"You need a license to drive a car. Hell, you need a license to catch a fish. But they'll let any butt-reaming asshole be a father."*

    Sometime in high school, and maybe again in college, a teacher (or four) told me (or the class at large—I can’t remember anything, I’m a goldfish) that I should be aware of starting every paragraph of a paper with the same word. It occurred to me again recently because I’m pretty certain that I tend to start most of my blog posts with the word “I.” I’m a complete and utter narcissist, so okay. I’m aware of it, don’t worry.

"And they say goldfish have no memory, I guess their lives are much like mine."**

    It’s hard to write these blog posts sometimes because they require me to be somewhat more honest than I’d really like to be, and for that reason I don’t always feel like contributing. Honesty in writing is hard but largely necessary if you don’t want to write about the beauty and magic of rainbows and butterflies or bore everyone to death (or both). That’s why writing can sometimes blow as an art form.

    Unlike acting or painting or music, I can’t really pretend that the things I express are anything other than what they are, because I’m not writing fiction, which also kind of blows because my life ain’t all that interesting. (Shut up, Word! I know I’m not supposed to say “ain’t”!) But the following may offend/annoy some people, and for that I'm truly sorry. And for the record, I love (some) kids!

    Anyway.

    I don’t want to shit on parenthood or make it seem like child rearing is an easy job because I know it’s hard and it IS a job. I know firsthand how keeping a toddler alive all day long is the opposite of fun. And I know stay-at-home parents have to want to hit the bottle pretty hard after a day of zero adult conversation. I know it sucks to have a 12-year-old ask about sex or naughty parts or “hair down there.” I know how awful it feels to watch a kid you love get treated like shit by his school friends and how irritating it is to feel like you’ve been turned into someone’s personal maid/chef/bodyguard/chauffeur. All these things I know. (And I did manage to use the word “I” about 47 times in this paragraph. Narcissist.)

    But none of these things change the fact that (some) people with kids tend to be assholes in public. They run their strollers over your feet, take up four times the room a person is supposed to have, refuse to hold doors, and believe that somehow their adorable little assholes are goddamn royalty.

    In short, many parents of young children seem to feel entitled.

    In the past week or so I’ve witnessed the following:

1.     A young, Beverly Hills mom pushed her $8000 stroller and her $10,000 ass directly in front of my line of vision as I shopped at Trader Joe’s. (I would’ve received worse treatment from a mom at Whole Foods, but still.) I gave her one of my classic, huge, passive aggressive sighs as a thank you.

2.     A man in the Pacific Palisades crossed the street in front of my car with his two sons. It wasn’t a cross walk or a stop sign and these were not toddlers on bicycles. He just put his hand up, gesturing for me to stop and walked as slowly as possible in front of my car and across the street.

3.     I held the door for a harried looking mom with two kids, one in a stroller, at the Coffee Bean. She acted like that was my job. No “thank you,” no acknowledgement of any kind.

4.     At Toppings, one of those self-serve frozen yogurt places, a woman’s kid was throwing the tantrum of a lifetime. This little asshole was screaming her head off and the mother’s friend or sister tried to calm the kid down but she did those crazy, writhing, full-body kicks that make it impossible to hold them. So the friend/sister looked at the mom like, “Are you gonna handle this or what?” But the mom just acted like it wasn’t happening. “Not my kid!” Great. The rest of us will just sit here and enjoy our yogurt while your kid shrieks like the little shit she obviously is. She must’ve inherited her bitchiness from you.

    I’m not trying to be a jerk, here. I know it’s hard. I KNOW.

    I remember when my friend Regan’s son, Jimmy, was a baby the three of us went for a ride somewhere and the kid was just screaming his head off. Of course…he was a BABY. But what I most remember is Regan’s*** sense of resignation. She turned to me calmly and said, “It’s times like these when I want to drive my car into a brick wall.” And while I laughed, I felt sorry for her, too. So I try to be patient, I really do.

    But it’s not the kids that drive me nuts. It’s the parents who act like they’re so much better than me because they have a kid. They get on the airplane in front of me**** and they get inoculations I want but have to wait for. They get to take up entire aisles of eating establishments and they get crayons at their tables. I’m pretty sure they get tax breaks, too.

    That’s fine.  Have your babies because I know it’s rewarding in many ways and it’s romantic to have a baby with someone you love and it’s cool to get to invent a name for somebody. But do you have to be so rude about it? (Disclaimer: I’m not talking about ALL parents, just a huge chunk of them. None of my friends has ever been an Entitled Parent in front of me.)

    Just say "thank you" when I hold a door for you. Try not to run over my feet with your stroller, because I don’t do that to you with my shopping cart, so I know it’s avoidable. (When my family was at Disneyland in March, my sister Elizabeth was nailed by no fewer than 3 strollers and only one parent said he was sorry, and it wasn’t even very sincere.) If your kid is screaming, slap him or her in the face and say, “Never again! You got me, jerk?” Just kidding.

    You don’t have to be like the mom I saw at the movie theatre yesterday buying $50 worth of concessions while her kid waited over in a corner, and then when the kid tried to ask a question the rotund (I’m being generous here) mother yelled, “Shut up!” and proceeded to order three more boxes of nachos...presumably for herself. But seriously, take the damn kid outside of the eating establishment until he quiets down. And maybe just be courteous. Parenthood hasn’t given you a free pass. Some of us have gone years intentionally NOT having children so that our lives might be a little simpler, quieter and less “rewarding.”

Rick Moranis and Harley Kozak represent one of the many ways to f**k up a kid in Parenthood.

*This is the second time I've quoted Keanu's character in Parenthood (Ron Howard, 1989). I've loved this movie since Gabe introduced me to it in high school. And, of course, it's no reflection of my feelings for my own father who is a dynamite parent and errs on the side of excessive politeness. 

**Ani DiFranco's "Little Plastic Castle."

***Link to Regan's blog.

****I can't stand that families with small children get to board before the rest of the airplane passengers. Why? Just because they've intentionally made their lives a huge pain in the ass doesn't mean I should have to suffer. Old people and the handicapped I get: they aren't slow and feeble on purpose (except for fat people who ride in wheelchairs because they don't feel like walking because their knees hurt because they're fat: unfair). But just because I didn't have four kids in the last 5 years I'm expected to wait behind The Brady Bunch? I paid good money for this ticket and I got in line BEFORE YOU!

"In the regular world, Halloween is when children dress up in costumes and beg for candy. In Girl World, Halloween is the one night a year when a girl can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it."*

   Okay, so I know Halloween weeks away, but I’ve been trying to brainstorm an amazing costume idea for two weeks already because a. I have a fun Halloween party to go to and I already know about it so I am obligated and at leisure to plan and 2. I want to have a great, non-slutty costume all ready to go so I don’t get caught with my pants down (literally or figuratively).

   I tend to lean towards movie characters or Golden Age movie stars—I was Holly Golightly last year (and ended up having the sluttiest costume at that particular party, ironically).  But I would like to shoot for the stars this year, since Halloween really does matter to me. But I’d also like to avoid buying a wig, since, having disposed of my handy wig collection many years ago, I don’t really feel like heading down that road again. Wigs are expensive, so you end up keeping them, storing them, thinking you’ll use them again. And the next thing you know you’re a senior in college with a box full of wigs and no place to put it so you bust it out at dinner parties after you graduate and your landlord drops by unannounced and thinks you’re some sort of “dominatrix” weirdo when all you were trying to do was put your hair pieces to some good use. For an example.

   So I’ve been doing some scrolling through the Interwebs and hoping for inspiration to strike me. I’ve considered 80’s icons (Cyndi Lauper, Prince [Prince, Prince, Prince!], Freddie Mercury, and Pat Benetar). I’ve thought about 80’s movie characters (Baby from Dirty Dancing, Mrs. White from Clue). I’ve even considered revisiting some of the classic horror films (Regan from The Exorcist, Rhoda from The Bad Seed, Jane Hudson from What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, Melanie Daniels from The Birds). 

Scary Rhoda from The Bad Seed.

   It was when I started really thinking about scary movies that it occurred to me that you SHOULD be scary on Halloween. If at all possible, your costume should have some element of horror or science fiction or thriller about it. And the more horror films and SCI-FI classics I thought of, the more I realized that most of those evil women characters, or even the female victims in those movies are BLONDES.

   Maybe you’ve already thought of this yourself, but if you haven’t, consider this:

REGAN, The Exorcist (Blonde—and later greenish, but mostly blonde)

RHODA, The Bad Seed (Blonde. Very, very blonde.)

JANE HUDSON, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (Scary, haunt-your-nightmares blonde.)

NELL, The Haunting (Annoying, hope-she-dies-soon blonde)

LAMIA, Stardust (Gorgeous and also hideous blonde)

CLAUDIA, Interview With a Vampire (Still blonde)

THE CHILDREN, Children of the Corn (Holy god, they’re blonde)

HITCHCOCK, Separate category (yeah, I know, he was obsessed with blondes)

Joan Fontaine (Suspicion, Rebecca)

Grace Kelly (To Catch a Thief, Dial M for Murder, Rear Window)

Doris Day (The Man Who Knew Too Much)

Eva Marie Saint (North by Northwest)

Janet Leigh (Psycho)

Tippi Hedren (The Birds, Marnie)

Blonde. Melanie Daniels.

   What the what? Why are all these scary ladies (or leading ladies in scary movies) blondes? Admittedly, blondes have more fun, but I thought being a brunette was supposed to be especially awesome because we are the embodiment of evil (you know, dark forces and what-not…and aren’t witches usually brunettes?). Cinema is saying otherwise, however, and unless I want to go as a Disney version of a bad lady (Malificent, Ursula, Snow White’s Stepmom—most recently portrayed in the movies by Charlize Theron, a blonde—or one of the Wicked Stepsisters), I’m stuck buying a blonde wig.

   Which bums me out a little bit.

   I should quit complaining. I guess as long as I don't dress like a whore, I'm okay. Unless I decide to go as an actual whore, in which case I can (and should) dress as one. They're usually not as pretty as you'd think, though, from my own personal experience.

   But I'll probably just go buy a wig.

   And, if you want to know the truth, I do look pretty scary with blonde hair. 

*Mean Girls (Mark Waters, 2004).

"Possum. Big freaky lookin' bitch. Since when did they change it to 'opossum'? When I was coming up it was just possum. Opossum makes it sound like he's Irish or something. Why they gotta go changing everything?"*

   So the other night I was sitting on my balcony overlooking my adorable, albeit dry, creek and minding my own business when—wait, back up. That’s not correct. I was inside at this point in the evening. There may have been wine involved, so bear with me. Rewind.

   Yes, so anyway, I was inside enjoying an episode of Monk (or twelve—I’m a spy, remember? So it’s okay), when there was a crash on the balcony (overlooking my adorable, albeit dry, creek blah blah blah. Alright, the creek isn’t mine. But the view is, so there you go.).

   My first thought was, “Godammit! That rascally opossum from the creek finally figured out how to swing from one of those tree branches onto the porch!” Now, despite the fact that the ‘possum would have to swing a good fifty feet from any tree to reach my porch is part of why it was so terrifying. It would have to be a high-climbing, industrious, and probably plagued ‘possum. And that has basically been my worst fear for the entire month I’ve lived in this apartment, so it would only make sense that I had willed it to happen. I half-expected to see his gnarly, rabid face all up in the glass of the sliding door. But no. The opossum was out somewhere in the neighborhood minding his own business as well. Opossum don’t care. Opossum don’t give a shit.

Rogue opossum swinging onto my porch. Nightmare realized.

   It was people that made the crash on my porch.

   I turned on the light and saw my coffee cup from earlier all smashed to shit and a paper airplane stuck inside what looked like a broken coffee machine piece (a cup holder?) or some such bullshit. I don’t know what things are called, okay? Here, I’ll show you:

I think I get easily carried away by Hipstagram and photo effects. Can't help it!

 

 

  And all masking-taped around the side was “You’re cute! You’re cute! You’re cute!”

   And the paper airplane had some UT student’s 8^th-grade-level algebra homework all over it.

   My first thought was, “Oh wow, someone has a huge crush on me!” I wondered if it was that little undergrad Tyler in the apartment above and to the right of mine who brought me incense one time and had friends over all that night making noise and having “deep” conversations about what they liked best about themselves.

   For a second, I thought it was kind of sweet.

   Then, as I was cleaning up the shards of glass from my balcony, I started to get a little pissed. Where’d those fuckers go, anyway? They threw a note onto my porch, broke my mug and then bolted? That’s not nice. And if I’m so cute, why not stick around to apologize for breaking my shit?

   And then the thoughts spiraled. I thought to myself: I bet none of them really thinks I’m cute! Besides boys never say you’re cute, girls say that. Those turds think they’re really clever and funny and they’re making fun of me! Those fucking jive-ass turkey shits!

   There was more evidence that the love note wasn’t legit: the algebra homework belonged to some girl named Jenell, and girls are always the ones who decide to do mean things to other girls (and say “you’re cute!”). I was thinking about how I was going to march upstairs and beat the shit out of Jenell, and then smash a bunch of shit on Tyler’s balcony and then unleash an opossum into their apartment! They’d be so sorry…

   But I’m kind of shy. And Jenell’s math homework made me sad. She’s clearly in some sort of remedial math class for morons, so life isn’t going to be too easy on her unless she happens to be really pretty (we already know she’s not smart or interesting).

   As I stepped out onto the balcony an hour or so later to talk to Regan on the phone, Tyler came outside.

   “Hi,” he said. He was alone.

   “Hi,” I wasn’t fuming anymore, but I didn’t know how to act.

   “Did we break some of your stuff earlier?”

   “Um, yeah.”

   “I’m really sorry about that. My friends were really drunk. They didn’t mean to break anything.”

   “It’s okay, I guess. Do you need your paper airplane back?” I was joking.

   “No.” He was really serious. I think he actually felt super bad. I guess if it were I, I would’ve hidden for months until the whole incident was a distant memory, so I had to give him credit for apologizing.

   “Alright then.”

   “Have a good night. I’m sorry.”

   “It’s okay.”

   Regan told me that if it’d happened to her, she’d take it as an omen from the spirits that she was super hot. I think she used the word “fine,” but she’s never really gotten over the 90’s, so we have to make allowances.

   I just can’t imagine what weird time warp I’ve fallen into that has me dealing with the ins-and-outs of a 19-year-old boy’s mind again. I've also kind of been thinking since I was 18 or so that I wouldn't have to deal with 19-year-olds again until I had a kid that was 19. I guess I’m just lucky to be back in college doing my thing, even if there happen to be 19-year-olds who live in my immediate vicinity. Life isn't perfect.

   I’ve also decided to take the note as a sweet gesture that went awry. What's the point in being negative? So I can work super hard to not like myself? Even if those kids don’t actually think I’m cute (though obviously I AM), they could’ve written something truly mean. And I don’t think they meant to break my mug. And the paper airplane was pretty decent. Maybe Jenell has a some kind of future in paper airplanes. (I certainly hope she never gets her hands near a real airplane... just based entirely on her math skills.)

*Jesse Pinkman on Breaking Bad (Vince Gilligan, 2008).

"And these children that you spit on, as they try to change their worlds, are immune to your consulatations. They're quite aware of what they're going through."*

              Ahoy, Mateys! My blog is under construction, as you may have guessed based on its ever-changing and yet still strange format. I have several brilliant minds on the project, however, so never ye fear. I promised something good would happen to my layout in the New Year, and several of my smartest colleagues are working on it. Don’t think about it, is what I recommend. And I try not to think about it, either.

            Tonight was sort of bittersweet, as Mike (whom you may remember from here and here) came in town for a “business trip” (I guess he’s a real grown-up now) and we sat out on what used to be our balcony when we were mere children right out of undergrad and reminisced a bit about “the past” and “yore” and “ye olden times.”

            You see: I’m leaving my apartment.

            I’ve been in this place for almost eight years and I feel like I’m getting divorced. Down have come all the (not-so-expertly) stained wine crates in which I so artfully ensconced my books and DVDs and random tchotchkes (yep, definitely had to look up the spelling on that one, and Word still isn’t having it…maybe Word is an anti-Semite?) and into the walls have gone little rolls of putty and lots of cursing and slabs of primer. I took all my beloved maps down from the walls. My precious book and play collection is in boxes. My series of bathroom action figures is packed away.  All that remains is….the other 90% of my shit. Clothes, shoes, bags, (blazers), kitchen stuff, tools, towels, board games (of which I have many), furniture, furniture, more furniture, all the light bulbs I hoarded before the government outlawed the old ones in favor of the new long-lasting (mercury-ridden) ones, crafts, artworks, bathroom stuff….oh fudruckers! I’m having a panic attack. I better stop while I’m (somewhat) ahead.

            Change is hard for me. But it usually happens in my life in giant leaps and bounds, rather than in gradual baby steps. If all I had to contend with right now was moving, I think I’d be in excellent shape. But this past month and the two months ahead have packed themselves (okay, I’m partially, perhaps totally, responsible) full of enormous troughs of change.

1.     I’m moving.

2.     I’m considering going back to school for a Master’s degree (in what? Who knows?! Maybe Animal Husbandry. I want to find husbands for all the unwed animals!). This involves re-learning math starting from what I’m going to guess, based on my practice tests, is the 4^th-grade level. (On a positive note, the math I do understand—which is precious little— is quite fun and entertaining.) Lesson: stay in school. Forever, if you can.

3.     I promised quite a few people that I would edit their manuscripts, plays, screenplays, etc…And it’s sad, because I truly enjoy editing. But why would I agree to these things when I can’t even remember the Pythagorean theorem? (Question: how did I get through the last 10-12 years without ever using math aside from leaving tips and figuring out how much something would cost on sale? But, along those same lines, my expertise in fractions and percentages remains undiminished!)

4.     Turning 30. I haven’t quite done it yet, but I’m staring down the barrel. My three best friends, Emily, Gabe and Regan, all turned 30 in the last few months (I doubt my girls would mind me saying so here). They’re all handling it like it’s no big whoop, but they’re also more elegant and together than I am (unsurprisingly—that’s why I want to be friends with them).  I feel like I’m supposed to have done something or that maybe I have only 6 more months to do something or I’m going to drop dead on my 30^th birthday from mis- or disuse. It’s not that 30 is old, it’s that it’s significant, somehow. And I really can’t wrap my head around it. Maybe if I could be 29 for one more year, I could get it together…

5.     Turning 30, when I think about it, seems to be more about figuring out a life plan (which I went into a bit here). To that end, I must say that I’m baffled. I’ve had lots of hopes and dreams, but most of them seem sort of ephemeral at this point in my life, and I don’t know how to redirect my ambitions. Does this even make sense? (Is this destined to be one of those things I write about and then I'll look back on it in 10 years and chuckle knowingly while rolling around naked on piles of money?)

6.     I’m pregnant. (Just kidding! You have to have sex to get pregnant! Right?) I only said that because it's listed as one of the most stressful of life's changes.

7.     The Hunger Games. I started reading it because my roommate, Ron, recommended it and then I was useless for three days because all I could do was read The Hunger Games, eat (The Hunger Games makes you feel famished, I kid you not), and go to the bathroom. I’ve missed out on lots of valuable time. I haven’t exercised in days or vacuumed or packed or planned my life. DO NOT READ THIS BOOK. Unless you want to have your mind blown, that is. Seriously.

            It’s super late for me to be writing, but I worked all weekend, and this is the first time I’ve had alone, especially since Mike went to bed because he has a big important, grown-up, business meeting tomorrow. Because that’s what we are, or are supposed to be: grown-ups. And so, I guess I’ll find a new and different and maybe even better apartment (hopefully something anywhere near as nice as Mary Tyler Moore’s). But part of me will always think of this one as mine.

Emily took this picture from my balcony at sunset. Sigh.

            This is where I spent the first part of my “real” life—my post-college twenties. I learned how to pay bills and get to know my amazing neighbors and bitch at the landlord and order in delivery and grow a plant and (occasionally) have it live. It’s really hard, I’m not gonna lie. But I think it’s going to be a good year. Fingers crossed.

*The legendary David Bowie, "Changes."

"He's not the Messiah! He's a very naughty boy!"*

    I’ve been in Omaha for a few days and having a largely splendid/relaxing time.  Potentially too relaxing. There’s something about being at my parents’ house that allows me to fall asleep on just about any surface—a couch, my bed, the floor—and get better, more productive, harder sleep than I get anywhere else. I used to think it was some sort of random carbon monoxide leak in their house. But now I think it’s just because I’m not working when I’m here, I have no deadlines and there’s air conditioning. Whatever. It’s been great. Last night I went to bed at 7:30 p.m. and didn’t wake up until 8:30 the following morning. That’s kind of pathetic and sick; but it’s also kind of incredible. I’m like a teenager again! (Actually, sleeping in my room is much like being a teenager again, since my Pink Floyd, Janis Joplin and Tori Amos posters are still on the walls/ceilings. It’s a very strange yet comforting atmosphere. Even more so if I can manage to ignore the doll I have with the eyes that flip open. But I just turn her on her stomach most nights or put a pillow over her head. No big whoop.)

My writing spot: parents' backyard. Imagine cicadas chirping and warm wind. And usually I'm sitting in the chair. Perfect.

    Anywho, today I went to donate blood. I’m a really amazing, saint-like human being, so every 5 years or so I give blood. On the years in between I try not to litter and occasionally donate clothes to Out of the Closet. But every now and then, when and only when I’m in Omaha, I’ll hook the Red Cross up with some of my precious, precious whole blood.

    Today I showed up for my appointment and got right in. It turns out that I was the only person that had shown up for her appointment, so I felt pretty special (read: self-righteous). They put me through the whole rigmarole of asking about whether or not I’d slept with the entire US and Filipino armies or if I was a hooker or had spent five or more years in Eastern Europe (I wish) or in jail and then got me set up for the big donation.

    Enid, the woman taking my blood, asked me if I was related to a Rouse that was a school teacher. I told her she was probably thinking of my Uncle Jim. Somehow this led into a conversation about Catholicism. See, it turns out Enid was all set to be a nun, but then she opted out of taking her orders or whatever after she wrapped up her convent schooling, and she went to nursing school instead.

    I asked if she was raised Catholic. She said yes. She asked if I was raised Catholic. I said yes. But then it became clear that only one of us was still going to Mass. Guess which one?

    So as she’s giving me a very gentle hearted but determined lecture on going back to The Church and spending more time at Mass, she starts poking around for my pathetic, slippery vein.  (Disclaimer: my blood is really awesome, but my veins are weak and spindly, and almost impossible to get at. So usually when people tell me I’m going to feel a “slight stick” I brace myself for something MUCH worse. It’s okay. I can handle it. Once, after a lactose intolerance test, I showed up to my table-waiting job looking like I had a serious heroin problem.) So after she told me to get ready for the stick, she said, “Uh oh.” And then she kept saying it as I proceeded to feel about 14 separate jabs in my arm.

[Here’s a brief side note for all phlebotomists and LPNs and RNs, etc. of the world: don’t say “Uh oh,” while you’re sticking a needle into someone. It’s not soothing. It’s panic-inducing, torturous, and gut wrenching. If that person has a fear of needles, it’s absolute hell, I would imagine. Luckily, I don’t care too much.]

Ooh...look how arty this photo is!

Enid put the hurt on me. But don't fret, the top two are freckles, not track marks.

    So while she stabbed me in the arm and told me I’d probably end up getting a bruise (she was right!), she asked me why I’m no longer going to church. I explained that I didn’t really like the fact that the Catholic Church was/is extremely homophobic and doesn’t treat women that well and isn’t too keen on people that can’t keep up with their tithing rates and disallows the “right to choose.” She acted all appalled and asked me where I went to church, as though MY church were the problem, and not the Catholic Church at large. Fine. It was definitely just my church and not the Vatican, the Bible or the numerous Catholic textbooks I read throughout 13 YEARS of Catholic schooling that espoused these things. I just signed up at the wrong church. My bad.

    At that point, I was intentionally looking away from my arm and focusing on the latte in my left hand. So Enid starting telling me about her roommate, Barbara, that had just died from what sounded like a combination of the flu, cirrhosis and the Ebola virus. Things were getting kind of awkward. Luckily, I enjoy things that are awkward, so I delved into the fate of Barbara like it was the last thing standing between Enid and I getting to know each other a little bit and me giving Enid a taste of why, exactly, I am no longer a Catholic (a story which would’ve probably made me into a hateful, vicious little bitch à la Regan in The Exorcist and made her intentionally spill my blood out all over the floor until I died à la Annie in Misery).

    After she FINALLY took the needle out of my arm, a very brusque, scary nurse approached me and told me to raise my arm over my head while she went for an ice bag. I didn’t feel sick, like I have in the past, because my dad told me that feeling sick during a blood donation is psychological and not physical. I AM A MASTER OF OVERCOMING PSYCHOSOMATIC ILLNESS. But then nurse number two wrapped my arm in red tape while talking on her cell phone and got mad that I wasn’t holding my arm in the right place.

    Meanwhile, Enid helped her strap an ice bag on my arm and recommended that I start going to Church again. I don’t think she meant that was going to make my bruising go away.

    I felt like if this were a movie Enid had to watch she would think it was about Mormons. She’d say things to Barbara (before Barbara died) like, “We Catholics would never push our religion on people like that.”

    Then I thought, well, Barbara’s been Enid’s “roommate” for 13 years. Maybe they were more than roommates and maybe that’s why Enid left the nunnery.

    And then I felt kind of sad for Enid. Maybe she’s been a closeted lesbian for all her life, and she couldn’t hack it in the convent because she knew she was homosexual. But then why didn’t she leave the church? In either event, the woman she’d spent the last 13 years with had died. And I felt bad for her.

    Then I pictured Enid telling Barbara that the Catholics would never have acted that way while snuggling up to her little, frail body with a big bowl of popcorn and some Twizzlers. (Enid did say she had to get back to Weight Watchers, though.) And that made me feel like maybe Enid had been really happy with Barbara. Or not.

    Chances are, Enid’s just an uptight Catholic with a needle and a message. And, not to sound like a bitch, but I’m already vaccinated.

*Monty Python's Life of Brian (Terry Jones, 1979). Of all the "greatest stories ever told," this ranks among my favorites.