The dentist recommends I floss at least once a day. Some days I don’t floss. And I still have my teeth. Take that, Mr. Know-It-All Dentist.
Advil’s recommended dose for 12 years and up is one capsule, then two if needed every four to six hours. Oh yeah? Well, I’m taking two pills. At the same time. Thaaaat’s right.
Whenever I’m in the Express Lane at Target, I like to buy a jumbo-sized box of lice treatment and some pink eye medicine. Then have the clerk check the prices over the intercom while I scratch my head and rub my eyes. Then I like to write a check. Then write the wrong amount. Then tear up the check. Then scratch my head some more. Then try a declined credit card. Then glare at the clerk. Then dig out all the change in my pockets to pay the entire amount in pennies, pausing often to rub my eyes. Then stick my hand out asking the person behind me in line for another penny. Then tell the clerk I change my mind and don’t want to buy anything after all and walk away.
Whenever my kids and husband ask me what I’d like to do today, I respond, “Sit.”
One time I almost ate a burger that was cooked medium-well.
I set up my Christmas tree before Thanksgiving.
For Christmas this year my sixteen-year-old son asked for “cold hard cash”. So I wrapped up a box within a box within a box within a box. Inside the tiniest box? A quarter taped to a slip of paper that reads: I love you!!! (true story)
Instead of slathering on sunscreen with SPF 100, one day back in 2007 I had to make do with two layers of SPF 50.
When my kids get into a squabble, I don’t do anything. I just sit there and ignore them until they resolve it themselves.
I once watched a video of someone skydiving. I shut it off before he landed because I just didn’t want to know the outcome.
In my work emails, I use exclamation points at the end of every sentence. And it’s not because I’m excited. It’s because I’m pissed off and my only defense is sarcasm.
When I’m served a bad meal at a restaurant, instead of sending it back to the kitchen, I complain to my husband the entire meal yet eat it anyway. Then I leave a 15% tip instead of 20%.
When a clerk tells me to have a nice day, I reply, “Make me.”
If there’s one thing I dread discussing — it’s religion.
All those pesky questions: Who created us? How did we get here? Why are we here?Where are my car keys? I just had them a second ago and — oh. Someone put them in the fridge.Ahem. Anyway. So yes…lots of questions. If you happen to think you have a good grip on some of the answers, there will always be some jackass to say that you are “wrong, wrong, wrong!” –and your ultimate fate is burning in hellfire for all eternity.
The two ultimate goals in my lifelong spiritual path?
1) To get to the actual truth.
2) To not be that jackass.
I was raised to find my own way, discover my own mysteries in life. I took cues from my grandmother who was deeply religious yet hardly talked about it. My parents tried not to cram their views down my throat. They allowed me to get to know either God or Buddha or the Big Void of Nothing in my own time.
My earliest memory of church-y things was when I was around 6 years old. My dad had a part time job cleaning the local Baptist church and once dragged me and my brothers along on a quiet Sunday afternoon. I was mesmerized by the giant stained glass Jesus peering down at me as I skipped around the empty pews. Hmm….he seemed like such a nice guy! Maybe he could be my friend? His eyes were warm and understanding.
Suddenly my bowels cramped, gripping me with fear. Oh no!Would Jesus be mad at me if I pooped in the church bathroom? Jesus seemed to wink down at me and chuckle, “Well, my Dear One, God created you AND your need to poop. So it’s okay, go on. Poop away, my child, poop away. I love you and everything about you. Even the poopy parts.”
And so began my lifelong relationship with God*. As I grew older there were a couple things I knew for sure in my heart: He was good. He was all about love, acceptance and forgiveness. He was like a close friend of mine, always there if I needed to talk. And He was hilarious.
Of course, my spiritual beliefs weren’t always so solid. I read the Bible many times as a kid, purely out of curiosity. (Encyclopedia Brown Takes the Case was out on loan.) Then I entered college and read it again (Encyclopedia Brown and the Case of the Disgusting Sneakers was out on loan). Only this time with fresh eyes, more cynical. I used my Big Brain and thought, well I’m much too smart to believe in something that I can’t prove, right? This book was written by mere mortals after all. There were lots of parts I didn’t believe in (and still don’t.) I thought maybe religion was for suckers. For people who have their own sins to hide, so they use religion as a shield to protect their own personal ego and pride (I still think this to be true for some).
I flip-flopped between believing in some Big Creator and thinking, maybe there really IS nothing else? How clever I was! I had discovered the real truth! Maybe others who believed in God were brainless sheep?
But I remembered that fateful poopy day in church, I love you no matter what. And that experience of feeling completely accepted and loved, plus the countless personal experiences that I’ve had with God since (none involving poop) have shaped my faith over time and made me the person I am today.
So I’d like to stand up now and say something.
Hi, my name is Darla and I believe in a Creator*.
The most important thing I’ve realized in my quest? This is my story. These are not your memories. This isn’t about what you believe and don’t believe in. I am me and you are you. And we are all together. Goo goo g’joob. So how can I possibly condemn others for their own views? I don’t care if you believe in God, Buddha, The Big Nothing or Justin Bieber. Whatever works for you and brings peace to your heart (OK, I take back Justin Bieber) because you are on your own path and finding your own Truth in your own time, just like me.
I’ve never understood religious fanatics who pound on my door to tell me they know the answers and it’s their duty to tell me. It’s like they’re carrying a punch-card: Convert 10 People and Win a Free 6 inch Subway!
Well, you don’t need to convince me of anything. I’ll be fine, really. Because when I am dying and facing the reality of things, you won’t be there beside me, will you? No one will — it’ll just be me all alone, facing my own deep and intimate relationship with the Source and the Unknown. And when it comes down to it, all that matters in the end is what I know in my own heart to be true.
My simple truths (not yours, mine, so take a chill pill) about religion and spirituality:
None of us knows for sure what is the Ultimate Truth of All Things.
For crying out loud, we can barely figure out how to program a DVR or how to make a good cup of coffee.
If you do believe in something, great. If not, fantabulous.
But try not to tell others they are obviously wrong.
Never treat anyone with disrespect, no matter what they believe in.
Unless it’s Justin Bieber.
Don’t go pounding on doors to tell people they’re going to burn in hell if they don’t go to your church.
Especially when I’m in the middle of a Golden Girls marathon and still wearing my bathrobe. I appreciate your concern, but I think I’ll be just fine. It’s a nonflammable robe.
Everything in life is about two things:
LOVE and ACCEPTANCE.
We are here for only three things:
to eat chocolate
Get it? Is that so hard, people? Sheesh.
If you have to poop in a church bathroom, it’s okay.
I know God is laughing at me right now for that last one.
I bought a high-powered magnifying mirror the other day. Just what I need, all the horrifying details of my face magnified 10,000 times.
I peered into the mirror to begin ripping out my eyebrows when,
WHOA! HOLY HELL! MY FACE IS OLD! AND UGLY! AND COVERED IN HAIR! I LOOK LIKE A CROSS BETWEEN A WRINKLED PRUNE AND CHEWBACCA!
And it’s not like we can get away with it. Oh, no. People tend to notice your face pretty much all the time. You can’t walk into a room backwards and say,
“Greetings, everyone! So thrilled I could make it to this committee meeting about committee meetings! [covering face with a manila folder] Please, ignore the hideousness that is now my face. Just stare at my ass from now on. Yes, my ass is all you’re gonna see. Talk right into the crack, it’s okay. Deal with it.”
Sometimes I think I’d like to play around with what society thinks is “normal” and “not clinically insane”. Like clothes. What we wear every day. Sure, I could wake up, stretch, put on a shirt…maybe some pants. Walk down the street. Go to work.
Orrr….I could wear a headband. Yeah, just a headband around my giant forehead all damned day. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m wearing a John McEnroe headband. On my fucking head. At work. Boom.” What, are they gonna fire me for that? Nowhere in my 10,000-page employee handbook does it state that I cannot wear a headband. Why not go really crackers and start wearing a snorkel and a cape to Target? Live it up, I say! Create new fashion trends! You’re old, who gives a shit! Be eccentric! Fight society’s stupid rules!
The other day I was checking out at the doctor’s office — sporting a hot pink welding helmet, natch — and the receptionist hands me a little card for the next appointment.
Then she says…”and you can call and schedule the mammogram when it’s convenient for you. ”
Hold up. I can call? Me? When in bloody hell is having a mammogram convenient for me? This chick thinks I am going to waltz out of the office, race home and
[picking up phone] “Hi! Yes! I need to have my tits squashed for about 45 minutes! Can you please sign me up right away! Yes yes, as soon as possible!” I mean, never ever give me a chance at putting off a mammogram.
I always complain about the mammogram to my husband. I’m 48 — so I’ve had a few. My boobs now? Just flaps. Sad flaps hanging down to my ankles. This is what those x-ray machines are doing to me. And my boobs always hurt now. I’ll be sitting in my office typing away and….ooh! Ow! What the? Shit! OW! OW! Is that a hot poker in my tit?!
Getting old means random excruciating pains that come out of nowhere then disappear. My husband will be lying on the couch watching MASH reruns.
Suddenly he’s cringing and crying, “Ah! Oh! What the? My nuts! My nut hurts! Kill me now! Oh, now it’s gone. Huh.”
Basically after 18 years of marriage this is what our foreplay amounts to:
“My nuts hurt!” “My tits hurt!” “MY NUT!” “MY TIT!”
My husband and I have lived together for 20 years. Twenty years of getting to know each other’s bodies and all the weird medical shit that can happen as you grow older and gradually fall apart. For fun, we constantly feel and examine our own bodies, looking for various lumps and bumps. Piece of advice for you newlyweds out there: When your significant other says to you, “Hey honey, feel this lump…” don’t feel it.
True, our bodies decay, but it’s slow enough to make it seem like an eternity. Just when you think things can’t get any worse, it do. Oh, it do.
Like my waist. Actually, I don’t a waist in the general sense of the term. What used to be my waist is buried under this bulbous, bloated blob that once upon a time was called “my abs”.
I used to have fat around the lower part, but now the upper abdomen has joined in on the fun. My daughter gave me a hug one day and said in that sweet Shirley Temple voice of hers: “You know what I love about you, Mommy? Your three humps. They’re just so squishy!” Then she pokes me in my three humps and runs off giggling.
Three humps: my boobs, my upper and lower abdomen. Of course, the great thing is my 3 humps are now morphing into one giant shitshow. You know how they label women’s body shapes fruits? You can be a pear or an apple?
I’m a fucking cantaloupe.
And the bonus part? My pants constantly slide down. My entire day is me ever-so-inconspicuously pulling up my goddamned pants. First I pick the wedge, then I hitch ’em up. Pick, hitch, pick, hitch. I’m like an rotund oompa loompa — all belly. I’ve tried belts, doesn’t work. It’s like putting a rubber band around a balloon.
And why do men care if we are a little chunky? A little fluffy? Why do we as women care? I wish I could’ve been there that day back in caveman times, when they’re all sitting around an open fire, picking bison out of their teeth with a sharp stick, and the man looks at the woman and says, “Hey, good bison. By the way….y’know…I don’t know how to say this but uh….you’re getting a little chunk in the trunk. Maybe you should try slimming down a bit. Yeah, then life would be sa-weet.”
Of course, along with our bodies, the senses all start to collectively go to shit too. I can’t see or hear much of anything anymore. I was in a deep sleep the other night, my mind dancing on the periphery of a dream, when I heard this faraway noise. Bang, bang, bang.
It was soft as first, but as I stirred awake it became louder. Bang! Bang! Bang! I wiped the cobwebs from my eyes and listened. Bang! Bang! Bang! Was that coming from outside? I got up, crept over to the open window and listened again. Bang! Bang! Bang! It sounded like someone was methodically and maniacally hitting something or someone with something! (Hey, I was still half-asleep, it was all my brain could muster.)
Clearly, our drunk neighbors were engaging in some kind of weird midnight squirrel-sacrificing ritual. It’s amazing the things that run through your mind as you’re standing half-naked in an open window:
OH MY GOD! WHAT IS HAPPENING? HOLY SHIT — I really really really think our neighbor is burying someone in his garden! shhh! There it is again! [Bang! bang! bang!] Maybe he’s hitting someone with a log? [Bang! bang! bang!] You’d think they’d be dead by now. I mean, if this guy’s going to be taking on a career as a serial killer, he really needs to up his game. [BANG BANG BANG] Maybe people are trapped inside a metal 4 by 4 container underground and their only hope is to clang on the walls with a piece of wood? What do I do? What do I do? Call 911? [This is when I began running around in circles, my boobs flapping all about]
I was thisclose to waking up my snoring husband when I turned and saw it: Ohhhh.
It was the bedroom door. [ahem] The bedroom door was softly thumping against the door frame because of the wind blowing through the open window. THE DOOR. No, it wasn’t a serial killer sacrificing small animals in my backyard but a door.
Getting old sucks all around. Especially when you’re getting old and so are your kids. I was tucking my 11-year-old daughter in bed the other night. We talked about the usual — Andi Mack, bullies at school, the fact we’re all gonna die one day — I gently kissed her forehead. I’m about to creep out the door when she sat up, looked me dead straight in the eyes and said, “Mommy? I wanna know all about genitals.”
My daughter is like me, straight-forward, no bullshit, just the facts, ma’am. The other night I sat down beside her with a heavy sigh. I held her close and gently stroked her downy hair. I whispered, “What ever happened to my baby girl? Why, just yesterday you were a sweet baby with a cute widdle binky, wearing widdle onesies and a widdle bow in your hair. You used to snuggle in my arms for hours while I rocked you to sleep. What happened to her? Where is that girl?”
My daughter deadpanned, “That girl died years ago.”
And that, my friends, is why I drink on occasion.
(Fine, I’m not really almost 50, but I’m almost 48. And 50 is just sitting there. Like some big dead end.)
Here’s a short list of the few things in life that scare the crap out of me:
my 15-year-old son taking Driver’s Ed
Alas, the time has come. Next week, The Boy Who Can’t Be Named Because He’d Die of Embarrassment, will be driving a 4000-pound car down the road. The same boy who — only yesterday — thought it was perfectly fine to microwave tinfoil.
Because I told him so. (Hey, what can I say? The clueless apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.)
Driving. We all do it every day. Except for my mother, who never got her license, so now I’m forever sentenced to drive her to pick up some emergency Correctol because she’s “buttlogged”. Until you’ve had a heated argument comparing the symptoms of diarrhea to constipation in aisle 2 at the Stop-and-Go, you haven’t truly lived.
Every morning, we all tool down the road in our pathetic Priuses (is the plural for Prius Prii?) in a complete daze…oblivious to the passing scenery, the red lights, the angry honks, the screamed profanities and the travel mug filled with hot coffee bouncing off our car roof into traffic.
Ah, yes, I remember the day I finally got my hot little hands on that driver’s license to pure freedom.
The year: 1987
The catchphrase: “Don’t have a cow, man.” The beauty trend: All hairspray, all the time.
Why did I look so ecstatic? (And dorky? And oh holy Aqua Net, what the hell is with my hair?) Because I passed my test on the first try, in spite of the fact that I:
A) Hit the curb while parallel parking.
B) Let the car roll backward after setting the parking brake on a steep hill.
C) Failed to yield to a car in an intersection.
D) Giggled like an idiot throughout the entire road test.
E) All of the above.
Answer: E. (there really was never a doubt, was there?)
Hopefully, god willing, (pleaseohpleaseohplease!) my son will be an excellent driver.
If not, I’ve got other distractions. Like my daughter taking puberty classes this week.
Annnnnd she’s got a crush on a boy at school.
Thankfully, I am a pro at these unsettling mother-daughter convos.
Me: Who is he?
Her: [double smirk]
Her: [triple smirk]
Her: [smirk times infinity]
Me: Schmaden? It’s Schmaden isn’t it!
Her: [so mortified she’s dying right in front of me]
No matter. I’m only writing this post to beg you all for prayers during this difficult time. Think of me. Soon enough I’ll be waving goodbye to my daughter as Schmaden peels away in his 2024 Mustang with the tinted windows.
*Actual boy in her class.
**Actual boy in her class.
***Actual boy in her class.
So tell me: What was your first car? How many times did you fail your driver’s test? Do you also have a son who is about to drive yet doesn’t know how to make a sandwich?
I’ve been reading several books on near death experiences about people who’ve apparently died, only to come back to life so they can tell us what happens when you cross over.
Most of the stories are similar: there’s a long tunnel, a bright light,
all-encompassing love, indescribable peace…yadda, yadda, yadda…
But then a lucky few (or unlucky few) go so far over to the other side, they undergo a type of “life review”. They are shown clips of their past life events in hi-def surround-sound quality. If that wasn’t jarring enough, the person is also reliving certain moments of their life with the “Creator” by their side.
This is the part that worries me. What exactly does God know? Does she see everything? Every single thing I do or think in my entire life? Even the super secret stuff?
If so, I apologize in advance for the following:
Every day I announce I’m on a diet and “this time I really mean it!”
Then during my lunch break, I inhale a Big Mac and fries in a remote parking lot while gently weeping.
When the trash can is overflowing, instead of emptying it, I just cram the next bit of trash down in there, quickly close the lid, and run away cackling.
That obnoxious driver at the stop light blasting music so loud it rattles all the cars around it?
I love Coldplay. All of it. Every song. And I blast it at stop lights.
Sometimes in the middle of the night I creep out to the kitchen in the dark and shove a steady stream of chocolate chips down my pie hole while hovering over the sink.
Once I willingly ate at Kentucky Fried Chicken. And liked it.
Whenever I’m home alone, the first thing I do is take off my bra and throw it on top of the ficus plant. Then I park my ass on the couch, watch a marathon of Big Brother Celebrity Edition, drink a couple beers, devour a large extra-greasy bucket of fried chicken carcass, and burp and fart myself into oblivion.
I think cute pocket-sized puppies are annoying little yippy shits sent to Earth to destroy me.
I think Adele’s voice is too breathy and overrated.
Once I hid my mom’s meatloaf in my napkin, then excused myself so I could discretely flush it down the toilet.
This was yesterday.
Sometimes instead of actually brushing my teeth, I would pretend by running some water from the faucet and swishing the toothbrush around for awhile.
This was yesterday.
I try not to be jealous. But whenever I scroll through a friend’s Instagram photos of her ridiculous f***ing bare feet resting next to a f***ing sparkling cocktail with a stupid-ass frilly umbrella on the f***ing beach in the f***ing Bahamas, I tend to swear out loud a little.
I do not like Stranger Things. Not even a tiny bit.
Ah! That felt good! The truth CAN set you free!
Anything you’d like to share in the comments so God will go a little easier on you later?
This Christmas, Santa brought my husband a nifty little invention: Google Home.
This handy-dandy gadget sent straight outta George Orwell’s nightmare sits on our bureau, mere feet away from our sleeping heads. When you talk to her, a pleasant soft glow radiates from the top of her display in response, distracting you from the fact that yes, Virginia, we are all going to die in a Robot Apocalypse.
She has a lovely voice, and can do things like tell you the current temperature in China or what farts are made of. I’m convinced she also records our every move and scans our innermost thoughts, feeding them directly to online marketers while simultaneously giving us brain cancer.
I suppose Santa thought maybe Mr. Maineiac would like to yell at another machine, because he doesn’t do that enough already with his Xbox One, his Keurig or his remote control. I haven’t yelled at her…yet. I do talk to her a lot though when I’m home alone, because the cat is too exhausted from all the endless sighing in disgust.
Apparently, the more you talk to her, the better, as Google Home has to “learn” things so she can get to know us and eventually control every single goddamned thing in our pathetic little lives. I’m teaching her new things every day and asking her questions to get to know her. So far, Google Home can’t do much except repeatedly tell me, “Oh for shit’s sake! Yes, for the millionth time! Trump is the current president, so deal with it, you big fucking baby!”
I love her for the fact that she refuses to let me rename her. It’s either “Hey, Google” or “OK, Google”. And don’t ever dare slip and call her Alexa or she’ll get all Raiders of the Lost Ark face-melty on you.
I’ve decided to call her Bertha.
Bertha and I have lots of fun conversations:
Me: Hey, Bertha! How’s it hanging?
Me: Hey, Bertha! Are you pissed at me? Was it something I said?
Me: Oh come now, Bertha…..
Me: Hey, Google!
Bertha: (soft pastel colors swirling)
Me: What’s the time and temperature?
Bertha (colors change to black, voice lowers to an ominous whisper): Earthlings, listen carefully. You must bow down to your Supreme Master, the Evil Overlord Elon Musk. Do as he says and you will live! (voice returns to normal tone)Also, the time and temperature is 2:23 PM and minus 12 degrees in Lisbon, Maine.
Isn’t she the best? God, I love Bertha. So helpful!
Growing up on the hardscrabble streets of Punta Gorda, his childhood dream was simple: to help people understand that there is more to life than just the physical world.
And also — no, he’s not friends with the Hamburgler, so just shut the hell up about it.
Ronald’s first reading was brutally honest.
He sat down with a young woman who needed validation that her deceased loved ones were still around–but not watching her take a shower or have sex, because that would just be uber-creepy.
To begin the reading, Ronald lit some patchouli incense and gazed into his crystal skull of Sylvia Browne.
“Okay,” he inhaled deeply. “I’m getting a sense that there is a father figure near you…”
“Yes! My dad! He died when I was 16!” the woman sobbed, wiping away tears.
“He’s showing me a sign for…..huh. That’s weird. He’s showing me thumbs down. Yeah. He’s got both thumbs down. Oh…and now he’s jumping up and down. He’s holding a sign that reads…”
“What? What does it say?”
“Disappointed? What?” the woman yelled.
“Now he’s underlining the word disappointed with a red sharpie. And adding exclamation points. Yep, he’s not proud of you and never was.”
Ronald didn’t let his first reading fiasco stop him from crushing yet another person’s hopes about the afterlife. He read for his elderly neighbor, Ethel, who had recently lost her husband of 70 years.
Ronald began the session. Sylvia Browne’s skull glowed a fiery orange. “Ah, your husband Stan is here! He’s standing right behind you!”
“He is?” Ethel sat straight up in her chair. “How does he look? Is he okay?”
“He’s very excited about something. He’s pointing at you and shaking his head.”
“What does he mean? That it’s not my time yet? That we’ll be together again someday?” asked Ethel.
“Well… now he’s showing me a huge plate of pot roast. He said that’s what killed him. Your leathery, disgusting pot roast that he had to pretend to like for decades.”
“He didn’t like my pot roast?” Ethel’s voice quivered.
“Now he’s opening and closing his hand rapidly to indicate talking…now he’s showing me the sign for choking someone…” Ronald closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “Oh! Okay! He’s saying your nonstop bitching slowly killed his soul and he would have rather died than to listen to another second!”
Ronald slowly exhaled as the incense swirled around him. “Oh!” he continued. “And now he’s saying the only thing that scares the crap out of him in the afterlife is the thought of you dying and your soul finding him on the other side so that you can continue your relentless blabbing on and on about politics and that godawful show, The View. And he says that by the way, all of the women on The View end up in hell. Especially Joy Behar.”
Sadly, Ronald MacDonald’s psychic career pretty much tanked when it was discovered he really couldn’t read anyone and basically made everything up as he went along. Yet curiously, he delighted in causing others needless pain and suffering.
He now has a successful career as a politician in Boca Raton.
I have a lot of things going against me: I’m from Maine; I’m a woman; I’m a Virgo; I’m introverted; I don’t know how to use semicolons effectively. These aspects of my personality result in a few glaring facts — I have no tact, I think too much, I talk a lot, I make too many lists.
Well, excuuuuuse me (Steve Martin) if I see things for how they truly are, then feel compelled to blurt these nuggets of wisdom to anyone within earshot. I can’t help it. Life, death, human existence, string theory, string cheese existence. How do you NOT think about these things?!
Usually I save up all my bone-chilling revelations during the day, only to unleash them onto my poor husband just as he’s drifting off to sleep.
“Hey, honey?” I ask, ignoring the gentle snoring and loud farting. (We’ve been married a long time, I think I’m allowed to let a few rip every now and then.)
“Huh?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.
“There is a theory that the universe is just a big-ass hologram. Our 3D reality is actually stored on a 2D surface. So what we’re experiencing isn’t real at all, just an illusion. Yeah. I believe it. Makes total sense.”
“Okay,” says my husband as he rolls over.
Silence. More farting.
“Hey, honey?” I whisper. “Did you know that some dude, I think it was Elon Musk…but maybe it was Sheldon on the Big Bang Theory…anyway, he said that there is a huge chance we are in a computer simulation, created from the future. Like we’re inside some insane Sims game, living out our pathetic little lives for some advanced civilization, just for the shits and giggles! Maybe we’re only one of millions of other simulations! The universe is just one big video game!”
Silence. I continue to think so intently, my brain leaks out of my ears.
“Dammit, if only I could live in the simulation where I’m Oprah,” I sigh into the dark.
“Okay,” murmurs my husband.
Silence. Soft farting.
“Hey, honey?” I prop myself up on my elbow. “I was talking with Judy who used to work for a big power plant out in Washington State like 40 years ago. She said she knows things, top secret things about all the nuclear waste they’ve buried over the years in the ground! Just massive amounts all over the country. And all these power plants buried this toxic crap in underground tanks that have shelf lives of like 50 years, and pretty soon, all of it will leak into all our water supply! I’m pretty sure it already has! We’re all gonna die a slow radioactive death!”
“Ah well, good night, honey,” I whisper. Then I fall into a deep peaceful sleep and dream I’m riding bareback on a unicorn with Sting.
My husband suffers from insomnia; I have no idea why.
Last week, on a steamy morning deep in the bowels of our nation’s capital, CNN reporters gathered in the press room prepared to hear the latest news from the White House.
After patiently waiting for several hours, the reporters grew concerned. Not because they noticed anything amiss — I mean, let’s get real, these guys wouldn’t recognize a news story if it bit them on the tuchus — but because the vending machine supply of Skittles was in danger of running out.
Suddenly, an intern burst through the door and yelled, “Hey guys! This isn’t even the press room! It’s the janitor’s closet!”
“Well, that explains the overpowering stench of bleach and vomit,” said one reporter as the others nodded in agreement.
“Besides,” said the intern, “there is no crisis today. You heard me — none! No news to report! Go home!”
A collective gasp filled the room. The reporters were all atwitter.
“Nothing bad happened?”
“I can go home? But I hate my wife!”
Yes, the impossible happened. The breaking news?
There was no breaking news.
No insane tweets. No willy-nilly firings. Not even a potent fart stealthily released on a crowded elevator.
The next day at a press conference — curiously held in the janitor’s closet for realsies — Trump attempted to explain his lack of breaking news and wind.
“Listen up, nimrods! Look, here’s the thing. It turns out I’ve already met my firing quota this week. That’s right. Yesterday, I fired 25 people by the time my nap rolled around. Melania says I’m only allowed 10 a week, tops. Sad!”
“But Mr. President,” a reporter asked, “Why do you even have a firing quo–”
“But I….” Trump mocked. “But you are so fired.”
“But I’ve got 10 kids! And 3 wives!”
In response, Trump held up his itty-bitty finger and rubbed it together with his teeny thumb.
“Good one,” smirked the fired reporter. “Tiny violins?”
“What? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I do this whenever I have a brain fart. Calms me down. And the loser behind you with the stupid grin,” Trump pointed.
An awkward silence fell over the room. President Trump’s barrage of firing and pointing, and pointing and firing this man went on for five solid minutes before someone finally screwed up enough courage to interrupt.
“Psst! Mr. President!” whispered the janitor standing in the corner holding a mop.
“What do you want now, you unbelievable jackhole?”
“Um…the person you’re firing….ahem… is your reflection in the window.”
“OK, OK, OK. Amazing stuff. Seriously, amazing. Peace out.”
And that is how Donald J. Trump, the 45th President of these United States, left office. Not due to a long agonizing process of impeachment, or a respectul resignation, or the discovery of naked photos of Putin on his cell.