Furiously Happy (24 page)

I was instantly reminded of a story I heard when I was little, about a severed human hand that came to life and gave you wishes but murdered people while doing it. I always thought there could be nothing creepier than a severed hand running around the neighborhood murdering people, until I was faced with the notion that a lone voodoo vagina was skittering around my house. Except that the vagina was oval shaped and had no fingers so it'd have to roll, I guess. Which made it slightly less creepy, but only slightly.

Then I remembered that Hailey was home and I didn't want her to find a random voodoo vagina lying in wait because I'm a good mother, so I had to ask Victor for help “because someone sent me a vagina in the mail but it wandered off while I went to go get a camera and might be on a murderous rampage now.” He assumed I'd been drinking, but probably just because he knows how hard it is for me to ask for help.

I clarified that it was an arts-and-crafts vagina designed to show how babies are born but that I think it did have real pubic hair on it and that's why it probably came to life and ran away before I could photograph my friend's vagina. Then Victor shook his head, but instead of shutting his door he came out and helped me go vagina hunting because honestly
when else are you going to have the opportunity to do that
?

Fifteen minutes later we discovered the missing vagina halfway up the stairs, where the cat was chewing on it. I was a little grossed out, but more just concerned about my friend, because if it
was
a voodoo vagina she'd probably just fallen crotch-first into a chipper-shredder.

I had a closer look and realized it was that plastic doll hair you can buy in bags from craft stores and I felt a bit relieved, but Victor said I couldn't keep the vagina even if it wasn't made from pubic hair. This seemed a waste of a perfectly good vagina, but then I noticed that the cat had really torn it up quite a bit and had gnawed off the felt baby's head and so I figured it was a lost cause.

I was worried that the cat had eaten the baby's head and would have a digestive block, but then later we found the head in the toilet. It wasn't really a surprise because that cat loves to carry small things around and then drop them in the toilet. Cat toys, Polly Pockets, Barbie doll heads, lipsticks. They all end up in the toilet if you don't keep the lid shut. It's like her own personal wishing well. I have no idea what the hell she thought she was going to get in return for a baby's head she'd ripped out of a vagina, but regardless she seemed optimistic and mewled sweetly, rubbing against my legs as I peered down into the toilet. I flushed, delivering her small sacrifice to whatever toilet god she was praying to. God knows what she wished for. Probably more felt vaginas.

PS: For some reason people seem to leave this chapter with more questions than they had before they started so let me reiterate that Kim makes these felt, baby-filled vaginas as an educational tool for young children. She calls them Beaver Babies and they now feature “new and improved pubic hair.” You can also use them as really gross wallets if you want people to never steal change from you.

PPS: I didn't make a single “pussy” joke in this chapter. Someone get me a damn medal.

 

The World Needs to Go on a Diet. Literally.

Yesterday my doctor said that I need to lose about twenty pounds to be at “a healthy weight.” I really didn't appreciate it because I'd already had quite enough fat-shaming from a dressing room that week. This sounds ridiculous unless you're a woman and then you're probably nodding because you know the struggle.

All dressing rooms are just small cubes of vulnerability with mirrors to help multiply the shame. The worst dressing rooms are the ones that are missing doors for some reason. It's like a nightmare, but real. There was a store in the mall when I was in junior high (back before malls got sad and dangerous) that had open, non-doored dressing stalls that were located all around the edge of the room with a big empty square in the middle, so every other person in the dressing room could witness you not realizing that there was a zipper, or see you with the dress stuck over your head, or sweatily struggling to pull a pair of too-small pants over your hips as you heard an unfortunate ripping sound and hoped that people thought it was just gas.

Even in regular, private dressing rooms clerks inevitably come to your door right when you're most entangled in something and say, “Can I help?” And you say, “
Nope. Doing great!
” in that shaky, high, fake voice that you hope says that you totally
don't
have a shirt stuck around your shoulders. And you know the salesclerks are probably watching you on camera and know that you're stuck, which makes it even more embarrassing. My guess is that several stores probably have entire blooper reels of me falling and breaking things.

I feel almost as bad when I take eight things into a fitting room and none of them fit but I don't want to tell the fitting room attendant that, because “None of these worked” feels like code for “Sorry. I'm fatter than I thought I was.” Instead, I give her all but one outfit, which I then put back myself when no one is looking.
Because apparently the opinion of a total stranger who hands plastic numbers to people all day matters to me.
I've tried saying, “These didn't work for me,” because then it's like you're putting the blame on the clothes. Like,
these clothes just weren't even trying
. But the downside is that the clerk might offer to help and that's worse because then they start bringing you stuff they think you'd like and it's
never
the right size and by not buying the clothes they suggested it's like you're rejecting them too. It's better though than those stores that only go up to a size ten and I just have to pretend that I came in to look at the scarves and jewelry with all the other curvy women who feel insulted too. Usually it's only an
accidental
insulting, but sometimes it's intentional, like the time the clerk looked at me like I was the Michelin Man and said, “
I don't think we carry your size.
” It felt shitty and
Pretty Woman
–esque, so I explained that I was just there to buy clothes for stray, homeless dogs, because I like to put them in outfits that are warm but not nice enough to steal from a dog. That shut her right up.

I try to love myself exactly the way I am, but it's hard to not feel a
bit
crappy when your doctor is focused on “health” and all that bullshit. And yes, I might be slightly overweight but I'm pretty sure this isn't entirely
my
fault. It's the world's fault.

Technically, if I were farther away from the center of the Earth then I'd be subjected to less gravity and then I would weigh less. So I'm not really fat. I'm just not high enough. Victor says I sound pretty high already but I suspect he's just being insulting.

But the simple fact is, there's no such thing as
real
weight. Only mass. Weight depends entirely upon the gravity of wherever you are, which is why if you weigh yourself on the top of Mount Everest you'd be closer to outer space and you would weigh slightly less than you would at home. But you'd have to lug a scale up to the top of Mount Everest to prove it, which would suck. Honestly, they should just leave a scale up there for people. Although, maybe they already have one, because who's going to drag a scale back down Mount Everest? That would be crazy. Frankly, I never understood why people climb that thing in the first place, but if there's a scale up there telling you that you're skinnier than you think then I guess I can see the draw. I'd
hike
helicopter up a mountain for a scale that says I need to eat more. Or for a magic bean that turns me into Jennifer Lawrence. Or for a nice basket of cheeses. Preferably cheddars.

Regardless, on the moon I weigh about as much as a large toaster, so using that logic I'm not overweight. I'm simply
overgravitated
. Spell-check says that I
can't
be “overgravitated” because that isn't a real word and suggested that I probably meant to say that I'm “
overly aggravating
.” Victor says spell-check has a point.

Spell-check and Victor are both dead to me.

Perhaps if people are so concerned with obesity they should just work on making the Earth have less mass so there's less gravity. “
I
need to go on a diet, Dr. Ryker?
I don't think so. I think maybe
the fucking
planet
needs to go on a diet.
” Victor says this is a clear case of “deflection” and I agree because I assume “deflection” is something scientific used to deflect mass from Earth and, thus, make us all lighter. Victor says he thinks I don't know what “deflection” means. I think Victor doesn't know what “being supportive” means. (It means letting me lean on him a little when I'm standing on the bathroom scale.) I think this is all pretty commonsense. Victor says it's not at all.

Fuck it.
Someone get me a scale.

And a mountain.

And a helicopter.

And some cheeses.

 

Crazy Like a Reverse Fox

The One Billionth Argument I Had with Victor This Week

Victor accused me of being insane, but really I'm crazy like a fox. But a crazy fox. Not a normal fox that acts crazy but really isn't.

Victor says the whole point of the phrase “crazy like a fox” is pointing out that foxes aren't crazy. But I explained that I'm like a reverse fox. People think I'm crazy and then they realize it's all just a game and I'm super clever. And then they spend a little more time and realize that no, I'm just crazy, but I'm also really lucky because shit still seems to work out for me. I'm crazy like a fox that really has gone insane. Those are the most dangerous foxen.

“I don't think you're listening to me,” he said. And then he said something else but I didn't hear it because I was too busy being mad about his accusations. I mean, can you believe this guy? And then I realized that he'd stopped talking and was waiting for a response and I assumed he must've apologized so I said, “I forgive you. But don't let it happen again.” Then he yelled some more, probably because he wasn't used to someone being that gracious. He seemed confused, and in my experience, that always makes a man angry at himself.

Some men are like dormant volcanoes, always ready to explode with anger. And also always ready to ejaculate everywhere with little warning. Plus they're often crusty. Metaphorically, I mean. You don't want a man who is literally crusty ejaculating on you. That would be a safety hazard and is probably how plague is spread. But my original point is that some seemingly quiet men anger easily. (Sorry. That metaphor got away from me a bit. I'd fix it but this is what editors are for.)

Winner: Everyone who isn't my editor. Also, foxen, because no one knows what the hell is going on with them so no one expects anything special from them. Lucky little bastards.

 

An Essay on Parsley, Wasabi, Cream Cheese, and Soup

(Side note: I had writer's block so I got very drunk and when I sobered up I found that I'd written an essay on parsley, wasabi, cream cheese, and soup. I assure you, I was just as bewildered as you, but I decided to leave it in because at this point drunk me writes much better than sober me. She is
such
an asshole.)

Parsley

I'm not a fan.

No one ever really eats it and it just ends up on plates as a sort of symbolic bookmark that says you're going to pay 25 percent more for this meal than expected. I don't even think it's edible and I'm pretty sure melted parsley is how plastic is made. In fact, I suspect there are actually no more than one thousand pieces of parsley in the world and chefs just keep reusing them over and over.

Maybe it keeps showing up on our plates because we don't eat it. Perhaps chefs are continuing to serve it night after night as punishment, much like when your mom served you the reheated lima beans you refused to eat for three straight evenings until you finally forced them down and then vomited on your plate, ruining lima beans for everyone in the vicinity.

It's not our fault though. From our earliest night out we're taught two things: That's butter, not ice cream. And that's parsley, don't eat it.

Although, now that I think about it, you hardly ever see parsley anymore. Maybe it's because we eat less American food nowadays. Instead, parsley has been replaced by that huge mound of wasabi served with the tiniest sushi roll.

Wasabi

You never finish it.

No one ever finishes it.

Have you ever seen anyone ask for a refill on wasabi?
No.
It always ends up back in the kitchen with the chef, where he probably just adds it back to the huge Play-Doh ball on the counter.