Diamonique and Chocolates

I never thought a can of frosting would make me homesick.

My mother called me today to thank me for her Mother’s Day present, which had just arrived in the mail. I had ordered her a Diamonique ring from QVC, which is basically like the Home Shopping Network. She was raving about her ring, much to my satisfaction.

“It fits perfectly, it’s my birthstone, and it’s just beautiful! How did you know?” she raved.

“Oh, I don’t know, the countless hours of QVC Diamonique Jewelry Showcase you forced me to watch?”

My mother pauses. “Really? I don’t recall watching that with you,” she says.

“Mom, we watched it all the time. For hours at a time,” I say.

“Well, I don’t remember forcing you to watch anything,” she insists.

It’s true, my parents didn’t own firearms, but they owned only two televisions. It was either sit in the living room with my mother while she drooled over high-end cubic zirconias, or sit in the kitchen with my father. He would be fixated on the mustaches and polyester pants of Classic Bowling while asking me repeatedly about school as I fetch him small glass after small glass of orange juice.

I elected to always sit in the comfort of the living room, watching my mother grip the phone and sweat over five easy payments of $19.95. She never bought anything, though I think that has changed now. She always just would say how she should, and I would encourage her because I thought she deserved it. Also, I was hoping if she actually pulled the trigger, she might change the channel. But usually, she would write down the item numbers and tell me to hand them off to my father “at the right moment.”

As I’m remembering all this, my mother has changed the course of our phone conversation. My mother had to bake some brownies for some of the hired hands on the farm as well as some funerals and the thought of leaving baked goods unguarded with my father in the house has her all wound up.

“I hope he doesn’t eat them all. He eats everything in sight,” she says.

I can’t resist. “Yeah, I called the house earlier. He sounded like he was definitely eating something,” I say with a smirk.

This is completely untrue, but I get the desired effect. My mother makes a disgusted sound, then she goes into a rant that she says often.

“Anytime I get something sweet he eats everything. Even my baking supplies. I will go to make cookies or bars and all the chocolate chips and walnuts will be gone, because he eats it all,” she hisses.

“Uh huh.”

“I had this can of frosting, this special frosting made from Hershey’s chocolate…”she starts.

I perk up. This is new.

“He ate a can of frosting? No he didn’t,” I insist. Sad individuals resort to eating frosting. My dad is a reasonable man. Eating frosting out of a can is a level of depravity people in my family do not stoop to.

“I went to frost the bars, and I noticed the jar moved…and he had stuck a fork in it and started eating it out of the can,” she says.

I giggle. This is hilarious, but I understand her frustration. My parents live 20 miles from the nearest supermarket, except for a small grocery store that is ten miles away and not open all the time. So, when you expect that all ingredients will be there for something you plan to make, and you come up short, it’s infuriating.

“I’m serious,” she continues. “If you have a jar of hot fudge around for ice cream, forget it, it’s gone.”

Well of course hot fudge is for ice cream, what else would it be for? I decide not to ask. I was at work so I cut her off and got off the phone. I came home tonight and had a hankering for something sweet. I opened up the freezer and started digging into a bag of chocolate chips. While delicious, the chocolate did not ease my homesickness.

My parents are coming to visit in two weeks and I have no frosting. I better get the store, which luckily, is just down the street.

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.