by Jane Etarie
I like the names of the people who spam me. Maybe they're like pretend names, but these are important sounding names. Dynamic. Classy. Interesting. International. Like they're rich. Like old money. Opulent. Like maybe they go to Monaco for holidays, play baccarat and shit, and they want to give me like forty million dollars if I help them transfer their vast fortunes.
Names like Rigoberto Wills, who wants me to know that a thyroid level normalizer is waiting for me, or like Cherin Panayotou, Concetta Peirson, Veronike Joujoute and Mrs. Grace Yee, who says our pills are not simply pills, but real friends. Clarissa Montclaire sounds like a French angel.
And they sound like even though they are wealthy and influential and better than us, they like never lost their connection to the common people. They sound like Nelson Mandela. Barack Obama. Desmond Tutu. Amo Bishop Roden. I like these names. They sound like people who only want to help. And Oprah Winfrey, of course. I'm seriously thinking of naming the baby Pharo after her. If I ever have two kids, one of them's definitely going to be named Pharo— boy or girl.
I have always wanted to name my baby Seven. Like even before Seinfeld. And now that the Beckhams confirmed it was a good name, I for sure was going to use it. And Boo likes it too. It's ok to name your children after like presidents, world leaders and royalty. And the Beckhams are close enough to being royalty. Even if names like Brooklyn and Bronx and Harper are shit and stupid, it's ok to use those names if you're naming your kid after theirs.
But I already had my name. I knew my baby's name, like since I was a girl.
Telephone.
Her teachers would pronounce it wrong— like on her first day of school. But it would be ok after that. And they would smile and shake their heads and think, what a smart, pretty name— Telephone— why hasn't anyone else thought of that before? Why didn't I think of that before?...Her parents must be artists, like bohemians or some shit. I mean, it's like who doesn't love their phone, right? But Telephone doesn't sound like telephone— it looks like it— but it sounds the way the Greek girls say their names. Like Persephone. Or like it rhymes with Stephanie. Like Stephanie-Telephone.
I liked the shortened versions of it too. Like Tel, Tellie, or Fawn. I don't like Fanny. Nobody better call her Fanny. Annie I don't mind so much but it reminds me of this cunt Annie that I can't fucking stand so that doesn't really work for me either. Those are a stretch anyways. Tel, Tellie or Fawn are just fine. Even Sev or Sevie, if it makes her more popular with the kids.
But Telephone Seven sounds perfect.
But really, whatever. I don't give a shit. She can call herself anything she fucking wants when she turns eighteen.
There was shit everywhere
I didn't expect anyone to be home. Dean was supposed to be like returning empties or waiting in line at the soup kitchen. And Robert was supposed to be at work for another couple hours. But there he was, sitting on Dean's couch with a pile of beer cans in front of him like he was working on a pyramid. He was watching Days of Our Lives, and his eyes were all red.
I know Robert's sensitive, but I'd never seen him cry.
So I was all like, Boo... what are you doing home so early? Like all surprised and cheery, like I'm happy to see him. Only really I'm confused. And he keeps watching tv and drinking beer and is all like, I got fired. Or quit. Fuck, I dunno. What are you doing here?
So I was like, I uh... I... the door was unlocked, I knocked and I uh, and... oh my god, Robert... did you just say you quit? Did you quit? Did you get fired? Oh my god. Holy shit... Tell me what happened... what the hell happened?
There was shit everywhere, he said. That's why he quit. There was shit everywhere. It was like shit Viet Nam. Shit everywhere except in the toilet. The animal knew how to flush. It was like rooster-tailed all over the walls. It was on the ceiling, it was on the floor. It was in the urinals. And the reek. The reek of fresh crap. The old smelly bastard had taken off his underwear, whipped it around, and then plugged up the toilet with it. Boo didn't know one person could shit so much.
And I didn't really know what the hell he was talking about, all this shit talk. But I was like so full of sympathy, and was all like, Oh my god, why? Who would do such a thing? What kind of animal monster pig would do this to you, Robert? Why?
So he tells me the story. He says that Elmer, his boss, goes for his afternoon shit. And when he gets out he's all like serious, like all pale. Boo says he looks like he's about to tell them that the family dog has to be put down. Only he says that there's a mess, a bad mess in the shitter, and that one of those doomers better get in there and clean it up.
Robert already knew. And so did Jase. They just played dumb. It was like that for half the morning. Some fat old guy who looked like no stranger to the plunger came in. Like all in a panic, sweating and grunting, needed to use the rest room. A couple minutes later, he left all casual. Jase found the mess when he took a piss, and they were just waiting and hoping for the guys on the next shift to get stuck with it.
So Jase runs out to help some customer that just pulled into full serve. And this is like the first time that Robert's ever seen him do this. He tells me that Jase is the laziest sack of shit. Complete dogfucker. That he's always like, Oh Robbie, my back's sore today, I think I fucked it up yesterday. Me and Dougie were curling that bucket of Naptha in the corner. I did it thirty-six times, he only did it twenty-three. Do you mind getting full serve and I'll get the till? I promise I'll make it up to you tomorrow...
And he'll sit there lazy all day and lean and steal and shove sandwiches and chocolate bars and chips into his moustache until some hottie pulls up. And then he can run out to help. Like a Jesus miracle his back's suddenly ok. And he'll come back in and use the same line he always uses— that she asked for a fill, or that she needed him to fill her up. What a douche.
Robert says that Jase runs out of there like Sasha Grey just pulled into full serve driving the Bang Bus, and it's just Elmer and him and a hose and squeegee. So poor Boo tells Elmer, I am not going to do this. I can't do it. I'll barf, I'll puke. And Elmer says that one of them had better do it, because he's got like a pile of twelve applications on his desk. Twelve guys that would be more than happy to do it. And Jase is done with his car, and he's hiding behind a pump. Peaking. Waiting. Pretending like he's doing something.
The three of them weren't budging. It was like a real Mexican standoff. The Goo Goo Dolls, Iris , was on the radio.
So finally Robert like snaps, and says, Fine. Fuck you, I quit. I can't do that. And he like rips off his Jiffy Gas shirt and throws it on the counter at Elmer. Here, use this. And he's like walking out and says, And I know you wear a toupee.
And that was it. He quit. What a horrible day, I tell him. And I like assure him that he did the right thing. That everything happens for a reason. And if it wasn't meant to be, then it wasn't meant to be. And then I tell him not to worry, that there's plenty of gas stations out there.
elBulli
I dreamed a terrible dream. Fuck I had a nasty dream. It was like deep sleep, so I was lucky to wake up without having a jammer. Seriously, I thought I was going to die it was a horrible dream.
And I don't think I'm like psychic, but maybe this dream was about twenty-five percent psychic. It was so deep and vivid, it was like for real.
I was sitting on a seawall, with my friend Amy from college. It was like this path in a Mediterranean painting by the sea. It's the late afternoon, summer. I can smell the tide and taste the Campari, like Negronis or some shit— it's so real. And we're having this awesome conversation. Amy's like, When I get up in the morning, and meditate, and do yoga... it's... it's just like... awesome.
And it turns out that we're like in Italy, waiting in line at elBulli restaurant, only there's no people in line, we're just waiting to get in. ElBulli has a waiting list of like a hundred years, but I got this like fancy gilded invitation from Mr. Petrus Cheong.
It's a beautiful day on the seawall. There are families with balloons and berets, tanned
young tourists eating gelato, and trained goats that are doing tricks. Everyone's happy. And me and Amy are like having the best time. And then we get a tap on the shoulder, and and I can smell Green Irish Tweed. And when I turn my head, it's like I can't believe it, it's like I'm dreaming— it's George Clooney.
Amy is like Ooooh muh gaawWWW!!! Oh muh gaawWWW!!! like she's star struck. And I can't even say anything. I can't believe that this is for real. Only it makes perfect sense, with George spending so much time in Italy and all. And I'm thinking this must be a dream... this must be a dream... but he assures me that it's not.
And then George reveals his big secret. He pulls a card out of thin air, like magic, from behind Amy's ear. She squeals. And then he kind of like tilts it, and it's like one of those Crackerjack holograms. The letters rearrange, and it turns out Mr. Petrus Cheong is like an anagram for George Clooney. He's the mysterious Mr. Petrus Cheong. He tells me that he's been waiting a long time to meet me. That he likes my ideas.
So we're at the door. It's like this beautiful old red wooden door with green and gold detail that's like built into the side of the cliff, and you can barely tell the bricks from the rocks and ivy. I don't know if this is what elBulli really looks like, but it did in my dream.
Some midget with one of those like masquerade masks seats us. And the kitchen sends us all this food that doesn't look like food but you can eat it. And it's all like gorgeous and delicious and I wish I could like remember some of it so I could make it. George tells us that the real reason he brought us here is because he's looking to settle down. Because he's like, you know— a real guy, and has a hard time meeting real women. We're having the best time. A perfect time. And then I feel like I have to take a shit.
So I like excuse myself and I feel like I'm losing control of everything, and I go to the shitter. It looks like a Swedish sauna or spa or something, and the details are getting darker and sketchy. A lady offers me some fondue, which I take, and then I go to like some corner. And I'm sitting, and I think I'm like taking a shit, only I'm accidentally shitting birth to my baby. And I'm like, Oh my god, somebody help me, I'm giving birth.
So the staff start helping me and they clear the shitter, which turns out to be the kitchen— like I was shitting and giving birth in the kitchen. Only they don't have all their medical equipment, so the chef does the best that he can. And he's like intense, and he's pumping my gut like I'm having a jammer, and he keeps going push, push, push! And then George comes in and wants to see me, like is everything ok? And I'm like so embarrassed.
And then I give birth. Only there's like problems. The baby is retarded. It's an ugly retarded looking baby, and hairy like a monkey. And my heart sinks. I feel like we should try this again. Is there anything I can do? I'm so upset and confused, I want to like sue the kitchen or something. They tell me that the best thing I can do is breastfeed. To feed it only organic local bananas, and that I have to like put on this fake boob harness so that it can like suck the banana mush out. The chef says that if I keep doing this— and it may take a of couple hours or a couple of years— that there is a chance that the baby could turn normal. Only I can't do it back here because it's against restaurant policy. Then the chef named it Corky— like it's the rules of his kitchen he says— and had me sign the papers.
So I go back out, and sit with George and Amy. And I'm breast feeding my retarded baby and it's like trying to eat the food on the table, and I'm like smacking it, going, No, baby! No! Drink! It's for your own good! And I'm trying to be all casual, and I'm like, Can you believe that they will not allow me to breast feed my baby in this restaurant? Like it'll kill someone to see my boob? I thought this place was supposed to be like all progressive and cool? And then Amy's all like, Oh muh gaw... that's your baby??? You have like a retarded baby??? For real??? Oh muh gaw... you're always bragging about your baby... that's your baby? LoL?
And I tell her, No, of course it's not my kid... I'm like babysitting. Then the baby goes Eeeeeeewwwwoooooooo!!! like real loud. Like so loud that everybody can hear. And then it turns into this retard that's sitting in a wheelchair, like a retarded boy. But he's got pink barettes in his messy hair, and there's like this string of green snot dripping six inches from his nose, and he like sucks it all back into his nostril. Eeeeeewwwwwooo!!!
And then George laughs and gets in close with Amy, touches the bottom of her back, and whispers some shit about my retard, and the weird loud whooping noises it's making. How people should have a little more respect for other patrons before bringing their retards to restaurants. And then he says to her that he's had enough, he's lost his appetite. That he's getting fucking sick, that he feels like puking. Doesn't like all the drool and the smell.
Eeeeewwwwwoooooooo!!! my baby goes, and they're both like trying to hold in their laughter, but they can't, and they burst out laughing and run away holding hands.
And then I know that I can't do this. I can't have a retarded baby. This is so not fair. It's not right. It's just nasty. So I like look in my purse and I have no money to pay for the delivery or food. All I got is this hairy baby in my handbag. I tell the waiter that I've got to go to the shitter.
And I think that what I did next was out of compassion. It can be a hard, shitty world for those who are different. I filled up the sink with water and I stuck the baby's head into it. A couple of the nurse-waiters came in to wash some vegetables, like leafy greens, and ask me if everything's ok? Will I be long? And I'm like, Oh ya, I'm just washing my hands. They say they'll use the other sink, and leave.
I figure after a couple of minutes the baby should be dead. Only I pull it out and it just kind of goes Eeeeewwoooooo!!! It's not dead, and now it looks like I've beaten it. Like it's teeth are all broken, and its got like a bloody nose and black swollen eyes. So I stick it back into the water, which sort of looks like dirty-red-jello-roast-beef dish water or some shit, and it's filled with glass and nails.
And then its body turns into like a giant bug. Like centipede legs are grabbing and pinching and tightening on my arm and it's trying to get out of the water. So I like freak out. I hate bugs. And I like start smashing it into the sink, against the wall, and it's like digging into my arm more. I smash it into the mirror and grab a shard of the busted glass and start stabbing it and cutting it into pieces. It's kind of like hollow, and yellow stuff is coming out. Even then it's not really dead, it's still twitching.
And then I half woke up, I guess, and rolled over and had a better dream. That I'd like won a trip and a new car on The Price is Right. That me and Amy went to Hawaii or Fiji or some shit and the Brady Bunch were staying next door at our hotel.
PND.com is gay
This morning I ate half a pack of bacon, eight pork sausages, a steak and four eggs, a pile of hashbrowns, six slices of toast with butter, and a croissant filled with whipped cream and maple syrup— like real maple syrup. And a pot of coffee. I was up early and had plenty of time to make breakfast. Otherwise I make this killer breakfast sandwich with bacon and eggs— like the kinds you can nuke— and ham and cheese in between layers of Eggo waffles. It's so fucking good and so fast to make that sometimes I even have it as a snack. I mean, I'm eating for two now.
And it's like, I'm a spiritual person, but I'm not religious. I had to make sacrifices for my family now, even if it meant becoming a fat fucking pig. It's not like I wanted to get fat, except I had to. But I'm not like one of those Catholics or shit that was going to feel guilty about it. Guilty's for fucking losers. Guilty's for the idiot who goes to jail to suck cock and get raped in the ass. If I had to be a fattie, I was going to enjoy it. Like live in the moment, live in the now. Like Eckhart Tolle. I don't ever waste a day of my life feeling guilty.
But it's not like I'm like an inconsiderate cunt. I have this account on Pregnationdivas.com— yummymummy69. I originally wanted yogamom69, but it was already taken, so whatever. Anyways, I started a thread.
yummymummy69: i am 12—14 weeks pregnant. when is the best time to tell others
that i'm pregnant? like work specifically? thanks ; )
californiacougar: I told everyone right after I found out. Right away! It was such a surprise! And I was just so excited and I can't keep a secret, lol! But whatever feels right for you!
Julie23: Pregnancy is a time for support, for community. I also told everyone when I found out. You shouldn't feel like you need to hide it. That being said, a lot of women feel more comfortable to wait, in case of miscarriage.
yogamom78: Personally, I want my power circle and community involved in all aspects of my child bearing time, good or bad. If my baby does not emerge from her dreamtime, I want all the support and love I'll need to move on and heal and grow. Blessings.
yummymummy69: i'm not like worried about m/c. i mean, i had to abort twice once, they didn't get it all out, lol ; P
but i mean, like ettiquette, is there like a law or sh*t for when to tell my bosses?
lululemomma: I'm waiting. I'm VERY superstitious. I think you're OK waiting until your second trimester. For myself, I'm thinking about six months in. I mc'd five months in last time.
rubmysweetbelly: i here that when you can here baby's heartbeat, baby will not m/c anymore. wait for heartbeat if your worried. x0x0
lotusdreamer: I have had three miscarriages. But with a holistic approach and natural supplementation, I have had three successful pregnancies since. I have a lot of information on this topic on my blog, [email protected]. Please feel free to visit and "like me" on Assbook.
TristanandKristensmommy: i lost my first at 15 weeks. wait as long as you're comfortable. don't feel stressed or pressured. i will pray for you, sweetie. god bless.
Rhiannon29: DON'T!!! DON'T TELL YOUR BOSSES!!! I WAS FIRED SHORTLY AFTER I DID. I DID NOTHING WRONG, I WAS A GOOD WORKER. I WANT TO SUE BUT I NEED TO GET A GOOD LAWYER WHO THINKS I HAVE A GOOD CASE.
