baby’smother.ThenIfeltalittlescaredforbothofus.A few minutes later Hailey was whisked away by the staff, and I prodded

Victoroutoftheroomtofollowher,becauseIwascertainthatthedoctorwouldsomehowswitchherwithanotherbabywhowouldgrowuptobeasociopath,becauseI’dbeenwatchingtoomuchoftheLifetimechannel.And that’show I foundmyself half naked, completely alone, covered inmy

own blood, and still strapped into the stirrups of the labor table, inwhatwaspossibly the most unflattering position imaginable, as I added a frightened,confusedjanitortothelonglistofpeoplewhohadseenmyvaginathatday.Totallyworthit.

MeandHailey—2004.Webothneededabottleatthatpoint.

MyVaginaIsFine.ThanksforAsking

If you are not a parent you are going to get here and assume this is a potty-training chapter (since almost everymom-penned book follows the labor-and-delivery chapterwith the potty-training chapter), and you’ll start gagging andyou’llwanttoskipit.Butyoushouldn’t.Becausethischapterwillmakeyoufeelverysuperioraboutusingbirthcontroland/orinfertility.Ifyouare aparent,you’reprobablygoing to think thatyoushouldskip this

chapter,becauseyou’vealreadyheard it all.But Iguaranteeyouhaven’t.Andalso?Thenonparents reading thisare totallygoing to read itandsmirkatyoulater,andyoushouldatleastbeprepared.ThisisthesamereasonIlistentoalotofüber-conservativeRepublicanradio.BecauseIwant toknowwhat ison theminds ofmy enemies. Also because I live in Texas, and there aren’t a lot ofalternatives. And besides, this chapter isn’t even about potty training. I don’teven know where you got that idea. Potty training is not a fun subject toreminisceabout.It’smorelikeahorribledeathmarchthroughahauntedforest,and the treesaremadeofangrybears thatyou’reallergic to.Andyouhave tolookatpicturesofdeadpeopleatthesametime.Like,it’ssoawfulyouwanttojustmakeyourkidgoliveoutsidefortherestoftheirlife,butyoucan’tdothatbecausethedog’soutthere.Andthat’swhyI’mnotgoingtowriteaboutpottytraining,andinsteadI’mgoingtowriteaboutperspective.

THE FIRST YEAR after having a kid felt sort of foreign to me, and I keepstumblingacrossitinmyhead,muchlikewhensomeoneyouknowdiesandanhour later you’re laughing atHeeHaw, and then you think to yourself, “Oh,fuck,IjustrememberedthatGrampadied,”andyougetsadagain,butthenyourheadgoessomewhereelseandyou’reall,“Iwonderwhyyouneverseeelderlybiracial couples?” And then a minute later your mind yells, “Shit. I forgotGrampa died again.” And you keep crying and getting distracted, and youconsider that you should probably just turn offHeeHaw, because obviouslythat’snothelping,butthenyouthinktoyourself,“ButGrampalovedHeeHaw,”andyouconvinceyourself it’sanhomagetohim,eventhough,really,youjustkindofwanttowatchHeeHaw.It’sprobablyalsosomesortofself-preservationthingtohelpyoudealwithgrief,sobackoffalreadyandstopjudgingme.

Andthisisexactlywhatbeingamomislike.You’rejustgoingaboutyourday,thinkingabouthowawesomeitwouldbetomakenachos,andsuddenlyyou’reall,“Holyshit,Ihaveababy.Ishould,like,feeditorsomething.”Andyoudo,butthenahalf-hourlateryouforgetagain,andyouhearhergigglingintheotherroomandyouthink,“WTF?Whosebabyisthat?”andthenyouremember,“Oh,yeah.It’smine.Weird.”Andthenyoucomeupwiththesegreatideastoturnthespare room intoabar, soyoucanchargeyour friends forallof thealcoholofyoursthatthey’realreadydrinkinganyway,andthenyoudrawuptheplansandbringoveracontractor,and thenyou’reall,“Fuck.Waitaminute.This isn’taspareroom.Thisistheroomthebabylivesin.”Right?Wrong. Iwaswithyouupuntil that lastone. Ifyouagreedwith the lastone

then you need to put down this book and go find your baby, because she’sprobablyoutdrunkonsometreelimbsomewhere.Youareaterribleparent.Special note to peoplewho are childless and are smugly smiling right now:

Stop judging. It’s entirely possible that you aren’t really childless and thatyou’ve just forgottenyouhadababy.Because thatshit totallyhappens.Checkyour vagina. Does it look kind of broken? If so, you probably had a baby.Seriously,minewasallFranken-ginaforagoodyearbeforeitwaspresentableagain.Butnot“presentable”likeI’dlayitoutattheThanksgivingdinnertable.Iwouldn’thavedonethatevenbeforeitgotdestroyed.Imean,notthatitwasn’tagood trade-off, because it totally was. And it’s fine now.Great, actually.Myvaginaisgreat.Slimming,even.Thanksforasking.ItwasjustfuckedupwhenHaileywasborn,butIdidn’treallycaresomuchatthetime,becauseIwassorelievedthatshewasalive,andsoIlaythereonthehospitaltablethinkingthatistheonlytimeinlifewhenyou’retooblissfullyhappytonoticethatpeoplearestitchingupyourvagina.Also, I justwant tosay that I thinkwhen thedoctor is stitchingyourvagina

backup(for real,child-freepeople:Stitching.Your.Vagina.Up), I don’tknowwhy they don’t throw in some cosmetic surgerywhile they’re down there, tomakeitlookcuter.Like,whenmygynecologisttoldmethatshe’dprobablyhavetocutmyvagina,Iwasall,“YOUAREAFUCKINGPSYCHOPATH,”andshewaslike,“Notforfun[unspoken:“dumb-ass”].Togetthebabyout.”AndIsaid,“Oh.Well,ifyou’regoingtohavetoscarme,couldyoudoitinsomekindofkick-assshape?Like,howaboutalightningbolt?”Andshejuststaredatme,soIexplained,“Youknow...likeHarryPotter’s?”ThenshejustlookedatmelikeI shit on the floor, and I thoughtmaybe itwas because the sentence structurekindofimpliedIwasreferringtoHarryPotter’svagina,andsoIclarified:“Butnotonmyforeheadlikehiswas.”Andshestilldidn’trespond,soIpointeddownandsaid,“Onmyvagina.”Thensheshookherheadlikeshe’dknownallalong

thatIwasn’treferringtoHarryPotter’svagina,andsaid,“Uh,wedon’treallydothat.Infact,wepreferforyoutotearnaturally,becauseithealsbetter,”andI’mall,“MOTHER.FUCKER.Areyoufuckingserious?”AndIkindofsuspectedshewasjustmakingthatupbecauseshedidn’twantmetohaveanicervaginathanhers,becauseshe’dneverhadakidandsoherswasprobablyallperfectandcheerful,andsheprobablydidn’twantmerubbingmyvaginainherfacewhenitwasall lightning-bolt awesome.Like Iwouldevendo that,Dr.Ryder. Iwouldneverrubmyvaginainsomeone’sface,eventhoughitwouldbethemostbadassvaginaintheworld.AndwheneverIhavemenstrualcrampsIcouldjustpretendthatVoldemortwasclose.Later, during the labor, I did tear and get cut, and it was totally not in a

lightning-bolt shape, and I immediately regretted not doing some sort ofperforationinalighting-boltshape,butIwassobigatthatpointthatIcouldn’tevenseemyvagina,andwhenIaskedVictorwhetherhe’ddrawadottedlineinthe shapeofa lightningbolt (with little scissors indicating“cuthere”),he justwalkedoff.Isuspectit’sbecausehedidn’twanttoadmithecan’tdrawscissors,becausehonestlyheisahorribleartist,butwhenIstartedbadgeringhimthenextdayhe saidconfidently, “Oh, I alreadydid it.Whileyouwereasleep.”Whichseemed suspicious, because I’m a pretty light sleeper.But I couldn’t even seemyselfwithahandmirror,andsothenIjustwonderedwhetherhewasfuckingwithmesothatI’dleavehimalone.Andifhewasn’tjustfuckingwithme,thenwhatthehelldidhedraw?Probablyagun,oracougar,orsomethingstupid.Andalso, that doesn’t even make sense about tearing being better than cutting,because if that’s true thenwhydon’t they tearpeopleopenwhen theypullouttheir gallbladder or remove their appendix? There’s really no other sort ofsurgerywherethedoctorpreferstojustletyougettornapartratherthancutyou,andI’massumingthat’sbecausegynecologistsarejustreallylazy.Holycrap,y’all.RememberbackwhenIwas talkingabouthowmyGrampa

died but I got distractedwithHeeHaw? That same thing just happened herewhenIstartedtotalkaboutperspectiveandgotdistractedbymyvagina.Ididn’tevenplan that. That’s hownatural thiswriting shit comes tome. It’s likemybrainissubconsciouslystickingtothethemeinspiteofmydistractingvagina.IamsofuckinggoingtowinaPulitzerforthis.Anyway, having a kid is an excellent exercise in perspective. Because it

teaches you to embrace the horror and indignity of life. You simply have nootherchoice.Take, for example, the first time that you take your child to the community

pool. You’re self-consciously trying to still appear hip in front of your thin,childlessneighbor,whoprobablygotmore than twohoursof sleep,whenyou

noticethatyourchild’sassseemstobeexploding.Thenyourealizewithhorrorthatyourhusbandfailedtoputaswimmingdiaperonyourtoddler,andsonowthe real diaper is soaking up all of the poolwater and expanding like a giantmushroom cloud, and your kid is looking at you like, “What the fuck ishappening tomy junk?!” andyou’reall, “DON’TPANIC.Walk slowly towardthebathroom,”but thekid isall,“Pickmeup!IAMBEINGEATENBYMYOWNDIAPER,”andsoyoudo,but thenthepressuremakesthediaperseamsburst,andnowyou’recoveredwiththisgelstufffrominsidethediaperwhich,itturnsout,isabluish,crystal-likejelly.Andyou’rerepulsedandfascinatedallatthesametime,andyouruntothebathroom,butthecrystal-jellystuffisleakingoutbehindyoulikeatrailofbreadcrumbs,andthelifeguardisgivingyouthestink-eye, andyou finallyget to thebathroom,but thegel inside thediaper iscontinuingtoexpand.Andsoassoonasyouyankyourkid’ssuitoff,thediaperripsopenfromthesheerinternalpressureandlandswithasplatandthediaperjelly spraysall. Over. Everything. And right at that exact moment, your thin,childlessneighborwalksbreezilyin,andthenbacksupagainstthewallinshockassheseesyoubendingoverinthemiddleofthebathroom,splatteredwithbluediaper filling and trying desperately to use wads of ineffective brown papertowels to clean the (probably cancerous) diaper jelly off a naked toddler.Andyoutrytosmileatherreassuringly,asifthisisthesortofthingthathappensallthetime,andyouconsiderstandinguptoexplaincasuallythatthisisreallyallyourhusband’sfault,butbeforeyoucanstraightenupyourchildseesyourgiantboobperchedprecariously at the edgeof yourbathing suit and shepunches itand it falls out of the top of your bathing suit.And then your neighbor backssilentlyoutofthebathroom,likeshe’sstumblingawayfromamurderscene,andyouscreamafterher,”YOUCANNOTRUNFROMME.BEHOLD!THIS.IS.YOUR.FUTURE!”Getready.Thatsortofthinghappensallthedamntime.

Icanassureyou,itwastraumatizingforallofus.

PhoneConversationIHadwithMyHusbandAfterIGotLostfortheEighty

ThousandthTime

ME:Hello?

VICTOR:Whereareyou?!You’vebeengoneanhour.

ME:I’mlost.Don’tyellatme.

VICTOR:Youwenttogetmilk,dude.You’vebeentothatstoreahundredtimes.

ME: Yes, but not at night. Everything looks all strange and I couldn’t see thesigns. And I guess I must’ve taken a wrong street and I’ve been drivingaimlessly,hopingforsomethingtolookfamiliar.

VICTOR:Howcanyougetlosteverydamntimeyouleavethehouse?

ME:Idon’teventhinkI’minTexasanymore.

VICTOR:Motherfu—

ME:DON’TYELLATME.

VICTOR:I’mnotyellingatyou.JustturnontheGPSandputinouraddress.

ME:Ileftitathome.

VICTOR:Whatthehelliswrongwithyou?!

ME:Yousaidyouwouldn’tyellatme!

VICTOR:ThatwasbeforeyoulefttheGPSathome.IBOUGHTITEXPRESSLYBECAUSEOFYOU.

ME:Can’tyoujusttellmehowtogethome?

VICTOR: How am I supposed to help you get home, Jenny? IDON’TKNOWWHEREYOUARE.

ME:Okay...therearealotoftrees.Andbushes.Ortheymightbehorses.It’stoodarktotell.

VICTOR:Oh,yeah,Iknowexactlywhereyouare.

ME:Really?

VICTOR:No.You’resomeplacewhere theremayormaynotbebushes.How isthathelpful?

ME:Hell.Ineedtofindastreetsign.

VICTOR:YouNEEDtoremembertoputtheGPSinyourcar.

ME:No.I’mnotusingitanymore.

VICTOR:Whynot?!

ME:It’stryingtokillme.

VICTOR:[stunnedsilence]

ME: Remember last week when I had to go into town and I got the drivinginstructions fromMapQuest and youmademe take theGPS as a backup, but

thenhalfwaytheretheGPSisall,“Turnleftnow,”andI’mall,“No.MapQuestsaystogostraight,”andit’slike,“TURNLEFTNOW,”andI’mall,“Noway,bitch,”and thenshe’ssighingatmelikeshe’sfrustratedandshekeepssaying,“Recalculating,” in this really judgy, condescending way, and then she’s all,“TURNLEFTNOW!”And then I’mall freakedout, so I turn leftexactly likeshesaysandthenshe’sall,“Recalculating.Recalculating,”andI’mlike,“IDIDEXACTLY WHAT YOU SAID TO DO. WHAT’S WITH THE TONE,WHORE?”

VICTOR:You’renotusingtheGPSbecauseyoudon’tappreciatethetoneoftherobot?

ME: No, that’s just the start. Because then she told me to turn onWest LionStreet,but therewasnoWestLionStreet, so Ikeptmaking illegalU-turnsandfinallyIrealizedthatshewasmispronouncingWesley-AnnStreet.Probablyonpurpose.

VICTOR:It’s“WesleyanStreet.”Youstillhaven’tseenastreetsign?

ME:Oh.Sorry.IkindofforgotIwasdriving.

VICTOR:Youforgotyouweredrivingwhileyouweredriving?

ME:It’snotlikeIranintoacow.IjustforgotIwaslookingforsigns.

VICTOR:IfyouevermakeithomeI’mhidingyourcarkeys.

ME:Anyway, then I’m all, “Okay, one of us ismispronouncing ‘Wesley-Ann’andoneofusislostandIthinktheybothmightbeme,”butthat’swhenIcameupwithwhatmightbethegreatestinventioninthehistoryoftheworld.

VICTOR:Streetsigns.Lookforstreetsigns.

ME:Haven’tseenany.FeelslikeI’monahighwaynow.Askmewhatmygreatideais.

VICTOR:No.

ME:GPSforstupidpeople.

VICTOR:[silence]

ME:I’mtotallyserious.BecauseI’mnogoodwithdirections,butI’mreallygoodwith landmarks, so ifyou tellme togonorthonMain, I’mfucked,but ifyousay,“TurnatthatBurgerKingthatburneddownlastyear,”Itotallyknowwhattodo,soweshouldbuildaGPSsystemthatdoesthat.

VICTOR:[sigh]

ME: And here’s the genius part:Wemake it able to learn so it adapts to youpersonally.So, like, if Isay,“Huh.There’sahomelessguymasturbating,” it’llputthatinitsdatabanks,andthenwhenIwanttogosomewherelater,insteadofjust naming random streets it’s all, “You knowwhere that homeless guywasmasturbating?We’regoingthere.Turnleftat thatSonicyoulike.TurnrightattheburritoplaceyoutookSarahtothattimeshewasdressedallslutty.Yieldattheplaceyougavethatguyahandjob.”

VICTOR:Whatthefuck?

ME:Exactly.See,that’sthedownfallofthissystem,becausereallyIjustgaveaguy a hand by telling him how to get a job. But robots don’t get the subtleintricaciesofhumanlanguages,sothere’dbealearningcurve.We’dhavetoputthatinthebrochure.Likeadisclaimer.

VICTOR:HowlongdoyouhavetobemissingbeforeIcanstartdatingagain?

ME: I’m just saying this robot isn’t perfected yet, dude. It’s close, though. Iwouldn’tuse itwithyourmomin thecar, though, just incase.OHMYGOD,ITOTALLYKNOWWHEREIAM!

VICTOR:You’reattheplaceyougavethatguyahandjob?

ME: No. I’m at that abandoned building that looks like it’s owned by BranchDavidians.

VICTOR:Huh. The rest of theworld calls that “Dallas Street.” So can you gethomenow?

ME:Ithinkso.Leftatthatspookybarthatlookslikeit’soutofScooby-Doo,leftat theplacewesawthatwildboar that turnedout tobeadog,andrightat thecornerwhereIthrewupthatonetime.Right?

VICTOR:Youmakemyheadhurt.

ME:DUDE,WEAREGOINGTOBEMILLIONAIRES.

EPILOGUE: Imade it home.*Victor duct-taped theGPS tomywindshield andrefusedtobuildmearobot.It’slikehewantsustobepoor.

*DISCLAIMER:By“madeithome,”ImeanIgotlostagainandVictorhadtocomefindmesoIcouldfollowhimhome.Thepointis,Imadeithome.AndthatIhadno robot. This whole incident is kind of a tragedy. Victor says he agrees butprobablynotforthesamereasons.

AndThenIGotStabbedintheFacebyaSerialKiller

People with anxiety disorders are often labeled as “shy” or “quiet” or “thatstrange girlwho probably buries bodies in her basement.” I’ve never actuallyheardanyonerefertomeasthelatter,butIalwaysassumethat’swhatpeoplearethinking, because that sort of paranoia is a common side effect of anxietydisorder. Personally, I always labeled myself as “socially awkward” andreassuredmyselfthattherearelotsofperfectlynormalpeoplewhodon’tliketotalk inpublic.And that’s true.Unfortunately it’s also true thatmy fearpushesslightly past the land of “perfectly normal” and lands well into the desert of“paralyzingpathologicalhandicap.”Even simple conversations with strangers in the grocery store leave me

alternately unable to speak or unable to stop speaking about somethingcompletely inappropriate to talk to strangers in the grocery store about. For alongtimeIbeatmyselfupbecauseIthoughtitwassomethingIcouldcontrolifIwerestrongenough,but inmytwentiesIbeganhavingfull-scalepanicattacksandfinallysawadoctor,whodiagnosedmewithgeneralizedanxietydisorder.It’s beenmy experience that people always assume thatgeneralized anxiety

disorder ispreferable tosocial anxietydisorder,because it soundsmorevagueand unthreatening, but those people are totally wrong. For me, havinggeneralized anxiety disorder is basically like having all of the other anxietydisorders smooshed into one.Even the ones that aren’t recognized bymodernscience. Things like birds-will-probably-smother-me-in-my-sleep anxietydisorder and I-keep-crackers-in-my-pocket-in-case-I-get-trapped-in-an-elevatoranxietydisorder.BasicallyI’mjustgenerallyanxiousaboutfuckingeverything.Infact,Isuspectthat’showtheycameupwiththename.My doctor was extremely tactful when she diagnosed me with anxiety

disorder.Sotactful,actually,thatitwasn’tuntilseveralvisitslaterthatIfinallyrealized that thatwaswhat I had. Shewas blathering on about a patientwhosoundedtomelikeatotalnutcase.Iwasn’treallypayingattentiontohertalkingabout anxiety disorders because I was too busy wondering whether she’dconsideritastepbackinmytherapyifIhidunderthecouchwhilewehadoursessions.Then I suddenly realized that thecrazyperson shewas talkingabout

wasme.Iassumeshewashesitanttogivemyconditionanamebeforethenoutof fear that I’d be ashamed of having a genuine mental disorder. But in allhonesty,Ifeltrelieved.Nowinsteadofbeing“weird,”myinabilitytocarryonanappropriateconversationwassuddenly labeleda“painfullydevastatingandincurablemedicaldisabilitythattormentsboththevictimandthosearoundher.”Byme, that is.Mydoctor,on theotherhand, refers to itasa“minordisordereasilytreatedwithmedication.”Isuspect,however,thatifshewereeverforcedto have a conversation with me at a dinner party she would agree that mydefinitionisfarmoreaccuratethanhers.During dinner parties or social events I usually say hello to the hostess and

thenhide in thebathroomuntil theparty’s over. It’s usuallybest for everyoneinvolved. I used to read books about people who were naturally goodconversationalists,andI’dwonderwhyIcouldn’tjustbeinnatelyconfidentandcharmingwhilerelatinghumorousanecdotesaboutmytimespentwithJacquesCousteau.Frankly, Isuspected thateven if IhadevermetJacquesCousteau, Iwould still be a bad conversationalist.Most party conversations startwithmesafelynoddingalongtowhateverdullbitofnonsensesomeoneistalkingabout,and then a fewminutes later I panicbecause the sameperson asksmewhat IthinkaboutwhateverIwasn’tpayingattentionto,andIhearmyselfblurtingoutthe storyof the time I accidentally swallowedaneedle.Then I explainhow itprobablywasn’t actually a needle, but that I’d thought itwas at the time, andthenthesilencegetslouderandlouderandIcan’tstoptalkingabouthowterribleitistonotknowwhetheryou’veswallowedaneedleornot.Andthat’swhenInotice that the room has gone completely silent except for the now-slightly-hystericalsoundofmetryingtofindanendtoastorythatdoesn’tevenfuckinghaveone.ThenIjustphysicallyforcemyselftostoptalking,and(afterseveralawkwardlypainfulsecondsofsilence)someoneelsewillchangethesubjectandIcanslinkawaytohideinthebathroomuntilit’stimetoleave.Andthisisthebest-casescenario.On more than one occasion my panicked ramblings were so horrific that

everyonewasrenderedspeechless,andthesilencegotmoreandmorepalpable,and in desperation I just blurted out my credit card number and ran to thebathroom. Idid thisbothbecause Ihoped thatyelling randomnumberswouldmake the baffled spectators suspect that I must be one of those eccentricmathematicalgeniuseswhoisjusttoobrilliantforthemtounderstand,andalsobecauseIfeltabitguiltyformakingthemhavetolistentothewhole“Imayormaynotswallowneedles”story,andiftheywantedtochargetheirwastedtimetomy credit card then they nowhad that option.Except that I’mnot actuallygoodwithnumbersatall,soIcanneverremembermyrealcreditcardnumber

andinsteadIjustmakeuparandomstringofnumbers.Inshort,somerandomstrangers are paying formy shortcomings because I have a badmemory.AndbecauseIcan’tcarryonaconversationlikeanormalhumanbeing.Andbecauseidentityfraudissolucrative.Sobasically,wealllose.I assume thismust be quite confusing for peoplewhom I’ve communicated

withonlyviae-mail and texts, since Ican actually comeacross as reasonablywittyandcoherentine-mail,becauseIhavetimetothinkaboutwhatanormal,filtered,mentallystableadultwouldwritebeforeIpress“Send.”ThisiswhyIprefertotalktopeopleonlyelectronically.I’llwriteupane-mailandthenaskmyselfwhethernormalpeoplewouldbringupthefactthatLincolndiedfromalot of people sticking unwashed fingers into his bullet hole, and then I’llconvince myself that they don’t, and I’ll also take out the part about howvegetariansareallowedtoeathumanplacentabecausenoanimaldiedforit,andthenI’llbeleftwithatightlittlee-mailthatjustsays,“Congratulationsonyourbaby!” which is much more bland, but is also something I’ve totally heardnormalpeoplesaybefore,soitseemssafe.A lot of people assume I’m comically exaggerating this point, but the only

peoplewhoreallythinkthatarethepeoplewhodon’thaveananxietydisorder.Therestofyouarenoddingyourheadinagreementbecauseyou,too,havebeenstrickenbythisrathershittydisorderthatmakesane-mailconversation(whichshouldtakeonlyminutes)stretchonforhoursofrewrites.Forexample,here’sareenactmentoftheworkthatwentintoasimplee-mail

conversationwithmycoworkerJonthismorning:

Jon:IjustwantedtoemailallofyoutoletyouknowIwon’tbeintoworktodaybecausewehavetoputourbeloveddogtosleep.

Me:Jon,myheartiswithyoutoday.AttachedisacopyofRainbowBridge,andasmallpoembyMayaAngelou.

Jon:ThisisexactlywhatIneeded.Howdidyouknow?

Me:Iknowhowharditistosaygoodbye.

In short? It is exhaustingbeingme. Pretending to be normal is draining andrequires amazing amounts of energy and Xanax. In fact, I should probablychargemoneytoallthenormalpeopletosimplynotgotoyoursocialfunctionsandruinthem.EspeciallysinceIendupspendingsomuchmoneyonsedativestokeepmyanxietyat least slightly in check, and those expenses are not eventax-deductible. Still, it’s worth the personal expense, because being druggedenoughtoappearsemicoherentispreferabletobeingtreatedlikeanunwelcomepolarbearatadinnerparty.See that last sentence? A sane, rational person would have written “an

unwelcomeguestatadinnerparty,”butnotme.Istarted towrite“unwelcomeguest,”andthenmybrainsaid,“Hangon.What’sevenmoreunwelcomethananunwelcomeguest?Afuckingpolarbear.”Thenthenormal,slow-to-intercede,goodsideofmyheadcomesoverandsays,“No.Nooneisgoingtogetthat.Justwrite‘guest’instead.”Thenthebadsideisall,“Really?Becauseitmakestotalsensetome.Ifanunwantedguestshowsupatyourpartytheworstthingthat’ll

happenismaybeyou’llrunoutofTostitosearly.Ifapolarbearshowsupataparty there’s going to be blood everywhere. Polar bears aren’t welcomeANYWHERE.” And then the good side would smile patronizingly and sigh,saying, “No one understands your logic, asshole. And also polar bears arewelcomesomeplaces.Likezoos.AndCokecommercials.”Butthebadsideofmymindisn’thavingitandhe’syelling,“Thecageat thezoois theretokeepthemfromus.BECAUSETHEY’REUNWELCOME,”andthenthegoodsideisall,“Well,ifyouhatepolarbearssodamnmuchthenwhydidwegotothezooonSaturday?”andthebadsideisall,“Becauseyoupromisedmeablowjob,youcondescending bitch,” and then the good side just gasps like she can’t evenbelieve the bad side would even go there, because that shit’s supposed to beprivate, bad side, and she gets all sullen and sanctimonious and maybe weshouldjustleavenowbecausethiswholethingisuncomfortable,andwhydoesthisfeellikedomesticviolence?Andalsohowcanthebadsideofmymindevengetablowjob?Isitadude?Thiswholethingisconfusing,andfeelssomehowsexist. See, if I were trying to impress you I would have deleted this wholeparagraphandjustchanged“polarbear”to“unwantedguest,”butI’mleavingitallouttherebecauseI’mtoolazytoeraseit.Andalsotoshowyouthedifficulttruthaboutthepainoflivingwithamentalillness.Mostlythatfirstpart,though.Andbasicallythisentireparagraphiswhatit’slikeinmyheadallthetime.So,yeah.It’sagoddamnmessinhere.I thank God, though, that I do at least possess the good side of my brain,

becauseIoncehadaneighborwholosttheimpulse-controlpartofhismindinacaraccidentandwouldrandomlyyellstrangethingsatmewhenI’dgocheckthemailbox.Thingslike“Hi,prettylady!Yourbuttisgettingbigger!”and“I’dstillplowthatass!” I’dalways just forceasmileandwaveathim,because,yes, itwas kind of insulting, but I’m fairly sure hemeant it to be complimentary. Imean,thatguydidn’tevenhaveagoodsideofthebraintofilterhisthoughts,soit seems a bit selfish ofme to not be thankful formine, even if it is kind ofbrokenandseemstorecognizehowfuckedupthethingsthatI’mtalkingaboutareonlyafterI’vealreadysaidthem.It’slikeIhaveacensorinmyhead,butsheworksonaseven-seconddelay . . .well-meaning,butperpetuallyaboutsevenseconds too late to actually do anything to stop the horrific avalancheof shit-you-shouldn’t-say-out-loud-but-I-just-did.Inaway it’s agift tobeable to recognizeyour faults,but in real life I find

myselfsayingterriblethingstopeople,andthepartofmethatrecognizeshowinappropriate what I just said was screams at me, “No! We don’t talk aboutvibratorstoclergymen!”ThenIgetdistractedbyallthescreaminggoingoninmyhead,andIpanicandherecomethecreditcardnumbersagain.OrI’llblurt

outsomethingelse tofill theawkwardsilence,but forsomereason thepartofmymindthatdoesn’thaveafiltercanthinkonlyaboutnecrophilia,andthepartofmybrainthatrecognizesthatnecrophiliaisneveranappropriatetopicyells,“NECROPHILIA IS BAD,” and so then I panic and hear myself start talkingaboutwhynecrophiliaisbad,andthepartofmethatisslightlysaneisshakingher head at myself as she watches all the people struggle to think of anappropriate way to respond to a girl at a cocktail party who is againstnecrophilia.Ifeelsorryforthosepeople.Notjustbecausetheyhavetobetheretowitness that trainwreck,butalsobecausewhoisgoing todisagreewith theevilsofnecrophilia?Nobody,that’swho.Andifyoutrytochangethesubjectit’sjustgoingtolooklikeyou’reasecretproponentofnecrophiliawhojustdoesn’twanttoadmititinpublic.That’sprobablywhy,whenI’mspeakingtogroupsatdinner parties, those people slowly back away to join any other conversation,andIendupstandingaloneandtalkingtomyself.Whichisawesome.Becauseifthere’sonethingmoreawkwardthanagirltalkingtostrangersatacocktailpartyaboutsexwithdeadpeople,it’sagirlatacocktailpartytalkingtoherselfabouttheexactsamething.This is why whenever I see disheveled homeless people on the street,

screamingtonooneinparticularabouthowbearsareevilmastermindstryingtotake over the city, I immediately assume that years earlier they’d foundthemselvesdiscussingthissubjectatadinnerparty,horrifiedthemselvesintoacompletementalbreakdown,and theneveryoneelse justwanderedaway.Andnowherethishomelesswomanis,yearslater,stilltryingtofindawaytowrapup this conversationwith dignity and failingmiserably. This is why I alwaysgivehomelesspeople adollar and someXanax.Because I knowexactlywhatthey’re going through. Also, I like to nod and try to add something to theconversation, like “It’s an interesting theory, however, I’m not sure whetherbearshavethecognitiveabilitytocreateacomplexsystemofgovernment,”butusually the person I’m talking to just stares past me, fixated on a long-gonehorrifiedaudiencethatnowexistsonlyinherhead.Thenmyhusbandwillpullmeaway,lecturingmeaboutthedangersofprovokingthehomeless.Hedoesn’tseewhat I see: the desperate face of a personwhohas been drivenmadby adinnerparty.You would think Victor would be more sympathetic, since he’s actually

witnessed theemotionaldevastationI leavebehindwhenforced tomingle,butuntilonlyrecentlyhehaddismissedmyability tocompletelydestroybothourreputationsinasingledinnerpartyasanoverexaggerationonmypart.Icanonlyassume that he placed so little importance onmy inability to dealwith socialsituations because (a) my actual anxiety attacks were so severe that in

comparisonmysocialawkwardnessseemedmild,and(b)hejustwasn’tpayingthatmuchattention.Andtobefair,theanxietyattacksaremuchmoredisturbingtowatch,andI’m

veryluckythattheworstofthemhappenonlyafewtimesayear.OnemomentI’mperfectlyfineandthenextIfeelawaveofnausea,thenpanic.ThenIcan’tcatchmy breath and I know I’m about to lose control and all Iwant to do isescape.ExceptthattheonethingIcan’tescapefromistheverythingIwanttorunawayfrom. . .me.Andinevitably it’s inacrowdedrestaurantorduringadinnerpartyorinanotherstate,milesfromanykindofsanctuary.Ifeelthepanicbuildup,likealioncaughtinmychest,clawingitswayoutof

my throat. I try to hold it back butmydinnermates can sense something haschanged, and they look atme furtively,worried. I’mobvious. I want to crawlunderthetabletohideuntilitpasses,butthat’snotsomethingyoucanexplainawayatadinnerparty.IfeeldizzyandsuspectI’llfaintorgethysterical.Thisistheworst part, because I don’t even knowwhat itwill be like this time. “I’msick,” I mutter to my dinner mates, unable to say anything else withouthyperventilating. I rush out of the restaurant, smiling weakly at the peoplestaring at me. They try to be understanding but they don’t understand. I runoutsidetoescapetheworriedeyesofpeoplewholoveme,peoplewhoareafraidof me, strangers who wonder what’s wrong with me. I vainly hope they’llassume I’m justdrunk,but I know that theyknow.Everywild-eyedglanceofminescreams,“MENTALILLNESS.”Latersomeonewill findmeoutside therestaurant,huddled inaball,and lay

theircoolhandonmyfeverishback,tryingtocomfortme.TheyaskifI’mokay,moregentlyif theyknowmyhistory.InodandtrytosmileapologeticallyandrollmyeyesatmyselfinmockderisionsoIwon’thavetotalk.Theyassumeit’sbecauseI’membarrassed,andIletthemassumethatbecauseit’seasier,andalsobecauseIamembarrassed.Butit’snotthereasonIdon’ttalk.IkeepmymouthclosedtightlybecauseIdon’tknowwhetherIcouldstopmyselffromscreamingif I opened my mouth. My hands ache from the fists I hadn’t realized I’dclenched.Mybodyshoutstorun.Everynerveisaliveandonfire.IfIgettomydrugs in time I can cut off the worst parts . . . the shaking involuntarily, thefeelingofbeingshockedwithanelectricalcurrent,thehorribleknowledgethattheworldisgoingtoendandnooneknowsitbutme.IfIdon’tgettothedrugsintime,theydonothingandI’malimpragfordaysafterward.Iknowotherpeoplewhoarelikeme.Theytakethesamedrugsasme.They

try all the therapies. They are brilliant and amazing and forever broken. I’mlucky thatalthoughVictordoesn’tunderstand it,he tries tounderstand, tellingme,“Relax.There’sabsolutelynothingtopanicabout.”Ismilegratefullyathim

andpretendthat’sallIneededtohearandthatthisisjustasillyphasethatwillpass one day. I know there’s nothing to panic about. And that’s exactly whatmakesitsomuchworse.ThosearethepainfuldaysthatIthinkdistortVictor’sviewofjusthowbadlyI

deal with people. They’re the days when I’m certain he thinks that a littleanxiety-induced social awkwardness is really nothing in comparison to a full-blownattack.AndthenIhavetoprovehimwrong.Case inpoint:ThisweekendVictor tookme toaHalloweendinnerparty for

his coworkers. I’d reminded him beforehand that he was making a terriblemistake, because he’d seen over the years a few examples of me fucking upparties.ButhepattedmylegandassuredmeI’dbefine.Itwasexactlythesamewayhe’dpattedourcatreassuringlyrightbeforewe’dhaditeuthanized.Itwasnotreassuring.Thedrivetothepartywaslong,whichworkedagainstme,becausealreadythe

sedativesI’dtakenwerewearingoff,anditgavememoretimetoworryaboutour choice of costumes. We were dressed as Craig and Arianna, the Spartancheerleaders from Saturday Night Live. When I’d bought the costumes I’dthoughtitwasaprettyiconicpop-culturereference,butwhenHailey’sbabysitterarrivedshe’dhadnodamnideawhowewere.

VictorandmeasCraigandArianna.Oneofusisnotevenfuckingtrying.

“Youknow?TheSpartans?FromSaturdayNightLive?”Iasked,tryingnottoletthehysteriaseepintomyvoiceasVictor(whohadneverwantedtobeamalecheerleader in the first place and still hadn’t forgivenme for picking out thecostume) just glared atme.The babysitter stared atme blankly.“COMEON,YOUKNOWTHIS!”Imayhaveshriekedalittle,andthenVictorpulledatmyarmtogobecausewe’dlostourfirstbabysitterthatway,andsoItookadeep,calmingbreathandsaid,“Itwasn’tthatlongago,Dani.Remember?Itwasinthenineties?” and then she said, “O-o-oh. Iwasborn in thenineties.”And then Ikickedherinthestomach.Butonlyinmyhead,becausethat’skindofhowwelostoursecondbabysitter.Still,Dani’ssaucyignoranceofshitthatwasonTVbeforeshewasbornwas

still fresh onmymind as we drove to the party. I tried to clear my head byremindingmyselftonotaccidentallyshowpeoplemyvagina.Thisisnotausualworry for me; however, the cheerleader skirt wasmade of a clingy polyestermaterialthatkeptridinguponmyunderwearwheneverImoved,soratherthancontinuallypullingdownmyskirtallnightlong,I’ddecideditwouldbewisertojustgocommandoinstead. Iwasstilla littlenervousabout thisdecisionwhenwe pulled up toVictor’s boss’s house, though, and aswewalked up the longdrivewaytowardthelargehomeIquicklywhisperedtoVictor,“Bytheway?I’mnotwearinganyunderwear.”Hestoppedinhistracksandfurrowedhisbrowinundisguisedpanic.“I’mnottryingtoseduceyou,”Iassuredhim.“I’mjusttellingyousothatyou

would,yaknow,beaware.”Victorstaredatme,horrified.“Beawareofwhat?”“You know,” I explained, “in case you decidedwe needed to do any really

physical cheers, you’d be aware of thewhole ‘careful around the old vagina’thing.”Victor paused at the doorway and stared atme, hismouth slightly agape.A

small sheen of sweatwas beginning to form over his forehead. “We areNOTgoingtodoanycheers.Ididn’tevenwanttowearthisdamncostume,forChristsake,andWHYTHEHELLAREYOUNOTWEARINGUNDERWEAR?!”ThenItoldhimtobequietorhisbosswouldhearhim,andthat’swhenVictorstartedshakingalittlebit.Itworriedme,becauseonlyoneofuswasallowedtohaveapanicattackatatime,andI’dalreadycalleddibs.IwonderedinternallywhetherIshouldexplainwhy Iwasn’twearingunderwearor juststayquiet,becauseatthis point he seemed so irrational I didn’t even think that I could get him tounderstand thescienceofpanty lines.ThenI looked through thebeveled-glassdoorofVictor’sboss’shouseandnoticedfourpeopleonthecouchwatchingTV.

Andexactlynoneofthemwereincostume.Thiswaswhen I considered running away, because forcingyour husband to

wearacheerleadercostumeforHalloweenisgroundsfordivorce,butdressinghimasamalecheerleaderathisboss’spartywhereeveryoneelseisinDockerswill totallyget you stabbed.Then I realized that if I ranback toour car now,Victorwouldprobablynoticethatnooneinsidethehousewasincostume,andthenhe’dquietlyfollowmebackouttothecarandstabmeinprivate,andthelast thing I wanted was to be stabbed anywhere. I quickly decided I wasprobablysaferwithwitnesses,soIrangthedoorbellbeforeVictorcouldrealizetheseverityofthesituation.Thenhepulledhis(stillaghast)facefromminetoturn toward thedoor,and that’swhenhenoticed thatnoone in thehousewaswearingcostumes.“What.The.Fuck?”was all hemanaged to get out before aman in his late

fifties opened the door. Theman looked at us strangely,which I thoughtwasratherrudeforahost,andIthoughtI’djustgetitoutoftheway,soIblurtedout,“Youknow . . . theSpartans?FromSaturdayNightLive?”He justkeptstaring,with his brow furrowed like hewas still trying to place us, and I shrugged indefeatandsaid,“Meh.Don’tworryaboutit.Thebabysitterdidn’tgetiteither.”Victor cleared his throat and gaveme the“Please shut up” look,while the

manatthedoorsaid,“I’msorry.CanIhelpyou?”ThenVictorexplainedthatwewere here for the party and that apparently we’d read the invitation wrong(insertunnecessaryglareatme),becausewe’dthoughtitwasacostumeparty,andthat’swhentheguystoppedusandsaid,“There’snopartyhere.”Iassumedhewasjusttryingtogetridofus,butthenVictorpulledouttheinvitationandthemanhelpfullypointedout thatwewereonNorthClevelandStreetandwewantedSouthClevelandStreet.HeseemedveryrelievedtoclearthisupuntilIsuddenly blurted out, “Oh, thankChrist!” Then he looked atme oddly again.Probablybecausehe’sanatheistwhodoesn’tunderstandhowthankfulIwastoGod that I wasn’t going to get stabbed for forcing my husband to wear acheerleaderoutfittoabusiness-casualaffair.Atheistsneverunderstandthatsortofthing.Afewminuteslater,VictorandIarrivedattheproperaddresstofindahouse

coveredinHalloweendecorationsandseveralpeoplemillingaroundoutsideincostume. I said a quiet prayer, except I guess itwasn’t quiet enough, becauseVictorgavemethestink-eyeandaskedwhetherIcouldpleasetrytobeonmybestbehavior tonight.Hegavemea listof things tonot talkabout in frontofmixed company. “Divorce, death, politics, heroin, sex, cancer, swallowingneedles,”hedronedon.“Theseareallthingsnottotalkabout.”“Gotit,”Iassuredhim.

He looked at me dubiously. “Also, most of these people are conservativeRepublicans,soplease don’t talk abouthowmuchyou loveObama. Ihave towork with these people. And nothing about vaginas or necrophilia”—he’dactuallybeenthereforthatone—“orninjasorhowyourgreat-great-great-unclemurderedyourgreat-great-great-auntwithahammer.” I tried tonodanassent,but all of those things he’d justmentioned got stuck there inmy head, and Istruggled vainly to think of anything to talk about besides the prohibitedsubjects.Ihadnothing.Luckily, the partywas fairly loud, and, this beingTexas,most of the guests

werealreadydrunkandtalkative,andsoIwasabletojustsmilemindlesslyandnodinagreementtowhatevereveryoneelsewassaying.VictorandIsettledintotheperipheryofalargegroupofhiscolleagues.Truthfully,itwouldhavebeendifficulttogetawordintotheconversationdominatedbyamandressedasJohnMcCain (I shit you not), who launched into a tirade about Obama coming tostealallourguns(“Wherewouldheevenkeepthem?”Iwondered),andIcouldseethepanicinVictor’seyesashetensedandsilentlybeggedmetostayquiet.Ibitmy tongueand forced a smile. I could see the relief inVictor’s face as hesighed deeply, and I smiled and rolled my eyes at his doubt, but costumedMcCain must’ve noticed our exchange, because he chuckled and raised aneyebrow suspiciously as he asked, “What’s this?Dowehave a bleeding-heartliberal in our midst?” And that’s when everything started to get all fuzzy,becauseIwasexplicitlywarnednottotalkpolitics,andsoIfrozeinpanicandsearchedmymindforanyappropriate response thatwouldchange thesubject.Then,afteramomentofpainfulsilencethatseemedtohusheveryonearoundus,I blurted out what was likely the most improbable sentence ever uttered at adinnerparty:“OnetimeIgotstabbedinthefacebyaserialkiller.”Andevenmoreunsettlingwas the fact that I’dmanaged toutter thebaffling

non sequitur in a completely serious, nonchalant fashion. As if people gotstabbed in the face all the time.Also? I haveno fucking ideawhy I said that.ThenVictorlookedatmelikehewashavingastroke,andhestartedtochangecolors,andthroughaclenchedjawheforcedout,“Ha,ha,honey!Whatthehelldidthathavetodowithanything?”andIknewhewastryingtogivemeanout,orpossiblyjusttryingtodistancehimselffromme.Iprobablyshouldhavejustblamed the booze, but instead I thought I could salvage the situation byexplainingthatnot-McCainhadmentionedguns,whichremindedmeofknives,andthat’swhenIwasremindedofthetimethataserialkillerstabbedmeinthefacewith a knife, but then it got evenweirderwhen I explained all that, andpeoplebeganlookinguncomfortableandlaughingnervously.ThenVictorstarted

glaring at me and I got kind of caught up in defending myself, because I’MTRYING TO HELP HERE. If anything, Victor should have been mad atMcCain,becausethiswasbasicallyallhisfault.Theguyincostume,Imean,notformerpresidentialnomineeJohnMcCain.Hewasn’teventhere.I’mnotevensurewhyIhavetoclarifythis.Then Victor started clearing his throat and tried to change the subject, but

there’s honestly noway to put the lid back on an open serial-killer story, andpeoplestartpressuringyou,andthentheynoticethefaintscaracrossyourface,andthat’swhenyouhavetotelltheserial-killerstory.Infact,rightnowyou’rethinking,“Didshe reallyget stabbed in the facebyaserialkiller?”Anddon’tbothertodenyit,becauseyoujustreadit,soyouhave tobethinkingabout it.This is the way books work. Also?Velociraptors. Ha! I just made you thinkabout velociraptors. Awesome. This is probably why Stephen King writes somanybooks.Iamtotallycontrollingyourmindrightnow.But theanswer toyourquestionis,“Yes.Yes, Idid totallygetstabbed in the

facebyaserialkiller.Sortof.”WhichisexactlywhatItoldallthepeopleattheparty. Then Victor almost divorced me. And what’s really tragic here is thattechnically this issortofVictor’sfault,becauseat thispoint Iwasprepared tojust tell everyone I was drunk and then go hide in the bathroom, but VictordecidedtotelleveryoneIwasdrunkfirstandthenIgottooirritatedathimtobeworriedabouttalkinginfrontofstrangers,becauseclearlyhewasn’ttakingmybeingstabbedinthefaceseriously.Victorthenpointedoutthatthatwasbecauseitwasn’tentirelytruethatI’dbeenstabbedinthefacebyaserialkiller,andhedidhaveapoint,butby theneveryonewasa little rivetedand intrigued.Also,noneof themhadeverseen thehorror ride thatmydinnerpartyconversationstake, so instead of agreeingwithVictor’s suggestion that I go lie down, theydemandedthatItellthestory.Thosepeoplewerefucked.Irealizedalmostimmediatelythatthiswasamistake,butIfiguredIcouldstill

salvage this situation, so I took adeepbreath and explained that I had simplyfallen asleep watching a documentary about serial killers, and that it must’vestuckwithme,becauseIstartedhavingthisdreamwhereIwasgettingchasedbytheNightStalker,whowaswieldinga largeknife,andANDHESTABBEDMEINTHEFUCKINGFACE.Andthepaininmyfacegothotterandsharper,andallofasuddenIstartedscreaming,andthat’swhenIwokemyselfupandrealizedthatitwasalljustadream.This iswhere people always laugh politely.Coincidentally, it’s alsowhere I

should stop telling this story. I’ll try to remember that for next time. But, ofcourse, Ididn’t stop there, becausemy internal censorwas still seven secondsbehindandshewastoobusyfreakingoutaboutthefactthatI’djustsaidtheF-

wordoutloudtotellmetoshutupnow.SoIleanedforwardconspiratorially,sayingtotherelievedcrowd,“ButthenI

kept hearing screaming and it turns out it was me screaming, because IACTUALLYHADBEENSTABBEDINTHEFACE.”This was when everyone stopped laughing and Victor began looking

physicallyill.ItwasalsowhenIstartedtopanicandIbeganspeakingwaytooquicklysothatIcouldfinishandrunaway.“So then Victor wakes up and sees my face covered in blood and is all,

‘WHATTHEFUCK?!’” I related to the groupof awestruckbystanders. “AndI’mlike,‘IKNOW,RIGHT?THENIGHTSTALKERSTABBEDME!’andrightthen Victor jumps up and unsheathes his sword and runs down the hallbrandishing his sword after the Night Stalker, which was weird, because thedocumentaryhadsaidhewasstillinjail,butIguesswhenyouwakeupandyourwife’sbeenstabbedyouprobablyaren’tthinkingterriblystraight,andpersonallyIwasjustimpressedathowquicklyhe’dunsheathedhisswordtorundownthehallafteradangerousserialkill—”Victorinterruptedme:“Please,fortheloveofGod,stoptalking.”I looked at him curiously andwonderedwhat part of the story hewasmost

appalled by, and then quickly clarified, “Oh!When I said he ‘unsheathed hissword,’ Ididn’tmeanhispenis,y’all. Iwasreferring to thesamuraiswordwekeepnexttothebed.Victorwasn’trunningdownthehallwavinghispenisataserialkiller.Imean,thatwouldberidiculous.”Ilaughed.Nooneelselaughed.“Aaaanyway,” I continued, “Victor searched through the house, but no one

wastherebutus,andallthedoorswerestilllocked.VictortriedtoconvincemethatImusthaveaccidentallyscratchedmyself,butIwasdoubtful.ThenthenextdayatworkmycoworkersassumedthatVictormustbebatteringme,andsoIexplained the serial-killer dreams, and of course none of them believed me,whichisprettyinsultingactually,becauseIcanassureyou,ifmyhusbandhadactuallystabbedmeinthefaceI’dhaveenoughsensetocomeupwithabetterstorythanoneaboutaserialkillerattackingmeinmydreams.”This is the point where I really, really want to stop talking, but I couldn’t

becauseIwassofreakedoutathowbadlythiswholethinghadgonethatIwasdesperate to find an end and was too panicked to do it correctly. I vaguelywishedthatVictorwouldsetfiretothehousetodistracteveryone,buthedidn’t,becauseVictorisveryunhelpful.Icontinued.“Ofcourse,thenIwasterrifiedthatperhapsnoweverythingthat

happenedtomeinadreamwouldactuallyhappentomeinreallife,soIcouldpotentiallywakeupwearingadressmadeoutofpicklesatmyhighschool.Orwitharmsmadeoutofmarshmallows,orwithalegmissing.Then,aboutaweek

later,VictorandIwerelyinginbedwhensuddenlytherewasascratchingnoisecoming from the window above the headboard, which sounded like a knifescraping deliberately down the wall. I was paralyzed with fear, but I slowlyturnedmyfaceuptowardthewindow,andthat’swhenIsawTHEGIGANTICASSOFMYCAT.Turnsoutthatourfat-asscat,Posey,wastryingtoperchonthetiny window ledge, but he didn’t fit, so he had one of his back legs clawingdesperatelyatthewallasheslowlylosthisfooting,andthat’swhenIfiguredoutwhathadhappened.Myenormous,fatcathadfallenonmyfaceandscratchedmewith his huge, catty talonswhile Iwas dreaming about serial killers.Andthat’swhytenyearslaterIstillhavethisscar.”Then everyone looked at me in bafflement, and Victor made me leave,

swearing to never takeme to another dinner party again. Itwashard to arguewithhim,but Ididpointout that thepartywaskindofawin,becausenoonesawmy vagina. Victor sayswe have different definitions ofwhat a “win” is.Thenhetoldmethatstoriesaboutserialkillerswhoarereallyjustcatsarenowat the topof the list of “shit-I’m-not-allowed-to-talk-about,” and that’swhen Ireallygotalittleindignant,becausetechnicallyhekindofowesme,becausehecame out looking like a damn American hero in that serial-killer story forchargingthroughthehousetokillaserialkillerwhowasactuallyacat.Thenhepointedoutthatcatsaren’tserialkillers,andIretortedthat technicallycatsaremoredangerousthanserialkillersbecausetheyaretoofluffytobesuspects,andthat if Posey had landed a few inches lower he could have slicedmy jugular.Basically,Poseyisthesilentkiller.Muchlikecholesterol.ItriedtocalmVictorbyexplainingthatwhenwegothomeIcouldpatchthis

allupwithawittye-mail tohiscoworkers thathadnothing todowithgettingstabbedinthefacebyanyone.“Andthenwhat?”Victorasked.“And then,” I explained, “it will be fine, because I’ll be so charming that

they’ll forgiveme.Besides,most of thepeoplewhowere there seemeddrunkanyway,andthere’snowaythey’llbelieveIactuallytoldthathorribleofastorywhen theywake up tomorrow.”But thenVictor pointed out that even if Ididmanagetoconvincethemofmynormalnessthroughe-mail,Iwouldjustendupdoingthisagain,andhewasright,whichiswhynexttimeI’matadinnerpartyI’m just going to pretend I have laryngitis and insist that everyonebring theircellphonessoIcansimplytext them.Except,IgrudginglyadmittedtoVictor,I’ll probably panic and tell the first person I see that I can’t talk because aleopardatemylarynx,andthenI’llusemyphonetoshowpeoplehowmuchthemagnifiedhumanlarynxlookslikeavagina.VictorlookedatmeindefeatandIpulledoutmyphonetofindlarynxvideostoprovemypoint.Andthatwaswhen

Victorsigheddeeplyandmademestoptalkingtohim.Whichistobeexpected,Iguess.

Me,hidinginthebathroom.

I’llapologizetohimtomorrow.Bye-mail.

ThanksfortheZombies,Jesus

CarconversationwithVictor:

ME: Oh my God, did you see the name of that cemetery we just passed?“ResurrectionCemetery.”Whatahorriblenameforacemetery.

VICTOR:It’sbecausetheybelieveintheresurrectionofbelievers,dumb-ass.

ME:Still.Somethingsjustshouldn’tberesurrected.Justwhatweneedisabunchofdamnzombieswanderingtheearth.

VICTOR:That’snot“resurrection.”That’s“reanimation.”

ME:Samedifference.Although Iguess“ReanimationCemetery”would soundwaymorecreepy.

VICTOR: It’s not the same difference. Zombies are reanimated, but they don’thavetheirpreviousmentalcapacity,soit’snotaresurrection.Technicallythat’sa“zombification.”

ME:Well,ifyouwanttogetalltechnical,thenhowaboutvampires?

VICTOR:Um...they’refine?

ME:What Imean is, vampires have their “previousmental capacity,” thus byyourlogictheyare“resurrected.”Mightaswellnameit“Jesus-Is-Bringing-You-VampiresCemetery.”

VICTOR: No. That’s not the same thing, because when you resurrect someone

fromthegravetheyaren’tundead.

ME: No, they are TOTALLY undead. That’s like the very definition of theundead.

VICTOR:No.Avampireisundead.Theresurrectedaren’tundead.

ME:Ithinkyoudon’tknowwhat“undead”means.

VICTOR:ITHINKYOUDON’TKNOWWHAT“UNDEAD”MEANS!

ME:OhmyGod,calmdown,Darwin.Don’tgetallcrazy just ’causeI threwavampiremonkeywrenchinyourfaultyJesus-zombielogic.

VICTOR:[sigh]Look,thereareallsortsofexceptionsyouaren’tconsidering.Youcanreanimatesomeonewithoutmakingthemareal“zombie.”Forinstance,youcouldbringthembacksimplytoperformatask.

ME:Yeah.Andthat’scalledazombie.

VICTOR:No,becauseitwouldn’tcravebrains.It’djusthaveajobtodo.Lookitup.

ME:Oh,Iwill lookitup.I’ll lookitup inTheDictionaryofShitThatDoesn’tExist.

VICTOR:[glower]Fiveminutesofangrysilence

ME:So,Iwastalkingtotheorgandonationladyatworktheotherdayandshetoldmeasecretwaythatyoucan’tnotgiveawaymyorgans.

VICTOR:Youknowwhat?Ifuckingdareyoutomakelesssense.

ME:Well,Iknowyou’reanti–organdonation,andsoItoldherIwasafraidthatyouwouldn’tletthedoctortakemyorgansifIdiedfirst,butshesaidifIlistmymomasmynextofkinonmydonorcardthentheywon’tevenaskyouforyourpermission.

VICTOR:IfyouwanttothrowawayallyourorgansIwon’tstopyou.Justdon’tcomecomplainingtomewhenIseeyouintheafterlifeandyou’reall,“OhmyGod,Ijustpeedallovermyselfbecausesomeoneelsehasmybladder.”

ME:Fine.AndifyoudiefirstI’mtotallydonatingyourorganstoo.

VICTOR:Likehellyouare.Imayneedthem.

ME:Whywouldyouneedthem?YOU’REDEAD.

VICTOR: What if I become a zombie? Huh, smart-ass? I’d be a pretty shittyzombieiftheytookmyeyesout.I’dbebitingpolesandcatsandshit.

ME:Soyou’remakingadecision tonot save someone’s lifeon theoff chancethatitmightbeinconvenientifyouturnintoalessefficientzombie?

VICTOR:Itsoundsstupidwhenyousayit.

ME:Fine.I’lljustdonatethepartsthatazombiedoesn’tneed.Likeyourskin.Oryourbraintissue.

VICTOR:Zombiesneedbrains.

ME:No,zombieseatbrains.Andthenthosevictimsbecomeotherzombies,eventhough theirbrainshavebeeneatenbyotherzombies, soobviouslyyoucoulddonateyourbrainandstillbeafunctionalzombie.

VICTOR: Yeah, and then I’ve gotta spend eternity wandering the world as amindlessidiot.

ME:[snort]

VICTOR:Shutup.

ME:Ididn’tsayanything.

VICTOR:Ifzombie-mefindsoutI’vegotpartsmissingyouwillbetheveryfirstpersonIeat.

ME:WhatifyoudieinacarcrashandHaileyisbadlyinjuredandtheonlywayshecansurviveisifshecanhaveyourkidneys?

VICTOR:She’dbeaprettyfucked-up-lookingtoddlerwithmygiganticman-sizekidneysinher.

ME:Okay,whatifshe’ssixteenwhenithappens?

VICTOR:Ifshe’ssixteenandIdiethenshecantotallyhavemystuff.Butjustthenonessentialstuff...likeanarmorsomefingers.

ME: I’msureshe’llbe themostpopulargirl inschoolwithyourhairyoldmanarm.

VICTOR:Ooh,andifaboystartedgettingfreshwithhershecouldbeall,“Don’tmakemegetmydadhandout!”

ME:Iwonderifthisistheweirdestfightwe’veeverhad.

VICTOR:Not.Even.Close.

MakingFriendswithGirls

ForthemajorityofmylifeIlivedwithasmall,terriblesecret:I’veneverreallylikedgirls.Irealizethisisstereotypicalandhypocritical,sinceIamonemyself,but tobefair,Iprobablywouldn’tchoosetohangoutwithmyself ifgiventheoption.It’s always been this way. I was toomuch of an anxiousmisfit to properly

bond with girls when I was young, and I never really got the hang of it. IconsoledmyselfbythinkingofhowmuchmoneyIsavedonChristmasgiftsforfriends that Inevermade,andreassuredmyself thatnothavingbridesmaidsorfriendstogivemeabachelorettepartywasperfectlynormal.WheneverIhearofwomenwhoarestillbestfriendswiththegirlstheywenttoschoolwith,Ialwaysmakeamentalnotetoavoidthem,becauseIassumethey’recompulsiveliars.EvenasanadultIhadmostlymalefriends,andIlookedatmostgirlsasjudgy,

cruel, fickle, and likely to borrow your Cabbage Patch doll and never give itback.Victoralwayspushedmetofindgirlfriends,butI’dconvincedmyselfthatgirls are like small bears: cute to look at, but far toodangerous tohave lunchwith.This all changedwhen I discovered blogging and found other people online

who were misanthropic misfits like me, and I found myself proudly tellingVictorofmynewbestfriendswhomIwouldalmostcertainlynevermeet.“OHMYGOD,Raptor99isgoingtohaveanotherbaby!”I’dsayexcitedly,as

Victorpointedout thathehadnoideawhothatwas.“Youknow,”Iexplained.“Raptor99 is that person who survived cancer last year, and is consideringcomingoutof the closet?Remember all the time I spenton the computer lastmonth,convincingsomeonethattheyneededtogethelpfortheirbulimia?ThatwasRaptor99.”“Huh.IsRaptor99aboyoragirl?”Victorasked.“Idon’tactuallyknow,”Isaid.“Theiravatarisadolphin.”ThenVictorpointedoutthatitdidn’treallycountasbeing“greatfriendswith

someone”ifyoudidn’tknowwhethertheywereaboy,agirl,oradolphin.Ihadtoadmithehadapoint,soIdecidedtogetoutofthehouseandmeetafellowmom blogger named Laura for lunch, whom I’d bondedwith online over themutualterrorofraisingatoddler.Itwassurprisinglyawesome,butitwasalsoaslippery slope that led to meeting more and more people. My anxiety-ridden

personalityclashedwiththeveryideaofmakingfriends,especiallygirlfriends.Laura tried to convince me that there were actually interesting and fairlynonjudgmentalwomenwhowouldn’tmake fun of the fact that I often had tohide under tableswhen Iwas overwhelmed. I didn’t believe her, but I took adeepbreathanddecidedtotrusther,becauseifnothingelse, thiswouldbetheperfect experiment to prove my theory that most grown women are just asdangerous as the kids on the playgroundwhowouldn’t let youplay tetherballwiththembecauseyoudidn’thaveWonderWomanUnderoos.Over the next twoyears, I became tentative friendswith the bloggersLaura

introducedmeto,andIwaseventuallyinvitedtogotoaweekendall-girlretreatinCaliforniawinecountryforasmallgroupofbloggers.Itwouldincludewinetastingandgroupyoga,andIcouldnothavebeenlessenthused,butLaurawasoneofthehostessesandtoldmeIwasbeingridiculous.“Besides,”sheremindedme,“youdid tellmethatoneofyourgoalsthisyearwastomakefriendswithgirls.”Shewasright,butatthesametimesheremindedmewhygirlsmakebothgreatandterriblefriends:Theyactually listentoyourgoals,evenwhenyou’retoodrunk toknowwhatyou’resaying. Ihad said that I felt Ineeded to try tofindgirlfriends,butwhatIreallywantedweredown-to-earthchickswhodrankStrawberryHillslusheesnonironically,andwhowouldrespondtoaninvitationof “Let’s go to awine tasting and a day spa”with the same sort of horrifiedreactionasifsomeonehadsaid,“Let’sgojointhecircusandthenburnittotheground.”LaurastaredatmeasItriedtocomeupwithanexcuse.“It’strue,IdidsayI

wanted girlfriends,” I capitulated hesitantly, “but couldn’t we start withsomethingsmallerandlessterrifying?Likemaybespendaweekendatacrackhouse?Iheardthosepeopleareverynonjudgmental,andifyouaccidentallysaysomethingoffensiveyoucanjustblameitontheirhallucinations.”“Tempting...”Laurareplied,“butlet’strythisfirst.Wecanalwayscheckout

thecrackhouselater.”The four-day getawaywas headed up by a blogger namedMaggie,whom I

knewinpassing,andwhohadrecentlygottenagiantcorporationtosponsorherlifelist.She’dbeentoGreece,hadagiantpublicfoodfight,andswuminPuertoRico,allpaidforbythesponsor,andpossiblybysellinghersoul.Nextonherlistwas hosting a small girls’ retreat, and so she’ddecided to hostThe BroadSummit, sonamedbecausewewereabunchofbroads. IcanonlyassumeTheVaginaVenuewastaken.Womenscaremeenough,butbloggerscanbeevenmore frightening todeal

with.Most bloggers are emotionally unstable and are often awkward in socialsituations,whichiswhysomanyofusturnedtoblogginginthefirstplace.Also,

theyarealwayslookingforsomethingtowriteabout,soifyoufucksomethingupitwillbeblogged,Facebooked,andretweeteduntilyourdeath.Itwouldbelot like Lindsay Lohan spending a weekend with TMZ and the NationalEnquirer, and I suspect that one day my gravestone will simply read: JENNYLAWSON:SHEWASMISQUOTEDONTWITTER.Iassumethat tomostpeoplewinecountrysoundswonderful,but it’snotmy

thing.Winetastingsandmassagesandfacialsandpajamapartiesatasmallhotelsoundedlikesomethingthatwouldbefunforrichpeoplewhoweren’tme,andwhoactuallyownedpajamas.Iwastryingtothinkupexcusestogetoutofthispartywhenmyinvitationarrived:Itwasasmallwineboxwithabottleofboozeandacrazystraw.Victorsawitandencouragedmetogoandmakenewfriends,andIRSVPed“yes”becauseIgotdrunkontheinvitation.ThenIspentthenextweekregrettingthatdecision.

Aconversationwithmysisterthreedaysbeforetheevent:

ME: I’m going to Napa Valley for a party and I’m terrified. Everyone at thisretreat is probably fashionable and hip, and a lot of them are designers, and Idon’thaveanythingdesignertowear.

MYSISTER:Justpretendtobebohemian,andthey’llthinkyou’reavant-garde.

ME:Well,Idohaveafancypurse,butI’veneverusedit.ThissexcompanysentmeagiantmetaldildowrappedinaKateSpadebaginhopesthatI’dblogaboutit.

MY SISTER: You owning a Kate Spade bag is even weirder than the fact thatsomeonesentyouadildoinit.

ME: I know. That’s why it’s still in the box, alongwith the dildo. I’m totallygoingtobringitwithme,though,anduseitlikeashield,sopeoplewillthinkIbelongthere.BasicallyI’lluseitthesamewayyouusecrucifixesonDraculas.

MYSISTER:Thedildo?

ME:Thepurse.

MYSISTER:Ah.Don’ttellthatstorytoanyonethere.

ME:It’sprobablythefirstthingI’mgoingtosay.Thelaste-mailIgotabouttheget-togethersuggestedseveralshoechangesinoneday.Ionlyhaveonepairofniceshoesandthey’reflats.

MYSISTER:Well,youhavearthritis,soyouhaveagoodexcuse.

ME:Yes,but I feel like Ineed toput thatonmyshirt:“Pleasedon’t judgemyflats. Ihaveadisability.”Iwon’thaveanythingtochangeintowheneveryoneelsechangesshoes.Ihavesocks,though.Icanchangeintosocks.

MYSISTER:Oh,you’retotallyfucked.

Twodaysbeforetheevent:

ME:Okay, I just saw the invitation list, and I’mcompletely freaked about thisparty.It’slikeeveryoneelsethereispartofthecheersquad,andI’mthatweirdgirlwiththebackbracewhoatetoomuchglue.

LAURA:Youneedtostopfreakingoutaboutthis.It’sgoingtobesuperlaid-backandcasual,andyouneedtorelaxandhavefun.Justbringafewpairsofjeansandsomeshirtsandyou’reset.

ME:Idon’townanyjeans.

LAURA:You’readamnliar.

ME:Howmanyyearshaveyouknownme?Haveyoueverseenmewearjeans?

LAURA:Wow.No.Theremightbesomethingwrongwithyou.

ME:ThisisexactlywhatI’vebeentryingtotellyou.

Thedaybeforetheevent:Karen(awonderfulandsweetbloggerwhomLaurahadintroducedmeto)foundoutthatIdidn’townjeans,anddecidedtohaveashoppingintervention.

KAREN: I can’t believe you don’t wear jeans. Jeans are fabulous, and crazycomfortable. Jeans are like underwear. It’s like just wearing your underweararound.

ME (from inside the fitting room): No. Dresses are like wearing underwear,because guess what I’m wearing under my dress? Just underwear. Andsometimes?Notevenunderwear.

Isteppedoutofthedressingroom.

KAREN:Ooh.See?Thosearecutejeans.Youshouldgetthem.

ME:Mmm.No.Mykneeslookfatinthese.

KAREN:Um...what?

ME:Youwouldn’tunderstand,becauseyou’vealwaysbeenthin,butwhenyou’refatyourkneecapsget tiredof supportingallofyourweight, and sowhen youlock your knees they bend backward. That’s why I always concentrate reallyhard on always bending slightly at the knee, so that I don’t have fat-girlkneecaps.

KAREN: I loveyou, but I can’t even tell youhow insaneyou sound right now.Like,mostofthetimeyou’refine,butrightnow?Totallyinsane.

ME:Youprobablyjustweren’tlisteningthoseothertimes.

Thefirstdayoftheparty,ontheplane:You know when the captain comes on over the overhead speaker and says,“We’re going to takeoff in a fewminutes, butwe’re going to bewithout air-conditioningforabitbecausewedon’thaveauxiliarypower,andwe’rehaving

problems with one engine so we’re going to have to get out on the runwaybeforewecangetitstarted”?That’swhenyoushouldprobablyjustgetofftheplane.ButIcouldn’t,becauseIwastooterrifiedtomove,soinsteadIjustaskedtheguynexttomewhetherhethoughtthiswassomesortofjoke.Hedidn’t,andtoldmeitwasnothingtoworryabout.“Yeah,”Isaid,myvoicebecomingshrillwithfear,“buttheyjustsaidwedon’thavebothenginesworking.I’mprettysuretwoenginesarepreferable.”Herubbedmyhandpatronizinglyand toldmeI’dbe fine,andIassumedhe

washittingonme,soIsaid,“I’mmarried.”Thenhelookedatmestrangelyandsaid,“Congratulations?”Heprobablywasn’thittingonmeatall.Morelikelyhejustwantedmetoshutup.Thenthestewardesscameonthespeaker,andinsteadofsaying,“Atthistimeweaskyoutoturnoffanyportableequipment,”shesaid,“Ifyou’reonacellphone,tellthemgood-bye.”AndI’mall,“Whydidshesay‘Good-bye’ with such an air of finality?” The guy sitting next to me didn’trespond.Probablybecauseheknewweweren’tgoingtomakeitoutalive.Amazingly enough, we landed. I was supposed tomeet a fellow blogger at

baggage claim so we could share a ride, but I’m terrible with faces, and Isuddenly realized that unless she was wearing the trench coat from her blogpictureIwasinhugetrouble.InsteadIcalledherandtoldhertocomefindme.“You’llknowmebymyblackhat,”Isaid.“Iknowwhatyou look like,Jenny.”She laughedgood-naturedly.“Youdon’t

needahatformetorecognizeyou.”Fuck.Now I’mwonderingwhetherwe’vemet before.Which stories have I

toldher?HaveIoffendedherinthepast?Panic.Plus,shesaiditinawaylike“Duh.Ofcoursewe’ll know each other,” and so I began just staring at everysingle girl in the airportwith a smile and a fake lookof familiarity until theylookedawayawkwardly.That’showyouknowtheyaren’tlookingforastrangerin a hat. Turned out, though, that Susan actuallywas wearing the trench coatfrom her bio picture, but I’d walked right past her because it seemed tooobvious.Then sheyelledout, “JENNY!Where are you going?” I’d failed thefirsttestanditwasn’tevenatrickquestion.

Thehotelwassmall,quaint,andsimple,andwhenwefirstwalkedinweweregreetedbytheowner’sdogfromthehotelad,whohadgottenthehotelFrisbeeinhismouth.Thelogowasperfectlylinedupandeveryonewasall,“OMG,he’sso cute!” but all I could think was, “They totally stapled that Frisbee to histongue so it would stay like that.” Because that’s where my mind goes. Iconsidered putting one of my blog stickers on the Frisbee when the owners

weren’t looking,but those thingsdon’t comeoff easily, and theownerswouldprobably be all, “FUCK. Now we have to staple a new Frisbee to the dog’smouth.”That’snotevenworththepublicity.Mostlybecauseitwasatinyhotelandnotmanypeoplewouldseeit.Andalsobecausestaplingadvertisementstodogs’mouthsiswrong.

I was wearing the jeans Karen had persuaded me to buy, and a 1930s-styleblackhat that I’d hoped screamed, “I’ma bohemianvintage shopper.”Then Irealized that there was an orange Target price tag stuck to the back that said“Now$7.48.”Awesome.PlusIwasveryawarehowfatmykneecapslookedinthesejeans.Ineededtoliedown.Ispentthenexthourmeetinggirlswhoseemedverywarmandfriendly,andI

immediately forgot all of their names and personal stories because I was toobusy reminding myself to not say something offensive. Then I saw EvanyThomas,andIwasfan-girlyandgushybecauseI loveherwriting,andIheardmyselfadmittingthatIhaveatinypaperfigurineofherthatI’dcutouttoputonmydesk.IsuddenlyrealizedthatI’djuststeppedinto“Iwanttowearyourskinforajacket”territory,butshewastotallygraciousaboutit,becauseshe’sjustasweirdasIam.That’sthegoodthingabouthangingoutwithbloggers.Mostofthemarekindoffuckedupinthesamewayyouare.

Fordinnerweateoutofatacotruck.Itwasdelicious,andIturnedtothegirlnexttometointroducemyself.Shesaidhername,butitdidn’tsoundfamiliar,becauseallIhadmemorizedwerepeople’sblognames.

ME:Oh!Iknowyou!Youhavethatgreatdesignblog!

HER:No,that’stheotherAsianwomanhere.Iwriteafashionblog.

ME:Holycrap.Ican’tbelieveIjustdidthat.Iamanenormousracist.

HER:Noworries.Sowhatdoyoudo?

ME: Iwrite ablog about all theways Imortifymyself inpublic.This’ll go in

there.

HER:Iimagineso.

ME:I’dprobablyputthiswholeepisodeonFacebookrightnow,butIcan’tgetreceptionouthere.Also,almostallofmyclothesarefromTarget,andI’mawaremykneeslookfatinthesejeans.IfeellikeIneedtojustadmitthatrightnow.I’msorry;Ican’ttell.Areyoujudgingme?

HER:Well,notonyourclothes.

ME:Ilikeyou.You’rehonest.Wewillbebestfriends.

Shelookeddoubtful.IconsideredtellingherIhavelotsofAsianfriends,butIwasprettysurethatwouldmakeitworse.ThesadtruthisIcouldn’ttellanyofthewhitewomenaparteither.Infact,atthatpointI’dhadwaytoomuchtodrinkandIwasn’tevensurewhoIwas. IdimlyhopedIwasEvanyThomas. I lovethatgirl.

Pajama-party time. Except it was fucking cold, and I don’t own pajamas.Everyonewas inadorablematchingsetswith robes.Ourhostess,Maggie,waswearinga redsilkyrobeoverwhat looked tobeaweddingdress,andshehadfluffy slippers on. She looked like she’d just come from Wardrobe. I waswearing amuumuuwith sweatpants onunderneath, a giantmen’s hoodie, andmyredconfidencewig.I’dstartedwearingawiginsocialsituationsforseveralreasons:(1)Itmakesmefeellikesomeonewhoisn’tterrifiedofpeople,and(2)if I really fuck something up I can excusemyself, pull off the wig, and say,“Whowasthatweirdredheadandwhywasshetalkingaboutdildos?Theyreallyneed to be more cautious about who they let in here.” The wig is a form ofprotection,asortoftalisman,allowingmetopretendthatI’manyoneelsewhoisn’tme.ExceptthatIcan’taffordanexpensivewig,somostlyIjustlooklikeI’mpretendingtobeacancerpatient.I looked at my outfit unhappily in the mirror, but Laura assured me I just

looked like amysterious spy. I stared at her suspiciously. “Or like a homelesswomanwhojustwanderedintoafancycocktailparty?”Shelookedatmeobjectivelyforafewseconds.“Maybealittle,”sheadmitted.

“Butwaymorelikeaspy.”

Ihavegoodfriends.

Alltwentyofussataroundanopenfirepitinourpj’sandnoonewastweeting,or texting, or on the phone.We were all forced to make conversation out ofdesperation,becausecellcoveragewassosporadic there.Surprisingly, itcamenaturally,andnoonelookedpanickedbutme.Theboozehelped.IwhisperedtoLaura that thiswas the closest I’d everbeen to sleepawaycamp, and that thiswas exactly when the serial killer would be deciding whom to pick off. Wedecidedthatthegirlonourleftwouldbethefirstonetobemurdered,becauseshewas frailandadorableand theaudiencewould loveher. Iwouldmissher.Thegirlinthecabinnextdoorwouldbenext,becauseshe’sabuxomhotblonde,butshe’dprobablyaskherroomietohelphershowerupfirst,becauseyouhaveto be naked for the second murder, and that one’s always the most violent.Probablybecauseyoudon’thaveanyclothesontosoakuptheblood.Ifeltsorryforherroommate.Wedecidedthateveryoneelsewouldbemurderedduringthenight,exceptforthequietgirlonourrightwhowasn’tdrinking,andwhowouldeventually avenge us all, andwould be the perfect person to strike down themurderer, because she was pregnant and Mormon and full of brunetteywholesomeness. Then we’d find out that the murderer was Maggie, becauseturnsoutbeingaserialkillerwasonherlifelist.Anditwassponsored.Buttheaudiencewould probably forgive her because she’s adorable, and you have toadmiresomeonewhofollowstheirdreamslikethat.

Threea.m.Icouldn’tsleep.LuckilyIwassharingabedwithLaura,whosleepslike the dead, but I still felt bad for tossing, so I bundled up in ten layers ofclothesandahoodiesoIcouldsitbythepoolandwatchcartoonsonmyphone

without disturbing anyone. Except the woods reminded me of Twilight and Ifoundmyselfworriedaboutvampires.Foura.m.IdecideditwaslateenoughinTexastocallVictor.Hewasgetting

Haileyreadyforschool,butabout tenminutesintothecallIgotattackedbyagiantbear.Exceptnotreally,butitfeltlikeit.BasicallyIwasonthephoneandthisbiganimalwalkedintothepoolareafromtheforest,andIwhispered,“HolySHIT.Whatthefuckisthat?!”andVictorwasall,“Where’sHailey’sbrush?Whydon’t you put things back where they belong?” and I yelled, “THERE IS AFUCKINGWILDANIMALSLUNKINGUPTOME,”andVictorsaid,“Huh?”butIcouldstillhearhimrummagingaroundforabrush.ThenIyelled,“I’MGOINGTOBEEATENBYACOUGAR.Wait,arethere

cougarsinCalifornia?”AndVictorwasall,“Yeah.Ithinkso.Oh!SoInevergotto tell youmy idea for an iPhone app I’mgoing tomake.”Then I consideredcallinghiman asshole, but the animalwas edging closer, and although itwasdarkIcouldseeitdidn’thavea tail,soIwhispered,“Bobcat!I’mgoingtobeattacked by a bobcat. Or a cougar that lost its tail. Probably because it gotgnawedoffbyavampire.Andnowit’savampirecougar.Iamtotallyfucked.”But I said all that in mymind, because I was being quiet so that I wouldn’tattractitsattention.Itlookedup,sawme,andthenslunkoff.Victorwasyelling,“Hello?Dumb-assbythepoolatfoura.m.?Areyoustill

alive?!TALKTOME!”andIshakilysaid,“I’mfine.Itranaway,”butbeforeIcouldstarttalkingaboutmytraumaticexperiencehestartedtalkingaboutiPhoneapps again, and I screamed, “WHY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUTCOMPUTERSWHENICOULDHAVEBEENKILLED?”

VICTOR:You’refine.SodoyouwanttohearaboutmyiPhoneappideaIhad?

ME:No.

VICTOR:Toobad.ImadeaniPhoneappthattellsyouwhencougarsarenearyou.Itdoesn’tworkwhenyou’reonthephone,though.

ME:Ihateyousomuchrightnow.

Sixa.m.:

ME:OHMYGOD,LAURA,WAKEUP.Itotallyjustgotattackedbyacougar!

LAURA:[stillgroggy]What?

ME:Itmighthavebeenabobcat.

LAURA:YOUSAWABOBCAT?

ME:Itwassmall,though,soprobablyababybobcat.

LAURA:[silence]

ME:Itmighthavebeenahousecat.BUTITWASENORMOUS.Andittotallylookedatmeinathreateningway.

LAURA:Diditgrowl?

ME:No.ButIcouldtotallytellitwantedto.

LAURA:Howbigwasit?

ME:BigenoughthatIcouldputitinacardboardboxandcarryitaround,butit’dprobablybeheavy.Like,Icouldfit it inmysuitcasebutjustbarely.Wecouldputitinyourenormoussuitcase,though,anditcouldprobablylivecomfortablyforweeks.

LAURA:I’mgoingtothrowcougarsintheroomifyoudon’tstopmakingfunofmysuitcase.

ME:[tothetenpeopleeatinganearlybreakfastthenextmorning]DidLauratellyouIgotattackedbyabearlastnight?

EVERYONE:WHAT?

LAURA:Shedidnotgetattackedbyabear.

ME:Bear...cougar.Samedifference.

LAURA:Therewasnoattack.She’sfine.

ME:Ithinksomeoneshouldasktheownershowmanycougarstheykeepontheproperty.

LAURA:Ialreadyaskedtheownerswhatitcouldhavebeen,andtheysaidtherearesomeferalcatsaround.

ME:I’mprettysure“feralcats”iscodefor“vampirecougars.”

ME:[toeveryoneelsewhocametobreakfastonehourlater]SolastnightIwasattackedbySasquatch.ItwaslikeasmallerversionoftheLochNessmonster.Butonland.So,yeah.Itwasprettyfuckingterrifying.

No one really responded, but it didn’t surpriseme, because it’s hard to knowwhattosayinthosesituations.It’slikewhensomeonetellsyoutheygotstabbed.There’snot an easy response in that situation.Unless it just happened.Then Isuggest,“Liedownandtelluswhothemurdereris,”becausethatwayit’llsavethehomicidedetectivesalotoftimelater.

ThemorningIfoundoutthatwewereallgoingtowineeducationclassIfeltlikeIwasinsomekindoffinishingschoolandI’dmissedalltheprerequisites.Ourteacherwasanauthorwho’dapparentlybeenontheTodayshowalot.Therewerefivefullglassesofwineinfrontofme,butthewineteachertoldusthatwewere not allowed to drink any of them until after we finished the lesson. Iimaginethisishowdogsfeelwhenyouputabiscuitontheirnoseandtellthemnot to eat it. Except I totally stole sips of the wine when the teacher wasn’tlooking,becauseI’mreallyshittyatbeinganobedientdog.We spent a lot of time learning how to swish the glass ofwine. I’d always

assumedpeopledidthattoseemsnotty,butapparentlythemoreoxygenyougetinyourwine,thebetterittastes,sowhenyouswishit,itspreadsoutallovertheglass and gets more air. I felt sorry for the girl sitting on my right, because

apparentlyI’mabitofanoverachieverwhenitcomestowineswishing,andsoshewas sloshed byme several times.Luckily shewas nonchalant and simplylickedtheexcesswineoffherarm,amovethatIconsideredbothecologicalandclassy.Ourteacherlookeddispleased,sotodistractherIaskedwhypeopledon’tjustservewineonlargedinnerplateswithstrawstosuckitup,andshesmiledatmestiltedlyand toldmeshe’dneverbeenasked thatbefore. Iwaspretty surethatwas code for “I am totally going to steal your brilliant idea.” IwrotemynumberdownonanapkinandtoldherthatifshestartedmarketingwineplatesIwantedacut.Sheagreedbutthenleftquickly.I’llprobablyneverseeanyofthatmoney.

Fivevansofchicks tookofftovisitwineriesforwinetasting.Onlyfourcameback.1

Bymy tenth glass ofwine I started towonderwhether therewas somethingwrongwithmypalate.Everyoneelsewasmarkingthewinelistwithnoteslike“Pleasant finish. Robust spices.” Meanwhile, I was doodling pictures ofvampiriccougars.ThenInoticedpeoplestaringatmydoodles,andsoIstartedwriting notes next to the wine. Things like “Tastes of NyQuil, but in a goodway,”and“Thisonewillgetyouall thewayfuckedup.”“Ican’tfeelmyfeetanymore.” “Did I leave thegaragedooropen? Iwonderwhether the cat is onfire. I should probably stop drinking now.” Everyone else there had asophisticatedpalate.Ihadonethatneededtherapy,andpossiblyanintervention.

Thelastwinery lookedtotallyhaunted,andtheducksoutsideremindedmetobe on the lookout for hungry-looking homeless people, but I was quicklydistractedwhentheserversbroughtoutcheese.Iwhisperedtothegirlnexttomethat I was very excited about having my first cheese tasting because I lovecheese.Especiallycheddar. I likeall the flavorsofcheddar.Sharp,verysharp,smokysharp.I’mkindofaconnoisseur.Butthenwhenthecheesecameitwasall unrecognizable and THERE WAS NO CHEDDAR AT ALL. I was all,“WHATKINDOFAFUCKINGCHEESEPLATEISTHIS?”butIjustsaiditinmymind (orpossiblyonlywithmy indoorvoice,because Iwas tipsybut stilltryingtobeaprofessional).Theserversexplainedthattheywereabunchof“artcheeses”thathadwoncontests,andtruthfullytheywereprettydelishexceptforoneofmypieces,whichhadaBand-Aidinit.SoIsaid,“ThereisaBand-Aidon

my cheese,” and theAsian girl I’d offended earlier bent forward andwas all,“No.That’sbandage-wrappedblah-blah-French-something-blah,”andIthankedher,butIateonlytheendfarthestfromtheBand-Aidjustincaseshewasstilltryingtogetevenwithmeforbeingunintentionallyracist.Anhourlater,though,webondedwhenwegotlostinalabyrinthofwinecasksinadesperatesearchforthebathroom,andsheassuredmethatshewasnottryingtomakemeeataBand-Aid.Thedesperateneedtogetridofyoururineisthegreatequalizer.

There was apparently some sort of yellow-jacket infestation at one of thewineries,becausetheywereeverywhere.Theguywhopouredtheboozejokedthat the color of that particular wine came from all of the ground-up yellowjackets that fell into the casks. I peered into my glass suspiciously, and helaughedandexplainedthathewasjustkidding,butthatyellowjacketsreallydolikethewine,sotheremightbesomeinthere.Istilldrankit.“Nobiggie,”Isaidcasually,“butI’mdeathlyallergictoyellowjackets,soI’mprobablygoingtodiehere.”Therestofthetablewasall,“Really?”andIwaslike,“No,notreally.Butwouldn’tthatbeagreatwaytodie?”Everyoneatthetablewassilent,probablybecausetheywerebusythinkingthatyeah,thattotallywouldbeagreatwaytodie.

Eightp.m. Iwassupposed tobedownstairseatingbarbecue,but Iwason theverge of an anxiety attack, so I bowedout, and everyonewas very sweet andunderstanding. That’s the great thing about hanging out with bloggers. Theyalreadyknowthatyou’rebroken,andmostofthemare,too,sotheyjustnodandmake you go take Xanax and go to bed. They’re very supportive. Also theyprobablywantedmetoleavesotheycouldtalkaboutme.Laura dropped off a plate of barbecue and somewater, and pattedmy head

reassuringlywhenItoldherhowbadIfeltthatIwasn’tdownthere.“It’sfine,Ipromise.Everyonetotallyunderstands.”Shewalkedoutthedoorbutthenturnedbackquicklytosaydrily,“Butyouaregettingkickedoffcheersquad.”Ilovemyfriends.

Foura.m.IwokeupandfoundthatLaurawasmissing.Ilookedoutsideforherbut I couldn’t see her. I vaguelywonderedwhether Imight have accidentallymurdered her inmy drug-induced state.“Probably not, though,” I thought tomyself.“Not enough blood around. Unless the blood is in the bathroom.” I

decidedtolooklater.

Eighta.m.LAURAWASNOTDEAD!Shehadfallenasleepsomewhereelse,andcamebackbecauseshewasworriedthatI’dthinkshe’dgottenkidnapped.

ME:No,IthoughtI’dmurderedyouandthenblockeditout.

LAURA:Youthoughtyou’dmurderedme?

ME:Just forasecond,but therewasn’tenoughblood.But theshowerheadwasaskew,soIthoughtmaybeI’djustwashedoffallthebloodintheshower.Butitdidn’tseemlikeme.I’mterribleatcleaningupaftermyself.

LAURA:Well,it’snicetoknowthatI’dbethefirstpersonyou’dwanttokill.

ME:Noway. Iadoreyou.You’re the lastpersonI’dwant tokill.That’swhyIfigured I’d blocked it out. I figured I’d recover all thosememories laterwiththerapy, and then also I’d suddenly remember being abducted and probed byaliens. Which would suck. I’m glad you’re not dead, though, because I’malreadyfuckedupenoughwithoutrememberinganinvoluntaryprobing.

LAURA:AndIguess thatwhole“murderingyourbest friend” thingwouldbeadownertoo,Isuppose.

ME:Thattoo.Mostlytheprobing,though.

Tena.m.:Yogaintherain.Wewerealldoingthedownward-dogpositionandallIcouldthinkwas,“For

theloveofChrist,justdon’tletmefart.”I’dbeguntopraytothebabyJesustodelivermefromaccidentallypassinggas,andthensomeoneelsefarted.Itwasn’tme, but all I could thinkwas that I felt total empathy for her, and also that Ireally wanted to say, “That was totally not me,” but it probably wouldn’t beappropriate,sincewewereallsupposedtobemeditating.

IworkedupenoughcouragetotalktoMaggieandthankedherforinvitingme,and then foundmyself telling her that I’d decided that if anyone therewas amassmurdereritwasshe.Shewassilent,andIpointedoutthatImeantthatinagoodway,becauseshewasthemostorganized.ThensheaskedthecookforacleaverandIgotabitnervous,butturnsoutitwasbecauseshethoughtitwasbrilliantandwantedtoactoutamurderscene.Andsowedid....

Anditwasawesome.

The final morning we all sat around by the pool, wrapped in blankets withmussedhairandnomakeup,andI listenedto theconversationsaroundmethesamewayIhadinhighschool,butinsteadoftryingtoblockthemoutorsneerattheminternally,Ismiledandnodded.Iforcedmyselftojoininandlistentoallthe conversations goingon aroundme, rather thanhidemyhead in a book toavoid rejection.And I realized just howawesomegirl conversations couldbe.Randomsnippetsofoverheardconversations:

“I’ve never said this to anyone before, but sometimes I thinkmybaby is a real asshole. Is thatnormal?”“Oh,yeah.Mybabyisatotaldicksometimes.”

“Youknowwhenyou’reinNepalandtherearealltheseJapanesepeoplearoundandit’stwoa.m.andyou’reinabasementandyou’retryingtofindbreakfastandsuddenlyamagicianshowsup?”“Oh,Iknowexactlywhatyou’retalkingabout.”

“Mydadhadangerproblems,sohisdoctorrecommendedhegotomimeschooltolearnhowto

dealquietlywithhisemotions.Itwasn’tuntilIgrewupthatIrealizedthateveryonedoesn’thavethismemoryoftakingmimeclasseswiththeirangrydad.”“Idon’tlikemimes.Idon’tlikethefactthattheyfakeadisability.”“Right?Whystopatmimickingthemute?Wherearetheclownspretendingtohavepolio?”

“IoncesleptwiththisguywhohadanENORMOUSpenis.Like,itwasaproblem.Thecondomswouldn’tevenfit.IwassooverwhelmedthatIaccidentallylaughedatit.Thenitshrunk.Hewasnotpleased.”“Thatshouldbeacomicbook.Penisgiganticusishissuperpower,andwomenlaughingatitishis

kryptonite.”

“Doyouevergetonthesubwayandthink,‘Whoisthatguyintheback?Helooksfamiliar.DidIsleepwithhim?’Thathappenstomeallthetime.”“No.That’sneverhappenedtome.Whore.Butithashappenedtomeonthebusalot.”

Thefinalhour:Aswealldraggedourluggageouttothewaitingvans,Ilookedwithasurprisingamount of affection on these women who only days ago I would haveimmediatelydismissedasbeingsnobbyormean,butwhoallturnedouttohavebackstoriesandstrugglesjustasdamagedorbizarreasmyown.Sure,Iwastheonlypersontherewithjustonesmallcarry-onandasinglepairofshoes.ButIwas embarrassed to realize that those things that setme apart fromother girlshad turned from what I’d considered “self-proclaimed badges of honor” intodefensiveshieldsthatIhadusedtokeepothersout.I’dusedthosesameshieldsto judge and dismiss peoplewho I suspected hadmore thanme, in the exactsamewaythatI’dbeenjudgedforhavinglessasakid.Itossedmysmallbaginthevanandwentbacktohelpmynewfoundfriends

withtheirenormousluggagesetsandhanginggarmentbags,andtheysmiledinappreciation,shockedthat I’dmanagedtopackforsucha long tripusingonlyonesmallbag.Ismiledbackinsilenceandfeltalittleguiltyattheirpraise.Theymay have all had suitcases three times as big asmine, but I realized that theemotionalbaggageI’dbroughtwithmewasbigenoughtoputtheirstoshame.Itwasalittlelighter,though,nowthatIwasleaving.Iwasleavingbehindmyassumptionsthatonlysnobby,richpeoplelikedwine,

and that everyone would immediately break into cliques based on who hadowned the rightkindofunderwear.Andmost important, Iwas leavingbehindtheideaI’dbeencarryingaroundforyearsthatgirlswerenottobetrusted.Yes,somegirlscouldbecompletedouche-canoes,butsocouldsomeguys(andevensomebabies,apparently),andIwasslowlylosingaprejudicethatIhadn’tevenrealizedwasholdingmeback.Girlswerefineand(untilproventobeassholes

on an individual basis) were worthy of my trust. Women were great andrelativelyharmless.It’sthefoura.m.vampirecougarsinthewoodsyoureallyneedtobeworried

about.

1.Really,allfivecameback,butthiswaysoundsmoredramatic.

IAmtheWizardofOzofHousewives(InThatIAmBoth“GreatandTerrible”andBecauseISometimesHideBehind

theCurtains)

VictorandIhaveverydifferentdefinitionsofwhatconstitutesacleanhouse.Victor’sdefinitioninvolvesabsolutelyeverythingperfectlyinitsplace(except

for the eight thousand wires and extension cords sticking out from everyelectronicdeviceinourhouse,whichareallapparentlyinvisibletohim).Italsoincludesallofthishappeningmagically,withouthisactuallyeverbeinginvolvedin thecleaningatall (except for theone timewhen I ran into the living roombecauseIthoughtIheardhimdoingwhip-its,1butturnsouthewasjustsprayingfurniture polish. It’s amazing how alike the sound of canned whipped creamsquirteddirectlyintothemouthandlemon-scentedPledgecanbe.I’dfeltguiltyforasecondthatVictorwasactuallycleaningwithoutme,butthenIrealizedthathewasjustpolishingthegearshiftofhiscarandIwentbacktowatchingzombiemovies).My definition of a clean house ismuch simpler. I’m finewith the clutter of

mail and magazines and toys lying around as long as it’s clean and sanitaryunderneath the clutter.As far as I’m concerned, a house should look lived-in,andIconsideritcleanaslongasIdon’tsticktoitanditdoesn’tgivemecholera.IcanignorethepilesofclothesontheguestroombedbecauseIknowthey’reallstraightfromthedryerandjustwaitingtobefolded.Victor,ontheotherhand,willglareatthegrowingpileandhuffloudlyoverandoveruntilIfinallybreakdown and ask himwhy he sounds like he’s deflating.We look into the sameguest bedroom and see two entirely different things. Victor sees a dangerousvolcano eruptingwith clothes that Imust be intentionally refusing to hang upbecause I’m lazy and am purposely trying to make him have a nervousbreakdown.Iseeitasapersonalachievement...aphysicalmanifestationofallthelaundryI’vedoneoverthelastfewmonths.It’slikeastrangetrophymadeofclothesthatI’veforgottenIevenowned.Victorsaysit’slikeacrazypersonlives

inourhouseandissculptingMountVesuviusoutofthesweatersthatneedtobeinstorage.This iswhen I remindhimexactlywhydoorswere invented,and Iclosetheguestbedroomdoor.“See?”Isay.“Problemsolved.”“Youcan’tfixaproblembyjustnotusingroomsinthehouse,”heargues,and

Ipointouthowridiculoushe’sbeing,asIusethatroomallthedamntime.Iuseit as agiantdrawer for clothes thatneed tobehungup.Andalso to storemyellipticaltrainer.VictorthenpointsoutthatI’mnolongerevenusingthetrainer“for its intendedpurposes,” and I calmly explain that he’swrong, because I’dbought ityearsago intending toworkoutwith ituntil Igotboredwith it,andthentoeventuallyuseitasaframetoair-dryourfreshlywashedcomfortersandcoverlets.IfanythingIshouldbegettingpointsforbeingsofarsighted,andalsofornot shrinkingallofourcomforters in thedryer. If itwere leftup toVictorwe’dallbesleepingoncomfortersthesizeofhankies.I’mnotevensurewhyIevenhavetoexplainthis.Victorsayshe’snotsureeither,butIsuspectwe’renottalkingaboutthesamething.Thisexactconversationwasstillrunningthroughmymindthismorningwhen

Iwascleaningupthehouse.I’dloadedandturnedonthedishwasher,butafewminutes later I noticed that the laundry detergent container was out on thecounternexttothedishwasher,eventhoughIhadn’tdonelaundryindays.IfeltalittlesicktomystomachasIthought,“Fuck.DidIjustputlaundrydetergentinthedishwasher?”And this is when I kind of panicked, because last year I’d accidentally put

hand soap in the dishwasher, and when I came back the entire house hadexploded in foam. It looked like one of those foam parties that teens have atraves,exceptnotasawesome,becauseVictorwaspissedandIdidn’townanycool technomusic orEcstasy. It had been a nightmare to clean up, and IwasterrifiedthatI’djustdoneitagain,soIprayedthatVictorwouldjuststayinthebedroom and I logged on toTwitter. (For those of youwho don’t knowwhatTwitteris,it’slikeFacebookexcepteasier,andyoucanuseittotellpeoplewhatyourcatisdoingandalsotoaskforadvice.It’slikeaccessingthehivemindanditisbothgreatandhorrible.)IloggedontoTwitterandwrote,“Hypotheticallyspeaking,ifIaccidentallyputlaundrydetergentinthedishwasherwillthatmakemydishwasherexplode?Ikindofneedtoknowassoonaspossible.”Halfofthepeople respondingwereall, “Oh,you’llbe fine,dumb-ass,”and theotherhalfwerelike,“THECALLISCOMINGFROMINSIDETHEHOUSE.GETOUTNOW.”Oneguywrote,“Actually,it’llhelpremovethebloodstains,”whichjustmademewonderwhatheuseshisdishwasherfor.ButIwasstillworried,soIwrapped a comforter around the dishwasher in case it started to leak, becausecomfortersarealotlikegiantmaxipads.Ifeltprettyproudofmyingenuity.This

pridelastedforabouttenseconds,untilVictorwalkedinandsaid,“Whyinthehellisthereacomforterwrappedaroundthedishwasher?”andIdidn’twanttoexplain it, because he still hasn’t stopped talking about the last time I set theoven on fire, and that was years ago, people. Like, let’s live in the presentalready,right?ButthenIrememberthatinthepresentImayhavejustdestroyedourdishwasherbydumpingabunchofTideintoit.Iwasn’treadytoadmitthatyet,though,becauseitwasstillvaguelypossiblethatI’dusedtherightsoapallalong,soinsteadIjusttoldVictorthatthedishwasherwascold,andhewasall,“What.The.Fuck?”

ApictureofthedishwasherbeingcomfortedthatItooktoshoweveryoneonTwitter.Pleasenotehowniceandunshrunkenthecomforterlooks.That’sallme,people.

“Well,”Iexplained,“ithastoheatuptowashthedishesproperly,right?AndIfigureditwouldhelpsaveenergyifIinsulateditsoitcouldgethotfaster.Andthen our dishes would be cleaner. I’m always thinking.” Victor stared at meunblinkingly,withhisarmscrossed,andafterabout tenseconds Icrackedandadmitted that Imay have used laundry detergent in the dishwasher, because Icouldn’tthinkofwhyelsetheTidewouldbeout.Thenhesighedandshookhisheadatme.“You’dmakeaterriblesecretagent.Honestly,youaretheworstliarever.Butnoworries,becauseIputthelaundrydetergentoutonthecounterafteryoustartedthedishwasherjusttoremindmyselftobuymore.”“SOTHISISALLYOURFAULT,”Ishouted,andVictorsaid,“What?Howis

thispossiblymy fault?”ButIyelled,“J’ACCUSE!”andstormedoffbeforehecould say anything else, because it’s a refreshing change when Victor fuckssomethingupforonce,andIwantedtogoandappreciatethemoment.I’d venture that Victor and I fight about the state of the house more than

anythingelse,whichisreallysayingsomething,becauseVictorandIhavehadweeklongargumentsaboutwhetherFrankenBerryisagirl(he’snot)andwhich

one of theChipmunks ismost likely to die first (it’sAlvin, probably from anoverdose).Butarguingaboutthehouseisthemostcommonone.Infact,hereisa typicalargumentVictorandIhadsoonafter Idecided toquitmy job inHRandtrytobeafull-timewriter:

VICTOR:Thishouseisafuckingwreck.

ME:Thishouseisa“creativehaven.”

VICTOR:No.It’sjustawreck.

ME:Well,Idon’tknowwhyyou’retellingmeabout it. It’snotmy jobtocleanthehouse.

VICTOR:Yeah, actually, it is.Remember?Youweregoing toquit your job andworkonyourbook?Andcleanthehouse.Anddotheerrands.Thatwasthedeal,remember?

ME:Notreally.Thatdoesn’tsoundlikeadealI’dmake.

VICTOR:“I’mgoingtobethebesthousewifeEVER.I’lljustwriteandcleanandcook.”Soundfamiliar?

ME:Fuzzy.IwasprobablydrunkwhenIsaidallthat.

VICTOR:“FREEBLOWJOBSFOREVERYBODY!”

ME:Oh.Thatdoes sound like something I’d say.Areyoumadabout theblowjobs?

VICTOR:No. I’mmad about the fact that we bothwork at home and that thishomeisafuckingwreck.

ME:It’snotthatbad.You’reoverreactingbecauseyou’rekindofananalfreak.

VICTOR:YouareusingaFrisbeeasaplate.

ME:What?I’mnotusinga—Oh,hangon,thisisaFrisbee.Weird.

VICTOR:[glare]

ME:Dude,calmdown.I’llwashitafterward.It’sprobablydishwasher-safe.

VICTOR:It’snotaboutwhethertheFrisbeeisdishwasher-safe.It’saboutthefactthatyou’reusingafuckingFrisbeetoeatonbecausetherearenocleanplates.

ME:Therearetotallycleanplates.Ijustsawthisonthecounterandgrabbedit.Technically it’s a kick-ass plate. It even has a lip on it so you don’t spillanything.

VICTOR:Howdoesthisnotbotheryou?!

ME:ITTOTALLYBOTHERSME.Ican’tbelieveIeveragreedtocleanthehousein exchange for quittingmy job. I can’t believe you’d even think that wouldwork.Ifanythingyoushouldhaveknownbetterwhenyoumadethatdeal.Thisisallsortofyourfault.

VICTOR:I’mgoingtostrangleyou.

ME: And I’m going to replace all our plates with Frisbees. Because I’m amotherfuckin’visionary.

VICTOR:I’mbeingtotallyserioushere.

ME:SOAMI.THESEFRISBEEPLATESAREAWESOME.Besides, Idon’thavetimetoclean,becauseI’mbusydoingimportantsocialmediastuff.

VICTOR:Really.Sowhatdidyouaccomplishtoday?

ME:Alot.Socialmediamaven...stuff.

VICTOR:No.Whatexactlydidyoudotoday?Quantifyitforme.

ME:It’snotquantifiable.Therearen’tevenmetricsfortheshitIdo.

VICTOR:Try.

ME:Um...IdrewthiscartoonaboutHitler?

VICTOR:That’s...notevenremotelyfunny.

ME:Dude,it’stotallyfunny.Youknow?Becausepeoplealwayssay,“Theyonlyhatemebecausethey’rejealous.”Butthenit’sHitler,andeveryonereallydoeshatehimandisn’tjealousatall?

VICTOR:Notfunny.

ME:IthinkIjustneeddrawinglessons.Ittookme,like,twohoursjusttoworkout how toput a scarf on a stick figure.And that’swhy I didn’t have time toclean all the soup I spilled in the microwave. By the way, don’t look in themicrowave.

VICTOR:I’mgoingtoliedownuntiltheurgetokillyoupasses.

Thenheleftandnevercameback.AndIhadtocleanthemicrowave,becauseI’m theresponsibleoneinthisrelationship,andalsobecauseitstartedtosmelllikeclamchowdereveninthebathrooms.Thisiswhyitsuckstobeme.Also,I’mprettysurethatmyhusbandisanti-Semitic.P.S.VictorsaysthatnotlaughingatajokemakingfunofHitlerdoesn’tmake

youanti-Semitic, but I’mpretty sure that’s exactlywhat an anti-Semitewouldsay. They have terrible senses of humor. He also says this is a conversationabout“whyIcan’tactlikeagrown-up,”butI’mprettysureit’sreallyaboutwhyhelovesHitlersodamnmuch.P.P.S. I justwant topointout that Iactuallyam a fairlygoodhousewifeand

thattheonlyreasonthatIsettheovenonfireinthefirstplacewasbecausewewere trying tosellourhouseandI’dread thatyoushouldbakecookiesbeforethe open house because itmakes your house smell homier. So I threwone ofthosefrozencookielogsonaplateandputitintheoven,andthentenminuteslater therewas a terrible smell and I raced to the oven to find out that if youdon’t cut thosecookie logs intocookie shapes theyexplodeallover theplate.Andalso thatwhenpeople installanoven theyput thepaperwork insideof it,becauseapparentlytheywantyoutodiepainfullywhenyoucatchthehouseonfire from the burning instructions you just tried to bake. Also, they put theinstructionsinaplasticsheet,whichsmellsterriblewhenitmelts,anditmakesitveryhardtosellahousewhenyouhavetotellprospectivebuyersthattheovenwasusedonlyoncebutthatitwasusedtocookabunchofplasticandthat’swhyitsmellsso terribleat theopenhouse.Also,Victorwassurprisinglycriticalofthewholeevent,consideringthatIwasonlytryingtohelp,andhetoldmethatourinsurancecompanywasmakingusinstallahalonfireextinguishersysteminthe newhouse unless I promised to avoid the kitchen from then on. I did notthinkthatwasfunnyatallandwasreallypissedoff,untilthenextday,whenItriedtoheatuptheovenagaininanattempttoscrapeoffallthemeltedplasticstillinthere,andIaccidentallyshutateatowelintheovenandcaughtitallonfireagain.I’mreallygladwesoldthathouse,because,honestly,thatovenwasagoddamndeathtrap.P.P.P.S.InmydefenseIjustwanttopointoutthatIcanactuallycookameal,

althoughpossiblynotamealbyanyoneelse’sstandarddefinition.Forinstance,IhaveneverinmylifeintentionallymadeadinnersaladformyfamilyandIdon’tintendto.Usingthatmanyingredientsandutensils toprepareadishthat’s justservedrawanywayseems likeawaste,and I’veneverseena family lookatasalad as anything other than something you have to survive and drench indressingjusttofinishsothatyoucangetonto“therealfood.”I’mnotfallingfor it. Instead I jump straight to the real food. I recently made microwavemacaroniandcheese,andwhenmyfamilydidn’tseemproperlyappreciative,Ipointedoutthatithadtakenmeahalf-hourtomakeit.Victorrefusedtobelieveit until he opened the trash can and found ten single-serving just-add-watermacaronicups.Hestaredatmeindisbelief,asIpattedmyselfonthebackfortakingouttheothertrashsackfromearlier,whichhadincludedanadditionalten

single-servingmacaronidishes,whichhad sortof fused together into a single,meltypile.Apparently if youwant to cook tenplastic servingbowls for threeminuteseachyoushouldn’tjustshovethemallinthemicrowavealltogetherforthirtyminutesandthenleavetotakeashower.Thisismyadvicetoyou,andissomethingJuliaChildnevercovered.P.P.P.P.S.Also,ifyoutrytomakeashrimpboilbutthebagofspicesburstsand

soyoujust tossitall inalongwithwhateverspicesyoucanfindinthepantry,youcanmakehomemadepepperspray.Unintentionally.Andeveryoneatyourdinner partywill run outside for the next hour, coughing and tearing up as ifthey’vebeenMaced.Becausetechnicallytheykindofhavebeen.BecausemacewasoneofthespicesIfoundinthepantry.IblamewhoevermakesspiceoutofMace,andIremindedmygaspingdinnergueststhatevenifIdidMacethem,Ididitinanold-fashioned,homemade,MarthaStewartsortofway.Withlove.

1. After I read this chapter to my editor she pointed out that I’ve been using the phrase “whip-its”incorrectlyformyentirelife,asitreallyreferstogettinghighfromnitrousoxideandcantotallykillyou.Which explains why people look atme so strangelywhen I tell them that some ofmymost cherishedchildhoodmemoriesincludedoingwhip-itswithmygrandmother.Myeditorconsoledmewiththefactthatmaybepeople thoughtIwas talkingabout thedog(whippet),but thenadmitted thatdidn’tmakeitmuchbetter.

ThePsychopathontheOtherSideoftheBathroomDoor

A few weeks ago my friend Lotta told me that her doctor told her that herantidepressantsweren’tworkingbecauseshehad toomany toxins inherbody,and that she needed to use a “colon cleanse” to flush everything out of hersystem.ItsoundedcompletelyinsaneandItoldherthat,butthenshementionedthatwhenshetookthecoloncleanseshelostthreepoundsthatveryday—Iwasimmediatelyin.IconvincedmyselfthatIowedittomyfamilytohavemycrazypillsworkproperly,butreallyIjustwantedtolosethreepoundswithoutworkingout.AndthatwholelastsentencekindofproveswhyIneedtobeoncrazypills.Awesome.So I went to the grocery store but I couldn’t find the colon cleanse. I

considered asking the pharmacist, but as I was waiting in line I had aconversationinmyheadthatwentlikethis:

ME:Yes,I’dlikesomecoloncleanse.

PHARMACIST:I’veneverheardofthat.Soundslikesomethingdeviantsuse.

ME: It’s something that cleans out your colon so your antidepressants workbetter.

PHARMACIST: I thinkyou’reusingyourantidepressantswrong.Theygoinyourmouth.

ME:Youaresurprisinglyunhelpfulforahealthcareworker.

PHARMACIST:I’mcallingthepolice,deviant.

I’mnotsurewhyIjumpedrighttothepharmacistcallingthepolice,butoncethethoughtwasinmyheaditwasstuckthere,andsoIpanickedalittlewhenthe

pharmacistaskedwhatIneeded.Ipausedawkwardlyandthenaskedwherethereadingglasseswere,andthenhesaidtheydidn’tcarryreadingglasses,whichisweirdbecausemostpharmaciesdo,andIalwaysliketotrythemonandpretendthatI’manaughty librarian.Soinsteadof thecoloncleanseIdecidedIwouldjusttakeabunchofex-lax,becauseIfigured,next-bestthing,right?Iboughttheextra-strength stuff because it was the same price as regular strength, and sotechnically itwas like Iwas savingmoney, and I thought thatwouldhelpmyargumentwhenVictordemandedtoknowwhyIboughttwentydollars’worthof“unnecessary” laxatives (although it turnsouthedidn’t really care about cost-effectivenessbecausehehatesbeingeconomicallyfeasible,orwantsmetobefatorsomething).Ialreadyknewhe’dbealljudgyaboutthewholething,becausehe was also very unsupportive when I wanted to buy those Chinese foot-padthingsthatsuckallthetoxinsoutofyourfeetwhileyousleep.HeclaimedthewholeChinesefoot-padthingwasascam,butIthinkit’sjustbecausehewantsmetosuffer,ormaybethathe’sracist.ThenwhenIcalledhimracisthegotallmad and screamy, and I was like, “I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT I’MSAYING!THOSEARETHETOXINSTALKING,”buthestillwouldn’tletmebuythem.AndthisisexactlywhyIwaiteduntiltheweekheleftforabusinesstriptoNewYorktoactuallydothecleanse.I took twochocolate squaresof ex-lax thatnight, but then Inoticed that the

directionssaiditwouldbring“gentleresults,”anditseemedlikeagoodcoloncleansingshouldn’tbe“gentle”atall,soItookthreemoretabs.AndtheywerechocolatyanddeliciousandIwaskindofhungry,soIateanotherone.Andthennothinghappenedatall.SothennextmorningItooktwomore(becauseatthispointIthoughtmaybetherewassomethingwrongwithme,andthatIhadsomekind of freakishly high laxative tolerance), and then I went to Starbucks andpicked up a giant Frappuccino. This might have been a mistake, becauseapparentlycoffeeiskindofalaxativetoo,althoughsadlyIwasn’tthinkingaboutthatat the time,becauseIwas toobusythinkingabout thephoneconversationI’dhadwithVictorlastweekaboutFrappuccinoswhenhecalledmeatwork:

[Ring]

ME:ThisisJenny.

VICTOR:Sowhydon’ttheymakechocolateSlurpees?

ME:Um...what?

VICTOR:ChocolateSlurpees.Whydon’ttheyexist?

ME:Theydo.They’recalledmochaFrappuccinos.

VICTOR:Nope.Notthesamething.Frappuccinosdon’thavethatlittlespoonontheendofthestrawlikeSlurpeesdo.

ME:ThoseareIcees.NotSlurpees.

VICTOR:NexttimeIgointoStarbucksI’mgoingtobeall,“Iwantaspoononmystraw,a-hole!”Howelseareyougonnagetthatlittlelastbitinthebottom,huh?Spoonstraw!

ME:?

VICTOR:Theyneedtojoinforces,7-ElevenandStarbucks.

ME:Mochaslurpeeccino?

VICTOR:Ormaybeaslurpeemacchiato.Now,thatwouldbeanunholyunion.

ME:Sodidyouactuallyneedsomethingfrommeor...?

VICTOR:Doo-doo,wa-wa.

ME:Huh.Whatwasthat?

VICTOR:That’smyAntichristmusic.

Pleasenotethathedoesn’tevenstarttheconversationwitha“Hello,”whichiskindofmoreupsetting tome than theAntichrist stuff, becauseagreeting is abasicbuildingblockofpolitesociety,andisoneoftheonlythingsthatseparatesusfrombears.

SoIdrovebacktomyhome,drinkingmyFrappuccinoandmakingamentalnotethatIshouldletallofVictor’scallsgothroughtomyvoicemail,andthenmy intestines exploded. Imean, they didn’t literally explode, but it totally feltthatway.Andat first Iwasall,“Okay,pain isgood, feel theburn,”but thenIrealized that this was not like yoga and that I had, in fact, made a horrible,horriblemistake.I’mnotgoingtogetgraphic,butitbasicallyfeltlikemylegsmeltedandanelephantcrawledinsidemystomachandwasclawinghiswayout.Andtheelephanthadclaws,apparently.Andhisnosewasmadeofsnakes.SinceVictorwas inNewYork,andHaileywas inschool, Ihad thehouse to

myself, which was good, because honestly there would have been no way tomaintain the sensual mystery of womanhood if anyone had heard the noisescomingfromthatbathroom.AtacertainpointIstartedworryingthatImightbeOD’ing. Iwasn’t surewhatOD’ing on laxatives looked like, but Iwas fairlycertainitwouldbemessyandthatyou’dprobablyshitoutyourentirecolon.I’mnotsureifthisisactuallymedicallypossible,andIthoughtaboutcallingLottatoaskherwhethershefeltlikeshewasshittingouthercolonwhenshewasdoinghercleanse,but Iwasn’tsureIcould talkwithoutscreaming,andalsoIdidn’thaveherphonenumber.AndsoIsatthere,thinkingthatthiswouldbeahorribleway to die, because basically no matter what I’d accomplished in my life itwouldalwaysbeovershadowedby“Andshediedonthetoiletfrompoopingoutherownlowerintestine.”Like,ifithadhappenedtoThomasEdisonthatwouldtotally be the very first thing it would say in hisWikipedia entry. It’d be all,“ThomasEdison,whopoopedouthisowncolon,madeavarietyof inventionsandchangedthewaywelive today.Didwementionhepoopedouthiscolon?Becausehetotallydid.ThomasEdisonpoopedouthiscolon.Honestly,wecan’tstressthisenough.”ItwasaboutthistimethatIdecidedIneededtotakeaction,soIfoundsome

Pepto-Bismolandtookafulldose.Iconsideredtakingmore,butatthispointIwasconcernedthatImighthavetocall911forhelpandIdidn’twanttohavetoexplain why I’d taken three times the recommended amount of laxatives andthreetimestherecommendedamountofantidiarrheamedicine,becauseeventome that sounded like somesortofpoorlyplanned suicideattempt.Taking justone dose of the antidiarrheal seemed somewhat rational, comparatively.“Surely,”Ithought,“thiswillmakemeseemmuchmorecredibleandlesslikelytobeputonsuicidewatch.”Of course, thePepto-Bismolwas nomatch for the rawpower of the ex-lax,

andwasmuchlikewearingshinguardsinthemiddleofatornado,exceptevenlesseffective,becauseatleastwithshinguards,whentheyfoundyourbodylateryou could still wear a skirt in your coffin (unless your legs got ripped off

entirely,whichcouldtotallyhappen).ButthePepto-Bismoldidn’tdoanythingatallexceptturnmytongueblack.Itcrossedmymindthatmaybeeatingabunchofcheesemighthelp,becauseI

oncewenttoschoolwithagirlwhoatetoomuchcheeseandgotsoconstipatedthatshehadtogotothehospitaltogetthepoopremovedbyadoctor.AndafterIheardthatIcouldneverreallylookatherthesameway,andIoftenwonderedwhethershegottokeepthepooptheyremoved,likewhenyougettokeepyourtonsils.AndthenIrememberedthatIdidn’thaveanycheeseinthehouse,andthat even if I did, it wouldn’tmatter, because I couldn’t leave the toilet longenoughtogetit.Andthat’swhenIheardthenoiseatthebathroomdoor.Itsoundedlikesomeoneleaningagainstthedoorandtappingitlightlywithhis

knuckles,andIwasall,“Oh,myGod,Ididn’tlockthebathroomdoor,”andthenIthought,“Wait,whywouldIevenneedtolockthedoor,sinceI’mtheonlyonehome?”My initial thoughtwas that it was amurderer or a rapist, whichwasquickly followedupby the thought that if itwas a rapist, hewas going to beterriblydisappointed.AndthenIthoughthowitwaskindofweirdthatI’devenshut the bathroom door in the first place, since Iwas alone, but technically Ithink you should never leave the door open when you go to the bathroom,becausethat’showsocietybreaksdown.ThenIheardthepossiblerapistagain,andso Icoughed,because I thought itmightbeaburglarwhodidn’t realize Iwashome. Ihoped that thecoughingwouldgivehimahint thatheneeded toleave, although technically the other noises coming from the bathroom wereprobablymuchmore intimidating thancoughing,but Iwas trying tobepolite,becauseI’malady.Andthensomeoneslidanoteunderthedoor.AndIjuststaredatit,becauseseriously...whatthefuck?Itwassobaffling

that I couldn’t evenget scared. I tried to slidemy foot over to reach the note(whichwasasmall,whiteslipofpaper),butIcouldn’treachit,soIjustyelledweakly,“Hello?Did...didyoujustpassmeanote?”butnooneanswered,andthenIstarted togetfreakedout,andIsilently thankedGodthatI’d thought tobring the phone into the bathroom just in case I needed to call to report thelaxativeoverdose.Ipickedupthephonetocallthepolice,butthenIconsideredhow it would sound when I told them that I was calling from inside mybathroom,whereI’dOD’edonlaxatives,andthatapossiblerapistwasquietlypassingmenotesunderthebathroomdoor.AndthenIthoughtthatitwouldbereallyweirdifthenotesaidsomethinglike“Doyoulikeme?Circleyesorno,”and I probablywould have laughed if itweren’t for the laxative/rapist combobearingdownonme.Thenanothernotecameslowlypeekingoutfromunderthedoor, and I realized itwasn’t a note at all. Itwas actually thewrapper froma

Band-Aid,andthat’swhenIrealizedIwasprobablydealingwithapsychopath,because why would anyone pass me a Band-Aid wrapper unless they werecompletelyinsane?So I yelled, “I’M CALLING THE POLICE! AND I HAVE DIARRHEA!

From . . . AIDS!” because I thought that would discourage a rapist. I wasn’treally sure whether AIDS caused diarrhea, but I figured it probably did. Andthenitgotreallyquiet,andsuddenlytheBand-AidwrapperwasviolentlypulledbackoutfromunderthedoorandIwasall,“Whatthehell?”Thenitshotbackintothebathroomagain,butthistimeIcouldseethatitwasbeingpushedunderthedoorbya fuckingcatpaw, and that’swhen I realized thecathadknockedovermypurse andwas just shoving receipts andassortedpurse flotsamunderthedoor.ThenImurderedmycat,butonlyinmymind.ItoccurredtomethatIshouldwriteallthisdown,butIdidn’thaveanythingto

writeon,exceptforthepaperthecathadpushedunderthedoor,andsoIyelled,“Posey,pushthepaperfarther!”buthedidn’t,becausehe’sanasshole.Andalsohe’sacat, sohedoesn’t speakEnglish.So instead Iwrote thison toiletpaperwith lipstick (but just the key words, and not this whole thing, because thatwould be ridiculous). Then I said a little prayer thanking God for savingmefrom getting assaulted, and also for not making me have to explain to theambulance drivers that I’d accidentally mistaken my cat for a rapist afterpurposely overdosing on laxatives in order to make my antidepressants workbetter.Mainlybecausethat’sthekindofstorythatgetstoldoverandoveragaintothenewambulance-crewrecruits.ButthenIrememberedthatgirlfromhighschoolwhohadtohavethepoopbubbleremoved,somaybeincomparisonmystorywasn’treallysoweirdafterall.ExceptwhenVictorcamehomeItoldhimaboutit(becausehowcouldyounot

share that story?), and he got all testy about the laxatives and implied that I“couldn’t be trusted in the house unsupervised,” and I’m all, “Glass half full,asshole.Ididn’tgetraped,right?”andheshouted,“Youwereneverindangerofgettingraped,”butIthinkhejustsaidthattohurtmyfeelings,andsoIretorted,“Oh, IamALWAYS indangerofbeing raped, thankyouverymuch,” andhewasall, “I’m not questioning your rapability. I’M JUST SAYING I CAN’T GOAWAYFORTWODAYSWITHOUTYOUOD’INGONLAXATIVES.”Andthat’swhenImadeamentalnotethatfromnowonIwouldnevertellhimaboutOD’ing on anything. And also that I should probably make friends withambulancedrivers,becauseIbettheyhavesomekick-assstories.

AnOpenLettertoMyHusband,WhoIsAsleepintheNextRoom

Hi.I know. The weird pattern in the butter dish, right? By now you’ve surely

discovereditandareprobablyfreakingout.Well,lastnightIdiscoveredthatifImakeEggos Icanskip thebutterknifeand justdrop thewaffledirectly in thebuttertub.It’sawesome.Exceptthatthehotwafflemeltsaweirdpatterninthebutter, like an all-yellow plaid, and the plastic tubmelts a bit. I know you’dprefer I use a knife, because you’re kind of neurotic about this stuff, buthonestly, I’m just not that kind of girl.Mostly because I’m trying to save theenvironmentbynotdirtyingaknifethatwouldhavetobewashed.I’mkindofahero.Also,theknivesare,like,allthewayontheothersideofthekitchen.Poorplanningonyourpart.Andby“onyourpart,”Imean“bylettingmeunpackthekitchenwhenwemoved in.” Imean, Iguesswe could just switch the utensildrawerwiththetake-outmenudrawer,butthatseemslikealotofwork.UnlessIjustpulledoutthedrawerscompletelyandswitchedthem!

Okay,nowwehavetwodrawerslyingonthekitchenfloor.Igotthembothout,but I can’t get them back in. I’m sorry. I don’t knowwhat’swrongwithme.Don’tlookinthebutterdish.

P.S.Ifanything,youshouldbethankingmeforthebuttertexturizer.Rememberthat fucking ridiculousBurberry-plaid carwe saw, and youwere all, “Wow! Iwishsomeonewoulddo that tomycarand/orbutter!”Well,MerryChristmas,asshole.

P.P.S. I’m sorry I called you an asshole. Thatwas uncalled-for.Also, by nowyou’vereadthisletterandwillsurelyclaimthatyoudidnotaskmetoBurberrythecaroranythingelse,butreally,you’vegotmoreimportantthingstofocuson.Likefixingthethreedrawersthatareonthekitchenfloor.Iknow.But I thought if I tookonemoreout slowly I could seehow itworked, and

thenIcouldfixtheothersbeforeyouwakeup,butthattotallydidn’twork.ButIstoppedatthree.You’rewelcome.

P.P.P.S.Shit.Okay,Ithoughtmaybeonemorewouldgivemethesecretputting-the-drawer-back key. Turns out? Not so much. At this point I’m consideringsettingfiretothekitchentocovermytracks,butI’msureyou’djustblamethatonmetoo.SoIwon’t,becauseIknowyou’dbeajerkaboutit.Andalsobecausethatwouldbewrong.Iwouldneversetfiretoourhouse.

P.P.P.P.S.Okay,Ijustsetfiretothehouse,butitwastotallyonaccident.Iwastryingtomakeyouapizzaforbreakfast,andIaccidentallyputabunchoftowelsin theoven.Iknowitseemssuspicious,sinceIwas just talkingaboutburningdownthehouse,butit’sjustahorrible,horriblecoincidence.Ihavetothinkthatthisneverwouldhavehappenedhadourbuildersnotputthebathroomsoclosetotheoven.It’sliketheywantedmetosetfiretothehouse.Thoseguysaretheassholes.Notyou.Iloveyou.

P.P.P.P.P.S.I’mgoingtostopatthestoreonthewayhomeandbuyyouyourveryowntubofbuttersoyoudon’thavetoseethemeltyBurberryone.I’msorry.Idon’tknowwhyIdidn’tjustthinkofthatinthefirstplace.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S.Noneof this isactually trueexceptfor thebutterpart.Aren’tyourelieved?Iknowyouare.Andnowyou’remuch less likely to freakoutaboutthebutter,because,Jesus,it’snotlikeItriedtoburnthehousedown(exceptforthatonetimewhenIdid,butthatreallywasanaccident,andthebuilder’sfaulttoo,becausewhothehellleavestheoveninstructionsinsidetheoven?Someonewhowantsusalldead,that’swho).Thiswasalljustanexerciseinperspective.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S.Don’tlookinthebutterdish.

JusttoClarify:WeDon’tSleepwithGoats

Ithinkthere’sagoatinourhouse,”mysistersays,makingnoattempttogetupassheturnsherheadslightlytolistentothestrangenoisescomingfromdownthehall.She’swrong; I’mcertain.Notbecause therecouldn’t be agoat in thehouse,

butbecausethisisn’tourhouseanymore.It’sthehomewegrewupin,andstillfeels warm and familiar, but I’vemanaged to disassociatemyself from beingresponsible for shooingerrantgoatsoutofahome Ihaven’t lived in formorethanadecade.“No,”Iexplain,lookingbackdownatthephotoalbumswe’dspreadoverour

oldbedroomfloor.“ThereisagoatinMomandDad’shouse.”Shepointeda fingeratmeandwinked.“Ah.Youhaveapoint.Hey, lookat

thesepicturesofyou inwigswhenyouwereababy.What thehell’sgoingonthere?”Istareatthealbumandstarttoanswer,whentheclompingfromthenextroomgetslouderandthenthescreamingstarts.“Thereistotallyagoatinthehouse,”sherepeats.“Ormaybeapony.”It’s the kind of thing thatwould be shocking if it happened in either of our

houses,butthisweekwe’vebothcomebacktoWalltovisitourfamily,andthissort of thing is practically expected in a small house with eight people, oneshower,andtoomanygoats.1Icontinuetoflipthroughthephotoalbumasifnothingishappening.“I’mjust

going to stay in this room until it’s gone. This is so not my responsibility.”Something heavy bounces off a wall. “I swear to God I am having suchchildhoodflashbacksrightnow.”Lisa sighs as the screams get louder. “That’s the PTSD talking. But”—her

voicequaverswithaslightdoubt—“ourkidsareoutthere,somaybeweshouldgocheckonthem.”Lisaisundertheimpressionthatweareresponsibleforprotectingourchildren

fromwhatevermyfatherisgettingtheminto,butItendtofollowmymother’slead in regard to this.“Howwill they learn ifwe continually rescue them?” Iask.“Bythetimeweweretheiragewe’dhavelearnedtoduckandcoveruntilthe noises die down.Besides, I’mpretty sure those are happy screams, so it’s

probablyallgood.Orpossiblythenextfewhourswillbeverytragic.”“Oh, that remindsme,”Lisa says, frowning at a picture of herself as a one-

year-oldsurroundedbyemptybeerbottles.“Thedaybeforeyougothere,Daddycameinandaskedmykidswhethertheywantedtoseehis‘newpets,’andwhentheysaidyeshedumpedasackofliveducklingsonthelivingroomfloorforthekidstochasedown.Momwaspissed.AndDaddyneverthoughttocountthemfirst,sowhoknowswhetherweevengotthemall.”

Theweirdthingaboutthispictureisthatmyparentsdon’tdrink.IcanonlyassumethatLisahadsomesortofproblem.

“Whocarriesducks ina sack?” I askedmyself, but I hadonly one answer.The screams had died down and I heard giggling and running and possiblequacking.“Shit,”Isaid,withresignation.Iwasn’tworriedaboutthekids(whorangedfromagetwotonine,andwhousuallywatchedoutforoneanother),butIwasconcernedfortheducklings.IstaredatLisaandrolledmyeyesindefeat.“Fine.I’llgetthebroom.YoumanthefrontdoorsoIcanshoothemoutwithoutlettinggoatsin.”The scene was chaotic but familiar. The ducklings quacked and ran

everywhere, hiding under the recliner and attempting to tunnel under thedecorative but nonfunctional piano.When cornered by the children, they’d bepickedupandwouldimmediatelypoop,sendingthekidsscreamingwithpealsoflaughterastheydroppedtheducklingsandstartedthecyclealloveragain.“HENRY.What did you do?” my mom yelled, as my dad laughed at the

mayhemhe’dcreated,thetwinkleinhiseyesstillbrightafteralltheseyears.“What?”heaskedteasingly.“Iputdownpaperfirst.”Itwastrue.Therewasasmall,emptysquareofnewspaperinthemiddleofthe

livingroom.“Andyou thought theduckswouldunderstand to stayonpaper?” she asked

sarcastically,asshepriedaterrified-lookingducklingfromatoddler’sstickyfist.“Well, I guess not,” my dad admitted, but he was gleeful to see the kids

laughing,andweallknewthiswouldcontinuetohappen.Mymomshooedhimoutside,sincehewasonlymakingthingsworsewithhiscriesof“WHOEVERCATCHESTHESPOTTEDONEWINSASILVERDOLLAR.”Thescenehad takenonadangerouscarnivalquality,and Iwasgrateful that

VictorhadstayedhomeinHouston towork,sincehewouldnever letmehearthe end of this. Eventuallywe captured the last flustered duckling and placedtheminabucket inthequiet,darkbedroom,sotheycouldcalmdown(andsothatDaddywouldn’t just throw themback in the house again as soon as theywerereturnedoutside),andLisaandIsettledbackdownonouroldbedagainandpickedupthealbumsasifnothinghadhappened.It’salittledisconcertingwhenshitlikethisbecomesoldhat,butthisisthewaythingsare,andyouhavetolearntorollwiththepunches,evenifthepunchesarecomingfromtheclawedfeetofangryducklingswhodon’tunderstandthatyou’rehelping.Wheneverwecametovisitmyparents,Haileywouldplaywiththemoonshine

still. She’d ride Jasper, the miniature donkey, in the backyard. She and hercousinswouldplayontheoldtractorsandtheancientstagecoacheslitteringtheacreage behind the house. They laughed and played and exploredmy father’staxidermyshop,andworecowskullsasmasks.Theylookedforburiedtreasurewithantiquedmapsmydad“found,”andwoulddigupwoodenboxesfilledwithcoins and costume jewelry and arrowheads that Daddy had buried for them.They’droamaroundtheproperty,chasinggoatsandhavingfun,andLisaandIhadtoadmitthattheirjoymadeupfortheoccasionalstrayducklingthatwouldwalkintoyourbedroominthemiddleofthenight.

It’dbeeasiertojudgethismoonshinestillharshlyifmydaughterhadn’thelpedbuildit.

ThenextdayVictordrovetomyparents’housesothatwecouldcelebrateouranniversary,exceptIdon’tcelebrateanythingwiththatcertainunluckynumberinit,becauseI’mstillOCD.Imadehimsweartojust tellpeoplethat thiswassimply“oursecondtwelfthanniversary,”whichwouldhaveworkedperfectlyifVictortookmyphobiasseriouslyanddidn’thaveadeathwish.Insteadhekept

sayingtheunluckynumberoverandover,andIwasall,“ThisisexactlywhyIdidn’twant to celebrate at all this year, because if you don’t stop saying thatnumberIwilldivorceyou,andthat’stotallythekindofthingthatwouldhappenonanunluckyyear,sofuckingstoptemptingfate.”Thenheraisedaneyebrowand said innocently, “What number? Youmean, ___?”AND THENHE SAIDTHE NUMBER AGAIN. This is when I decided I would just cut one of histesticlesoffsometimethisyear,becausethatwilltakecareofallofourbadluckinonefellswoop,andthenwe’llstillstaymarried,becausealltheunluckinesswillhavebeenusedupinanintentionalball-removalaccident.Victorexplainedthattherewasnosuchthingasan“intentionalaccident,”andwasalittlebaffledthat I’d jumped right fromdivorcinghim to removingoneofhis testicles, butthisisoursecondtwelfthanniversary,sohereallyshouldbeusedtothatsortofthingfrommebynow.Plus,youdon’tevenneedtwotesticles.LanceArmstrongseems to be doing pretty well with just one.2 And also, I’M SAVING OURMARRIAGE,ASSHOLE.ForouranniversarymymombabysatHaileysothatVictorandIcouldgoto

SummerMummers, amelodrama-vaudevillian play that’s been going on everysummer since the forties inMidland,Texas.There’s lots of booze, andyou’reencouragedtoscreamfortheheroandbooatthecapedvillain,andtobuybagsofpopcorntothrowatthestagewhenevertheevilmustachioedbadguycomesout.UnfortunatelyIhaveaweakarm,andsoIendedupjustthrowingitatthepeople directly in front of us. They turned around, and Victor surreptitiouslypointed at the people sitting next to us as if to blame them for it, but ourneighbors noticed, and then a terrible popcorn battle broke out. Then Victorstood up on his chair and yelled, “IWILLENDYOUPEOPLE,” and boughtthreehundreddollars’worthofpopcorn. Itwasoneof thosemomentswhen Irealized how lucky I was to be celebrating a second twelfth anniversarywithsomeonewilling to spendall themoneywe’dplanned touseona fancyhotelroominordertobuypalletsofpopcornjustsohecouldburyperfectstrangersinadrunken,Napoleonicendeavor.Wefuckingdestroyedthosepeople.Theeveningwasperfect,exceptfortheonetimewhenVictorwenttoreload

(buying another pallet of popcorn) and I was attacked by a guy who lookedexactlylikeSamElliott,andIgotsomuchpopcorndownmydressitlookedlikeI’d developed a series of horrible tumors.Also, you knowwhen you get thatannoyingpieceofpopcornstuckinyourteethbutyoucan’tgetitoutbecauseitwould be too embarrassing to dig it out in front of strangers? Imagine thathappening,but insteadof itbeing inbetweenyour teeth, it’s stuck inyourearcanal.Andby“earcanal”Imean“vagina.”Thenthecancangirlscameoutandeveryonesangalongto“DeepintheHeart

ofTexas”and“TheYellowRoseofTexas”withtheliveorchestra.Thenamanonstage quoted SamHouston, saying, “Texas canmake it without the UnitedStates, BUT THE UNITED STATES CANNOT MAKE IT WITHOUTTEXAS!”andeveryoneintheentirefuckingaudienceyelleditalongwithhim,andIthought,“Wow.It’sreallynowonderthattherestofAmericahatesus.”After the whole play/melodrama/burlesque thing ended, I looked down and

saw these small patches of blood on the floor, and I was a little unsettled,becauseVictorhadbeenthreateningtoputrocksinhispopcorninordertotakeoutthefrontrow.Butitturnsoutthatthecarpetwasred,andthatwastheonlypartofityoucouldseeunderthepilesandpilesofpopcorn.

Aswewalkedout,InoticedthatawomanI’dseensittingoffinacornerwaswalkinginfrontofus.She’dobviouslybeenexpectingsomethingelsewhentoldshewasgoingtosee“livetheater”thatnight,andshe’dseemedbothfrightenedandappalledbyeveryone’sboorishbehavior.Asshewalkedthroughthedriftsofpopcorn shemuttered toherdate, “Ugh . . .Whatanoffensivewasteof food.JustthinkofallthestarvingchildreninAfrica.”Shemayhavehadapoint,butIthoughtitwasalittleoffensivetowanttogivestarvingpeoplepopcorntouchedbyvaginas.“Hereyougo,” Icould imaginehersayingcondescendingly to thevillagers.“Takesomemorevaginapopcorn.Thisbatchwasonlyonthefloorforan hour.You need itmore thanwe do.” It seemed insulting, and I felt prettycertainthatevenstarvingpeoplewouldhaveturnedtheirnosesupatit.“No,no.We’refine.Really.Pleasestopwiththevaginapopcorn.”Also,thepopcornwaskindofstaleandgross,andIknowthisbecauseIatesome,andthenIfeltverysicklater.Victorpointedoutthatitwasnosurprise.Iwaseatingfromthesamebag of popcorn that I’d thrown at people, and that they’d thrownback, and itwouldlandinmybosomandI’dscoopitoutandthrowitbackatthem,andthen

they’dvolley it back, and inevitably someof itwas landing in the sack Iwaseatingfrom,andI’mprettysurethat’showIgotswineflu.Thenextdaywewentbacktomyparents’tosetofffireworksfortheFourthof

July,andaswefinisheduptheRomancandlesmydadsaid,“Oh!Ipromisedthegrandkidswecouldsetoffthecannontonight,”andHaileyscreamed,“Yay!”“You promised my preschooler that she could light a cannon?” I asked in

disbelief.“No.Ofcoursenot,”hereplied.“ItoldTexhecoulddoit.”Andthatseemed

muchsafer,becauseTexwasfuckingsix.IlookedatmysistertoseewhethershewasokaywithherkidlightingaCivilWarcannon,butshejustkindofshrugged,becauseshe’susedtothissortofthing,andhadlearnedtopickherbattles.

Myparents’backyard.Thegaspumpisnotfunctional.Thecannonandchickensare.

“Areyousurethisissafe?”Lisaasked,andDaddyassuredusthathewasonlygoing to let Tex pack and prep the cannon—which consisted of Tex standingright in front of a giant fucking loaded cannon—but my sister was fairlyundisturbed,becausesheknewDaddyprobablycouldn’tgettherustycannonlitanyway.Andshewasright.ButthenDaddydecidedhejustneededmorefire,sohebroughtouttheblowtorchtolightthedodgycannon.ThiswaswhenIranformycamera,becauseIknewnoonewouldeverbelieveme.Thecannonwouldundoubtedlybeloudandunneighborlyobnoxiousatthattimeofnight,butthenIremembered that the neighbors had been setting off fireworks atmidnight allweek long, and I thought itwould kind of be kick-ass payback if the cannonactually did go off.And it did.And itwas awesome, and no one diedor gotbloodonthem,soweconsidereditoneofthemostsuccessfulnightsthatweek.

Aswewalkedbackinsideforourfinalnightatmyparents’,Victorpointedatatable thathadbeen raisedupwithchains to theceilingof thecarport.Hesaidthereseemedtobeadeadbearonit,andIassumedthatVictorwasdrunk,butwhenwewentouttopackthecarthenextmorningIrealizedVictorwascorrect.MyfirstthoughtwasthatIprobablyneedglasses,becauseit’sprobablyoddtonotnoticeadeadbear floatingona table in thebackyardallweek.But then IrealizedIhadn’tactuallynoticedthecannonatfirsteither,andblameditonthefact that I was too distracted by everything else. Because that’s the kind ofbackyardtheyhave.Onewherecannonsandfloatingbearsdon’tstickout.IstaredatthebearandwonderedwhetherDaddywastryingtoraisehimfrom

the dead, à laDr. Frankensteinwhenhe hoisted hismonster up to the roof toattract the lightning. But then I realized it was probably just a polite way ofgettingadeadbearoutofthewaywhenyouhadcompanyover,andinawayitstruckmeasbeingkindofingenious.Likewindowblinds,butwithdeadbears.

Victoragreedthatitmadesense,butthenhelookedalittleshakenandinsistedwegohomeimmediately,becausewheneverallofthisstartstoseemrationaltousthat’susuallyasignthatweneedtoleave.

1.Mymomjustreadthischapterandaskedmetoclarifythatthegoatsareoutsideanimals.Theydon’tlivehereinthehousewithus.I’mnotsurewhyIhavetoclarifythat,butthenIrereadthechapterwithneweyes and I guess that goats sleeping at the foot of ourbedswouldn’t be that strange, comparatively.So,yeah,thegoatsdon’tliveinthehousewithus.Thatwouldbeweird.Andunsanitary.Plus,thegoatsaren’tevenours.They’rerentedgoats,becausemydadhas toomuchgrass,andhis friendhas toomanygoats.Thisallmakessenseifyouliveinthecountry.Probably.

2.Please ignore this sentence ifLanceArmstrong isdeadwhenyou read this. I swear,he looked totallyhealthywhenIwrote this,but theguy isn’tgoing to liveforever,becausehe’snotavampire,y’all.SoIthoughtIshouldclarifythatasofthismomentLanceArmstrongisawesome.Evenwithonlyoneball.Hell,especiallywithonlyoneball.I’mgoingtostopnow.

StabbedbyChicken

Acoupleofyears agooneofmy fingers swelledup likeanenormouswiener.Thekindyouget at theballpark that plumpswhenyou cook it.Not theotherkind.Thatwouldbeweird.Idon’tevenknowwhyI’mclarifyingthis.Youknowwhat?Let’sstartagain.Acoupleofyearsagooneofmyfingersswelleduplikeanenormousvagina.

Kidding. Itactually just swelledup likeagiantswollen finger. It looked like Iwas wearing one of those “we’re number one!” foam fingers, except that Iwasn’t.SometimeduringthenightIhadbeenstruckdownwithacaseoflethalfinger cancer. Victor rolled his eyes and muttered that I was a chronichypochondriac, and I glared at him and rubbedmy enormous nonfoam fingerdown his cheek, whispering, “Thinner.” Then he made me go to the doctor.Alone.BecauseapparentlyhethinksI’mstrongenoughtohandleafingercancerdiagnosiswith absolutely no support. Or because he’s emotionally shut downanddidn’twant to considermyownmortality.Or because he thought I’d justinjured it again, like the timewhenourdog stabbedmewith a chicken in thefinger.Probablythelastone.ThisisthepointwhereIwouldgointodetailaboutmyfingercancer,butmy

editorjustreadthisandtoldmethatyoucan’tclaimthatyourdogstabbedyouwithchickenandnotlogicallyexplainthat.Itoldherthatlogicdidn’tenterintoit and she agreed,but probablynot for the same reasons.So, fine.Here is theprequel to thecancerfingersplosionstory,whichIprettymuchjustpulledfrommyblogbecauseithappenedyearsagoandIonlyvaguelyrememberthedetails.BecauseIblockedthemout.Becausemydogtriedtokillme.Withchicken.

Blogentry:Icanbarelyeventypethisbecausemyhandisallswollen,butIwasjustcarryingmypug(BarnabyJonesPickles)intobedwhenhesuddenlydidthisflipthatalmostbrokemymiddlefinger,andthenheraninbetweenmylegs,andIfellsohardthatIcouldn’tevenmove.Andjusttomakeitmorefestive,thedogwasjumpingonmyhead(probablytomakeitseemlikewewerejustplay-wrestling and that hewasn’t trying tomurderme, in casewitnesseswerewatching), but Iwasn’t falling for it, so I yelled forVictor,who foundme lying onmy stomach in front of thefridge.Hewasall,“What.The fuck.Didyoudo?” and I said, “Thedog tried tokillme.”ThenVictorleaneddownandraisedanunnecessaryeyebrowashesaidindisbelief,“Ourdog?Ourtinylittle dog did this to you?” and I was all, “HE’S LIKE A NINJA!” Then Victor said, “He’s afuckingpug.Hecan’tevenreachthecouch,”andIwasall,“I’MVULNERABLE,ASSHOLE,”andthenVictortriedtohelpmeup,andIscreamedbecauseI’mprettysureyou’renotsupposedto

moveanaccidentvictim,becausetheycouldbeparalyzed.Victoragreedtoletmejustlieonthefloor,butonlyifIwouldwigglemyfeetforhim,butatthat

pointIwastooafraidthatthejostlingofmylegsmightcausemyspinalcordtosnap,sohepickedupthe phone and I yelled, “DOnotCALLANAMBULANCE,” and he sighed, saying, “If you don’tmoveyour legs I’mgoing tocall theambulance.Except that I’mprobablygoing togetarrested fordomesticbattery,becausewhat thehellhappened?!”And Iwasall, “OhmyGod, therearea lot ofmarblesundertherefrigerator.Whendidwehavemarblesinthehouse?”ThenVictormadethatnoisethatusuallyaccompanieshimputtinghishandoverhisfaceandshakinghisheadlikehecan’tevenbelieve this is his life, but after a few seconds he paused and said, “Wait.Where is all this bloodcoming from?” And that’s when I noticed I had a long, shallow gash onmy hand, and I proppedmyself uponmyelbows to look at it, saying, “How thehelldid that happen?”And that’s howwefiguredoutIwasn’tparalyzed.Ihalf suspected thatVictorhadpoured fakebloodonme just todistractme intomoving,buthe

almostneverhasfakebloodonhim.He’sjustnotthatkindofguy.Hemighthaveatapemeasureoranexpiredcreditcard,butifyouneedafakearmorabearclawyou’relookingatthewrongguy.Itwasnice,though,toseethatIwasbleeding,becausethenIknewthatatleastVictorwouldtakememoreseriously.However,Iquicklydiscoveredthatthemainreasonhewasfreakedoutaboutthebloodwasthat we hadn’t sealed the kitchen grout yet, and that this would surely leave a stain. It was a bituncaring,butIunderstoodhisaggravation,becauseifIeverendedupabducted,thisbloodstaincouldtiehimto themurder,but Ididn’tmention it,becauseIdidn’twant togivehimany ideas.Also,hemay have just been pissed about all the marbles under the fridge. But I brushed off his sillyhousekeeping concerns because I suddenly realized that I was bleeding BECAUSE I’D BEENSTABBEDBYCHICKEN.Coincidentally,thisisalsowhenIrealizedthatnoonewouldeverbelievethisscenario,andalsothat

Victorwasdefinitelygoingtojail,becausewhogetsstabbedbychicken?Ido,apparently.Itwasoneof thosedried, slicedchicken-breast treats that I’dbeenholding inmyhandbecause Iwasgoing tofeed it to Barnaby Jones, and it was slightly dangerously ludicrously sharp and apparently quitestabbablewithenoughforce.Itseemedunbelievable,butitwasthekindofthingthatcouldhappentoanyonewhofellontoashivmadeofpoultry.ExceptthatnowthatIconsiderit,I’mprobablytheonlypersonintheworldtoevergetknifedbyachicken.SoIwin.Orlose.Maybeboth.AndthenIexplainedtoVictorthatitwasjustthatIgotstabbedwithachicken,andhestartedtocall

theambulanceagain,becauseheassumedIhadaconcussion.Isighed,tuggingonhispantlegtogethis attention, and gave him a demonstration by grabbing the chicken shiv and making a stabbingmotionwithmygoodhand.Andthenhestaredatmeinbafflementandhungupthephone,becausehefinallyunderstood,ormaybebecausehethoughtIwasthreateningtostabhim.Victorexplainedthathedidn’tknowwhathewould tell theambulancedriversanyway,because,“There’snowayanyonewould believe that our adorable dog could do this sort of damage,” and he said it in a reallycondescending and judgmental way, and I think that’s why I found myself defensively screaming,“YOUDON’TKNOWWHATHE’SLIKEWHENYOUAREN’THERE.”ThiswaswhenVictortucked Barnaby Jones under his arm, saying, “Don’t listen to Mommy’s ravings, Mr. Jones,” andcarriedhimtobedsotheycouldwatchMythbusters together. Imayhaveyelledfromthefloor,“Hewouldhavepushedmedownthestairs,ifwehadstairs.”IalsomayhaveimpliedthatBarnabyJoneswouldprobablyripoutourthroatswhileweslept,nowthathe’ddevelopedatasteforhumanblood,andVictoryelledthatBarnabyJonescouldn’theartheTVbecauseofalloftheshouting,andthathewasn’t going to talk to someone who was overreacting on the kitchen floor. I explained that“overreaction”isacommonsymptomofapersongoingintoshock,andhesaidthatitwasn’t,andsoIhadtogolookformymedicaldictionarymyself,withmybrokenfinger,andIcouldn’tevenfindit.Ishouldn’tevenbeallowedtotypethisrightnow.Ishouldbewrappedinawarmblanketandnotbeallowedtogotosleep.OrIshouldbemadetogotosleep.Oneofthose.OrmaybeIneedahottoddy.Iprobablyknew thecorrectprocedurefor thissortof thingbefore thedoggavemeaconcussionby

tryingtokillmewithchicken.

P.S.Victor totally owesme, because hewould have gone to jail automatically because hewaswearingonlyahalf-shirt,andifyouaren’twearingawholeshirtwhenthepolicecome,yougotojail.That’showjailworks.

P.P.S. Just to clarify, it’s a half-shirt in that it’s sleeveless. It’s not the kind that ends under hisnipples.Victorcan’treallypullthatsortoflookoff.Idon’tknowwhetheryougotojailforthatkindofshirt.Probablyso,though,ifthere’sanipplyhalf-shirt,adog,andabunchofhumanbloodinvolved.

P.P.P.S.Howdoyouknowwhetheryourpupilsaredilated?Whatare theysupposedto looklikenormally?WhyisWebMDsocomplicated?Whycan’tIstopreadingaboutcancerwhenI’mtryingtolookupconcussions?Great.NowIhavecancer.Thanksalot,BarnabyJones.

Updated:WenttotheERthismorning.Explainedthesituation.Theywrote,“Stabbedbychicken,”onmychart.ThentheyaskedwhetherIhadany“psychissues,”butIthoughttheysaid“psychicissues”andIwasall,“Like...canIreadyourthoughts?”Thentheyputmeinaprivateroom.Ithinkthelessonhereisthatyoushouldfakementalillnesstogetfasterservice.Turnsout,though,thatit’sjustasprain,soIhavetowearasplintuntilitheals,andIalsohavetokeepitelevated.Here’sapictureofmedrivingmyselfhome:

Stophonkingatme.I’mdisabled,youbastards.

Awesome.Thepeopleinmyneighborhoodareluckytohaveme.

P.P.P.P.S.SeveralofmyfriendshaveimpliedthatBarnabyJoneswasprobablyjustactinginself-defense, since you’re not supposed to give dogs chicken bones, but these are fancy, filleted,bonelesschickenbreasts.Meanwhile, I’m eating ramennoodles, andhis sweater costmore thanmyentireoutfit.Waytoblamethevictim,people.Imayneverplaytheukuleleagain.

Noone’sfallingforit,BarnabyJones.

AND THAT’STHE END of the “stabbed by chicken” story.Unless I’m at a party.

Thenyoucan’tgetmetostoptellingthatstory,becauseitnevergetsold.Unlessyou’reVictor,whosayshewouldpreferthatInevermentionitagain.Probablybecauseheknowshe looks like an accomplice.Plus, I thinkhe’s embarrassedwhenImentionallofthosegrapesIdiscoveredunderthefridge,soforhissakeIchangedthemto“marbles”inthisbook.You’rewelcome,Victor.Aaaanyway, right now you’re probably asking yourself, “Just how many

finger-injurystoriescanthisgirlpossiblyhave?”andtheansweris,“Lots.”ButtheonlyoneI’mtellingyou(asidefromthe“stabbedbychicken”story)istheoneIstartedwithwaybackatthebeginningofthischapter,becauseI’msavingtherest forbooktwo.But theseare totally thebestofallmyfingerstories,sojustbeforewarnedthatwhenbooktwocomesout,PublishersWeeklyisgoingtobe all, “If you are expecting more of the same masterful retelling of brilliantfinger-damage stories fromovernight-sensation and long-suffering saint JennyLawson, thenthinkagain,because thisbookisall thumbs.”Or theymightsaysomething about how it has “two left feet.” It’s hard to tell with PublishersWeekly.Honestly,theywritejusthorriblereviews.Infact,Ibetthey’rewritingaterribleoneaboutthisbookevenaswespeak,butprobablyjustbecauseItotallycalled themout,and I justused the review theywanted tobeable touse, andnowthey’reall,“Whatthehellarewegoingtosaynow?Shetookallthegoodlines. Imean, ‘All thumbs’?That’sgold,youguys.”And I’m sorry about that,PublishersWeekly,butI’mawriter.That’swhatIdo.(Editor’snote:Iquit.)So.Aswediscussedearlier, I’mat thedoctor’soffice, alonewithmy finger

cancer, wondering whether I should have just gone straight to an oncologistinstead, but I bravely hold outmy swollen finger and the doctor looks atmecondescendingly and says, “Oh.Yougot a boo-boo, huh?”Then I kickedhimrightinhisjunk.Butonlyinmyhead,becausedoctorsarequicktofileassaultcharges,becausetheycanmakeuptheirownmedicaldamages.Like,adoctorcouldclaimIgavehim“poppedball,”andno jury in the landwouldquestionhim,butifIinsistthatIhavefingercancer,peoplestareatmelikeI’mcrazy(in,coincidentally, exactly the same way that the doctor was looking at me rightthen.LikeI’mthecrazyone).Keepinmindthathejustsuedmeforsomethingcalled“poppedball.”Exceptthatthatonlyhappenedinmyheadtoo.Onsecondthought,don’tkeepthatinmind.Thiswholeparagraphisn’treallydoingmeanyfavors.The doctor quickly dismissed my claims of cancer, but I insisted that he

researchdigitalcancerfirst,becauseIwasprettysureIwasdyingofit.“What’s that? You think you have cancer caused by digital exposure?” Dr.

Rolandaskedmeovertherimsofhisglasses.“No,”Irepliedtestily.“I’mprettysure‘digital’isLatinfor‘fingeral,’sofinger

cancer equals digital cancer.This is all basic anatomy,Dr.Roland.” ThenDr.Roland toldme that he thought Iwas overreacting, and that “fingeral”wasn’tevenarealword.ThenItoldhimthatIthoughthewasunderreacting,probablybecause he’s embarrassed that he doesn’t know how Latin works. Then heclaimedthat“underreacting”isn’tawordeither.Themanhasaterriblebedsidemanner.Dr.Rolandsortofharrumphedatme,andIpointedmyenormousE.T.fingerat

him,demanding,“Thisdoesn’tlookcanceroustoyou?!”Heassuredmeitwasn’tcancer andwas simply a spider bite.A savage, noxious spider that injects theeggsofheryoungwithhervenomousbitesothattheycanfesterandfeedonthefingerfleshofanunsuspectingyoungwriterwhoprobablyalsohasonehellofamalpracticecaseonher(probablycancerous)hands.Thedoctordidn’tactuallytellmeanyofthatlastpart,butIcouldseeitthereinhiseyes.WhenIgothomeVictoraskedwhatthedoctorhadsaid,andIexplained,“He

sentmehometodie.”“Hedidwhat?”“Imean,hesentmehomewithointment.”Itwasallveryanticlimactic.Turnsout, though, thatDr.Rolandwasverywrong, and after a lot of blood

work(andanewdoctor),IdiscoveredthatIdidn’thavefingercanceror fingerspiders,andthatinsteadIhadarthritis.Whenever I tell people I have arthritis they usually say, “But you seem so

young,” which is sort of a backhanded compliment that I never get tired ofhating. Iwill probably only hate the phrase evenmorewhen I get to the agewhenpeoplestopsayingit,andsuddenlybeginsaying,“Oh,arthritis.Ofcourseyouhaveit.”ThenIplantorunoverthemwithmywheelchair.Ialwaysexplainthatit’srheumatoidarthritis(a.k.a.RA),whichcanstrikeevenchildren,andI’mnotevensurewhyit’slabeledasarthritisatall,sinceit’sonlyvaguelyrelatedtotheosteoarthritis thatyourgreat-grandmothercomplainsabout. I’veconsideredlobbying the medical field to rename rheumatoid arthritis something sexier,younger,andmoreexotic.Somethinglike“TheMidnightDeath,”or“ImpendingVampirism.”Orperhaps toname itaftersomeonefamous.Like“LouGehrig’sdisease,parttwo:THERECKONING.”Afterall,rheumatoidarthritisispainfulenoughwithouttheaddedembarrassmentofsoundinglikesomethingyournanahad, so it seemsonly fair thatwe shouldbeable to tellpeople thatwehad tomisstheirpartybecauseofanunexpectedflare-upof“ImpendingVampirism.”MynewRAdocwasverykind,and reassuredme thatanRAdiagnosiswas

notthedeathsentenceithadoncebeen,andthenIfoundmyselfhyperventilatingabitbecauseadoctorhadjustsaid“deathsentence”tome,andhegothisnursetohelpmeputmyheadbetweenmykneesandbreathedeeply.Thenhesaidthat

althoughtherewasnocure,therewerealotofexperimentaltreatmentsthatwecould “try.”Then I passed out, but probably less from the news that I had anincurablediseaseandmorebecauseItendtopassoutwheneverIseepeopleindoctors’ coats. I have passed out on school field trips to clinics, at theoptometrists’, during gynecological visits, and once even at the veterinarian’s,when I fainted unexpectedly and fell on my cat. (The last one was the mostdisconcerting,because I came to in the lobbywith a lotofdogs and strangersleaningovermeasIrealizedmyshirtwascompletelyunbuttonedasateamofparamedicscheckedmyheartandmycatcoweredunderachairwhileglaringatmeaccusingly.)WhenIcametointheRAoffice,mydoctorhadmeliedownasheexplainedthatitwasnothingtopanicabout,andthatalthoughnooneknewwhat caused the disease they suspected it was congenital. I’d been only halflisteningbecauseIwastoobusytryingnot to throwup,andsoI lookedat thedoctorwithwideeyesandsaid,“I’msorry.Genital?”“Uh...what?”thedoctorasked.“Didyousaymyarthritisisgenital?”“No.”He chuckled. “Congenital. Or possibly hereditary.” I sighed in relief,

findingatleastalittlesolaceinhisanswer,andIfoundmyselfwonderingwhatanarthriticvaginawouldevenlooklike.Heassuredmethatmygenitalswouldbe just fine, but honestly he looked a tiny bit alarmed.Probablybecause he’dneverthoughttoresearcharthritisofthevagina.Buttheyshould.SofarI’vehadarthritis in all fingers, my neck, arms, legs, feet, and in one ear. I can onlyassumevaginalarthritisislurkingrightaroundthecorner,waitingtostrikewhenyou least suspect it. Which is always, really. No one ever expects vaginalarthritis.1MydoctorexplainedthatIhadarareformofthediseasecalledpolyarthritis,

whichmeantthatinsteadofstayinginasingleplace,thearthritisjumpsaroundfrombodyparttobodypartonanalmostdailybasis.OnedayI’llwakeupwithananklesoswollenit lookslikeI’mwearingasinglenudelegwarmerstuffedwithapples.Thenextdaymyanklewillbefine,butIwon’tbeabletomovemyleftshoulderwithoutwantingtostabakitten.ThebestwayIcandescribeitisthateverynightIgotobedknowingthatFreddyKruegerwillbewaitingtobeatthe shit out of me with a baseball bat, and that I’ll wake up with whateverhorrific injuries he’s inflicted. Except that this isn’t amovie aboutElmStreetandit’smylife.Plus,JohnnyDeppisn’tthere.Soitsucksinamyriadofways.Thedoctorwas right about there being a lot of treatment options, but Iwas

disappointedtofindthatnoneofthemincludedmedicallyprescribedSegways,orpersonalmonkeybutlers tohelpyouopenpickle jars. InsteadIwasgivenadrug that starts with “meth-” and ends with “your-hair-will-fall-out-and-you-

will-never-stop-vomiting-if-you-don’t-take-a-daily-antidote,”becauseapparentlyit’salsoachemodrug.Interestinglyenough,oneofthemanysideeffectsofthedrug is that even though it’s a drug designed to battle cancer, IT FUCKINGCAUSES CANCER. The doctor explained that the drug-induced cancerhappenedonlyinrarecases,butconsideringthatIwasjustdiagnosedwithoneoftherarestformsofararediseasetobeginwith,itseemedlikethiswasexactlythekindoflotteryIshouldbeavoiding.Heconvincedmeitwasworththerisks,but cautionedmenot to panicwhen thewarning label on themedicinewouldscaretheshitoutofme.Hewasright.Itsaid,“Holyshit,MOTHERFUCKER.YOUAREGOINGTOFUCKINGDIE.”2 I’m just paraphrasing, but that’s thegist. Also, in my head it sounded exactly like Samuel L. Jackson, so I wasscared,butstillentertained.Andwhatreallysucks is thatNOONEEVENKNOWSWHYTHISDRUG

WORKS. They’re guessing it may work because it fucks up your immunesystem and keeps cells from growing properly, so your body attacks yourimmune system insteadofyour joints.Becausewhoneeds aworking immunesystemwhenyouhaveanautoimmunediseasethatmakesyousosickthatyourbestoptionistotakeadrugthatcankillyou?Basicallyit’slikebeingstabbedintheneck to takeyourmindoffyour stubbed toe.Still, thedrugs seem tohelpsomewhat,soItakethemandtrynottoimaginewhatitwouldbelikewithoutthem.I’vehadarthritisforyearsnow,andsometimesit’sgone,andsometimesI’m

bedridden,buteitherwayI’mconstantlyhavingtogoinforbloodworkandX-rays, and the best news that the doctor can giveme is thatmy blood has notturned toxic and that there are “no obvious deformities yet.” That’s how youknowyou’refucked.Whenamedicalprofessionaltriestogiveyouahighfivebecauseyou’renotasdeformedastheyexpected.Imuddledthroughthefirstfewyears,alwayshopingthatI’dsuddenlyfindout

thatI’dbeencured.“Idon’tunderstand,”Itoldmydoctor.“I’vebeentakingvarioustreatmentsfor

yearsandIstillhurt.”“It’seasy togetdiscouraged,”hesaidgently,“butyouhave tokeep inmind

thatyouhaveadegenerativedisease.”“Yes,butIthoughtI’dbebetterbynow.”“Ah,” said my doctor. “I think maybe you just don’t understand what

‘degenerative’means.”Awesome. I was not getting cured and my vocabulary skills were being

questioned.Whenmylatestbloodtestcameback,thedoctorsaiditwasnosurprisethatI

was in a lot of pain, sincemy results showed an arthritis “double positive.” Iwasn’t sure what that meant, but I suspect it means that my arthritis is anoverachiever.Istartedtakingherbalsupplementsandgiantfishoilpillseveryday,andwhen

VictorcomplainedthatIwasjustthrowingmoneyaway,Ipointedoutthatfishoilissupposedtobegoodforyourjoints,becausefishare...welllubricated,Iguess?Hestaredatme,perplexedatmyreasoning.“Well, it can’t hurt,” I said. “You almost never see a fish with bad ankles.

Or...youknow...limping.”“Ithinksomeonejustsoldyouabillofgoods.Didn’ttheyusedtosellfishoil

backintheeighteenhundredstosuckers?”“No,”Ianswered.“Thatwassnakeoil.AlthoughIhavealwayswonderedhow

you get oil from a snake. It seems like a lot of trouble to go through forsomething that didn’t work anyway. Imagine how many people were gettingbitteneachdaytryingtooilsnakes.”“Whatareyoutalkingabout?Youdon’toilsnakes.”“Yeah,youdo.I’mprettysure‘oil’isaverbinthiscase.Yougetcowmilkby

milking a cow, so you get snake oil by oiling a snake. This is all basiccommonsensestuff.”This waswhenVictor asked exactly what sort of herbal supplements I was

taking,andinsistedthatIstoptakingtheonesthatweren’twritteninEnglishorcame in baggies from questionable health stores. He was right, but I wasdesperate,anditwasthatfitofdesperationthatledmetoagreetoletVictortakemetoanacupuncturist.I’dnevergonetoanacupuncturistbefore,butI’dheardenoughaboutthemto

think that I knewwhat Iwas gettingmyself into.But it turns out that all thepeople who told me that acupuncture is awesome and doesn’t hurt at all arecomplete fucking liars. Or maybe my acupuncturist is just bad, or just reallyhateswhitepeople.Hardtotell.Regardless, I think it behooves the world for me to tell you what really

happensatanacupuncturistsothatyouwon’tgoinasblindlyasIdid:

1.Thenursewilltellyoutotakeoffeverythingbutyourunderwear.Somaybeyou should wear underwear. And maybe they should tell you that when youmaketheappointment.

2.Specialnote topeoplebringing their smallchildren:What thehell iswrong

with you?The “dollhouse” on thewaiting room floor isn’t a dollhouse. It’s ashrine.Ifyouletyourson’sG.I.Joe“conqueritandclaimitinthenameoftheUnitedStates,”youareprobablygoingtogotohell.Also,maybeyoushouldn’tpissofftheguywho’sabouttostabneedlesintoyou.Justasuggestion,lady.

3.Theacupuncturistwillcomeinandyou’lltrytoexplainwhathurts,andthenhe’ll shakehis head, becausehedoesn’t speakEnglish.He’ll call in his nurseandyou’llexplainaboutwhereyourrheumatismis,andhowlongit’shurt,andwhatdrugsyou’reon,andshe’lllookatthedoctorandyell,“SHESAYSSHEHURT,”andthenwalkoutoftheroom.Thenthedoctorwillgiveyoualooklike“Why are you wasting my time? Of course you hurt. Why would perfectlynormalpeople come tohaveneedles stuck in them?”Thenhe’llmakeyou liebackonthetableandstartjabbingneedlesintoyou.

4.Theneedlesaresmallandwon’thurtatall.Infact,they’llfeelgood.Ha,ha!Justkidding.Theyfeellikeneedles.Becausetheyare.

5.Thedoctorwillstickoneneedleintoyourearanditwillstartbleeding.Youwill be bleeding from your ear. I can’t even stress this enough. BLEEDINGFROM THE EAR. Then he’ll open an English book about acupuncture andmakeyou readaparagraphabouthow theear is the shapeof anupside-downfetusandsoit’sgoodtostickneedlesinit.Idesperatelyhopethatparagraphhaslostsomethingintranslation,becauseI’mprettysureyou’renotsupposedtostabneedlesinfetuses.Imakeamentalnotetoaskmygynecologist.ThenImakeamentalnotenotto,becauseevenifIcanmanagetodescribethisproperly,askingmy gynecologist whether it’s okay to stick needles in fetuses is just going tomakethenextPapsmearmoreawkward.

6.Forty-fourneedleslater.Severalofthemarebleeding.Theotheronesactuallystart tofeela little tingly.Thedoctorwill leaveandyou’ll try to lookdownatyourself,butyoucan’tbecauseit’smakingtheneedlesinyourneckstickfartherintoyou.Atthispointyouwillpassoutfromshock.Thentheacupuncturistwillcomebackinandsmuglyclaimyoufellasleepfromallthechi.Iagree,ifchiisChinesefor“massivebloodloss.”

7.Theforty-fourneedlesallcomeout.Youstarttoleaveandthedoctorlaughsandtellsyouhe’sjustbegun,andthatnowhehastodo“yourbuttside.”Thenyousay,“Mybuttside?”andhe’sall,“No.Yourbuttside.”Thenthenurseyells,“YOURBACKSIDE,”fromoutinthehall,andhe’sall,“Yes.Yourbuttside.”Awesome.

8. Forty-two more needles. All in my butt side. Two hurt like hell and arebleedingalot.Youstarttosuspectthattheacupuncturistisjustmadatyou.Youtrytoexplainthatyouwerenotwiththewomaninthelobbywholetherkid’sactionfigurescommandeerhisshrine.Hetotallydoesnotbelieveyou.

9.Forty-twoneedlesallcomeout.ThenhepourssomesortofliquidonyouthatI’vedecidedtocall“stinkjuice.”Andhekneadsitintoyourpores,sothatyousmelllikeadirtyoldsockthatsomeonehasbeenstoringpatchouliandVapoRubin.

10.Thenyouhearthesoundofalighter,andyoususpectthatyou’reabouttogetyourhairsetonfire,butthentheacupuncturistexplainsthathe’sgoingtodoalittle“cupping,”whichIthinkwaswhatmyfirstboyfriendreferredtoassecondbase.Itsoundedtotallyinappropriate,andIstartedtoprotest,but turnsout it’sjustwhenadoctorsetsfiretothealcoholinasmalljarandthenplacesitovertheskinsoitactsasavacuumandgivesyouanenormoushickey.Which,nowthatIthinkaboutit,stillsoundskindofinappropriate.

11. Then the acupuncturist will open up a piece of tissue paper filled with awhitepowder,andwillhandittoyou,andlookatyouinexpectation.Andyou’llbelike,“Doyouwantmeto...DoIsnortthis?”Andthenhe’llshakehisheadatyouridiocyandmakeyouopenyourmouthsohecanpourwhatlookslikethestufffromtheinsideofaPedEggintoyourmouth.Thenhe’lllaughatyourlookofhorror, andhandyouwater andmakeyoukeepdrinkingand swishing it inyourmouthuntilit’sallgone.Thenhe’llsay,“Ginsengteafordetox,”andyou’llbeall,“That’snothowyoumake tea,”andhe’ll smileandwalkoutwhileyouwonder why you just allowed a strange Chinese man to feed you mysterypowderwrappedintissuepaperwhenhedoesn’tevenknowhowteaworks.Youcan just stopwonderingnow,because there is no fuckinggood answer to this

question.

12.Theacupuncturistwillleaveandyou’llgetdressed,feelingmildlyassaultedandvaguelyconfused,andthenyou’llrealizethatyoucanactuallyputonyourshirtforthefirsttimeallweekwithoutscreaminginpain.Andthenyougoandmake another appointment for next week. Except your husband will vow toneverdriveyouagainbecauseheclaimsthatnowhiscarsmellslike“olddirtyhippie.”

Buthere’sthedeal:Betweentheherbs,andoil,andacupuncture,andthecancerdrugs, andallof the restof it,you findyourselfoccasionallyhavingpain-freedays.Daysthatyoulearntoappreciatesimplybecausenoonestuckeighty-sixneedlesinyouthatmorning.Dayswhenyouhaveanimpromptupicniconthelawnbecauseyoucanbendyourkneesthatday.Dayswhenstudiesarereleasedshowingthatboozehelpsstaveoffarthritisattacks.Thosearethegoldendays.AndevenondayswhenI’mbedriddenandcan’tmove, I’mgrateful tohave

mydaughtercurlupnearmeandwatcholdLittleHouseonthePrairieepisodes.ItrytobeappreciativeofwhatIhaveinsteadofbitteraboutwhatI’velost.Itrytoacceptthisdiseasewithgrace,andpatientlywaitforthedaywhentheyfindacure.AndforwhenIgetmymonkeybutler.3

1.OrtheSpanishInquisition.

2. Actual warning: “Some side effects may cause death. You should only take this drug to treat life-threatening cancer, or certain other conditions that are very severe and that cannot be treatedwith othermedications.”

3.Also,fromnowon,allthehandicappedparkingspotsreallydobelongtopeopleinwheelchairsandnotjust to peoplewho feel like they’re disabled because they have really bad cramps that day.And also, ifyou’re in awheelchair you get frontsies in line at the liquor store fromnowon.And you get free sexyshoes.WeneedtogetthisallpassedinCongressbeforeI’mdisabledbecausethenit’lllooklikeI’mjustdoingitformebecausethat’swhatJesuswoulddo.

ItWasn’tEvenMyCrack

NotlongafterIquitmyjobtobecomeawriter,Victorquithistobeanexecutiveatamedicalsoftwarecompany.Thiswasawesome,exceptforthefactthatnowbothofusworkedathomeandconstantlywantedtomurdereachother.Itookalotoffreelancewritingjobstopaythebills,includingonewhereIwaspaidtoreviewbadporn.VictorwouldwalkaroundthehouseinhisBritneySpearsesquehands-free headset, making business deals and screaming things like “BUY!SELL!WENEEDMOREELEPHANTSONTHISPROJECT!”Orsomethinglike that. Honestly, Iwasn’t really listening. I just know that nothing ismoredistractingthanamanwanderingaimlesslythroughyourhomewhileyellingtohimselfaboutspreadsheetsandinvestmentreturnswhileyou’retryingtowriteasatiricalarticleabouttheeternalculturalrelevancyofEdwardPenishands.InevitablyVictorwouldwanderblindlyintomyofficeashewalkedaroundthe

house, looking as if he were screaming about project management to theconfusedcatshidingundermydesk.I’dglareathim,buthewouldnevergetthehint,soinsteadI’dpullupawork-relatedpornclipfrommycomputer,skiptothe money shot, and turn the volume to eleven. Victor would look at me inhorrifiedpanicashe’dcoverhismouthpieceandrunfrommyoffice,desperatelyhitting mute and whisper-screaming to me about being on an importantconference call. Then he’d ask—in his professional telephone voice—whethereveryonewasallright,asitsoundedlikesomeonewashurt,andIhadtohanditto him, because that was a pretty good recovery. Then he’d come back andexplain the importance of silence on his serious conference call, and I wouldstress the importance of staying in his own damn office. Then he’d stress theimportanceofmy“doingsomerealworkinsteadofjustwatchingpornatthreeintheafternoon,”andI’dstressthatIwasnot“enjoying”thepornandthatIwasmerely“reviewing”it.FORRESEARCH.Consideringthatwespentamajorityof ourworkday in pajamaswhile porn played in the background, therewas asurprisingamountofstressinthatworkplace.EventuallyVictorwouldstalkoff,mutteringaboutethicsandcourtesy,andI’d

screamdownthehall,“THISISMYJOB,ASSHOLE.STOPHASSLINGMEORIWILLSTABYOUINTHEEYE,”andthenhe’dputhiscallonmuteagainand threaten topoisonmycoffee. Itwasa lot likeworking ina regularoffice,exceptthattherewerecatsthere,andalsoyougottosayoutloudexactlywhat

you would have just said in your head if you worked in an office that hadcubiclesandsecurityguards.Before,whenwebothworkedoutof thehouse,weused to comehomeand

bond by complaining about themoronic people in our respective officeswhowere obviously trying to destroy us, but now we couldn’t even have thatconversation,because,asweweretheonlyonesthere,itwasperfectlyobviousthattheonlymoroniccoworkersnowtryingtodestroyusactuallywereus.Aftermanymonthsofnearstabbings,wefinallyagreedthatweneededahousewhereourofficeswerefartherapart,andwerealizedthattherewasnothingtyingustoHouston any longer. We were free to move anywhere we wanted. VictorsuggestedPuertoRico,butwhenIlookedinmyheartIknewwhereIwantedtomove, and no one was more shocked about it than myself, because it wentagainsteverythingI’dpromisedmyselfyearsearlierwhenIhadHailey.WhenHaileywas bornmy first thoughtwas that I needed a drink and that

hospitalsshouldhavebarsinthem.MysecondwastoassuremyselfthatHaileywouldhaveanentirelydifferentchildhood thanIhadhad.I lookedatherlittleface, and I promised to never throw large, dead wild animals on the kitchentable,orsetcougarslooseinthehouse.Victorseemedconfusedbutagreed,ashe assumed that the drugs were still in my system. They were, but it didn’tchangethefactthatIwasdeterminedthatHailey’dhavealifeofballetlessonsandmuseums,andwouldneverwander into thebackyard to lookat thecagedbobcats, only to find a pet duck whose beak had been eaten off by a wildraccoon.AfterHaileywasborn,VictorandIhadsettledintolifeinthesuburbsjustout

ofHouston,andIstruggledinvaintofitin.Haileywasalmostfournow,andshewas sheltered, and protected, and slightly pale from lack of sun in her smallprivateschool,whereshewaslearningmusicanddanceandhowtobeexactlylikeeveryoneelse.Weenrolledheringymnastics,butalltheotherpreschoolersseemed tobepracticing for theOlympics,andmore thanonemommentionedputting their toddlers on diets, which was just fucking crazy. In the end, wedecidedtojustquitandletherjumponthecouch.Still,shewasontheperfectpathtofittinginbeautifullyinanormal,prettylife,anditscaredtheshitoutofme.BothbecauseIwasn’tsureIwasactuallydoingheranyfavorsbyprotectingherfromalifethatIfoundIactuallymissed,andalsobecauseIhadtoadmitthatIfoundmyselffeelingalittlesorryforHailey.Fornotbeingabletogoexplorethe canals, or feed deer in the yard, or have memories of playing with babyraccoonsinthehouse.Wehadourcats,andshelovedoursweetpug,BarnabyJonesPickles,whowasawesome(whowasasclose toLaura Ingalls’sbrindlebulldog aswewould ever get), but hewas no bathtub full of raccoons, and I

suspectevenhewouldhaveagreedwiththat.Andsothat’swhenIfoundmyselfconvincingVictorthatweshouldmoveto

the country with a few acres of land, so Hailey could run, and explore, andexperiencealittleofthefucked-upsortofrurallifethathadmadeVictorandmeable topretend tobecomfortable inmanydifferent social circleswithouteveractuallyfittingintoanyofthem.We’dbothhadfondmemoriesofgrowingupinwide-openplaces,andIwasshockedtosuddenlyrealizethatnowthatI’dseenwhatitwasliketoliveonthepleasant-but-boring“othersideofthetracks,”thechildhoodofcountrylifethatI’dwantedtosaveHaileyfromwasonethatInowtreasured.TheheatandwildanimalsandisolationhadmoldedwhoIwas,andIfoundmyselfproudofthosebumpsalongthewaythathadshapedme.Itseemedunfair todepriveHaileyof thosesameexperiences,andmovingto thecountryseemedliketheperfectanswer.

Hailey—discoveringthejoyofdirt.

WestTexashadchangedtoomuchtofeellikehome,butweeventuallyfoundahouseintheTexasHillCountry,anhouroutsideAustin.Itwasinatinytown,thirtymiles from thenearest grocery store, but itwasquiet, andnice, and thehouse sat on a few acres of trees that drifted down to a pretty, openmeadowfilled with bluebonnets. I felt like I was home. Plus, my office was on theoppositesideofthehousefromVictor’s,andbothhaddoorsyoucouldactuallyclose.

Andtherewassun:

Asalwayswhenweboughtanewhome,Victoraskedthequestionsaboutdeedrestrictionsandtaxes,whileIaskedthetwoquestionsIwasalwaysresponsiblefor:“Hasanyoneeverdiedinthehouse?”and“Howmanybodiesareburiedontheproperty?”Ialwaysassumerealestateagentsarehonestonthefirstquestion,because legally I think theyhave todisclose that,but technically Idon’t thinkthey’rerequiredtoanswerthesecond.Iusedtoaskwhetheranyonewasburiedontheproperty,butIwasafraidthatrealestateagentsweren’tbeinghonestwithme,soIswitcheditto“Howmanybodiesareburiedontheproperty?”becausethenitmakesitsoundlikeIexpecttherearebodiesburiedbecausethat’stotallynormal, and so they’ll be relievedandcasually let slip that there areonly twoand a half bodies buried there. Victor says that my asking those questions isactuallydoing just theopposite, and that I’mmakingeveryoneuncomfortable,andthenIpointoutthatI’mactuallyfinewithbodiesburiedontheproperty,butthatIwanttoknowwheretheyareincaseofthezombieapocalypse.Thisisthepoint when most real estate agents excuse themselves. Probably because it’sboringtoseecouplesarguingaboutthezombieapocalypseallthedamntime.Iexpectthissortofthingisthedownsidetobeingarealestateagent.Eventually,though,weboughtthehouseandbeganthefivestagesofmoving:

DAY1:PackeverythingnicelywithBubbleWrap.Clean it all first so it’s freshandreadytobeunpacked.Labelboxesonallsides.

DAY2:Start intentionallybreakingthingssoyouhaveareasonnottowrapandpackthem.

DAY3:Findeighteenchoppers in thekitchendrawers.Demand thatVictorstopbuying shit from infomercials late at night. Intentionally break seventeenchoppers.

DAY 4: Questionwhy you ever started collecting little glass animals, andwhoallowedyoutohavefourteenhundredofthem.Also,whydowehavethreejunk

drawers? Is that a sign that we’ve finally “made it,” or a sign that we’rehoarders?Try to get onTwitter to ask your friends, but then realize that yourhusbandhas already packed your computer cords. Feel utterly and completelyalone.Cryinthebathroom,butbeunabletoblowyournosebecauseyoucan’tfindtheboxyoupackedthetoiletpaperin.

DAY 5: Set a large bonfire in the living room. Laugh maniacally as you pushcardboardboxesintoit.

This was all true except for the very last part. In actuality, my father-in-law(Alan)cameondayfivetohelpusthroweverythingintoboxes,andtokeepmefrom throwing choppers at Victor, who’d spent all four days “packing” thegarage,whichIwasprettysurecontainedabsolutelynothingofvalue,andwhichIwould have sold for twenty dollars onCraigslist ifVictor had died. I’m notentirely surewhy amanwouldneed two cabinets filledwith tools,when I’vebeenabletomakeitthroughthirty-fiveyearsoflifewithjustducttapeandonescrewdriver.Victorsaysit’sbecause“peopledon’trebuildcarburetorswithducttape,”butI’mprettysurethatVictorjustdoesn’tknowhowversatileducttapeis.After we’d packed up themoving van, we began our long ride to our new

home.Afewminutesintothedrive,Alanclearedhisthroatandself-consciouslypulledabaggieoutofhisfrontpocket.“Oh.Bytheway.Ifoundsome...uh...crack,maybe?”hesaidashehesitantlyhandedmetheZiplocbagofcrack.Myfirst thought was that it was strange that my very conservative father-in-lawwouldoffermecrack,and Iwonderedwhether thiswassomesortof test.MysecondthoughtwasthatalthoughI’dneverseencrackbefore,Iassumeditwasexpensive, and this seemed to be a lot of crack to have at one time. Unlesspossibly he was selling it, which seemed strange, since Alan was a verysuccessful businessman. Still, I was aware that he’d given up awhole day tocomehelpus,soItriedtobenonjudgmentalasIstruggledtofindapolitewayof turning him down, but then I recognized my handwriting on the baggie. IrealizedwithreliefthatAlanmusthavefoundthebagwhenhewaspackingandwasniceenoughtobringitalongfortheride.Ilaughedandexplained,“Oh,thisisnotmycrack. It’sHailey’s,”andhe lookedabitmorenauseated,and thenIexplainedthatwhatI reallymeantwas that itwasHailey’sand that itwasnotcrack.Itwasapowderyoucanbuythatexplodesintofakesnowwhenyouaddwater. I explained thatHailey playedwith it everywinter, sincewedidn’t get

realsnowinTexas,anditwasreusablebutthatwhenitdehydratesitlookslikecrack. I threw a small crack rock into an almost empty water bottle, and itinstantly filledwith snow, andAlan sighedwith relief. Itwas a little insultingthathe’dfoundcrackandautomaticallyassumeditwasmine,butIconsideredeveryoneelsewho lived in thehouseand insteadgavehimcredit forknowingmesowell.Soonafterwemovedin,Istartedresearchingthehistoryoftheareaandfound

that we now lived on the edge of “The Devil’s Backbone,” one of the mosthaunted stretches of land in Texas. I’ve always been fascinated with ghoststories,soitdidn’tbothermeuntilaneighborcameoverandtoldmeaboutthebodies buried down the road from us. “Thewho buriedwhere?” I asked her.Turns out a family had been buried in what was then their backyard, but thewilderness had grown up around it, and now the graves were all but lost. Itbotheredme.Not that therewas an impromptu cemeterydown the road (deadneighborsmakequietneighbors...IthinkRobertFrostsaidthat),butthattherewasalostgraveyardinoursubdivisionthatnoonecouldfind.Haditbeenbuiltover?Were the graves fresh? I’d been happy that we were so far out in thecountryandwouldn’tbeattackedbythehordesofoverpopulatedcityzombies,but it concerned me that if the zombie apocalypse came we might havehomemade zombies planted nearby, andwe had no ideawhich direction theymightcomefrom.Iwasconcerned.SowasVictor,whosaidhe’dappreciateitifI’d stop talking about the zombie apocalypse in front of our neighbors. “Shedeserves to know,” I retorted, and I told Victor that we needed to find thesegraves,becauseIwouldn’tbeabletosleepuntilIknewwheretheywere.“No,”hesaidfirmly.“We’renotgoingtraipsingaroundthewoods,lookingfor

bodiesintheunlikelyeventthatthereisazombieapocalypse.”“CONSTANTVIGILANCE,”I(mayhave)screamed.“I’mdoingthisforall

ofus,asshole.”AndIwas.Wehadazombiegardensomewherenearby,andIwantedtobesurethatitwasoldenoughthatthezombieswouldbenothreat.Wefought about it for a few days, until finally he agreed to find out where thegraveswere,probablybecausehefinallyrealizedthattherearesomeunpleasantthings the protector of the house is responsible for. Or possibly because Icontinuallywokehimupevery threehours toaskwhetherheheardsomethingonthebackporchthatsounded“hungryandshuffling.”Victorfoundalocalguywhoclaimedtoknowwherethegraveswere,andhe

saidtojusttaketheroadattheendofthestreet.Exceptthattherewasn’taroadattheendofthestreet.Ipointedattwoovergrowntracksinthegrass.“Ithinkthat’swhathe’stalkingabout.”“That’snotaroad,”Victorsaiddismissively,buttherewasnothingelsethere.

“I’mprettysure it’sa road,”Iexplained.“Youcan tellbecause there’safirehydrantnexttoit.”Hestaredatmeinaggravationandclenchedhisjawasheturnedourcaronto

the road thatwasn’ta road.Severalminutes (andonedentedoilpan later)wereachedadeadendandVictorglaredatme.Thensomething ranout from thebrush and I screamed, “CHUPACABRA!” And then Victor slammed on thebrakesandjuststaredatmelikeI’dgoneinsane.ProbablybecauseI’dbeensoflustered that I’d accidentally shouted, “CHALUPA!” which I’ll admit isdisconcertingtohavesomeonescreamatyouwhileyou’rebeingattackedbyadangerous creature. In my defense, though, no one could be expected tocommunicate properly after seeing a vicious Mexican goat-sucker monsterrunning through thewoods. Victor said he’d agreewithme completely if thechupacabrahadn’tactuallyjustbeenasmalldeer.Itwasdisheartening.Notonlywerewelivinginaneighborhoodlitteredwithchupacabras1whoweregreatatimpersonating deer, but alsowe never found the graves.And now Iwanted achalupa,andtherewasn’taTacoCabanawithinsixtymilesofus.Itwasafailurebyanystandard,butIconsoledVictorbyremindinghimthatatleastwedidn’townanygoatsthatwe’dhavetoworryaboutgettingsucked.ThenVictoraskedme to stop talking, and he toldme (for the first ofwhatwould eventually beeightthousandtimes)thatwehadmadeahugemistakeinmovingtothecountry.Idefendedournewtownandassuredhimwe justneeded to readjust,buthe

wasright.Clearlywewere inoverourheads,andIfelt itwas justamatteroftimeuntiloneofusgotdysenteryoryellowfever.Untilthen,though,wesettledback, safe in theknowledge that inmovingwe’d somehowcheateddeath . . .certain thatwhen the end came, itwould not be fromVictor andme stabbingeach other from work-related stress, but more likely from the uncharteredwilderness (and possible chupacabra zombies) outside our door. Victor and Iwerecomfortedintheknowledgethatourofficeswerenowfarenoughapartthatwewouldbesafefromeachother,butstillwewereworried.

Andwewererighttobe.

1. Spell-check refuses to recognize the word “chupacabra.” Probably because it’s racist. Spell-check, Imean.Notchupacabras.ChupacabrasaremonstersfromMexicothatsuckbloodoutofgoats.Theydon’tcarewhatraceyouare.Bizarrely,spell-checkisperfectlyfinewiththeword“CHUPACABRA!”inallcaps,which makes no sense at all. Unless it’s because it recognizes that you’d use that word only whilescreaming.Touché, spell-check. P.S.Actualwords used in this book that spell-check insists are not realwords: Velociraptors. Shiv. Chupacabra. Yay. It’s like spell-check doesn’t even want me to write mymemoir.

Honestly,IDon’tEvenKnowWhereIGotThatMachete:AComicTragedyin

ThreePartsDays

Day1:

ThedaythatBarnabyJonesPicklesdiedwasadifficultone.Wewere still getting used to our new house, andwewere planning how to

buildabackyardfencethatwouldkeephiminandthescorpionsout.Untilthen,though,we’dsimply lethimrunaround thehousemostof theday, terrorizingthecats,andthenputhimoutonanincrediblylongleash/dogrunattachedtotheback-porchbanister,sohecouldrundowntothemeadowbehindourhouse.Buthaving a dog in the backyard, even for a little bit a day, is risky, and in thecountryIlearnedthatitwasjustdamneddangerous.Learnfrommymistakes,people.Iconvincedmyselfthathe’dbefine,ashehadacoveredporchtorestunder,

withseveraloutdoorceilingfansthatranconstantly,plusasprinklertorunin.Iwas certain that he was perfectly safe from everything but himself. He’d befrolickingaroundasIwatchedfromthelivingroom,andthentwominuteslaterI’d look up again to find himwith no leash left, having somehowwoven anenormous, terribly designed sort of spiderwebwith his leash, all ofmy porchchairsnowcaughtunnaturallyinsideofitashelookedatme,hislittlepugheadcocked to the side as if to say, “. . . what the fuck just happened?” I’dpainstakinglyuntanglehimandmovetheporchchairsaroundtothefrontofthehouse,butbythetimethatIgotbackhe’dbetiedtothebarbecuegrill,givingmetheexactsamelook.Istartedtosuspectthatinapastlifehe’dbeenasmallandnotverygoodpirate

whosespecialtywaslashinghimselftothemastatthemostinopportunetimes.IcouldimaginethecaptaingivinghimthesamepityingbutfrustratedlookwhenhecameupfromhisnaptofindthatBarnabyJonesPiratehadlashedhimselftothewheeloftheshipbecausehethoughthesawacyclone,whichturnedouttobesomebirds.Iknewexactlyhowthatcaptainmusthavefelt,asheundoubtedlysighed and spent another half-hour unwinding the knotted ropes as Barnaby

Jones licked him uncontrollably on the face. Or at least, that’s what BarnabyJonesPicklesalwaysdidtomewhileIwasuntanglinghim.IsuspectBarnabyJonesPiratediditaswell.Thereweren’talotofgirlpiratesaround,andI’mnotgoing to judge a bunch of pirates and their licking practices. I’m totally pro–same-sex-licking.Andpro-pirate.Exceptfortherapingandpillagingparts.I’manti–raping-and-pillaging.I’mpro–hooks-and-peg-legs.WhichIthinkmakesmepirateagnostic.I never yelled at Barnaby, though, because it’s hard to be mad at someone

who’s so damned happy to see you. “Good old Jones,” I’d say gruffly, as IrubbedhisearswhilehejoyfullyattemptedtognawtheshoesIwaswearingoffofmyfeet.He’dsmileinthatsemi-mindlesswaythatpugshaveperfected,andI’d try very hard not to fixate on the furious rabbit hiding in his foreheadwrinkles(constantlyglaringatmeaccusingly),bothbecauseitseemedtomakethe dog self-conscious, and also becauseVictor said that seeing an imaginaryangryrabbitonyourdog’sforeheadisprobablysomesortofRorschachtestthatprovessomementalillnessthatwecouldn’taffordtoproperlymedicateanyway.Butitwastotallythere.Seebelow:

Idrewintherabbitfaceforpeoplewithlittleimagination,butonceyou’veseenit,itcan’tbeunseen.

Andthencame the terribledaywhenIcalledBarnabyJones tocome inside,only to findhimdead in thebackyard,his furrowedbunnybrowgoneforever.His facewas swollen, andourvet later saidhe’dmost likelybeenbittenbyasnake.I’dwritesomethingdarklycomedicheretocutthesadnessofthewholeexperience,butIjustcan’t,becauseIlovedthatdamndog.InmyheadIscreamedobscenitiesatmyselfforeverleavinghimoutside,butI

hadtostayquietsothatHaileywouldn’tnotice.Ididn’twanthertoseehimthatway.Victorwasoutof town,and thevet’sofficeansweringmachinesaid theywereclosedfor theweekend,soIpickedBarnabyupandcarriedhimdowntothemeadowbehindourhouse,andthencrieduntilIcouldn’tcryanymore.Then,

after an hour of backbreakingwork digging a hole in ground thatwas almostentirely rock, Iburiedhim there in themeadowhe loved to frolic in. Ipiledacairnofrocksontopofthegravetomarkit.Ididitalone,anditsucked.Whenitwasdone,ItoldHaileyandhuggedherwhileshecried.Weheldeach

otheronthecouch,andeveryfewhoursshe’daskmewhetheritwasjustabaddream.Iwisheditwere.SheaskedifwecouldgobuyanotherpugandcallhimBarnabyJonesandjustpretendthatheneverdied.Itoldherthatitwouldn’tbefair todo that toBarnaby,but the truthwas that Iknew Icouldn’thandle thisagain,andIresolvedthenandthere,“Iwillneverownanotherdog.”IcalledVictortotellhimwhathadhappened,andhecried.ItoldhimthatI’d

buriedBarnabyJonesinourmeadow,andthenVictorgotveryquiet,becausehewas perfectly aware of the fact that there’s almost no dirt in the meadow. Isuspectedhewasjustquietbecauseherealizedwhataterriblepredicamenthe’dputmeinbynotbeinghome,butthenhesaidenigmatically,“Keepaneyeouttowhere you buried him.” He said it exactly the same way that the guy inPetSematary (still purposely misspelled) would say it if you accidentally buriedsomeoneyou loved in thepartof thecemetery that resurrectsbodies. I sighedandstartedcryingagain,becausethelastthingIwantedtodowastohavetokillmyalreadydeaddogagainwhenhissoullessbodydug itselfoutof thegrave,and thenVictorwasall,“What in thehellareyou talkingabout?” and I said,“Youknow. . .SOMETIMESTHEYCOMEBACK?”ThenVictorsaidhewasgoingtocallhisparentstocomegetme,becauseIwasobviouslyhavingsomesortofnervousbreakdown.At the timeI thoughthewassayingthatbecauseIwas getting all of my Stephen King stories confused in my head, but inretrospect it might have been because I just started ranting about having tomurderouralreadydeaddogwithnorealcontext.Eitherway,though,theworstpartwasover,andIassuredVictorthatintimeI’dbeokay.AndItotallywouldhavebeen.IfBarnabyJonesPickleshadnotrisenfromthe

grave.

Day2:Myneighborcameovertotellmeshe’dseenmediggingagraveinthemeadowyesterday, and thought she’d stop by to see if everything was okay. I wastouched, both because she’d come to check on me and also because she’dassumedIwasdiggingagravebuthadn’tcalledthepolice.“This,”Ithoughttomyself,“isexactlywhyI lovethecountry.”Shealsotoldmethat itwas likelythatarattlesnakehadbittenBarnaby,as thathadhappenedto twoofherdogs.“Andthis,”Ithoughttomyself,“isexactlywhyIhatethecountry.”

IcalledVictor,whowasstilloutoftownfortheweek.“BarnabyJonesPickleswasactuallykilledbya rattlesnake.Also, apparently they’reeverywherehere,andtheyallwant tokillyourdog.I’mnever leavingthehouseagain.Howdothe guns work?” Victor was freaked out about that series of questions, andrefused to give me the combination to the gun safe, because apparently hewanted the rattlesnakes to eat Hailey and me. Then he pointed out thatrattlesnakes don’t eat people, and that it was just as likely that Barnaby waskilled by an allergic reaction froma bee as froma rattlesnake, and that Iwasprobably just fixating on rattlesnakes to keep from having to mourn aboutBarnaby.ThenIhunguponVictorandGoogled,“HowdoImakerattlesnakesleavemealone?”AccordingtoWikipedia,snakesdespisemothballsandwill runfromthemat

allcosts(whichseemedquestionable,sincesnakesdon’thavelegs).IsuspectedthatWikipediahadconfused snakeswithmoths,but themothball remedywasrepeatedonothersitesaswell,soIboughtsixeconomy-sizeboxesofmothballsandsprinkled themaround theperimeterof thehouseso thickly that it lookedlike it had hailed in an incredibly fucked-up pattern. It also smelled as ifmyhousewerebeing surroundedby littleold ladies,whichwasunfortunate,but Ivisualized that theywereviciousoldgrannieswhowereallarmedwithsnake-choppingbattle-axes,andthatmadeiteasiertodealwith.I also called an exterminator,who said themothballswere agood start, and

thathe’dbringoveragiantcanofsnakerepellenttosprayaroundtheperimetertokeepthesnakesatbay.Iasked,“Sohowdoyoumakesurethatthesnakeisn’talreadyhidinginsidetheperimeter,andwillnowbetrappedinherewithme?”Hepausedforasecond,thenreplied,“Wow.That’sagoodquestion.Howdo

youknow?”AndIwaslike,“Thisisn’taquiz.I’maskingyou . . .howdoyouknow?”Thenhesaidthatifthesnakewasn’talreadygone,itwouldbeabletopassovertheSnake-A-Wayjusttogetfarawayfromthescent.Iasked,“Soit’snotlikewhenyouputacircleofsaltaroundyoutokeepdemonsaway?”Andhewaslike,“Thatworks?”AndthenIthoughtthatmaybeIneededtofindanewexterminator.Iwentouttodoasecondlineofmothballs,andthatwaswhenInoticedthat

Barnaby Jones’s grave had been disturbed. The cairn of stones I’d put on hislittletombhadbeenknockeddown,andIsawthetiny,horrifyinghintofapawstickingout.ForabriefsecondIwasterrifiedthatBarnabyJoneswasactuallyreturningfromthegrave,andIfroze,wonderingwhetherIshouldhelpdighimoutorcallanexorcist.ButasIwatched,anenormousdarkbirdswoopeddownandpulledattheleg.Islowlymademywaydownthehilltowardthemeadowasagianthordeofraptorsshriekedandtookofffromthetreetheywereperchedin.

Vultures.Irantothegaragetograbamachete,buteverytimeIwouldwalkawayfrom

Barnaby’s grave theywould swoop back in. Then I would scream and run atthem,wavingmymacheteangrily,andtheywouldtakeastepbackandlookatmelikeIwasbeingridiculous.“You’veleftusfood,”theyseemedtobesaying.“Pleasestoptryingtowhackusintheheadswithamachete.It’sbadenoughthatyou’veburiedoursnack.Honestly,you’reembarrassingallofushere.”I felt likeLaura Ingallswhen shewas shooing away locusts from thewheat

crop,exceptthatmywheatcropwasadeaddogandIdidn’thaveasunbonnet.Ifinally came inside and calledmymom, and shewas very understanding andsupportive.Sheis,however,alsoarealist,andshesuggestedthatmaybeIshouldleave the house for a few days and just let Barnaby Jones have some sort ofaccidental Tibetan sky burial. My mom is the worst atheist ever. Also, it’spossiblethatshewaslesspro–Tibetan-sky-burialandmorejustunsettledtolearnthatIownmyownmachete.It’slikemymomhasneverevenmetme.She had a point, though. It was the circle of life, but I wasn’t okay with

Barnaby Jones being an appetizer at that circle. I was also afraid that HaileywouldseeallthevulturespullBarnabyfromhisgrave.Shewasalreadypeeringat the enormous birds suspiciously, and had asked why they were there.“They’re . . . praying,” I replied, saying the first thing that came to mind.“They’reprayingandhavingafuneralforBarnaby.”Luckily,thismadeperfectsensetoasix-year-oldraisedonillogicalDisneymovies.IcalledVictoragain.“BarnabyJonesPickleswasactuallykilledbyashark.”“What?”hechokedout.“Justkidding.Butheisrisingfromthegrave.”“I’mworkinghere,”hewhispered,voicestrained.“Areyoudrunkrightnow?”“I have never beenmore sober—or more in need of a drink—inmy entire

life.”ThenVictorhunguptogetbacktowork,andIconsideredthrowingallofour house cats outside to chase off the vultures, but I was afraid that they’deithergetlost,sincethey’dneverbeenoutsidebefore,orthatthevultureswouldsimplyseethemasaneasiersnack,pickthemup,andcarrythemoff.Notonlywouldthatbeverydepressing,butIwasalsokeenlyawarethatifIaccidentallykilled all of our pets in a singleweekendVictorwould never leaveme aloneagain,andwouldprobablytaketohidingthemachete.InsteadIdecidedtojustdrawallthecurtainsandpretendthatthiswastotallynothappening.

Day3:“Holyfuck,”Ithoughttomyself.“Thisistotallyhappening.”

There were now a dozen vultures hovering around Barnaby’s grave andknocking off stones. I called a million (a million = fourteen) places to getsomeonetocomedisintermydog—whowasalreadypartiallydisinterredbythehorrible vultures that I’d been attacking with a machete—but no one wouldcome,becauseitwastheweekend.Apparentlypeopleneedtohavetheirdogs’corpses disinterred only Monday through Friday. Then I found a guy on the“services” part of Craigslist who claimed on his listing that he would “doabsolutelyanyjobfortherightprice,”butwhenIlookeduphise-mailaddressontheInternetIfoundthathealsoranadsforpeoplelookingforprostitutes,sobasicallyhe’sapimp,anditfeltweirdtoinviteapimpoverwhenitwasjustmeandHailey,andthiswaswhenIscreamedinmyhead,“WHYISVICTORNOTHOMEYET?”Icalledhimagain.“BarnabyJoneswasactuallykilledbyahordeof...Idon’t

know.Idon’tevenhavethestrengthtomakeshitup.ButIfoundapimpwho’llcomedighimup.”ThenVictorpointedoutthatthepimpwasprobablyreferringlesstojobsthatinvolveddiggingupdeadanimals,andmoretojobsthatinvolvehandsandblow,andIsaid,“Ican’tpayhimincocaine.IDON’TEVENKNOWWHERE TOGET COCAINE.” And then Victor told me to just go stay at ahotel,andthathe’dtakecareofeverythingwhenhecamebackinafewdays.Iwashalf tempted,butI toldVictor thatIalreadyfeltbadenoughfornotbeingthereforBarnabywhenhe’ddied,andIwasdamnedifIwasgoingtodeserthimwhilehewasbeingeaten.Victortoldmetocalmdown,becauseIsoundedlikeIwashyperventilating. Ipointedout that Iwas justoutofbreathbecause Iwasoutside,swingingthemacheteatthevultures.ThenVictorrealizedthatImustbeusinghishands-freeheadset,andhegotall

kindsofpissedoffthatIwas“gettingitsweaty.”Andthat’swhenIhunguponhim.BecausegettingaheadsetsweatywaskindofsmallpotatoescomparedtothefactthatIwasbrandishingamacheteatlargeraptors,whileconsideringtheprosandconsofhiringapimptodigupourdeaddog.Victorkeptyellingatme,though, since technically I didn’t actually know how to hang up a hands-freeheadset,butIexplainedthathewaswastinghisbreath,becauseI’dalreadyhungup the phone in my mind and wasn’t listening anymore. Then he got reallyshouty,soIstartedsinging“TotalEclipseof theHeart” todrownhimout,andthat’swhenmyneighborshowedupagain.She seemed more concerned this time, possibly because I was belting out

Bonnie Tyler and crying while swinging around a machete over a partiallydisturbed grave. Or possibly it was because shewas thinking, “You’re totallygettingthatheadsetallsweaty.”Peopleareweird,andit’shardtoguesswhat’sgoing through their heads. She looked up at the vultures and immediately

realizedwhatwasgoingon,andbroughtoveragiantblueplastictarptohelpmecover Barnaby.We put heavy rocks all around the edges of the tarp and thevultureslookedpissed,butIwassogratefulIcried.ThenIwentinsideandtooka very, very long shower.When I came back out I realized that vultures aresurprisinglystrong,andthat theblueplastic tarphadbecomeakindofvultureRubik’sCube,eachofthebirdstryingacornertogetitallsolved.Iwashavinganervousbreakdown,butatleastIwasbringingthevulturecommunitytogether.My friend Laura (yes, the same one who’d dragged me to wine country)

noticed that my Twitter stream was filled with updates about vultures, andmachetes,anddeaddogs,andhowgladIamthatCartoonNetworkexists,andsoshecalled.Iwasall,“I’mfine,”andsheveryplaintivelysaid,“Well,youdon’tsoundfine.I’mcomingovertodigupyourdeaddog,”andIimmediatelysaid,“No!Nooneneeds to see that.Especially you,becauseyouknewhim.”Thenshesaid,“Yousoundterrible.We’llberightover.I’mbringingmyfour-year-old.Andashovel.”Andshedid.Icouldn’tletherdoitalone,soweputonavideogameforHaileyandHarry

and told themweweregoinggardening.Thenwebothputongloves,andsheputonabandannatomaskthesmell,andwedidit.Andby“didit”ImeanthatwedugupmydogandsealedhimintoanIgloocooler.ExceptthattechnicallyIdiditwithmyeyesmostlyclosed,becauseIcouldn’tbeartolook,andsoLaurawasall,“Okay,lift.Shoveltotheleft.YOUROTHERLEFT.HOLYSHIT,DONOTLOOK.Further...further...lowerintothebox...DONE!HIGHFIVE,TEAM.”And then it was done, and Laura, an Emmy Award–winning cosmopolitan

womanwhoownedshoesthatcostmorethanmywedding,stuckherchinoutatthe vultures (whowere all glaring at us from a few feet away) andmutteredmenacingly, “That’s right, assholes. This shit is over.” It was surprisinglyempoweringforbothofus.We sealed the cooler completely and carried it toward the garage, where it

could wait in peace until the crematory came to pick up Barnaby Jones onMonday.Itseemedbothridiculousandterriblysad,butthenLauralookedatmewithunderstandingeyesandsaid,“Aw.We’reBarnabyJones’spaw-bearers.Getit?Laughnow.”AndIdid. I laughedfor thefirst time indaysas Icarriedmysweet, dead dog from his shallow desecrated little grave. And that’s when IrealizedhowincrediblyluckyIamtohavefriendslikeLaura.Becauseshetooksomethingtraumaticandawfulandmadeit...okay.AndalsobecausewhenIapologized—for the eighteenth time—for getting her into this, she said, “It’stotally fine,” and waved her hands in dismissal, as if I’d simply spilled mymartinionthetable.Thenshesaid,“Dude.YourdogislikeJesus.He’srisingon

the third day.”And then I told her shewas like “MaryMagdalene, only lesswhorey,”andshewaslike,“Well,it’snotacontest.”Thenwecameinsideandscrubbedourhandsfortwohours,andthenshetoldmethatshehadeverythinginherpursetomakefreshsalsa,includingbeerandatinyCuisinart,becausesheknowsIdon’townappliances.Itwaslikeherpursewasmagical,andIpeeredin,askingherwheretheponywas.“Ew,”shesaid,lookingatmewithjudgmentforthefirsttimethatwholeday.“Whothehellputsponyinsalsa?Youreallyareaterriblecook.”AndattheendofaweekthatwassohorrificthatIdidn’tthinkI’dcomeouttheothersideagain,IsomehowendeditfeelingsomethingthatIwouldneverhaveexpected.Ifeltlucky.IwasremindedofsomethingmyfatherusedtosaywhenIwoulddeplorehis

taste in friends (who occasionally turned out to be murderers and homelesspeople).ForonceIfoundmyselfagreeingwithhismantra:“Afriendissomeonewho knows where all your bodies are buried. Because they’re the ones whohelpedyouputthemthere.”Hewasright.Andsometimes, ifyou’rereally lucky, theyhelpyoudig them

backup.

EPILOGUE:HaileyandHarrydecidedtheyneededtotakeapictureofLauraandmeafterwewerefinished“gardening.”Itisthesingleworstandbestpicture Iown.

Shovel,Laura,shovelfordwarves(apparently),me.

It’s like some kinda fucked-up American Gothic portrait, but with fewerpitchforksandmorerappers.IftherewasasongforthischapteritwouldbetheGoldenGirls theme. But less douchey, and with a kick-ass drum solo in the

middle.Andthe lyricswouldbelike“Youwouldsee thebiggestgiftwouldbefromme,andthecardattachedwouldsay,‘Thankyouforhelpingmedigupmydeaddog.’”Thatshit’sGrammygold,y’all.Severalweekslater,adeliverymancametothedoorwithapackageformeto

signfor,andIwassoexcitedbecauseI thought itwasascarf I’dordered,butthen I opened it and realized it was a box of Barnaby Jones Pickles’s ashes.You’re reallyneverprepared forpackages like that.But really,you shouldbe.Somedaysaregood,andsomedaysarebad,andsomedaysarethedaysyougetadeaddoginthemail.Theycan’tallbewinners.Later we disposed of some of Barnaby Jones Pickles’s ashes in the Devil’s

Backbonewherewe live, because it’s apparently very haunted by Indians andSpanishmonks,andI’dliketothinkitwouldbelesshorrifyingifpeopledroveupontheghostofaloneIndian,grudginglyaccompaniedbyasmilingpugwhowasjustsodamnhappytoseeyou.You’rewelcome,Texas.

I’mGoingtoNeedanOldPriestandaYoungPriest

Thefollowingisaseriesofactualeventspulledfrommyjournalthatledtomebelieve that our home was possessed by demons and/or built over an Indianburial ground. (Also, please note that the first part of this chapter actuallyhappensjustbeforethepreviouschapter,andthelastpartofithappensjustafterit.Thiscouldbeviewedas“clunkyandawkward,”butIprefertothinkofitas“intellectuallychallengingandchronologically surreal.Like ifMementowas abook.Aboutdeaddogsandvaginasandpuppetsmadeofsquirrelcorpses.”Youcan feel free to use that quote if you’re reviewing this chapter, or if you’re astudent andyour teacher asks you, “Whatwas the author trying to sayhere?”Thatwas it.That’swhat Iwas trying tosay.Thatand“Usecondoms if you’regoingtohavesex,forGod’ssake.Therearealotofskanksoutthere.”That’snotreallycoveredinthisbook,butit’sstillgoodadvice.)Let’sgetstarted.

Youknowwhatwouldsuck?If,afteryoumoved,yousuddenlyrememberedthatyoumighthaveleftacigarboxwithaten-year-oldjointinyourgarage,andyourhusbanddoesn’trememberwhetherhesawit,andyoudon’tknowwhetherthemovers found it andpacked it foryou, and sonowyoumayormay nothaveillegaldrugssomewhereinyourhouse.Andyouwanttohireadrugdogtocomesniff it out so thatyourkiddoesn’t find theboxoneday,butyoudon’tknowanyonewhorentsoutdrugdogs.Andyoukindofjustwanttocall thecopstohavethemcomefindit,andyou’lljusttellthemthattheycanhaveitiftheyfindit,butyoudon’tknowwhetherthey’llarrestyouornot,eventhoughtechnicallyyou’rejusttryingtoridyourselfofillegaldrugs.Thisisallhypothetical.It’salsothereasonwe’relosingthewarondrugs.Also,ispotillegalifit’sexpired?Andhowdoyouknowwhetherit’sexpired?TheseareallquestionsI’daskthepoliceifIweren’tsoafraidtocallthem.

Holyshit,y’all.Ijustlookedupandtherewasafoxinouryard.Afuckingfox.Iknowthis isnobigdeal tomostpeople,but itkindofblowsmymindthatwelive so far out in the country that there are actual foxen that live in our hills.Also,spell-checkrefusestorecognizethelegitimacyof“foxen,”eventhoughitis clearly a word. One ox, two oxen. One fox, two foxen. This is all basiclinguisticstuffhere.

VictorandIarehavingahugeargumentaboutwhetherornottofeedthefoxen.Victorsaysyes,becausethey’readorableand—accordingtotheneighbors—arequitetame.Isayno,becausewehaveafatlittlepugwholikestofrolicoutsideoccasionallyandIdon’twanttoseehimeaten.Ithoughtwewereonthesamepageaboutthefox,butthenVictorwentandthrewanappleatit.AndIwasall,“Whatthefuck?Wedon’tfeedthefoxen,”andhesaid,“Iwasthrowingtheappleatittochaseitaway,”butVictorisatremendousliar,andhedidn’tgotopickup the apple, probably because he knows that foxen love apple cider. Also,everythingIknowabout foxenI learnedfromFantasticMr.Fox,whichwasagreat movie, but I suspect was not entirely fact-driven. This is probably allobviousevenwithouttheexplanation.

Actualfoxinmybackyard.Lookingforcider,Iassume.

The foxen have not given up and hang around the backyard like a pack ofloiteringteenagerswhoneedtogetadamnjob.Iscream,“Getoffmylawn,”buttheyjustlookatmeinquisitivelyandrolloverontheirbacksliketheywanttheirtummiesscratched.Iamnotscratchingyourtummies,foxen.Victorhasfallenfortheircleverploysandissneakingfoodouttothebackyard

so he can feed them. Because Victor thinks I’m stupid. He goes through thefridge and carefully pulls out perfectly good sausages and eggs and loudly

exclaimsthatthey’vegonebad,andthenhethrowsthemoutthebackdoorandwatches formovement.Hesayshe’s“composting,”but I’vecalledhimonhisbullshit. “You can’t feed them,” I explain again. “That’s like chumming forfoxen. I’m not going tobait thehole and then putBarnaby Jones Pickles outthere.We’llcomeouttoseeafoxchewingontheendofanemptyleash.”“BUTIWANTTOSEEONEUPCLOSE,”Victoryells.“Theylooklikecats,”Isay.“Likegrayish,plottingcats.”Herefusedtobelieve

me,sothenextdaywedrovepastabuzzardeatingoneonthesideoftheroad,and Iwas all, “LOOK!FOX!”Then I smugly said, “There.Now you’ve seenone.Notthatexciting,isit?”AndVictorpointedoutthatthedeadanimalwasacat, and Iwas like, “Exactly. THAT’SHOWALIKETHEYLOOK.”Also, itmighthaveactuallybeenacat. It’shard to tellwhatbuzzardsareeatingwhenyoudrivepastthematsixtymilesanhour.

Thefoxenhavegottogo.BarnabyJonesPicklesseemstothinkthey’refriendlykitties andkeeps trying to runover to them to play.Luckily his dog rungoesonlysofar,sothefoxenjuststandbeyondhisgraspandstareathimpatiently,likehe’ssomeone’schildwhoneedstoberunningalongnow.Theyignorehimand don’t seem to be a threat, but at this point I’m a little embarrassed atBarnaby’s exuberance and desperately obvious desire to playwith foxen,whoclearlythinkthey’rebetterthanhim.ThosefoxenarebeingassholesandIwillnotstandfortheirattitude.MyfriendKarentoldmethatwhentheyhaveafoxprobleminEngland, the

manofthehousejustpeesallaroundtheperimeter,becausethere’ssomethinginmaleurinethatscarestheshitoutoffoxesforsomereason.Itseemslegit,soItellVictorthatIneedhimtopeeinacirclearoundourhousetoprotectthedog.Victorwalksoutoftheroomandlockshimselfinhisoffice.Icanalmosthearhim shaking his head through the door. In retrospect, I probably could havestartedwithmorecontext.

Iwas just reading thischapter toafriendandshestoppedmeandsaid,“Wait.Didn’tBarnabydieinthelastchapter?I’msoconfused.Whyareyoutryingtoprotectyourdeaddog?”SoI’mgoingtopopinhereagaintopointout(again)that this part all happened beforeBarnaby died. Iwasn’t trying to protectmydeadzombiedogfromjudgmental,loiteringfoxen.Becausethatwouldbecrazy.

It’sbeendaysandthefoxenseemtolovesleepingjustoutofreachofBarnaby.Victor says this just showshow tame theyare,but I’mpretty sure they’re justtryingtogivehimsomesortofairbornefoxdisease.“JUSTGOPEE!”Iscreamdesperately at Victor. “If you loved Barnaby Jones you would be peeing allOVERhimrightnow.”Victorlookedup.“Doyoueverevenlistentothethingsyousayoutloud?”“Well,Itrynotto,”Iadmitted.“Butinthiscase?I’mright.Youneedtogopee

alloverthebackyard.Andpossiblythefrontyard.Andonthedog.”Victor shook his head. “I’m not peeing in the yard.We don’t have a fence.

That’showyougetarrested.Idon’tevenhavethatmuchpee.”“YOUKNOWWHAT?”Isaid,myarmscrossedangrily.“FINE.I’mtryingto

saveourdog,andyou’rehoardingpee.PEEHOARDER.”“I’m notHOARDING pee,” Victor yelled. “I’m flushing it down the toilet.

WHEREITBELONGS.”“You’reWASTINGIT.”“You’resupposedtowasteit.THAT’SWHYIT’SCALLED‘WASTE.’”“Great,”Ianswered.“I’msureBarnabyJoneswillbeverycomfortedknowing

thathediedoffoxdiseasebecauseofsemantics.”

I calledmymom to askwhetherDaddy coulddrive a fewhours to comepeearoundmyhouse forprotection,but she saidhe couldn’t, because it’s a reallybusyseasonfortaxidermy.ButshesaidifI“reallyneededit”shecouldprobablymailme some. I considered it, but then said no, because first of all, that is apackageIdon’teverwanttosignfor,andsecond,becauseIcanalreadypredictthatVictorwillbeallpissedoff(nopunintended)thatIaskedmyfatherforhelpprotecting us from foxen, and then Victor will be all, “I AM THE ALPHAMALEINTHISHOUSEANDNOONEISPEEINGONITBUTME.”Thenthenext timemydadcomesover they’llendup inapissingcontest.Literally.ExceptVictoristoocompetitiveandhe’dprobablypushittoofarandwouldbelike, “Oh, yeah? Forget pee; I’ll throwup everywhere!” and I’ll be all, “Youroverachievement isgross.”Weneverhadtheseproblemswhenwelivedin thesuburbs.

LastweekBarnabyJonesdiedvaliantlyofawaspsting/snakebite/sharkattack.It

wasawfulandIstillcan’twriteaboutitwithoutcrying.Ilovedthatdamndog.Thefoxenhavebeenclearedofanysuspicionof involvement inhisdeath.ByVictor.Who I thinkmight be biased, since he seems set on taming them andcreating a fox circus. This will not stand. Honestly, I know the foxen aren’tresponsibleforBarnaby’sdeath,butIsuspectthatifVictorweren’tfeedingthemall the time, theywouldhavebeenhungryenough toeat thewasp/snake/sharkthatkilledBarnaby.IhaveforbiddenVictor to throwfoodin thebackyard.HesaysI’mcrazyandthathestoppeddoingthatalongtimeago.ThreehourslaterIsaw a foxwalk by the bedroomwindow eating a leftover hamburger.Mother.Fucker.

Ourhouseseemstobeinfestedwithscorpions.Awesome.They’renotthefatalkind,buttheyhurtlikehelliftheystingyou,andthey’recreepyandweremadebySatan.Fortunately,catsareimmunetoscorpionvenom(funfact!),sothey’resafe.Unfortunately,thecatsdon’tunderstandthatIamnotimmunetoscorpionvenom, and so insteadof killing them they just bat them towardmybare feetwhile I’mwatchingTV.Probablybecause theywantme to join in the fun.Orbecausethesecatsareassholes.I’mleaningtowardthelatter,becausethesesamecats justmurderedHailey’s pet frogs today. Itwas a goddamnmassacre. Firstsnakes,thenthefrogs,thenaplagueofscorpions.I’mstartingtosuspectwe’vereachedtheendofdays,orhavebuiltourhomeonanIndiangraveyard.Ikeepsearching for the dead bodies supposedly buried inmy neighborhood, but if Idon’tfindthemsoonI’mgoingtojusthavetoassumesomeonebuiltthishouseoverthem.

Theexterminatorshavecometosprayforscorpionsfourtimesinthelastmonth,and it’s not working. I read online that chickens eat scorpions, so I considerbuying some, until Victor reminds me of the foxen. So, basically I can’t getchickens to take care of the scorpion infestation, because the chickenswill beeaten by the fox infestation. I think I need a lion to eat the foxen.Exceptwecan’thavealion,becauseofdeedrestrictions.Frankly,I’mnotevensurewhatthepointwasofmovingouttothecountryif

youaren’tallowedtohavelions.

The exterminator says the scorpions are probably all coming from the attic,because that’swherescorpions like to live,soIwentonanInternetchat roomforadvice.

INTERNETGUY:Youneedtobuysomeducks.Duckseattheshitoutofscorpions.

ME:Butthescorpionsareinmyattic.

INTERNETGUY:Yougetaboutfivehundredducksupthereandyou’renotgonnahavetoworryaboutanymorescorpionsleftinyourattic.

ME:Yeah...Iguess.ButthenI’llhavefivehundredducksinmyattic.

INTERNETGUY:Yougotagun?

Andthat’sexactlywhyyoushouldn’taskforadviceontheInternet.

Victorboughtagiantbagofdiatomaceousearththathe’sgoingtousetokillallthescorpions.Apparently, it’sdirt thatmakesscorpionscommitsuicide,and itsoundslikesomethingwizardswouldsellyou.“Didtheyteachyouhowtopronounce‘AvadaKedavra’whenyouboughtit?”

Iask.Victorjuststaresatme.Probablybecausehe’sneverreadanyoftheHarryPotterbooks. “Sorry,” I explain. “It’s just that I’mpretty sureyou just boughtsomethingmadeupbysorcerers.Weretheyalloutofmagicbeans?”“It’snotmagic.It’sjustground-upshells,”Victorsays.“Scorpionsreallyhate

it,apparently.”“Ah,”Isay.“Well,thatexplainswhyyouneverseescorpionsvacationingby

theseaside.”

Thescorpionshavealllefttheattic.Forthehouse.I’morderingaflamethrowerto keep beside the bed. Just a small one, though, because I’m aware of firesafety.Iboughtthekindyouusetomakethetopofcrèmebrûléecrunchy.Andalotof lighter fluid. I still shoospidersandmothsoutof thehousewithplasticcups,butthesescorpionsaregoingtodiepainfully.

Neighborsadvisedthatweshouldplacethefeetofourbedsinmasonjars tokeepthescorpionsfromcrawlingintobedwithusatnight,asglassistheonlysurface they’re unable to climb. I consider howmuch it would cost to covereverythinginthehousewithalayerofglass,butVictorconvincesmetheglasscouch would leave questionable marks on sweaty summer days. I add “haveglassshoesmade”tomyto-dolistsothatIcankeepscorpionsfromcrawlingupme when I stand in one place for too long. I suspect Cinderella had anundisclosed problem with scorpion infestation in her home too. Althoughknowing her, she was probably breeding them. That’s what I’d do if I wereforced to be a slave inmy own house. Plus, shemade the rats andmice andpigeonsdesignclothesforher,sosheprobablytaughtthescorpionstodotrickstoo.Maybe to hold handmirrors for her with their pincers. Or to punish thelaziermicewhowouldratherlookforcheesethanmakeasash.Cinderellawaskindofabitch,nowthatIthinkaboutit.

Todaytheexterminatorcameouttosprayforscorpionsagain,andheleftanotesayingthathefoundanenormoussnakeskinnexttoourhouse.ThenIscreamed,“EVERYTHINGINTHECOUNTRYWANTSTOKILLYOU,”andVictortoldme togo liedown.But thenIwent togo lookat thesnakeskin,andIwasall,“Thisisausedpapertowel.”ThenVictorsaid,“Dude.That’stotallyasnakeskinthat’s been shed.Look at the diamond scale pattern,” and Iwas all, “That’s atextureddiamondweavetoabsorbmorewetness.Youcantellit’sapapertowelbecause snakeskins aren’t square. Or perforated.” And I spread it out on thegroundandthenhewasall,“Huh.Thatisafuckingpapertowel.Ithinkweneedanewexterminator.”We’reprobablynotgoingtosurvivetheyear.

Myfoot.Mywelcomemat.Myuninvitedguest.(Amostlydeadpoisonouscentipede.)Ialsofoundfourscorpionsthatsameday.I’mprobablygoingtodiehere.

I’m still focused on finding the family cemetery in our subdivision, and I’vetaken to wandering in the empty fields, looking for headstones. A neighbor Ihadn’tmetyet pulledup to introduceherself and toldme tobe careful hikingbecauseofall thesnakes.I thankedher,butexplainedthatI’mnotahikerandwasjustlookingaroundfordeadbodies.VictorsaysI’mnotallowedtotalktotheneighborswithouthimanymore.

LastnightVictorwasoutoftown,sotherewasnoonetokeepmefromfreakingout when something large started violently knocking on my bedroom wall atmidnight. I called the exterminator to complain that something very loudwashurlingitselfatmybedroomwall.Hesaiditwasprobablyafieldmousetrappedinthewall,andIsaid,“No.Itsoundscrazy-dangerousandhuge.Itsoundslikeademonisthrowingabearintothewall.Orachupacabra. . .withahandgun.”Andthepestguywasall,“Achewpa-what?”BecauseHE’DNEVERHEARDOFACHUPACABRA.Then Iwas like, “Wait . . . seriously?Are you new?”Because that’s exactly the kind of shit I expectmy pest control guy to know.Then I calledVictor and Iwas all, “Okay, our pest control guydoesn’t knowwhatachupacabrais,”andhesaid,“Really?WeliveinTexas.Thatshitshouldbe on the exam,” and I was like, “EXACTLY.” This whole week is being atremendousasshole.

My bedroom smells terrible. It’s been a week since all those awful soundsstopped,andit’sbecomeobviousthatthechupacabrahasdiedinthewall.Theexterminatorcrawledupintheatticandsaidhethinksitwasasquirrelthatfellintoaholeinbetweenthewalls,andthathewasgoingtotryto“hookhim”fromtheattic.Aftertwentyminuteshesaidhejustcouldn’treachhim,sohegaveup.Healsotoldmethere’sabunchofdirtintheatticwemightwanttocheckout.Then the next day another dead-squirrel fisherman from the same company

came by, because he’d heard about it and he wanted to try to hook it. Sobasically my house is like a giant claw-crane game, and the prize is a deadsquirrel.AfteraboutthirtyminutesIstartedtosuspectthathe’dbeenmurderedbytheremainingchupacabras,butturnsoutthathe’djustgivenupanddumpedabottleofRatSorbintothewall.That’sarealthing,y’all.RatSorb.Toabsorbthesmellofdeadanimals.That’son the label.Soapparently I just livewithadeadsquirrelinmybedroomwallfortherestofmylife.Theexterminatorsaysthis isverycommonand thatall houseshavedesiccateddeadanimals in theirwalls. On the positive side, the next time I feel intimidated at a fancy dinnerpartyIcanremindmyselfthatthereareprobablydeadanimalsallovertheplace.It’slikewhenyouhavetospeakinfrontofagroupandsoyouimaginethemallnaked.Exceptthatthedeadanimalsinthewallaren’timaginaryandareactuallynaked.Ican’ttellwhetherthatmakesitbetterorworse.

It’sbeenaweeksince theRatSorb,and thesmellhasfinallydissipated,butafew minutes ago I heard something shuffling around in the walls. I can’t gothroughthisagain,soIdecidedtoscareitoutbyscreaming,andgrowling,andpoundingonthewallslikeIwasaviciouspredator.ButthenIturnedaroundandbothofthecatswerejuststaringatmedisgustedly,like,“You’reembarrassingusallhere,”andIwasall,“Oh,fuckyou,cats.AtleastI’mtrying.”AndthatwaswhenInoticedthatourmailmanwasstaringatmethroughtheglassofthefrontdoor. I explained that Iwas trying to scare away the possible chupacabra thatseemed to be making a home in my wall, and the mailman said, “Oh. It’sprobablyW. C. Fields,” and then I just stood there, because usually I’m theweirdoneintheconversation,andIwantedtoappreciatethemoment.Turnsout,though, that there’s actually an escaped angry spider monkey named W. C.Fieldswhoisstalkingourarea,andwhojustattackedawomanandtrappedherinhergarageforanhour.Allofthisistrue,y’all.1I lookedup“spidermonkey”on theInternetandapparently they’reafraidof

pumas,soallthismorningI’vebeenplayingthesoundsofpumasscreaming(on

aloop)onmycomputer,andsofarIhaven’theardanymorenoisescomingfromthe walls, which I think pretty much confirms that we totally have a spidermonkeyinthere.Victorsaysitjustconfirmsthatit’simpossibletohearanythingwhenthehouseisfilledwithscreamingpumas.Thenheyelledatmeaboutthekitchenbeingawreck,butitwaseasytotunehimoutbecauseofallthepumas.Which?Kindofabonus.Screamingpumasaremynewsoundtrack.P.S. ActualMSNBC quote aboutW. C. Fields, the escaped spider monkey:

“Don’tgooutside.Don’t try topethim.Donotbefriendhim.”Holycrap.ThespidermonkeyhasjustbecometheherofromTheRunningMan.

Youknowwhat’sawesome?Whenyoumoveintoanew(toyou)houseandyousmell somethingmusty in your bathroom, and so you call someone to look atwhat you really hope isn’t black mold, and they’re all, “Shit, lady. You’refucked.” And then a scientist comes out to take lab samples and says, “Youhaven’t been sleeping near this room, have you?” And they seal the wholesection of that house off and put a zipper in it so that themold spores don’tescape into the rest of the house. Then they get dressed up in the exact sameoutfitsthattheFBIpeopleworewhentheyaccidentallyalmostkilledE.T.,andtheyripoutSheetrockandcabinets,andyouwanttotakepicturesbuttheywon’tlet you in unless you’re dressed in protective gear, and then they’re all,“No,ma’am, feetie pajamas are not going to cut it.” You try to sneak into thebathroom to get your toothpaste, but you trip over the opening, because it’salmostimpossibletowalkintoaroomthathasazipperforadoor,andwhenyoufallithurtssomuchthatyouforgetthatyouaren’tsupposedtobreathe,andsoyoutakeabreathofwhatwillprobablykillyou.Thenyoustarttofeelsick,butyouremindyourselfthatyou’vebeenshoweringinthatroomformonths,soyouprobablyalreadyhavetuberculosisanyway,andyou’renotgoingtohaveenoughmoney for hospitalization, because you’re spending all your money on airsamples,andlabtechs,andsupportingthepeoplewhoprobablykilledE.T.Andthen you go lie down and cry for aminute, and themold guys are all, “Youknow,youreallyshouldn’tusethisroom.”Yeah.That’sawesome.P.S.By“awesome”Imean,“I’dliketogohideunderthehousebutIsuspect

that’swhere all the scorpions are living now that the chupacabras have takenovertheattic.”Also,yes,ofcourseIhavepictures:

It’slikelivinginacampingtent—ifthetentwerefilledwithsporesthatcouldkillyou.

Thisiswhatthemoldguyslooklikewhenyousneakuponthem.Also,theymighthityouwithaboard.Butnotonpurpose.Justreflexes,probably.

“Ijustkilledyouralienandstuffedhiminthisbag.I’llleaveyoualonewithhimsoyoucancryandbringhimbacktolife.AlsoIjustruinedE.T.foryou.Spoileralert.”

Eventually they fixed everything and Iwasvery relieved,until they toldmethatwhen they cut a hole in thewall a bunch of dead scorpions fell out. I’mnever going to sleep again. Probably because of the combination of fear,concussion,andtuberculosis.

Victor isoutof townandIkeephearingweirdnoises inandoutof thehouse.Rationally, I realize it’s probably just the house settling, but I’m pretty surewe’re all going to die here, and I suspectwe need an exorcist. In the last sixmonthswe’vehadscorpions,mold,murderedpets,andpossiblechupacabrasinthewalls.Isuspect thehousewasbuiltonanIndiangraveyard.Iwonderhowmuchanexorcismcosts,andwhetherit’smoreexpensiveifI’mnotCatholic.Isthereacouponcode I canuse?This isprobablyexactly the sortof thing theyteachyouincatechism.The Internet recommended “smudging,” a Native American practice of

burningsageinordertopurifythings,andsoIburnedabowlofdriedsageandIwalked around the house with it, chanting biblical phrases I’d heard in TheExorcist,andwaftingthesagesmokearound.IalsotoldthespiritsthatIwantedthemtoleave,butperhapstheyshouldgocheckoutHawaii,becauseIhearditwas awesome. Then I did someGregorian-style chants, but I didn’t know thelyricssoinsteadIjustsubstitutedthewords“Youdon’thavetogohome,butyoucan’tstayhere.”Suddenlytherewasadeafeningscreeching,andIscreamedandthanked God that Hailey was spending the night with my in-laws, because Isuspectedthewallswouldstartdrippingwithbloodnext,butthenIrealizedthatthenoisewasjustthefirealarmgoingoff.Itwasprettymuchthesamethingthathappenedinourlasthouse,exceptthatthistimeitwascausedbyangryspiritsratherthanmecatchingtowelsonfire.Icalledmymomtoaskherhowtoturnofffirealarms,butitwassoloudshe

could barely hear me. You sound silly when you tell someone that you’reburningsageinsideyourhousetoappeasetheIndianburialgroundthatmightbeunderyourhouse,butyousoundfuckingridiculouswhenyou’rescreamingtheexact same thing over the sound of fire alarms. I tried to explain that apoltergeist was the only logical conclusion in light of all the crap that hadhappenedlately.Shesaidthatitwasmorelikelyaseriesoftragicbutcommoneventsthatjustcoincidentallyhitatthesametime.Icounteredthatitdidn’tseem“common” to have to protect your dead dog by going after a vulture with amachete. My mom said, “Don’t be ridiculous. Where would a vulture get amachete?”Notbecauseshewasstupid,mindyou...simplybecauseshedidn’tsee this emergency as important enough forme to start using sloppy sentenceconstruction.ThenmymompointedoutthatNativeAmericansreveredvultures,soifthere

was an Indian graveyard undermy house I’d probably really pissed themoff,andshesuggestedImakeanofferingtothevultures,andItotallywouldhaveif

Victor hadn’t given all of our hamburgers to the foxen. She told me how todisconnectthefirealarms,butitseemedverycomplicated,soIjustnoddeduntilshestoppedtalkingandthengotabroomandhititlikeapiñatauntilitstopped,whichwasa relief forme (andprobably forourneighbors, considering itwaseleveno’clockatnight).ThenextdayVictorcamehomeandsawthewireshangingfromtheshattered

fire alarm, and I admitted that I’d tried to smoke out the ghosts and that Isuspectedthealarmswereasignthatthespiritswereappeased.Hestaredatmeandtoldmethatitwasmorelikelyasignthatthesmokedetectorwasworkingproperlyuntil Imurdered it after intentionally filling thehousewith smoke. ItsoundedmuchworsewhenVictorbrokeitoutlikethat.

ThisafternoonIsaunteredintoVictor’sofficeandsaidsmugly,“So,apparentlymy ‘craazy’ plan for setting off the fire alarm to appease the ghosts worked,because guess who just found the dead bodies I’ve been searching for?ME,MOTHERFUCKER.I foundthedeadbodies.”ThenIheldupmyhandfor theinevitablehighfive,butinsteadhejusthit themutebuttononhisofficephoneanddroppedhishead intohishands.Whichwasdisappointing forbothofus.And,granted, thisprobablywouldhavebeenbetter received if I’d realizedhewas on an important conference call at the time, but really, it’s not my faultVictordoesn’tknowhowtouseamutebuttonproperly.Victorfinallylookedup,andthenhetoldmetoputmyhanddown,becausehe

wasnotgoingtohigh-fivemefordiggingupdeadbodies,andthatwaswhenIstarted to think that Victor was a very strange man, becausewhy in the hellwouldIdigupdeadbodies? IexplainedthatwhatImeantwasthatI’dfinallystumbledonthelostcemeteryI’dbeensearchingforsincewe’dfirstmovedin,and that the graves were so old that the bodies would no longer be a threatduringthezombieapocalypse.Hedidn’tseemasrelievedasIwas,soIdecidedtoberelievedforbothofus.

Ourextremelyquietneighbors.

ThenItoldhimthatIwantedtobuythelandthecemeterywasonsothatwecouldpurposelynotbuildoverit,andthatwayifwewereaccidentallylivinginahousebuiltovergraves, thiswould sortofmake it all cosmicallyeven.Victorwasunconvinced,butIputanofferinontheland,whichwaspromptlydeclined,because itwasapparentlyownedby thefamilyof thepeopleburied there,andthey weren’t interested in selling their dead relatives. Which was awesome,becauseIdidn’thavetospendmoneyonlandthatIwouldn’tbuildanythingonanyway, plus I got karmic credit for trying. Victor said that’s not how karmaworks,butthenafewsecondslaterhementionedthathe’dfoundsomethingthatmorning that he assumedwasmine and pulled out themissing cigar box thatcontained the ten-year-old joint. I screamed,“OH,HELL,YEAH. I havebeenlookingeverywhereforthis!”andVictorglaredatmeandIsaid,“.. .tothrowout,Imean.I’mgettingridofthisrightnow.”Hestillglaredatmeratherharshlyforhavingaten-year-oldjointinacigarbox,andsoIsaid,“‘Fromyou,Dad.ILEARN IT FROMWATCHING YOU,’” and he just looked at me quizzically,becauseheapparentlydidn’twatchalotofTVintheeighties.Thewholeweekhadbeenarelief,andIfeltthatthingswerefinallystartingto

look up. I took the cigar box containing the ancient joint andwalked outsidewithitthoughtfully.Iconsideredthrowingitaway,butafteramomentIchangedmymindandlitit, leavingittosmolderinthesameglasspotI’dusedtoburnthesage in. Ihoped that thiswouldbe thefinal,perfectpeace-pipeoffering tothevulture-lovingNativeAmericanswhomayormaynothavebeen throwingscorpionsatus.

Asthefinalemberburnedout,Ithoughtaboutournewlifehere.We’dlostourbeloveddog,buthadrescuedamischievouskittenwhoseemedgiftedatfindingscorpions.We’dstruggledtofendoffhordesofinsects,butwe’dadoptedapackoffoxen,andhadspentmanynightswatchingdozensofdeerwalknoiselesslypastourporch.We’dleftoldfriendsbehindandmadenewonesalongtheway.We’dfoundaquiethappinessaswewatchedHaileydancethroughthemeadow,aflamingsunsetstretchingforeveraroundournewhome.Withoutevenknowingitwe’dfollowedinthefootstepsofLauraIngallsandfoundabitofthesimplebuthard-foughtcontentmentshe’dwrittenofahundredyearsago.Itookadeepbreathandthought,“I’mhome.”ThenVictorwalkedoutsideandsaid,“WhydoIsmellpot?Areyousmokinga

ten-year-oldjoint?WHATTHEHELLISWRONGWITHYOU?”Hemayhaveruinedabitoftheromanceofthemoment,butIsupposehecreatedonethatwasmorefittingforus,andIlaughedandassuredhimthattheIndiansweretheonlyonessmokingout in thebackyard.Hedidn’tunderstand,but Ididn’tbother toexplain, both because I felt it would be impossible to describe this NativeAmericanversionofpouringout a forty-ounce foryour fallenhomieswithoutmakingitsoundridiculous,andalsobecauseIsuspectedImighthavegottenasmallcontacthigh.Eitherway,IsmiledgentlyandpattedthechairbesidemeasVictor paused and then settled down on the porch with me to watch thehummingbirdsbuzzaroundthewildmorninggloriesaswelistenedtothewindandunderstoodwhynoonewouldeverwanttoleavehere...evenifgiventhechancetogotoHawaii.

Home.Theviewmakesupforthescorpions.Sortof.

1.ActualtitlefromMSNBC:“EscapedSpiderMonkeyRoamingSanAntonio:‘W.C.Fields’EscapedfromPrimateReserveAfterStormsDamagedHisPen.”

AndThat’sWhyYouShouldLearntoPickYourBattles

ThismorningIhadafightwithVictorabouttowels.Ican’ttellyouthedetails,becauseitwasn’tinterestingenoughtodocumentatthetime,butitwasbasicallyme tellingVictor I needed to buy newbath towels, andVictor insisting that INOTbuytowelsbecauseI“justboughtnewtowels.”ThenIpointedoutthatthelasttowelsI’dboughtwerehot-pinkbeachtowels,andhewasall,“EXACTLY,”andthenIhitmyheadagainstthewallforanhour.ThenLauracametopickmeupsowecouldgotothediscountoutlettogether,

and as Victor gave me a kiss good-bye he lovingly whispered, “You are notallowedtobringanymoregoddamntowelsinthishouseorIwillstrangleyou.”And thatwas exactlywhat Iwas still echoing throughmyhead an hour later,whenLauraandIstoppedourshoppingcartsandstaredup inconfused,silentaweatadisplayofenormousmetalchickensmadefromrustedoildrums.

LAURA:Ithinkyouneedoneofthose.

ME:You’rejoking,butthey’rekindofhorrificallyawesome.

LAURA:I’mnotjoking.Weneedtobuyyouone.

ME:Thefive-foot-tallonewasthreehundreddollars,markeddowntoahundred.That’sliketwohundreddollars’worthofchickenforfree.

LAURA: You’d be crazy not to buy that. I mean, look at it. IT’S FULL OFWHIMSY.

ME:Victor’dbepissed.

LAURA:Yup.

ME:Butontheplusside?It’snottowels.

LAURA:Yup.

ME:WewillnamehimHenry.OrCharlie.OrO’Shaughnessy.

Insertinappropriatecockjokehere.

LAURA:OrBeyoncé.

ME:OrBeyoncé.Yes.Andwhenour friendsaresadwecan leavehimat theirfrontdoortocheerthemup.

LAURA:Exactly. It’ll be like,“You thought yesterdaywas bad?Well, now youhaveanenormousmetalchickentodealwith.Perspective.Nowyouhaveit.”

Thenwe flagged down a salesman, andwewere all, “What can you tell usabout these chickens?” as ifwewere in an art gallery, and not in a store thatspecializesinlastyear’sbathmats.Hedidn’tknowanythingaboutthem,buthesaidthatthey’dsoldonlyoneanditwastoareallydrunklady,andthenLauraandIwereall,“SOLD.Allthischickenbelongstousnow.”Soheloadeditontoatrolley,butBeyoncéwassurprisinglyunstable,andthe

giantfive-footmetalchickencrashedoverontothefloor.AndLauraandIwereall,“CHICKENDOWN!CLEANUPINAISLETHREE,”buthedidn’t laugh.

Thenthemanagercametoseewhatwascausingall thecommotion,andthat’swhenhefoundtheveryconservativesalesmanunhappilystrugglingtorightanenthusiasticallypointychickenthatwasalmostastallashewas.Thesalesmanwas having a hard time, and he told everyone to stand back “because thischickenwillcutyou,” andat first I thoughthemeant it as a threat, like “Thatchickenhasashiv,”butturnsouthejustmeantthatallthechickens’endsweresharp and rusty. Itwas awesome, andLaura and I agreed that even ifwe gottetanus,thischickenhadalreadypaidforitselfevenbeforewegotitinhertruck.Thenwegottomyhouseandquietlysnuckthechickenuptomyfrontdoor,

rangthedoorbell,andhidaroundthecorner.

“Knock-knock,motherfucker.”

Victoropenedthedoorandlookedatthechickeninstunnedsilenceforaboutthreeseconds.Thenhesighed,closedthedoor,andwalkedaway.

LAURA:Whatthefuck?That’sit?That’stheonlyreactionweget?

ME:That’sit.He’sahardmantorattle.

Victor was surprisingly pissed that I’d “wasted money” on an enormouschicken,becauseapparentlyhecouldn’tappreciatethehystericalvalueofafive-footchickenringingthedoorbell.ThenIsaid,“Well,atleastit’snottowels,”andapparently that was the wrong thing to say, because that was when Victorscreamed and stormed off, but I knew hewas locked in his office, because I

couldhearhimpunchingthingsinthere.ThenIyelledthroughhisdoor,“It’sananniversarygiftforyou,asshole.Twowholeweeksearly.FIFTEENYEARSISBIGMETALCHICKENS.”Thenheyelledthathewanteditgone,butIcouldn’tmoveitmyself,soinstead

IsaidokayandwenttowatchTV.ThenwhentheUPSguycameIhid,buthewas all, “Dude. Nice chicken,” and Victor yelled, “IT IS NOT A NICECHICKEN.”WhichwasprobablyveryconfusingtotheUPSguy,whowasjusttrying to be polite, Victor. Victor seemed more disgruntled than usual, so Ifinallydraggedthechickenintothebackyardandwedgeditintoaclumpoftreessothatitcouldscarethesnakesaway.ThenIcameinandVictorangrilypulledmeintohisofficesothatIcouldseethatI’dstationedBeyoncédirectlyinfrontofhisonlywindow.AndIwasall,“Exactly.YOU’REWELCOME.”Itoldhimthat he could move Beyoncé if he wanted to, but he totally hasn’t. ProbablybecauseofallofthegiantrocksIpiledonBeyoncé’sfeettodissuadeburglars.OrpossiblybecauseBeyoncéisgrowingonhim.Still,Ican’thelpthinkingthatwewouldn’tevenbehavingthisargumentifBeyoncéwastowels.Honestly,thiswholechickenisreallyalessoninpickingyourbattlesmorecarefully.Plus,he’sawesomeandIcan’tstopgigglingeverytimeIlookathim.Beyoncé,thatis.Best.Fifteenthanniversary.Ever.

HairlessRats:FreeforKidsOnly

ThismorningVictorandIfollowedourusualroutine.Wegotup,droveHaileytokindergarten,andstoppedintothelocalgasstationforcoffeeandlocalgossip.Onthewayoutwestoppedinfrontofthepublicbulletinboardthatservesasoursmall town’s newspaper. It’s always filled with invitations to neighborhoodbarbecues, and ads selling broken tractor parts or requesting clean dirt (whichseems like an oxymoron), but todaywe found that the same personwho hadfascinateduswithbizarreadslastyearwasback.Theywerethekindofadsthatmadeyouquestionexactlywhatwasgoingoninhishome,andalsoyourownsanity.Theywereadslike:“FLYINGSQUIRRELS:CHEAP.FREEDELIVERY.”Amonthlaterthatadwasreplacedbyanother:“REGULARSQUIRRELS—FREETOGOODHOME.NOTFOREATING.”I tippedmyhat tohisethicaldisclaimer,but itwaspuzzling.Had the flying

squirrels been “regular” the whole time? Had it taken the seller a month torealizetheydidn’thavewings?Howmanysquirrelshadbeendroppedfromtheroofbeforehe finallygaveupand realized theyweren’t faking it?Were theseregular squirrels free only because they all now suffered from post-traumaticstressdisorderandvertigo?Iimaginedahordeofsquirrels,allhunkeredclosetothegroundastheystared

in horror at their former friends who easily jumped from branch to branch.“YOU’REGOINGTOGETKILLED!”thesquirrelwouldyell,andhisformerbuddieswouldshaketheirtinyheadsinpity,wonderingwhathorrorstheirfriendhadseentochangehimso.Inmyhead,itwasasifthesquirrelsweredamagedVietnamvets, shell-shockedandunable to copewith real life after the terriblethingsthey’dhadtowitness.Victor said I was being ridiculous, but I pointed out that it was also pretty

ridiculoustogiveawaysquirrelsthatyoucouldjustsetfree,andheadmittedhehadnorealanswertothat.Theadskeptcomingoverthesummer,andthenveryabruptlystopped.Most

likely (Victor and I speculated) it was because the (probably very well-intentioned) man was eventually murdered by his own squirrels. But thismorning, almost ayear from the time sincewe’d seenhis first ad, anewsignwasupwiththesamedistinctivehandwriting.Hewasaliveandtheworldwasa

betterplaceforit:

Icensoredthephonenumbertoprotectthemfromprankcalls.AndbecauseIwanttokeepallthesugarglidersformyself.Sugargliderswho,Ihalfsuspect,mightactuallyjustbemicewithflabby

underarms,andwhohavesurvivedbeingthrownofftheroof.

VICTOR:Wow. I don’t think Iwant to knowof the situationyouhave to be inwhereyouneedaratdeliveredsodesperatelythatitcan’twaituntilmorning.

ME:Ooh,Iwould.

VICTOR:Well,ofcourseyouwould.

ME:Whowouldn’t want to know about an emergency rat situation where theemergencyisthatyouNEEDarat.It’sliketheexactoppositeofeveryregularemergencyratsituationever.Itsoundsfascinating.Weshouldcallthisguyjusttoseewhathisdealis.Ibethehasgreatstories.Imean,whogiveshairlessratstochildren?He’slikethebizarro-worldCandyMan.

VICTOR:Socallhim.Pretendtoapplyforafreesquirrelandseewhathisstoryis.

ME: I wonder what the application process is on that? It would be reallydepressingtogetturneddownforfreesquirrels.

VICTOR:True.“I’msorry.We’regoing tohave todecline you.Yourhome isn’tevenfitforsquirrels.”

ME:Ourhomeisprettymessy,butIthinkit’satleastfitforsquirrels.I’dbelike,“Butoursquirrelsseemquitehappy.”I’dtotallyappealthatruling.

VICTOR:“I’msorry,butyourreferencesdidn’tcheckout.”

ME:“Butourreferencesweresquirrels.”

VICTOR: “Right.And they’re not happy. Plus, there have been some reports ofhatespeech.”

ME:“What?”

VICTOR:“Lastweekyoudroppedaforkandyelled,‘Rats.’TheninJanuaryyoucomplained that your computer wasn’t working properly and was acting ‘allsquirrelly.’Wehavepeopleontheinside,youknow.”

ME: “Hang on. Are those people the squirrels who live in my attic? Becausethey’re all high and they don’t knowwhat they’re saying.Those squirrels arejunkiesandtheyarenottobetrusted.”

VICTOR: “Ma’am, that was slander. You’ll be contacted by the squirrel civilliberties union for a statement. Plus, you need to stop referring to squirrels as‘thosepeople.’Pleasegetyourshittogether.”

ME:Wow.Wesound...totallyunfittohavesquirrels.NowIdon’tevenwanttocall theguy, because I’mall nervous about being judged. I don’t even think Icouldpasstheinterview.

VICTOR:Weprobablyshouldn’tapplyformoresquirrelsifwecan’tevenmanagetokeepoursoffthehorse.

ME:?

VICTOR:It’sanotherwordforheroin.

ME:Yeah,Iknowwhat“offthehorse”means.Ijustcan’trememberhowwegottothepointwhereI’mdefendingmyselfagainsttheimaginaryaccusationsofamanwhogiveshairlessratstoneighborhoodchildren,andwhoapparentlytruststhenonexistentsquirreljunkiesintheattic.

VICTOR: True. I don’t remember ever having these conversations before wemovedtothecountry.

ME:Meeither.Also,IjustrealizedthatIjustwenttoagasstationinmypajamasto buy coffee. I just became a giant warning sign to others. I can’t decidewhether this isaproblem,or I’mjustmorecomfortablehere thanIwas in thecity.Canitbeboth?

VICTOR:Idunno.Whatthehellhappenedtous?

ME:[afterafewsecondsofsilence]Growth?

VICTOR:[noddingslowly]Growth.

AndThenISnuckaDeadCubanAlligatoronanAirplane

November2009:Hewasmyfirst.Hewasbig,withawidenecklikeanNFLplayerandasmile

thatsaid,“Thereyouare!I’vebeenlookingforyoueverywhere.”VictorstaredatmeasifIhadlostmymind,andpointedoutthathewaslosinghishairandwasmissingseveralimportantteeth,butitdidn’tmatter.Iwasinlove.“Paywhateverittakes,”IsaidtoVictor.“JamesGarfieldWILLBEMINE.”Itwasfrightening,bothforVictorandmyself,thissuddenlustIhadtopossess

the dusty, taxidermiedwild boar’s head hanging from the crackedwall of theestatesalewe’dwanderedinto.

Victorrefused topaymoneyforsomethinghesawashideous,but therewassomething in that toothy smile that screamed, “IAMSODAMNHAPPYTOSEEYOU,”andwhenwe leftwithouthimIwaspositivelybereft. I spent thenextweek looking at the blank spot on thewallwhere JamesGarfieldwouldhave smiled atme.WheneverVictorwould try to cheermeupwith a jokeorwithvideosofpeoplehurtingthemselves,Iwouldforcemyselftosmileandthensigh,saying,“JamesGarfieldwouldhavelovedthat.”EventuallythemelancholygottoostrongandVictorangrilygaveupanddrove

mebackto theestatesale,wherehewastotallyunsurprisedtofindthatJamesGarfieldhadnotbeensold.He’dmademestay in thecar,becausehesaidmylookofintenselongingwouldaffecthisabilitytonegotiate,andofferedtheguyinchargeofthesaletwenty-fivedollarsforhim.Themansneeredandsaidthat

hecouldjustripoutthetusksandsell themoneBayforthat,andVictorcameback to the car to tell me how negotiations had broken down. “THEY’REGOING TODISMEMBER JAMESGARFIELD?” I screamed. “STOP THEM.PAYANYTHING.HEISAMEMBEROFOURFAMILY.”Victorstaredatmeinbafflement.“I’ddoitforyou,”Iexplained.“I’dpaytheterroristsanythingtogetyouback.”Victorsighedandlaidhisheadonthesteeringwheel.A tense twentyminutes later he came back to the car, lugging the beautiful

headofJamesGarfieldlikesomekindagoddamnAmericanhero.Icriedalittle,andHaileyclappedhertinyhandsindelight.“Youwillbemybestfriend,”shesaidtohimasshepettedhissnout.Victorlookedatbothofuslikeweweremad,andthenstaredstraightaheadas

hemademe swear thiswould not be the start of some sort ofwild-boar-headcollection.“You’rebeingridiculous,”Isaid.“JamesGarfieldisoneofakind.”Whenmyparentscametovisitafewweekslater,mymothershookherhead

inbewilderment. I’dexpectedmyfather tofeelat leastslightlyvindicated thathisloveoftaxidermyhadn’tskippedagenerationafterall,butheseemedjustasbaffledasVictor.Hepeeredquizzicallyat themangyfursheddingfromJamesGarfield, and toldme he couldmakeme amuch nicer boar head, if thatwaswhatIwasinto.“No,”Isaid.“Thisisit.”Iwasnotafanoftaxidermyandneverwould be.Having one dead animal in the house is eclectic and artistic.Morethanonereeksofserialkiller.Therereallyisafinelinethere.

APRIL2010:Halfofasquirrelarrivedinthemailtoday.Itwasthefrontpart,almostdown

tothebellybutton,anditwasmountedonatinywoodenplaque.

Itwasodd.BothbecauseIwasnotexpectinganysquirrelparts,andbecausethesquirrelwasdressedinfullcowboyregalia.Hewasholdingatinypistolout,threateninglytrainedattheviewer(presumablytodefendtheminiaturemarkedcardsinhisothertinyhand),andhiseyesfollowedyoufromroomtoroom,likeoneofthose3-DpicturesofJesusfromtheseventies.

“Hey,Victor?” I yelled from the living room.“Did you buyme a half of asquirrel?”Victor walked out of his office and stopped short as he stared at the tiny

banditopointingagunathim.“Whathaveyoudone?”heasked.“RuinedChristmas?”Iguessed.Ifoundithardtofeelguiltyaboutruininghis

surprise,though,sincetheboxwasaddressedtome,butthenIsawthenoteonthepackageandrealizeditwasactuallyfromagirlwhoreadmyblog,andwhohadagreedthatVictorwastotallyinthewronglastmonthwhenhe’drefusedtobuymethetaxidermiedsquirrelpaddlingacanoe1 thatI’dfoundinanantiqueshop.“Oh, never mind,” I said. “Apparently this half squirrel is a present from

someonewhounderstandsfineart.”“Youcan’tpossiblybeserious.”“ItwouldberudeNOTtohangitup,”IexplainedtoVictor.“Iwillnamehim

Grover Cleveland.” Victor stared at me, wondering how his life choices hadtakenhimhere.“Didn’tyouoncetellmethatmorethanonedeadanimalinthehouseborders

onserial-killerterritory?”heasked.“Yes,butthisoneiswearingahat,”Iexplaineddrily.Hecouldn’targuewith

thatkindoflogic.Noonecould.

JANUARY2011:“I am a moderately successful writer, and if I want to buy an ethically

taxidermiedmouseIshouldnothavetojustifyittoanyone.”ThiswaswhatIwasscreamingasVictorglaredatme,drippingrainwaterall

overourfoyer.Intruth,weweren’treallyarguingaboutwhetherIwasallowedtospendmoney.WewerearguingaboutthefactthatthetaxidermiedmouseI’dboughthadbeenlost.Thedeliverywebsitesaid itwas leftontheporch,but itwas nowhere to be seen. I suspected burglars, but even imagining the smallcompensationoftheirmystifiedfacesastheyopenedtheboxcontainingadeadmouse wasn’t enough to make me feel less upset. Then I’d noticed that thetrackingpagehadtransposedmystreetnumber,andsoIsentVictoroutintothedarkand rainynight togo find theneighborwhowasprobablyveryconfusedaboutwhohadmailedhimadeadmouse.Victorhadbeenabitflabbergastedatmy request, but after yelling for a bit about . . . I don’t know; Iwasn’t reallypayingattention.Budgets,maybe?...hefinallythrewonacoatandwentoutinsearch of the mouse. He returned twenty minutes later and told me that theaddress didn’t even exist, and that he’d asked the people at the houses near

wheretheaddresswouldhavebeenandnoneofthemhadseenanypackages.Hewaswetandfrustrated,andIassumedthataccountedforhowirrationalhewasbeingasIpushedhimbackoutthedoortocheckwithalltheneighborsontheblock.“You didn’t even tellme you’d bought a taxidermiedmouse,” Victor yelled,

andIsaid,“BecauseyouwereasleepwhenIfounditonline,anditwassocheapIknewitwouldbegoneifIdidn’tbuyitimmediately.Ididn’twanttotiptoeintoour bedroom at three a.m. to whisper, ‘Hey, honey? I got a great deal on astuffedmousethatdiedofnaturalcauses.CanIhaveyourcreditcardnumber?’becausethatwouldbeCRAZY.Andthat’swhyIusedmycreditcard.BecauseIrespect your sleep patterns. But then I forgot to tell you about it, because Iboughtitatthreea.m.,whenIwasdrunkandvulnerable.Justlikeyouwithallthose choppers you keep buying on infomercials. Except that this is better,because I’ll actuallyuse a taxidermiedmouse.That is, Iwouldhave . . . until—crap—untilhewentmissing,”Iendedinawhisper.“Areyou...areyoucrying?”Victorasked,stunned.Iwipedatmyeyes.“Alittle.I justhatetothinkofhimoutthereintherain.

All alone.” My voice trembled, and Victor closed his eyes. And rubbed histemples.Andsigheddeeplybeforestaringatmeandwalkingbackoutintotherain.Fortyminuteslaterhewalkedinwithatinywetboxandalookthatsaid,“IwilldisableyourcomputerwhenIgotobedfromnowon.”ButIrushedupandgavehimadozenkisses,whichhegrufflyacceptedashedriedoffwiththetowelIhandedhim.“Itwasattheabandonedhouseattheendoftheblock,”hesaid.“Apparently

someonejustdumpedeverythingthatdidn’thaveaproperaddressthere.Theremust’vebeentwenty-fivepackageslyingonthatporch.”ButIwasn’tpayingattention,asIwastoobusypullingHamletvonSchnitzel

fromhiswatertightbaggie.“What.Thefuck.Isthat?”Victorasked.It was pretty obvious what it was. It was a mouse dressed as Hamlet. His

Shakespearean ruff collar held up his wee velvet cape, and he seemed to beaddressingthebleachedmouseskullheldnobly inhis tinypaw.Iheld ituptoVictor,squeaking,“Alas,poorYorick!Iknewhimwell.”Victorlookedatmeworriedly.“Youhaveaproblem.”“IDON’THAVEAPROBLEM.”“That’s exactly what people with problems say. Denial is the first sign of

havingaproblem.”“It’salsothefirstsignofnothavingaproblem,”Icountered.“I’mprettysuredefensivenessisthesecondsign.”

IplacedHamletvonSchnitzelinaglassbelljartoprotecthislittleearsfromVictor’s hurtful accusations. But I had to admit that I didn’t completelyunderstandmyrecentobsessionwithoddtaxidermyeither.Itworriedme.Istilldidn’tunderstandmyfather’sfascinationwithdeadanimals,andIrefusedtobuyanythatweren’tterriblyoldordidn’tdieofnaturalcauses.Istillshooedspidersand geckos out of the house with a magazine and a helpful suggestion of“Perhaps you’d like some fresh air.” I considered myself an animal lover,donatedtoshelters,andneverworerealfur,butitclashedwiththeothersideofmypersonality,whichwas continuallybrowsing through shops, alwayson thelookout for beavers in prairie dresses, or a diorama of the Last Suppermadeentirelywithotters.Victorwasright:Ineededtostop.I toldmyself thatIwasfinishedandIvowedthatIwouldnotenduplikemyfather,surroundedbythesoulless,unblinkingeyesofdeadthings.AndwithalittlewillpowerIvowedtoconquermycuriousandterribleobsession.

APRIL2011:Ijustboughtafifty-year-oldCubanalligatordressedasapirate.This isso notmy fault.Victorbrokehis armby fallingdownsomestairs in

Mexico,soIwentwithhimonabusinesstriptoNorthCarolinasoIcouldhelphim.Thetripwasuneventful,untilwestoppedatalittleshoponthewaytotheairport.WhileVictorwenttousetherestroom,Istumbleduponthesmall,badlyagedbabyalligator,whichwasfullydressedandstandingonhishindlegs.Hewaswearing amoth-eaten felt outfit, a beret and a belt. Hewasmissing onehand,andhewasnineteendollars.Histinybelthungsadly,andIappreciatedtheironyofanalligatorwearingabeltthatwasnotmadeofalligator.Hismouthwasopen in a wide grin, as if he’d been waiting for me for a very long time. Irememberedmyvow tonot buy anymore taxidermied animals and feverishly

searched for loopholes while Victor looked through the aisles for me. Icontemplatedstaplingastraptothealligator’sshoulders,puttingmylipstickinhismouth,andcallinghimanalligatorpurse,butitwastoolate.Hehadmeattheberet.I could hear Victor shuffling around on the other side of the aisle, and I

sheepishly poked the tiny alligator over the top.“Hello,mon ami! I am JeanLouise,”IsaidinadaringFrenchaccent.“Ihaveneverbeenonzeeplanebeforeandwouldloveanadventure!”“Oh,”said theconfusedelderlywomanon theother sideof theaisle.“Well,

goodlucktoyou?”VictortappedmeontheshoulderandIscreamedinsurprise,andhelookedat

meandJeanLouisewithdisgust.“Don’tjudgeus,”Isaidmeekly,asIhuggedthealligatorprotectively.“We’reallwehave.”Victor shook his head but said nothing as he silentlywalked up to the cash

registertopay.JeanLouiseleanedforwardandwhispered,“Enabler,”butVictorstillheldouthiscreditcardtothebaffledcashier.LuckilyVictordoesn’tspeakFrench.“I’llneedtomakehimatinyhookforhismissinghand,”Isaidaswewalked

out.Hewasfar toobrittle togo inmysuitcase,soIputhiminmypurse,andVictorinsistedtherewasnowaytheyweregoingtoletmegetontheplanewithadeadalligator.Idisagreed,pointingoutthathewasquiteliterally“unarmed,”but his tiny gleaming teeth said otherwise, as I remembered the fingernailclipperswe’dbeen forced to throwoutat securityoncebefore. I turned to theexperts(everyonefollowingmeonTwitter).Tomakealongstoryshort,ifyouaskpeopleonTwitterwhetherit’slegalto

carryasmallishsortoftaxidermiedalligatorontoaplanewithyou,mostofthemwill say, “Um,no.You can’t even bring breastmilk on a plane.”Then you’llpointout that thealligator is at least fiftyyearsold, iswearingclothes, and ismissingahand,andsomeofthemwillchangetheirmind,butmostwillstillsayhe’ll be considered a weapon. Then you’ll write, “I can’t imagine anyoneseriouslythinkingI’dtrytotakeoveraplaneusingonlyatinyclothedalligatorasaweapon,”andeveryoneonTwitterwillbelike,“Really?Haveyoumetyou?Becausethattotallysoundslikesomethingyou’ddo.”Andtheyhadapoint.ButIwasn’ttrulyconcerneduntilwewerealreadyinlineatsecurity,andthen

Isuddenlywonderedwhethersomeonehadonceusedthisalligatortosmugglecocaineinfiftyyearsagobutthenforgottotakeitout,andnowI’mgonnagetarrested in the airport for alligator-stomach cocaine that’s older than me. IquietlyaskedVictorwhetheryoucouldtell ifcocainewasexpired,or if it juststays fresh forever, and he was all, “CANWE NOT TALK ABOUT THIS IN

SECURITY?” and I was like, “It’s not for me. I’m asking because of thealligator,”andhekindofglaredatme.Itookadeepbreathandcalmedmyself,imaginingmyselfsayingtothesecurityofficer,“Oh,this?That’soldcocaine.Itprobablyexpired,like,fortyyearsago.It’snotmine.It’sthealligator’s.Ican’tbe responsible for the wild lifestyle an alligator had before I was even born.Besides, he doesn’t know your rules. He’s from Cuba.” I felt sure they’dunderstand.Besides,thesearetherisksyoutakewhenyoubringadeadalligatoronaplanetrip.Ofcourse,JeanLouiseandIgotthroughjustfine,andnooneevenblinkedat

the alligator on the security conveyor belt.Victorwas stopped for a full bodysearch. Probably because he was sweating, and the vein on his forehead waspoppingout.Intheconfusion,JeanLouiseandIcalmlywalkedthroughwithnoproblem.Victorcouldlearnalotfromthatalligator.Whenwefinallygotsettled in IpulleddownVictor’s tray tableandperched

JeanLouiseonitsothathecouldseeoutside.“Takethatgoddamnthingoffmytray,”Victorwhisperedbetweenclenchedteeth.“Buthe’sneverbeenonaplanebefore,”Iexplained.“Voulez-vousleswindowseat?”JeanLouiseaskedpleasantly.Victorglaredatme.“I’mnotkidding.We’regoingtogetkickedofftheplane.

Putitaway.”“You’rebeingridiculous,”Isaid.Themansittingacrosstheaislewasstaring

at Jean Louise, so I swung him toward his face. “Votre chemise est mooeybueno,” Jean Louise said confidently. The man stared at Jean Louise with aslightlyopenmouth.

“Hesayshelikesyourshirt,”Iexplainedmatter-of-factly.

Victorputhisheadinhishands.“IfIlosemySkyMilesbecauseofthisIwillmurderyou.”Justthentheflightattendantwalkedby,abusinesslikewomanwholookedas

ifsheneededacocktail.Igesturedatherandsmiledwidelyasshewalkednearme,JeanLouiseonmylap.“Excuseme,mysonwouldliketoseethecockpit.”ShehesitatedforamomentasshelookedatJeanLouise,andthensaid,“Oh.

Wedon’tdothatanymore,”beforebrisklywalkingoff.“Thesepeopleareracist,”IsaidtoVictor,whowaspretendingtobeengrossed

intheSkyMallcatalog.“Mmm,”hesaid,noncommittally.“WhenwegethomeI’mgoingtobuyJeanLouisea tinyruffledpirateshirt.

Andahookforhismissinghand.Andasaucylittleponytail.”Victor put down hismagazine and glowered at the dead alligator,whom he

seemed to be viewing as a veritablemoney pit. “That’s it,” he said. “You’vedoneit.You’vemanagedtobecomeyourfather.”“Don’tberidiculous,”Isaidflippantly,asIcontemplatedhowmanyBarbies

I’dhavetoscalptomakeaserviceablealligatorwig.“Myfatherhasnotasteatallwhenitcomestoalligatorpirateattire.I’mnothinglikemyfather.Honestly,whenitcomesrightdowntoit,I’mnotreallylikeanyone.”VictorlookedatmeandJeanLouise,andslowlyhisgazesoftened.“Youknow

what?Youhavenoideahowtruethatis.”I staredbackatVictor, and then restedmyheadonhis shoulder as Imoved

JeanLouis to the empty seat beside us.And, as Iwasn’t quite surewhether Ishouldsaythank-youorbeinsulted,Isimplyclosedmyeyesanddriftedofftosleepwhilewonderingwhetheranyonemadetinypocketwatchesforalligatorsanymore.

1.I’dplannedonnamingher“PocahontasWikipedia,”butVictorsaidthatthecatswouldchewthehandsoff, but then I pointedout that even if that happened I’d loveher evenmore, because then she couldn’tpaddleandshe’dbeupacreekwithouthands,whichseemedmoreandmorelikeametaphorformylife.

YouCan’tGoHomeAgain(UnlessYouWanttoGetMauledbyWildDogs)

So,”mysistersays,assheleansbackinthewoodenchaironourparents’frontporch,“Victor toldmeyouweremauledbyapackofwilddogs last timeyouwerehere.”Shesaysitpleasantly,morelikeastatementthanaquestion,inthesameimpassivewaysomeonemightsay,“So,youdecidedtoletyourhairgrowoutagain.”“Mmm...sortof.It’salongstory.”Idrowsilysitbackinthematchingchair

andputmyfeetupontheauthenticchild-sizechuckwagonmydadhadbuilt.Inthe Christmas months my dad hitches it to a taxidermied pygmy deer with agiantelkhorntiedwitharedbowtoitshead,inastrangehomagetoTheGrinchWhoStoleChristmas,buttherestoftheyearitstandsownerless,asifabandonedaftera1970sdogfoodcommercial.“AndIhavesomewheretogo?”Lisaasks.Shehasapoint.Wewerebothintowntovisitourparentsfortheweek.Lisa

now lives inCaliforniawithherhusbandandabeautiful litterofchildren,buteachyear she’lldrivedown to spenda fewweeks inTexas, and I’ll bringmyfamily, and we’ll have a disorganized family reunion. One where our kidsgleefully ride the family goats, where our husbands complain that they areslowly suffocating from the heat and the lack ofWi-Fi access, andwheremysister and I shake our heads in disbelief at their soft, sheltered ways,rememberingdaysofbread-sackshoesandofpullingourmattressesoutontotheporchsothewholefamilycouldsleepthereonthehottestsummernights.“Sowasitreallyanall-outmauling,ordidthedogsjustlickyouviolently?”

sheasks.“Itwas less of an all-outmaul andmore of a prelude to amaul,” I answer.

“LikewhenJuliaRobertsgotmolestedbyGeorgeCostanzainPrettyWoman.”Shelookedatmeexpectantly,andsoItoldherthestory.Whenyoucrossoverintoouroldhometown,youcanprettymuchguarantee

that something fuckedup isgoing tohappen,butyou’re reallyneverpreparedforwhat it is.Youmay come in knowing that you’re probably going to get alittlebloodonyou,butyouneverthinkit’sgoingtobeyourown.Themorning of the day when I was partially mauled, Hailey and I walked

outside my parents’ back door to see a stranger in a black hat and a bloodyrubber apron,whowasmissingonly amaskmadeofhuman skin and a chainsawtobringhiswholeoutfittogether.Heapparentlyworkedformyfather,andhe’dstrungupabuckthathewasintheprocessofskinning.HesmilednaturallyatHaileyandme,whileheseemedtobedigginghishandsdeepintothedeer’spockets,asifhewerelookingforhiskeys.Turnedout,though,thatdeerdon’tevenhavepockets,andhe’dsimplylostagloveinthedeer.Thesearethethingsyou come in expecting when you’re in Wall, and so you aren’t completelysurprisedwhenastrangercheerfullyyellsatyourpreschoolertocomeoverandhelphim“undressMr.Reindeerbecausethat’llbeahootloadoffun!”Andwhenhe tells her she can swing on the deer’s skin to help himget it all off, you’llalreadyhaveonearmonhersleevepullingherbacktowardyou,becausethisisthesortofthingyoucomepreparedfor.(Sidenotefornonnatives—“This’llbeahootloadoffun,”comingfromataxidermist’sassistanttranslatesto:“Thiswillcostthousandsinpsychoanalysisandwillprobablyruinyourdress.”)PersonallyIprefertoavoidanyactivitythatendswithastrangemanofferingto“hose thebloodoffofyeafterward,mate.”It’sjustaruleIhave.BecauseI’mpicky.Also,whendidmyfatherhireapiratetodotaxidermy?Thewholethingwasweird.Lisaagreedthat itwasunusual,butfelt it fellshortofbeingall-out“weird.”

“Takeyesterday,forexample,”sheexplained.“YesterdayVictorwalkedintothatswampy puddle behind the house and hewas all, ‘Ew, is this from the septictank?’ and I was like, ‘Where do you think you are? Beverly Hills? That’sleftover skull-boiling water.’ He looked ill, but I thought he should know.Comparatively,deerpocketsarereallyprettyhumdrum.”Shehadapoint,butitstillstruckmeasodd.Here’sapictureofit,butitmight

grossyouout,souseyourdiscretion:

Mydad,dinnerforweeks,randomdrifter/cowboy/pirate/taxidermist.

Iknow.I’msorry.Butinmydefense,Ididwarnyou.Anyway,Iexpectalotofoddthingsinatownknownforarmadilloraces,and

bobcaturinecollections,andhighschoolbovinefertilityrituals,butonethingIdid not expect was to be attacked by a pack of wild dogs. And yes, perhapstechnicallytheyweren’t“wild”somuchastheywere“excitable,”andmaybeIwasn’t attackedby apack of dogs asmuch as itwas one jumpydog and onebiteydog,butIcanhonestlysaythatthedogthatbitmewasprobablyinfusedwith radioactive spider juice and had diesel-fueled vampire fangs. Andadamantium claws. Also, he was part bear and his whiskers were made ofscorpions.Lisalaughed,andsoIpulledoutmyphoneandshowedherthepicturesofme

aftergettingoutofthehospitalthenextday.I’daddedsometexttomakethingsmoreclear:

“Holycrap,” she said. “That looks disgusting.Okay, I apologize, because Iwasreallysurethiswasblownoutofproportion.”“Apologyaccepted,”Irepliedmagnanimously.“So,wheredidyouevenfindwilddogs?”sheasked.“Oh,”Isaidhesitantly.“Well,‘wild’isperhapsastrongterm.”Sheraisedaneyebrow.“Outwithit.”IexplainedthatMom,Hailey,andIhadgonetoouruncleLarry’shousesoI

couldmeethisnewwife,whowas sweetandadorable, andwhohadpetdogsthatwereginormous.“Oh,yeah.I’vemetthem,”Lisasaid.“Cutedogs.”“Yes, well, apparently they’ve been trained to look very cute and tail-

wagginglygiddytoseeyouinordertolullyouintocomingoutsidewiththemso

theycanchewyourbonesoff.”“You got attacked by Theresa’s pet dogs? Aren’t they like collies or

something?”sheaskedindisbelief.“They’reanimals.Literally,”Iassuredher.Shelookedatthepicturesagaindoubtfully.“Aftereatingdinner,IcarriedHaileyouttothebackyard,becauseshewanted

to see the dogs. It was pitch dark, but Uncle Larry was feeding them, so Ithoughtthey’dbedistractedandHaileycouldjustlookatthem.Butthenoneofthemjumpedup,inan‘I’m-a-big-dog-and-I-want-to-smell-the-top-of-your-head’kindofway,andHaileywassquealinginan‘I’m-a-crazily-excited-and-slightly-freaked-three-year-old’kindofway,andthenI’msuddenlywonderingwhyI’moutside in a ‘These-motherfuckers-are-the-size-of-polar-bears’ kind of way.Larry heard the barking, and settled the one dog down as I was backing offtoward the door. But then another dog must’ve thought I was an attacker,becauseitjumpedupandbitmeinthearmthatIwasholdingHaileywith.(Inan‘I-would-like-to-pull-you-to-the-ground-so-I-can-chew-your-nose-off’ kind ofway.)IknewI’dbeenbitten,butIalsoknewthatifIscreamedforhelpHaileywould freak out and Imight losemy grip on her, so I bit my lip and turnedaroundsomybackwastothedogandHaileywasblockedfromhim.ThenIfeltanotherbiteonmyarmasIslidopenthebackdoorandpushedHaileythrough.Iwas afraid that the dogwas trying to get at her, since shewas squealingwithexcitement,soIblockedthedoorwithmybodytogivehertimetogetfartherin,andthat’swhenthedogbitmeintheback.Helatchedonandyanked,andforasecondIthoughtIwasgoingtofalltotheground,andinmymindflashedallofthosenewsstoriesaboutwomenkilledinfreakdogaccidents.IputmylegbacktosteadymyselfandmadesureHaileywassafelyin,thenpulledhardtoripmybackoutofthedog’smouthandslammedthedoorbehindme.”Lisa looked atme in silence for amoment. “Dude.Was everybody freaked

out?”sheasked.“No.Nooneevenrealizedithadhappened.IswoopedHaileyupandchecked

heroutallover,lookingforbloodandbitesthatIknewshemusthavegotten,butshedidn’thaveascratchonher.Itwasweird.ThenMomassuredmethatIwasoverreacting and that everything was fine, and then she saw the blood andrealized that I’d been bitten. Uncle Larry hadn’t even realized what hadhappened,becauseI’dbeensoquietwhenithappened.Thetwobitesonmyarmweresodeepthatyoucouldseeabitoffatpokingoutofthem,andonmybackyoucouldseethedog’steethmarks,likesomesortofdoggiedentalimpression.Ispenttherestoftheeveningintheemergencyroombeingstitchedup,gettingatetanusshot,andwishingI’dhadmycamerawithmesoIcouldsendpicturesto

Victortoshowhimwhathewasmissingwhileheentertainedclientswithlobsterdinners.”“So,whatdidtheydowiththedogs?”sheasked.“Nothing.I’msureifI’daskedthemto,LarryandTheresawouldhaveputthe

dogs down, but they’ve been around Theresa’s kids for ten years with noproblem.Ithinktheysawalarge,screaming,unfamiliarobjectapproachingtheirmasterinthedarkandweretryingtoprotecthim.Besides,itkindoffeltlikeI’daskedforit.Takingyourthree-year-oldoutinthedarktoseegiantstrangedogswhiletheyareeatingisbewilderinglystupid.“Oh,andwe’djusteaten,soIprobablysmelledlikeKFC.“Plus,I’mkindofdelicious. ItwaslikeIwaswearingaperfumedesignedto

getmemauled.Butinabadway.”Lisanoddedslowly.“That’sgottabein,like,ourtop-tenworstfamilystories

ever.”Iraisedaneyebrow.“Okay,”sheadmitted.“Topfifty.”“Itwasn’tthatbad,really.”Iexplained:“Itwaskindofalearningexperience.”“Right,”sheagreed.“Andthelessonwas,‘Dogseatmeat.Peoplearemadeof

meat.Youdothemath.’”“Okay, that’s not a lesson. That’s a word problem. A really bad one. No, I

learnedthatIcouldputsomeoneelse’slifebeforemine.IalwaysthoughtthatIwould,ofcourse,givemylifeforHailey,butinthebackofmymindwasalwaysa sneaking doubt that if the time came Iwouldn’t be able to physically forcemyselftogointotheburningbuildingforher,orstepinfrontofanangrydogtosaveher,butthatdayIfoundoutthatIcould.Itwasscaryashell,butinawayit’sreassuringtoknowIcoulddoitifIhadto.”“Aw,”Lisareplied.“That’sprettyprofoundforadogbite.”“Ialso learned thatseeingyourownfatpokeoutofyou isdisgustingand is

goodmotivationnottoeatthatthirddrumstick,”Iadded.“Oh,andthatwhenahot doctor comes in to tell you he really wants to ‘irrigate your holes,’ youshouldn’t laugh, because apparently that’s a real thing and not some sexualinnuendo.Oh!Andwhentheydidittheyfoundatoothinmyback.”“Becauseitwasfromyoursilenttwin,”Lisasaidconspiratorially.“EXACTLY!”Iexclaimed.“Exceptnotatall.Itwasjustatoothfromthedog,

becausehewassoold.ButIdidimmediatelytellthedoctorthatmaybeitwasatwin that I’d ingestedbeforebirth,and Iaskedhim to feelaround inmybackholeforanyhumanhairoraskull,sinceIwasalreadynumb,butheactedlikeIwascrazy.ProbablybecauseI’dlaughedathissexualinnuendo.”“Yeah,doctorshatethat,”sheadded.

“IguessthegoodthingaboutgettingattackedbythedogisrealizingthatI’malittlelessselfishthanIthoughtIwas.Before,themostselflessthingIhaddonewasgiveallmywishestoHailey.IseeafallingstarorblowoutmycandlesandIwish for something for her, but it feels selfish.Knowing that she’s happy isgoingtomakemehappyanyway,soitfeelslikecheating,likewishingformorewishes. Also, it’s not much to give up, considering that every wish prior tohavingHailey involvedmy seeing a unicorn.” I half hesitated in even tellingLisa that part, knowing that onceyou tell someoneyourwish it doesn’t cometrue, but the chances of my seeing a unicorn are slim. Especially since theyappearonly tovirgins,according tounicorn lore. I imagine that if Ieverseeaunicornit’llbeonethat’smostlysenileandsortofskanky,purposelyshowingupdisheveledandunshoweredjust tofuckwiththeotherunicorns,whowishthatthat unicornwould stop embarrassing them all like this. Haroldwould be hisname,probably,andhe’dbeasmoker.SoIwasn’tgivingupmuch.Butgettingattackedbywilddogstoprotectmychild?Itwaslikeanodfromtheuniverse.Asubtle recognition that yes, you are a good mother. It was one I was just assurprisedtoreceiveastheuniversewassurprisedtogive,andIsatthereinthehospital room thinking that if I had to give some sort of acceptance speech Iwouldbeearnestlyshockedandhumbled,andIwouldprobablycrytheuglycry,andnotjustbecauseIwashavinglargegashessewnupatthemoment.Iwouldthank my mother for teaching me to put others first, and my father forunintentionally preparing me to not panic when attacked by large unknownanimals.IwouldthankVictorfornotbeingsurprisedthatI’dsacrificedmyselfforourdaughter,andIwouldthankHaileyformindlesslytrustingthatshewasokayinmyarms.AndthenIwouldnodsilentlytothedisheveledunicornatthebackoftheroomashecaughtmyeyeandtippedhisheadatmyawesomeness.“And thatwaswhat Iwas thinking.Andalso that Ineeded to findoutwhat

kind of drugs they’d given me, because anything that makes you hallucinateproudbutchaoticunicornswatchingyouracceptancespeech forbeingmauledbydogsisokaybyme.”“Wow,” my sister said as I realized I’d been saying all of this out loud.

“That’s . . . totallymessedup.But,” sheadmitted, “I’vegivenupmybirthdaywishes formykids too. Iguess it’sa signofbeingagrown-up.God, imaginewhatourliveswouldhavebeenlikewithoutMomwishinggoodthingsforusonherbirthdays.We’dprobablybedeadbynow.”“Probably,”Iagreed.“Although,nowthatIthinkaboutit,maybeMomwished

forour lives toendup just like this. It’snomagicalunicorn,but itbroughtushere,and Ican’t thinkofanyplace I’d ratherbe.Unless itwas theexact sameplacewithanairconditioner.”

Lisanodded.“I’dfist-bumptothat,butit’stoohottomove.SowhatdoyouwishforHaileywhenyoublowoutyourcandles?”“Can’ttellyouoritwon’tcometrue.ButIsupposeit’sthesamesortofwishes

all parents wish for their kids. I wish for her to have love, and just enoughheartbreaktoappreciateit.Iwishforhertohavealifeasblessedasmine.Withherowndeadmagical-squirrelpuppet,andgettingarmsstuckupacow’svagina,andtoknowthepridethatcomeswithchoosingtobemauledbyadogtosavesomeoneelse.IguessthosewouldbethethingsI’dwishforHailey.”Lisa lookedatmequizzically. “Yeah, I don’t think anybodywishes for their

kidstogetmauledandstuckinacowvagina.”“Ijustmeanmetaphorically,”Iadded.Lisa nodded and closed her eyes as she rested her head on the porch chair.

“Well,that’sgood,”shesaidabsentlyasshestretchedherlegsouttobaskinthesun.“Becauseinreallifethat’sthesortofshitthathauntsyouforever.Thosearethekindsofmemoriesthatgetsearedintoyourmindforgood.”I looked over at her and mimicked her pose, feeling the sun bake into my

bones as I let herwords run throughmymind. I smiled gently tomyself as Iclosedmyeyesandthought,“MyGod.Icertainlyhopeso.”

Epilogue

Fifteenyearsofmarriageandonebeautifuldaughterlater,VictorandIarestillasmismatchedasever.Wefight.Wemakeup.Weoccasionallythreatentoputcobrasinthemailboxfortheotherpersontofind.Andthat’sokay.Becauseafterfifteenyears,IknowthatwhenIcallVictorfromtheemergencyroomtotellhimthat Iwasattackedbydogswhenvisitingmyparents,he’ll takeadeepbreathandremindhimselfthatthisisourlife.IwatchVictoralmostinwondermentatthemanhe’sbecome,nowcompletely

unfazedwhenmyfatheraskshimtopulloversohecanpeeladeadskunkofftheroadbecausehe“mightknowsomeonewhocoulduseit.”IseeHaileyslipeasily between theworld of ballet classes and helping her grandfather build amoonshinestill.Iseehowwe’vechangedtocreatea“normal”thatnosanepersonwouldever

consider “normal,” but that works for us. A new normal. I see us becomingcomfortablewithourownbrandofdysfunctionalfunctionality,ourownuniquewayofmeasuringsuccesses.Butmostimportant,Iseeme...orrather,themeI’vebecome.BecauseIcan

finally see that all the terrible parts of my life, the embarrassing parts, theincidents I wanted to pretend never happened, and the things that make me“weird”and“different,”wereactuallythemostimportantpartsofmylife.Theywerethepartsthatmadememe.AndthiswastheveryreasonIdecidedtotellthisstory...tocelebratethestrange,togivethanksforthebizarre,andtooneday helpmy daughter understand that the reason hermother appearedmostlynakedonFoxNews(that’sinbooktwo,sorry)isprobablythesamereasonhergrandfather occasionally brings his pet donkey into bars: Because you aredefinednotbylife’simperfectmoments,butbyyourreactiontothem.Becausethere is joy in embracing—rather than running screaming from—the utterabsurdityoflife.Andbecauseit’sillegaltoleaveanunattendeddonkeyinyourcar,evenifyoudoliveinTexas.AndwhenIseeanothercouple,whoseemnormalandconventionalandwho

aren’thavingaloud,recurringargumentintheparkaboutwhetherJesuswasazombie,Idon’tfeelenvious.IfeelcontentmentandprideasVictorandIpauseour shouting to share a smug, knowing smile with each other as we pass thebaffledcouple,whomovetogiveusroomonthesidewalk.ThenIleanintorest

myheadonVictor’sshoulderashelaughsquietlyandlovinglywhisperstome,“Fuckingamateurs.”

TheEnd(Sortof)

Hi.You’restillhere,whichmeans thatyouareprobably thekindofpersonwho

forcesyourangrily impatientspouse tosit through thecreditsof themovieonthe off chance that theremight be some sort of bonus scene at the end, eventhoughthey’rethekindofpersonwhojumpsupthreeminutesbeforethemovieeven ends so that they can be the first person out of the parking lot, becauseapparentlythat’smoreimportantthanfindingoutthat“Rosebud”isthenameofthe sled, or thatDude, Where’s My Car? is (spoiler alert) a terrible, terriblemovie.Orperhapsyou’restillreadingbecauseyouthinkthatthiscan’tpossiblybetheendofthebook,becausethere’snowayitwasworthforty-fivedollars,*and you’re hoping that if you keep reading you’ll find something here thatactually makes the price of the book worthwhile. Well, congratulations,tenaciousanddemandingmalcontents,becausetheretotallyis.Ifyou’reanythinglikeme,thereisprobablyatleastonewell-knownfactthat

you insist is basic common knowledge, but your disbelieving family scoffs atyouwheneveryoubringitup.AndsoyouGoogleittoprovethemwrong,butsomehowinthetimethatittookyoutoarguethat“actually,yes,somesquirrelscan breathe underwater,” they’ve managed to somehow rewrite the entireInternetsothatitlooksasifwatersquirrelsneverevenexisted.Andthen,afterthat,wheneveryoudisagreewiththemaboutanythingatalltheyautomaticallydismiss you with a patronizing chuckle, saying to one another, “Yeah. Thiscomingfromthesamepersonwhothoughtsquirrelscouldbreatheunderwater,”andthentheyshaketheirheadswithpityandrefusetoevenconsideryourtheoryaboutwhyJesusistechnicallyazombie.Thattotallysucks.Butyou’reinluck,becausethelastpageofthisbookwillfixallofthat.Just get a pen and write in whatever fact you want to prove in the space

provided, and then casually show it to your detractors in amature andmildlycondescendingmanner.Isuggestsomethinglike“SoIwasjustdoingsomelight,squirrel-basedreading,andapparentlysomesquirrelscanbreatheunderwater.Ican see how you might doubt it, but it must be true BECAUSE IT’S IN AFUCKINGBOOK,YOUSKEPTICALASSHOLE.”You’rewelcome.I’mprettysurethataloneisworthforty-fivedollars.*

*Myeditorjustpointedoutthatthisbookwillnotcostforty-fivedollars,andIdorealizethat,butwhenpeoplereadthatthebookisforty-fivedollarsaftertheypaidonlythirty-fivedollarsforitthey’llfeelreallygoodaboutwhatagreatdealthey got, even though technically they paid full price. This is howmarketingworks.**

**Myeditor just argued that “that’s not howmarketingworks at all,” that thebook wouldn’t cost thirty-five dollars either, and that when people hand thisbook to their detractors, they’ll probably just look at the cover and realizeimmediatelythatthisisnotasquirrel-basedbookatall.Iexplainedthatshewasnotlookingatthebigpicture,andthatwearegoingtohavetochargethirty-fivedollars in order to cover the costs of the removable dustcover identifying thisbookasSquirrel-BasedFactsfortheIntellectuallyElite.Volume2:TheElusiveAquaSquirrel.Shethenclaimedthatifwedidthat,theonlypeoplewhowouldactually buy this book would be “the three soon-to-be-disappointed squirrelenthusiastssearchingforbooksaboutsquirrelsthatdon’tevenexist.”Iremindedmypublisherthatsquirrelresearchersareanuntappedmarket,andIpointedoutthat Iamprettydamnsure thataquasquirrelsdo indeedexistbecause(1) I’veactuallyseenone,and(2)theirexistenceisdocumentedinafuckingbook.ThensheaskedwhichbookIwasreferringto,andIwasall,“THISONE.”I’mprettysurethisprovesmypointonallcounts.***

***Myeditorsays that“there isnoway inhell theyaregoing toprintabookwith a fake dustcover about ‘water squirrels’ just so that you can win anargumentwithyourhusband.”SoIcalledmymom(sinceshewastherewhenIwasswimmingwithmysisterinthenearbycreekandwitnessedanentirefamilyofwatersquirrels),andshetoldmethatshedidrememberit,butthatsheandmyfather simply hadn’t had the heart to tell an enthusiastic eight-year-old (flushwith thegiddyexcitementofdiscovering the existenceofwater squirrels) thatshewas swimmingwith a nest of dead squirrelswhowere floating down thestream after having most likely drowned in the previous day’s flash flood.Awesome.It’slikemywholelifewasbasedonalie.Plus,I’mprettysurethat’showyougetcholera.

TrueFacts

•Milkhasnodiscerniblesmell...atall....

• “Problemly” is a realword. (Definition: Something thatwill probably be aproblem.)ItisunchallengeableinScrabble.

•“Flustrated”isnotarealword,andregularuseofitwillresultinyourgenitals’fallingoff.Problemly...

•Somesquirrelshavegills,althoughthisistypicallynoticedonlybythetrulyobservantandhighlyintelligent.

•_______________________________________________________

•_______________________________________________________

*WARNING:Inanefforttosavetheenvironment,thisbookwasmadefromtherecycledtissuesoftuberculosispatients,andshouldNOTbehandledbypersonslackingcurrent tuberculosis vaccinations.Also, someof themhad the flu.Andproblemlydysentery.

Thisistheactualholidaycardwesendouteachyear,andit’salsoaspecialthank-youtoyouforlisteningtomystory.P.S.ThiscountsasmesendingyouaChristmas/Hanukkahcard.Youare

welcome.

Acknowledgments

A HUGE thank-you goes out to all of my grandparents, assorted awesomefamilymembers,friendswho’veloanedmemoneyforbooze,andeveryonewhohaseversaidakindwordtome,orwhohas(intentionallyoraccidentally)notkickedme.Ialsowant to thankeveryonewhoeverreadanythingofmineandenjoyedit,oratleastpretendedtoforthesakeofgettingtothirdbasewiththatgirlwhotriedtoconvinceyouthatI’mhilarious.Thankyou,andIapologizeforthechlamydia.A very special thank-you goes out tomywonderful and supportive readers,

and to the people who helped make this book possible. This includes NeetiMadan,AmyEinhorn,LauraMayes,KarenWalrond,MaileWilson,KatherineCenter, Brene Brown, Jen Lancaster, Neil Gaiman, Stephanie Wilder-Tayler,NancyW.Kappes,DonnellEpperson,LaurieSmithwick, theBir clan,BonnieandAlanDavis,WilWheaton, everyone onTwitterwhohelpedmewrite thisbook,MaggieMason,TanyaSvoboda,StephenParoli,Alice andEden,EvanyThomas,HeatherArmstrong,DebbieGorman,JeanieM.,Mrs.Gilly,theMengerHotel,DianaVilibert,theGrueneMansion,andyou.Yes,you.YouthoughtI’dforgetyou,didn’tyou?Youhavesolittlefaithinme.Butit’sfine.Iforgiveyou.Andmy deepest thanks and love go out toMom and Dad, who taught me

everythingIknowaboutcompassionandbobcats,andtomysister,forlaughingbothwithmeandatme.Andmostespeciallytomydaughter,Hailey,whosavesmy life every day, and tomyhusband,Victor,whom I love evenmore than Iwanttostrangle.Thankyouforgivingmealifeworthwritingabout.

Familyportrait~2005.

AbouttheAuthor

AuthorJennyLawsonrelaxesathome.Herhusbandglaresoffcameraandaskswhether that’s his toothbrush. Her husband should probably get his prioritiesstraight.Andgogetheramargarita.Evenifit’sthreea.m.Seriously,Victor,gogetmeamargarita.Also,thepeoplewhopublishedthisbookprobablyshouldn’thavelettheauthorwriteherownbiography.Poorplanningontheirpart,I’dsay.