Bitter Ass Bitch

She was the friend that I had never expected to ask me this fucking vanilla question.

“Mel, when are you gonna have kids? You would make such a great mom.”

Misery likes company eh? A thought.  A quick thought.  A long thought.   I almost had the nerve to ask, “So when are you gonna get a divorce?”

I didn’t.  I feel like it is as just as inappropriate to ask a lady when she is going to bear children as it is to when she is going to leave her lame ass husband or drown her whiny ass kid.

To be truthful.  I do not support killing your children, but I guess as annoyed and anxious as you are about me having a child, I am equally as ready for you to make your kid shut the fuck up.

I get it. Both ridiculous. Both uncalled for.

But seriously, can you get your kid to shut the fuck up?

I am trying to have a conversation with my once sexy ass vibrant friend.

Is this just age?  You watch your once colorful friends fold into a bland ass manila envelope.

I’ll do without.  Khaki always looked like shit on me.

Flat Tire

I was on my way to his house when I started feeling a consistent thump on the rear right side of my car.  I pulled over next to the cemetery and got out – flat tire.

I had never fixed a flat tire so I sat on the curb for a minute and called my boyfriend to come help.  He lived right down the road.  Immediately after the phone call I felt a rush of competition and convinced myself I could change the tire, maybe even before he would arrive.  Talk about how to impress a man, right?

I pulled out the tools and spare from my embarrassingly trashed trunk and started a timer on my phone.  I have always been uncomfortably obsessed with efficiency and timing.

Lifting the car with the jack was the easy part.  I had to stand and jump on the tire iron to loosen the bolts.  Right as I was about to loosen the last bolt a lowrider with spiked rims and bass blasting slowed down to a stop.  Here we fucking go, I thought.

He rolled down the window with weed smoke pouring out.  Who hot boxes anymore?

“Say baby, you need a hand?”

I didn’t even look up and kept working on the tire.

“Na, I think I got it. Thanks though.”

He reached his neck out of the car, “Damn, I like your ambitiousness girl, can I get your number?”

I stood up annoyed and waved the tire iron at him, “Yea, you can grab it from my man when he gets here.  Keep it moving.  And it’s ‘I like your ambition’, not ambitiousness, by the way.”

He slid back in his seat, “Damn bitch, I was just trying to tell you your beautiful. You a english teacher and shit?”

Sweating profusely, I pulled off the tire and slammed it on the ground, “Damn bitch I was just trying to change my tire.  Who the fuck hot boxes cars these days anyway? Your stoned ass probably couldn’t help even if you wanted to. Now, move the fuck on!”

He murmured some shit and turned up his music and sped off.

It took me exactly 8 minutes and 32 seconds to change out the tire. I was sitting on the curb smiling when he pulled up.  He ripped off his helmet annoyed and took a walk around the car.

“It took me exactly 8 minutes and 32 seconds to change my first flat tire!  Not bad eh?  After I called—”

“Why did you even call me for help?”

He was unamused and definitely unimpressed.  I stopped smiling.

“Well, I have never done it before and I wanted to test myself and see if I could do it without you before you got here.”

He grabbed his helmet, “Well, most people try to figure things out before they call and ask for help.”  He put on his helmet and got back on his motorcycle.

My accomplishment turned confusion quickly shifted into a familiar rage.  My eyes began to water and I flipped open my pocketknife.

I  walked past my car and towards him on his bike and stabbed my knife into his tire.

I jumped in my car and screamed, “Say baby, you need a hand?” and sped off.

 

 

 

Xanax Mom

I wasn’t surprised when I heard she burnt down the house.  She’s been on Xanax for as long as I can remember.  I sat in the waiting room while they looked up her room number, she only suffered minor injuries.  My neighbor saw smoke and carried her out of the house before it completely went up in flames.  I rubbed my finger along the scar on my shoulder. One of the few visible battle scars from being on the front lines of her addiction.

My mom, typical baby boomer, believed to her core that her and my dad would stay together forever.  Same old story, she gained some weight after having us and couldn’t seem to get back to her once slim, childless body.  They grew apart while raising kids and he chose a woman that was twenty years younger and untainted by the stress that comes with children.  She was completely devastated. She had devoted her life to being his housewife and raising the kids and he had made up his mind.  All my brothers and sisters had fortunately escaped and it was just me and my mom for about four years.

Shortly after he left, she started having trouble breathing and the doctor prescribed her Xanax for anxiety and that was how it all started.

When I was twelve I tried to flip my body around an iron bar of an old trailer while playing outside.  The bar snapped and crashed down onto my mouth, smashing my head against the concrete and knocking  me unconscious.

I woke up choking on my own vomit. I  stumbled back to my house with ears buzzing and blurred vision.  I could see blood splashing across the leaves along my path.

When I got home all the doors were locked.  I banged on it a couple of times, nothing.  I leaned and looked through the living room window and saw my mom, face down on the couch.   I banged on the window, still nothing.  Xanax, you son of a bitch.

Annoyed and extremely concussed, I grabbed the rock bunny statue sitting by the stairs and launched it through the window.  Not to my surprise, and yours as well if you are familiar with Xanax, she still didn’t wake up.

I climbed through the broken window catching my shoulder on a sharp piece of glass.  Hence the scar.

I shook her as hard as I could, dripping blood all over the couch and onto her clothes. “Mom!  Wake up!”

Her eyes rolled behind her skull a few times before finally focusing on my face.  She screamed and jumped up off the couch and rushed me into the bathroom.  She grabbed a few tiny pieces of toilet paper and put it over my mouth and shoulder.  They both soaked immediately. “Mom, I’m bleeding like crazy alright!  I need a little more than a fucking cotton ball?”  I was beginning to panic after seeing how much blood was pouring down the back of my neck, mouth and now, shoulder.

She swayed against the wall, “Honey, wha–wha happened?  We have to get you to the hospital.” She was nodding off again.  She caught a glimpse of the back of my head and fainted as soon as she saw the blood spilling out.  Probably from shock, but mostly from the Xanax.

I ran into the kitchen, filled a pot full of ice water and threw it on her face. As always, worked like a charm.  She sloppily grabbed the sink and raised herself up.  I was starting to feel even more light headed and I threw up again on the bathroom floor. I wrapped my arm and head with a few shirts I found, they soaked immediately.

“Mom, please, we have to go to the doctor, I don’t know how to stop the bleeding.”

Nodding off, she murmured, “Okay honey, juss needa find my keys.”

I smacked her back awake, “Mom, wake the fuck up, you need to drive!”

She stumbled into the hallway and dumped her purse all over the floor and began laughing.  “I know they are ssomewhere in here.”

I grabbed the keys off the table and threw them at her.

She gulped and brushed her hair out of her face pretending, and failing completely, to look sober, “Okkay, good yea thas was what I was saying, les go.”

I somehow managed to get her in the drivers seat and before I had a chance to get to the other side, she backed down the driveway and into the neighbor’s mailbox.

I ran down to the car and pushed her over to the passengers seat and climbed into the drivers seat.  She laughed, “Whoah how did that happen,” and passed out again.

I had never driven before and I could barely see over the steering wheel but felt confident I could get there.

Remarkably, we made it to the hospital, which was only a few miles away and I parked in the drop off area.  I saw a wheelchair by the door and figured I would use to get my mom inside without falling all over the place.  Right when I reached for the wheelchair, the earth flipped upside down and I hit the floor.

I don’t remember much between fainting and the stitches.  They made me stay in the hospital over night.  The hospital assumed my mom was responsible for my injuries and put her in jail after she attacked a nurse over the accusations.  I cringe thinking about how the events might have unfolded after I fainted.

The next morning they had a piteous counselor come talk to me about what happened.  I assured her that it was all an accident and that my mother was having a hard time.  I called my neighbor, whose mailbox my mom had hit, to pick me up from the hospital.   Same neighbor that saved my mom from the fire.  What a fucking Saint this guy.

I ate peanut butter and jellies for a week until they released my mom from jail and then I ate peanut butter and jellies for 3 more years until I reluctantly moved out.  I couldn’t take it anymore.

Like I said, I wasn’t surprised she burnt down the house. She’s been on Xanax for as long as I can remember.  Ever since my dad left.  Fuck a partner that leaves you for someone twenty years younger.  Fuck a man that leaves a good woman that sacrificed her career and body for a family.  I guess thats why you should never put all of your eggs in someone else’s basket. Hide a few in your fucking underwear drawer or something.  Better yet, weave your own damn basket.