Dear Abby,
The people I love are tearing each other apart!
Betty (not her real name) is my faithful fag hag. We met when cast opposite each other, as Mr. And Mrs. MacAfee in a student-theater production of Bye-Bye Birdie.
(C’mon boys…how many of you met the hag of your dreams through amateur musicals? Thought so.)
Here’s a confession: I didn’t change my name when I got married.
You were hoping for thinking something bigger, weren’t you? Oh, and to clarify, I mean I didn’t change my last name. I didn’t change my first name, either, but you didn’t really expect me to, did you?
One of my earliest and fondest memories of my Dadda go back to when I was no more than 3 years old. He was sitting on the living room floor with his legs crossed and I was laying in front of him with my head in his lap – mouth open – as he would feed me either raisins or M&Ms. We would do this for a while and then switch with me sitting and his head in my lap being fed one by one from my pinched little fingers.
My mother had bought me brown Coach boots, and since she rarely buys me anything without putting up a fight, I took it as a sweet gesture: A mother’s love for her daughter despite her addiction to expensive leather. They resembled Tims on crack with the infamous logo all over them. I swear that they are the ugliest things known to man, but I wore them because they were from Coach.
I remember when I was first told where milk came from. I didn’t have any of it for about a week until I realized that in order to be consistent I would also have to give up ice cream. If you think more than a little about many of the foods we eat you could easily find a way to talk yourself out of it. Similarly, but with even greater ease your hunger will talk you out of your abstinence. It is delicate game we play with ourselves, a deliberate self-delusion that is often aided and abetted by language.
Continuing my attempt to suffuse the internets with my legacy of trivial bullshit (especially bowel related) to permanently embed in the annals of the History of Internets History, I feel it behooves me to mention that there is a mischievous little imp living between my buttocks who is making life exceedingly difficult for me. Having what most observers believe to be an asshole, I should, by all accounts, be able to make poopy. Perhaps there is a kink in the hose, as it were, because as the old adage declares, “something’s rotten in my intestinal tract.”
I have a jokester/recalcitrant side. I come by it honestly, would I lie to you? I wanted to share one of my Grandmother’s escapades. She was truly a wonderful woman.
My Grandparents raised their children with the meager means. My Mom describes her childhood with such fondness I wish I could have been there to experience it. The recounting of events is the next best thing.
Seeing as this is the time of year when we re-examine ourselves to come up with decent resolutions, I thought I would resurrect this…
My Worst Habits
I am a very enthusiastic person. I’m sure this can be quite a positive thing (infectious, hopefully), but at the same time, I know it can annoy the hell out of people.
This enthusiasm leads to some of my worst habits.
I’m sitting here at my desk drinking a cup of sleepytime tea. I am not a real big tea drinker, preferring coffee over most anything else. I suppose it reminds me of my wife. That and the fact that I took too long of a nap today and need to sleep. 4:30 AM comes far too soon and I don’t want to be up all night.
2006 is a year that just can’t end soon enough. For months now it has been apparent to me that 2006 was just not my year. The first thing that comes to mind is getting divorced – while definitely the right decision for me, deciding to end a marriage of almost a decade (not to mention the events leading to the divorce) was not a pleasant experience.
Great story. You did a good job with the dialogue here.February 1, 9:00 am by Anastacia Campbell
