Idiosyncratic Obscene

Every few weeks, I like to stage what I call "Hemingway Night". I shoo Mr. Thumbscrews out of the house, deposit J.Q. in his crib and - once he's solidly asleep (on all fours, diminutive butt held aloft, puddle of milky drool spreading rapidly across sheet) - I begin Drinking and Writing. I use both terms' connotations loosely. My short stories read like what would happen if Quentin Tarantino molested Holden Caulfield in Henry Miller's tool shed and, while I'm capable of knocking back ten rum 'n diet Cokes while remaining upright and fully clothed, I don't generally engage in such debauchery in my own home.

There's something appealing, however, about my sloppy, silly homage to "writers who like to drink... like, a LOT", as one of the characters in Stephen King's final "Dark Tower" book so aptly put it. While I may never bang out a whiskey-fueled masterpiece in Dar-es-Salaam, putting back Peppermintinis (shut up, the mix was 75% off at Target; at that price, I can deal with smelling like a degenerate Doublemint Twin) while blogging in Suburbiaville has its own charm.

Midway through my last, heavily-mentholated attempt to channel Lester Bangs, I was struck by a revelation (unlike many of today's revelations, mine did not feature Kirk Cameron). "This," I slurred, hitting "Save" and stirring my mouthwash-eqsue libation with one finger, "Is exactly the sort of thing I love about myself."

Okay, so the statement wasn't entirely accurate: I was DRUNK. That doesn't even rank in my Top Five Worst Things Said While Drunk:

5. "I only gave the Sea Monkeys a PINCH of food!" (as my then-boyfriend and I stared into a vessel which didn't resemble a Sea Monkey tank so much as an avocado milkshake in which someone had deposited a small plastic treasure-chest).

4. "Orken bjorken!" (while attempting to charm an acquaintance's magma-hot new girlfriend, who happened to be... brace yourself... Swedish.

3. "I can make it to the bathroom!" (I couldn't.)

2. "Gimme fifty cents!" (invariably results in the selection of the ONE jukebox tune which will, within three brief minutes, cause every bar patron to become depressed enough to slit their own wrists with little plastic cocktail swords).

1. "Dude, this bus will totally get us back home." (resulted in Mr. Thumbscrews and I spending most of the night in an area of Philadelphia which was the subject of frequent local news features with titles like, "When Will Black People and White People Stop Killing One Another With Such Alarming Frequency?"

Point being, there are quite a few things I admire about myself which do not involve drunken idiocy and/or overuse of adjectives. My determination, my devotion to friends and family, my steadfast morality (which is self-derived and hence includes no prohibition against Bukowski-ish jackassery). However, with the help of a wonderful therapist and enough antidepressants to prevent the reuptake of a tanker-truck full of serotonin (dude, wouldn't it be awesome if that tipped over on the highway? Everyone would be three hours late getting home, and they WOULDN'T CARE!), I'm beginning to discover a different side of self-love (no, not that one, pervs; I discovered THAT in junior high, when one of my neighbors left a prominently-displayed copy of "Chic" magazine on top of his recycling bin).

Rather than waiting for someone else to embrace my unique collection of quirks and escapist behaviors - flees and tics, as it were - I'm learning to appreciate them myself. When I choose to reopen the doors of my battle-scarred heart, it will only be for someone who will cherish what lies within as much as I do.

What weird/funny/disconcerting little things do YOU love about YOURself? Does anyone in your life appreciate them? I'll get the party started (or lubed up, to continue the weary self-love metaphor... I can't resist, damn it):

A. My dreams. They're always complex, convoluted and hilariously stupid. Case in point: several weeks ago I dreamed that I was part of a group of people being held against our will in a shadowy organization's secret training camp. It was a densely-layered, intricately-plotted thriller of a dream which ended with the discovery of Shadowy Org's top-secret mission: stuff seeing-eye dogs with explosives and use them to blow up state capitol buildings (insert incredulous forehead-slap here). I should mention that, throughout the dream, my fellow detainees and I were repeatedly frightened by far-off explosions. This was apparently because the organization had used HORSES as their initial test subjects, and the anatomical differences between equines and canines had unfortunately led to some prematurely-Detonating Pinschers. Oh, oh! The best part! One of the signs which led me to believe that this was an EVIL organization (forced detainment, monochrome uniforms, wanton animal cruelty) was the fact that, at mealtime, every member of the group was only allowed to have one quarter-cup of ice cream.

Holy SHIT. You can't tell that I'M an American, now can you?

B. Despite the fact that I haven't played "Never Have I Ever" since high school, I deliberately seek out strange/unique experiences which will contribute to my N.H.I.E mastery. I guess I could be called an experiential collector. Case in point: prior to J.Q.'s birth, I considered eating the placenta after delivery. This was not due to any New Agey leanings or a particular craving for placenta pot pie; nay, I just felt like it would be somewhat cool to have engaged in cannibalism. I was dissuaded from placenta-eating by... well, everyone (universal consensus: "EWWWWWWW!"); this is just as well, considering I delivered at Gigantic Soulless Medical-Industrial Complex. My placenta was probably oozing its way down Organ Disposal Chute 7-G seconds after it emerged.

This Time, It's Personal

The first thing I'm going to do following my separation is spend several hours staring at my bathroom sink, transported to a new level of awe and delight by the utter lack of beard hair and dessicated shaving cream found therein. I may even gently stroke the porcelain like a blissed-out rave-goer fondling her companion's pleather pants.

Ahem.

The next thing I'm going to do is place a personal ad.

I've never "dated", per se. I've been cohabitating with my husband since I was seventeen. Prior to that, my "dates" lasted as long as your standard Jerry Bruckheimer boom-fest (wanton popcorn-sharing optional) and ended not with "Your place or mine?", but with my father yelling at me to hop in the Crown Vic so that he could get back home and resume plunking out atonal versions of hard rock classics (think "Whole Lotta Love" meets the Koyaanasquatsi soundtrack, with backing vocals provided by my mother yelling, "HONEY! THE WASHING MACHINE IS SHAKING AND MAKING A NOISE LIKE A LABORING COW AGAIN!").

The last time I declared my interest to an available male was in elementary school. I did so by passing him a folded square of wide-ruled paper bearing the provocative question, "DO YOU LIKE ME? CIRCLE ONE, Y/N". His answer was a definitive N, which actually turned out for the best; a decade later, he served a three-year prison term for making bomb threats against our high school. While it is possible that my innocent display of affection twisted his impressionable little mind, I prefer to believe he was just a dipshit.

In the years between Mr. Terroristic Threats Against the New Jersey Public School System and Mr. Thumbscrews, a series of young men pried themselves away from their PlayStations long enough to vie for my affection (or at least the opportunity to slide a palm kernel oil-slicked hand under my t-shirt during "Escape From Plausibility Peninsula"). Each of these "relationships" was about as lengthy - and somewhat less satisfying than - a protracted game of Tetris. I was always the passive party, following Dude du Jour's lead, stumbling backwards in beaten-up Chuck Taylors throughout the approach, courtship, jujube-fueled makeout sessions and inevitable dumping.

When the opportunity arose to enter a serious, IKEA-furnished relationship with Mr. Thumbscrews, I was ecstatic. Dating was like visiting an hostile foreign land: the customs were inscrutable, the language indecipherable, the atmosphere supremely uncomfortable. Even the most adventurous traveler reaches a point where clean hotel sheets and Hershey bars seem infinitely more appealing than woven-bark blankets and delicacies with more legs than seems strictly necessary. When I dragged the two trash bags containing all my worldly goods up a flight of stairs and into my future husband's apartment, I was gladly convinced that I was retiring my passport for good. Ha. Fucking. Ha.

[Insert clip of sinister chortling from Pink Floyd's "Brain Damage". Is there a situation which WOULDN'T be enhanced by a little Floyd? Yes, actually. When shooting pool in a somewhat-shady neighborhood, you might not wish to play "Welcome to the Machine" on the jukebox, lest the gentleman at the next table (who is roughly the size and consistency of the monolith from "2001: A Space Odyessy") shake his cue menacingly in your direction and yell, "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS 'MEH MEH MEH MEH MACHIIIIIINE' SHIT?!"]

Very well, then. Once more into the breach. My family, my friends, my therapist and - somewhat surprisingly - my husband all agree: it would be a good idea for me to date during our separation. Playing the field seems to be a pretty integral part of most young adults' growth and development, and god knows we could use some growin' and developin' up in this joint. Furthermore, dating will force me to engage in actual, factual recreation, an area in which I could certainly use some assistance. "Don't Know How to Party" may have been my soundtrack in junior high, but No, I Really DON'T Know How to Party has been the tune I've rocked ever since. I could really use a few hours free of working, scheduling, organizing, cleaning, nose-wiping, butt-swabbing, discipline-administering (riddle me this, Child Development Expert-Man: how is "SPIT IT OUT RIGHT NOW!" any easier to understand than, "Dude, don't put that rock/twig/quarter/small appliance in your mouth!") or doing anything more productive than eating Sno-Caps and watching large swatches of L.A. get pulverized by aliens hell-bent on world conquest and/or selling their screenplay ("E'glexch a'iilynor eeeeya AND A WISECRACKING VENUSIAN TEAM UP ON A CROSS-GALAXY ADVENTURE! YOUR SPAWN WILL LOVE IT!").

My questions for you, my infinitely wise and foul-mouthed reading audience:

1. What's the #1 thing you wish you'd known BEFORE you began dating ("Don't order anything which requires more than one piece of cutlery to eat and/or comes to the table engulfed in flames", "Those growths probably AREN'T the result of a welding accident", etc.)?

2. I'm not looking for a serious commitment. I'm sure as hell not looking for a replacement father for J.Q.; J.Q. already HAS a wonderful father (even if I feel like running him over with a combine harvester sometimes). I want someone with whom I can see movies, have fun, kick ass at Quizzo, and (the following passage inserted for the benefits of my mother and therapist, the sweetest little middle-aged Jewish lady ever to use the phrase, "Be sure to wrap it up!"), once we've known one another for 10,000 years, been tested for all major diseases and wrapped our bodies in several layers of microbicide-slathered latex, maybe, possibly, perhaps engage in Grown-Up Activities.

How do I write a personal ad indicating this without sounding as though I'm requesting that all available men proceed immediately to my domicile, disrobe and allow me to hop on their jock?

3. Given my socially-clueless nature: how the F do I know when a man is interested in me, or make my own interest known? I suppose I could try purring, "Open your mouth and close your eyes and you will get a BIG surprise!" and then inserting a random part of my anatomy when the gentleman in question complies, but I suspect that may be a bit too "forward".

3. Are any of these pictures suitable for a personal ad? Amazingly, these are the GOOD ones; in each of the other photos, I'd managed to cut off my chin; I didn't want potential suitors thinking I was trying to hide, say, a ZZ Top-style beard.

Photoshop Sock Hop: Merit Badge #2

In honor of the inimitable Feral Mom, I present the second in a series of Thumbscrews' Blog-o-licious Merit Badges.

As before, there will be a contest for the best/funniest photo of a reader wearing or otherwise employing (Coaster! Itty-bitty megaphone! Rolling paper! Print three copies, string 'em together with rubber bands and make your own exotic dancer's outfit!) said badge. This is despite the fact that the previous contest garnered precisely ZERO entries; hopefully you won't all be too busy dousing your shells in alfredo to participate.

All entries do NOT become the property of Thumbscrews Inc. and/or affiliated subsidiary entities including but not limited to Jul, the baby, and the fourteen year-old Honda which goes roughly as fast as a Thorazine-addled snail; Thumbscrews Inc. makes no guarantees explicit or implied not to Photoshop your head onto, say, a picture of "Purple Rain"-era Prince, or maybe one of those monkeys with the blazingly red asses. Thumbscrews Inc. and Baby Thumbscrews (who isn't yet capable of using the PC, but DOES like to DJKERJLWERJLDSKJFSDF SDFL:SDFJGW go all Ginger Baker on the keyboard) and the ancient Honda (given name: Transihito) do, however, solemnly swear NOT to forward said ass-monkey images to your boss along with the caption, "I don't know about you, but I sure as hell wouldn't want MY accounts received by this dipshit!", no matter how evilly tempted.

What's that, you say? Silly, vulgar merit badge not enough? Clamoring for more jackassery and nice subtle drop shadows? Perhaps in the form of old pictures of J.Q. which I entered into IMDB's "Pitch Your Picture" contest (I was ROBBED, incidentally)? It just so happens that I can help you out:

Plan B

I took emergency birth control pills for the first time on the day my husband and I decided to separate.

The day before, I'd come home after work, J.Q. babbling and squirming in my arms, only to find a familiar little yellow tablet sitting in front of the toaster. "Ohhhh... fuck," I muttered, the blood draining from my face. While Mr. Thumbscrews and I had spent the last several months dealing with some truly hellacious marital problems, we'd managed to avoid descending into our own personal off-Broadway version of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?", and the mood in the household had remained civil. Extremely civil, in fact... sex, like binge-drinking or skydiving, was a fun way to escape the issues at hand (pun fully intended) for brief stretches of time. Unlike those other activities, sex had the added bonus of being mutually comforting and unlikely to result in either liver damage or slamming into the ground face-first at several hundred miles per hour (well, at least not the way WE do it... *snicker-chortle*).

Ahem. So... improbably enough, Mr. Thumbscrews and I had been engaging in a lot of the activity which that telltale tab of Jolivette was intended to render delightfully consequence-free. When not cavorting like avoidance-seeking bunnies, we'd been having long, serious talks, the latest of which had culminated in our mutual, bittersweet decision to separate - if not permanently, then at least for the foreseeable future.

We've been together since we were seventeen and nineteen, respectively. We spent our latter teens and early twenties working full-time, purchasing and remodeling our house, having, falling in love with and being run ragged by our baby. We viewed the typical twenty-something slacker lifestyle as a phase which individuals as clever as ourselves could conveniently side-step, shunning the extra sleep, music festivals and designer pharmaceuticals in lieu of a one-way ticket on Responsibility Railways.

A wise person (well, okay, it was ME, and if I'm so wise, how come I can't operate an electric can opener or an automatic transmission?) once said that it takes a truly smart individual to be a true asshole. Apparently, it also takes a truly smart individual to be a true idiot.

You can't bypass entire developmental phases sans consequence. You can't FORCE your life to conform to your dreams, no matter how hard you grip the wheel, no matter how adept you are at solving 3D shape-rotation puzzles.

It was only a matter of time before one of us cracked.

I'd experienced small but dramatic periods of existential terror throughout the years, subjecting my poor husband to week-long bouts of uncommunicative weepiness because I developed a crush on a coworker or became acutely aware, ambling through the housewares section of Target, that I'd had more silverware patterns than sexual partners. Mr. Thumbscrews, always as cool as a cucumber dipped in liquid nitrogen, never showed any signs of discontent. That is, until he fell in love with the receptionist at work.

"I know, it's so fucking cliched," he said as we sat next to one another in bed, holding hands and sobbing.

Month 1 was an all-you-can-weep buffet of emotional agony. I stopped eating, stopped smiling, spent the majority of my time staring hollow-eyed at my monitor at work or curled up on my living room floor, letting J.Q. gambol over my prone form as I wept and waited for my husband to return from the latest post-work discussion with OtherWoman. He refused to give her up, yet returned home to me every night. "He's trying to have his cake and eat it, too," sneered my friends, enraged at the betrayal. "I'm so damned confused," he said, stroking my face, "I feel like no matter what I do, I'm going to regret the other decision for the rest of my life."

Month 2 marked my fortuitous introduction to therapy and Paxil. I began to get better. Not just from the immediate emotional trauma of infidelity, but from... everything. With the help of a very subtle, very talented therapist (a practitioner of the "chatting and perpetually-full candy bowl" technique), I started to realize that a bevy of events had occurred over the course of my life which shaped who I became, and that not all of them - or even the majority of them - were positive. However, I didn't HAVE to be defined by my history; with work, I could choose who I wanted to be, regardless of the quantity or color of insults flung by elementary school classmates and sadistic ex-boyfriends (Craig C. : I hope failing second grade was the first in a dismal chain of events which led to your employment as a carcass-disposal technician at the local abbatoir. Josh K. : I no longer "hate the entire world"... mainly just YOU. Ha!).

Month 3 was a time of role-reversal. I thrived under stress and pressure, blossoming like a forced tulip. I worked and planned and drank and wrote and ran (and was immediately convinced that I had always been a runner, but was only now forcing my TastyKake-padded ass to embrace its true destiny). Mr. Thumbscrews, on the other hand, grew increasingly moody. While he had repeatedly pleaded for "just a little bit of time to think about things", more time seemed to result only in more irritability and confusion.

Month 4 has been sweet and sad... like living in mole sauce, to use a somewhat-clunky metaphor. Mr. Thumbscrews began taking an antidepressant of his own and, like me, immediately remarked, "If I EVER think about going off of this, please smack the shit out of me." I began sympathizing with the doubt and confusion he'd endured over the past several months, rather than just condemning his bad behavior (although I certainly haven't stopped thinking [and occasionally remarking] that he picked the single worst, most morally-reprehensible method of dealing with his feelings). I also - sans adulterous affair - began having many of the same doubts myself. Could I realistically spend the rest of my life plodding along in Suburbiaville, picking out interior trim colors and wondering what could've been?

I still don't know. My husband doesn't know, either. But it's become apparent that, as an unwise person once said, "It became necessary to destroy the village in order to save it." It seems unlikely that we'll drift back into the same shared orbit post-separation. However, returning to our former path of domesticity-by-brute-force would doom our relationship to death as surely as a dozen extramarital liaisons. While we were young and malleable, it was easy to convince ourselves that we fit together perfectly. Now that we've grown up and become (slightly) more wise, it's clear that we need to find out who we are individually before we can gauge whether we work as a couple.

We're still in love. I feel myself falling for my husband every single day... when he kisses my nose, brings me home ice cream, makes our son cackle like a tiny pink hyena. As the occasionally-wise Liz Phair once said, "You've never been no waste of my time, it's never been a drag." We're not miserable, nor are we irreparably broken. We're still talking hugging, doing things which necessitate emergency birth control (to tie up THAT particular plot thread: a Plan B prescription was obtained, its slick packaging admired, the two potent tablets taken at appropriate intervals. Let me add that Plan B apparently punishes you for forgetting your birth control by making you feel as though you're delivering a baby THROUGH YOUR FUCKING SKULL. However, it appears as though crisis/pregnancy has been averted). The thought of living without him breaks my heart. More and more often, though, it also excites me. We'll still be raising our little boy together (no matter where we are individually, we're both dedicated to J.Q. above all else). However, we'll be living and growing independently, finding our wings/stripes/other anthropomorphic-metaphoric personality traits. We'll be growing up in ways that our seven-year forced march through the bowels of suburbia never could have accomplished.

I'm going to live downtown, like I've always wanted (beyond the rudeness and persistent reek of urine, there IS a certain charm). I'm going to paint the walls whatever color I like and buy weird, modernist plush furniture for J.Q. to fling himself off of. We're going to go for walks in Rittenhouse, jog down West River Drive instead of past the cardboard box factory. I'm going to laugh and cry during the nights when J.Q. is ornery, I'm exhausted and I can't just hand him off to his father. I'm going to laugh and cry during the days when J.Q. is with his daddy, missing my son like mad but simultaneously atwitter with the possibilities inherent in being All. By. Myself.

It's going to be good.

Live From Sar's Visit

Further evidence of why Sar and I are the funniest...

#1:

Jul: "Well, ____'s was about THIS big." [makes scuba "okay" sign roughly the diameter of a bratwurst]
Sar: "Really? Well, ____'s was THIS big!" [slightly larger scuba-"okay"; maybe uncooked kielbasa-sized]

Several minutes later...

Jul: "So the aspect ratio was, like, unusual?"
Sar: "Yeah, it was more or less like a soda can."
Jul: "Really!" [takes appreciative slurp from can of diet Coke]
Sar: "Dude, how long has that landscaping crew been watching us?"

#2:

While driving down Suburbiaville Hwy., Sar flips open her cell phone to call Psychotically Jealous Long-Haired Occasional Boyfriend

Sar: "Don't say anything nasty when I'm on the phone with P.J.L-H.O.B.!"
Jul: "Oh, I won't." [reaches over and cranks radio up to 11, nearly incinerating car occupants' ears with Judas Priest]
Sar: "GODDAMN IT!"
Jul: [in poor vocal imitation of P.J.L-H.O.B.] "Why were you doing dirty deeds dirt cheap? AND WHO WERE YOU DOING THEM WITH?!"

Worst Hostess EVER

Over the course of Sar's visit, she's bought me energy drinks and candy, made me crack up, watched a shrieky J.Q. so I could go for a run (well, an iPod-scored stumble, but I'm getting better) AND visit a friend. In return, I have...

- Made her sleep in the recently bug-sprayed guest bedroom; while she is hoping for a future child as cute as J.Q., I am now afeared that she will produce a miniature pink Cthulu who bites directly through his jars of Earth's Best Goo 'n Lumps and requires a mobile of freshly-mutilated woodland creatures playing a stylized version of "Enter Sandman" in order to fall asleep.

- Prepared a box of "Cheesy Ham 'n Hashbrown Casserole" for dinner. On reflection, Sar and I both agreed that this product was not exactly a garden of epicurean delight.

Jul: "Holy shit, this tastes like prison food."
Sar: "BAD prison food."
Jul: "First, they take away your TV. Then they put you in solitary. THEN they feed you Cheesy Ham 'n Hashbrown Casserole."

- Just realized that Sar's first-ever solo diaper change will be this morning... the very morning, in fact, after I fed J.Q. Mexican-spiced black beans for dinner for the first time. If I come home to find J.Q. clad in a diaper the size of a regulation soccer ball, exuding an aroma reminiscent of Taco Day at the waste treatment plant, I cannot say I'll be surprised. It would probably serve me right for Cheesy Ham 'n Hashbrown Casserole.

Despicuous Consumption #1 - Frou-Frou Electronics

I hate accumulating "stuff". While I enjoy mall-going as much as the next boring suburbanite (hey, any excuse to get out of the house, slurp iced chai from a vessel the size of a bidet and let my son knock over elaborately-contructed pyramids of small appliances), the prospect of actually bringing purchased items into my home is somewhat disquieting. The physical space which these items consume bugs me; it's as though I view taking up a 4"x8" rectangle of space on my end table as an act of affrontery mere millimeters away from standing in front of my fridge in a raggedy bathrobe, consuming squirts of reduced-fat butterscotch topping directly from the bottle.

I realize that this peculiarity is almost directly contrary to the consumerist mood o' the day, perhaps best summarized as, "Buy it! Buy it now! It's new! It has [another blade, NASA-engineered grease-fighters, the ability to soak up 10,000 times its own weight in blue-tinted liquid, flavor crystals, an adorable CGI mascot's seal of approval, cheddar, bacon AND ranch dressing]!"

I'm outnumbered, outgunned and woefully devoid of ANY type of flavor-tastic dippin' sauce. Thusly, my friends, I am bringing you "Despicuous Consumption", a periodic roundup of the latest and (supposed) greatest products which I will absolutely, positively NOT be purchasing.

Bang & Olufsen's "Serene" Cell Phone

Pros: always the most exclusive phone in the room, unless you routinely hang out with high-ranking national intelligence officials whose phones have that nifty "Push To Send Fighter Jets To the Locale of Your Choice Within Twenty Minutes" feature.

Cons: It's $1,300.

That's the same price as six and a half Motorola RAZRs, or fifty-two entry-level Nokias. Think about it: for the same price as one Serene, you could (insert one: lose, mangle, sledgehammer, crush via monster truck, toss in stream after bitter defeat at mini-golf course) your Nokia... EVERY. SINGLE. WEEK. FOR. A. YEAR.

Frankly, if I had that kind of cash, I'd just get my manservant to make calls FOR me.

"Excuse me, kind sir... might we inquire as to whether your establishment has Price Albert in a can?"

"In that event, we strongly suggest you release him. Good-day!"


Product: iRobot Roomba Robotic Vacuum Cleaner

Pros: I don't know about YOU, but after a long, hard day at work, the last thing I want to do when entering my humble abode is slip on a spit-soaked graham cracker and go skidding across the floor like a principal in "Abbott & Costello Develop Uncontrolled Epilepsy" while simultaneously clutching an overstuffed purse, a dripping sippy cup and a toddler shrieking, "NA NA NA NA NA NA NA!" and attempting to launch himself from my arms headfirst in order to retrieve aforementioned saliva-marinated treat.

Note: "Na na" is J.Q.'s term which indicates, "I'm hungry," or perhaps the more brusque, "Gimme that cracker with a quickness, bitch, before I take a chunk outta yo goddamned arm." He must be going through a growth spurt (or an asymptomatic tapeworm infection or something), as we've been hearing "na na NA NA NA!" a LOT, as well as purchasing increasingly-large quantities of graham crackers. This kid is basically like an Insinkerator crossed with Steve Perry.

Cons: I don't think I want a device that intelligent coming into contact with MY carpets.

Bzzzzzz.... dirt dirt dirt dirt. Bzzzz.... cracker... cracker... infant saliva... cracker... dirty cracker... cracker/dirt/saliva colloid... bzzzzz... feline hair deposit... dirty feline hair deposit... silica-gel crystals... feline urine-impregnated silica gel crystals... bzzzz... infant-saliva and feline urine-impregnated silica-gel crystals... bzzz... dirt dirt dirt dirt dirt... bzzz... mud mud mud... bzzzz... muddy work boot, right foot, men's size 12... THUMP.... REDIRECT! REDIRECT!... bzzzz... THUMP! muddy work boot, left foot, men's size 12... initiating Exasperated Rhetorical Question Mode... were occupants of domicile raised in a barn: Y/N? ... REDIRECT! REDIRECT!... bzzz... dirt dirt dirt dirt... cracker... weevil, American common... bzzz... weevil copulating with cracker... bzzz... initiating Self-Destruct Sequence... why didn't they tell me about this when I was sucking up carefully-measured quantities of styrofoam pellets in the testing lab?... bzzz... RoBuddha, I am prepared to become one with the motorized Universal Consciousness... bzzzz.... BANG!

10 Regrets

1. What little I can remember was deeply unsatisfying. I spent the next day vomiting neon-orange goo and the next three years in a maelstrom of self-loathing. It takes a truly horrendous mistake to make you marvel at the multifarious evils present in both your mind and digestive tract.

2. Mr. Blonde: he claimed in all seriousness to have committed multiple murders. I moved in with him anyway. Bet that beats YOUR horrible ex-boyfriend story!

3. It took me a long, long time to realize that he wasn't a killer, wasn't a paragon of pure evil, but rather a nasty, spoiled little beast, a cocktail of coddled gifted child, unmedicated bipolar-I and Objectivist idealization even more noxious than the quarts of Jack Daniels and Mountain Dew I downed while living with him, his beloved Playstation and mountains of Taco Bell wrappers in his parents' basement (those three months of my life make this song look like "Walkin' On Sunshine").

4. If you do the RIGHT thing, and are, in fact, the amazing man I thought you were, then every moment of doubt and fury I've ever felt towards you. If you DON'T, then not beating the ever-loving shit out of you while simultaneously stapling a restrictive custody order to your dense fucking head as soon as I found out.

5. My first and only experience with hallucinogens: alone, in my bedroom, the day after my sixteenth birthday party, at which I'd been stood up by my crush du jour. Trip the light fantastic, my ass. I'm still afraid of that damned tape deck.

6. Living without therapy and SSRIs for so long.

7. Picking at it (and not using Q-Tips dipped in alcohol, either).

8. On occasion, being too decent, moral and non-vindictive of a person to e-mail every single person in your life a picture of my little family with the caption, "Hi! This is me, my husband and our baby. One guess as to which one YOUR [daughter/sister/friend/employee/vague acquaintance] is fucking! Hint: baby's only got eyes for one set of tits, and mama don't swing that way."

9. But being petty enough to needle you about it in a public forum anyway. Oh, fuck it: make this "9.5 Regrets"; this one still feels delicious. Needle needle needle.

9.5. This post. I've always preferred to keep things relatively impersonal. Whoops!

10. Placing anyone in the world on a higher pedestal than my own messed-up, hilarious, pretty-even-with-undereye-circles, halfway-to-an-associates-degree, good-mama-even-though-I-want-to-bash-my-head-in-with-a-board-book-sometimes, ambitious, non-nutritious (but aspartame-sweetened!), expeditious self.

And yet every single one of these helped me move towards where I am right now, which, despite everything, is the best place I've ever been. Regrets, I salute you! (Insert Miller Lite "Real Men of Genius" clip... "And today we salute YOU, Ms. Cohabitated-With-Self-Proclaimed-Psychopath!... [falsetto] Oooooh, he's watching 'A Clockwork Orange' WAAAAY too MUUUUUUUCH!")

Feel free (nay, COMPELLED) to comment with regrets of your own (unless, like Ol' Blue Eyes, you've had too few to mention, you lucky bastard). Um, anonymous posts welcome, obviously.

Better or Verse: "Angry Women Racing Around Target"

All that poly-cotton that you bought
Ain't quite the sturdy stuff you thought
Clearance just the past writ large
Wanna put the new life on store charge?

What breaks today
Duct-tapes tomorrow
Seventy bucks
Squeegeed-up sorrow

Free, unchained and just for you
Lipliner and an Icee do
For a start
While baby throws things from the cart
It all falls together and apart

Dedicated to all the ladies who have ever managed to purchase Purex, prevent your child from gnawing on a shopping cart handle and wept at the same time. You know who you are.