I’m really just about up to here with people who tell me, “Look at it this way, at least you can write about it on your website!” and then smile as if they’ve made it all better. It seems that as long as I have a website, I can’t really have a bad day, because a bad day only means great content. Who wants to read about someone else’s good day anyway? Like, who wants to read about some dimpled-face motherfucker walking on sunshine when you just woke up and realized that your pants will no longer zip up over your thighs?
Recently I have been living great content. It goes without saying that living with your parents provides nothing but volumes of self-help memoir material, mostly in the vein of How To manuals, like, How to Avoid Running into Granny While She’s Wearing Nothing But Her Heavenly Underwear: A Former Mormon’s Guide to Dealing With A Fanatical Family or How to Piss Off Your Step-Father Every Single Second of the Day, Volume One: It All Starts With Stealing His Razor to Shave Your Legs.
Other recent grumbles that make better stories than actual events to live through:
I agree to go to the grocery store for Aunt Lola, who is currently suffering from a wild strain of pneumonia, and when I show up she has this “list” ready for me, only this “list” resembles not so much a list but a 400 page Masters thesis on brand awareness. It takes me three hours of roaming around a Walmart Superstore in the most depressing neighborhood of Salt Lake City to find the specific green bag of Country Cousins Sausage she must have in order for her “bowels to be gettin’ back to normal.” I cry the entire 45 minutes it takes the clerk to scan and bag all the items.
I wake up with a hangover, only I didn’t drink the night before. I sleep the entire day and the entire next day and, not surprisingly, the entire third day. I wake up on the fourth day wearing the same flannel pajamas I was wearing the night I didn’t drink.
All I say to the hairdresser is, “Do you think I should consider bangs?” And I know he hears me because he sort of shrugs and does this “dunno” under his breath. And three hours later after I hear the entire story of how he and his partner thought their dog was pregant but were crushed when they learned that their pregnant dog was really just a fat dog, that fucking deceitful bitch!, I walk out of the salon with the entire front side of my hair missing. I cry the entire 30 minute drive home, wondering whether or not my husband will still love a half-bald woman, only to be locked out of the house by my step-father who really needs to forgive me for the razor thing already.