Debbie Does Drivel

AHEMINA HEMINA

SO seriously this time: I am going to start meditating. And doing yoga. Once a week. Meditating? Every day. You'll see.
No you shut up!

I've decided spiritual enlightenment is my only path to sanity. Yesterday, as my head nearly popped off but remained attached by a wispy strand of cartilage, thank God I have strong cartilage, I determined that nirvana could only help my stressed condition. Only by conscious control of my normally flipped-out emotions could I deal with a boss whose floor of reality constantly shifts making me feel like that amusement park ride where the bottom drops and you're left spinning, stuck to the walls for dear life.

I mean, I don't normally make sense to logical people. My husband needs a decoder ring. But this woman speaks some language that even for me, sounds like those high-pitched squeaks of a lost jungle tribesman.

Have I told you that she makes no sense??? None. Then, she mispronounces words which makes the whole conversation you have with her ten more shades of shit. My favorite is "specicicity." It's supposed to mean "be specific."

So really, there's nothing I can do but sit quietly and repeat "Ahhhh duhhhh uhhhh huh???" again and again in the hopes I will internalize her obtuse language and have it one day just one day make some sort of sense.

Until then, I go Buddhist.

BOOK OF DAYS

Today is Alexa's birthday.

Something you should know about me: I experience delayed reactions. When everyone says you should be emotional (graduations, funerals, etc.), I am not. I'm stubborn. I prefer to feel my feelings on my own time, not when someone else says I should. This is why my New Year's usually sucks.

I react a beat behind everyone else. I feel things, yes. It's just in my own way.

That being said, I felt my baby's birthday.

When nurses placed her on me directly after birth, I remember saying, "I can't believe I have a baby." I recall her purpleness and fat butt. But I didn't feel that overwhelming "thing" mothers say you do. Maybe because the burning sensation between my legs overtook the moment. I just can't say.

The overwhelmingness came later. Major love and stuff. The sense that if anything were to happen to your baby, you couldn't go on.

And today, I felt everything. My baby is 1! Feels like yesterday she was purple and fat. Now she's nearly walking. Saying "da-da," and pointing to her nose.
My heart bursts. I feel its beat. I smooch her full on the lips, caring not that her mouth is open and stacked with cracker mush.

Oh my sweet Barney Lard-Ass, your mama loves you.

A LITTLE VALENTINE'S DAY STORY

I'm in Bookstar, browsing, fondling monkey bookends, looking non-plussed.
Cashier Bitch hates everybody and will never get a boyfriend with that attitude.
First, I ask, "Can I buy just one monkey bookend?" Withering stare passes for her answer. Taking a deep breath, I ask if she knows of any books based on the movie "What the Bleep Do We Know Anyway?" There's books out there. Dr. Emoto wrote one, I'm pretty sure. She attacks the computer keyboard in front of her. I say, "Are there computer kiosks in the store, because I can just look this up."
Commence Withering Stare: Part Deux. Then: "No, that's why I'm looking it up."
I wince. Cutting, hurtful comments fly through my mind. I resist asking her if Book Star has "Nasty Sales Bitch and the Awful, No-Good, Terribly Horrible Valentine's Day.
Cuz I'd like to read it.
Bitch Head.

No. So I say tersely, "forget it," hoping she'll get my passive aggressive point.
Oh my god, I'm so lame.

Anyway, so back to the browsing. This perfectly delightful man approacheth me not seconds after my failed verbal attack and asks about my shirt. It's a pretty cool shirt: pink and brown stripes. Seems he bought one just like it. Doesn't know what to wear with it though. Can he wear black?
No, I say helpfully.
Khakis? he inquires.
I think a moment.
Yes, I nod, khakis would work.
He pauses, then looks at my pants.
And what color is that?
Eggplant, I tell him.
Eggplant?
He must write this down. He withdraws a small writing pad from his (rust-colored) shirt pocket.
He takes a pen from his (turquoise) pant pocket.
I see his problem.
He scribbles "eggplant" in his little notebook, says thanks, starts to walk away.
"It's also sometimes called 'aubergine," I call after him.
Nasty Cashier Hater smirks.

Bitch Head.

The End.

WHEN DOES MARTHA STEWART GET OUT OF JAIL?

What goes with terra cotta? That's the color of our floors downstairs and I cannot match it.
Tried black and white today: unworkable. Orange: nah.
Citron? Maybe, but not really.
Brown?
NO! You people aren't listening.

Terra cotta must be unmatchable.

Please, dios y dias domesticados y domesticadas, please help me.

I don't know Spanish either. Is terra cotta Spanish? Maybe that's the problem. It hates that I make up words in its language. I am tres apologetico. I mean apologetica.