We live in a f*cking camper. (Part 1)

Hi, there. We haven't talked in a while. I've been going through a lot of shit, and I am dealing a lot better with it now, so I'm ready to share. I don't know if I've told you guys this, but Hubs and I are building a house. Since we have three maniacal, furry roommates with bad table manners and strange greeting rituals, and we're trying to sell our other house, we thought it best to move out of the old house so that we could freely show it and not have to haul the bedlamites around all willy nilly. After all, we'd need to be closely involved with the new construction project, making sure that someone's shitty kids didn't knock out our windows with our own rocks and that wandering crackheads didn't steal the copper out of our HVAC system to get their next fix. We're out in BFE, and people can be very, very weird. We also deduced that since we were building out there, and we have ten acres to spread shit around, we could buy a building that has been nicely outfitted as an apartment with air conditioning and berber carpet sans the loo, and install a fenced running/shitting area with a doggy door for the furbabies... Then we, the humans, along with the tiny, smelly one, could comfortably abide in the camper until the new house was ready to move into. Great fucking idea. Great. Fucking. Idea.

So now that I've introduced you to my current situation, I feel it dutiful to inform you that the next few blog posts, including this one here, will be about the horrors of living in a camper with your spouse, a big screen TV, your dogs, and too much shit to put in the teacup sized cubby holes and closets a camper is outfitted with. I'm also going to be gratuitous with the dropping of fuck nuggets and sometimes more serious fuck bombs here and there. If that's going to offend you, then FUCK you. I live in a fucking camper, and frankly, I'm offended that you're offended with me when I am the one smelling a perpetual bowel movement all of the fucking time.

The day we moved in, I was suffering with a nasty allergy attack that gave me a screaming middle ear infection and laryngitis. Again. I've been sick with allergy-related nonsense since before Thanksgiving. I think we moved in some time in February or March. I honestly can't remember, not because it wasn't a big deal, but because my brain has literally been breaded and deep fried like an oyster since then. I remember it was cold and rainy, and I remember leaving Quick Care with a joke of a prescription for Tramadol and various other combinations of steroids, antihistamines, and antibiotics. They were such ass hats about the script, even after telling me, "Ooooohhhh, yeah. You're in a lot of pain. There's quite a bit of pressure on your ear drum, and you're not far from perforating it." I'm obviously not crackhead, and I was obviously in agony, and they had the wherewithal to change that, but they acted like dicks instead and made me feel guilty asking for it. I've prayed for sick babies to have dysentery in their laps at least ten times for that. Ass. Holes.

Upon arriving at the camper with an ice chest of groceries and enough things to get us through the next week, I find out the refrigerator is broken. Shit balls. As I look up to the heavens thinking, "Universe, why are you fucking with me?" I realize we have a small fridge back at the old house in the shed. Cool. We'll get it tomorrow. I spend the rest of the day doped up on as much shit as I could take without causing myself to die, putting away clothes, trying to find room for our splendid piles of shit, and hallucinating about the positives of the situation. That day I had five loads of dirty laundry and not a goddamned thing to wash them in because all of that shit was still back at the old house... Along with my sleep number bed, my curling iron, my Double D batteries, and my sanity.

The next day I didn't feel like going anywhere or getting anything, so I read and slept all day. I, after all, had been burning my candle at ends I didn't even know I had, and I desperately needed the rest. Elated about having constant access to outside, the maniacs were running to and fro in their fabulous new apartment, sounding like a herd of elephants. Maximus, the boxer, took a little while to acclimate to the doggy door, but he started learning by thrusting one paw through and pulling it back out. Then he'd thrust the other in and pull it back out. Then he'd put both front paws almost straight out in front of him and stare wondering how he was going to keep the fucker open if he moved his front feet. He began to push himself up the ramp with his back paws, taking baby steps with his rigid front arms, and would continue to pretend to be a wheelbarrow until he made it inside. I was high, and this was hilarious to me. I was almost disappointed when he finally learned how to use it properly in the coming days. That day, though, we were all sort of just taking our new environment in still.

Feeling better that evening, I thought I'd get up and try to bake some canned biscuits. Why? Because I had to get rid of some of those fucking groceries I lugged out of my house with a perfectly good refrigerator. Also, I was hungry. And I like bread. Every time I would raise my head, I would hear the pounding of a bass drum in my right ear, and when I walked to the oven, it started getting faster as my blood started to heat. I realized that I didn't know shit about cooking on a propane novelty stove. GODDAMNIT!!! Fuck the biscuits. I'm eating a whole box of strawberry shortcake rolls. And so I had one that burned the hell out of my throat and heated up a can of soup. Delicious. Canned fake meat, overcooked noodles, and salty water.

By the end of day two, I had six loads of dirty laundry and tangled hair, and I had already stubbed a toe on the stupid barbie couch that's bolted to the floor. FUCK.

I honestly can't believe I've only gotten two days along, but I'm glad. I want you to take this journey with me because misery loves company, and I want this story to resonate so intimately with you that you can hear the pulse of that vein that sticks out in the left side of my neck when I get insanely pissed off. So close that your head feels the sharp corner of the broken cabinet door pierce my scalp, so close that your chest feels the spring of the ridiculous shitty, shitty piece of shit mattress dig into my tit. Oh yea. There's much more to follow, so stay tuned. Thanks for coming, and welcome to my hell.

Well, as a matter of fact...

My parents were very strict with us growing up. We were all straight-laced, old-time religion, honor students with lots of chores to do and a deep understanding of the phrase, "I'm not going to tell you twice." When we became adults, however, we became our parents' drinking buddies (for lack of a better phrase.) I remember walking into my parents' house after I became an adult of legal drinking age to the first dirty joke I ever heard my dad utter.

"This little 80 year old lady walks into a biker bar and requests the highest ranking Hell's Angel to meet her at a table for a drink. Upon arrival, he openly chuckles.

'Ma'am, what do you want?'

'I wanna join the Hell's Angels. I've been ridin' my Harley Panhead for almost 60 years, and I could outride all the girly punks you got sitt'n 'round in here,' she says with a snort.

'Well, other than that, what sort of stripes you got? You been picked up by the fuzz?'

She sits back and thinks for a minute. Sitting up with her eyebrows tense and a stern tone, 'No. I never been picked up by the fuzz... but I been drug around by the tits!'"

Hey, mama.

I had been raised in the UPC, or United Pentecostal Church, for the non-southerners. I grew up in a town of approximately 700 people, and life was very slow. I was gainfully employed since the age of 13 and graduated Valedictorian of my high school. College was a blast and a huge experiment, but my parents didn't know what I had been learning. Hearing Daddy say that was a real shock to my system. He laughed hysterically; not at the joke, but at my reaction which I am sure was a deer-in-headlights expression.

When Rebecca became of legal drinking age, Momma and Daddy used to like to go with us to the local bar/restuarant, Babe's. Owned and operated by the Monceaux family, it was our favorite place to go as a family. As Daddy used to like to say, "A family that drinks together stays together." We spent a bunch of nights there in the earthy screened-in cedar plank patio, eating real Cajun food, and listening to a live Cajun band or an LSU game.

One night, soon after Daddy was diagnosed with Stage 3B colon cancer and started chemotherapy, we were in there with a town trouble-maker and slut. I'm gonna change the name here and refer to her as, "Cold Sore." (It's not like me to be cruel, so I'm not associating her name to any of the events that transpired in this story. I'm merely assigning an alias, a descriptive term, if you will.) Daddy had been feeling down, and I'm sure a man's man could be pretty emasculated by a diagnosis such as he was facing. Cold Sore was flirting with him incessantly. Becky (Rebecca) and I were standing beside the bar, taking in the goin's down. For those of you that don't know my sister, she has been described as quick-tempered, tough, feisty, small, and my personal favorite, a fucking asshole. In her hay day, she has thrown grown men through walls, run over a partner, collapsed an eye socket, and unhinged a jaw. She was definitely all of those descriptors, and when she got angry, she could definitely be a fucking asshole.

That night Cold Sore was pissing her off. We could see her, laughing at Daddy's jokes with the zeal of a psychopath, touching his arm, asking him if he'd like another beer. My mother was sitting beside him, timid and unconfrontational, taking into account his severely bruised ego and the history of the pest at their table. She started shifting her weight from foot to foot like a veteran of a boxing ring.

"You see that shit?" she asked.

"Yea, I see her," I replied.

"Dat bitch givin' me the redass."

 "Hold on now, Becky. She hasn't done anything overt, and Daddy'd have your ass if you embarrassed him. Let's wait until she crosses the line and then we'll have a little talk."

Becky commenced to slinging back her Malibu and Pineapple cocktail and giving Cold Sore the stank eye. We tried to let the situation roll off our backs and enjoy our drinks and fun time with Momma and Daddy. After a little while longer, Daddy charmed the table with another joke. We were fired into high alarm mode when we saw Cold Sore squeeze Daddy's thigh.

"DID YOU SEE THAT SHIT!? Did you SEE that SHIT!!!??" yelled Becky, complementing her screeching with an accusatory pointer finger in the direction of Oral Herpes while weaving her head and torso and shifting from foot to foot.

Before I could react, Cold Sore puts her hands on the table, and the bar hushed to an oh-boy-a-cat-fight-breakin-out setting. Then, with a thunderous, drunken drawl she slurred, "WHAT?? You wanna kick my ass???"

Without missing a single beat, my sister smiled from ear to ear, put one hand on her hip, and retorted, "Well. As a matter of fact, BITCH," her smile fading and assuming a determined grit in her teeth, "YES, I DO." Slapping my shoulder with the back of her left hand, she commanded, "Come on, Julie!" (My whole family calls me Julie, and it drives me up the motherfeathering wall.)

Cold Sore took the lead outside, and Becky aggressively followed. Resolving that I absolutely had to defend Momma even though my sister was not in need of my help, I sighed, set my drink down, and trodded out the door. I'm a medium to large boned girl and 5'11" barefoot. That night I was in four inch heels. While I am not sure whether I fight with any competence whatsoever, I KNOW I can hogtie. I was prepared to lay her down on her belly, perch on her back, and wrap her limbs up in mine if she tried to swing at my sister, all in less than 5 seconds. My goal was specifically set because if there's one thing I know about a skank, it's that most skanks can throw down, and I didn't want to get that herpes-laden hoodrat juice on me, even if I could lay her out. You can understand my delight when I stepped out of the door with my imposing frame towering above her, and she took off running in terror of what I'd do to her. Even though that left me a little insecure about my size, I was ecstatic that we won a fight without having to get all physical with Cold Sore. Splendid.

Daddy was a little more difficult to handle, however, since his little girls thoroughly embarrassed him in public. We took an ass chewing, and then we all went back inside to calm down and have some drinks that were bought by the patrons of the bar, all glad to see that annoying Cold Sore gone.

Sometimes I find myself wanting to reply, "Well. As a matter of fact, BITCH... YES I DO," to people in normal conversation. It's harder to stifle than you'd think. A line like that kinda sticks with ya like a cold sore.

Almost everything I remember about the candy store

It's the late 1990's, and I am in high school. I am a member of the Future Business Leaders of America organization (pffffffft), and it was my day to work the candy store. You see, after the day was basically done at my school, we got one last outdoor break where we were allowed to purchase refreshments of various kinds from out of the windows of a classroom. If you were one of the elite members of the FBLA society, you had the privilege and responsibility to work the store once a week or so. When you worked the store, you were given a credit with which we purchased snacks.

I have partaken in heavy drinking and recreational drug use since this incident, so I don't remember if I rode home with a friend that day, rode the bus, or if I had my car yet. Don't they say long-term memory is the first to go? (No, they don't - it's short-term memory, and that fact is stored in my long-term memory bank, and if I have to explain the joke then it isn't funny so try to keep up.) The point I am trying to make is that eventually I got my happy and business-like teenage ass home from school that day with a snack in tow.

At that particular time, I was pretty into Gardettos and Gatorade because my palate has always been as sophisticated as shit. There in the warmth of the evening sun and the aroma of cigarette smoke, I sat in my Dad's recliner like I owned the fuckin' place and ate my Gardettos like a boss. (As I write this, my internal dialogue is speaking in a male's Italian accent and voice, and though I should feel like a little bit of an asshole, I feel like a mega boss.) I watched TV, I said, "Fuck homework," and I sat there eating my fancy rye chips and pretzels until the bag was empty.

By the time I was done, the sun was low enough on the horizon to be shining through the lamp that stood beside the end table to my left. I could see that the plastic on the inside of the lampshade was broken and cracked. Instead of leaving it be, I started to peel it off because it looked like shit and like I said before, I was feeling like a boss. I peeled that shit off and stuck it in that empty bag. Then I got distracted like I normally did and moved onto the next thing which was probably homework or learning how to make a roast. (Not to change the subject, but when did kids stop learning from their parents? Not to say that I WANTED to work, but I knew that if I didn't, someone was going to beat my ass, and that someone didn't give a shit about my personal agenda that day unless I was sick. Where the fuck did that go?)

Daddy came in from work at about 6:00 hungry, and dinner wasn't done yet. So he grabs him a snack and starts going to town. Only it wasn't just any bag of chips; it was the bag of lampshade crisps that I had prepared a couple of hours before. I heard him say, "What are these chips? They taste like shit. They don't have any flavor at all."

You could cut lock washers off of my asshole at the point that I realized he was munching on a bag full of dry-rotted plastic that I had left on his end table. "Daddy, those are pieces of the lamp!" The exclamation was followed by an intense glare in my direction and absolute terror on my face. We stared like that in silence for a bit. After he thought I may have completed going number twosie on myself, he quietly handed over the bag, and I went to the kitchen to throw them away... And to hide. I made myself invisible for the rest of the night, and it was never spoken of again. Well... Until today. I saw someone driving around outside my window on a forklift, and I'm still not sure why, but it just popped up into the foreground of my thoughts. Like usual, I laughed like a maniac to myself leaving everyone to wonder just what in the hell's bells I have been smoking, and like usual, it was just funnier not to explain.

Four Years Later

 

My Daddy was a great man. I say that with as much humility as I can, but he truly was of greatness. He was one of those people that chose simplicity because in simplicity there is kindness. There is warmth. There is love. He chose those things even though he had the mind of a genius, lighting wit, a star-appeal personality, and a very handsome face. There he is... sitting on the porch steps of the house he and my mother built with their bare hands after a long day of work outside. He's not smiling (which he did quite often), rather he's been caught in the solitude of his thoughts. He's undoubtedly mulling over the places he could have gone or the titles he could have held. But it seems he wanted to be a big fish in a small pond. Not because of his ego, but because he genuinely loved helping people. In a small pond, he had more chances to help and give of himself in the most meaningful of ways. Granted, he had his problems, and I'll tell you about those later. Right now, I just want to talk about how much I love him and how much I was shaped by him.

When Daddy died, it seemed everyone had a story to tell about how he had let them know in some way that he was fine, he was watching over us, and he was happy, except for me. It's been almost four years since we held his hands and watched him cross over, and I have had nothing but haunting dreams about the almost four year battle he waged against the consuming blackness that is cancer. I have had dreams that he was there, but he was sick. The house they lived in, the house of my youth, was in shambles, down to the frame and subfloor, and he was bed-ridden. I've dreamt he was skin and bones and being helplessly pulled along a dusty trail in a wagon. I've dreamt I found him in the bottom of a shower, shrunken, shivering, and drowning in the steady stream of the showerhead in his blue cotton pajamas. I have been relentlessly haunted by the memory and depth of the process of losing him, and until now I haven't been visited by anything hopeful in regards to his passing. Anything that felt like him.

A few weeks ago I felt like he told me why he hadn't worried about me. He knows I think like he does. I have an analytical mind and a good sense of humor. I love to help people and animals, and I would rather be able to help people in need than have all the money in the world. He knew that I wouldn't worry whether he was okay in the afterlife. I understand that the things he did for people are the chiefest of commandments and the greatest good we can do while on Earth. Losing him would prepare me to be strong for others during this magnitude of loss, and he knew that would make me feel connected to him. But I needed a visit of my own. I know that he is fine now, and I know that he is at peace. I needed him to acknowledge me and the pain that I feel in not having him around. It sounds selfish when I say that, but I grew up being comforted by him. I needed him to tell me that he sees my grief, and that he has never left my side. The grief I experienced while he was dying, when I saw his spirit being broken, when I saw his body give way to the disease, that grief was felt as he grew sicker and sicker. The grief I feel now is a desperate ache of missing him, and quite honestly, it's about me not being able to cope with the fact that he's not physically here anymore.

Well, until lastnight. Almost four years later, he decides to visit me. In my dream, I was at the Hackberry Community Center for some reason, and there was a party going on there. I was with John, and a lot of people I know from my home town were there. A lot of people I don't know were also in attendance. Daddy walked up to me out of nowhere and gave me a big hug. He was rosy-cheeked, walking upright, and dressed like I remember him. He was well. I immediately broke down in tears.

"Daddy!" I exclaimed through a wavering voice. "I've missed you so much."

"Hey, Julie Girl. I've missed you, too."

"Why did you wait so long?" I asked, almost in a whisper.

Without answering, he turned to the person next to us whom I don't remember. "This is my daughter. I haven't seen her since I died. But I see when she composes a text to my phone and doesn't send it. I see when she writes letters to me and stories about me in her journal. I've sat and watched her cry, and you wouldn't believe how much she misses me. I have the best kids in the world." His blue eyes looking deep into my own, he finished with, "I'm proud."

Turning to me, he gave me one last squeeze and that big smile of his, and he was gone. Just like that. But just like that, I am changed. Even though I desperately miss him still, I know he knows how much I love, respect, and appreciate him, and how much I know I've learned from him. I am SO much like him, and I needed someone like me to know the depth of my pain. I needed to feel like someone connected with what I feel in every way. And so I say to him...

Thank you, Daddy, for that visit. I'm not sure what the semantics are like in going from dimension to dimension, but thank you for giving me that. Thank you for telling me that you're proud. Proud. It still makes my breath catch in my throat. Next time, try not to wait four years. It wouldn't freak me out if you visited me from time to time and told me something I needed to hear. You are my Daddy, and even though you don't have any skin, it doesn't mean I need you any less. I love you.

Julie Girl

Treat Jar

Hi. I haven't been here in a while. I've been sick and busy and depressed. Not the clinically depressed kind of depression where I need medication to keep me from jumping off the ledge. Just the worn out, I can't focus on anything but making myself feel good kind of funk. Anyways, I feel like I'm getting better, and I'm starting to bounce back some. I've missed you guys.

When I started this blog, I was afraid I would limit myself to a single topic with this blog title. I kind of did, but then I took the stance of, "I don't give a shit. I'm going to write what is amusing to me." This post deviates from my normal protocol, and it is about me and a typical day in my household.

Hubs and I are building a house. Well, we will be. As soon as the slab is poured. Hopefully next week if the weather keeps playing nicely. We have been tossing around the idea of getting a storage building for our glorious shit, so I thought this Thursday night after we finished "talking," I would just start packing. Huh. That'll freak him out. But it was just to get some shit out of the way and to go through all the stuff I'd like to throw away. I was in a bad mood, and I like to do this in a bad mood because I'm hardly emotionally attached to anything at a time like that. Usually I'm just like, "Fuck this trinket. We won't even like each other in a couple of years and I'll be storing this shit, and the bugs love to chew on stuff like this." or "Stick this piece of shit in here, maybe it will get bent out of shape or torn and I won't have to put it out at the new place. I can just say it got fucked in the move. But I'll say it nicely like 'I loved that exquisite piece of shit, but it didn't survive the move.'"

My Australian Shepherd, Sookie, started going a little nuts, so I knew it was time to go outside. I grabbed the treat jar with the liver treats in it. I have this weird habit of tossing things from hand to hand. I don't know why, but it's usually cylindrical objects like bottles of water. I use my right hand to throw it as hard as I can to my left hand from that distance. It's weird, but I'm owning it. Anyway, I tossed the treat jar from my right hand to my left, and I guess since it's square in shape and awkward when being sailed through the air, left hand missed and it just kept flying. I say I missed. I don't even think it registered to my left hand. In fact, if you were standing about ten feet in front of me, I bet it would appear I was just like, "Fuck this treat jar," and then just threw it to my left as if I were in a landfill. Still, I was kind of shocked when it hit the tile floor and shattered into a million pieces.

I cracked my rib coughing while I was so sick, and I swear it broke during another coughing fit I was awoken with one night. Needless to say, I was having a difficult time sweeping up the pieces. John came into the room to check and make sure everyone was alright and offered to sweep it up for me. But first he wanted me to look at something. "Here, come see this," he said. He was looking at some of his old sports memorabilia collection. So I sit down on the guest bed as he goes through the closet, "This is blah-de-blah's card when he went blah-de-blah. This guy was a nobody and then I blah-blah-blah signy-sign fucky-fuck card." This went on for like three minutes, and while I was interested in his collection and trying to be respectful, my mind was in another place. I think it was actually asleep. Then I just thought, "Crap. Treat jar." So I got up and went to get the broom and dust pan, and when I walked in there, Boo Boo (my elderly Pekingese) was finishing the last liver treat. I freaked inside. John came into the room again when he heard me dramatically scream, "Nooooooo!" I've included a picture of my Prince for effect.

Boo Boo

If you're soulless and for reasons that I just can't imagine don't have a dog, I will break this down for you. Liver treats are very soft, much like molding clay. I was certain shards of glass had stuck in the treats and therefore made their way into my tiny 10 year old dog's delicate digestive tract.

I looked at John and said, "He ate them all. He's fucked."

"Oh, shit." he replied.

So I said, "He's sleeping with us tonight."

John asked, "What are you going to do if something's wrong with him?"

"Uh, wake up and freak out." I retorted matter-of-factly, leaving off, "Then you're going to haul us to the vet." I would just be much too hysterical to drive.
I went to the bedroom, sat on the bed and put him on my rug, inspecting him for a little bit. He didn't seem to be displaying any signs of choking or anything like that. So I googled, "My dog ate glass." (Can I just mention as a side note - go type in the phrase, "my dog ate," and see if Google doesn't suggest a completely absurd list of topics.) The blogs suggested making him eat cotton. The following ridiculous exchange takes place between myself and Hubs:

"They said you can make them eat cotton because it surrounds the shards of glass, and they'll just poop them out without incident."

"How are you going to make him eat cotton?" John asked.

"Well, I could rub some cotton balls on my asshole." He gawked intently at me, so I felt the need to explain. "He loves the taste of his own asshole."

John blankly stared in my general direction as if to consider this idea. Not wanting to lose him, I was like, "Here. Rub them under your balls."

"I AM NOT DOING THAT." he replied, and got into the shower, shutting the door behind him and leaving me alone to consider how fucked up this entire conversation was and the fact that it was all my idea.

I dismissed the cotton balls, not wanting to launch into an inner dialogue with myself about how weird I am to me. Instead, I poured Boo Boo a cereal bowl full of cheese doritos. So far, there are no signs of injury nor internal bleeding. My brain, however, could use a band-aid or two I'm sure.

What. The. Fuck?