I know, I know… If this was Facebook I wouldn’t be able to be honest with you, because apparently everything has to be Rainbows and Sunshine over there. But, here on my blog, I can tell the truth, and you can stop reading anytime, but you won’t because let’s face it, if someone had a worse year than you, it would probably make YOU feel a little bit better, right? Of course it would and I’m here to help YOU feel better. AS ALWAYS MY DARLINGS.

Let’s start with January 17^th, 2011. My daughter and I said goodbye to Fluke. Our Old Man; our faithful Knight in Shining Armor who protected us for 13 years with his bark, his growl, with his mere presence. He so loved Mackenzie that when she was 6 years old he jumped out the 2^nd story window onto the roof when he heard her screaming in the front yard. He didn’t know she was “play” screaming. He just knew he had to get to his little girl.

Old Man Fluke had cancer, which spread to his brain, and he had seizures. When the Phenobarbital stopped working, and the seizures became more frequent, I knew it was time to say goodbye, and we did. Two weeks later there was a recall on the Phenobarbital he was taking. It had been switched with Tramadol. Had Fluke been taking actual Phenobarb, he may have had more time. Or maybe not. We’ll never know. His face, as he slipped away, haunts me every single day.

So that’s how 2011 started. And it continued…

January 25^th I quit smoking. I gave up coffee. Starbucks’ profit took a pretty hefty hit, but it had to be done. Why? Because I had a heart attack that day. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you’re dying (or think you’re dying), but that’s not exactly true. My daughter’s life flashed before my eyes and that was the shock I needed. So the cigarettes went, the coffee went, I lost 30 pounds and tried to let stress roll off my back. Easier said than done.

I lost my house this year. The house my daughter grew up in. The house Fluke lived in his entire life. Gone. Why was it gone? Because I was unemployed for 5 months this awesome year, and have been taking care of my mother financially for two and a half years. Which, in case you’re wondering, is fucking difficult WHEN YOU ARE UNEMPLOYED. I do not suggest letting your mother live with you, under any circumstances. ANY. Serious.

After losing the house, we moved into a rental in another city. A few days after moving in we discovered the rental was infested with scorpions and black widows. And I was still unemployed. And supporting my mother. When the last of my savings was gone, I had to file bankruptcy. Twenty Eleven was rocking my world, my universe, my everything. But wait…

Four weeks ago a cyst was found in my daughters left temporal lobe. Apparently she was born with it. She’s 17 now, and she’s been applying for scholarships and getting ready to fill out college applications. The quick-witted child that’s been on the honor roll since her first semester in kindergarten, who’s been in the Honor’s program since she started high school, now spends 7 hours a night doing homework because she can’t remember what she read an hour before. She can’t always understand the verbal instructions from her teachers – she just can’t put the words together in her head. Sometimes she can’t write the instructions down fast enough before they slip her mind forever, and she cries. She has headaches that won’t go away, her arms and legs go numb, and sleep eludes her. Sometimes her teachers can’t catch her attention and she seems to be lost in space. But she’s not. Not lost in space anyway.

I survived a heart attack; it was a wake up call. I survived months of unemployment and managed to support 3 people and 2 dogs, even though I lost my house and filed bankruptcy.

Twenty Eleven could’ve been forgiven, and chalked up as a string of powerful learning experiences.

But a cyst in my daughter’s brain? Are you fucking kidding me? Bite me 2011. You’re an asshole.

I’m not saying that 2012 will be better. And I’m not saying that 2012 will be the “Year of Jenny”… I would NEVER be so bold. But holy mother mary jesus CHRIST! Give me a damn break.

Obligatory, end-of-year rant over. Promise.

A couple years ago I had the opportunity to see him speak. It was on my birthday, so I bought a ticket months in advance and waited. The night of the event I sat on my couch, all dressed up, hair done, just sitting. Paralyzed with fear. I suffer from a social anxiety disorder that “occasionally” causes me to freak out and I can’t leave the house. If I’m going somewhere with someone, it’s usually ok. Or if I’m meeting someone, as long as they come fetch me from the parking lot, then I’m ok. But for this event, on my birthday, no one wanted to go with me. I really thought I could do it. He was my hero after all – I should be able to do this! Nope. No way. I sat on my couch bawling like a baby.

Fast-forward 2 years and David Sedaris is coming to Changing Hands Bookstore – my favorite bookstore – for a reading AND SIGNING. OOOOH EM GEEEEEEEE!!!!!! “This is awesome”, I thought. So again, I buy a ticket for myself because none of my friends are interested. That’s fine. I can do this. I’m an optimist. I won’t let this chance pass me by again, right???

The day of the event I left work early, changed my clothes and packed up ALL of my Sedaris books so he could sign ALL of them. Because that’s the kind of whole-hearted dork I am. I’m pretty sure I looked like a crazy librarian with all those books, but I didn’t care… I WAS GOING TO MEET THE MAN!

I took some pills to calm me down, having learned a valuable lesson from the last incident and I headed to Changing Hands. There were a million people there, but I had my ticket, my seat and my books – I was ready to go. Then it happened. He appeared. He read from his new book. He asked questions, told stories, and made us laugh, genuinely laugh, from deep inside our bellies. As the reading was wrapping up and the signing was about to begin David Sedaris said something that caused such an adverse reaction in my body, my soul, my brain that I almost vomited, shat, pissed myself and passed out. Almost, not quite. I’m not that big of a freak, Jesus. But I did start shaking and sweating and may have started to drool like a dog in agonizing, yet stoic, pain.

“WHAT DID HE SAY????” You’re on pins and needles, I KNOW….

He said… he said…. David Sedaris said that everyone had to tell him a joke when they came up to get their books signed.

A joke. Tell him a fucking joke. Simple… It’s just a joke, right? A few stupid words with a punch line. If he likes your joke, he’ll tell it to his audience at the next night’s reading. Most people would bounce at the chance to make their hero laugh. Me? I barf at the chance.

My social anxiety consists of three very important components:

1)    I cannot enter a social establishment alone, i.e.: a bar, club, restaurant, coffee shop. I cannot enter alone.

2)    I cannot have people staring at me in a social situation. I cannot be the center of attention or focal point. Do not look at me. Do not see me. I am 6 feet tall and fat. Just keep your eyes moving along and see someone else please.

3)    I cannot speak to strangers socially and I certainly cannot tell a joke – not one – not ever. That is a skill I do not possess and even if I did it would require that I speak to people AND THAT THEY LOOK AT ME, which totally flies in the face of item #2 above.

As I stood there in line, about 87 people in front of me, I weighed my options.  I had, after all, made it this far. I sat through the reading with a few hundred strangers. I entered the building all by myself. I could do this I thought. It’s David Sedaris. I’ll tell a dumb joke, get my books signed, throw up in the parking lot and die happy.

Abso-fucking-lutely

For the next 2 hours I stood in line, sweating, visibly shaking, writing down the ONLY joke I’ve ever remembered in my damn life, and repeating it to myself over and over and over again. I tried to focus on other peoples’ conversations to distract me, but quickly realized that the people within earshot were either complete fucktards, saying things like, “Mastiffs are prone to biting small faces off. Like… kids faces…”, WTF? Are you kidding me? Everyone knows that Mastiffs eat gerbils and Chihuahuas – don’t be stupid. And then some of the people lived such affluent lives that I couldn’t even comprehend what they were complaining about: someone couldn’t access her trust fund. Me either, honey. I feel your pain. And someone “had” to find a new groundskeeper because the current one kept staring at her “lustfully”. Well, at least it was a distraction. The sweating and shaking had subdued and now it was MY turn.

HERE. WE. GO…

DAVID: Hello young lady. What’s your name?

ME: Jenny

DAVID: Do you have a joke for me?

ME: Yes, but it’s highly offensive to women. (I looked at his assistant and apologized in advance for what I was about to say out loud.)

AND THEN I DID IT!!!! I told “The Joke” AND I nailed the punch line! It’s the only joke that I’ve ever been able to remember in my entire life, but because it’s incredibly offensive to women, and possibly French people as a whole, I have never told it. Until that moment. And do you know what happened? A massive sink hole opened up and devoured my fat ass… Not really…

He laughed.

I made David Sedaris and his assistant laugh out loud. He pulled out his notebook and wrote down MY JOKE.

I grabbed my books, said thank you, ran to my car, and then I cried.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I battled my own silly demons, met my “hero”, made him laugh and cried victory. Literally.

BEST. NIGHT. EVER!

Yes, mom?

Don’t. Be. Alarmed. But I think you should call 911. Or the Toxic People. No, 911. I don’t know.

Mom, you’re stoned. It’s OK.

Oh God. I can feel my blood pressure dropping.

Yep, you’re stoned.

I took one of your Vicodin before you came home. I should’ve told you. I think I’m dying.

First, stop taking my Vicodin – I don’t have health coverage. And you’re not dying. You’re. Just. Stoned.

Oh no. I’m tingly all over. I can’t walk. I think your friends gave you “Bad Shit”.

Nope. Tingly = “Good Shit”. Pretty sure…

15 minutes later…..

Jenny?

Yes, mom?

I’m sorry I ever doubted the integrity of your friends with the “marry-jew-wanna”. Hahahahahaha. I can’t feel anything. Anything…

That’s nice mom.

Jenny?

Yes?

You’re such a good girl for taking care of me. What should I tell the cops?

What cops?

The cops. When they come to bust me.

Bust you for what?

For smoking the “marry-jew-waaaanaaaa”.

Nobody cares mom.

I’ll tell them I got it from the maintenance man!

What maintenance man?

There’s always a maintenance man! With weeeeed.

Ok, mom.

No, no, no… I’ll tell them I’m 61 fucking years old and they can fuck off!

Ok, mom. I promise nobody cares. Nobody’s coming to bust anyone.

Are you twucking?

Huh?

Twicking? Twucking?

No, mom. I’m not “tweeting” about you. (totally lied.)

15 minutes later….

POISON CONTROL!!! Hahahahahahaha!!! Fuckers. Not “Toxic People”. Hahahahahaha.  ***see line 3 at top***

The rest of the conversation seemed to be between my mother and the voices in her head. They all seemed to be having a lovely time.

*I* certainly was having a lovely time because after days and days of listening to my mother cry I just couldn’t take it anymore. She wants to die. She’s severely depressed. She’s almost immobile. She’s in constant, chronic, debilitating pain stemming from 40+ years of spinal trauma. If giving her the “marry-jew-wanna” is going to make her smile and stop the crying for just a few moments a day, then so be it. I’ll be the kid that gets her mom stoned.

My grandmother started a trend it seems. Everyone else in my family has died of cancer. Except my grandfather. He did have cancer, but that’s not what killed him. He was always a rebel, my grandfather. But my aunts, uncles, cousins? If they’re dead, they died of cancer. It’s never the same kind; everyone seems to get something different. I’m not very close with my family anymore, extended or otherwise, so we never talk about these things. It was different when my grandparents were alive. Mona and Gayle. They were the glue that held us all together and without them we just can’t seem to stay connected.

A few years ago when my favorite uncle was diagnosed with cancer I actually did some research. It seemed strange to me that someone could get cancer in the esophagus. Stranger still that they would die. And he did. And then his wife was diagnosed with cancer a few months later. So now that I’m older I do a little research when someone gets cancer, if for no other reason than to just know what’s going on. I didn’t do anything when my grandmother died and she is my favorite person in the world. Ever. So I do research, just like I research the cancer that’s killing my dog. And I read survival stories, and I read about new treatments on the horizon. And I just keep reading. I may never be able to have an intelligent conversation about cancer, but the knowledge that I can tuck away inside my little brain makes me feel better, for some inexplicable reason, about my grandmother.

If you or someone you know has been touched by cancer please know that knowledge is power and sometimes that’s the only power you’ll have. There are many websites to help you along the way, places to share stories and connect with others. Sites like Navigating Cancer are a good place to start.

This morning we took Effie and Ero to the dog park. The  early morning weather is fantastic now so the park is packed with the usual suspects and a lot of fresh faces, both canine and human, which I love! I bore easily. It’s a character flaw. Anyway, a woman that’s been coming to the park longer than we have approached me because one of her dogs was drinking out of our cooler. There are a few people at this park that don’t like to share their water and you never know who they are until you hear them yelling at your dog. I am not one of the stingy water hoarders. I like dogs more than people so we bring a big cooler.

The woman, whom I’ve seen many times because Effie used to play with her dogs, noticed Ero, went to pet him and called him a “funny little mutt thing”. I told her his name and Miss Rude said “Oh, he’s YOURS? What is he?” I told her his breed, but he’s a rescue so it’s really just a lot of guessing unless I do a DNA test. Miss Rude proceeded to point out all of his flaws. Thank you. I’m actually aware of his supposed “flaws” and don’t consider them as such because he’s a dog not a beauty pageant contestant, I chose him and we love him dearly.

This is where I started to take it a little personal. I had been over it; Miss Rude went to hob-knob with one of the cliques and all was good. We walked around the perimeter for a bit and sat on a bench so Effie and Ero could rest. The next thing I know Miss Rude is headed our way again, with some other chick, and says “You should’ve named him Doofus. That’s what he looks like. A doofus.” And then she turns to the other chick and says, “See, doesn’t he look weird? Doofus fits better.” They laugh and walk away.

What possessed this chick to walk across this massive park and point out my apparently stupid looking dog to someone else, I will never know. I just don’t understand people, which is another reason why I like dogs better. But, if you think that was the end of it you would be so very wrong! We walked back to the tree where I had left our cooler. Effie and Ero got their second wind and while they were playing Miss Rude came over AGAIN, WITH MORE PEOPLE IN TOW, and said to them, “See, doesn’t he look like the dog in ‘The Neverending Story’? I think his name should be ‘Doofus’. Doesn’t that fit him?”

Ero - The "Fugly and Flawed" Dog

Falkor the Luckdragon who actually *is* kinda fugly. And also imaginary.

Sweet Baby Jesus Mother Mary I’m going to kick your irritating ass.

I know he’s just a dog and not my actual child but she basically told me, and apparently the rest of the park, that Ero is the fugliest dog she’s ever seen. And she didn’t just tell everyone, she had to show them as well. I try really hard to like people. I make an effort every single day not to smack people in the face because they are mostly irritating. And more stupid than they should be. But I never, ever say it to their faces. That’s how classy I am.

Well, imagine my surprise when I arrived at the drive-thru speaker this morning and saw this message taped to the screen:

WHOA! BACK THE TRUCK UP! Do you mean to tell me that I have been wasting countless hours and oodles of my hard-earned money on Match and eharmony and all this time I could’ve just ordered a Boy Toy at the damn drive thru? What the hell McDonalds!?! Yeah, I’d say you’ve inconvenienced me. And now you’re out of them? When will you get more? And do you take special orders? Oh wait, you’re not Burger King so I probably “can’t have it my way”.

What. The. Fuck? Why am I always the last to know about the good shit?

Take for instance the client who completely stopped her signing because she didn’t like the way I wrote my 5’s. Yes. My 5’s were too similar to an “S” and she wanted me to correct them all. Holy Shit Batman. If you thought my 5’s were bad, you should see my “1’s”. They’re horrible! They are so similar to an “L” or, dare I say, an “i” WITHOUT THE FUCKING DOT! It’s sick. I’m sick. I have no idea how I made it through school. And how in the name of all that is Holy did I make it into a Master’s program? With penmanship like that I should’ve been held back in fourth grade.

Another example of crazy is the little old lady in North North Scottsdale. If you are familiar with the Phoenix area you will understand that North Scottsdale and North North Scottsdale are two completely different animals. North Scottsdale = money. NN Scottsdale = OMG Shut The Fuck Up You Live Where? And therefore there is an expected level of class or culture or brains or something that inherently comes with the location. Unless of course you are me, because when I get called to NN Scottsdale I just get to meet the whack-jobs.

Little Old Lady (LOL) lives in a gated and 24 hour guarded community. I had to stop at the gate and check in, wait for the guard to record my car info and check to see that my name was on the list. When I got to the house I rang the bell and heard LOL unlock three separate locks. When she “opened” the door she did so with the chain still attached and she gave me the once over. After a few awkward moments she shut the door, took the chain off and led me into the kitchen. Okay, dicey start but I was in now, sitting at her kitchen table, with her loan documents in hand.

LOL seemed really uncomfortable with me, with her loan documents, with everything and then she had a question regarding some of the costs on her settlement statement and because I don’t work for the title company I cannot tell you why they charged you a bazillion dollars for this or that. So I pick up my cell to call her title rep and LOL freaked out!

LOL:            “You can’t use a cell phone from my house!”

Me:               “Why? I’m getting reception.”

LOL:            “NO! THEY can hear you. EVERYONE can hear you. You have
to use MY phone. They can’t hack into MY phone.”

Me:              “Are you kidding me? Is Ashton here?”

Sweet baby Jesus, she’s fucking crazy. And since I don’t like to touch other people’s stuff, like their virus-ridden phone, without sanitizing it first in a bleach bath, I gave her the number and made her call the title company on her fancy, hack proof Bat Phone. By the time she got off the phone with the title company LOL had freaked herself out so badly about a multitude of things that she made me follow her to a café down the street to finish the signing. It was all I could do to not tell her that I thought we were followed and that the café had cameras recording our every move. That probably would’ve launched her right off her rocker. But it would have been awesome.

I am not offended by the question. Not in any way. I do not get upset. I do not cry and throw myself a pity party in front of my client. Nor do I take offense and stand on my feminist high horse with sword in hand exclaiming that I chose this life. I just answer the question and continue the conversation. Unfortunately most women I meet immediately say, “Ooooh, I’m sorry“.

You’re sorry? Why exactly are you sorry? Are you sorry you asked the question? Or are you sorry that I’m about to turn 38 and have never been married? Are you sorry that since I’m unmarried and have a teenager I must have had a hard life? I don’t mind the questions regarding the assumed husband. What I do mind is the apology. In that moment and just for that moment, your apology makes me feel “less than”, disadvantaged in some way, possibly broken and completely and utterly fucked up. And the next moment that feeling is gone.

My point is this: There are a million reasons why some people never get married. Some choose it, some don’t, but please, please, PLEASE stop apologizing unless you are apologizing for the ASSUMPTION. And if that actually is the case, no apology necessary, really.

OK, so this video is only loosely related to this post, but I had to include it. Enjoy. And your welcome.

Take for instance the client who works for a major, MAJOR lender. Not only does this client work for the lender, but he’s really high up the food chain. Client refinances house. I show up at house at specified time. Client doesn’t have any identification. Why does this keep happening? People: This is America-Post-9/11! My dog can’t take a piss in the local Bark Park without a god damned license so why the hell do you think you can refinance your house without one? I realize there are many reasons why some people don’t have drivers licenses, I get that. I, technically, didn’t know how to drive until I was 25. But you can bet your sweet ass I had an Arizona ID the day I turned 16. It’s common sense. How do you cash checks? Have any type of bank account? Have a job? Buy adult beverages? Cigarettes? How do you survive? And if you DO manage to get by without any of the above, then A) you most likely have a miserable life and B) you certainly do not own your home. No one in this country owns a home without having had some type of ID, authentic or otherwise, when they purchased said home. Fact.

My client thought that since he worked for the lender his employee ID would suffice. Sure, I can accept that. Or your library card, Costco card, Friends of Josh Groban membership card. Whatever, I’m easy. It’s just a job, after all. In the end the client ended up finding 2 witnesses to verify his identity. Unfortunately the witnesses came over with 6 untamed children, for a total of NINE untamed children, running around destroying the house while we completed the signing. That evening required heavy alcohol consumption. Thankfully I have an ID.

My next fabulous signing was with a very lovely couple. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at all. We sat down, everyone had ID, they understood their paperwork because, for a change, their loan officer had actually done his job correctly so there were no surprises. About halfway through the signing, I felt something brush my toes so I moved my foot a little, assuming it was a cat. Then something brushed BOTH my feet, but this time it was so startling that I actually kicked my foot a little. It was just a reaction, I didn’t do it to be vicious for god’s sake but allegedly I kicked a bunny rabbit across the kitchen. Allegedly. A bunny rabbit. Roaming the house all willy nilly. There were several rabbits. What the eff are bunnie rabbits doing roaming the house? And why in God’s name would you not alert your visitors to the potential threat of bunnies nibbling their toes? Maybe I’m allergic. Maybe I’m phobic. Maybe I was mauled by a vicious, bucktoothed jackrabbit as a child which would illicit the football punt reaction that occurred. This is exactly what the bunny looked like. I’m not kidding:

Vicious effing bunny

Needless to say my clients were mildly horrified and yet apologetic at the same time. I felt really, really bad, but cage your vicious bunnies. And your snakes, lizards and birds, too. Don’t even get me started on the birds…

My last unfortunate appointment of the week occurred Thursday. It was enough to make me want to never do another signing again. Ever. I arrived at an appointment, in a less than desirable neighborhood, and knocked on the door. I could hear girls/women talking and I could hear the TV. No one answered. I rang the bell. I knocked some more. I could still hear the TV and women talking and laughing. I called the number on my order sheet. I could hear the damn phone ringing from inside the house BUT NO ONE WOULD ANSWER IT. I am persistent though, so I waited in my car for a few minutes, in case my client wasn’t home and had just left the TV on, although I definitely heard talking and laughing. I went back to the door about 10 minutes later and continued ringing the bell, knocking, and calling.

After a total of 22 minutes, TWENTY TWO, the door swung open. Standing just beyond the swing area of the door was a girl. A woman? I don’t know – late teens or early 20′s. She looked like a gangster. She was standing like a soldier “at ease” with her hands behind her back, as if clutching something. Something like a shank. Or a gun. Or a meat cleaver. But what was even more strange was that she had her head cocked to one side and she was just staring at me, with a calm yet homicidal look on her face. Immediately I had a feeling that my client was stuffed in a freezer in the back of the house or bound and gagged and tied to a chair. I hate that feeling.

Gangster Girl continued to stare for what seemed a long time, saying nothing. So I asked if my client was home and said that I had a 5 pm appointment with her. Gangster Girl slowly, and I mean VERY slowly, cocked her head to the other side and STILL SAID NOTHING. Creepy effing bitch. She very much reminded me of Dollface in The Strangers. You know, this one:

Gemma Ward as Dollface in "The Strangers" aka My client's gangster daughter.

After an insanely long time she said “No one is home” and slowly cocked her head to the other side again. Okay, so it was a little creepy because I had a very bad vibe the whole time and technically I should have given her my business card, etc., but there was no fucking way I was giving Gangster Dollface my personal information. Not a chance in hell! I walked quite swiftly to my car and left and do you know what? She still just stood there. I don’t even know if she was my client’s daughter, but if she WAS the daughter then she needs a serious, SER.I.OUS ass-whooping.

This is why I hate my job. And I certainly don’t get paid enough!

**disclaimer: Yes, I am still very thankful that I at least have a job.

Please “Make Adoption Your First Option”. The majority of dogs at County run shelters will be euthanized.