crying

I Need A Crying Room…In All The Places

There is an old movie theater in our little town called The Ritz, it’s one of those places with red carpet on the walls and black and white photos of people in top hats attending the theater. It smells like farts and sadness. They also have this amazing circa 1950’s room at the back of the main theater called The Crying Room. It welcomes you with a creepy little picture of a deformed baby with giant tattoo tears. Everyone knows what that room is for…any crying infant ruining your movie experience and me. The crying room offers something extraordinary…you can get away from the 200 people chomping popcorn too loudly, sneak into your own private room, and watch the second run movie while the baby (or grown woman) you brought to the theater is having a massive meltdown. The kind of meltdown that must be calmed with a nipple or a giant pickle from the gallon container that looks like it has been sitting on that snack counter for 27 years. (Matters not…I will eat that pickle.) This is my petition to bring back the crying room to all public institutions and possibly every home built after July 2016. I just need a crying room…in all the places.

Yes, please.

Yes, please.

Work would be my first go to for establishing the crying room, because…people. Nothing fancy here, I just need a box of aloe tissues, some cold water, a comfortable couch, and sound proof walls. And maybe a fully stocked bar. Two weeks ago I had a customer who finally sent me over the edge. Keep in mind…I’ve worked in customer service for many years and have encountered my fair share of angry women in tube tops who are the most important person on the planet, but this particular cunt sandwich blindsided me during a time in my life when I am barely capable of pulling up my own pants. No details, but things have been tough. Like trying to chew through metal with no teeth and bleeding gums kinda tough. Regardless, I’m an adult who has a job and I’m required to be responsible. So I head to work one lovely Friday afternoon, clock in, and put on that grown up happy face that people come to expect from you after the age of 18. Within minutes, we are swamped with customers and I’m juggling orders, smiling at everyone, and praying for the place to burn to the fucking ground. Then SHE shows up.

Every mean customer looks like every mean teacher from elementary school. Suspicious.

Every mean customer looks like every mean teacher from elementary school. Suspicious.

“What could be so hard about my drink? I ordered a drip coffee and it’s been forever.”

It had been three minutes. Which is kind of like forever when you are a festering twat whistle with the face only a mother could love. And probably not even a mother.

“I’m so sorry. We just made a fresh batch of coffee and it will be right out.”

I clenched my teeth as I felt my throat close up. it’s not that she called me a tragic whore who should have gotten a college degree and made something of myself, she just caught me at a time in my life where I needed extra softy kid gloves instead of a nasty wire hanger kind of attitude.

“I don’t know what your fucking problem is.”

And that’s when I needed my own personal, poorly lit, fully stocked crying room. I knew what my fucking problem was and it had nothing to do with her or her coffee or the fact that she insisted on wearing a low cut tank top with no bra. We just met at the wrong time, on the wrong day, and I lost my shit. In a men’s bathroom that smelled like urine where I was forced to wipe my nose with single ply tissue. WHY ARE WE STILL MAKING THAT SHIT????

woman with coffee cup

The cry room could really come in handy at home as well. I don’t mind crying in my bed at 2 AM while I hide under my quilt, but it would be nice to have a specified room with a little painted sign that says “Crying Room: Do Not Disturb” I’m quite alright once I have a good solid cry, the kind that makes most people uncomfortable when they see it in a movie. It’s like therapy except I’m not paying 175 dollars an hour and I don’t have to watch a stranger take notes about me while my life falls apart. If I had my own crying room, complete with a tub and some bath salts, I could sob in private while taking a two hour (or two week) hot bath and sipping on a cocktail. Instead, I usually wake up my husband and force him to ask me awkward questions like “Is everything okay?” or “Are you going to be doing that for long?”.

It would helpful to have a crying room installed in all stores and restaurants I frequent just in case the person in charge of the shitty elevator music accidentally plays a song that makes me remember something sad which in turn makes my throat seize up like I’m having an allergic reaction to being alive (which I currently am) and I desperately need a place to just fall the fuck apart. While picking up some eggs and tortillas. (I’m probably craving breakfast burritos right now.) Perhaps when the waiter asks me what I would like to drink and I’m feeling unstable in that moment, instead of having to bite my cheek to the point of drawing blood, I could just sprint to the crying room for a respite from humanity. Maybe they serve my pasta in there, I don’t know…I’m just throwing out really good ideas right now.

I just wanted to look at some pasta cause I'm in need of carbo loading.

I just wanted to look at some pasta cause I’m in need of carbo loading.

Bring back the crying room and make it accessible to everyone, not just infants covered in feces who need to suckle a titty.

 

statue butt

One Day, You’ll Have To Ask

When I watched This is 40 a couple of years ago, there was this uncomfortable scene where the husband is spread eagle on the bed, a hand held mirror pointed at his rectum, and his wife walks in their bedroom. He asks her for help with some growth or painful sore he has found on his nether regions. I remember thinking “Nope, never me. Even if by some act of God I do live to be 40, I will never ask my spouse to do that.” It didn’t even take turning 40 for me to become the person who uses hand held mirrors to investigate their rectum.

If only that was the reflection I saw.

If only that was the reflection I saw.

At some point we all have to ask someone we love to do a very uncomfortable thing and hope that they will love us anyway. Or we maim ourselves in the process of keeping our pride. My brother’s girlfriend sent me this text last week after a run in with a Costco sports bra.

“A month ago I bought these sports bras from Costco, thinking they were the right size. I was so excited to try them on when I got home. So I put it on and it’s really tight, but I think “Hell, I’ll lose weight and they will fit just right.” Wrong. I go to take it off and it won’t budge. I’m thinking “Oh fuck, I’m going to have to ask my boyfriend to help me out of this thing.” So after bouncing around like a crazy person, pulling and tugging, I was finally free. I thought I was going to need a chainsaw to get it off. Then your sister texted me and said she was pretty sure she had the same bra and that it was similar to a straight jacket. If you want to feel tied down and never free again, you should go buy one.”

Thanks, but I’m already married. And Costco isn’t where I buy intimate apparel. Costco is where I buy 6 pounds of butter and a cake the size of New Jersey. However, the shame of needing someone you love to free you from clothing, I do understand. The hubs once cut our first born out of a onesie after she shit herself so profusely that he was unable to see any other options. I came home to a naked baby and brown onesie in the trash can that looked like a kindergartner had given up on a Pinterest project. These things happen.

ISO: Chainsaw for immediate removal. No questions asked.

ISO: Chainsaw for immediate removal. No questions asked.

When I needed to ask for the unaskable help, my husband had found me splayed across our queen size bed with only a tank top on, the look of fear in my eyes. I was spread eagle, legs in the air, but instead of a hand held mirror I was using my make up mirror, the one with 1000 times magnification. Because looking at your rectum isn’t vomit inducing enough with a regular mirror. With tears in my eyes I said to my hubs “I can’t even sit down. I either have a really progressive STD or an ingrown hair that is larger than my butt cheek. Please, please. I’ve tried everything. Will you just look at it? That’s all…just look and tell me what it is.”

If you have ever met me, you know that wasn’t it. How could it be? My husband hunkered down like a professional ass doctor and began examining me with such precision and gentle hands, I wondered if he had any open appointments for my yearly pap smear.

“You have a really infected ingrown hair. There is no head on it, but I can try to pop it if you want me to.”

Look closely...you can see the ingrown hair.

Look closely…you can see the ingrown hair.

This was a profound moment in our relationship. This was the moment I realized that I could never get a divorce. Ever. There would be no judge on the planet who would grant me a divorce after my hubs went in and explained the kind of horrors he was subjected to in our marriage. I imagine the judge taking me aside and saying “Listen lady, the fact that your husband lacerated an ingrown hair on your ass is really more than any person on this planet will ever do for you. Do you understand that? Then he continued to have sexual intercourse with you? You can’t divorce this man. You will be perpetually lonely and be forced to pop your own ingrown ass hair. Is that what you want?”

And he would be right. I’m obligated to this man forever. He carefully took a disinfected needle and did the kind of surgery that most people get reimbursed for through insurances companies. He even checked in on my ass boil two days later to make sure i was healing properly and to apply some Neosporin.

One day the hubs may need to cut me out of a Costco sports bra and in a couple decades I may have to cut him out of an adult diaper. I think that’s what love looks like.

secret

If You Want A Secret Life, Follow Me

Being a secret agent or CIA operative is definitely on my list of things I would love to do, but probably never will. (Along with running a marathon and doing a stand-up routine.) It’s the allure of having two separate, secret lives that are both filled with amazing people and experiences you can never divulge to either group. I would love to come home from a job of assassinating some underground operative, throw my jacket on the couch, and say “Work was fine. Nothing really exciting.” I do that now, but it’s painfully true. I’ve never lived a secret life. I’ve been that person who did all the “right” things like getting married, having kids, baking cookies, and getting a reasonable mortgage. I secretly don’t have any secrets. But last week…I had a secret life. It’s the kind of secret life I can’t tell you about because then it wouldn’t be a secret and you would probably look at me in horror the next time you saw me in the grocery store. It’s really THAT kind of secret life.

It begins, like most surprising adventures, with the completely mundane task of planning a trip. The hubs and I travel without our kids once a year and usually it’s an uneventful, albeit (mostly) relaxing, vacation to a warm destination. He plays pool volleyball with strangers, I read alone in the corner of the pool area, and then we eat a mediocre dinner together and end up watching TV in our room. We then argue about sex and eventually fall asleep around the same time other people are heading out to club. It’s basically like our regular life except in a warm climate and without children. It’s nice. But last week it was better than nice…it was fucking amazing.

Me as a secret agent. Except with bigger boobs.

Me as a secret agent. Except with bigger boobs.

We showed up at the adults only Mexican resort the hubs booked and had no clue what to expect minus the topless optional situation. We walked into a beautiful lobby, full of fully dressed models and I immediately decided that my top would stay on indefinitely. I have nursed kitten babies and my fat sacks weren’t that amazing before they had been suckled, so I’m already in the clan of saggy tatas. Moving on. We get to the room, change into our bathing suits, and meander to the pool area. Also known as ‘The Sexy Pool’. Now, you may wonder why we went to the sexy pool instead of the sport pool or the quiet pool and I will tell you…it wasn’t my idea. The quiet pool sounded like my jive. I had a book and I would travel…by myself, in the corner of the pool, for 5 days straight. But I married a social butterfly.

“Just one drink at the pool bar, then we check everything out, and you can go read.” the hubs coaxed. Just one drink, he says. Just one motherfucking drink on my way to debauchery.

How I planned to spend my vacation. That didn't happen.

How I planned to spend my vacation. That didn’t happen.

Once at the pool bar, the hubs is like a prepubescent boy with a permanent chub for the vast array of naked tatas. I too, am checking out the titty committees, but for different reasons. I need to know if my boobies are the worst of the bunch, land somewhere in the middle, or if I should just grab that bottle of vodka on the bartender’s shelf and drown myself in the sport pool. As I’m doing the comparison, I glance over to the hubs who is now looking at me like I have suddenly morphed into a melted wax statue of Betty White. And then my bikini top is gone.

“Sweetie, we don’t wear tops here.” I whipped around to find a woman holding my green bikini top between her teeth. I calmly took it from her (with my hand, cause I’m classy like that), set it on the bar, and said to the hubs “Well, I guess that takes care of that situation.” Then I sucked in my mommy gut and tried to sit back far enough to make my boobies hover at least 6 feet away from my knees. Basically I sat back like I was relaxing in a Lazy Boy recliner.  Not awkward or uncomfortable…AT ALL.

This is the part of the story where I wish I could tell you more, but I’ve been sworn to secrecy by the Mexican government. All I can say is that at one point during our 5 day vacation the hubs wanted to take pictures of me walking in from the ocean, the kind of sexy photos you might see in Maxim or Playboy. Unfortunately, I’m 3000 fantastic features away from being a model and when I looked at the photos all I saw was my cringy face and some baby monkeys swinging from my chest in a sad attempt to find armpit bananas.

Just imagine two of these little creatures swinging off my chest. Hot stuff, right?

Just imagine two of these little creatures swinging off my chest. Hot stuff, right?

“You look sexy.” the hubs told me later that day.

“I look like an 80-year-old prostitute fighting the waves for a meth fix.” But he wouldn’t hear of it. I like that about him.

That’s all you will ever know about this secret life trip. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be a secret and you would ask lots of weird questions like “Why did you think that was acceptable behavior?” or “Do you have any close up shots of you doing that one thing?”. No one needs that. My advice…live a secret life and go to an adults only place in Mexico and let your freak flag fly. FLY IT VERY HIGH. Then text me so we can exchange secret photos.