Hypochonrdiac, Part I

I come from a long line of hypochondriacs.  Ok, actually it's just me and my Dad.  My Dad is much, much worse than I am.  Every year he goes to The Mayo Clinic for like a week and has them run a battery of tests.  He gets real jazzed about it too.  He tells people he's going to Mayo like I tell people I'm going to Mexico. 

When I was younger, I was the kind of person who would hear about some crazy disease and decide I had it.  This became a complicated obsession when I worked with people who had mental health issues and started asking people if they thought I had borderline personality disorder.  I remember the clinical psychologist who I consulted on cases with peering at me and saying, "Do you think you have borderline personality disorder?"

No.  I didn't think I had borderline personality disorder any more than I truly believed I had heart disease, diverticulitis or HIV, all diseases I have at one time been convinced I had. 

So when I said, "My back hurts when I swallow" on Thanksgiving in 1998, my mother and brother rolled their eyes and mockingly said, "Oh Dresden, you're probably dying.  Do we need to call 9-1-1?"  That's fair and I don't blame them for making fun of me.  I shut my mouth but was still baffled by the sharp stabbing pain in my back.  I decided that I was getting my period and it was just cramps.  When I lay down to go to sleep that night, I immediately began struggling to breathe.  I felt myself panicking but being a trained actor means you're a trained breather.  I steadied my breathing and fell asleep.

In the morning, I felt better but my lungs felt heavy and sluggish.  I have a history of asthma and was a fucking smoker at the time, so I dismissed it.  My mother and I went to see the film American History X, which I hated so very much.  Dear God, I hated that awful, ridiculous movie.  My breathing was so labored that my mother leaned over and asked me if I wanted to leave.  I said, "No, I need to see how this piece of shit ends."  After the film, I attempted to walk up the stairs to the bathroom.  I made it three steps and couldn't breathe.  I turned to my mother and said, "Can you take me to the doctor?"

She rolled her eyes.  Remember--I was the child who burst into tears one day because I had convinced myself that I had cancer.  However at this point, my pride wasn't an issue.  We drove to Urgent Care, which was packed.  By the time we were checked in, I could only breathe if I sat and leaned forward.  I became hysterical.  They finally called me in.  The doctor, Dr. Montana, was peering at me and asking me questions. 
"You're on birth control pills?"
"Yes."
"And you smoke?"
"Yes."
(Disapproving noise from my mother.)
"Any other symptoms?  Pain in your leg?"
I snapped to attention.  Holy fucking shit, I had been to Urgent Care twice in the past 2 months because of a horrendous, shooting pain in my left leg.  Both times they told me I probably pulled a muscle and told me to take Advil.  This, of course, solicited much mocking from my family.  "Jesus, Dresden, you're the only person on the planet who goes to the doctor for a pulled muscle." 

Dr. Montana decided to send me to the Emergency Room for a lung scan "just to be sure."  She had officially diagnosed me with pleurisy, which is a harmless yet painful lung condition.  My mother was convinced it was pleurisy, that my leg pain had nothing to do with my breathing and complained that she was hungry.

I realize my mother is coming off like a cold, uncaring woman but the truth is, she isn't like that at all.  My parents are polar opposites when it comes to health care.  If I sneeze in my father's presence, he frowns at me and asks if I've had a flu shot.  If my arms fell off my body in front of my mother, she would tell me to pick my arms up and walk it off.  I think it's a callous that builds up after years of dealing with runny noses, kids puking on you, diaper rash, twisted ankles and ear infections.  I mean, it was the 80s: our jungle gyms were made of metal and had rusty nails sticking out all over the place.  My favorite thing to play on was a giant wooden ship at the park near my house.  I'd crawl and run and play and go home with 77 slivers.  My father wasn't around for all my stomach flu's, all my sister's bloody noses and all my brother's sports injuries. 

A lung scan is a medieval procedure.  First they ask you to breathe in radioactive materials.   This feels counterproductive so you hesitate.  They try to trick you into feeling at ease by explaining that the radioactive material helps them see what's going on.  Never mind that "breathe" is a command that isn't easily achieved at this point.  Then they tell you to smash your body against a big metal surface and not to move.  You have to do this in various positions, most of them awkward.  Then they have you lay down so they can give you a shot.  FYI, if you have to lay down to get a shot, it ain't gonna be good.  They bring out a giant, giant needle.  Giant.  Then they give you the shot in your veins and it fucking hurts.  They are injecting dye into your body that will travel into your lungs.  Then they will take more pictures.  To be clear, by this point, you have radioactive materials, dye and an unknown assailant in your lung area.  That's a lot of shit.  After they are through torturing you, you wait forever.  It happened to be the day after Thanksgiving, so the tech who reads lung scans was apparently at a relative's home and needed to read the results via e-mail.

My mother began making plans for where we would go to dinner after they determined conclusively that I had pleurisy.  Truth be told, the popcorn I'd eaten at the movies was long gone and I was hungry too.  I concentrated on breathing with minimal pain, which was impossible for the moment.  After what felt like years, a nurse wandered over and said, "Are you...Miss Jones?"
"Yeah."
"You have a phone call."
What?  Who the hell was calling me?  Who knew I was here?  I followed the nurse to a phone.
"Hello?"
"Dresden, this is Dr. Montana.  You have multiple blood clots in your lungs.  You need to be admitted right away."
"Wait...what?"
"Dresden, this is very serious.  A doctor is coming to get you.  You have to be admitted."
I started to freak out.

Don't worry; this story gets a lot funnier once I'm admitted.

Dresden...like the city. No, that's my first name....

I was in 2nd grade, washing my hands at the big round sink that had the thing you stepped on to make the water come out.  Remember those?  Those were awesome.  Another 2nd grader stood across from me, washing her hands.  She eyed me and asked, "What's your name?"

"Jenny", I said, without missing a beat.

That's right: Jenny.  Why did I lie?  Because to an 8 year old, "Dresden" is way too complicated.

Dear Parents-to-Be: I urge you to consider the following things when selecting a name for your fetus:

1.  Spelling is important.  Don't name your kid Madison and spell it some stupid way, like Madysson.  Maybe just don't name your kid Madison.

2. Pronunciation is something you should probably go ahead and get over.  Understand that if you name your child Andrea but pronounce it "Aun-drea-ah" or "Aun-dree-uh", people are going to call your kid "An-dree-uh."  Know that your child will spend her entire life correcting people who read her name off a piece of paper.  Additionally, because you are 1/4th Irish, if you name your kid Saoirse, you can't get uppity when people have no idea that your child's name is pronounced "seer-she."  Why would anyone not in Ireland know that?

3.  If you give your child a crazy name, they will spend the rest of their life explaining that crazy name to people.

For instance: a crazy name like Dresden.

Just in case you didn't know (and many people I've encountered over the years have not), Dresden is a city in Germany.  It was bombed to pieces in World War II.  Apparently, it was a beautiful city until Hitler came and fucked it all up.  Then the United States bombed it.  I blame Hitler.

My parents were two idiots who should not have been allowed to name children at their young age.  My father was 22 when my mother was pregnant with my brother.  He wanted to name the baby Tugg if it was a boy.  Tugg.  This is the name a 22 year old boy obsessed with baseball and Tugg McGraw would find suitable.  My mother perfered the name Rafferty.  Rafferty.  Where the hell did she even come up with that?  In the end, they decided that McGraw was an acceptale compromise.  I wish I had been there, in the same way I wish I'd been at the Enron board meetings, because I would have said, "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Then came me.  Apparently the names being tossed around included Vada (which I'm keeping in my back pocket for my future career as a porn star) and Mackenzie.  My mother blames the actress Mackenzie Phillips for being a "drug head" and ruining the name.  I blame my parents' over-inflated love of literature and Kurt Vonnegut for naming me Dresden.

Oh, this name.  I've had it for 34 years and it never gets any easier.  When I call to make an appointment anywhere:
"Your name?"
"Dresden Jones."
"I'm sorry, can you spell that?"
"Yep.  D-r-e-s-d-e-n."
"And your first name?"
"That is my first name.  My last name is Jones."
"Oh!  Oh, ok.  I'm sorry!  Gosh, what a unique name!"

When I get called at the doctor's office:
"Dree-zzz-dine...Destin....Jones...?"

When talking to someone I just met in a social situation:
"I just think we ought to reform health care.  You know what I mean, right Deirdre?"
"Dresden."
"What?"
"My name is Dresden."
"Oh, right.  Sorry.  Anyway, Destiny...."

The first five minutes of every job interview:
"So...Dresden...am I saying that right?"
"Yep!"
"What an interesting name!  Isn't that a city in Germany?"
"It sure is."
"I've been to Egypt but never Germany.  Are you German?"
"Nope, not even a little bit."
"Oh.  Well, is your father in the military?"
"Um, no...."
"Oh.  So...why did they name you Dresden?"
"They just liked the name, I guess."
"Well that's different.  Do you have any siblings?"
"Yes, I have two sisters and a brother."
"And what are their names?"
"McGraw, Channing and Evan."
"Evan...that's pretty normal."
"Well...she's a girl, so..."
"Well my goodness!  So unique!  My kids are James and Sarah.  Not very interesting.  Have you ever been to Germany?"

When talking to older people who lived through WWII:
"Dresden...well that's a crazy name.  How'd you get that?  Ever been to Germany?  My 4 best friends all died in World War II.  It was horrible.  Worst time of my life.  Why in the hell would your parents name you Dresden?"

I am not the only Dresden, believe it or not.  There are several young men named Dresden and my doppelganger, a mixed race woman about my age, apparently lives somewhere in Tennessee.  Also--and this is my favorite Dresden--a white supremacist family living in Idaho has a  daughter named Dresden.  Her older twin sisters, Lamb and Lynx, are the Nelson of the racist musical underworld.  I shit you not; look it up. 

The other thing is, I detest German culture.  I get to say that because I studied German for years in an effort to love my namesake, or, namensvetter.  German culture is depressing, dark and truly weird.  Remember the SNL skit Sprockets?  Yep, it's a lot like that.  Only not funny.  Don't believe me?  Watch a German film, like Das Boot or Christiane F.  Keep in mind, as well, that this is a country that literally constructed a dividing wall because they couldn't agree on how to run the place.  Like a goth teenage girl putting a "DO NOT ENTER" sign on her bedroom door.  The doctor who created The Human Centipede?  German. Adolf Hitler?  Austrian, which is pretty much German.  Rye bread?  German.

Thanks to my parents, you can't have a normal name in my family.  If I had a baby and told my family that I was naming her Jessica, they would react as if I'd decided to name my child Poop Snot.   Occasionally, my mother will call me and tell me about a name she came across and don't I love it?  I have to remind her that she can't be trusted with names.  The only part of naming that my mother is right about is the middle name: it must be one syllable and one syllable only.  I totally agree. 

I have decided that all my children should be named after European cities.  Milan.  Berlin.  Dusseldorf.

Fury

"So what are you gonna do with all that fury?" He asked me. 

I was sitting in his office; it was our normal meeting time, once a week, an opportunity for him to tell me how amazing I was and for me to not believe it.

"What?"

I didn't have any idea what he was talking about.  I was actually in a pretty good mood that day.  I didn't know where he was getting fury.

"Your fury", he said again and I started to wonder if he was drunk.  A lot of artists are drinkers and, yeah, it was 9 in the morning but it was New York, after all.  Loose morals.

"You have a crazy fire inside you", he said.  "You're pretty pissed.  So what are you going to do with all that?"

"Ummm...."  Dude, not you too.  What does everyone want from me?  I swear to God, nearing the end of college life is the worst goddamn thing in the world.  Everyone wants to know what the fuck you're going to do now, whether it be with your fury or your $20,000 in student loans.  I was just trying to make it through the week--no--the day--fuck--the hour--and not splash through a 4th story window.

So I did what I was so good at doing, what I have always been so exceptionally good at doing:  I slumped down in my chair, narrowed my eyes and said, "I dunno.  Whatever."  I dismissed it.  I dismissed him.

He guffawed and shook his head.  "Your generation", he mumbled.  "That 'whatever' is just a big middle finger at old folks like me."

Truth be told, it was a good question.  Fury is something that needs to be directed at something productive.  If it's not, it turns ugly.  You reach a point in adulthood where fury can no longer be directed at your father without it being pathetic.  (I forgave my father a long time ago.  The only thing he is guilty of is being totally clueless about what it meant to be a father and, for that, I blame his father.)

For a while, I directed my fury at Saving the World.  Yes, it was an all-out endeavor.  Present me a social problem and I'll yell and scream about it for a living.  The problem with that, though, is that your fury becomes compounded.  Trying to Save the World reminds you daily how shitty people are; how corrupt governments are; how much we take each other and every living thing for granted.  This only feeds the Fury Tumor. 

Know what else throws gasoline on this fast-growing fire?  Life and all that bullshit.  People dying, people betraying, people walking into your space, fucking everything up and then leaving again, like a rude guest at a hotel who leaves towels all over the goddamn place.  The furious part of you tells them to go fuck themselves, covers yourself with chain-metal made of death stares and 50-cent words.  And still, the fury grows.

While I never thought I was a rock star, I always, always thought I'd be dead by now.  It's so morbid and people don't understand that kind of thinking, which is why I never say this out loud.  But when I turned 23, I was devastated.  Living past 22 was not part of the plan.  I always figured something bizarre would happen to me, like I'd get caught in the crossfire or my airplane would go down.  For a whole year in my 20s, I waited to die suddenly.  That's totally crazy, right?  I waited to die suddenly.  I knew it was going to happen, I just didn't know when.  I was scared for it to happen but somehow, I was convinced that it was inevitable.  I started having panic attacks, which, if you've ever had, you know are totally fucking terrifying.  I was panicked because I didn't know why the hell I was still here. 

I blame my grandmother.  I've never met her; she's dead.  She committed suicide years before I was born.  They say that kind of thing is hereditary.  No, I'm not going to kill myself; I don't have any idea how I would do that without either making a mess or mis-firing and ending up with half a face and still alive.  Plus, my own mother would never be able to recover from that.  But I wonder if my grandmother had the same fury; the same driving force in her gut telling her she needed to do something, telling her she needed to go, go, go.  That urge is powerful.  And I mean, it was a different time and she was a woman.  Maybe she just needed to turn it off.  I wish I could ask her.

So what are you gonna do with all that fury?  Whatever you do, don't ignore it.  Because it will get you.

History is Hot.

I’ve recently started watching The Tudors, which was a series on Showtime about King Henry VIII and all his wives and craziness. Jonathan Rhys Meyers plays King Henry with perfect insanity, which might be because Jonathan Rhys Meyers is also insane. Either way, apparently he did nothing but lift weights and eat olive oil and chicken prior to filming because he’s in fantastic shape; I stopped counting how many times he’s shirtless, with his trousers sagged low so we can all see his...abs. According to Showtime, King Henry VIII was the hottest, sweatiest, most passionate man to have ever walked the Earth. This works for me.


I am obsessed with this show. 14th century England is so much more interesting in the hands of cable. As is ancient Rome (HBO’s Rome was a great show, too.) Until I started watching The Tudors, I had no idea that everyone was super hot back then. Also, we need to figure out what they were eating or drinking or what books they were reading that made their sex lives so amazing. Sure, every now and again, something happens that makes you wince. Like when King Henry betroths his 6 year old daughter Mary to a 30 year old Spanish prince. Or when they burn Lutherans at the stake. Those are the moments when you go, “Ok...maybe living back then wouldn’t have been so incredibly sexy.” But then King Henry VIII takes his shirt off and does Anne Boleyn against a tree and you’re like, “Well I’m not a Lutheran anyway.”

There have also been a few moments where I think to myself, “Why is there always a fire burning in every room” or “I don’t understand why they’re all so amused by this court jester.” Then I remember that they didn’t have electricity or laptops or reality tv or Twitter, so a burning fire was necessary and the court jester was an alternative to hours and hours of needle point. Know what else was an alternative?  Sex.  Lots and lots of dirty, dirty adulterous sex.

Imagine if Little House on the Prairie was on HBO or Showtime. It would have been a totally different show. Ma would have gotten a new stove but Half Pint would have had to do horrible things in the back of the store with Mr. Olson in order to pay for it. When Mary went blind, her husband would have totally pulled that scene from 9 and 1/2 Weeks, when Mickey Rourke blindfolded Kim Basinger and fed her hot peppers and honey. Shirts would always be off and a simple task, like chopping wood, would turn into rippling, sweaty muscles, heaving breasts and a romp in a pile of sawdust.

I think we can all agree that, thanks to cable, we all know how sexy and sweaty history is.

McThoughts, $2 Late Fees and Lost Children

In my family, we were required to get a job every summer from age 14 on.  Well, technically 15 because no one would hire a 14 year old.  Once we started driving the shared '82 Honda Civic hatchback, we had to pay for six months of car insurance.  In other words, no job, no money, no car.  So yeah, we all got jobs.

The kind of job one can get is rather limited when you're a teenager, or at least, it was back in the 90s.  I didn't care where I worked, I just wanted a job.  The first day of summer, I would start looking, desperate to find a way to earn at least $600 by the end of August.  I didn't mind working all summer; in fact, I think it instilled a stellar work ethic in me.  But needless to say, I've had some really stupid, stupid jobs.

Stupid Job #1: McDonalds
Go to McDonalds and check out their uniforms.  Cute maroon polos and navy Dockers.  Not back in my day.  I was issued a button-up maroon and white stripped shirt and horrible polyester navy pants that were too long.  Then they informed me I had to buy my visor.
"I have to...pay for it?"
"Yes.  But you get to keep it!  It's totally yours."
Awesome.
My manager was a horrible bitch.  I would ask her questions and she would roll her eyes at me and eat fries out of the bin.  Everyone ate fries out of the bin.  And ice cream.  All the time.
I got a tour on my first day, where I was introduced to a concept that was so amazing, it sticks with me to this day.  The assistant manager pointed to a little box mounted on the wall in the break room.
"And this is the McThought Box."
"The what?"
"The McThought Box.  That's where you put all your McThoughts."
"My McThoughts about what?"
"You know, how you like working here, what you think needs to change.  McThoughts."
Everything, as you might imagine, was Mc-Something.  McThoughts.  McMeetings.  McKill Me Now. 
One day a man came in and told me it was he and his wife's anniversary.  He gave me a rose and asked me to put it on their tray when they ordered.  I thought it was sweet.  About ten minutes later, they came back.
His wife was hostile, her amrs folded tightly across her chest, her eyes narrowed at me.
"I want a Chicken Fajita (remember those?) but I don't want anything in it but chicken and cheese."
I stared at her.  Obviously this woman didn't understand that our delicious, freshly made Chicken Fajitas came in a giant plastic bag that was poured into a vat and scooped out with a little ice cream scoop.  All that shit--the chicken, the cheese, the peppers and the onions--were in that bag.
"Um...well, it's a mix.  So, I'm not sure we can--"
I guess that was all it took: the possibility of having to eat peppers and onions or maybe the fact that her husband was taking her to McDonald's for their anniversary.  This bitch exploded at me, screaming that "they" always did this for her, what was my problem, was I stupid or something?  I just stood there, totally baffled by her rage.  Her husband stood there, looking terribly embarassed.  I walked back to find my manager, as she requested, my eyes filling with tears.  I don't make the rules, you crazy bitch!  It's in a bag, what the hell do you want me to do?  They don't pay me enough money to stand there and pick all that shit out of your goddamned food. 
When I told my manager what the woman wanted, she rolled her eyes and said, "Fine.  Tell her it's going to take me a while."
I didn't put the rose on their tray.  The husband came up later and quietly asked for the rose.  I handed it to him and I hope he kept it for himself.  I'm positive they're divorced now.  I wonder what poor service worker she's screaming at these days.
"I want a latte with no milk and no espresso."
"Um...."

Stupid Job #2 Blockbuster Video
Best.  Job.  Ever.  Free video rentals, you got to watch movies while you worked and there was a Subway next door.  My manager was a cool, laid back guy, although he should have been fired for constantly commenting about the ass of every woman who walked through the door.  I worked there two summers and made fake IDs for all my friends.  There was a lamination machine and we used to laminate everything.  A friend of mine decided that we should make fake IDs but they were horrible and I'm sure they never worked for anyone.  I made one for myself but never used it.
"Local celebrites" came into Blockbuster all the time: Don Shelby, Pat Miles (total snatch), Paul Magers (wore a lot of makeup).  But the biggest bitch was hands down Diana Pierce from KARE-11.  The summer A Few Good Men came out, everyone wanted it.  Every single person walked up to the counter and said, "Do you have A Few Good Men?"  Because we were bored and making $6 an hour, we started having fun with it.
"No, but we've got a few good women!"
"I wish I had one good man!"
"We sure do!  But they're all married."
Most people laughed but not Diana Pierce.  She sighed, folded her bony arms and said, "I really don't have time for this."
I'm telling you: the woman never smiled.  Not one time in the two summers her ass frequented that place.  She was frosty.
The one thing that sucked about working at Blockbuster were all the damn kids and their parents who were ignoring them.  All you heard for 8 hours was, "Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  MOM.  Mom?  Mom!  Mom!!  MOM!!! MOM!!!!"  Also, you'd think telling someone they had a $2 late fee was the worst fucking news they had ever fucking heard.  "What????  Two dollars for Poison Ivy?  No way.  No.  Way.  I returned that movie at 11:59 on Wednesday night, didn't I, honey?  She was with me, she was with me.  We got in the car, drove here and returned that video at 11:59.  It's not my fault that you didn't check it in until after midnight.  I'm not paying it.  I'm not paying it.  You're just going to have to bill me."

Stupid Job #3 Spinal Screener
The summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college, I inexplicably had three jobs: filing medical records, telemarketing for The Guthrie Theater and doing free spinal screenings in grocery stores.  The spinal screening gig was only on the weekends, so after working 12 hours every day Monday through Friday, I would drive my ass to some random gorcery store in Spring Lake Park or Mendota Heights, set up a table in the produce section and offer free spinal screenings to shoppers.  At the same time, I was supposed to collect money for The Jacob Wetterling Foundation.
First thing you should know: no one ever showed me how to do a spinal screening.  They gave me a fake spine mounted to a long stick and told me to have people stand next to it.  Then they told me that every single person should be told that they are in desperate need of chiropractic treatments.  No problem.  Then the old white woman looked at me and said, "You know, we've never had a black person work here before."  I don't know if she was worried that I would steal the fake spine or if she was feeling proud of herself, like she'd hired me in Dr. King's memory.  I smiled at her and said, "That's ok, I've been working for white people my whole life."
Guess what?  No one wanted a goddamned spinal screening but everyone wanted to talk about Jacob Wetterling. 
"They haven't found him yet?"
"No, they haven't."
"Oh my God, that's terrible."
"Yes....it is.  Would you like a free spinal screening?"

Don't Eat These Things

The following foods are gross:

1. Black olives.  Less salty than their green counterparts, the black olive is but a sour enigma in the world of Mediterranean foods.  Their yuckiness, combined with their creepy texture make them utterly inedible.
2. Celery.  I'm on a diet, what should I eat?  How about a stick of stringy, watery weirdness that tastes like bad breath smells.  Sounds great.  Here we are at camp; I'd like to offer you peanut butter and raisins on a stick of crunchy puke.  Yum.  Celery is good for one thing: recipes.  But only recipes that tell you to sautee the hell out of it.
3. Sun dried tomatoes.  Is it a raisin?  No.  Is it a tomato? Sort of.  Does it totally overpower everything else on your plate?  Yes.
4. Pickled beets.  Tart.  Also, it will turn your mouth the color of cherry Kool-Aid and that ain't right.
5. Tuna that comes out of a can.  Fish: nature's delicious pets.  I love fish but canned tuna makes me gag.  It's like cat food...for people.
6. Giblets.  I get it...back in the day, us black folks had to scrounge and eat the scraps from the bird.  But my people, we are free now!  We no longer need to eat these disgusting organs, with or without breading and hot sauce.  When I lived in Seattle, the youth program I ran would occasionally spring for Ezell's Chicken--the best chicken in the world.  I was always stunned when some of these educated, independent, beautiful young black women would order the giblet basket.  With fries.  Fries ain't gonna change that fact that you're eating the inside of the bird.
7. Canned vegetables.  Mmm these peas taste like metal.  I got news for ya: canned vegetables are no cheaper then frozen vegetables.  Buy the frozen ones.
8. Okra.  Puke and barf.  I do not like anything that has a "naturally occurring" snot-like coating.  The first time I cooked with okra, I was baffled.  Who the hell snotted into my stew?  No one.  It was okra.
9. Coleslaw.  Chopped cabbage with mayonnaise.  Weird.  And not good.  Who came up with this?  "Um, we need a side dish."  "Well, we have cabbage and mayonnaise...."
10. Pretty much anything from Quizonos.  Call me a purist but if I don't know what "rancho sauce" is, then I don't want to eat it.  I also do not like hot mayonnaise.  That's just dangerous.  Furthermore, I like to be able to eat my sandwiches without having to wear a bib.
11. Burger King.  There's nothing good on their menu.  When I was a kid, I loved their chicken sandwiches.  I also loved bologna.  And Barbies. So...yeah....
12. Popcorn shrimp.  This may have something to do with the fact that I got the stomach flu right after eating popcorn shrimp when I was 10.  But it might just be gross.
13. Baba Ganoush.  Bugers.  The exact texture of bugers.  I gaged and spit this out the first time I tried it.  It's bugers.
14. Tempeh.  I was a vegetarian for 8 years.  I love all that fake meat shit.  But when the waitress at The Mud Pie explained to me what I was eating, I could not go on.  Fermented tofu.  Why?  It's like someone thought "I've come up with something more off-putting than tofu:  rotten tofu." 
15. Blue cheese.  Some cheese person sopped up someones puke with balls of mold and it ended up in my Cobb salad.  Fantastic.

See Friendship.

Today I discovered something bizarre on Facebook.  My lovely, fantastic pal Kennedy had written something on my wall.  There were links below it: Comment, Like and See Friendship.

See Friendship?  What the fuck does that mean?

I poised my cursor over the See Friendship link.  When I clicked this, would my computer screen show my and Kennedy's friendship since that faithful day we met on the Sarah Lawrence College campus at a Bates dance?  Would it show us meeting, instantly falling in love with each other, traipsing around New York City, sitting at the gay bar Pegasus?  Would the day that Kennedy encouraged me to embrace my curves and stop wearing black tarps be on the screen, from start to finish?  Would I see all the pictures we took together?  Would all our laughter and conversations flood from my speakers? 

HAD FACEBOOK BEEN STALKING US SINCE 1996???

I clicked and revealed all the comments he and I had written on each other's pages since a few years ago, when we became cyber friends. 

See Friendship really had nothing to do with our friendship at all.  Maybe it should be called See History or See All the Time You've Wasted on Facebook.

I like my babies like I like my chicken.

A few weeks ago, I was working from home, preparing to take my bestie, Joe, to his neurology appointment.  When I work from home, I often have the television on in the background but I actually get a ton of work done.  Have you ever watched daytime TV?  It's mindless.

I'm a news junkie but by the 17th hour of The Today Show, when Kathie Lee and Hoda were drunk on Bourbon during a segment titled, "Identifying Your Monthly Discharge", I started flipping around, desperate to find anything else.  I stumbled upon A Baby Story and decided that was fine.

My mother is obsessed with this show but, then again, she is obsessed with babies.  My mother can't stand people but she loooooves babies.  I think she secretly wishes her children were all still spitting up and needing a diaper change.  She'd rather play peek-a-boo with me than discuss my financial situation.

I should have known that I wasn't going to like this show.  My mother and I are polar opposites.  I mean, I like babies.  They're cute and they never belong to me, which means I get to leave when there's a meltdown.  But I don't want to spend endless hours with babies.  It's boring.

On that day's episode of A Baby Story, a woman was having her second child, a boy.  What she didn't know (or maybe she did; I don't know how this shit works) is that she was trying to push out a giant, fat watermelon.  She writhed in pain, surrounded by midwives and Douala's and vegans and lesbians (I can only assume).  They put her in a bathtub, which seemed to make the situation worse.  "Get her out of that tub!" I found myself yelling at the television.  I was also hugging my laptop to my chest, my shoulders hunched up into my ears, holding my breath.  This was awful. 

Finally, the Natural Home Birth Squad got her out of the tub and on a table on her hands and knees.  She pooped the baby out, doggy style.  I felt the same way I felt when the villain in Pan's Labyrinth bashed that guys head in with a bottle or whatever it was.  "Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!" 

Completely destroyed, I went to get coffee, with an icky, terrified feeling in the pit of my stomach.  I have known many pregnant women and I love them.  I love feeling their tightly stretched bellies, watching them waddle and making them laugh so they pee in their pants.  The miracle of life or whatever is fantastic and I love babies: they are sweet and cuddly and they smell like macaroni and cheese.  But I do not--DO NOT--want to hear your birth story.

The first birth story I ever heard was when my half sister was born.  I was 12 at the time.  Her mother is hilarious, super intelligent, a little wacky at times and I love her. But she told me details about pushing my sister out of her body that haunted me for the rest of my life. You have to understand: I have never done that and therefore, I cannot imagine doing it.  I sometimes picture myself with a baby that's mine, which I most definitely plan to dress up like a little bear in the winter because that's so fucking cute.  But how it got here, I have no idea. 

It's like chicken.  I like chicken.  It's delicious.  But if I had to go to the store, wring a chicken's neck, chop its head off, remove its feathers, gut it, cut it into appropriate sections and then debone it, I bet I wouldn't eat chicken ever again.  That's kind of how I feel about babies.  They're cute and fun but I'd feel better about it if the stork delivered them.

My opinion is not popular; in fact, women who have had babies may be offended, outraged that I would find the birthing process totally disgusting.  But it is disgusting.  You are not disgusting; your baby is not disgusting.  But all that schlocka and schmitzva?  Let's keep that to ourselves, shall we?

I Voted Stickers Should be Scratch 'n Sniff

It was November 7, 2000.  I was to my polling place early; I might have been the first one there, actually.  I'm sure it was cold, although I can't remember.  I was focused and alert.  That's how I always am the first time I do something.

It's not like the first time I ate raw fish or when I lost my virginity.  This was much bigger.  I was 24 years old and I was voting for the first time in my life.

If there is one thing Americans are ridiculous bullies about, it's voting.  The idea that a person doesn't immediately cast a ballot somewhere on their 18th birthday inspires a bizarre, almost violent reaction.  I've stood and listened while people berated me for not voting, saying that I had no right to "complain" if I didn't cast my vote.  This has become a buzz phrase, used by The Voting Police.  Never mind that I was never "complaining" when these comments were made.  I stopped trying to explain things to people because it seems that someone not voting turns Americans instantly into tyrants of the worst kind. 

The truth is, I was raised by two people who truly believe that the system is a pile of schlocka.  Voting was participation in the system and by participating in the system, we're putting our faith in the system.  I'd like to say my parents were super cool anarchists but it was all religious. 

I have to say, I agreed with them for 24 years.  My father was always quick to point out when the system was failing, making us watch hours of C-Span and other boring crap to prove his point.  I took the religion out of the equation and started reading anarchist literature when I was a teenager.  Yes, government that governs least or not at all is best.  I wasn't too keen on making homemade bombs, however.  Over time, I began to see that anarchy is also a system and it's terribly flawed, just like every other system.  But I did enjoy seeing punk shows in the basement of the Anarchist Community Center.  You heard me.

My non-political stances somehow became political.  For example, I'm ferociously committed to making sure every woman in this country is allowed to make her own decisions about her reproductive health.  I also believe that the death penalty is racist, homophobic and I'm just not comfortable with redneck asshole governors in places like Texas making decisions about who to kill.  I believe gays should have the right to marry, with all the same benefits that any married couple is afforded.  I believe marijuana should be legal.  I believe Dick Cheney has been dead for years and they've just be wheeling around a wax figure to fool us.

So the United States political system takes all my beliefs, adds them up, divides by 1776, adding variables for slavery reparations and all those covers I paid at The Gay 90s in my 20s and I am given a t-shirt that says "Democrat." When I registered to vote in 2000, I had to tell the state of Minnesota what my party affiliation was.  I sat there for a good 30 minutes, physically unable to bring myself to select any of the choices.  Why is that important?  Why must I answer this question?  Does it make you feel more comfortable if you have a pretty good idea how I'm going to vote before I cast my ballot?

In 2000, I decided that I must vote if only to keep George out of the goddamn White House.  I wasn't a big fan of Gore and I was even less of a fan of Joe Lieberman.  God, I hate Joe Lieberman.  I hate anyone who switches parties just to increase his chances of winning.  What an asshole. But I felt it was important that I tell the world that I'd sooner elect Gary Busey via write-in than sit and watch Bush get elected.  So I showed up, filled in some ovals and got my sticker.

Then I watched the biggest political clusterfuck in the history of the United States happen.

I was horrified watching the news and hearing stories about older people, poor people and people of color being turned away from the polls; random boxes of uncounted ballots being found hidden in weird places; hanging fucking chads and an election that came down to who had the biggest assholes pulling strings for them.  At one point, I broke down and cried.  I cried because against everything I had been taught, I put my faith in the system and it didn't matter.  Not one bit.  In the end, I had been played.  We all had.

This is what so many people had been pressuring me to participate in?  It was a farce, an absolute joke.  I felt betrayed by my own country.  4 years later, when I stood in line to vote for John Kerry, it meant nothing to me.  It was something I did because I felt I had to. 

Then something occurred to me.  Why in God's name was I voting for people?  In general, I don't like people.  Politicians are slimy and they say whatever we want to hear to get elected.  It became clear to me that I needed to vote for issues.  There are things that are extremely important to me that are politically charged, whether or not I like it.  It doesn't feel right to me not to stand up for the things I believe in.  If I don't, I won't be me.

I continue to vote and I vote for issues.  I don't vote for parties or people; I vote for the things that I have a stake in and I vote for communities.  I cast my ballot for the things I know are right and I know that I'm right.  I never question my convictions.

But we need to stop judging and bullying people for not voting.  It's one thing if a person doesn't vote because they're lazy but that also means they have bigger issues (let's be real).  But when you meet someone who doesn't vote, before you get all self-righteous and indignant about what you think they should be doing, consider that not everyone thinks and acts the way you do.  You don't know what beliefs that person holds or what kinds of experiences they've had with the system.  And the next time you think that someone who doesn't vote has no right to express their opinions about how this country is run (I believe you call it "complaining"), know that you are 100% wrong.  Not only are you wrong but you are exceedingly arrogant.  Do you really think it's OK for you to silence anyone?  That's pretty scary.