How It Happens

People, what am i going to do when we move and I'm only two blocks from the train? Where will I do my writing?

It's the first 20 minutes of my daily commute every day where I come up with my best material. It goes like this:

Walk to train = Idea hits me and I start writing in my head.
Get on train & find a seat = Write story down in journal.
Get to work (usually an hour & 1/2 late) = Post story in blog.

I need that morning walk. More than that ... YOU need that morning walk. I guess I'll just have to walk to a more distant subway stop. But ... what about snow? Winter's coming people and cold and snow suck. I'm really starting to worry for all of you. What will you read if the winter takes away my blog mojo? This blog depends on my intricate blogging process which includes, nay, demands that 20 minute walk.

Here's how this blog started on this morning's 20 minute walk:

I leave home, go to Mazzola's for coffee and a cheese croissant. Then I put my iPod on and select Chris Brown's Kiss Kiss. (please note how current my music is these days)
In Kiss Kiss, Chris sings, "we're parking lot pimpin'. And I think about the Winn Dixie parking lot in Fitzgerald, Georgia, where as a teen, I, your beloved Princess, parking lot pimped.

My thought process takes off from here:

Parking lot pimping happens in Fitzgerald, Georgia because there is no where else to go.
Someone should go to Fitzgerald and create a place for those kids.
Anyone intelligent and capable enough to do it would become suicidal having to be in Fitzgerald, Georgia for any amount of time.
That's too bad and explains why things probably aren't ever going to change there.
Parents in NYC are so much hipper to trends and modern sensibilities than other parents.
I am so glad I live in New York.
My life is amazing!
I was at a gallery opening with some of the most amazing artwork ever and ended up at the after party talking to an Oscar nominated actress about her shoes. Because that's the kind of stuff that happens in New York.
That and that guy who stopped me on the street to tell me about a Honeymooner's episode because I giggled when he yelled at his friend, "And, I'm calling Bellevue 'cause you're nuts!"
I could cry over how in love with my life I am.
Does Oprah feel like this?
The blog makes me so happy and I love writing!
HRH and I are great writers.
The blog is our thing! Not the book.
I need those Diesel boots on Zappos.com.
What am I going to do about writing when I only have two blocks to walk to the subway?

You have got to be kidding me

Seriously people, seriously. I mean I go to the gym to avoid this sort of thing. The gym is supposed to be my safe place. And there is a huge bowl of candy in the lobby. Here it is Halloween and I am still going to the gym. No excuse. Susan and I are taking yoga with Puss n’Boots and that’s that. Only to be confronted by an enormous bowl of candy not only upon entering the gym but also leaving. And the kicker is? My trainer is the one standing there with it. Is this some elaborate scheme by Equinox to get us all fatter and thus keep themselves in business?

This Halloween was a big accomplishment for me too. Yes, darlings, your HRH did not partake of one piece of candy. Now, I have no problem with an occasional indulgence. In fact I think they are necessary. It’s just that indulgences must be chosen wisely. Every single person thinks the meal you are eating with them is a special occasion and therefore you should splurge. Every day there is a birthday, or a meeting or its Tuesday and I really like to eat on Tuesdays, seriously daily there is something that I could use to justify eating. But I wont do it people, I wont do it, especially not for some little waxy piece of cheap chocolate.

But don’t you worry about your HRH. She is doing just fine. When I left the hair salon last (yes, of course I’m naturally this blonde, but you know it still needs maintenance) night a kind gentleman about to get his hair cut said to me, “you look just like Nicole Kidman. I’m sure you hear that all the time.” Hello people, I ask you, now is that not better than some crappy Halloween chocolate?

HRH is Going to be So Pissed

People ... do you see what this is?
Directly underneath the bulletin board listing all of the gym's daily classes is a table ...
with candy.

The L Train Strikes Again

This morning I left 20 minutes earlier than normal only to arrive 30 minutes late to work. I ask of you, what is the point of leaving early if you will only get there later than had you left at your normal time. Here I am trying to do the right thing and stop at Whole Foods prior to work so that I can have some fruit and oatmeal today. So I rush like a crazy person to get out the door and still look cute. And this morning it even involved ironing, because The Princess had invited me out to an opening, which I will not be able to attend now because The Princess can be an idiot (if you doubt me, please see The Netflix Incident) and had the time wrong. Frankly, I would still be thinking I was going to this opening if Erica hadn’t jumped in (we don’t call her Fact Checker for nothing) with the correct time for the event.

That said I left the house 20 minutes earlier than normal and I was freshly pressed and still I didn’t make it to work on time. And do you know why? Because the L Train sucks. Seriously, I hate that stupid train. This morning, for no apparent reason it was just standing there with its doors open with a zillion people crammed inside and it wasn’t moving. So of course once it finally decides to move, the platform is jam packed with people. Thus begins the hideous cycle of every train arriving packed, opening its doors so people could cram themselves in and then driving away without me. You know why? Because I absolutely refuse to ride on a train that is so packed that I can actually feel someone’s breath on my neck (normally I am very fond of that feeling when it is the right someone (hey “A” wink, wink) , but not nasty Williamsburg strangers). So instead I am forced to wait and watch as multiple trains go by making me later and later.

While standing there watching the trains pass I happened to be reading an article in Health magazine about the flu vaccine. Frankly, I think those vaccines are pointless. They only protect you from three different strains of the flu and you can’t even be sure that those are the strains that are going to be floating around in your area. Not to mention, that almost everyone I know who gets the flu vaccine gets sick after receiving it. To which they usually say to me, “Yes, but I was only sick for a couple of days.” Um, okay, that’s how long I’m normally sick from the flu, so why would I trade that for a vaccine that makes me sick for sure, when I know there is a strong possibility that I won’t get the flu at all. The point here is that the writers at Health had a few suggestions for how to avoid getting the flu sans the vaccine. Guess what their number one suggestion was? “Avoid getting too close to strangers on a train.” Needless to say, I let the next train pass.

Jose and Jorge Need a Good Home

After 9/11, I was laid off from my cushy event planning job. Apparently people were not in the mood to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for parties. Who'd believe?

I ended up doing a hundred different jobs (while surreptitiously collecting unemployment checks) -- one of which was traveling around the country to different malls and installing (the now-defunct) Biotherm Skin Care Counters in Macy's. I was in a group the organizers called, "The Mountain Men." Kevin, main organizer, thought I'd feel comfortable with them, seeing as how I was from Georgia. There was Tommy, DooDah, and Michael -- all from the mountains in North Georgia, then the oddball Xanax addict, Joe from Queens, and me. Yes. DooDah -- the RedNeck Santa Claus. He was about 60, looked like he was about 80 (due to Santa beard and chain smoking), and always spoke of himself in third person. One one particular morning I was driving the 24' Budget truck (with lift gate) back to our hotel from the mall with DooDah in the passenger seat. The shocks were crap, so the truck bounced like crazy when you were traveling under 45 MPH. At one point he looks at me and says, "If this keeps up, DooDah's gonna need a rubber."

Well, one week, the MM and I were working in Laredo, TX and we had a day off. So, we did what any group of construction workers would do that close to the border. We went to Mexico for margaritas.

This is where I first met Jose and Jorge. I was shopping around the market area, trying not to step on the small children selling crappy bracelets for "one Peso please," and I saw them. My little devils. I fell immediately in love, and though I planned to only buy one, I couldn't decide between them. That's how Jose and Jorge came into the family.

Jose and Jorge became the Mountain Men mascots. They traveled with us everywhere and they gave me much comfort in a time in my life that was pretty dark. I mean, 4 nights a week, the MM and I would work from 9 PM until 8AM in a deserted Macy's. I was exhausted. I didn't have one intelligent conversation for over three months. DooDah and Michael refused to eat anywhere besides IHOP. It was miserable. Jose and Jorge saved me.

Now, Erica and I are moving and we're making compromises on what items we're taking with us and what items we're getting rid of.

She says Jose and Jorge have to go. I considered telling her that I'd rather she go, but Jose and Jorge aren't in a position to help with the mortgage, so I'm stuck.

People. I can't put them out on the street. Surely someone would find them and love them, but I can't risk it. What if a dog comes by and thinks they're toys -- or fire hydrants? What if the wind blows and they end up in the Hudson River? I'm having a hard enough time trying to come up with a way to tell them that they're not moving with us (and they are so excited about the new place) -- how can I be expected to add insult to injury by just dropping them on the front stoop?

So. I'm coming to you, dear readers. Who out there has room in their home, and heart, for two devilish characters from Nuevo Laredo, Mexico? They don't make messes, they're well-traveled, they don't smell, and they are very good listeners.

Another Love Letter ... I know ...ugh.

So. I'm at home tonight and I'm obsessively checking email and the blog to see if anyone has checked in (Ann? You still out there?) and I get a Facebook message from Erica's dad's girlfriend Sandi. (Yes. With an i. Don't hold it against her.)

And I watch this goofy video and I have a huge moment.

You know, so much of The Princess' blogging involves the "unacceptable" version of Mother that she ended up with. And just recently I was whining, "Why didn't I get a good family? My mom's nuts and my dad is absentee. It's not fair."

Then tonight I got this video and I realized. That I did get get the good family. I have Erica's family.

When E and I first started dating, her BFF Strong said to me, "You don't know how lucky you are. I've always envied the person who would end up with Erica. Because when you get Erica, you get her family."

Well, tonight it really hit me. Since E and I got together, I have struggled to understand her family. I've been accustomed to a family that is full of secrets and hidden personalities. My cousin had AIDS -- circa 1988 -- and his mother allowed my mom to change this chest tube he had ... without EVER mentioning that he was sick with what was known, at that time, as the incurable gay disease.

Know why they didn't talk about it? Because my aunt worked for the county school system and she was scared she'd lose her job. My high school still has segregated proms. So. You can imagine their view on gay butt sex.

Anyway. What hit me tonight was, this goofy video is such an example of how the relationship between E and her family and the one between me and mine is so vastly different. And it is huge, for this naive Georgia hick, that I can be exactly who I am. Because Erica's parents ... and their current partners ... accept me. And love me. And allow me to be who and what I am.

I think this may be the reason Erica and I are together. Since we became girlfriends, we've talked about our backgrounds and the fact that they are so hugely different. I think she and I were put into this world, in part, to experience the familial relationships we had and then to be exposed to polar opposites so that we both appreciate where we come from and where we've come to.

Potty Training

Let’s talk for a moment about good manners. I’m not certain why, but New Yorkers seem to lack good manners especially when it comes to cleanliness. Take for instant The Princess’, what I can only describe as grotesque, run in with Psoriasis Man. Yuck. For the record, I would not have sat for the duration of the ride next to him. Unlike The Princess, I wear 3 inch heels to work but still I would have endured foot torture before I would have sat next to someone while they were flinging their dry scabby skin on me. Seriously, who raised this person?

I do believe it’s all about upbringing. The Princess is from the South and I’m from the Midwest where, even if we wanted to do something that disgusting, we would be too embarrassed to behave such a way in public. Now, the longer you live in NYC the easier it does become to block out the fact that there are other people around. It’s really the only way to survive. That said, you are not alone and we have to inhabit your environment too, so please keep your scab flakes to yourself.

The women’s bathroom is seriously the most disgusting thing in the world. Of course I expect that when I go in to some random public bathroom that it is incredibly likely I will encounter an unflushed toilet or sadly things even more disgusting than that. What I do not expect is that at bathrooms in places like my job or the gym I will have to witness such disgusting behavior. It amazes me. And I’m not talking about a lack of maintenance by the cleaning crew. What I’m talking about is general bad manners. When my sisters were little and we would take them to a public bathroom, we would walk them through proper bathroom etiquette. Apparently, no one did this for the majority of women living in New York so I am going to do it for you.


Proper Bathroom Etiquette 101
#1. Always Flush. Yes, I realize this seems obvious but judging by the fact that 9 out of 10 times, I enter a stall only to find that someone has not flushed, the majority of you are not aware of this rule.
#2. Flush, until you can’t flush anymore. It is not enough to just flush the toilet once and then leave the stall. Apparently, many people do not realize this which is why I’m telling you please do us all a favor and make sure your flush took.
#3. , Wipe the Seat. Might I just say for a second, ick. Seriously, how can you not wipe the seat? If you insist that you must squat above it then you must make sure that you wipe the seat. And believe you me, you need to. I know for a fact that your thigh muscles are not strong enough that you can keep that squat going and not move, okay. You’ve sprinkled while you tinkled. Now clean it up!
#4. When you wash your hands, do not leave a pool of water on the counter . As proud as I am that you have decided to wash your hands, I have to say it makes me hate you when the entire waist of my shirt gets wet because you somehow do not know how to actually keep the water off of the counter. Here is a suggestion, should you find that when you wash your hands water gets all over the counter, please use one of those readily available paper towels and wipe the counter.

Remember people, we all have to share this space together. And as any good girl from the Midwest (or South) knows, that might be a stranger standing next to you in line for the bathroom, but you better believe she is still judging you.

Dear Netflix, Can I please get my porn back?

Erica and I are moving and I asked to be in charge of all packing. I am a huge control freak and as I've mentioned before, I have a need to organize and list every item that is packed as well as number the boxes with a code that indicates where the movers should put each box.

So, I've been on a kick of getting something move-related done every morning before work and every evening to keep the process going and to hopefully avoid a huge last minute rush.

Yesterday morning was "make the move to cancel the Netflix account". Our DVD player is currently disconnected and on a pile of boxes. The three DVD's we had at home have been sitting on the table for almost a month, so we decided to stop Netflix until we're in the new place and have the DVD player back up and running. Step one for stopping Netflix ... return videos. Easy enough.

I pack them up and drop them in the mail on my way to work. Then. This morning as I'm organizing things on the table which has become the hold-all for miscellaneous items that haven't been packed, but don't currently have a home either. What do I see? Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang. One of the Netflix DVDs. I'm confused at first, then it hits me.

There had been another disc sitting there. The porn.

Don't judge me people. I know we're not the only people with porn.

Of course, we no longer have porn. Because I mailed it to Netflix.

Where to start?

You know. Sometimes there's nothing to write about and then sometimes ... Wham! 50 topics all at once. And what do I pick? Can I have multiple topics in one post?

I think I should do one thought per post. That way when one of my fans is referencing my blogs in their master's thesis, it will be easier to pinpoint the entries they want to use.

Look. I'm rambling already and I haven't even started with one topic yet. So. I'm long winded. And who wants to read 8 pages for one post? No one. That decides it.

Ok. Keep an eye out for future posts:
Nipple Ring Girl and Other Characters from the Gym
Jose and Jorge Need a Good Home
Baby Got Bible
and coming up next ...

Dear Netflix, Can I please get my porn back?

Beware the Diet Monster

This morning as “A” and I left my house, he offered to give me a ride to a more convenient train station. As I opened the passenger door, he swiftly reached across the seat to grab a bag that was sitting there. Needless to say, I had to know what was in that bag. You will never believe what it was, Popeye’s. Yes, that’s right apparently when I PMS freaked out at him about bringing Popeye’s into the house, I so traumatized him that he is afraid for me to even see the bag. Obviously, he suspects that the mere mention of fast food will send me into some diet induced rant, where I begin listing all the foods I am no longer consuming and how unfair I think it is that he still gets to eat them. After a brief moment of silence “A” confessed that he ate it in the car before he came over last night because he didn’t want to bring it into the house. I have now turned Popeye’s into contraband. I also have to admit that in some ways I thought that was the sweetest thing he’s ever done for me. Oh, “A” you’re so cute when you are frightened of me.

I have no idea how other addicts feel, but as a food addict (who will always be in recovery) I know that at times my behavior towards food could qualify as obsessive. I’m not certain if the former smoker (given that I did smoke but certainly never loved cigarettes more than food, so I can’t really make this judgment) watches those around her smoking and obsessively thinks about the cigarette, with absolute fascination, wondering things like how does it taste and how can the smoker still continue to smoke with such abandon. Only a former smoker need never smoke again, whereas a food addict must eat every day. Which is why, I ask that should you be standing next to me while you are ordering your bacon, egg and cheese on a roll and I am ordering my egg whites on whole grain bread, that you please forgive me for staring. It’s just I’m fascinated. I’m like Audrey Hepburn standing at the window of Tiffany’s; I recognize its comfort but know that I can’t go in. This morning as I stood at the Starbucks counter waiting for my Grande Skim Latte (which I consider to be a treat) there was this gorgeous, super skinny woman standing next to me waiting for her hot chocolate. Here’s the kicker, when the barista (yes, I know) handed her the hot chocolate, skinny girl opened her cup drank for a second and proceeded to hold out her cup asking for more whipped cream. I’m telling you, I stood there, my mouth open and watched as the barista swirled on a huge serving of whipped cream. I can not imagine this. What is it like to live in a world where whipped cream is a thing of enjoyment and not viewed as a T of D? I can only hope that the skinny hot chocolate with extra whipped cream drinking woman has to suffer in other ways. I might be a royal but I am no saint. I ask you, why should I suffer alone?

Oh, and to the dear loyal gentleman fan that passed by me today and called me “Princess” I do realize that The Princess and I are very similar but we do like to maintain our own identities, so please in the future it’s HRH, thank you very much.

Priorities

HRH and I have an idea for a book.

First of all, let me say, that this blog and dated entry serve as proof that it was our idea. Basically it's an etiquette lesson for New Yorkers and NYC tourists.

HRH & I have written quite a bit over the past few years and I expect that now that I've revealed to the masses our plans, our publishers will be pushing us even harder to complete it.

Well, as I was riding the train this morning, I came up with an etiquette rule that may warrant it's own chapter.

When sitting or standing next to other people -- especially strangers -- it is absolutely mandatory that you do everything in your power to keep your fingernail clippings, your stray hairs and, most importantly, your psoriasis scabs to yourself.

Actually -- this applies to every possible human interaction, mass transit related or otherwise.

This morning, on my way to work (the most entertaining part of my day, if you judge by my blog postings .. oh. And the nightime. When I talk to ... mmMommy.) this guy walked on the train and came over to sit next to me. As he was approaching, I noticed that this poor boy had the worst case of psoriasis I have ever seen. It was all over him and my first thought was, I swear to you people, empathetic. I thought, "How awful must it be to deal with that every day of your life? Not only do you have an awful, certainly itchy and painful skin disease, you have it on your head and face." This was before.

By the end of the train ride, I wanted his scabbed little head on a platter. But wrapped in a plastic bag so I never had to touch it.

People, this horribly afflicted man proceeded to pick at the skin on and around his ear ... the ear next to me. Now. It's rush hour. We're at Fulton Street on the 4 headed uptown. I am going all the way to 86th Street. So I am subsequently forced to decide between riding for 25 minutes with an ever growing pile of scabby guy skin on my left leg, or suffer the horrors of having to stand all the way to 42nd Street as well as deal with the insufferable pushing and shoving that ensues as soon as the doors open at that station.
I stayed in the seat.

Paula Deen is Out to Get Me

The mornings in New York have finally become crisp and chilly and the idea of getting out of bed is pure torture. This morning all “A” would have had to say is “stay” and I would have stayed. Oh, “A” if you only knew the power you have over me. I mean seriously, there is nothing more inviting then staying in bed wrapped up next to another warm body. The only thing that would have made it even better would be a Grande Skim Latte and a stack of magazines. Sadly, “A” is in no way an errand runner, so I would have had to procure these things myself.

As I sit here sipping my hot-chocolate (60 calories, I count everything people, everything), actually, I have a hot-chocolate, a coffee and water. This is what I call a beverage sampler… anyway, as I sit here sipping my hot-chocolate I am reminded of my semester abroad in Paris. Every morning we would wake-up before class, go down to the hotel’s dinning room and eat pain du chocolate while drinking au chocolate. The amazing thing is that I actually lost weight when I was in Paris. This was thanks to the sudden activity in my life. Being from Michigan I barely walked anywhere, so suddenly being in Paris and walking everywhere, not to mention having to take five flights of stairs to get to my room, attributed to my not ballooning to an even greater volume from my daily chocolate croissants. And this is a miracle given that on discovering that McDonald’s in France still served fried apple pies (many years ago the US McDonalds starting baking theirs, of course they also started selling 2 for a dollar, which makes me think why really does anyone need to eat 2 apple pies? I’m guessing that one fried one is still less calories than two baked ones. And don’t even bother lying to me and saying you only eat one. If you’re the kind of person who buys apple pies at McDonalds you’re eating both), anyway with the fried apple pies calling to us, my roommates and I, like the good Americans we were, would walk over there (honestly practically run sometimes) in order to get our fried pastries before McDonald’s closed at 11PM.

This last week has been one of the more challenging for me when it comes to the gym. I just haven’t had my mental game there. Honestly, I hate that, knowing that somehow my mind is trying to sabotage me and keep me from wanting to workout. Why brain why are you trying to keep me fat? I’m sure some therapist would have a theory on my desire to remain unhappy or maybe my pathetic laziness. No matter what it is, I did drag my butt to the gym on both Saturday and Sunday (go me!) and proceeded to not only let Carl (yes, I love you but hate you Carl, really why are you so obsessed with making my arms ache?) kick my butt on Saturday morning. Not to mention suffering through the hell that was cardio.

Now, I’m certain you’ve been reading this post and have been thinking yes, HRH, your lack of desire to get out of bed, your enjoyment of a pain du chocolate, your reminiscing about Paris all make for fascinating reading, but what has Paula Deen done to you? Well, people I will tell you, she’s trying to torture me. Paula Deen is attempting to sabotage all my hard work. Yes, Paula you think you’re slick but I am on to you.


Yesterday, despite the fact that even as I was climbing the stairs to the treadmill I felt I did not want to run, I still got my butt on that thing and did it. And the whole time, the entire time I’m there trying to focus, telling myself lies like, you only have to run for 5 more minutes and then you are done, there is Paula Deen up on the screen cooking and eating. Yes, because it isn’t enough for Paula to cook away adding sticks of butter and heaps of sugar to her recipes she also has to stand there and eat them. Thankfully Paula does not have a body I envy, so as I watch her dip her fingers into her lemon bars I try to think, “see Paula this is why you look that way” (that’s right, not only do I judge but I’m mean and shallow). The bigger question here, is why? Why does the gym play the Food Network? Shouldn’t they be broadcasting something that is motivational? My theory is that there is a bitter fat girl responsible for choosing the programming and that she gets a good laugh out of watching me practically cry as Paula whips up on of her zillion calorie treats. It’s so bad that I have to just look away, even if it means I end up watching sports.

As I finish writing this blog, I sit here eating my high-fiber, low-sugar oatmeal and I can’t help but think about the oatmeal I ate growing up. My mother would make us a nice little packet of Quaker oats and on top she would add a pat of butter, a few teaspoons of sugar and a little milk, I think Paula would approve.

Shoot.

E and I went to a Halloween party last night.





She's Plug 2 from De la Soul. I'm Black Eyed Susan.

Now, I had prior plans to go to a beloved HRH&LP reader's birthday and backed out because I was having a breakdown which leads into this story. (Especially the fact that I took Klonpin before going out.) Erica talked me into going to try to cheer me up. Turns out, it was a bad idea. Anyway.

Fun! We love costumes and we had such a great time. Well, Erica had a good time at first. Then I proceeded to do five Jell-o shots like I was 17 years old. Best part of me getting so ridiculously drunk ... besides falling on the dance floor ... it was all of her friends who she's been begging me to hang out with for months. In a way, it was my first true interaction with all of them.

Excelent.


Then! This morning we have plans to meet her family to look at our new apartment and I reek of vodka ... and rum punch, and beer and grape Kool-aid. And we go to brunch afterwards where I order biscuits and gravy (why? ick.) and have to leave it on the plate and subsequently admit my hangover that I am sure they had been smelling all morning.

Who's classier than me? No one.

Know who I'm blaming it all on? My mother.

That's right. Your beloved Princess has reached her breaking point with her mother and 10 minutes before I was going to shower to get ready for the party she called. But I hadn't spoken to her since she was released from the hospital, so I thought I would get it over with. The conversation started out with Pitiful mom, then went on to Accusatory mom, then Disgusted and Defeated mom. "Well, I guess I should never say anything again. I thought I could talk to you."

Now go back and read it outloud while trying to sound like a Southern woman trying to sound sick enough to call in to work at a voice barely over a whisper. That's what I heard. So Pitiful mom told me the entire story of the CT scan interaction with her doctor -- while not mentioning the report that she could have Pancreatic and Liver cancer. Enter Accusatory: "Did you tell A (my sister) that I said she was only staying at the hospital for three hours?"

"Yep."

Mom: Oh Susan ... why would you do that? Were you getting on her about being with me at the hospital more?
[That comment was so loaded that I ducked.]
Me: I was talking to her about the different versions I'm getting
Mom: What do you mean?
[Oh so innocent.]

So, I brought up the fact that they can't get even the simplest details straight. Details that are fact. Not hypothesis. Thursday? or Friday. For fuck's sake people. If you want me to play, I have to have all of the pieces. The cards, the card tray, the buzzer, or no Taboo.

Mom: Did you tell her that I thought she was using my illness as an excuse to not to to work?
Me: I don't know probably.
Mom: Susan! Why would you do that?
Me: You said it.
Mom: A and I already have a bad enough relationship. This is great. I wish you wouldn't have said that.
Me: Well, you shouldn't have said it if you don't stand by it.
Mom: [sick voice returns] Well, I guess I should never say anything again. I thought I could talk to you.

I guess not.

And we left the conversation that way. I said I had to get ready for the party and I got off the phone.

So, what I want to explain to Erica's friends who have probably told the "that girl who got so drunk and fell on the floor" 18 times, I wasn't drunk. I was self medicating.