A couple of weeks ago, I read about a study that concluded that Washington state is not neurotic, at least not as neurotic as the East Coast. Since then, I’ve experienced a few incidences which would completely skew those results to the point where the researchers would amend the title to read: “We Thought Washington Was Not Neurotic But Then We Met Mona And Holy Harry Potter, We Were Wrong!” I’m sure the New England Journal of Medicine would abbreviate it to, “Don’t Talk To Mona. Trust Us.”
Some anecdotes, neuroses wherein:
-Monday night’s poetry reading went very well. You can watch Mike read one of his poems here, thanks to Patrick and Torin from West Seattle Blog. I really big pink puffy heart the West Seattle Blog but unfortunately none of that came out while they were there. I was scanning my brain for funny stock phrases but my searches came up empty. And once they left, I thought of all these cool things I could have said, bits of intellectual gruffle that would have left a more palatable impression other than some girl repeating “Yeah!” and “Cool!” like a less articulate Rain Man.
-A couple of months ago, I saw this bright red van parked in front of our house. I could see an infant carseat base and a toddler carseat belted in the middle row. What struck me was that it had a Saipan license plate. Whoever drove this van had a family! And was from my home island! I wanted to stick a scribbled note under the windshield wiper saying, “HEY THERE I AM ALSO FROM SAIPAN!” But I didn’t because I was afraid they would try to talk to me in Chamorro and I would have nothing to say because my zygote language skills are so pathetic, my mother sends me Chamorro kids books about monsters who are under the bed and still, I have to ask for translation. So there you go, a girl who hails from Saipan who can’t even muster up the courage to talk to other people from Saipan because she’s afraid they’ll make fun of her and she gleans all this FROM LOOKING AT A CAR.
-This weekend, Mike and I attended a small dinner party with Mike’s co-worker and some of her friends. This was a table seated with very smart, professional people who were kind enough not to ask me which mail order bride catalog Mike plucked me from and instead they had a great discussion on politics. And somehow the conversation moved to difficult people and Mike brought up my story of this woman I knew a long time ago who was constantly upset and grumpy. And then I said this gem of brilliance:
“I think that’s because she had a dry vagina.”
Then I realized what I had just said, how inappropriate it was to say this in front of smart people whom I HAD JUST MET, and people who weren’t included in my whole theory that some women of a certain age could be nicer but they aren’t because they have a whole arid-in-the-pants-affliction. Chafing does not a friendly person make!
But instead of being able to explain my idea, Mike cut me off and said, “Okaaaay! I think we should be going now!” So that was it. The ugly words hung in the air as if I had pooped in my hand and smeared the phrase above my head. It was like I had an out-of-body experience in which I drifted up to the ceiling and looked down at my body, my mouth blabbed on and on about menopausal afflictions while I yelled, “SHUT IT, BACON MONSTER!”
And it would help the visual if you knew I was wearing a French Maid costume and Mike was wearing a white lab coat with a badge that read, “PSYCHO WARD.” That’s the kind of life we have, diarrhea-mouthed-maid and mental ward doc.