Well folks, my Awkward Story Tourette’s has gotten worse. Much, much, MUCH worse. We have friends in town and their presence combined with FIL’s (Father-n-law) means my babbling blurts have progressed from vaguely embarrassing sexual observations to outright cringing stories about me and mine.
Last night, while sitting about the fire pit with FIL, Husband and a few friends, I talked about (in no particular order): my womb, my wombectomy, my friend's wombectomy, the pleasure party I threw for girlfriends that was led by an octogenarian British woman, the ex that cheated on my and the resulting demand that Husband get tested before he touched 'this' (as I gestured to my body), Husband's first doc appointment in the USA where he was "violated by a man", Husband's second doc appointment where he was "violated by a woman", our first official face to face date where we talked for hours, our fourth date where at a comedy show a comedian said that the Vikings didn't rape and pillage Scotland because the woman were too ugly and Husband got mad, my periods, my ultrasound where the woman “found” my womb, the vasectomy that Husband owes me because he lost a bet ... There's more. I can't remember what but I know there's more. I couldn't stop. The giggle in my head would override the calm and logical and reasonable side and I would just keep blurting out the horror, actually looking at FIL before I launched into stories. Sure, I would apologize first but then, even though I knew I was heading into tacky territory, I would just continue full speed into embarrassment. The more outrageous the tale, the faster and louder I talked so I could be sure get the best of my worst out there. And this time, there were witnesses. Willing (ish) participants who watched me digging little emotional blackmail holes all over the conversation. My only saving grace is that three of the six of the folks at my fire pit overshare don’t live here. And that two of those three that don’t live here I am not related to. And that they already thought Americans were bonkers anyway. I’ve only reinforced that stereotype tenfold. Whatever. The really good thing is that none of them were recording the horror and they’re all old like me so their shoddy memory should take care of the worst parts. And the incredibly far-fetched content of the stories will make the spectacle of me telling them sound unbelievable and unreal. And FIL was drinking so I can only hope that the booze will blur some of the worst and that his inability to understand me will take care of the rest. Perhaps he will just think that I’m charming. Yeah, odds are not good on that happening. Daughters-in-law who discuss their periods in a social situation aren’t considered charming. I’m checking into verbal diarrhea rehab as soon as FIL leaves. I’d do it now but I can only hope that I’ll say something that will make him not want to come back. I think I’ve got a few more horrors in me that will make the humiliation of listening to me blurt not worth the trip. I mean, I haven’t told him about the time when we were pre-teens having a sleepover at my house and we tried ‘seducing’ the pizza man while wearing my mother’s lingerie. Only my mother doesn’t have lingerie so what we were wearing was her slips and bras as we stood there awkwardly at the door giving the pizza man our very best “come hither” look while trying to hide the fact we all had braces and pimples, our breast-lets thrust in his general direction... yeah, that ought to have him cancel his yearly vacation to America.
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FIL (Father-in-law) is in town so I'll be (mostly) polite as I tell this since he's a reader and we have some twelve days left of living together to get through this year.
FIL mumbles. And he's Scottish. And we're mostly eating in loud restaurants. Which means we alternate between saying "Eh? What?" And "Pardon?" He tells stories about British TV stars I've never heard of and gets pissy when I have no idea what he's talking about. I tell stories that ramble, have multiple characters he’ll never meet and have no real point or punch line that, even if they did, he wouldn’t understand anyway. As a result, we both punctuate our listening with questions and our stories with repetition. It has gotten to the point where Husband has begun to serve as interpreter. Literally repeating FIL’s sentences to me and my responses back to him. Translating each and every conversation that he choses (is forced) to be part of. On top of my inability to understand FIL, I also have some perverse need to say the most inappropriate things in front of him. It’s like I have a version of Tourette’s but it is a version where I MUST tell the most obscene stories and observations when FIL is around. Like the time I told him an erection joke at a wake. Or the time I was pointing out that the Pink Poodle near our old house in California was a strip club. And then, for good measure, made sure to let him know that you couldn’t drink in the club because the law says that if the girls are all the way naked, there can’t be any booze sold on the premises. These are the types of obscure inappropriate statements that come out of my mouth even as my brain is giggling and yelling “SHUT UP!!!” Which of course matches the silent screaming “SHUT YOUR STUPID FACE!!!” coming from Husband as he tries to catch my eye in the rearview mirror. But I do not. I cannot. I have something wrong with me that must blurt whatever I shouldn’t and keep doing it until someone leaves the room. Add to this FIL’s inability to totally understand me, our tenth year of FIL visits and my inappropriate blurting has gotten worse. Which is why the following random conversation from the weekend was freaking awesome. And I’m totally paraphrasing this because I was laughing too hard to take notes. AND remember that Husband sounds like Shrek and FIL sounds like Sean Connery – or what I imagine Sean Connery would sound like if he mumbled. A lot. Having spotted a sticker on someone’s bumper that said, WE LOVE RODGER, FIL asked: FIL: Do Americans know what Rodger means? HUSBAND: Like “Rodger out”? FIL: Nooooooo. ME (from the backseat): What did he ask? HUSBAND: The bumper sticker. He asked if Rodger means the same thing here as it does in Scotland. FIL: It means something else in Scotland. ME: What did he say? HUSBAND (louder): It means something else in Scotland. ME: Like what? (Tourette’s blurt) Sex? (Silence from Husband. My giggling brain tells me I must blurt louder. So I do.) ME: LIKE SEX??? FIL: Aye. ME: Really? (Husband is shooting me “SHUT UP” eyeballs in the rearview mirror. I ignore them.) FIL: Yes. ME: Like “She rodgered him?” FIL: Nooooooo. ME: Like what? HUSBAND (hoping to shut me up by cutting me off at the pass): You can’t rodger him. (It doesn't work. I know what he means. I chose to ignore it. And him. And the voice in my brain that says I'm going to that crude place.) ME: What do you mean? (Husband is now shouting his “SHUT UP” eyeballs in the rearview mirror at me. I ignore them. Again.) ME: Like what? (Silence from Husband. My brain tells me I must blurt louder and add shagging (f**king) into the mix. ) ME: Is this like shagging? Like our friend shagged this Famous Musician guy, (name obviously redacted), and I was talking to my mom about it and she said that he must have shagged her because a guy can’t shag a girl but I thought it was an equal opportunity thing and girls could shag guys like our friend shagged Famous Musician??? (More silence.) ME: Well, is it like that? FIL: Noooooooo. (Then, because there is seriously something wrong with me and my brain, I said.) ME: Well, what is it? Is it in the ass? (If he could, Husband would have ejected me from the car. Or, if he loved his car less, he would have crashed it to change the subject. And then this happened...) FIL: Nooooooooo. You can rodger a woman but a man cannot be rodgered. !!! And there you have it. After ten years, I have corrupted my FIL to the point where he is not only NOT phased by my inappropriate blurting but he is now contributing to my insanity. And his own. I win. This is the written scream I left for husband Saturday morning. Please note there are no cuss words in it. I'd already used them all up standing in the shower with a rogue sprayer and a very bad attitude. Let me set the scene: it's 6am on a Saturday morning. Father-in-law (FIL) is in town, which means my whole routine has been thrown off. I'm not going to bed when I should. I'm eating too much. I'm napping during the day because I'm not going to bed when I should and I'm eating too much; a viscous cycle that will continue until FIL leaves. I was showering in the master bathroom because FIL is here and I've been booted out of the guest bathroom. And, I had a CPR retraining class at 9am, which is why I was attempting to not only shower at 6am on a Saturday but function like a normal human being. Gah!
I hate the master bathroom. It's all pukey pink and moldy smells and isn't big enough to turn around in let alone share with another person. And sharing with another person who doesn’t see the mess because he can “choose not to see it” is not ideal. Add to that the handheld showerhead contraption that was added to the crappy shower as an afterthought a million years ago is a pain to use, never stays fixed on its hook and has two settings; wimpy and freaking hard. The stupid thing wiggles in the wall, squirts instead of sprays and is generally the total opposite of relaxing as you stand in the tub, wrangling the spray in the general direction of your body and not the hideous pink tile wall it seems to always want to spray. The whole thing is the least spa-like experience one can have. So, Saturday morning, I reach down past the plastic curtain to the faucet in the tub and turn it on, adjust the hot and cold taps until I get the ideal temperature, pull the doo-hicky that directs the water to the shower head and with the shower warming up, start to undress my bleary eyed body. SIDE NOTE: I tried to figure out how to tell this story without having you picture me naked so but it’s a shower story so you’re just going to have to imagine for the sake of my pride, that I am a never-nude and I shower with all my jiggly bits clothed… Anyway, as I was working on the undressing bit, there was slight pop from the shower direction and then growing hiss and suddenly water began spraying past the plastic curtain wall and ALL OVER THE BATHROOM! I was getting wet – which I know was the goal but not just then. The wall, the door, the ceiling, the spray was so out of control that husband was in danger of drowning in the bedroom five feet away. I quickly shut the taps off and attempted to assess the situation. Fumbling for my glasses, I shoved them on my face, checked that the shower head was facing the tub and not the shower curtain, turned the shower back on and was promptly sprayed full in the face by a sharp poky stream of hot water, saved only from blindness by the lens of my glasses. It is here the cussing began, albeit quietly and under my breath because of the sleeping husband and FIL and my dignity and the partial drowning. I stood there, face dripping trying to figure out what to do next. Let me tell you, I’m usually a brilliant problem solver but half-naked, half-blind and sopping wet on a Saturday morning does not bring out my brilliant side. I couldn’t use the guest bathroom because it’s got an ineffective lock and the trauma from catching FIL in the bathroom years ago is still with me. I couldn’t go without a shower because I am not built to function without one in the mornings. Besides, an Afro after a night of tossing and turning does not resemble a hairstyle. More like an abstract textured art piece that does not at all say, “Take me seriously. I can save lives.” I came to the conclusion that the shower was going to have to happen, broken shower hose or not. Cussing slightly louder, I finished undressing, pulled off my glasses, turned the shower back on and pushed my way past the ineffective plastic curtain. Yanking the showerhead off its hook, I proceeded to try and clean myself with a spray head that directed the water everyway but the direction I wanted it to go all the while trying to keep the flooding below the curtain rail and hopefully out of the rest of the bathroom. FACT: It is hard to shave an armpit with a razor when one hand is holding a showerhead and the other is trying to hold soap and a razor and trying not to draw blood. FACT: It is hard to effectively wash a body with a showerhead that is as wily as a wet cat and just as dangerous. Add to that it's current propinquity to keeps popping new deadly holes in its hose and things are going to go horrible wrong. And those dang holes, no matter what I did, seemed to direct water right up my nose, stinging like tiny needles of fire. I will not mention what happened to my nether regions when I attended to clean them because the shame is too great. Suffice it to say, I finally quit pretending the process was working with half a pit shaved, one very wet ear, some major water bruising and a haphazard attempt to clean myself. Shower off, I resorted to shaving my arm pits crouched down next to the tub faucet, rinsing by using the old fashion method of scooping water and throwing it at my pit and actively pretending it was washing off the soap and shorn hairs. It did not. Finally dried off and dressed in clothes that did their best to hide my shoddy shaving job, I dried off the walls and the floor and the window and the toilet and the mirror and stomped out of the bathroom and past sleeping Husband into the office where I composed my very aggressive missive to Husband. A message he might have totally ignored dismissed had I not shame posted it on Facebook for all to see. I have no end to this story. Well, other than to say the shower was finally fixed and my husband’s life continues. No one cared I was partially clean and mostly soggy. No one was sympathetic to the trauma I’d incurred via the major violation by showerhead had occurred. No one will see the movie about this story when it is eventually made. The world continues to spin and I continue to be traumatized by the day-to-day activities that everyone seems to manage unscathed. Such is my life. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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