As much as I’ve tried, I still can’t get over this week. It started as one bad day and then spread to the rest of the week like the fucking chicken pox in a daycare center. I’m starting to think this shit is a punishment from God or the Universe or something. Either that or I’m a whole lot crazier than I thought I was. There’s a 50/50 chance that it’s one of the two. I’m probably happier not knowing.
You know the saying; if you can’t see it, you can’t cry about it. That’s not really the saying, but I might coin the term and turn it into a t-shirt. If you don’t know what I’m getting at here, let me explain. It’s like that time I was riding my bike through the neighborhood, before I decided to show off for my best friend’s hot mom and bust a wheelie right there in the middle of the cul-de-sac. Then I walked away all embarrassed because I didn’t really know how to pop a wheelie, and all the other neighborhood kids watched as my stupid ass went flying through the air in a blue and red sparkly bathing suit like super-fucking-man. You probably didn’t experience it exactly like I did, but we’ve all experienced it at some point or another. Meaning, you got up and decided to do some dumb shit that day and went flying chin first into the sidewalk.
Essentially, that’s exactly what I did. Then, I stood up, wiped the dust off my bathing suit, and waved at the gathering crowd of kids like I’d just won first place in a rodeo contest. I tried to play that shit off like I was so boss that I wrecked my damn bike on purpose, just because I enjoyed the thrill of it. It wasn’t until one of the other moms pointed out the giant hole in my chin that I broke out into hysterical sobs.
That’s because if you can’t actually look at it, you can’t cry about it. It’s like all those days I went to work with amazing hair, and then found out halfway through the day that my surly follicles decided to change their fickle fucking minds and suddenly I looked like Howard Stern in a pantsuit on a humid day in New Orleans.
That’s pretty much exactly what happened yesterday, actually. I went to work feeling fine in my professional dress pants and what-ever-the fuck else I was wearing, and then caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror around two pm. My hair was sticking out in ten directions, there was more frizz than actual strands of hair, and there was a living creature crawling around in there. No one even bothered to tell me. So, after work I drove my ass to Super Cuts, which is where I always get my hair done, because those stylists are the real deal. I walked in without an appointment, which was my first mistake, and then proceeded to make every bad-haircut decision my mother, your mother, his mother, her mother, and Mother Theresa ever warned you about.
Mistake Number Two:
The nicest lady that I have ever met walked over to the Super Cuts “pulpit” and said in her perfect sweet, smiling way, “It will be about an hour wait, is that OK?” Now how do you say no to the nicest woman in the entire fucking world when she asks if that’s OK? I mean, I want to go home after a ten-hour workday just as much as the next crazy-haired bitch, but it’s not like I’m saving the world tonight. So, yea, I told her it was OK.
Mistake Number Three:
I waited for a full hour and then she called me over to her chair and draped that itchy black cloak over me—and there I sat, staring into that enormous stage-lit mirror and becoming more and more disgusted with myself by the minute.
Then, she disappeared. While the other ladies were cutting, blowing, styling, and frying away, this lady was playing secretary and cutting my hair at the same damn time. I don’t know about you guys, but I can’t even change the channel and smoke a cigarette at the same time. But, it was too late. Once that cloak is on, it’s like an unspoken agreement. She had me exactly where she wanted me.
Mistake Number Four:
When she asked me what I wanted, I told her that I just wanted a haircut. It’s not that hard, right? Just cut of all the bad stuff and send me on my way. And, boy did she ever. I left that salon looking like a middle-aged lesbian walking out of a dyke bar in Coatesville, Pennsylvania. Now, some of my friends will tell you that I’m exaggerating. But, when I got to work on Tuesday, half of the engineering department started calling me Justin Bieber, and I thought to myself, this is LITERALLY every 30+ lesbian’s worst nightmare.
Point is, why did I have to look in the mirror that day? Had I walked on by and dodged that shit like any good American woman who knows all about Photoshop and what those bitches on the front cover of Cosmopolitan magazine really look like, I wouldn’t be walking around right now looking like an overgrown Amish boy with lesbian bangs.
If you can’t look at it, you can’t cry about it. That’s my new philosophy. It’s literal, unlike the actual saying, which is, “If you can’t laugh at, you can’t look it at”. So, here I am, doing a little bit of both, and bogging you down with the details of my wretched week.
Now, don’t get me wrong. As I’ve said so many times before, it’s all about perspective: sometimes I have it; usually I don’t. But, I do have the where-with-all to know that having a bad week and getting a bad haircut is in no way on point with losing half of your family to two different earthquakes in 14 days. (Side note: If you want to help the victims in Nepal, you can make a donation to the Nepal Earthquake Relief Fund on the American Red Cross website here.)
I’m not talking about that kind of week: there’s no way to even describe something like that, and I’ve never endured anything close to what those people are suffering through right now. I’m talking about the middle-class American version of a bad week.
In my defense, and as many of you know, we had to put our beloved dog to sleep on Friday, and that was no joke. I have nothing cynical to say about that experience. But, other than that, I have to keep asking myself what has been so bad about this week that I’m actually writing another blog post about my awful no good fucked up rotten day… after day after day after day? (You get it; there are seven of them.) I think I finally have it figured out:
Anxiety. That’ll do it to you. At least, it does it to me, all day every day. But, not like it has this week. Oh no, this week has been extra special. My anxiety must have been saving itself up in those little empty pockets of serotonin, just waiting for the right time to explode. I’m lying in bed at night thinking about crazy shit like, “ I wonder if I could ever join the FLDS or if the God Squad would shoot me dead on the spot? And, why do they have to wear their hair all piled up and curled over like George Washington’s wig with an ice cream swirl on top? And, why did they split away from the Mormon Church in the first place? One wife isn’t enough?” I don’t know about all the rest of the married people in this world, but my ONE wife is plenty enough for me. She keeps me busy all day every day—and I’m not talking about baby making either.
Anyway, it has been a worrisome week. Perhaps that’s a more accurate description than the ones I’ve used before, but either way, I’ve got some stuff on my mind.
I love my job, but there are like five new bosses and I have no idea who to answer to. I’ve got one guy telling me to write this, another guy telling me to erase that, and three more guys asking why I’m doing any of that shit in the first place. It’s stressful! And, to top it all off, we’re trying to figure out how to start a family over here. Maybe you misread what I wrote…WE ARE TRYING TO START A FAMILY…like with real human babies that don’t come with wee-wee pads and a crate.
It’s all very exciting, but it’s also overwhelming. Here’s the thing, in order to have these kids, we both have to take hormone shots. It doesn’t matter that she’s the one who is having the damn babies. I, too, have to shove a needle in my thigh every other day. The doctor says it’s because we’re going to fertilize both of our eggs and impregnate her with them.
So…Ok…I have to take these shots, and I know it’ll be worth it in the end. But here’s the part that scares me: I HAVE ANXIETY. Like, real bad, earth shattering, holy shit I’m chocking on nothing, ANXIETY. And, in order to produce a litter of healthy eggs, I have to stop taking my medication and inject myself with hormones? Did God mess up the process somewhere along the way and no one told us?
I thought the government was trying to stop people from injecting chickens with hormones. But, I’m supposed to take them so that I can produce a carton of super-eggs, and they can fertilize those bitches was some magic sperm? Didn’t nature sort all of this out billions of years ago? I’m completely beside myself here. It turns out that nature isn’t actually producing high-quality eggs after all. Now we have to pump them full of hormones and fertilize them in a little dish to make super-fucking-bionic embryos! I mean, really?
And then, as if the anxiety from everything else weren’t enough, the lady on the phone told me that we’re running out of time since I’m almost 34 years old. I wanted to say, bitch, you sound like you’re ALMOST out of high school, so why the fuck am I listening to you anyway? The whole thing sounds like something out of a sci-fi movie, and I’m a nervous wreck as it is.
Even so, I agreed to take the stupid hormone shots. I decided that if I’m to be a parent, I’m just going to have to climb right up into that ship and get my ass on board. Deep breath…I can do this. But, then she tells me that not only do I need to stop taking my medication AND take the shots, I also need to throw away my botanical garden! How in the hell am I supposed to survive for however long I have to inject these hormones? Now, I’ve got all these doctors telling me I’ll just have to learn to “cope” with the anxiety using healthy techniques and strategies. What the fuck? That’s just therapist talk for yoga and acupuncture! And, I’m not really in the business of doing either—unless contorting my body to reach the remote when it falls behind the bed counts for something.
I just don’t know. What kind of parent will I be anyway? And, what if I fuck them up, and they act crazy in church and shit? Lol. I love kids; anyone who knows me will tell you that I love dogs, old people, and kids above all else. But, I tend to speak my mind…constantly. That filter that regular people have when they’re discussing regular stuff with other regular people? I never got one of those when I was born. These kids will be going to school telling their teacher, “My curly mom says you’re a fascist half-whit with the intellectual capacity of a squirrel.” The teacher will have to call Lindsey once a month to tell her to get her wife under control. I can hear it now:
Um, yes, hi. This is Mrs. Fascist half-whit with the intellectual capacity of a squirrel. How are you today, Ms. Harman? Me? Well, I’ve seen better days, to be completely honest with you, ma’am. No, this is not about little Johnny. No, it’s not about little Audrey either. I’m actually calling about your wife. Did she come off her medication again? No? Well, can you please ask her to stop telling your children to sing “God Save the Queen” every time they come into my classroom? No, ma’am I’m not talking about the British National Anthem. I’m talking about the Sex Pistols song.
I should make a note of that, just in case my kids ever have a teacher like Mrs. Ruth’s crazy ass. If one of my kids comes home crying one day with the world’s ugliest seashell, I swear to God, I will send him back to school the next day with a gold-plated Megalodon tooth hanging from his neck.
No joke, that child will be the coolest motherfucker under all the sea, in all the school, and most importantly, in all of Mrs. Ruth’s first grade classroom.
How you like me now, lady? I’m going to send all of my anxiety-ridden, ornery, can’t-ever-shut-the-fuck-up kids right back to your first grade classroom. It’ll be like 1987 all over again, only this time you’ll have to deal with two of them. Enjoy.
At least I always have that. But, anxiety…ugh. It’s like an allergy or something. It comes and goes, and yet it’s always there looming in the background. Once it rears its ugly head, it’s like I’m allergic to the entire fucking world. And, then I start thinking real crazy shit:
Patty’s not answering the phone?? She must be stuck in a well…someone call Lassie, quick.
The neighbor’s kids are screaming next door? Holy shit, one of them got run over by the lawn mower…call an ambulance!
The dogs aren’t barking in the window? Dear Jesus, they’ve escaped and now there’s a pack of wild dogs terrorizing the entire neighborhood. Call in the National Guard.
It’s a wild ride, but I’m just going to have to figure it out. Sacrifice some things, pull myself together at times, throw away my botanical garden…it’s all part of the package. And, this is going to be one expensive little package. Really, no one ever gets it perfect, right? I’ve seen some pretty messed up people who had fantastic parents to raise them. It’s like the saying goes, “Easy raising is damn hard faking.” Actually that’s not how the saying goes at all. But, the original saying doesn’t make sense in this context.
All I’m saying is, it’s not going to be easy. If I can make it look easy, well then, I’m one hell of a liar. But, anxiety takes the lying right out of you…just try to tell a lie when you’re having an anxiety attack. It’s like trying not to say the “f” word when you stub your toe on the coffee table.
I’m going to need all the help I can get. Some one is going to have to teach these kids the important stuff…like who’s the main character in the movie Frozen, how to sit still in a movie theater, and why the FLDS women wear their hair like there’s a wave machine in the front and a Dubai-shaped braid in the back.
I don’t have all of the answers, clearly. But, I’m sure that when the time comes for me to address these questions and to teach my children important lifelong lessons, I’ll be too riddled with dementia to give a fuck anyway. Wish my wife luck, people. She’s really going to need it.