Gimmeoxygen's Blog

December 1, 2009

Please Pass the Xanax, pt. II

Filed under: The People From Planet Polyester — Ruby Dabling @ 4:45 pm
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To continue with my vacation with the People from Planet Polyester, here are more of the notes I took while being held hostage for Thanksgiving.

* * *

We went shopping all day!  What fun!

At six in the morning, one of the smallish inhabitants of the planet woke me up.  Do you want to wake up quickly?  Well, try waking – no clue where you are – with a midget wearing a snot-and-oatmeal facial two inches from your face.  The midget is poking you (again with the poking) in the chest, and snuffling.  I can almost guarantee that you will pop out of bed so fast you give yourself jet lag.

“Auntie Boo sez you gotta get up NOW.”  The midget tried to pet BuKi, but she scrambled deeper under the covers.  I’ve raised one smart dog.

“Auntie Boo is mad as a March hare, and should…”  I stopped.  The smallish one might be wired.  “Tell her I’m coming right down, okay, sweetie?”

And, so, I was told that, like it or not, we were going shopping in NYC today.  You better believe I took two xanax today to prepare.

I’d forgotten a few things.

I’d forgotten that I like the station at Hoboken even though it is dirty and noisy.  I’d forgotten how scary the subways in NYC are.  I’d forgotten that you never, EVER light a cigarette on the street unless you want to be surrounded by two dozen people with their hand out chanting, “Hey, can you spare a smoke?”  I have a few – 3 t0 5 – cigarettes a day (hush it – I like to smoke, dammit!), but I threw my pack at one of them, and fled.

I’d forgotten how very bad NYC cabs smell, and that – by transference – will YOU if you spend any time in them at all.  I’d forgotten that most cabbies hate you, have always hated you, and will hate you even more if you say something stupid like, “Oh, Jesus!  Are we near Harlem?  You’ve got the doors locked, don’t you?” as my Aunt Boo did.  (Boo lives with the certainty that every black male alive exists for no other reason than to rip the girdle off her aging, flabby thighs and rape her.  Oh, I suppose everyone can dream, though, can’t they!).

I’d forgotten that making eye contact with the man yelling, “Hey!  Hey, mami!  Ya wanna ride my salami?” will only encourage him to grab his crotch, and make the O Face.  This happened – with creative variations – throughout the day.

And I’d forgotten that I can’t go anywhere with these people without wanting to find a nice, quiet bathroom where I can eat a handful of barbituates before opening a few of my major arteries…but NYC bathrooms are even more frightening than the subways.

* * *

Thank god something good happened!

The only person I love arrived.  My cousin, Abbie.  Like me, she fled the nest as soon as it was financially feasible (only she went north to Vermont where she lives with her wonderfully peculiar lover, Jack).  As soon as she came in the door, I wanted to squeal and launch myself at her like a child.  Even better, she has to share the guest room with me.

As soon as we could, we snuck out to behind the garage to share a blunt and commiserate.  She asked me how bad it’s been, and I said it’s a new circle in Dantes’ Hell.  I told her how, the night before, I’d bent over in front of Uncle Pink to help a little one who’d fallen on her diapered butt, and he’d grabbed me and pantomimes sodomizing me while yelling, “Tell Santa what you want for Christmas, baby!” (I defy any of you to keep even a shred of dignity when your uncle is dry-humping you in front of everyone.)  She shuddered.  “He did the same thing to me a few years ago.  Jack calls him ‘Uncle Kinky’.  You should have whacked him over the head like I did.”

I’m so glad she’s here.

* * *

Giving BuKi her insulin is a spectator event.  As soon as I get the vial of insulin out of the ‘fridge, someone will announce it so that everyone crowds around to watch.  BuKi might be blind, but her instinct for self-preservation is spot-on, and she began to tremble so badly I had to support her with one hand while injecting her with the other.  The only thing I said was to the midget.  “Watch carefully.  You’re going to need this skill by the time you’re in sixth grade, and the nice man beside the playground wants to be your bestest friend.”  This earned me a dirty look from her mother, Gwen, as I’d forgotten she recently left rehab for a meth addiction.  My bad…

* * *

Three more days.  It will be easier with Abbie here.  She knows how to handle the natives better than I do.  When they began their poking, pinching, patting and pawing, she snapped, “Quit fucking touching me, dammit.”   This seems to be a magical incantation they respond to.  I’ll have to remember it.

* * *

(I’m sure you think I’m making it sound worse than what it was, but I don’t even get close to describing these people.  This is a hint:  Two of them were on the Jerry Springer Show, and they show the video each year because they are PROUD of it.  I refuse to tell you what episode it was.)






November 30, 2009

Home forThanksgiving. Please Pass the Xanax.

I went back east for two weeks.  Being away from my relatives for a few years made me not quite forget I was raised by jackals, but time made them seem much less awful than they really, truly are, so…I spent Thanksgiving with them.

I took notes.

Copious notes.

Over the course of this week, I’ll share these notes with you, and ask you to, please, consider adopting me.  I’m not too old, and I’m pretty small – in the right light, I can pass for, oh, 14 or 15 years old, okay?  I promise I won’t make too much noise or any mess; I’ll keep my room tidy, and my gratitude will make me your loyal, devoted servant for life.  I can take care of you in your declining years!  Just something for you to think about…

* * *

If I live to be 200 years old, and I still have relatives to go home to, the moment I come through the front door, someone will start to sing, “If I had a dime in a bucket…” and everyone will laugh.  Why?  Because that is how I interpreted Jim Croce’s TIME IN A BOTTLE when I was 4 years old.  My mother had me sing it that year for everyone at Christmas…and everyone laughed.  They had to find me and coax me out from underneath my grandmothers’ bed to come to dinner because I’d been FUCKING TRAUMATIZED.  Not only will those present for the incident never forget, they, apparently, have handed-down my humiliation as an heirloom much the way other families pass down good silver, china and jewelry as members of the family who weren’t born at that time know about it…and everyone still laughs.

* * *

Everyone seems to feel this overwhelming need to poke, pat, pinch and fondle me.  It’s as if they don’t think I’m quite real.  I’m going home with so many bruises it’s going to look like I had a 3-way with de Sade and the Countess Bathory.  This is more intimate than I want to be with a group of people who consider higher education to be watching JEOPARDY! while washing pork rinds down with whatever domestic beer is one sale.

* * *

My weight, or lack of it, concerns my family.  This conversation took place between my Aunt Adele and I:

“Why don’t you have children?  You need some kids around so you won’t be so high-strung all the time, and to put some weight on you.  Why don’t you find someone and have a few babies?”

I wanted to say, “Well, I know it’s traditional for the females in this family to have their first illegitimate child by the age of fifteen, but I’ve always been a slow starter.”  What I actually said was, “I just haven’t given it much thought yet.”

“Don’t get with a professional man.  Get with a trucker like my Stan.  MY kids are all healthy as horses!”

What I wanted to say was, “Horses?  Mules, perhaps.  Tell me – do you buy Danny shoes, or simply take him to a blacksmith?”  What I actually said was, “Yeah…um…they’re pretty sturdy, all right.”

“And you need to eat real food.  What’s the deal with that hummus shit and funny bread you brought with you?  You thinking of being one of those vegetarian people who always look so pale and skinny?  People need to eat meat and gravy and potatoes, too.  If you did, you might get yourself a figure that’ll catch a mans’ eye.”

I’m not a vegetarian.  I’m a carnivore.  I just don’t snack on hunks of greasy sausage and cheese impaled on plastic toothpicks, that’s all.  The closest thing they had to a healthy snack in the fridge was half a quart of milk that was two days past the expiration date.  “I suppose…” is all I said.

“You take my advice.  Put on a few pounds.  Wear some more makeup.  Find some clothes that show a little of you off – you look like you’re trying to cover everything up and people might think you got that eczema shit or something.  You don’t have eczema, do you?  If that’s the reason, I understand.  If your skin isn’t messed up, though, wear yourself something more revealing.  Look at Heather – all the boys chase her around.”

Heather looks like a misplaced street whore.  She had on see-through, plastic platform stripper heels, and every time she sat down, her dress crawled up to her navel.  She had on so much foundation that it was cracked around her eyes and mouth, and she had bright orange – orange??? – lipstick on.  Heather is Adeles’ youngest child, and I tried to see her through a mothers’ eyes.

I’m just not that maternal.

I don’t know if I’ll last until Thanksgiving.  I might have to invent some creative excuse, and get my dog and I out of here. 

* * *



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