The Oracle at the San Pedro Courthouse Says I’m a Danger to Society

So yesterday, Cancer Dad calls me up (never a good sign) to tell me that my bail is set at $531 and my driver’s license is on hold and soon to be suspended.

That was even worse than I was expecting, quite frankly. Can’t he ever call me to tell me he loves me and wants to shower me with puppies and rainbows? Why does it have to be all, I have cancer! There’s a warrant out for your arrest because you missed jury duty! (Which I hadn’t – it was a mistake) You’re going to jail for not paying your traffic tickets!

But I digress.

Upon hearing this voicemail, my immediate reaction was something along the lines of What the fuck is he even talking about?!! at which point I suddenly remembered that fix-it ticket I got a few months back concerning my lack of front license plate. I’ve never forgotten to pay a ticket in my life, and suddenly I am completely terrified. Am I going to jail?! This isn’t even my fault! I think front license plates are a perfectly reasonable requirement!

No, really, it’s not my fault. Back in the day, circa 1992, my parents bought the car I now drive, and my father actually got down on his hands and knees and removed the front license plate and threw it in the trunk.

Why?

Well, according to my parents, front license plates are tacky.

So, as I’m hyperventilating about how my parents’ demented obsession with disobeying the law for the sake of style is going to get me raped by a four hundred pound lesbian in prison, I remember the kind words of the officer who gave me the ticket.

Don’t worry, he said. Just go show them the plate and everything will be fine. I wouldn’t even give you this dumb ticket if these other cops weren’t here.

Whew, okay, it’s not a big deal. Even the police think this law is stupid. I’m going to be fine.

I drive over to my dad’s house to pick up the letter just to verify that he isn’t trying to fuck with me or something. And, in the tragic tradition of being a young blonde female, I am told that I should really let my boyfriend put my front license plate on for me, as to avoid further infractions. I refrain from punching him in the face, as I am capable of using a screwdriver – the problem here is not that I can’t put on my front license plate, it’s that I haven’t. I mean, really Dad?

Anyway, the letter went a little something like this:

WHAT THE HELL. THIS SEEMS A LITTLE BIT EXTREME.

(Okay, it didn’t really say that. But it did imply that I would be charged $531 and/or be arrested if I didn’t address the situation within 10 days after April 30. Fan-fucking-tastic.)

Because I wanted very badly to avoid jail and/or huge fines, I used my lunch hour today to wander over to the courthouse to settle the manner (a.k.a, avoid prison) and found myself looking into the eyes of pure apathy – the eyes of a traffic violations department employee. She has eyes the color of Nutella mixed with broken dreams and sub par moral standards – I hand her my letter with some serious reservations.

She says, Five hundred and thirty one dollars, puleeeease.

Whoa, whoa, missy. It is May 6th. I do not owe you five hundred and thirty one dollars!

My cow-faced traffic violations friend looks me dead in the eye and chews her gum like cud. I put on my brightest, most innocent smile. She rolls her eyes, sighs, and says cryptically, Let me gooooo cheeeeeeeck.

So I’m pretty sure she had to go visit the Courthouse Oracle.

I say this because law does not govern the San Pedro Courthouse. The letter I have handed her clearly states that I owe $231 because I am paying within my ten-day grace period. But, apparently, that means nothing. She has to go make an animal sacrifice and get that shit verified.

I feel a tiny glitter of hope in my chest. Perhaps this is all a mistake. Perhaps I owe nothing. I mean, if they can’t trust the official letters they send out to people, then, well, everything must be up for negotiation, right?

Tragically, the Oracle was pissed off today. He probably found out one of his vestal virgins was really a hooker with herpes. Or maybe my traffic violations friend got lazy and sacrificed a dead skunk she found in the dumpster out back instead of a champion white stallion. Because what happened next was clearly not reasonable.

So, yah, starts my intelligent new buddy. This is a mistake...

OH THANK YOU JE….

You actually owe eight hundred and thirty one dollars, she says. With. Gusto. Oh, and this is a misdemeanor, not an infraction.

…SUS FUCKING SHIT.

My jaw dropped so hard, I’m pretty sure everyone in line heard it.

Wait. WAIT. I didn’t have a front license plate. I missed the date on the ticket by a few weeks. I DID NOT MURDER A CHILD AND TIE SAID CHILD’S DEAD BODY TO THE FRONT OF A HUMMER AND RIDE AROUND TOWN WHILE CHUGGING A BOTTLE OF JAGERMEISTER AND SINGING “MEMORIES” FROM CATS. Although I guess that would be a felony.

I just stare at her.

The only sounds that can be heard are my gasping breaths. And angels crying.

Nutella Eyes starts speaking again.

...buuuuuuut we’ll honor the letter. So I guess you owe $231.

I pay – because at this point, $231 sounds like a goddamn miracle – and leave.

As I am furiously telling this tragic tale of metaphorical rape and highway robbery to my mother, she interrupts and says, “Brittany, have [The Boyfriend] put your license plate on your car!”

Point One: You are supposed to be gasping and yelling about the villainy of the court system right now, not referring to whether or not I have a front license plate on my car. That is not the point anymore. THE POINT IS THIS GREVIOUS INJUSTICE TO MY PERSON.

Point Two: How is it that you think the very second I thought I was going to get molested in prison for not having a front license plate I did not go put on my front license plate? Woman, I immediately dropped to my knees on the oil-covered roadside and screwed that damn thing on then and there AND UNDID WHAT YOU AND DAD DID 18 YEARS AGO.

Obviously, I’ve really got to stop expecting my mom to respond to my craziness in a desired manner.

I mean, I was totally just kidding when I texted her today…

…and I’m pretty sure if God strikes people dead for that kind of stuff, I would have been hit by lightening a long time ago.

P.S. Seriously, I don’t think anyone should die from cancer for treating me like crap.

P.S.S It was a joke.

P.S.S. Really.

P.S.S.S. You don’t even deserve that if you tell me I look ugly and sickly and desperately in need of lipstick in front of a whole room of people (true story). I’m that forgiving.

When Your Dermatologist is a Perfectionist, Part Deux (Or, I Think I Have Forehead Cancer) [UPDATED]

UPDATE: So, I've been notified via text message by one of my 3 readers that this post makes it sound like I legit have cancer. I don't! Don't worry! I'm just being ridiculous. Always assume that I don't have cancer. Unless I'm writing in super emo speak. Then, yes, assume away about the cancer. But no, right now, I'm just the ugly chick with the normal type of cyst.

Oh, but actually, the murdering of my face with a syringe was successful and I am basically cyst free now!

However, Blonde Beyonce did point out to me that this whole episode really didn't matter because I have bangs and no one can tell if I have a cyst or not anyway. But it's nice to know that I don't have to have bangs for the rest of my freaking life now.

So you may carry on without fearing for my life.

Original Post:

I had to ask some very pertinent questions of The Boyfriend today. Questions like, would you still like me if I was disfigured for the rest of my life? and, what’s better? A scar or a lump?

I’m sort of concerned, because I’m not really getting an answer. Unless you count, “Awww, Cysty! Could be a pretty name!” as an answer to either of those questions. Which it isn’t. Because I threatened to punch him if he ever said anything like that again.

Which is maybe why he isn’t responding to my questions.

Anyway, I’m stressing right now because there are so many arbitrary things that can go wrong with your body! It’s ridiculous! In fact, if this was a hundred years ago, I’d already be dead. I would have died at the age of twelve. Of pneumonia. So every year after that has been thanks to the miracle of modern science.

Fucking A.

I mean, I’m generally pretty healthy. I have a stomach of iron (hey, if I can eat dog meat off a street cart in Hanoi and not even get the slightest bit ill, that must mean something, right?). I get over basic colds quickly. But when something goes wrong with my health, it goes really, really wrong.

This past year has been pretty eventful – what with testing positive for tuberculosis (yay! No one will insure me! And I have to take nine months of meds which could potentially destroy my liver!) and then there was that thing with my kidney.

I thought it was a lower backache.

And then I thought I had the flu.

I unfortunately have a very high tolerance to pain and other forms of physical suffering. Which means I do stupid things. Like, when at the age of twelve, I ran a mile in physical education with pneumonia. No biggie. I just coughed up some blood and inadvertently caused my English teacher to suspect child abuse/neglect.

And, a few months ago, my kidney nearly up and died on me. But I just took some ibuprofen, and went on a road trip. People, listen to me. THERE IS A HUGE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN LOWER BACK PAIN AND YOUR-ORGAN-IS-COMMITTING-SUICIDE PAIN. I know this from experience. I also know this because I walked myself to the hospital after I started urinating blood, because I am smart enough to figure out that ibuprofen doesn’t solve that problem. Plus the nurse took one look at me, moved me to the front of the emergency room patient list, and had me hooked up to an IV in 3 minutes flat.

Apparently, running a 103 degree fever for a week is really bad. The only upside was that I was amazingly skinny, because I hadn’t eaten in two weeks, and I had sweated all the water out of my body. Oh, and I cleared up my brother’s misconception that kidney donors had to be the same height as kidney donation recipients. Which is good, because next time this shit goes down, he’ll know that I already own his right kidney. And there won’t be any unsportsmanlike muttering.

What this experience has taught me is to not underestimate my health problems. Which is why I’ve jumped to the other extreme, and decided I have FOREHEAD CANCER! GAH!

Really people, it’s not that insane! Cancer Dad had his first round of cancer at the age of 22, so really, I’m right on schedule. Only his was lymphoid cancer or something, and they had to take off half his face (don’t worry, they put it back. Plus he regained feeling and the ability to move it, which was not expected). I only need a sharp stab to the forehead. And then everything will be okay!

See, I have this cyst. Nobody can tell it’s there, but I can. And dammit, that’s a fucking problem. Said cyst is standing between me and perfection – perfection I have suffered for! If I had to go through all this topical medication crap, only to have perfectly clear skin marred by an inexplicable forehead cyst, bitches are going down!

See, I got the stupid cyst injected with cortisone a while back, and it basically disappeared – except, since I have to live with my face, I could still see it. And feel it. And so I went back to the dermatologist today to get it looked at again.

If you haven’t read my other post, go read it now, because it’s essential to understanding my love-hate relationship with my dermatologist. See, I go to see her about getting rid of my potential forehead cancer, and instead she prescribes me $70 worth of other shit, because apparently my acne medications are just not working up to her standards.

She’s all, if your face is peeling, then it’s working. And I’m all, but it was peeling, it just isn’t anymore – isn’t that a good thing? Am I supposed to choose between acne and snake face for the rest of my life? Or does this have a happy ending, dammit?!!

See, she gave me a choice on whether to up the strength of my medication, because apparently my skin is up to normal people standards, but not her standards. And she gave that I will be gravely disappointed in you if you do not follow this through look, and I crumbled. Yes, please doctor. Give me movie star skin. Even if it means I will peel like a python for the next three months.

But now back to my forehead cancer please.

Well, my dermatologist takes a look, whips out a syringe, and gives me the most painful shot I have ever had right in the middle of my forehead. Oh. My. God. It did not feel like that last time. Maybe the last chick (who was standing in for my regular dermatologist) wasn’t aggressive enough, and that’s why I still have a forehead tumor. Because this bitch just murdered my face.

And then she’s all, “If this doesn’t work, your only other option is surgical. But the cyst is so small, that the scar would be worse than the cyst.”

WHAT??!

ARE YOU TELLING ME I HAVE TO CHOOSE BETWEEN FOREHEAD CANCER AND A DISFIGURING SCAR?

Okay, this is not alright. You’re telling me humans have walked on the moon, but nobody can remove something that’s the size of a grain of rice out of my forehead without disfiguring me for life??!!

There is something wrong here.

No. I refuse to have a lump on my face for the rest of my existence. Even if it’s a lump that only I can see. Because, dammit, it’s the principle. Can’t we just laser the scar off? Jesus, are you letting a tiger maul me? Because, really, I’ve done some pretty terrible things to my face, and all the trace evidence is gone. So I’m really curious now.

But if it’s cancer, they have to remove it anyway.

So hook up the laser, and let’s get this procedure underway.

Ugh, you’d think she had told me I was going to die. I hate hearing that things will be happening to me for the rest of forever. Like when that idiot doctor told me I had blepharitis, and I went around for two years suffering from reoccurring eyelid space plague and secretly crying to myself because I was doomed to be the female version of Quasimodo, but then scary dermatologist woman diagnosed me with dermatitis and cured me in a week. A WEEK. I had been suffering for TWO YEARS. So imagine my dismay that she, dermatologist superwoman, cannot get rid of my microscopic forehead cancer!

I’M DOOMED.

P.S. Well, maybe not. The forehead cancer seems to be getting smaller and smaller since my face got murdered this morning. So, potentially, I still have a chance at perfection.

P.S.S. But what if it doesn’t go away? What if I have to choose?! Because I think I want the scar…

P.S.S.S. Now that I’ve gone and confessed this problem on the internet, people are totally going to start looking for my forehead cancer. And then I’ll HAVE to go under the knife. Fuck.

P.S.S.S.S. I JUST WANT TO DIE.

P.S.S.S.S.S. That’s a lie. I continue to be awesome. Even with forehead cancer. Man, I talk a lot about cancer and murder on this blog. Okay, new tagline: “Murder and cancer: both funny.”

I Dislike You More than Funerals and Celery*

*And I really, REALLY fucking hate celery.

So, the power of Bob the Pink Deer came in handy yesterday when I had to battle the dark forces raging around my beloved grandmother’s memorial service. I had already sent off several incriminating text messages to close friends and family – and when I say incriminating, I mean I confessed to premeditated homicide – but, at the last minute, I decided to let everybody live. It was for the sake of the children who might have witnessed me stabbing Cancer Dad and Wife Number Four (or Five) to death in the middle of an overpriced restaurant. Yes, only for the children. Because that shit would totally have been justified.

While my poor grandmother was resting peacefully in a crematorium, Cancer Dad and the wifey were plotting ways to make me extremely uncomfortable. Yes, on the day we were celebrating my grandmother’s life, they were scheming evilly. I’m pretty sure such activities deserve some kind of corporeal (and spiritual? Are you listening, God?!) punishment. ‘Cause, bitch, thas a mistake!

I got through the actual memorial service portion of the program okay, mostly because no sane person would dare be an asshole during a ceremony for a dead loved one. I would hope. Although, I was starting to think the whole thing was some kind of veiled message intended for me – Cancer Dad gave a very heartfelt speech about parenting, and some crazy preacher lady read a poem about forgiveness written by my grandmother. Okay, God, are you telling me to forgive Cancer Dad and his concubine? And embrace my crazed parents for what they are?

Well, if that’s what God wanted, I’d be totally in. But apparently, I missed the that’s-never-gonna-happen portion of God’s divine message during Grandma’s ten minute memorial. It was a godly taunt or something. And apparently, Depeche Mode’s been right all along – God does have a sick sense of humor. He particularly enjoys fucking with me.*

*Yes, thank you, I’m aware that God probably isn’t sending me veiled messages via eulogy. I’m just being a sacrilegious asswipe. It’s what I do.

Well, anyway, I was all like thanks grandma, for that lovely poem about forgiveness because I can totally put all these fears of persecution aside and have a nice meal with my family. And grandma was all haha, that wasn’t intended for you (but I couldn’t hear that ‘cause she’s dead.)

So Cancer Dad and Wife Number Four (or Five) pulled a nice little trick on the way to the after-funeral meal. As in, Wife Number Four (or Five) walks a million yards in front of me and sprints into the nearest bookstore to avoid having to make eye contact or speak to me. I start to feel my confidence waning. Why is she going book shopping when we’re supposed to be eating?

Well, I promptly discovered that it doesn’t matter how polite I am – because the Dynamic Duo of Lameness had been plotting to unsettle me the whole time.

Cancer Dad sat down at the head of our reserved Mafia-sized table, my brother to his right, and me next to my brother. In an obvious fashion. Then, the following ludicrous conversation ensued:

CANCER DAD: Brittany, are you sure you want to sit there?

ME: Ummm…hhhhuh?? Wha? (Where is this going, you crazy dirtbag?!)

CANCER DAD: You know, [Wife Number Four (or Five)] is going to sit next to me.

ME: Yes….I know…I don’t care….

CANCER DAD: Well, we have unresolved issues with you.

ME: Oh. Well, Dad, I don’t hate her. I’m not planning on murdering her with my steak knife or anything.

CANCER DAD: You shouldn’t sit there.

ME: But – Dad – Grandma’s service was today. I’m sure we can be mature about it and polite to each other…we’re all adults…

CANCER DAD: No.

ME: Dad, what are you saying? Do you really want me to move to the end of the table?

CANCER DAD: Yes. YES I DO. MOVE.

[In my completely shocked, shamed, and disoriented state, I get up and move to the other end of the Mafia sized table. My brother, Topher, follows me.]

CANCER DAD: Topher, where are you going?

[Topher looks confused. Is he really supposed to leave me alone at the other side of this Texas-sized table? Looking completely ostracized?]

TOPHER: Uh, over there…?

CANCER DAD: Fine. (He seems legitimately confused and upset that his son doesn’t want to leave his sister alone at the other side of the table. What the fuck.)

Well, I’m not going to fucking lie. I was completely caught off guard and very near angry tears. And very pissed that Cancer Dad didn’t have the balls to make such a nasty, childish request in front of the entire family. It is at this point I start plotting evil murderous plots. And texting anyone that will listen – to warn them that I might be in prison soon.

Luckily, Tasha Dee saved my ass with this tweet: “@brittwrit resist.urge.to.murder. think of BOB the pink deer!”

Okay, so I start cracking up. And get that watery tears shit under control. Because I’m (always) the bigger person in these stupid situations and there is no way I’m going to let Cancer Dad see that he really, really gets to me. Like more than anyone.

Whew. I get through the rest of meal, and listen to my clueless, nice family members gush about how nice it is to all be together again. If only they knew that they never see me because I’m basically not wanted or invited by my own father.

I’m hoping nobody else dies anytime soon, because this shit is exhausting!

I definitely learned from this experience though. You want to know what I learned? This really, really, REALLY isn’t about me – AT ALL.

Cancer Dad and Wife Number Four (or Five) probably get some kind of high out of being miserable. They probably keep their connection alive by banding together against me – yep, that’s correct, I am solely responsible for their kick-ass love. Me.

You want to know what the unresolved issue that they have with me is? I told Cancer Dad I wanted a polite and distant relationship with Wife Number Four (or Five) and I wasn’t going to put myself through a stressful situation to have a close relationship with her. Because it wasn’t going to happen. Because I live on my own, make my own money, and love my father dearly, but don’t need to be BFFs with his spouse to have a decent relationship with him. AND THEN HE TOLD ME I WASN’T PART OF HIS FAMILY ANYMORE.

So, yeah bitch, this is all on you. I don’t care. I can be in the same room with anyone. But if I’m just too damn intimidating, and your wife can’t stomach being near me – well, shit, I’m going to show up to all the fucking family parties. And then maybe she’ll stay home.

Because, let’s be serious. You made me upset at my own grandmother’s funeral. And the truth of the matter is, your wife HATED my grandmother (I know, she told me) – and my grandmother couldn’t even be bothered to remember your wife’s fucking name.

And this, sir, is why I like funerals and celery more than you.

P.S. That was my grandma. So I’ve got dibs on being at her memorial service. Next time, tell the wifey to stay at the office and council some step families or some shit. Because we all know that she’s so good at that.

P.S.S. Bitch couldn’t say she didn’t want to sit next to me to my face?!! Really??! She had to hide in the bookstore while you told me she didn’t want to be near me? You know, I’m really not that scary. She weighs, like, a hundred more pounds than me. She could crush my skull with that giant ostrich ass of hers.

P.S.S.S. Okay, I’m done now. Bigger person here. YUP.

Help! Cancer Dad is Missing!*

*I’m a sarcastic dirt bag. All of the below information is true, but you should not take it as an invitation to google the shit out of my family and start spamming them. I mean, I would probably find it amusing and awesome. But don’t tell me it was you. I will not be associated with prank calls, twitter slander, etc. I don’t want to be dragged to court again. Thanks friends!

Assistance needed: I cannot find my father. Had you seen him? He’s 6’3”, wears glasses, is a pompous ass and looks like he’s about to give birth to triplets. Oh, and he drives a Jaguar with douchey personalized plates. He’s probably insulted you or cut you off on the road and acted like it was your fault. No? You sure?

Oh, wait, never mind, I found him! He’s on the radio!

I am a great lover of chaos and blatant assholishness. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside – probably because it reminds me of my childhood. And nothing makes me smile harder than listening to my Dad give ridiculous advice over the internet radio waves. About raising step children. Which he doesn’t really have.

If you’re scratching your head and thinking what the fuck? don’t worry. I was there once. But see, the thing about life is that it is much stranger than fiction. And the thing about me is, I think the horrible things people do to each other are freaking hilarious. Because if I were to get upset every time Cancer Dad filmed a special on step families for basic cable, I would probably have to be institutionalized.

Okay, I’ll stop confusing you. Here’s the back story:

I went around for the majority of my childhood thinking my parents were each other’s first spouses – mostly because nobody ever mentioned any other spouses (or a rather inconvenient sociopathic child) to me. Many confusing years later, it was apparent that Cancer Dad, had, in fact, been married many, many times. And produced offspring.

Then he got married. Again.

I haven’t quite figured out yet whether the current wife is wife number four, or wife number five. It’s up in the air. When you find some old picture of a woman who your father tells you not to mention to his new wife, and whose last names mysteriously matches your own, you get suspicious. Especially when this kind of thing has happened before.

But Wife Number Four (or Five) happened to have the most absurd career. She is a step family therapist. Right? Absurd!

Well, step family therapists are people too. Even if they have step children from previous marriages with whom they are not on speaking terms. And they uninvite you to their wedding to your father. And file restraining orders against your mother to get back at you for existing. Or they put all your belongings in trash bags, throw you out of the house, and call the police on you. I mean, hey, that’s normal, right?

[Now, to insert some cliché like “those who can’t do teach,” or “the blind leading the blind.” Because, really, they all apply.]

As if this all weren’t enough, Wife Number Four (or Five) decided to take her message to the street, and the internet. She started a step mom Twitter. A weekly online radio show. A local cable show. She started writing a freaking book. Supposedly she’s getting a show on A&E. All so she could share her expertise on step families with the world! Even better, she made my dad Managing Director of her practice. His bio on their website hilariously begins: “I had no idea of the complexities of stepfamily life until I lived them firsthand.”

Hello, what?!

I mean, technically, my dad is a step father. To a 32 year old. Who never lived with us. Hmm, that must have been really hard on you, Dad. I feel for you.

Because of the dynamic duo that is Cancer Dad and Wife Number Four (or Five), I get hilarious phone calls from parents of friends, saying things like “Umm, I saw your dad last night on television…yeah, that…what was he talking about?!”

I also get hilarious phone calls from my Dad telling me to read his wife’s new articles and listen to their radio show, because I could “learn a lot.”

Well, I finally gave in and listened. And, ohmagawd, it was more magical than I could have ever imagined. Totally epic. Like, someone else has got to picking up on the major holes in the story here. Or the super awkward moments when my dad says dumb things, like (and this is an actual quote): “Honey, was it the hardest thing you ever did, moving in with me and my kids?” Wife Number Four (or Five): “Babe, umm…you’re really putting me on the spot here.” Hell yes he is. His cancer is causing brain farts. He forgot that he’s not allowed to mention us on live radio! He’s gonna blow your cover!

Now, really, everything is a two-way street. I’m not going to pretend that my brother didn’t send Wife Number Four (or Five) emails to her work address saying he was a child chained up in a basement who was being beaten mercilessly by his step dad (it would have been funnier if he hadn’t sent it from my mom’s email account on accident, making her look like a psychopath. But oh well).

And I’m not going to pretend that her fake-ass therapist voice didn’t piss me the fuck off.

But hey – it’s all good. Now’s it’s funny! Now I laugh ‘til I cry when I hear her moaning softly into the microphone about how hard it is to be a step parent. And how she was able to successfully preserve her relationship with “her man” despite his children (i.e., she got rid of the fuckers, so they’re not really a problem anymore)!

Unfortunately, my father doesn’t think this is funny. He’s mad I don’t want to reconcile with Wife Number Four (or Five), and therefore doesn’t call me anymore. Oh dad. People have given me so many explanations of why you might think this kind of thing was necessary. Is it a career move? Are people catching on to your wife’s lack of stepchildren? Are you still convinced you’re going to drop dead at any minute, and therefore you want to be forgiven – but you’re too pompous to apologize?

I’m not sure, really. But you have such nice ways of asking me to do you favors. Like, reconcile with my wife, or you’re not part of my family anymore! Or, you are a horrible child, I convinced her to reconcile with you, you should be able to do the same!

Either way, the antics you two have pulled make me smile.

I really do appreciate the both of you. I mean, hell, she took care of you during 3 rounds of cancer treatments. And Dad, you provide me endless entertainment and stress stomach aches with your mad crazy drama, yo. Because of you, I have so much more to bitch about! I can top just about anyone’s weird step family story. It gives me the street cred I need!

But Dad, if you really want those release forms signed so Wife Number Four (or Five) can butcher my persona in her new book, you’re going to have to think of a new tactic. Like not taking me to lunch in a public place and telling me I suck at life in the middle of my work day.

Just sayin’.

Love ya bitch.

A Valentine’s Day Horror Story

Yes, I’m aware that our modern Valentine’s Day is some horrible Hallmark creation, concocted for the sole purpose of making people spend money on heart shaped junk. Despite this deplorable truth, I am determined to have a damn good V Day this year – pretty much because my V Day weekend of 2009 was such a crapshoot!

No my friends, I’m not talking crapshoot as in sitting on my couch whining and stuffing my fat face with bon bons that I had to purchase for myself. If I had been single, I would have thrown a bad ass drunken “Fuck Valentine’s Day” party. My story is sad because, even though I was in a relationship, I didn’t even try to make romantic plans – and yet my Valentine’s Day still fucking sucked!

The logic is this: if you have too much riding on the romance of Valentine’s, it’s bound to go wrong. But I didn’t even plan anything like that! I just wanted to get drunk and chill! Take a mini road trip! Instead, the stupid fucking cupid gnomes came after me and turned a chill weekend into a stress fest. I didn’t freaking love anybody by the end of that weekend!

What did I learn from this? Well, that I should buy overpriced Cirque de Soleil tickets and make reservations at some ritzy restaurant that serves steaks the size of buttons. Because that’s what the creepy cupid gnomes want you to do.

So, for your amusement, my Valentine’s Day 2009* (complete with a scoring system):

*For those people included in this story, yes, I know you look like jerks. But I adore you regardless.

CHARACTERS

CANCER DAD, lord of dramatic and often grim overstatements.

THE BOYFRIEND, a stubborn bugger whom I adore; and who is possibly from another planet

THE DRUNK FRIEND, a generally responsible young woman, who is unfortunately overwhelmed by booze one night and takes refuge behind a toilet

THE DRUNK FRIEND’S DRUNK ASS FRIENDS, minor characters who cannot think or drive straight when under the influence of alcohol

THE BOYFRIEND’S BEST FRIEND, savior of my sanity, and master of yoga breathing techniques over the telephone

Part One

It all began on Valentine’s Eve, when Cancer Dad, got – well – cancer again. Only, it was in an entirely different area than previous cancer, therefore confirming Cancer Dad’s fears that said cancer was traveling through his blood, meaning, of course, he would drop dead immediately [minus 30]. Since I am such a dutiful daughter, I was, without delay, overtaken by ridiculous panic-induced dad-less visions of the future. Bad start to the weekend. (Spoiler: Cancer Dad has since lived through cancer scare number 3 and bone burning radiation, but is not yet dead, despite about 7 public proclamations of imminent death. However, at the time, I was certain he was going to die. Now I’m certain he will live forever.)

I decided to put off a complete panic attack about father-less-ness by concentrated on my upcoming road trip weekend with The Boyfriend. The distraction seemed promising enough when The Boyfriend, in a completely inebriated state, confessed his love to me for the first time (despite having dated me for nearly a year) at 3 am on Valentine’s morning [plus 10]. All was cute and lovely until he woke up hung over later that day, and, when confronted with a description of his drunken declaration, replied by saying that he could not have possibly said such a thing [minus 18]. Major burn though this was – especially since my reply was “finally!” instead of “I love you too!” – I continued to be optimistic about my weekend plans.

I arrived at The Boyfriend’s residence that evening, to pick him up and embark on our trip to visit The (not yet) Drunk Friend, who lived nearly 7 hours away. Sadly, The Boyfriend had not broken his habits by developing a sense of time. Instead, he tells me that he had no clean clothes to take with him on a trip. Nonplussed, I throw him and his dirty drawers into my vehicle, and head north. He promptly falls asleep, leaving me to drive, sleepily, in the dark and silence – with only thoughts of impending fatherlessness to keep me company [minus 5]. Shit.

We arrive at our destination at approximately 3 in the morning, only to discover that The Drunk Friend – now very drunk – is wrapped around a toilet bowl at some undisclosed location, and cannot bear to be parted with it. Hence, The Boyfriend and I are stuck outside in 30 degree weather [minus 15].

We finally reach The Drunk Friend’s Drunk Ass Friends, who, in their infinite drunken wisdom tell me to either A) knock on The Drunk Friend’s apartment door and wake up her inexplicably and eternally antisocial/pissy roommates who will be much more pissed after I do such or, B) wait for The Drunk Ass Friends to drunk drive to the apartment and give me the key. Because I am freezing to death and don’t want to be murdered (and do not care about the safety of The Drunk Ass Friends), I vote for the latter.

The Drunk Ass Friends arrive in good cheer, and give me The Drunk Friend’s purse, keys and phone – so that, of course, it is impossible to reach her and she has no identification or money on her, which proves, rather dramatically, that The Drunk Ass Friends are unequivocal retards [minus 16].

I am proved correct the next day when I do not see The Drunk Friend I drove 7 hours to see until 3 in the afternoon because she had no phone on which I could contact her, and somehow forgot I had a car – meaning she got a ride from someone who had to make 30 unnecessary stops (including one to the airport) before dropping her off at her apartment [minus 2].

After reuniting with The (no longer) Drunk Friend, the weekend went swimmingly. We ate sushi and went to Trampoline World [plus 8]. But then, it was time to depart.

Part Two

Previously, The Boyfriend had come to have a suspended license due to unpaid citations. He had already served time in county jail for driving illegally.

For some reason unbeknownst to me, The Boyfriend decided that it was a fabulous plan to purchase a BMW on the way back home – though he would be unable to legally drive it. I used all the powers of logic to convince him otherwise, but The Boyfriend is a stubborn bugger; and, in the end, I drove an hour out of my way in a rainstorm so he could put himself in the law’s way [minus 15].

Several hours later, as predicted by me, the law caught up with The Boyfriend. While on the phone with me, he was pulled over [minus 25] and subsequently had to convince the officers not to arrest him, as he had a girlfriend that could pick him up.

Most unfortunately, we had been traveling through the Tejon Pass – and there were no exits for miles. My phone was dying, I could not get off the freeway, and The Boyfriend kept calling more and more frequently to beg me to hurry up in an increasingly panicked tone. At this juncture in the narrative, I completely dissolve into textbook female hysteria [minus 10]. I began, literally, screaming – My dad is going to die! My boyfriend is going to jail for a year! And worst of all, it’s Valentine’s Day Weekend! You fuckers! (I don’t know who “you fuckers” refers to. I can only assume it was the evil cupid gnomes.)

Luckily, The Boyfriend’s Best Friend is surprisingly good at mediation instruction over the telephone [plus 5]. If it weren’t for the 5 minute breathing exercise, it’s possible my cranium might have spontaneously popped off, and I would have dropped my brain on the car mat – which, of course, would have made the situation even more difficult to navigate.

Eventually, after zen-ing that shit out, I turned around and managed to locate the McDonald’s where The Boyfriend was waiting in a police car. The police turned him over to me, but kept the BMW as a consolation prize [minus 10].

As boys in trouble are wont to do, The Boyfriend tried to laugh the incident off. Unfortunately for him, because he was not in jail, he was now doomed to die by my hand for the crimes of 1) abandoning his girlfriend in a car, alone, for 7 hours, to contemplate her father’s demise; 2) making his girlfriend drive an hour out her way so he do something illegal; 3) doing something illegal; 4) getting his ass caught; and 5) sufficiently wasting thousands of dollars and several hours of his girlfriend’s life on Valentine’s Day weekend [minus 28].

He was promptly murdered and buried a mile from the interstate.

The End

Yes, sadly, the above story is entirely true – except for the murdering and burying. Actually, The Boyfriend and I are still (inexplicably) together, and almost at our two years of stupidly cute (emphasis on the “stupidly”) romance mark. The only good thing that came out of that weekend was my ability to drunkenly tell The Boyfriend I love him at every opportunity – and not feel in the least bit guilty about making him uncomfortable. (Oh, and he paid off all his fines and got his license back.) (Oh! And I’ve been inspired to write the next big V Day anthem, “You Never Say ‘I Love You’ When You’re Sober”)

So, stop feeling freaking sorry for yourself if you’re single this Valentine’s Day. Dude, it could be so much worse. (Or so much better, if your Cancer Dad actually died, or your Boyfriend actually went to jail for a year. Sorry to those peeps.)

But anyway, I scored a negative 141 last V Day. Here’s to 2010 being in the positive. Cheers!

(And fuck you, cupid gnomes.)