I don’t know the international sign for “Do my panties smell like rye?”

I HAD been writing a lovely post, which was then interrupted by my FB acquaintance who felt the need to post photos of her baby in pink tutus (UPDATE!: They bought her a leopard onesie, just in time for me to throw up on my laptop screen). Then, I spent a few days wondering what it was I was going to write, and sort of generally being flakey and thinking “This whole ‘WordPress’ thing; what’s THAT about?” And I got totally philosophical and started questioning my place in the world.

Then, I got writer’s block, which………. I thought you had to be a writer to have? I dunno.

But then, some friends came over tonight and we were talking about travel.

“Oh!” I said, “And I never leave the US without cream.”

“Whaaa…. what KIND of cream?” My friend asked hesitantly… because she’s my friend, and thus, knows exactly where this might go.

“Weeeeeeeeelllllllllllllll….” I started, “When my guy and I first started dating, we went on a trip to the Netherlands so that he could lecture. There was a small town where the university was, and we were staying there for a few days. And, you know, when you’re a young couple, things are all fresh and exciting, and, you know, STUFF is happening… and stuff happened a LOT for us, which was great, but then…..”

“Then WHAT?” she asked.

“Well, then I started, you know… ‘baking bread’….”

“…………………what?”

“You know… it got YEASTY all up in my Magical Lady Forrest.”

“………………………….”

Now, you have to picture it, because (in retrospect) it’s pretty funny. I’m in this small town where almost nobody speaks English. I go to the local pharmacy, and behind the counter is a lovely young woman who probably thought that the most exciting thing that would happen with her day would be the new shipment of glow in the dark band-aids.

But then: me.

So now I’m like one of those chicks in the yeast infection commercials where they’re all sad and wearing sweats (which, I don’t understand, because being able to wear sweats makes me HAPPY, and these bitches are all mopey), except I’m in a country where the people speak Flemish, AAAAAAAAAAAND I have a feminine medical condition, because the universe hates me.

Back to the pharmacy, with the pharmacist who doesn’t speak English. From her perspective, I imagine the scene went as follows:

-Oh, here’s a nice young woman. She looks foreign. Huh. Don’t get many tourists here.

-Ahh, she’s approaching me. She must need something. I will try to do honor unto my people by being helpful and polite.

-Oh goodness. There appears to be some sort of language barrier! Ahh, the young woman is valiantly trying to overcome it via what I can only assume is some sort of interpretive dance/seizures. Her people are so brave.

-Ok, a lot of these gestures seem to be centered around her vag… she must need tampons!

-Oh. No. Not tampons. No, she seems a little disappointed…

-Why is she grunting and making scratching motions toward her pants? Oh my goodness! This woman must be mentally ILL! I will try to appease her by nodding my head vigorously, but darting my eyes toward the display of Swiss Army knives, in case she makes any sudden moves.

-I think she might be trying to tell me that her pants are full of angry, rabid ants.

… that part is actually not too far from the truth, when you think about it.

Anyway, it went on that way for some time, as I tried to mime “yeast infection.” I’m not even sure I could win a round of Pictionary if I pulled the “Yeast Infection” card. It seems so easy, but for some reason that just isn’t a common phrase in most travel books. Rarely do you see, “Good morning. I may have a yeast infection. Would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of your local witch doctor?’ in your “Lonely Planet Guides”.

Needless to say, I left there without cream. I suppose I could have gone to another pharmacy, but after the horrors of my initial attempt, and the ever worsening look of horror on the face of that poor pharmacist (who may or may not be scarred for life), I chose to wait until we got back state-side.

 

And THAT, folks, if the  bonus post for the night. Because I haven’t written in a while, and I’m too tired to edit. So, writing without editing. How’s it working out for me? Leave your hate mail below.

That Time I was Attacked by a Phantom Hand That Was Actually MINE, But It Still Scared Me, So I Totally Ran Around My Living Room Screaming

This isn’t a long post, I don’t think. I haven’t written it yet, so it might be. I don’t know. It’s my blog, and you’re on it.

Anyway, I like to think I’m many things, but sometimes, smart is not one of them. Case in point: I can no longer watch movies in the dark. It’s not that it scares me, or that I could stand up and trip on my way to the bathroom (although, yes and yes). It’s because I’m incapable of watching tv in the dark like a normal fucking human being, without spazzing out.

One time, I think I was 22 or something (old enough to know better, young enough to still be stupid and pick up Swedish drummers in bars and try to make them talk to me like the Swedish Chef from The Muppets), my mom and I were watching a scary movie in our living room. She had turned out the lights because… I don’t know… do people still do that? She turned out the lights to make it more like a real movie, or maybe to be more scary, or maybe we just hadn’t paid the electric bill. I can’t be sure. Anyway, I was lounging on the couch for probably about thirty minutes. The movie had gotten to a really intense part, and both of us were riveted. I was watching the screen. Something was happening. Maybe our hero was facing off against the evil Snakefishhead (thank you, SciFy network, for such epic gems!), when I looked down. There, just underneath me, was a long, pale arm, sticking out from behind the pillows… Suddenly, it moved!

I SCREAMED! I jumped up, screamed, and ran around our living room, BECAUSE THAT FUCKING ARM WAS FOLLOWING ME AND I COULDN’T GET AWAY! GAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*Why is there a fucking arm after me? AND WHAT THE FUCK IS IN THIS BOWL?*

My mom sat on the couch laughing hysterically, waiting for me to figure out that the arm that was following me (and sometimes coming right at my face!) was, in fact, my own. I had been laying on my arm in the dark, and so distracted by the movie that I hadn’t noticed when it had fallen asleep. When I looked down, the arm had moved, and I freaked and ran around like a chicken without a head (remind me to tell you the time I was chased around a yard by a chicken without a head. It traumatized me, and now I consider every trip to KFC as my own personal act of revenge. FUCK YOU, CHICKENS OF THE ENTIRE DAMN WORLD!!).

And that, in sum, is why I don’t trust either of my arms. Because I believe that given half a chance, they will turn on me again. One night. In the dark.

…it’s just a matter of time, people.

I’m The Reason You Can’t Have Nice Things

The thing is, I never really feel MORE Jewish than during the Christmas season. On the one hand, I totally love the lights, the music, the evergreen trees everywhere (but not having to deal with needles in my carpet, or cleaning up after them!), and the general festivities of the winter time. On the other hand, unlike most of the country, I will not be out spending insane amount of money on family and friends right now, because the only person who could want presents from me is six months old…

…and also I’m broke as hell. I don’t know if I can emphasize that last part enough. Though, after two months without a dime, Unemployment DID finally come through. I splurged, and bought groceries. WATCH OUT! BIG SPENDAH!

Anywho, it’s nice, because I do really get a feeling of happiness and goodwill toward people. It’s pervasive. It’s in the air. Like a nerve gas.

But I’m not Christian. So, while people are decorating their homes, I’m actively reminded of the fact that we will NOT be decorating. Which, let’s be honest, kinda sucks. I mean, you get used to it, but those twinkly lights are festive as FUCK, y’all! I want to throw potential fire hazards all over my house, and have people “Ooooh” and “Ahhhh” as they drive by.

You know what my options are? I get a giant menorah to put out front, if I’m SUPER religious. Which, if you haven’t really picked up on it by now: I am not.

*”Shmuli! Get me the EXTRA long marshmellow roaster! Dammit, these things are a bitch to make s’mores with!”*

Don’t get me wrong; I am SUPER proud to be Jewish. And I encourage everyone to be proud of what and who they are. You don’t have to resent someone else to be proud of yourself. I can be thrilled to be Jewish, without thinking there’s anything wrong with Christianity. But let’s be fair: when it comes to decorations, gifts, and a general monopoly on this upcoming month, Christians take the cake.

The delicious, delicious, possibly fruit cake.

So, getting to the point, the husbinator and I have been invited to a Hannukkah party tomorrow night at Chabad, which I guess is like the “hippy-dippy, love-everyone, come join us and sing along,” group of Jews.

To which I replied: k.no thnx.

“Why not?!” asked my ever-patient husband.

“Look, seriously, I don’t want to sit around with a bunch of super religious people, eating fried latkes (potato pancakes), and socializing with ONLY women, because the men are too busy ONLY socializing with men. I always feel like it’s the 1950’s up in there.” This part is totally true. The women chat with the women, and the men chat with the men, and that’s just not me. I don’t MIND chatting with other chicks, but I don’t like being pigeonholed into one group, simply because my genitalia are internal. Honestly, it seems almost as arbitrary a line to me, as if you said “everyone with green eyes sits at this table, and everyone with brown eyes goes over there. We don’t mix.” Like, what?

“We don’t have a lot of options around here, hun.”

“There are the Chinese.”

“I…. what?!”

This is probably why my husband and I don’t have conversations about religion anymore. I feel like Hindus and Buddhists and those folks can relate. We could totally start our own group, and just hang out with a bunch of cool, non-Christian folks this time of year, and I won’t have to put on a skirt.

Not that all of this is a push-back so that I don’t have to put on a skirt.

…all of this might be a push-back so I don’t have to wear a skirt.

Jesus, I make my own life hard!!

I Didn’t Get The Job…

I wanted to post something funny tonight, but I’m just not in the mood. After searching for almost a year, I’m still having trouble finding a job. My son is now 6 months old, so I can’t really blame him anymore…

I was aiming for a great position recently. I mean, awful location, terrible commute, reasonable pay, and probably some pretty cool coworkers, but the recruiter called today to let me know that while they liked me very much, they liked someone else just a *little bit* more.

I’ve tried explaining to my friends why this is so upsetting for me. That, having a child, I feel like the stakes are that much higher. When you have to scrimp and save to buy a cold weather hat… you die a little inside knowing that you are barely making ends meet, and sometimes, they don’t.

I don’t mean to be a downer, and I’ll probably return to my regularly scheduled self tomorrow. But for tonight, I didn’t get the job. I’m dodging calls from creditors. I’m going to have to work something out with the mortgage company.

Because I didn’t get the job.

Welcome to my pity party. We’re serving chocolate cake.

*Someone put a fucking candle in my muffin. And that’s not even a euphimism for something good.*

A Very Merry Unbirthday…