DICTIONARY

As someone who was a virgin until they were 23 (go ahead, I'll pause for laughter…) there were a few words that weren't part of my personal lexicon as a kid.

Oral Sex: I remember when I first heard that term. I was 12 or 13 years old. Some family friends were visiting for the day and Sarah and I decided to take a walk around town. And let me just say how cool I felt! I was walking around town with a friend! I had hoped everyone would see me and wonder, "I didn't know Emily had a friend! Who is that girl she is with? She looks like a cool-kid from Omaha. Maybe Emily is cool." Just to let you know - these sorts of scenarios never happen. Those things happen in movies only. Well, movies or stories that I make up in my head to stop the crying at night.

Anyway, we were walking to get some ice cream at our local, small-town Dairy Sweet. (Remember readers: all small towns have one.) Sarah looks at me and says, "I have a question for you. Have you ever heard of Oral Sex?"

I was absolutely puzzled. No. I had not. "No, I haven't."

"Well, someone said it at school the other day, and I was too embarrassed to ask what it is. What do you suppose it is?"

Now, while I had a limited sex knowledge-base, I had seen diagrams and had watched some late-night television commercials. Additionally, I had always been of the school of sounding something out and context clues. "Well, Oral means 'mouth' so maybe it means to talk about it on the phone?" I may have had public education, but I did remember that if you don't know the meaning of a compound word, you break it down...

"Yeah, I bet it's what they talk about on those party lines you see on TV where sexy people talk on the phone."

"Probably. It's probably just people talking about sex."

"Weird. They made it sound so much better at school."

I bet they did.

Douche Bag: I remember it like it was yesterday. I finally had a place to sit at a table with other kids. Sweet! I wasn't even at the end of the table being a weird hang-er-on-er. I was actually just sitting there having lunch with other students. Things were going well for me, and I had just made someone laugh. Everything was coming up Emily for the day. I was about to continue ingratiating myself when Derek came up behind us and asked...

"Katie, do you douche?"Katie looked confused, but shrugged her shoulders and replied, "No."

"Ewwww! Sick!" He then turned to the girl next to her, repeated the question, and when that girl said, "Yes" he replied, "Ewwww! Sick!"

He made his way around the table asking each girl if she douched, and whether the answer was 'yes' or 'no' each time he would follow it with, "Ewww, Sick."

I remember distinctly Tammy turning to me and saying, "Do you know what a douche is?" I was panicked. I DIDN’T know what it was, and I DIDN’T do it, but wasn’t sure if I should. I whispered back to her, "No, but either way, it's disgusting. Just say your mom told you not to tell."

That seemed to work and he moved on.

Naturally, I went home and immediately asked my mom what a douche was. You should have seen the look on her face. She tried not to laugh and asked me why I would ask about it. I told her the story and asked her if she could settle the debate as to whether it was sick or not sick to douche. That was, after all, the question.

Mom replied, almost verbatim, "Douche is when a lady squirts soap or vinegar up in to her vagina because she has had sex with too many men and doesn't shower properly. Your natural pH balance should take care of your vaginal enzymes. You are clean. Does that help?"

THAT IS SO DISGUSTING. What kind of mother says that? The same kind of mother that explains sex to you by pulling out diagrams and charts when you mistakenly ask at ten where babies come from. And who draws those diagrams of wombs and penis parts? I preferred my answer of 'no comment.'

Slut and C.U.Next.Tuesday: There were two girls in my seventh-grade class that cursed like sailors. Tiffany and Jessica were 'rough around the edges' sorts of girls, but popular nonetheless. I think this was due in large part to the fact that they could beat up all of the boys in our class and they were a foot taller than everyone else. These two were inseparable (perhaps sharing a common interest in abusive home lives and drunken parents combined with 5 inch high mall bangs) until the time when Jessica moved away...except for one day...

Going up the stairs to our classes after recess the two of them aired some dirty laundry for the rest of us to hear.

"Jessica, if you weren't such a slut, we wouldn't be fighting." (Insert collective 'ooh' from the crowd.)

"Well, if you weren't such a cunt you would know I'm not a slut. You are." (Sorry to the sensitive readers out there, but that's the word she used. don't be so sensitive. Also, that’s some killer logic!)

Insert collective 'ahhh' from the crowd.

We were watching in awe, but too afraid to say anything, lest they decided to team back up and beat up the lot of us right then and there for eaves dropping on their fight. The bell rang and us goody-goody types returned to our classes, but these white trash spawn had burned forever in my brain two of the greatest swears of all time.

That night, at the dinner table, my brother was being a little creep as usual and wouldn't pass me something and in fact, said he wouldn't because he hated me. "Fine, keep it, you slut."My mom gasped a horrible, puritanical wheeze, "What... did... you... call... your... brother?"

So I tossed my hand to the side and rolled my eyes, "He's being a cunt and won't let me have it."

My dad flipped. "WHAT DID YOU CALL YOUR BROTHER?" He was probably upset because my uncle had also used that word to describe salad dressing at the table.

Mom calmed herself slightly as she cleared her throat and asked, "Honey, do you know what those words mean?"

Did I know what those words mean? Of course! I was now a lady of the world! No longer did I have to rely on words like ‘ass’ or ‘stupid!’ I rolled my eyes and replied, "Yeah. Like, stupid and dumb, but really stupid like you want to fight."

My mom sighed patiently and began, "Honey, a slut is a loose woman of the night that has sex with men for money. And a...

(pause...stall...pause...not wanting to say it...) cunt is a very terrible word for a lady's vagina. It means 'dirty vagina.' (Perhaps it needed douching?) We do not use those words in this house. Where did you learn them?"

My reply was the biggest social mistake of my young life, "From Tiffany and Jessica." This cost me my first boy/girl party. Jessica was having a going away party and invited the entire class and I wasn't allowed to go because my mom didn't think I was old enough for boy/girl parties and she didn’t like the way those girls talked. I was also dumb enough to actually cite that as the reason I wasn't going. I wasn't invited to another boy/girl party again until college.

LIFE LESSON

really quickly
just want to tell you about my milk shake
it brings all of the boys to the yard
I mean, all of them.
to the yard
school yard
a yard attached to a school
and they're all, like, "that milk shake? yeah, it's better than yours."
that is when they point at someone else, who happens to be standing there with an inferior milk shake to my own
and I am all, like, "damn right! it is better than yours."
and I point at that same person with the inferior milk shake, hoping they understand that my comments were directed at them. and they make a sad face.
so, I offer to teach them
but, obviously, I'd have to charge
nothing in life is free.

KEEP YOUR LAWS OFF MY KITTY

My Aunt Sue named her cat Kitty Gandalf because this cat saved Middle Earth, waged wars, formed fellowships. Even as a small child I remember not being overly fond of Kitty Gandalf and perhaps that is because he used to bite me. I also thought it was absolutely silly that we always had to refer to him as Kitty Gandalf.

My aunt and Kitty Gandalf were living with us for a while, and my father and my uncle asked me if I’d like to see a fun game that Kitty Gandalf loved to play with them. Naturally, I was suspicious – Kitty Gandalf liked no one, enjoyed playing no games, and it was well known that my father found cats to be loathsome. Despite this knowledge, I looked up at them and nodded my angelic, child-sized head. Our sheepdog, Strider, (yes, Kitty Gandalf and Strider, the Dog. I have nerd in my DNA.) had recently passed away, and though this was Kitty Gandalf, it had been a while since I had played with a family pet.

My father and uncle produced a large tube sock. When I was growing up, men would inexplicably wear socks that came up to their knees and had large stripes in primary colors that matched nicely with terry cloth shorts. My father began to grin from ear to ear as my uncle caught Kitty Gandalf strolling by. As they picked up the cat, it immediately began to howl – which my uncle explained was the way kitties laughed. Then…they stuffed Kitty Gandalf into the sock!

Now, here is where the game really became a challenge: one had to grab the open end of the sock so Kitty Gandalf wouldn’t escape, and twirl him in the air before releasing and tossing him to your opponent. If you dropped the sock, Kitty Gandalf could escape, and you’d lose. I’d like to think my shrieking and crying added to the challenge, as well. I remember the final toss when the sock was not caught and Kitty Gandalf escaped and took off like a shot out of the open back door. None of us ever saw him again. It took quite a bit of bribery (a winking Western Barbie! It’s just not that hard to overlook rampant animal cruelty when you’re promised a winking Barbie that wears eye shadow and a cowboy hat!) to keep my mouth shut when my aunt and mother came home.

Speaking of mother… if you have spent more than 10 minuets with my mother, you will know one thing about her: she is vehemently opposed to human abortion. Ten Minutes is all it takes. Say you're gardening - pretty non-political, and you and she are tilling the soil, watering the earth, planting the seeds..."Though the seed is dormant, there is life waiting inside of it..." Okay. Bad example, too easy. Say you're biking down the lake path on a lovely Sunday afternoon and you see a Gay couple walking with their Asian baby. "Though they are sodomites, another baby's life is spared..." (Just kidding, mom! We know you love the gays!)

I guess it really is that easy to slip the topic of abortion in to everyday activities. Who knew? Anyway, you get the picture - my mom loves the unborn. When I was eleven-years-old, she had me carry a tiny, baby-sized casket at a march/rally for the Pro-Life movement. I won't lie to you - it was unsettling. They TOLD me there wasn't a baby inside, but how did I KNOW for sure? I mean – it was a casket! Well, that, and the haunting sound of that fetus crying in my dreams. Oh, baby fetus! I was only ten and had an under-developed womb!

When I was a little older we had a cat find her way in to our garage. Now, I'm not saying that my dad doesn't keep a tidy garage, I'm just saying, she found a pile of oily rags in an open cupboard and decided she had hit the Promised Land. In a matter of weeks, this cat gave birth to 5 precious little kittens.

At the time, my family was a 'dog' family, so this basically sucked. I mean, I'm allergic to cats for one thing - and for another? Any cat living in our house was in certain peril considering I lived with the guy that had a drawer full of tube socks.

Did I say momma cat? I’m sorry, but the word ‘momma’ should be reserved for those that care for young, spin yarns with endings that teach a lesson, and darn socks whilst breast feeding youngin’s. No, after about 2 weeks this ‘momma’ was out the door. She went the way of Kitty Gandalf and caught the next train to Kitty Junkieville where she probably moved back in with her abusive Cat boyfriend and went right back to doing kitty smack. Don't worry - she left her fecal calling card in my sand box before she left. While it did help the tuck pointing of my sand castle, it was still a somewhat unpleasant surprise

We worked diligently to find homes for the kittens and all was going well until my brother and sister decided that they wanted to each keep one. What??? Who was letting this happen? I would have to tell mother post haste of my father’s cat blood lust, tube socks and need for feline sports!

I was too late. Meridith and Joe each kept a kitten and life carried on. It was only a short matter of time before we discovered Meridith's cat, Scout, had a taste for adventure. Oh, we tried to lock up the garage at night, but Scout would get out. She'd be gone all night and howl at the door in the morning covered in battle wounds with a dead mouse in her mouth. This propensity for adventure ultimately led to being a slut. As it turns out, promiscuous girls are just girls with an appetite for adventure – my, but weren’t you previously judgmental? Little did you know that with an introduction to extreme sports we could drastically reduce the number of teen pregnancies in small towns across America!

Mom took the two kittens to the vet when they were just over four months old for their shots, etc. Scout kitty had been throwing up in the mornings, peeing more frequently, was rather moody and had an aversion to poultry and making emotional sense. Turns out, not even six months old and she was PREGNANT.

I was standing right there in the vet's office when I heard her say, "Get rid of them." Translation: KITTY ABORTION. What about the marches? What about the coffin? What about the seed in the garden and the gays?

Turns out animals don't have 'mortal' souls, so it's justifiable. This didn't fly for me. For weeks I carried around a shoe box as that is the small pet burial device of choice. Trust me; I had buried two parakeets named Cupcake and Cupcake Two. I knew these things. I protested the lives of kittens lost. I don't even like cats, but that doesn't make it right! These were KITTENS we're talking about. Cute, fluffy kittens sentenced to die. No chance to even be tossed in a sock! My mother told me I was being silly and to put the shoe box away, all the while muttering something to the effect of, 'I've already had kittens in my damn garage.'

I had contemplated a rally for animal abortion rights, but then I thought about an animal pro-life rally. What side of the debate were these cats on anyway? It was all very confusing. Momma cat one went back to her life in the kitty ghetto, but momma cat two didn't even have the opportunity to prove that she would be a worthy mother. Would it have mattered? Would she have given up her life of adventure to raise kittens? What ever happened to Kitty Gandalf?
I may never know what happened to Kitty Gandalf, but I can tell you this: never judge a pregnant cat unless you've ever had to give birth in a pile of oily garage rags.

HYMENS N' CRIPS

What ever happened to my hymen? I don't remember it showing up on my 'first time.' Did it go out for cigarettes one night and decide to leave me? Did it fall in with the wrong crowd?
Was my rouge hymen out on the town--hassling old ladies for their purses and getting mixed up in petty theft? Ha! That was just the beginning! My hymen decided it liked the lure of group crime and started wearing gang colors, throwing hand signals, tagging garage doors in alley ways.

The day came when my hymen had to prove itself to the gang. It had to kill another hymen. My hymen was naturally conflicted, but as you know, if you want to prove your loyalty to the gang, you must kill another man. Or, in this case, a hy-man. My hymen knew what it had to do...enter Linda Tittsworth.

Linda wasn't such a lucky girl as you'd think. While it's true that Tittsworth is a really funny last name, she never learned to capitalize on it. When people would ask her what her tits were worth. Linda would always cry and run away. Well, I can tell you that behavior such as running away from some harmless ribbing will almost always result in being a virgin well into your 30's. (I said ribbing...)

Linda and her hymen were happily enjoying a burger and fries at their local diner. Hymen Tittsworth was reading to Linda the funny pages as Linda would blow on the soup to make certain it wasn't too hot for her hymen. That's when Linda heard the rev of the motorcycle engines and knew...a gang of young toughs had arrived.

Linda tried to stay under their radar, but forgot to hide her hymen. There was Hymen Tittsworth, lying helplessly on the table in plain view. My hymen took one look in Linda's direction and knew what it had to do.

Some days I wonder if my hymen regrets the choices it has made. A renegade life on the lam may sound daring and romantic, but at the end of the day, I can't help but wonder if it leaves my hymen feeling empty and unfulfilled. At least I have the luxury of pondering that. Poor Linda's hymen was taken from her, albeit, later than most hymens, but taken nonetheless. I can still hear her horrified, virginal scream echoing through every diner I walk into...

Linda, here's to you.

DOESN'T LIKE SEAFOOD

Five o'clock. Friday Afternoon. Quittin' time! I had stopped by Princess Rourtney's desk to remind her it was time to bust out of here and head to the bar for some drinkin'. The long week was behind us, and we had earned a little down time. Princess Rourtney just had to shut down her computer, and we were home free! I laughed at something funny I had said (of course I had said something funny. This is me we're talking about) and as I turned to leave her cubicle, there stood Nancy.

Nancy. The fastest, loudest talker I have ever met. Her entire life is one run-on sentence in ALL CAPS. Always racing from project to project, Nancy never finishes any task she starts, and yet, she's always improving upon your job for you! How generous and thoughtful! What a go-getter!

I tried to not visibly cringe, as she began, "OH, THANK GOODNESS I FOUND YOU BECAUSE I JUST FINISHED WRITING REPORT FOR SPORTING DIVISION HOW TO TRACK THEIR RETURNS AND I WAS THINKING THAT MAYBE YOU WOULD WANT TO SEE A REPORT FOR THEM AND MAYBE HAVE ME MAKE ONE FOR YOUR DIVISION EVEN THOUGH YOU TOLD ME YOU ALREADY HAVE SOMEONE TRACKING THIS..."

Like Jackie Chan before her, I couldn't understand the words comin' outta her mouth! I mean, it didn't pertain to my department, it was after 5pm on a Friday, and it had nothing to do with putting a beer in my hand. I tried to interject, but she just plowed right over me.

"IT'S DESIGNED TO TRACK INFORMATION SO YOU DON'T HAVE TO TRACK IT IN A DIFFERENT FORMAT, EVEN THOUGH I KNOW YOU HAVE BEEN, YOU CAN TAKE ALL OF THAT INFORMATION AND PUT IT IN TO THIS REPORT, SO YOU HAVE TO REDO WHAT YOU DID BUT THEN IT'S TOTOALY......"

That's when the most amazing thing happened to me. The room began spinning and faded to black. The sounds she considers to be words kept spewing forth from her gab-hole, but they sounded hollow and faded...like an unpleasant memory, now since past. As the words continued to fade in to another layer of my consciousness, I began to see the scene, but from above.

OUT OF FREAKIN' BODY EXPERIENCE! RIGHT FUCKIN' ON!

Poor Princess Rourtney. I did feel badly for her - not only was she left with Nancy, she was left to worry about my lifeless body lying haplessly on the floor. The saddest part was, as Rourtney tried to call the paramedics, Nancy just kept right on going.

"I SEE YOU'RE TIED UP AT THE MOMENT, SO I'LL LEAVE THIS PRINT OUT AT YOUR DESK. I CAN SHOW YOU ON MONDAY THE LINK TO THIS REPORT YOU DON'T NEED IN THE FIRST PLACE IN THE EVENT THAT YOU WANT TO RUN IT ANYWAY TO SEE WHAT..."

I started to drift away from the scene, which was fine with me. Check it out, people! I can fly! As I soared up in to some crazy dimension, I was joined by a gent in a bathrobe that wasn't looking well.

"Hey, guy! How long have you been having out of body experiences?" Maybe I should have been taking my situation more seriously, but it was just so great to not hear Nancy drone on and on about that report PLUS I was flying, so it was so far looking win-win for me.

"I'm The Grim Reaper. Death. End of the line. Aren't you at all concerned?"

"Well, a little. My mom always said to not go flying with guys on the first date." I thought to myself, 'oh, man. that was cringe worthy. Day one of the afterlife, and I'd already made a completely lame joke to Grim.' Then it occured to me..."I'm...dead???!!"

"Hey, no need for the muliple punctuation. People always over use that. Yes, you're dead. I wanted to pick up Nancy instead. I mean, what is her deal? But, you went and got yourself annoyed to death, so there wasn't much I could do about it. Life is never fair. It's always a shame. This is always the way it works out. I go to pick up the offender, and it's always the victim that I end up with. Offenders always end up living to die of old age. Sad, really. The wake of terror they leave..."

It took a moment for it to all sink in, but sink it did. "Annoyed to death? You can't die from being annoyed to death. That's just a turn of phrase."

Grimmy thought that this was pretty funny, "Buh-wah-hahaha! If I had a nickle...listen, kid, being annoyed to death is real. Really real. It's honestly a pretty serious condition. I always hear the living casually say that, and it makes me so sad. They're almost always the ones that suffer the most."

Before I could say more, Grimmy bid me adieu, and dropped me off with St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.

Pete seemed like an alright guy. Sure, he'd deny you thrice, but he seemed like he would make it up to you.

"Emily, I see you've been annoyed to death. It happens to the best of us. Now then, let's consult the big book and crunch your numbers, shall we?"

For those of you that haven't been dead before, Pete has this big book with all of your sins listed. It seems silly to keep them in the book since he just puts them all in an excel sheet and runs a few formulas. Too bad Nancy isn't up here. She could write him a script and create him a database. It would really save him a lot of time. Then again, when you have eternity to process deaths, what's the rush?

I was pretty nervous. My whole life of rights and wrongs, written down in Pete's List of Naughty's and Nice's. It's like Santa for Eternity. I really hoped those cookies I had baked for the nuns in 7th grade would weigh heavily in my favor.

"Now, we don't like to get too bogged down in the details. We like to hit your 3 highlights, and judge from there. It's really just about as accurate for most people, anyway. Says here, 'dislikes seafood, ran over a cat, secretly has herpes.' That's too bad, looks like we'll have to..."

"WAIT! I don't have herpes, and I like seafood."

Pete looked me up and down, as if you can see herpes on the outside of your soul. Sheesh. I think Pete had something to learn about STD's.

Pete reviewed the entry again. "You're right. You DO like seafood..."

"...and I DON'T have Herpes."

"...Sure...this looks like it's your friend Bob's entry anyway. There seems to be something wrong with your paperwork. There are some impure thoughts, cookies for nuns, but your third entry is in dispute. You died of being annoyed to death?"

"I guess so? I was a theatre major, not a doctor."

He shook his head and hit a button. Within seconds, Grimmy was back. "Grim, we have a problem with her paperwork. Is she brain dead, or is she worth sending back? I mean, I could hang on to her until we get it straightened out, but I have playoff tickets for tonight." Seems Pete didn't like staying after 5 either.

Grimmy examined a strange looking watch and shrugged his shoulders. "Her family won't keep her on life support - something about extra-ordinary means crap, so if you're going to send her back, you need to do it pretty much right now."

What happened next I can't very well explain, but I was sent hurtling back to earth, back in to my body, and I opened my eyes to find myself on the floor. Princess Rourtney gave a shriek of relief as the paramedics stopped the CPR and put an oxygen mask over my face.

As they began to haul me away, I turned my head to see Nancy. "I WROTE THE LINK TO THE REPORT ON THE PRINT OUT THAT I LAID ON YOUR DESK."

WORK PIRATE

"Jessica..."

"Emily."

"Hi there! How are you?
I hope you're well
I just wanted to tell you that you make my day a little brighter."

"...thanks"

"Do you want to know what I told Courtney? I told her this:
There is something I want to tell you
You make my world a better place.
There, I said it
and now you know.
I hope this doesn't bother you.
It's just, well, I really treasure your friendship
Not like, Treasure Island the grocery store, but like treasure.
So, not like, the grocery store or story about pirates or the casino in Vegas
not like those things
Well, a little like the pirate thing
see, your friendship, prior to knowing you, was like a buried treasure
and then we met and our friendship was discovered
like a golden chest of love
but not like your golden chest
that is a completely different chest of love
do you know what I'm saying?
of course you do, because we are kindred spirits
Thank you.
Thank you for being my kindred spirit. "

"wow"

"yeah
it's pretty good, right?
I don't think she appreciates me
you appreciate me, though"

"i do"

"I knew you would
you're like a love sponge
but, not like a contraceptive one
you don't keep my friendship semen out of your friendship vagina
you're more like one that soaks up my love.
and when I wring you out, I get more of your love in return
and you come in fun colors"

"whoa"

"but, like a sponge, you sometimes have bacteria
like last week when you were sick
that was a time when I appreciated your sponge-like qualities a little less
would you say you're a synthetic sponge or a natural sponge?
I'd say natural, because there is nothing syntheic about you
but, if you were a natural sponge, you'd be dead.
and that would make me sad
I'd return you to our ocean of friendship
where you could grow and thrive
thrive in the warm, underwater saltiness that is our friendship"

"you concern me on several levels"

"you concern me, too
this is because we share a deep friendship
deep like the ocean
and Courtney is a pirate
I wonder if she's Somalian"

UNDERWEAR MAN

Unbeknownst to me, at some point in my life I was electrically charged and polarized to attract weirdos. I'm reminded of an old tune by The Mosley's called, "Kook Magnet." That's me.

Sure, I've had my laundry list of n'er do wells, transients and krumbums that have pleged their love to me. I have had a man dance for me on the CTA. I've had a legally blind man check out my boobs. (don't ask - he could also name every track off every Beach Boys album. ever.) I've had a chromosomally challenged individual punch someone on my behalf becuase he wanted to "save the pretty lady." All of those stories are nice, but today's real story is one of neighborly love. Neighborly twilight-zoney goodness. (Mmmm....feel the warmth inside.)

Today, I'm writing to you with regard to my new favorite person in the world. Underwear Man!

Living in the city, it's understood that if you live in a building of 6 or more tennants, chances are one of them will be crazy. Case in point, my friend lives in a 6 flat, and one person is crazy. There are 24 units in my building, and I have 4 crazies. See? Math at it's finest. Never argue with math.

I was in our courtyard one day with Sophie Queen the Wonder Dog, throwing the stick around in order for her to fetch it. She had just pooped (sorry - dogs poop) and I picked it up, so I had a steamin' freshie in a baggie in my hands. On our way off to throw away said bag o' stank, Sophie decides to tinkle one more time. No big whoop, right? WRONG-O-LA!

"Hey! Hey! Hey! You...you...you better pick that up. Haw Haw. You better pick that up! Pick up that! Pick it up!"

I turn to see a man, a grown ass man, in his boxer shorts, and nothing else, shouting from his vestibule door.

"Oh, hi there!" I proclaim. "No worries there, sir. That was just pee. Her poop..."

Cutting me off, Mr. Underwear Man began to shake his finger at me and laugh again (as indicated by haw haw's) as he said, "I see what I see. You better...you better...haw haw...you better..."

Prior to this moment, I had only heard legend of the crazy Underwear Man, but not yet had such an encounter. "No, her poop is in this bag. That was just pee..."

Hahaha...please. Spare me your logic! Underwear Man continued, "You people. You people. Haw Haw. You people want a dog, but you don't clean it up. You don't clean it up. You don't. You don't. You better."

"Sir, the poop is here in my hand. I can't clean up pee. it sinks in to the ground."

He just laughed hysterically, and louder, "Haw Haw Haw Haw Haw Haw Haw You people. You people all the same. I'ma gonna come shit in your house. I'ma gonna."

I've never been one to have the best temper, and the cool started to wane. "THIS. IS. A. SACK. OF. SHIT. LOOK!!!" And I proceeded to open up the tied off baggie to show him what shit actually looks like. I mean, in all fairness, there is probably some disease that prevents people from shitting so there is a slim possibility he lives life with a colostomy bag.

He waved his hand back and forth as he backed away in to his place, shutting the door, laughing "Haw Haw Haw. You people. You lie. You know what you did. You left poop. You know it. You know it. Haw Haw."

It would take me a year to figure out the laughter wasn't because he thought he was a comedian.

This wasn't our last encounter. Another time, in his Underwear and nothing else, once again, Underwear Man came to yell at me about poop. Each time laughing about you people. Each time not letting me get a word in edgewise.

Picture if you will a grown woman, lying down in the grass, rolling from side to side, singing, "There's no poop. Only pee. Only pee will get on me." Now, stop imagining and start realizing, because I did that.

Picture if you will a grown woman, making a snow ball and throwing it at someone's window, screaming, "Come out here in to the snow in just your underwear and stop me, you psycho." Now stop imagining and start realizing, because I did that, too.

On the 4th time he came out to yell at me, I walked away from him, went inside, and began to construct a note, "Dear Underwear Man's Wife, do you realize your husband harrasses young women in his underwear when you are not home? Can you please explain to him, since he is incapable of listening, that I have picked up this dog's fecal matter for 10 years straight, that this is my lawn, too, and that he needs a hobby other than staring out the window to catch me something I would never do. Because I would never disrespect everyone's common area by leaving crap in the yard. Can you explain that to him, or will he 'haw haw' at you, too?"

When I went to deliver it to him, he was at the door. He knew I would be back. So I started to read it aloud to him...

I have to break for a second - who's crazier at this point? Anyway...

...and he just kept laughing and shouting louder and louder that if I didn't like the sight of him in his underwear, I could close my eyes.

And then it hit me. Like a bolt out of the crazy, crazy blue, and I stuck out my hand. I politely waited for the Haw Haw's to subside, and I said, "My name is Emily. I am your neighbor. I live right there. The one with the Christmas Tree in the window. You can come any time and tell me if you dislike how I am using the common space."

SILENCE. For the first time (in probably his entire life, he was silent.) he had nothing else to say to me. I took advantage.

"My name is Emily. I am your neighbor. I love our courtyard, too. I do not leave dog poop in our courtyard, or on a city street or in a park. I do not leave it anywhere. That disgusts me. And I haven't since I have had the dog."

He started to say I could be lying, and I pulled out the big guns. I could tell just by looking at him it would work, "Neighbor, I am a Christian Woman, and I swear to the Lord above I have never, nor will ever leave dog crap anywhere other than a dumpster. That is my promise to my neighbor, and to Jesus."

Yeah...I went there. I had to. I was out of ideas. It was my last ditch effort. I couldn't risk rolling in the grass again, lest I join the count of crazies in the building, thereby throwing off the Perfect Crazy Ratio of 1 to 6.

He held out is hand, shook mine, said his name, and that he was glad we were neighbors. He then implored me (my word, not his. I think he said, "Girl, I'm beggin' you.) to never swear to the Lord about dog crap. That he would believe me and wouldn't put me at risk with the Lord.

And, I smiled as I quite deviously finished, "I am not at risk with The Lord, neighbor. That is how strongly I feel about dog crap."

Yeah, all the while, I used the word crap.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Sorry. Crap is a funny word.

Anyway...I hadn't seen Underwear Man in months. I had honestly forgotten about him, but evidently he hadn't forgotten about me. Underwear Man is a train driver - and EL train driver, and I am an EL train patron. It was only a matter a time before....

"HEY, NEIHBOR! WHERE YOU GOIN'? WHERE YOU GOIN' HAW HAW? GIMME A HUG! GIMME A HUG!" No kiddin'...Underwear Man and I shared a hug as I got on the train. He insisted we hug, and then, after two stops, he got our of the engine room to hand me his phone, so I could say hello to his wife.

His wife and I shared an awkward, but lovely conversation, and as I got off the train to go drink myself stupid for the evening, he said, "don't worry about a thing, I'm driving the brown line all night. haw haw."

To this day, I am able to take my dog outside, and I'm able to ride home late at night on the brown line to get home safely. Who's the crazy person now?

Here's to you, Underwear Man...neighbor.

But to be fair, put some pants on, yo.

Marley N Jesus

SPOLER ALERT! If you're only part the way through Lent, don't read further, or you'll find out what happens to Jesus in season 33!

"Want to go to Holy Thursday with me? We're reading the Passion. "

"No. That's depressing. "

"No! It's happy in the end. "

"Uh... Jesus dies, dood "

"But... "

"he's like Marley"

"you idiot! No!"

"Yes "

"Jesus is not a cute doggy"

"then they wrote a book about him and made movies, like Marley the Dog "

"I think your mother would not approve of your comparison "

"why not? people love Jesus "

"you silly "

"people love yellow labs "

"... "

"both bring joy! how dare you disrespect Jesus! And so close to the end of Lent! You should give up negativity for Lent!"

I DON'T WANT TO HEAR THE WORD RECESSION AGAIN

Oh, Hi there!

You were probably just sitting there thinking, "Know what, self? Know what I was just here thinking?" To which, you probably replied to yourself, "No, self. Do tell! What on earth were you thinking?" To which, you would cordially answer, "Oh, a great number of things. When do I, and do I not capitalize the 'e' in Earth? Probably just then, as I'm using it as the name of our planet, as opposed to the description of dirt. More importantly, I was thinking of this Great Recession we're in."

BITCH MUTHA GRUBBIN' SLAP.

Did you read the title to this post? I don't want to hear that word. For the remainder of this post, the RECESSION will be henceforth refered to as FLOWERY TWAT.

Is anyone else sick of hearing about Flowery Twat? I, for one, can't take it anymore! Every commercial I see is about a stimulus package for Flowery Twat* or how to get a good bargain because you don't have extra money due to the Flowery Twat. Sometimes you turn on the news and it's a story about how the Flowery Twat is leaving people homeless (which is a real bummer. thanks, The News. you're a real glass-half-emptier, The News. Dick.), or how it's the worst Flowery Twat since the Great Depression.

What I particularly love are Commercials Regarding the Flowery Twat. Wake up. The mere fact that there's a need for commericals proves commercialism is still rampant in America. Commericals that teach you how to 'save money' by 'having more meals at home.' If this were really the Greatest Flowery Twat since the Great Depression, then wouldn't you be eating at home anyway - or maybe you'd be in a bread line, because...you know...THERE'S NO MONEY TO EAT?

On that same note, the commercials that teach people how to shop sales. Excuse me? Who are these people that dined out every night in brand new clothes for which they paid full sticker price? If you can't figure out how to eat at your house and buy clothes on sale, you deserve to be broke. The reason these people are having to eat at home and buy clothes on sale, or from an outlet (perish the thought!) is because they filled up their credit cards and can't get more credit. I've not bought new clothes for myself in over a year and buy groceries with every paycheck to last two weeks. Eat my ass, Wal-Mart.

"Times are so tough out there!" Bitch bitch bitch. Moan moan moan. I hate my job. I need a bigger house. I want a new car. I went out drinking 4 times this week. I ordered out because I didn't feel like cooking. I need a new shirt to wear out Saturday night.

And here's the deal - the more we talk about The Flowery Twat, the longer it's going to hang around. My grandmother always said, "Don't let the bastards get you down." She was right. She was damn right. Look that Flowery Twat in the eye and say, "FUCK YOU, FLOWERY TWAT. I'M IGNORING YOU. I'M GOING TO WORK HARD, SCRAPE BY AND GET THROUGH THIS. TO SHOW YOU WHO'S BOSS, I'M GOING TO THINK ABOUT EXPENSIVE THINGS. KNOW WHY? BECAUSE I CAN. IT DOESN'T COST ANYTHING TO THINK ABOUT EXPENSIVE THINGS."

Good for you. I'm sure you could have come up with something else, but that's your first time facing your fears. You have to take that shit slowly.

Honestly, now. Wouldn't it be more fun to see commercials about spending money? Who wants to be depressed about the mediocre things you CAN purchase, when you can pump yourself up thinking about SAVING YOUR PENNIES UP IN ORDER TO GET THE THING YOU REALLY WANT. I know that isn't Good Old American Instant Gratification, but it's the way I've ALWAYS LIVED MY LIFE.

I should have racked up more credit card debt when I had the chance and bought that Prada purse. Oh, well.

* That's right - I said 'stimulus package for a flowery twat.' You're welcome.