Here's what you don't say upon meeting your long-lost pal's girlfriend: "Wow. I see you've given up on dating the young ones."
When said girlfriend curls her wrinkly lip in your direction, you most definitely shouldn't follow that up with, "I never would've guessed you were that old. No. Seriously."
What do you do when you kind of hate your pet? I have a bird—Albert—that I really kind of despise. He's a pretty mostly-white cockatiel who is desperately neurotic and afraid of everything. We're talking honey sticks, bird toys, hands, etc. All the things that birds normally like, freak him out. He goes mental if anything new comes near him. He doesn't talk and won't come out of his cage unless I yell "BOO!!!" (then he crashes into a wall, so I stopped doing that). For years I tried to train him and for years, he resisted, choosing instead to flap his wings and scream like a banshee.
I tried giving him to a neighbor, but she gave him back because of the screeching. I've felt bad about this bird for 14 years (that's how long I've had him), because I don't want to hate him because he was the last present my mom gave me before she died. Yes, I have other mom-orabilia—I especially prize the last check she ever bounced (financial ineptitude runs in the family)—but it's kind of cool to have a living, breathing reminder. But he's just not a very good pet. Even my cat isn't interested in stalking him.
Any ideas? (And I'm not going to kill him, so put that out of your head. Nor am I big on giving him to a stranger.) That photo isn't him, but that's what he looks like. I'm afraid he'd have a heart attack if I used a flash on him!
I have these two amazing friends who happen to be in their late eighties. I met Sylvia when we were both doing volunteer work as AIDS buddies through the Jewish Board of Family Services. Because I was new and the Board didn't really have any fresh patients, they paired me with Sylvia. As her patient was proving to be quite a difficult case, she could use the help.
"Difficult" was an understatement when it came to this guy. "Fred" (name changed to protect the heinous) was possibly the most ignorant, fucked up person I've ever met in my life. And if you're at all aware of my dating history, that's saying something. Though he sucked many a cock in exchange for his beloved crack, Fred's feeling was that "faggots just wanna fuck and get AIDS." And yes, that's a direct quote.
In a way, I think I kind of deserved Fred and all his racist (in addition to homosexuals, he also loathed Blacks, Jews and anyone else who deviated from the white trash demographic) pinnings. I'd counted on getting a brave, plucky AIDS patient, who I could hang out with, shop for, and basically use to feel better about myself. (Aren't I good? I'm helping the sick!) What I'd imagined was an ailing Harvey Fierstein type. What I got was a sickly sociopath.
He'd lay on his stretcher in the solarium and hiss at me about all the "niggers and faggots" he'd willfully infected with the virus. All the while picking arguments with the other patients, most of whom were black. Did I mention Fred might've weighed 80 pounds if he'd managed to down his Ensure that day?
Fred was a completely hideous person and so Sylvia and I bonded over talking about how our personal feelings were at odds with our committment to help this douchebag. Figuring her for a grandmotherly type, Fred spared Sylvia his creepy revelations, but was always after her to pray with him. (Fat chance!) Me, he wanted to reach in and clean out the thrush in his mouth and would get pissed off if I wore a gown and mask (which we were forced to wear so he wouldn't catch anything off of us!). I know it sounds nasty to say, but both of us were relieved when he died.
Philip Gonzalez's neighbors are not happy with him and his ever-expanding collection of spraying, pissing, shitting kitties. Known for taking in strays, Gonzalez's heart may be in the right place, but his neighbors are freaking out about the aroma.
I know something about living in a stinky apartment. Time was, the building next door was a nice, quiet truck repair shop. A kind old guy named John owned it and even though he was offered a million or so bucks once the neighborhood blew up, he wanted to keep it local. So when he retired, he rented the building out to his buddy down the street. Unfortunately, that buddy opened a cabbage processing plant.
At first we thought rats would be the biggest problem. Then we got a whiff. So now, on the rare occasions when our apartments don't stink of rotting cabbage (which is especially lovely come August), we only have to contend with the poo stank of sewage treatment facility that we're somewhere downwind of. And my man wonders about my fondness for incense. . . .
Like most sane(ish) humans, I've been looking at the Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes Unholy Coupling with a certain amount of skepticism. But now I read what her ex-boyfriend is like and suddenly bearding a wealthy, albeit nutty religious freak, megastar doesn't sound like such a wacky idea.
Chris Klein, Ms. Holmes' most recent ex comes off like a major jackass in this month's Elle. Here he is describing the last time (well, until this article hits the stand) he was called an asshole:
As he recalls, "The time it really hurt was when a stranger said it. I was just trying to tell this chick to get lost. I try to treat all women with respect whether they're pretty or ugly. I want to be nice and be like, 'Wow, thanks for the attention. But get out of my face.'"
He also drops that he only dates women who rate between an eight and a ten on the hotness scale and has no problem telling an eight if she's moving into seven territory by gaining a few pounds:
"When a woman isn't feeling good about herself and you combine that with her period, eventually she'll ask you if you like her body," he pontificates. "You have to say no."
But what should she say when you ask her if she likes your rapidly receding hairline?
My Special Naked Friend gets really annoyed when the cat gets into bed with us, because it eventually ends up with me, curled in a ball, taking up the entire middle of the bed, Mabel the Cat stretched out perpendicularly to me, and SNF relegated to a small corner. The other night he woke up all pissed off and started yelling at me that I had "kitty feet" and he could tell that the cat was in the bed because my feet go a certain way when she's there. I was half asleep and didn't know what he was talking about and he just kept yelling "Kitty feet! You've got the kitty feet! I know that cat is in here because you've got the kitty feet on!"
The other night my good friends Tracey and Kevin hosted a lovely dinner party, featuring the best piece of meat I've ever eaten. (I'm resisting the urge to innuendo.) We all had a great time and left at a reasonable hour. This morning, Tracey emailed to tell me that someone had left something behind.
While working in her studio, she noticed a little round something on the ground. She picked it up, gave it a sniff, and discovered it was a little poo! She has a dog, but ruled him out quickly as she knows from experience he doesn't leave such a delicate load. So now everyone's a suspect! It's like "Clue," but with poo!!!!
I love, love, LOVE Carolyn Hax! (Okay, that's a lie.)
I love the fact that I can always picture her snarling away at her computer, giving people what-for. I love her holier-than-thou take on even the most mundane problem. She's angry and she's not afraid to show it. Except for sometimes.
If my boyfriend's mom kept bringing up his dearly beloved ex-girlfriend, I'd be pissed. Ms. Hax recommends the high road in this situation. Predictably, I'd be more tempted to take the lower roadway.
She recommends ignoring the biddy. Yeah, right. I recommend informing Mommy Dearest that the reason Sonny Boy broke up with Mrs. Ex is because of her all-consuming penchant for all things anal. Whereas she, the new daughter-in-law, prefers her sex the old-fashioned, grand-child producing way. Never mind if you'd sooner eat glass than spit child, your point will be made.
