Tag Archives: ma

Locked Out

22 Apr


I’ve fantasized about being locked out of work before.  Many times.  It’s a frequent “happy place memory” that I go to, in fact.  But in the fantasy, I can’t get in and don’t want to.

…I guess you have to be specific with these things.

I had just finished pulling the front door closed, and was going to lock the final door in the upper warehouse when I realized that my keys were still on my desk inside.

…My keys to my car, my apartment, the campus gate…the works.

So, that sucked.

…But then, we always hide an ER key somewhere in the yard, for just this purpose…

…Only there was no ER key in any of the ER places…

…Which was confirmed with the WHS Pimp, over the phone, who was at that point about 35 minutes away, picking his kids up from school.

…And I had about the same amount of time to get to my Landlord’s, where I was (ironically) meeting to pay and get a duplicate of the only key that opens my front door, currently resting all peaceful right now, on my fucking desk.

…But (I bet you guessed already), they were already closed by the time I got there.

…And not by my own car (still locked in the yard) but via Boss’s, who I forced to come and try all his keys to open the damn door. 

…But then, he lost all the ones that actually open the doors, so after however long of trying to break into the shop (another thing he isn’t good at)…I talked him into dropping me by my Landlord’s, hopefully to still meet and get the key…which still didn’t work out. 

…So then I wandered, homeless and carless, to Ma’s .  Who let me in.  Cuz she has to.  Cuz she’s my Ma.

…Followed by feeding me (another “Ma” thing), and then texts to the WHS Pimp, in hopes he returns sometime tonight to the WHS and will let me in, so I can sleep and shower and things like a grown up person, else I’ll be sleeping at Ma’s too, and she’ll have to get up and drive me to work in the morning at the butt crack of dawn, while wearing her PJ’s…like I’m 15 or something.

Alllll these damn complications, people! 

Just because I wasn’t “specific” when I said, “I wish I was locked outta that hell hole and could never get back in again.”

Stupid details.


Broken Faucet

26 Jan


Late night with guests…a particularly emotional show. Ma was in the audience…and tomorrow is 36 seats away from selling out.

…Grateful for good friends, and supportive Stage Managers, and a warm place to rest my head till show time.

Night, kids.


Oh The Misery, Oh The Hysteria

8 Jul


Classic complete waste of a Saturday, as The Misery arrived four days early and on a sunny day. 

…Because that’s always the kind of trick she pulls, Mrs. Johnson, every month popping up like she owns the place; pitching camp for a week in my guts (and general baby-cooking area), laying waste to the entire region.  Then, after about five days of munching, punching, kicking, hot flashing and general nausea, she departs to visit another sister of Womanity. Because for some reason the bitch just can’t get around to finding her own damn place to live, and leave us all the fuck alone.

The older I get, the worse her visits. 

…The last couple years have seen fit to add extreme lower back pain, extra-intense bloating, and hot flashes to the list.  And the last thing you wanna hear while cramped, folded in the fetal position, bloated out of anything not containing elastic, zitting out, and generally self-disgusted, is that you should just “get used to it.” 

…This morning’s phone conversation with Ma, (though attempting to add solace) only seemed to exacerbate the situation…going something like this:

(I grog-dial the phone, while shooting a dose of Pamprin.)

Ma: Well, good morning!

Me: I feel awful. I feel terrible.  I just wanna puke.

Ma: Oh. Hangover?

Me: Worse. Mrs. Johnson.

Ma: Again? Already?

Me: It’s like, “she knows.”

Ma: How’d you sleep?

Me: Didn’t.

Ma: Pills?

Me: Yes.

Ma: Eat something?

Me: Crackers.

Ma: Heating pad?

Me: The usual.* (* Note: ” the usual” is a cocktail consisting of two Pamprin, a shot of Pepto, two crackers, a heating pad while pinch-hitting a hot tea/fuzzy water chaser.)

Ma: Need anything?

Me: I sweat through all my clothes again.

Ma: Well, that happens.

Me: When you’re fifty.

Ma: For some women, it starts earlier.

Me: It’s crap.

Ma: You’re just starting pre-stuff, is all…

Me: I’m only thirty!

Ma: Well…thirty-two.

Me: Some people might consider that their prime!

Ma:  …That’s your forties.

Me: How the hell is “thirty” supposed to be the new “twenty,” when your junk is already starting to rust up and fall apart?!

Ma: There’s nothing wrong with your…”junk.” It’s not a plumbing issue. Just hormones. 

Me: Well, someone should tell my “just hormones” this ain’t Madrid in August.

Ma: You should see the Doctor. They’ll give you a little patch…it’ll be fine.

Me: I’m not even on the wrong side of my early thirties and I’m already launching peri menopause?!

Ma: Oh it’s fine! It doesn’t really mean anything.  You can have it for something like a decade before you even launch into the real deal. Lookit your Aunt M…and Aunt L…and Aunt G…

Me: That’s supposed to make me feel better?!


I was completely belligerent about the entire ordeal, and by the end of the conversation had given up my “girl card,” cursed and disowned my entire lineage of early menopausal-launching female ancestors, refused flatly to give a flying shit that the sun HAD come out today, and defied all reason by announcing loudly, that the cramps could, “go fuck themselves!” Cuz I was gonna go get, “the biggest fuckall coffee invented!” And, “heap it with twelve kinds of sugar and chocolate sauces!” And, “drink that shit till my gut explodes!” Cuz, “then they’d be sorry!” (The world in general.) Cuz, “it’s what they fucking deserve!” And, “I just HOPED THEY WERE HAPPY ABOUT IT!” Because they were all, “ass-hat-wearing period-Nazi’s, forcing me to commit craze-induced menstrual-suicide just to get even with them!”

…To which Ma said: “Oh, will you pick me up one too?”

It really was the least she could do. Wallow with me in my hated solitude.  I mean, if she’d never birthed me and passed on all those night-sweating, cocktail-needing, pain-hurling genes, I’d never BE in this position, now would I?!  WOULD I?!

…So I hung up the phone, plucked another dry shirt from my drawer, and moaned my way to the bathroom lookin’ like Quasimodo on a bad hair day.  Then moaned my way to the closest Starbucks.  Then moaned myself to her house, where we sat watching Joss Whedon shows all day, tween “cocktail” tosses, and general alternate “other complaining.”

…And now I’m home, bitching it all to you…while sweating through another shirt, trying not to pick at this gigantic should-have-its-own-zipcode zit on my chin.

In short, here is a tip, straight from me to the fellas out there in our television audience: Don’t ever ask why women are assholes during their monthly Misery. It should be blatantly obvious at this point that we’ve earned the goddamn right! We hurt! We’re pukey! We look like shit!

…And some idiot in the Tampax marketing department is slobbering, “Have a happy period” on all their crap, which we’re FORCED to buy, EVEN though we know the politics of it is TOTAL SHIT.

…Being an asshole at this moment, is the only thing we get.

So deal with it.


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