Safe for Septic Tanks

            I am going home tomorrow, and I am looking forward to it. I did not see any family for Christmas or Thanksgiving but will be visiting both my parents and my in-laws this weekend. It will be nice to see my parents in person for a change, instead of constantly talking to them on the phone. I like talking to them on the phone for many reasons, but one reason people may or may not know is that my parents amuse me. They have been married for so long (30 years) that they argue about the stupidest things. I like this, because that means they don’t have anything serious to fight about.

            The other day I was cleaning my toilet and I smiled, because I thought of my parent’s heated argument over toilet paper.

            Not too long ago, when I still lived in Omaha, I was talking on the phone with my mother, which is almost a daily occurrence. It was a couple of days before my parents were supposed to come visit my husband and me.

            “Oh my god, your father is driving me nuts,” my mom said.

            “Uh huh,” I said, unphased. This was normal. “What did he do?”

            “Well,” my mother began. “I was at the grocery store the other day and I bought some toilet paper. The quilted kind.”

            This is not the kind my mother normally buys, but I was glad to hear they were treating themselves.

            “Yeah, so? What made you spring for the good stuff?” I asked.

            “They were out of our normal kind. And I bought the quilted stuff by accident. So, your father had a goddamn fit. He comes storming out of the bathroom asking me why did I buy this toilet paper and didn’t I know it was going to clog up the septic tank? Well, I marched right into that bathroom and got the package out, turned it over, and showed him where that it said right on the package ‘safe for septic tanks,’” she said.

            I was loving this. Clearly she had anticipated his response, did her research, and bought the stuff anyway.

“And what did he say?” I asked.

            “He said it didn’t matter. Like I was making it up. So I told him that from now on, he can buy his own goddamn toilet paper,” she hissed.

            This argument answered a question I had been asking myself for years. Why did my parents always have such shitty toilet paper? I never thought it was shitty until a certain conversation with Josh. It was around the time we got engaged, and we were casually talking about certain household brands we liked.

            “I have to have Charmin,” he said. “The ultra-soft kind.”

            “Really? I had no idea you were so delicate,” I mocked.

            He ignored my tone. “That’s the kind my parents always have. You had to have noticed when you’ve come over, compared to what you have at your house,” he said.

            “What do you mean?” I asked. I was very busy at college and my trips home had become infrequent.

            “Pay attention next time you’re home,” he said.

            And he was right. The next time nature called at the farm I was staring right at a roll of single-ply sandpaper hell. You never notice these things until you are forced to face a comparison. From that point on, I wondered why my parents were so loyal to this type of toilet paper. Apparently, it had something to do with the septic tank.

            A couple of days later, my parents came down to visit. I took my father to the gym with me and we had a rare moment alone on the way back to my house.

            “You know, your mother really ticked me off the other day,” he said.

            “Yeah? What did she do?” I said.

            “She went out and bought some fancy, super thick toilet paper! The quilted kind! I couldn’t believe it. It’s like flushing a towel down the toilet. That is going to back up our septic tank!” he said.

            Barely keeping my face composed, I said in an even tone, “I was under the impression that it was safe for septic tanks.”

            My words had the desired effect and my dad became instantly agitated. “You sound just like your mother! That’s exactly what she said! I said, ‘Dammit Linda, NOT MY SEPTIC TANK!’” he said in a raised voice.

            I couldn’t help it anymore, I was giggling. “Jesus, Dad, calm down. There are millions of people who use that toilet paper, is it really a big deal?”

            “Do you know how much it costs to fix a backed up septic tank?” Dad asked me.

            I flash back to when I was 16 years old. I was standing in our only bathroom, doing my hair and make-up. “Putting on ammunition” was what my dad called it, and he would make corny remarks about how those boys didn’t stand a chance against all that ammunition. When he approached the door, I was ignoring him, anticipating his usual comments. It was his serious tone when he said my name that made me turn and look at him.

            “I need to talk to you about something,” he said. He looked nervous, maybe even angry. His face was red and he was shifting his feet, not quite looking at me. Had he found the beer in my trunk? Had he heard me talking on the phone to Josh? Did he know I skipped church last week? (The last one was the worst offense.)

            “Yes?” I said weakly.

            “You need to…” he paused. “Not flush your…things…down the toilet.”

            Relief washed over me, but I didn’t let it show. Instead, I kept a straight face. Clearly, my father was extremely uncomfortable talking about his, and I felt like messing with him.

            “What things?” I asked.

            “You know, your things. That you and your sister use,” he said.

            I was not satisfied. I wanted to make him say it. “You mean like toilet paper? That’s gross. I know back in the day they used catalogs but…”

            I had gone too far and Dad caught onto my game. “LOOK,” he cut me off. “The septic tank guy was out here yesterday, and the entire tube was stuffed with them.”

            “Oh, you mean tampons,” I said, faking a moment of realization.

            Dad grimaced and exhaled in disgust and relief. “Yeah, those. So, don’t flush them.” He turned to make a quick exit, but turned back and said, “Tell your sister too,” before shuffling off into the kitchen.

            Nearly ten years later in my car, I realized pumping a septic tank must be mighty steep for dad to have that most awkward conversation with me.

            “You know, Dad,” I said. “It’s like your septic tank is from the dark ages.”

            “Well, it is,” he relented. “I’d love to have fancy quilted toilet paper, but we just can’t.”

            “It’s really not a fancy thing, Dad. It’s a normal thing. We buy Charmin. Josh won’t go for anything else,” I said.

            Dad seemed intrigued. Hours later, Josh, my mother and I were watching TV in the living room. My father came out of the bathroom with a satisfied smile on his face.

            “Boy you are right Josh, that is some real nice toilet paper you got in there,” he said.

            “Yep,” said Josh.

            “Jesus Dad, close the door!” I said, covering my nose and mouth.

            He did and sat down next to my mother.

            “See?” she said. “You like it. There’s no reason we can’t use nice toilet paper.”

            “No no no,” Dad said. “It’s just for these fancy city folks.”

            Mom rolled her eyes and Dad smiled.

            We’ll see what’s waiting for me at the farm.

A Christmas Letter

It seems like all of my friends and family are sending out Christmas cards this year. I guess I’m reaching the age where people are mostly married, maybe even have kids, or going through their first divorce. Apparently, standing in with their parent’s pictures is no longer sufficient. Until, that is, one sibling undoubtedly crashes and burns in their life and reverts back to being under the parental umbrella of holiday cheer. Most families have one of these cases. Characteristics include, but are not limited to, being over 30, lack of spouse, lack of career development, living at home, and, of course, denial.

The overall confirmation of this is taking family photos, such as Christmas cards, grouped in with your own parents, either because it is too embarrassing to stand by yourself, or your children resent you. Either way, Christmas is a cruel mistress who makes your sad place in life becomes painfully evident. You may or may not be holding the family pet for solace, knowing at least Fluffy is still happy to have you hanging around.

Which one will it be in my family? It is between the three of us: myself, my brother, and my sister. This is yet to be determined. That’s the kicker. There are families out there, even extended families, without these characters. Give it time, someone will step up to the plate and become the family deadbeat. Until then, enjoy your boring, Norman Rockwell-like holidays devoid of jealous tension and passive-aggressive remarks fueled by stress and booze. Your day is coming, if it has not already arrived without you noticing. It may even be you.

But it is all smiles on the holiday cards. I know my mailbox is about to be very full of these cards, because everyone keeps asking for my address. I am repeatedly texting my new address to just about everyone I know, a side effect of moving so often. I’m starting to get annoyed, but I feel kind of bad about that because, for some reason, these people care about me. And, they must also think that I don’t care about them, since I am not asking for anyone’s address in return, since I have nothing to send. Unless you count the picture of Josh and I submitted to his mother three weeks after she asked for it.

I am starting to notice that more people do not feel that a card is enough, but must send a letter. I would like to joke about how much I don’t give a crap about these, but it simply isn’t true. I do enjoy reading them. That being said, I have decided to write my own Christmas letter.

Dear Everyone,

If you are getting this letter, you either already know everything that is already in it, because we communicate on a somewhat regular basis, or I do not care about you to enough to call every once in a while but still feel you should be interested in my life. Either way, Happy Holidays and I am going to update you on everything that happened this year!

The most notable thing is that we moved to Texas. We do not miss snow but do like to brag about everyone here being a baby about mild temperatures. However, it is not pleasant to feel like you are sitting in a sauna every time the temperature goes over 65 degrees.

Josh and I bought our first set of cowboy boots. Mine are simple leather, while Josh’s are handmade ostrich and elephant hide. I know refer to him as “The Poacher,” a nickname he ignores. The Poacher and I are considering buying a handgun. We realize that is does bring us down to the white trash level of many Texans, but the good news is we can read AND we aren’t related to each other. So, we have that going for us, which is nice.

As usual, Josh is working a million hours a week and I was lucky to find work almost immediately upon arriving to Texas. I am working for a school that I worked for when I lived in Kansas City and am happy to be back with that company. I commute about 45 minutes each way, weaving my way through people who drive like they are playing Grand Theft Auto.

Killebrew is nursing a paw injury that is kind of unusual. Over Thanksgiving, he ripped the top off of one of his nails and licked it to the point of infection. I came home to find my dog with a cone secured to his harness which caused him to constantly run into things. I also found his bandaged leg secured with duct tape, which Josh implemented to ward off Killebrew’s chewing of his foot. There is something so sad, yet so very funny about seeing a dog who is balancing on three legs repeatedly beating his cone against a cabinet to get at a potato chip on the floor.

For the first time in months, Texas decided to have a rainstorm that weekend, which presented a problem. Killebrew could not get his bandage wet. So, every time he wanted to go outside, we had to duct tape Ziploc sandwich bags to his foot and carry him outside. In fact, we have been carrying him quite a bit, and his new favorite game is to wake me up in the middle of the night to lift him into bed.

For the holidays, Josh and I prefer to celebrate in our Grinch way, by sitting on our couch and doing nothing. No Christmas tree, no presents. Just celebrating with our new addition to the family, our smoker! That is right, no children. This gut is all beer.

So what else is new? Absolutely nothing. New state, same shit. Oh, except we can find about ten different types of queso at the local grocery. That’s new. Other than that, nothing. I go to work, I do homework, I work out either that my glowing gym or the small 1970’s style fitness center at the top of our office building. The contrast between the two is astounding, but activity is activity even if you are bench pressing on something out of Happy Days.

Until next year.

Money Services

Dear U.S. Bank,

            Thank you for saving my ass. Literally. I have recently moved to the Houston, Texas area which happens to be a dead zone for your company. There are no branches within a hundred miles and there is one questionable ATM in an area I know nothing about.

            I am now two months into my new job and for some reason my direct deposit is still not hitting. Every time I call my HR representative, they verify my information, followed by a long puzzled silence. They have processed my information twice, and promise me that my direct deposit should hit not this pay period, but the next one. This has yet to happen. I do not blame them, as I tend to be unlucky sometimes.

            My husband’s bank is down here, but I, the queen of Internet transactions, like my internet banking. All of my bills and purchases are set up with my own banking information and I do not wish to change this. Plus, I like having my own account, as my husband and I have very different spending habits and would much rather argue over who is really messing up the sheet alignment on our bed.

            So, I elect to go to Wal-Mart to cash my check. This is something I have not done before, but I hear of people doing it all the time. After work, I drop by one on my way home. Wanting to get this over with, I stalk to the desk labeled “Money Services” and wait.

            At this point in my life, I have tired of most of my iPod Selection. Sure, my library has whittled down to 1,356 songs and I constantly download, but I have a short attention span. My new obsession is listening to comedy stations on Pandora, where I can listen to 3 to 5 minute segments of fantastic comedy. This is what I am doing while I become the seventh person in line at Wal-Mart.

            Upon meeting a friend of a friend a few weeks ago, he remarked that I seem “very well adjusted” to living in a city considering I grew up in a tiny farm town. Let me just say that is not my perception some of the time. In situations where I am thrown in with varieties of people unlike myself, I become extremely paranoid. My earbuds stay in, but I am vigilant in observing my peers in line. I tighten my grip on my purse and try to look bored. I avoid eye contact but maximize my peripheral vision. I feel extremely out of place in this line because other than the person behind me wearing a “McDonalds” polo, I feel like the only one who might have a steady job. This feels wrong. I do not have nearly enough ink on my neck and too many teeth in my mouth.

            I shut my eyes and try to tell myself not to be such a judgmental bitch. Who cares what these people look like? Who’s to say they don’t work? They are in line with me aren’t they? Don’t you wear sweatpants to run errands?

            Actually, I normally don’t. I try to look at least halfway decent every time I am leaving the house, unless I am leaving from the gym. But, I try not to be so narrow-minded and just continue to observe.

            After a few people visit the counter, I realize my suspicions are right. They are not cashing paychecks. They seem to be presenting some documentation and swiping a card. I am confused. What the hell are they doing? I start to read the list of services offered and realize these people are cashing in government assistance.

            Now, I am not against people who get government assistance. I have family members who legitimately needed it and benefited from it. However, I do feel it gets abused. I don’t know any of these people in line, but they look like able-bodied people. However, I can’t make that call, but when I step up the counter this becomes relevant.

            Two employees man the money services counter. One appears to be actually working but is engaged in Wal-mart employee gossip with the other, who appears to serve no purpose other than bashing some chick that didn’t show up that day.

            “Well Taquanda called in today, again,” says the Worker Bee.

            “Huh, doesn’t surprise me. Probably one of her kids is sick,” says Worthless.

            “Girl, you know she ain’t stayin home for no kids. She just didn’t feel like comin’ in. One more time and she gone. She ain’t given enough notice” says Worker Bee as she scrutinizes my check.

            “Well, she don’t do nothing anyways,” says Worthless. “She probably got another boyfriend.” She catches my eye like I should add something. I just yank my earbuds out and avoid her gaze.

            Worker bee seems to be struggling with my check. Apparently, she doesn’t run a lot of these through her machine.

            “It don’t seem to be workin’,” she says. She takes me over to another machine and runs it through twice. She continues to chatter with Worthless, who tells Worker Bee, “she don’t know how to work it.”

            Finally, Worker Bee figures it out. She runs the check through and asks me to input my social security number. I do it as discreetly as possible as I realize…this lady is going to count all this money in front of all these people. I don’t make a fortune, but I’m sure it’s considerably more than these people see on government assistance. She pulls the money drawer open and I extend an envelope to her.

            “just put it in…” I begin.

            But no, Worker Bee has other plans. Worker Bee decides not only to loudly count my money out loud to the whole world, but holds the bills eye level, so myself and all of Wal-Mart can see.

            “ONE HUNDRED, TWO HUNDRED, THREE HUNDRED,” she counts out two weeks worth of pay for me. As she finishes, she says the total loudly.

            I scowl at her and shove the money into the envelope. I shoot her a look that says, “thanks, now I have to worry about getting stabbed in the parking lot.” She does not pick up on my irritation, and I don’t say anything to her. What’s the point? Everyone within earshot, a considerable radius with the volume of her voice, is now a threat, even MickyD who is next in line. I am tempted to ask her to direct me to the pepper spray aisle, but I just stalk off. I don’t replace my earbuds, as I am now focused on my goal. “Get to the truck, don’t get stabbed. Get to the truck, don’t get stabbed.” This is my mantra.

            I get halfway to the truck when the cart attendant whistles at me and I break into a run. Good thing I have been hitting the gym. Not everything is bigger in Texas. I get in the truck and calm myself down.

            I relay this to the girls at work the next day and they suggest I go to a different Wal-Mart next time. It is smaller, less busy, and close to the office so I can do in the perceived safety of daylight.

            Two weeks later, I pull in to the parking lot of the oldest, shittiest looking Wal-Mart I have ever seen. Since I grew up in rural Iowa, this is a tall statement. However, my colleagues were right about it not being busy. I walked and went to the customer service counter, where a guy was waiting to return diapers and plastic flowers. The guy behind me kept asking me questions like, “have you been here before? Do you know if they sell socks here?”

            I pretend like I don’t hear the crazy guy behind me and he eventually disappears into the bathroom. The guy in front of me arguing about the price of the diapers so I get some time to witness a conversation going on between a patron and a manager.

            The patron has her arms crossed. “Did you see him take the item, did you see the gun?” She asks the manager.

            The manager shakes his head and put his hands up. “Look, there was a commotion, and I was asked to call the police. The police came, and he was arrested. It was reported he had a weapon on him,” he says.

            The patron is irritated. “No, I didn’t ask that. Did you see him take it? Did you see him point a gun?”

            “We had to file a police report,” the manager says.

            “Did you see it!?!?” shouts the partron.

            The manager again throws up his hands and walks away.  Cool, apparently something went down here today. I’m about to leave when the attendant motions me forward. I must admit, I am impressed. She handles my check flawlessly. Upon open the drawer, she surveys the area, and sets up a barricade of money orders. I giggle when I see they are money orders for sending cash to Mexico.

            “I’m going to count this down here. Ok?” she whispers.

            I smile. “That will be fine,” I say.

            She counts them off in hundreds, but avoids saying the word “hundred” or “thousand.” She keeps her voice low and keeps the money on the counter behind the barricade. She discreetly puts the money in the envelope for me. I’m still nervous, but she’s done her best. I thank her and shuffle out. Wal-Mart, just like any other company, has it’s good employees and bad ones. One of the best happens to be my father-in-law.

            Despite the good attendant’s efforts, I was thankful to find out that U.S. Bank now has a mobile app that allows me to deposit checks through my phone. I do not need to carry around envelopes of cash and feel like I have done something dirty to get it. I am glad I decided to keep your business.

Adventures in Texas: Finding a Gym

      I have recently moved to Texas. Moving to Texas, to me, is a little like moving to a completely different planet. Other than the unrecognizable parched earth, people from Texas are quite literally in their own little world. Yeah, I’m starting to figure out, Texas is apparently a big fucking deal. The state pride here borders on lunacy and obviously, Mexico. I’m quite sure the ones who go through my garbage are probably not making the long drive from Progresso twice a week.

      Right now, I am drinking out of a Bud Light can that has an illustration of the state of Texas with a big goddamn star on it. Despite my co-workers’ outrageous claims, there is nothing special about “Texas Bud Light.” Just like “Texas Busch Light” and “Texas McChicken Sandwiches”, it tastes exactly the same as if you had it in any of the other 49 states that don’t have a boner over themselves. If they really wanted to add some Texas elements to it, they should throw in some dead grass and a hint of swamp ass.

       But, luckily for me, it has that same ol’ Bud Light taste and is still refreshing as I earn additional wellness credits toward my health insurance premiums. There is something so gratifying as I answer questionnaires about my lifestyle as I take a swig. Hey, it’s light beer.

You may have heard that everything is bigger in Texas, and I really hope that does not mean me. I just started working again two weeks ago, which means I had two solid weeks here without a job. After unpacking the house, I quickly set off in search of a gym.

       After a short search of gyms in my area I joined a club that is part of a somewhat popular chain. I had encountered this gym in my time in Omaha and was in awe of its glory and my local club did not disappoint. This gym looks like the absolute Mecca of fitness, wellness and beauty. I chose it because it was decently close to my house, had three pools, racquetball courts, classes, more machines than I can handle, and amazing locker rooms. Plus, it was only ten bucks more than the gym I checked out earlier. The tour of the gym I looked at the day before was guided by a chubby douchebag who clearly no one liked, even the elderly ladies in the swim class. Of course, given my experience with that sort, I’m not sure why I expected them to be friendly. I know I’m obviously not slim but:

A.    I don’t work at a gym.

B.     I don’t take the elevator to go the cardio machines, one flight of stairs up.

       No, I chose the gym that looked like a church of Scientology, complete with a spa and a

healthy café. Jay, the guy who toured me here came out to greet me in the front entrance as I waited on a nice leather couch watching Paula Deen cook up a heart attack. He was also a stout guy and balding, but likeable even though he had a very annoying habit of referring to me as “y’all.”  He sat me in his office and talked to me about my goals.

            “So, why y’all want to join a gym?” he asks me.

            Well, it’s just me in here, unless you are counting this ass of mine. Let me tell you, nothing or no one else are fitting into these running capris. They have gotten tight, which is not attractive. Pants of this sort have gotten tricky to pull up. I almost knocked myself out once pulling up my pants in a bathroom stall. All my bending got a little out of hand and I banged my head against the stall wall. I would have been embarrassed but I was too amused by the fact that I startled the woman peeing next to me. I heard a sharp intake of breath and her stop peeing before starting again. Just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke, I threw my elbow into the wall again. Stop. Start. Hilarious.

       Jay keeps referring to me as a plural. Maybe he thinks I’m pregnant, that’s always fun when that happens. Especially when someone asks you as you are drinking alcohol. Actually that’s never happened, but I’m not about to wait for that to happen so I play along with his interview, even though my reasons should be blindingly obvious. Actually, his job is not much different than mine so I take the interview as a learning experience.

            He gives me a seven-day pass to try out the gym but I become a full member the next day. As he is signing me up, I am excited that the question/answer session is over and he can finally stop selling me shit.

            No, I don’t want to join the running club. Running alone is embarrassing enough.

            No, I don’t want someone to make me a diet plan. I don’t need to pay sixty bucks to find out beer isn’t on it.

            Then he starts to talk to me about my complementary consultation with a trainer. Wait what? I don’t want that shit.

            He must have seen my expression change because he says, “It’s more informational than anything, I suggest you just go and get it over with.”

            My adult mind tells me that this is not a requirement of life and I should not be made to do this but for some reason I acquiesce. I am to meet with “Donna” the next day, Jay’s trainer. Jay wants to lose thirty pounds, good for him.

             I dread this all night and the next day. Just when I’m feeling good about things, this visit is going to bring me down.

            The assessment wasn’t good, of course, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought. I haven’t gained any weight since December. Small victory. I have actually retained most of the muscle from my training days in Kansas City, but unfortunately have just packed some fat on it. Donna was even impressed with my strength and technique as she gave me a good workout. After some intense weight lifting, we go to stretch out.

            Now, I should probably point that my new city is one of the fittest small cities in the nation, and that is evident at my gym. Not only does everyone look like they stepped out of Fitness magazine, but they look like they hired a stylist for their gym visits. Everyone is wearing perfectly coordinated spandex outfits. Many women are in full makeup and their ponytails look manicured and stylish.

            I, on the other hand, am wearing my old spandex running capris and a shirt I got for free on a bar crawl four years ago. My hair is pulled into a bun without the guidance of a brush and my bangs are pinned straight back. I do not fit in.

            As Donna is pushing my leg toward my face, one such woman comes bouncing up to Donna. She tells Donna how she regretted canceling her membership last month and just had to come back because she gained three pounds. I stare at her and think those three pounds probably really helped her hipbones chafe her skin a little less. I imagine pushing her down the steps but realize the weakness of my jealous and stare at my leg instead. Blondie bounces away just as I see a flash of doughy white flesh peeking out from a place it shouldn’t.

            “OH MY GOD” I interject.

            Donna, who was clearly surprised I made it this far with her, must have thought she finally succeeded in hurting me and drops my leg. “Are you ok? Did I go too far?” she said.

            My filter is off. “I have a goddamn hole in my pants. Have I had a hole in my pants this whole goddamn time? Why didn’t you tell me?!”

            Donna, relieved, laughs nervously. “Oh, who cares, it’s a gym.”

            The women next to me has a Louis Vuttion bag for her gym towel, and I’m sure it’s real. Two holes are on the right inside of my leg. I check the crotch area and that part has held, for now, but I’m not optimistic.

            “Ok, we’re done," I said as I get up.

            I went to Target and got some new gym clothes. I have been to the gym on a regular basis since, but I ignore Donna, who always tries to remind me that I have another “complementary” session left. Clearly, she feels our last visit has not sold me on her $90/hr rates.

How Sponsoring a Child Makes Me a Bad Person

          One thing my father is very passionate about is sponsoring children in third world countries. For a small monthly amount, he delivers these children out of poverty and gives them food, clothing, and a Christian education. Once, when I was a teenager, my mother thought it would be a good idea to send groceries to my sister's boyfriend, who was living on peanut butter sandwiches in college. My father was not completely sold on this idea. I said to my mother, "I bet if he was Indonesian, Dad would want to send him food." That was unfair and pretty inappropriate, but it made my mother laugh hysterically.

        While I was growing up, every once in a while, my father would call me into the kitchen, which is where he would spend much of his leisure time. Part of it was because of the proximity to the fridge. Part of it was his own television to watch sports or “Murder She Wrote.”

            Regardless of the reason, he would sort his mail there. Normally he would be shaking his head and cursing under his breath over my mom’s latest shopping bill, but occasionally there would be a letter from his sponsored child. This is when I would be called in to listen to my father read. Or, in my later years, read myself. At the end of every reading, my father would look at me and say, “My hope for you kids is that you do this someday.”

            So, here I am, years later. I’m out of college, married, and have a steady income. I realize it’s time to finally start making my dad proud of me. I call him one day and ask him the company he goes through. On the verge of prideful tears, he gives me the information, amazed I can sign up, pay, and write letters via the Internet. I can even pick my child that way. My father instructs me to pick a girl.

           “Do you know why?” he asks.

            Sensing I’m about to say the wrong thing, I play dumb. “Why what?” I ask.

            “Why you should pick a girl,” he says.

            “Because I’m saving her from a life of forced prostitution?” I guess.

             There is a long silence on the other line, then a grunt of disgust. “NO, that is NOT why. Girls write more,” he says with another disgusted noise. I can hear my father shaking his head.

             I apologize and blame it on watching too much MSNBC. I have already fucked this up with my twisted “worst case scenario” mind. I thank him and get on the site to look at some pictures of some very sad and hungry children. Picking a child to save out of a line-up is kind of sick, because I feel like I’m at a kill shelter, “you starve, you live.” It also didn’t help that I was eating stuffed crust pizza and drinking wine while doing this. God, I am so stereotypical American.

             I tell the company to pick whatever kid has been waiting the longest and a few weeks later I get my packet. My child’s name is Ekue, an 11 year-old son of a peddler. I proudly display his packet of information on my fridge and start my letter writing. As time goes on…I revisit the packet. Ekue is from Togo, a small impoverished country on the equator in Africa. I actually see students from Togo at my current job, who complain about the heat in Nebraska. I giggle at this.

            “Isn’t your home country near the equator?” I ask the student.

            “Why yes,” says the student, surprised I know their country. “How did you know?”

            I never explain, because I’m quite tired of people telling me this company is a scam. They send letters and pictures and have been doing so for over 25 years, according to Dad. If they are a scam, they are elaborate and can have my money.

            “The weather is so much worse here because it’s up and down,” one student said. “Besides, I think it’s hotter here in Nebraska.”

            “Wait!” I said to the student. “The other day, I said that it was hotter than Africa outside. I was only kidding, but you, as an African, are telling me that I can say that?”

            He laughed, and said yes, I have permission. Use it wisely.

            So, I think of this when I look at little Fokue in the pictures. Oh, you noticed his name changed? So did I when I looked closer at the packet. Ekue is his formal name, but he is referred to as “Fokue” in his description. I showed the packet to my husband.

            “Did I really get a kid named ‘Fuck you?’” I asked. “I don’t know if this awesome or horrible.”

            He shrugs. “Well, maybe that’s his nickname. Or, maybe some intern is having a good time,” he says.

            I debate even asking, but in the end I decide if someone is messing with their packets, it’s worth calling attention to. I send an email to the organization cautiously voicing my concern, as this is a Christian organization and I’m not sure how to say the words “Fuck you” in the way that Jesus would approve. It’s really quite uncomfortable, but I get through it, only to find out that there is, in fact a cultural difference which allows for the nickname. Now I’m embarrassed, and so is the sponsor coordinator who emails me apologizing profusely.

            Really, I like that fact that I do sponsor this child. It should make me feel good, and it does, for the most part. Except, I really sometimes feel like a piece of crap. I am supposed to be guiding him spiritually, but my church attendance has been sporadic to say the least. I’m a greedy, excessive person in many ways, and this poor kid has me for his mentor. It took me a while to find a decent picture to send him, and the one I sent banked on the fact he probably couldn’t read the words “Pub Crawl for Cancer” on me and Josh’s shirts, as we were in a bar participating in another one of our good deeds.

           The worst is when he asks me questions about myself. For example, in one of the first letters I received, Fokue asked me what my favorite game was. Since I do not play any sports, I struggle to find the words explain to an 11 year-old boy from Africa that my two favorite games involve a card game called “Shit on your Neighbor” or the other a beer drinking game. Today, he just sent me a letter thanking me for his birthday money, which he used to buy a suit. He asked me what I do to celebrate my birthday. Again, I don’t think a translator would want to translate a play-by-play of the drunken buffet-style party I had at my house last December. So, what do I do? I just lie. I told him I liked soccer (because I thought he might actually know what that is and the women’s world cup make me interested for a minute). I haven’t come up with anything for my birthday yet.

            So there you have it. I’m lying to an 11 year-old boy thousands of miles away. At least it’s not the kind of lies that would bring Chris Hansen to my door (damn you, MSNBC), but lies nonetheless. This should make me feel like a good person, it makes me feel like a deviant.

            I am the only person in the history of the world who has become a worse person by sponsoring a less fortunate child.

Girl Fart: A Rainy Day Story

            I went to church for the first time in a long time on Easter. Despite my parent’s concentrated efforts, I have been what is called a “C and E” Catholic, which means I make an appearance for the Lord on Christmas and Easter. This is worse than a “suitcase” Catholic, which is what I used to be. That means I only went to church when I came home from college.
            Interesting nicknames we Catholics have for our shortcomings, right?
            Church is one of those things I tell myself I need to put as a priority. I always tell Josh, “We are going this Sunday.” He nods and says ok. And then we don’t go. This is when I know I’m still Catholic because I feel extremely guilty.
            When I was in church, it was hotter than hell, no pun intended. My mother would make some joke about my sin, but it more had to do with the fact that hundreds of people were packed in like sardines in a church that was built before the invention of air conditioning. I’m not used to kneeling for long periods of time anymore, due to my lack of church attendance, and I thought I was going to pass out. This is a big fear I have, especially in church, because it has been known to happen. The reason I’m so freaked out is I heard you piss yourself when you lose consciousness. I don’t know if this is true or not, and I hope I never find out.
            For this reason, I prefer the Christmas mass, because the church starts out really cold, but it slowly warms to perfection with all the people packed into it. One year, my parents bought a front pew for Christmas Eve mass at the church auction (yes, a creative way to make money). I could tell my dad was so proud to have his whole family sitting front and center for one of the biggest masses of the year. I don’t have a large immediate family number-wise, but we are not small people, so thank god they give you the first two pews.
            Josh and I arrived late that year, and I don’t recall why. We sat in the second pew, directly behind my sister and her boyfriend.
            Throughout the entire mass, which was a little over an hour, I could smell rancid fart. I thought about stories my mom used to tell me about my uncle. He would sit next to an old lady in church, drop a silent but deadly, and then make a big show of glaring at her and scooting away so other people thought she did it. I always found this hilarious, but in the second pew in adulthood, I was annoyed.
            By the third round of rank air, I turn to glare at my husband and my knee nudges his. He turns toward me, his eyebrows raised in question. What? He mouths.
            I lean over. Stop doing that, I hiss in his ear.
            What are you talking about? He asks.
            Dropping ass. Seriously. We are in church. Yes, I scold my husband for farting in church but I don’t shy away from a mild swear word.
            I’m not doing it, he insisted. I think it’s your sister.
            My brother turns around and glares at me. I frown and him and jerk my head toward the front of the church, indicating he should mind his own business.
            I survey my family. I shared a bathroom with these people for the first 18 years of my life, and I know what they are capable of. Of everyone, why would Josh single my sister out?
            I ask him, and he acts like it’s a stupid question.
            It’s clearly a girl fart, he whispers. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
            I give him a skeptical look.
            It’s different, he said.
            I thought about this the rest of the mass. Yes, I admit it, I didn’t think about the birth of Christ like I should have. I thought critically about what differences there are in the male and female body that would make this true. In the end, I decided my husband didn’t have a leg to stand on with this. But, I still had to find out.
            Mass ended and we all stood up. As my parents were fawning over Josh (as is their habit), I turn to my sister.
            Hey, were  you farting during mass? I asked.
            My sister turns pale and her face is full of shock.
            Oh my god, did you hear it? I thought it was silent! she says.
            I lock eyes with Josh and he smiles.
            I told you, he says. Girl fart.

Pain in the ass beetle

            This past weekend was Easter weekend and Josh and I went home to celebrate with our family. Easter, while not being one of my favorite holidays, excites me nonetheless. Even though it is supposed to be a holiday strictly for the Lord and his resurrection, it has been masked with superficial fixings. Being the selfish person I am, these are things that get me going. Since probably birth, I’ve always gotten a cute new dress on Easter. I’ve looked forward to it even though I know that dress at the last minute would have to be covered up with some sweater yanked out of my closet because Iowa’s sporadic spring weather never seems to provide for a warm Easter. It was always kind of bittersweet, that Easter dress, because the sweater would have to match “good enough” and never really looked quite right with the dress. To this day, I have a white cardigan in my closet I rarely wear, but it’s exactly the type of sweater that gets pulled out for Easter Sunday. You never know when you might need it, a sweater like that. So there it hangs.
            Other than the dresses, there’s an abundance of candy in egg or bunny form. There might be a gift or two. Or, in my mother-in-law’s case, cash stashed in hollow eggs, while my parents let us take some gas from the farm tank. Winning.
            For all these reasons, and the fact I hadn’t been come since Christmas, I was pretty pumped to go home and see my family. My excitement level rose when I remembered my mother-in-law invested in a new treadmill. No more sliding speed bar and treacherous slipping belt? Yes! I remember distinctly hearing about this treadmill, and I was not disappointed as I lugged our heavy suitcase down to the basement. The glow of the digital screen illuminated the dark basement. It boasted trails powered by Google Maps and all kinds of data about your run. It had a suspension system that would rival my truck.
            I couldn’t wait to get on it. I threw my suitcase on the futon next to me and hopped on, jeans and all.
            Even though running and I are not friends, I fell in love with this treadmill. Running felt smooth, cushioned, and absolutely great. I jogged for a very small time, but then jumped off, because I only brought one pair of jeans for the weekend (ok, and some capris) and I could not afford to get them sweaty. I pack heavy everywhere I go, and for once, I feel like those workout clothes taking up precious real estate in my suitcase might actually get used, unlike my trip to Puerto Rico.
            The next morning I wake up exhausted, but drag my butt out of bed because I have to take care of a lot of things. Off to the vet to get my dog his shots. Then I figure I’ll take advantage of some cheap hometown tanning. Might as well hit up the local Maurices while I’m at it. I get back to the farm and decide to buckle down in the basement for some homework. I’m working on my Masters and the homework is killing me, and this class already is starting to give me a mini-panic attack. I fend off both sides of the family for the afternoon, intending to lock myself in the basement with a case study. I start to read my book and my eyes fell heavy. Ok…just a little nap…
            I wake up two hours later. Damn you, cold dark basement and your ideal sleeping conditions. My husband’s childhood room is one of my favorite places to sleep except for one thing: Asian Lady Beetles, known to my family as "Asian Ass Beetles." They showed up years to feed on the aphids on our soybeans (I had to google “aphids,” because I don’t know what they are) and they never left. They have no predator other than a farm wife’s vacuum. They bite, smell like a burnt turd coated in peanut butter and they are fucking everywhere.

I wake up with bumps on my wrists and ankles, no doubt from the ass beetles. Even though my mother-in-law vacuumed for hours, you can never get them all. I rush back to start reading the case study, only to find my instructor has not posted it. Bastard. What I do find is frantic emails from other classmates asking if I can find the case study. Great, just when I decide to finally be a responsible student and get things done ahead of time, my plan is foiled.

            I sit in the quiet basement and contemplate what to do for the next few hours. Josh’s family is in town cleaning out his grandmother’s fridge so they can move a new one in for her 80^th birthday. I could go in there and help but….I turn my head toward the treadmill. The sight of the cushioned coils underneath the track look inviting and before I know it, I’m lacing up my shoes. I find dog shit on the bottom of one. Welcome back to the farm.
            This treadmill is everything a moderately motivated runner like myself would want. It is one-touch speed buttons, so I can jump from running at 5.5 to walking at 3.5 with one touch of a button. It is sad how much I have longed for this feature. There is a built-in fan system to cool me down, as I get hot quickly in the frigid basement.
            But the best thing, the absolute best thing, is the iPod plug in. Instead of dealing with headphones, I can plug in my iPod and have CCR’s “The Old Man Down the Road” blasting in my face along with that cool air.
            It has been forever since I have been running seriously, and it showed. I started with running a quarter mile, then reasoned myself down to two minute running intervals. I kept this up for a while, but it was a pathetic battle. Old habits die hard, and I felt the urge to pee again. I hardly noticed this, because I felt a nagging, sharp pain starting to nestle inbetween my ass cheeks.
            My sweat turned cold, because I know what it is. The term “ass beetle” is not taken lightly, because I’m pretty sure one is nesting in my backyard. It must have gotten in my pants while they were thrown on top of my suitcase. Goddamn, it hurts. No wonder my brother complained when he forgot to wear a belt in the combine last fall. (To all you non-farm people, my brother is not in the NFL. A combine is a piece of machinery used to take the crop out of the fields.) I thought he was exaggerating when he talked about them biting as they crawled pretty much everywhere. And I mean everywhere. I don't think I need to illustrate my fears any further here.
            I go to the bathroom and find nothing. I decide not to worry about it. If a bug wants to crawl around in my pants, he'll get his. I return to the treadmill as long as I can stand it and when I run out of steam I did some floor exercises. I felt great afterwards, even when I had to clean up shit and vomit from my dog when I went upstairs to get water. Anyone want a cairn terrier?
           Well, it all felt good. I am starting to remember why I do it at all.
           

All for Kenny

         This weekend, I discovered I am not 21 anymore, nor do I want to be. I was supposed to visit my old gym and make the old switcheroo to my new “club” official. But, since that would actually require me going to the gym with the prospect of physical activity, that did not happen this last weekend.

            I actually have been doing well with the whole gym thing, and moderately well on eating, but it was “start week.” At my job, “start week” means long hours, headaches, drinking at home alone, and constantly shoving junk food in your face since it is always around the office. Start week could not have happened on a worse week, since I was scheduled for my annual health assessment at the end of last week. I passed with flying colors last year (sans the waist measurement, and we are forecasting a repeat this year) but I was curious to see what a year at my stressful job had done to my insides. I already know what it’s done to my outsides, which would be about twenty pounds.

            I was dreading this health assessment way more than last year. Last year’s assessment made me a little nervous, but I had the confidence of being new to my life in Omaha, aka, fresh off personal training in Kansas City. My husband has always been more health-conscious than me, but a few numbers were a little off last year (and really, I chalk some of it up to genetics) so he reported to a health coach. He made the necessary steps this year and makes some great life choices well before assessment time. He became an avid racquetball player and watched his eating and drinking. I am very proud of him and I knew he would do great. Myself, not so sure.

My health assessment was held in one of many meeting rooms in a large hotel. This hotel is so large, it actually has an indoor water park attached to it. I set my appointment for rather early in the morning for two reasons. One, I didn't want to miss any work for this crap. Secondly, you have to fast for 12 hours and I wanted to be sleeping most of those hours. It goes without saying that I don't like going hungry.

            I missed my turn because I was distracted by the large Perkins (I love me some Chicken Tender Melt) sign in front of the hotel so I ended up parking by the back doors. My company has events at this hotel pretty often, so I felt pretty smart as I strolled up to the multiple back doors. All the doors were locked. I stalked up and down the row of doors, determined to get in, and I finally found a door that was slightly cracked open. Then, I spent a large amount of time storming around the building looking for ANY signage that would lead me to personal measurement hell. I finally arrived at the door, and I could feel my blood pressure was high, which was exactly what I did not want. I snatch a chart and sit down. I focus on breathing deeply to calm myself down but I try to do this quietly so the other victims would not thinking I was out of breath from a little walking.

           I focus on my chart. Charts and questionnaires are really my favorite part of any doctor’s visit, because they always remind me that things could be so much worse. I’m lucky to check “no” to migranes, cancer, thyroid problems, smoking, drug use, mental illness, heart issues, respiratory issues, joint issues, paralysis, skin diseases, vision and hearing problems, chronic pain, digestive disorders, memory loss, etc.  

But, I’m always snapped immediately from my favorite part to my least favorite. A smiling lady calls me my name and throws me on a scale. She must be smiling because it’s early and she hasn't heard 500 people grumble about their weight yet. Well, I spared her the experience and just stared at the wall. Some measurements and some blood were taken and I was escorted to a non-smiling woman who would go over my results.

I was actually two pounds down from last week so there’s a personal victory. Apparently, my body is some kind of walking miracle because after what has probably been the hardest year of my life. All I have is the gained weight and slightly higher blood pressure. I was kind of upset about the blood pressure, especially when the assessor suggested eating a banana every day. Why does this upset me? Not in the reason you would think, I knew she was not going to suggest that I drink a Budweiser every day. That’s medicine 1970’s style, since my mom was given that advice back in the day to gain weight. What a problem to have huh?

            No, I was upset because I love bananas and I have eaten one every single morning for the past 2-3 months. I voiced this concern to my assessor, who then suggested some other potassium-rich foods, such as sweet potatoes. Baked sweet potato fries are a delicious and healthy staple at our house. To this, she told me weight loss would be my solution, but don’t get upset, it’s really not that high. She also didn't laugh when I shrugged and said, "Ah yes, lose weight, I would love to. Same shit, different day, huh?"

            Ok then.

            But, the miracle came with my blood work. I guess that was hereditary from my mother, but I would have much rather inherited the underweight problem she had at my age. My assessor told me that she can tell by my tests that I eat really healthy, and did not share my obnoxious giggle. Everything looked optimal, see you next year. Awesome.

            What do I do to celebrate passing a health assessment? Drinks, of course. I went to a work function and downed some pitchers and took the shots handed to me. What the hell? It’s start week, people.

            That party ended and I went to another friend’s party because I had to help her break in her new bar. Bottle after bottle of red wine came out of that bar and I was so busy talking, I actually went easy on the snacks, except for the cheesecake of course. Maybe my assessor was right after all. I'm the epitome of sloppy-ass health.

            I was chatting with my friend about my high school days of cheerleading and dance and she asked if I could do the splits. No, my friend, it’s been years.

            “I wanna see Pickle do the splits,” she said.

            Um…no…pretty sure I can’t.

            But she was persistent and I am a show off so I threw my arms up and let my legs slide out from under me. I felt my crotch hit the floor and I was stunned. I couldn't believe it. After all these years and all this abuse to my body, I keep surprising myself. So I got up, took some items out of my jeans pocket and went for it again. This time, my husband thought I had tore my pants because of the popping sound. That is not a bad guess, since I'm really quite shocked that didn't happen. I've torn perfectly good pants doing much less. No, what he really heard was me injuring my leg.

            Everyone is semi-impressed, but my husband just looks concerned. I limp back to the table where my wine glass sits. Even through all the wine, I kept murmuring…oh, seriously, I think I really fucked up my leg. I’m not kidding, I really messed up my leg. Oh man, this is going to suck in the morning.

            I really should have seen this coming. Earlier that day, I was telling a co-worker how I can’t so my Mary Catherine Gallager impression anymore with feeling like I’m going to blow my knee out. On Saturday, I’m not sure what was worse, my massive hangover from throwing up red wine all night, or the fact that my leg was basically a useless stump of searing pain. I woke up to the sound of my husband packing. No, he wasn’t leaving me, but I would have understood because Elizabeth Taylor probably smelled better than I did at that point. What? Too soon?

No, he was going to a bachelor party, and since he was so mobile at this hour of the morning, I pleaded he go upstairs and get me a glass of water and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He obliged and brought me one. My dog, smelling peanut butter, followed my husband to the bed and lunged toward my sandwich. I took the sandwich, stared my dog square in the eye, and threatened, “If you try to get his sandwich Killebrew, I swear to God I will snap your neck.” I always say I think my dog really understands most of what I say, and this was proven, because he immediately laid down in a submissive pose next to me.

I maneuvered my sluggish body into a sitting position and watched Josh pack. I am nothing short of shoving this sandwich in my mouth. God, that sandwich was delicious, and who cares if I’m getting crumbs all over the bed?

“I just don’t know why you would go crusing for whores in Des Moines when you’ve got me waiting for you at home, sweetie,” I say with my mouth full. ( like to call bachelor parties crusing for whores even though I am confident my husband has no game with women, and is just an all-around good guy. He brought me a sandwich, for goodness' sake.
Josh looks at me, clearly seeing my dried puke-stained nightshirt and last night’s mascara streaks.

“Yeah, I know,” he says with a smile. "What the hell am I thinking?" He leans in to kiss me, but thinks better of it and kisses my nose. What a guy.

An old college friend picks him up and I’m alone. I doze off, and am awakened by a phone call by a friend letting me know we scored seventh row Kenny Chesney tickets that night. Score. I’m pumped, because I had nosebleed seats before this phone call. Now, I am close to the stage AND I don’t have to climb the stairs.

It’s been hours since the sandwich and I think it’s time to attempt eating again. Papa Johns breadsticks, which are basically pure bread, sound like the ticket. But, my bed is downstairs, and my computer is upstairs. I toy with my Blackberry. Hmm…I can order off my Blackberry, but I will still have to go to the door to get the pizza. That requires moving upstairs and probably putting on pants, and neither one sounds fun. I weigh my options. Well, Kenny will probably appreciate pants too, so either way pants have to happen. Let’s do this.

I stumble into my baggiest pants and slowly hobble up the stairs. Then down the stairs to let my dog out. Then up the stairs to order pizza. Then down the stairs to get my phone. I settle into my recliner with a bag of ice under my leg when my friend calls me.
"Let's just sell these bitches on Craigslist," she says.
"I don't have a Craigslist account," I admit, making no attempt to help her.
"Goddammit, you are getting your Master's degree, you can set up a Craigslist account," my friend chastises. She's right, but I just moan in lazy, hungover protest. Before I know it, she sold our old tickets and is coming by to pick them up. Up and down the stairs again and pizza is finally here, with two fatty Cokes. I love you, Papa Johns.

This is when I knew I was not faring well. I could only bring myself to eat one breadstick and half a piece of pizza. The smell was nauseating and the feeling of food in my mouth was worse. My friend walks in.

“Pizza?” I offer. She giggles. We watch a little Spongebob Squarepants together, my hangover show of choice. I think it just brings me back to childhood and doesn't require me to think. Then she points out that everyone is constantly yelling on the show, and it kind of loses it's appeal. She reminds me we don’t have a lot of time before we are getting picked up for the concert. She leaves and I struggle out of my chair. All for Kenny.

Showering, dressing, and pulling on high-heeled boots (I know, I’m an idiot) was precarious but I got through it. I pull on a shirt I haven’t worn since college and it looks great. That would be the only benefit to last night’s purging, since no matter how much I shower and bathe in Very Sexy for Her perfume, I still feel like I smell like vomit. I gimp around downtown and finally we find ourselves a bar. I barely notice I’m wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day. Time to get back on the wagon.

This bar is hot, loud, and we are forced to stand. This is hangover hell on earth, especially since I am forced to stand on one leg. I order a tequila sunrise. It smells awful, but this is for Kenny, dammit, and I choke it down. I fail to taste the sunrise, but I feel a little better. After a burger and fries I’m back in the game. We down some drinks and I'm walking close to normal by concert time. My friend and I spent all the money we made off our old tickets on tall drafts of Bud Light and me and my leg felt good enough to break it down to “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy.”

Of course, the concert was amazing, and all the things I did for Kenny paid off. My friend’s boyfriend picks us up armed with Busch Light tall boys, because he likes to keep it classy. I too, like to keep it classy and crack one immediately. We forgo the downtown bars, because I am out of cash and running out of steam. The words “Taco Bell” get thrown out. I’ve never eaten there, except for once in an airport, but why not? The damage is done right?

I say I don’t even know what to order, but we pull into the drive-thru and the boyfriend silences me. “I’ll handle this,” he says, and orders $24 worth of food. Since Taco Bell is basically some of the cheapest stuff I've eaten, that was a lot of food. We gorge on it at my house. I’m beginning to think they put something in their food because even though I didn’t think it was great, I woke up wanting more of it.

I wake up Sunday with a slight headache and a hamstring that is still a little tight. I realize why I don’t do this crap anymore, because I can’t and I really don’t want to. I got back in the game a different way this week, by withdrawing from my old gym and making a couple of appearances at my new one. But, it was all for Kenny, and it was great.

Until next year, health assessor.