Furiously Happy (31 page)

My doctor lifted her pencil as if wondering where to start.

I continued, trying to explain myself. “I'm always afraid that once I find the first dead body it'll start a weird streak because I'll never stop opening garbage bags after the first one pays off and eventually the police will finger me as a suspect. That's probably why so many people distrust the police. Because they'd rather assume you were a murderer than think you were just really lucky at finding bodies.”

My doctor removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Well … it's an unusual way of looking at it but really, a phobia of dead bodies is very common.”

“Oh, I don't have a phobia of dead bodies,” I countered. “‘Phobia' implies an unreasonable fear and this fear is perfectly reasonable. You are
supposed
to be afraid of dead bodies. It's what keeps you from hanging out with them and getting cholera.

“Of course,” I admitted, “‘fear of finding dead bodies on toilets and in bags' is maybe a more uncommon variant, but people find dead bodies everywhere.
1
A DJ friend of mine once went to the radio station at midnight because there was dead air and she found her boss dead of a heart attack on the soundboard. She had to DJ over his dead body while waiting for the police to arrive, which her coworkers at the radio station found brave and dedicated, but which I thought was a bit bizarre and unsettling.
Just put on a long record and go hide in a less corpsey room, lady.
If anything,
she's
the weird one. Not me.”

“Anything else?”

“Whenever I go to wash my hands, if the automatic sink doesn't work I immediately assume that I've died in the bathroom stall and that it's my ghost trying to wash my hands.”

“Huh.”

“Because the automatic sensors won't work since I'm a ghost,” I added.

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Also, I'm really, really good at peeing … like almost
too
good. It's like a superpower.”

She looked at me critically. “Is this an issue?”

“Yes. Because I'm such a fast pee-er that I always have to stand inside the bathroom and count to twenty so that the people outside don't think that I'm skipping washing my hands.” I waited for her expression to change to impressed but it seemed like I'd be waiting a long time. “Also, I can't stop pronouncing the ‘p' in ‘hamster.'”

“There is no ‘p' in ‘hamster.'”

“Well, obviously you've never squeezed one hard enough. There's
tons
of pee in them.”

She stared at me.

“That was a joke,” I explained. “Not a very good one,” I admitted. “But seriously, it should be spelled ‘hampster.' We're all saying it that way anyway.”

“So,” she asked, “do you think you're finished with therapy?”

“Every time I get a pimple I worry that it's the beginning of a new nipple.”

She stared at me in silence.

“And that was
not
the answer to your question. I'm sorry. I jumped ahead.”

“To tell me about your nipples?” she asked calmly.

“And then I assume the nipple will turn into a new person and I'll be a late-blooming conjoined twin. This is what it's like in my mind pretty much ALL THE TIME.”

“So, I'll pencil you in for next week?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “I'll clear my whole day.”

 

And This Is Why I Prefer to Cut My Own Hair

ME:
I just need a trim and maybe some highlights.

BEAUTICIAN:
You know what we should do? We should get you a Brazilian blowout.

ME:
Oh
HELL
NO
.

BEAUTICIAN:
Why not? It'd look great. And we're doing them for $150 this week.

ME:
Seriously?
That sounds like torture.
I have
no idea
how you convince someone to sit for that, much less
pay
for it.

BEAUTICIAN:
It's not that bad. It just takes some time and you have to be extra careful for the first day or two. You can't, like, put your hair in a ponytail or anything, or it could compromise the treatment.

ME:
WHAT THE SHIT?
WHO PUTS THEIR PUBIC HAIR IN A PONYTAIL?

BEAUTICIAN:
Wh … what?

ME:
I just don't get it. Every year I hear about women doing more and more with their pubic hair and I just don't understand it. Vajazzling, waxing. I don't want anyone helping me style my pubic hair into a ponytail. And frankly it makes me a little weirded out that people have enough that they can put it in a ponytail. I mean, no judgment, but I didn't even know I was supposed to be coveting extra-long pubic hair. I can't even keep up with the stuff that's on my head, much less on my lady garden.

BEAUTICIAN:
I am …
so
confused right now.

ME:
That makes two of us.

BEAUTICIAN:
Okay, a Brazilian blowout is a blow-drying treatment for the hair
on your head
. It straightens it and makes it less frizzy.

ME:
Oh.

BEAUTICIAN:
Yeah.

ME:
So I can understand why you look so confused.

BEAUTICIAN:
Yeah.

ME:
But in my defense? If I asked you for a Brazilian you'd take me in the back and style my pubic hair, so I just assumed a Brazilian blowout meant that you'd just blow-dry it first.

BEAUTICIAN:
Huh. That'd be … messed up.

ME:
Frankly it's not that much more messed up than me asking you to take me to the back and rip out all of my pubic hair by the roots. Honestly, it's all a matter of perspective.
Either way?
You're still styling pubic hair.

BEAUTICIAN:
No. I'm not. We don't do any sort of waxing here. We only deal with the hair on your head.

ME:
Ah.
So now I understand why this might have been the first time you ever had to have this conversation.

BEAUTICIAN:
I'd like to think it was the first time that
anyone
has ever had this conversation.

ME:
Touché.

 

It's All in How You Look at It (The Book of Nelda)

When I was young we were quite poor, but we never really talked about it. There was no need to. It's the same reason why hippos don't talk about being hippos. Or at least, one of the reasons. I did, though, as a teenager, mention to my mom (Nelda) that we were dirt-poor and she promptly stopped drying the dishes, raised an eyebrow in baffled amusement, and said, “Nonsense. We have plenty of dirt. Too much if anything. We're practically buried in it. In fact, we eventually plan to be buried in it. THAT'S HOW MUCH WE HAVE.”

“Semitics,” I harrumphed in that sarcastically bored way that only stupid fourteen-year-old girls can properly master.

“I think you mean ‘semantics.' ‘Semitics' is …
I dunno
 … when you really like Jewish people, I think? Get up off the kitchen floor and go look it up.”

“There's an entire word for just liking Jewish people?” I asked. “That seems strange. Is there a word for people who really like Christians?”

“Yes,” sighed my atheist mother as she side-eyed the pictures of Jesus my father had hung on the wall. “‘
Tolerant.
'

“The point is,” she continued, “we are
not
dirt-poor. We are wealthy with dirt. Our whole house is built on it and I suspect it's what's keeping most of the furniture stuck together. That's why you should never dust too much. Because dust is what holds the world together. The whole world is made up of it. Dust from the wind. Dust from dinosaur bones. Stardust. We are wealthy with dirt. I can assure you, we are
far
from dirt-poor.
It's all in how you look at it.
”

My mother's words have echoed through my head for years. Mostly because they're a really good excuse to not dust. (And technically my sister and I never minded if she didn't dust because her dust cloths were usually my father's old pairs of underwear. It's weird knowing that the house was cleanest when it'd been wiped down by your father's underpants.) Plus, it's a really good way to get out of cleaning because whenever I try to explain my mom's dusting theory to Victor his eyes get all squinty and he accuses me of being insane and I just scream, “IT'S A FAMILY TRADITION, VICTOR. YOU WOULDN'T UNDERSTAND IT.”

Dust as a metaphor for life, now that I'm thinking about it, is a pretty tired cliché. Even Jesus used it in the Bible during his “Ashes to ashes” speech. Except my mom just read this over my shoulder and reminded me that Jesus didn't actually write anything himself and that most of the Bible chapters were named for the guys who actually did all the work (probably soberly) editing and writing down all the good shit
. My God
, that woman knows a lot about Jesus for an atheist. Also, she pointed out a lot of grammatical errors. If this were the Bible this chapter would be called “The Book of Nelda.”

Nonetheless, there's a reason why dust and life go together naturally. Sometimes it comes together in the most perfect way to make the very building blocks of life. Sometimes it sweeps in and makes everything seem hazy and dark. Sometimes it gets in my amaretto and then I have to pour a new glass, but mainly that's cat fur, which is not really the same thing.

I have had a very odd and strange life, filled with more ups and downs than the average woman could shake a stick at. (Which would be weird because it's been my personal experience that average women hardly ever shake sticks at anything. Normally it's strange women like me shaking sticks against windmills, and cougars, and bushes that you thought were cougars because you've had too much amaretto.)

When I look at my life I see high-water marks of happiness and I see the lower places where I had to convince myself that suicide wasn't an answer. And in between I see my life. I see that the sadness and tragedy in my life made the euphoria and delicious ecstasy that much more sweet. I see that stretching out my soul to feel every inch of horrific depression gave me more room to grow and enjoy the beauty of life that others might not ever appreciate. I see that there is dust in the air that will eventually settle onto the floor to be swept out the door as a nuisance, but before that, for
one brilliant moment
I see the dust motes catch sunlight and sparkle and dance like stardust. I see the beginning and the end of all things. I see my life. It is beautifully ugly and tarnished in just the right way. It sparkles with debris. There is wonder and joy in the simplest of things. My mother was right.

It's all in the way you look at it.

 

Well at Least Your Nipples Are Covered

The Fifth Argument I Had with Victor This Week

ME:
Does this outfit look okay?

VICTOR:
Yeah. It looks okay.

[
I huff off to change.
]

VICTOR:
Why are you changing?
WE NEED TO GO.

ME:
Because you hate my outfit so now I have to change.

VICTOR:
I SAID YOU LOOKED FINE.

ME:
No.
You said I looked “
okay
,” which is pretty much the same thing as saying, “
Well, at least your nipples are covered.
” If you'd said I looked “
fine
” I'd feel better but I'd probably still change, because “fine” equals “You might as well just give up.” Which I won't, because
I
care about my personal appearance.

VICTOR:
That is the craziest fucking thing you have ever said.

ME:
Not even remotely. If you
really
thought I looked okay you should have said that I look great.

VICTOR:
YOU LOOK GREAT. STOP BEING MENTAL AND GET IN THE DAMN CAR.

ME:
No.
Not until I look okay.

VICTOR:
I
TOLD
YOU THAT YOU LOOKED OKAY.

ME:
EXACTLY. But
my
“okay” is not
your
“okay.” I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M EVEN HAVING TO EXPLAIN THIS.

VICTOR:
THAT MAKES TWO OF US.

ME:
Okay, let me put it in perspective. Imagine we just had sex for the first time. You ask me how it was. I say, “
It was okay
.”

VICTOR:
Ah.

ME:
Exactly.

VICTOR:
Fine.
You look amazing.

ME:
Really? So I look okay?

VICTOR:
I don't even know what to say here. Is this a trick question?

ME:
No. Just nod and say something nice about my shoes or my hair or something.

VICTOR:
Fine.

ME:
… Sooner rather than later would be nice.

VICTOR:
I'm thinking.

ME:
Wow.

VICTOR:
I like your skin because it keeps your organs from falling out onto the carpet.

ME:
If I had a nickel for every time a man told me that …

Winner: Victor. Because now he understands how words work.

 

Death by Swans Is Not as Glamorous as You'd Expect

We recently moved, continuing our pattern of buying a house, fixing it up, and then putting it up for sale about fifteen minutes before it actually feels like home. When Victor decided we should move again I told him that this house would be the last one because I wasn't moving again unless it was in my coffin. Then he waited until I was out of town and bought an old (but very sweet) house that needed massive repairs, had lots of issues, and could probably kill us. In short, he bought the
“me”
of houses.