I came down with a fever last weekend, which intensified over the days until I had to finally go to the hospital because I was so deathly ill. It turns out that I had freaking E. coli! I have no idea how that happened, but it really did a number on my kidneys. That shit (literally) is no joke. I was delirious and achy and vacillating between soaking my sheets with sweat and freezing to the point of chattering my teeth. I’m on antibiotics now, so I’m much better. But let me tell you something: E. coli has nothing on Swine Flu. I had that in February/March 2009. That was real pain. I was actually puking in the toilet while shitting and pissing my pants. I had absolutely no control over my body whatsoever and my husband had to bathe me and put clothes on me because I couldn’t even move. Why do I keep getting evening news illnesses? I guess at least I’m on trend?
Is it at all illegal for someone’s boss to force them to put their personal phone number on Facebook? I’m so opposed to this because not everyone in the Gawker Media network still works for Gawker Media, and they work at other publications. Someone who found a new job at a new publication called me once at 1 AM on a week night to get a quote from me. I answered because I was in bed and thought my parents had died or something. I have gotten so TMI on the internet in the past few years, but I am completely uncomfortable putting my phone number on a social networking site with major privacy issues. I don’t want to get fired. I’m trying to save money to buy a house and a leather jacket.
Last night I couldn’t fall asleep for hours, and my mind was racing, and in this stream of consciousness, I had a flashback of when I was about seven years old and I believed that I would be able to get a baby chicken as a pet if I could hatch one of the eggs from the fridge. So for a full 48 hours I gently sat on the egg, and brought it everywhere I went—my grandma’s house, my Aunt Debbie’s house, the mall, Chi-Chi’s, etc. Amazingly, it never broke. Even weirder is that none of the adults—who were fully aware of what I was doing—discouraged me from toting an egg around town, or informed me about the basics of fertility. I don’t really remember how it all ended, but I’m wondering if my mother cooked my butt egg and fed it to me. I bet if I asked her, she wouldn’t remember.
Later on, when I was in the 7th grade, I somehow got hooked up with the 4-H club, and had them give me an incubator and some chicken eggs so that I could hatch baby chickens for the archdiocesan science fair. They were really cute, but they got chicken shit all over the playroom carpet, so my mom made me call the 4-H club and have them come fetch the babies. I won a prize at the science fair.
Seriously, there is no worse chore in the world than putting the comforter cover back on my comforter. Every time I do it, I end up getting vertigo, not knowing which way is up or down, and sometimes I actually get stuck inside the comforter cover, and start whimpering.
My mother is an RN and also a clean freak. Making the bed correctly is her version of “no wire hangers EVAAAR!” She taught me how to make hospital corners with my top sheet when I was eight, since that was the year that I got a canopy bed for my birthday. I had to maintain the perfection of that bed while under her roof, so I always did the hospital corners. Then I moved out when I was 18, and stopped making my bed for about 12 years. Now that I got all of these nice linens at my bridal shower last year, I wanted to stop living like such a boor, and start not only using a top sheet again, but making the hospital corners. But I couldn’t remember how! Isn’t that weird? I must’ve blocked it out, after 10 years of her Joan Crawford treatment. (Seriously, I have still have daymares of her striding into my room, her hair pulled back, Estee Lauder cream all over her face, and pointing at something—with a Parliament Light 100 in her hand—that I need to pick up off the floor before she throws it in the trash.)
Anyway, I had to look it up on the internet how to make hospital corners, and it all came back to me in a wave of familiarity. Then I got to thinking about how perfectly clean my mother kept our house, even though she had a job, two kids, and a husband who never lifted a finger to help her. I just have a dog and a husband who tries to clean much more than my father ever did. Sometimes I feel like I just can’t get it together. My house, while not Hoarders gross, is never really in a state where I can allow a “pop in” visitor through the door without having to pick up underwear or my vibrator off the floor or remove my bras from doorknobs.
My mom used to have all of these routines that she would do once week, including ironing everyone’s sheets. Ironing sheets! I can’t think of a bigger waste of time. But when I took my sheets out of the dryer yesterday, I could see why maybe people would do something like that. My bed looks like Gordon Ramsay’s old face.
And to top it off, I just received an email from a reader that I’m fat and I need to get over myself. Pass me the box of wine.
The kids who have a private patio in the courtyard of my building had two parties this weekend, back-to-back. TWO! They both went all night and were so fucking loud. The complex I live in is set up like a horseshoe, with my building in the center and a building on either side, sharing a courtyard. It sucks because the acoustics in the courtyard—which my apartment faces—make it so that even when my windows are closed, I can hear every word of these people’s conversations that go on until four or five in the morning.
I tried to ignore them on Friday night when they were having their young fun outdoors, although my husband couldn’t fall asleep, due to the noise, until four in the morning. But then 13 hours later, they started in with the loud music again in preparation for what apparently was a surprise birthday party. They put their speakers on their window sills, faced them outside, and cranked that shit up for hours. They played “What’s My Name?” twice and “Juicy” three times.
Finally, at 2 AM I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t want to call the cops for a noise complaint, because I thought that would be the waste of the cops’ time, and I didn’t want to be all passive aggressive about it. I wanted to be aggressive aggressive about it. I went out on my terrace and saw only two people outside, with that loud music. I started screaming at the top of my lungs, “Turn the music down!!! Turn it down!!! Yo! Up here! Shut the FUCK up!” But the music was so loud that they didn’t hear me.
Luckily, a few weeks ago, a Nerf ball that someone was kicking around in the courtyard got stuck on my terrace. I kept it. Because any idiot that wildly kicks a Nerf ball around so that it lands on a terrace four flights up shouldn’t be allowed to play with it. Anyway, I took the ball and hurled it across the courtyard at the two guys’ heads. I missed, but it bounced on the table next to them and landed at their feet. They looked around, but not up. They were probably drunk, and didn’t understand what was going on. I started wildly waving my hands and screaming, “Up here!! Yo, I’m up HERE!! HELLO!!! Turn the fucking music DOWN!” They finally saw me and walked away. I assume that they were guests who went to fetch the host. (“Uh, dude, some psycho lady in her PJs just threw a ball at us.”)
Anyway, the host came out and he was nice and he agreed to turn the music down. He turned the speakers back into the house. I thanked him and went to bed. I felt good about it.
I always thought that I’d be a fun-time girl for life, but I guess I’m not. I’m getting older. But actually, I’m starting to think that it’s not really that I’m old, but that partying is. Been there, done that. I’m moving on. And I’ll take your fucking Nerf ball with me.