Francesco And The Green Card
Me: Honestly I’m not sure I want kids because what if one night I wake up and one of them is standing in the doorway all backlit and I have to wonder if it’s a zombie or not. Because in movies that’s what always happens, then the baby eats the mom.
F: Wait, what the fuck?
Me: I mean, seriously, like Rosemary’s baby? Or that zombie movie that starts with the kid attacking the parents? Hello?
F: [stares blankly]
F: You. Are. Insane.
Me: Oh come on! Don’t tell me you’ve never thought of how bad it would suck if your baby turned into a zombie and you had to kill it.
F: No. Never….
Me. Really? Well fucking great, now you think I’m insane and I’m going to accidentally kill our babies.
F: [blank stare]
Me. You know what? This is what happens when you make me do all the talking.
I actually have no idea why I’m writing about this but I’m going to do it anyways. It’s your lucky day!
So, I have to personally take Oliver out at least twice every day. This gives me anxiety. Cleaning up dog doodie here is like doing battle. I literally get heart palpitations whenever he hunches over in his quasi modo (I have no idea how to spell that and I’m too lazy to google it) form and walks around doing “his business.”
The first problem is that Oliver walks while he does it as though he wants to make sure the ENTIRE sidewalk from left to right has been defiled by him. I think he does it on purpose. The second problem is that people seem to have an issue with going around us. If I see a dog, horse, person, taking a crap I avoid them. I go far away. Here, no. Here, they challenge you for the sidewalk space. So Oliver starts doing his business and I’m usually eyeing the foot traffic coming towards me and desperately trying to find his shit bags in my back pocket and clean it up before the people arrive. Which never happens. Sometimes I start shaking and this makes it worse. I don’t know why it makes me so nervous. I’ve tried to understand it but it’s not really logical. Whatever the reason it stresses me the fuck out. Crazy? Don’t judge me.
So, twice per day you can see me bending down on the sidewalk cleaning up dog doodie which is already embarrassing while people actually step over me staring me in the eyes the entire time. Really over me, as in they pick of their feet to step over my hand as I’m lifting Olivers filth from the street. They always turn after as if to say, “you see that you dirty doodie bitch? I walked right fucking over you, fuck you and your dog. This sidewalk is mine.” And then I picture her (it’s usually the women, which also makes me think we’re having a womb war) dropping her pants and pissing right on the sidewalk like Oliver because I feel it’s basically the same thing. There will be no cars in the street, and two feet of space next to the buildings, yet they will always, without question step over me. Sometimes the random thing sellers will stop while I pick up shit and try to sell me stuff while I’m scooping away. Once in a great while an old woman or man will stop to tell me good job for keeping the sidewalks clean, but mostly, it’s just people trying to step on my hands.
Now, I know for a normal person this doesn’t even sound scary. But I have social phobias and paranoia. I don’t even like people and I hate leaving my apartment. So, doing the sidewalk challenge sucks. It’s too much interaction and it seems kind of aggressive. I’ve often thought about throwing a shit bag at the back of someones head afterwards. Sometimes I take out the anxiety on Oliver and when he starts going I whine, “no not here, not here, people are coming! A few times I’ve just waiting to clean it up until people pass, but usually that results in them stepping in it, and then we have to run away while someone chases us screaming. It makes for an awkward day, I don’t like attention. I like to blend into the background, and that’s not easy when you’re running full speed with your confused dog, with some lady a foot behind you, screaming full volume about shit on her boot And they will chase you for a long time. So far, four blocks is the record.
I actually don’t have a real point. Unless women in my area are reading this. In that case, go fucking around, you catty bitches. That is all.
Last weekend Francesco and I went downtown to have a drink with his friends. Of course we had to bring Oliver with us which is usually annoying. This time, however, I found a way to entertain myself with him.
Sometimes when I drink a little too much I become somewhat of a gremlin. The girl gremlin specifically. I actually even look like her with smeared red lipstick and a shit eating grin. I laugh hysterically too, so yeah, clearly I am fucking hot when I’m drunk. Anyways, at some point during the night after four or five vodka somethings Oliver decided he was bored. So he started to hump some dude standing next to me. Normally I would have told him no and pulled him away but suddenly it was hilarious. So, not only did I let him keep going until the dude moved, I started nudging him towards everyone else. I was huddled in a corner with the leash dangling from my hand while Oliver went bunny fast on some strangers leg (the guy just pretended like he wasn’t being leg raped), laughing my ass off when my husband suddenly appeared. He was not laughing. He didn’t think I was funny. He told me I couldn’t make Oliver rub against people for my amusement. Bu, buuut buuut, I laughed, look at their faces!!!!! He just shook his head embarrassed that he knew me. But he’s lame, because it WAS funny.
I didn’t stop there. We left shortly after I was repremanded for using my dogs weiner as an assault weapon. In the car ride I apparently told Francesco that I could get away with whatever I wanted and he can’t tell me what to do because I am a ninja and I have ninja skills. He asked me what the ninja skills were and that’s when I decided to pose for him, like a model pose (think haggered and drunk) with my hands framing my face while batting my eyelashes. Then I screamed, HI YA! And punched the air in front of his face. I repeated my “secret weapon” for a solid hour or so. Showing him, that I could distract someone before punching them. He wasn’t impressed with this either. He made me a sandwich and told me I had to go to bed.
Next time you’re stalking someone on FB, (I’m not judging, I spend half of my time doing the same and writing weird emails to strangers), stalk me and “like” ME.
When I was home for Christmas last year a lot of weird shit happened. We’ll start at the beginning but I’ll probably jump around a lot. First, my father, a conservative, traditional, former Iranian resident had to meet my then Fiance for the first time. I wasn’t really worried because Francesco is about eighty-five years old on the inside so other old people like him. I was, however, worried about my father offending him because my father can offend anyone. I was nervous. So nervous that we got lost finding my own fathers house, mostly because I was too busy smoking as many cigarettes as possible and saying things like, “really, I’m not like him, I mean, I am, but I’m not rascist.” My father is rascist against pretty much everyone ever born. When we finally found the house I nearly sprinted inside and left poor Francesco running behind me. I burst into the front door where I was attacked by Mitra, my sister who is relatively famous among my friends and the two people who read my blog, and my brother sammon. My step-mom was cooking dinner and my father was on the couch. “Hi Baby,” he said because he calls everyone baby including men and strangers. Then he turned to Francesco, “Come sit down.” I ran to my step mothers side shooting her an “oh shit” look. Then we pretended to cook while we both eavesdropped. Almost immediately I heard my dad say, “what do you think of Israel?” Shortly after I heard, “money, steal, evil” followed by “blood sucking British,” and “fat ugly Americans.”
Francesco politely sat next to him letting him ramble. That’s really the best thing to do especially if you’re doing his daughter. My dad is big, angry, and even though he’s in his sixties he will throw down. I’ve seen it.
I don’t understand rascism. I’ve tried to tell that to my dad a few times but he just says it’s because I don’t know anything about the world. Obviously, if I knew stuff, I would hate everyone too. But, I have to hand it to him. He honestly doesn’t leave anyone out and even though all of his children are half American, and his wife, he doesn’t spare Americans either. We’re all cute but not beautiful because we’re half-a-stupid-a American-a. He likes to add vowels to things.
We survived. Next we went to visit my mom. My mom and dad are total opposites. My mom’s not racsist. In fact, she’s kind of an “anything goes” kind of lady. When we showed up the first thing she said was, “oooh heeey! Just in time for drinks.” She’s not an alcoholic because she waits until after five p.m., and that is a medical fact. We were tired and when we weren’t sure we wanted to drink she poubted and said we didn’t want to hang out with her. So finally we decided to have a little drink too. My step father poured a mug of whiskey. A giant mug. I’ll never understand people who can drink straight anything, especially in a mug. My mom was clenching her usual bud-light (to avoid getting fat) in her hand. She then said, “oh, and if you guys want anything, you know, it’s up there” pointing to the cupboard. I told her I didn’t really want to know what “you know” was, and so we didn’t.
The next morning I woke up early and invited my younger brother over for breakfast. I don’t eat breakfast, so basically I threw a bunch of stuff into a pan for him and chugged down coffee while he talked about his life. About the time I threw his plate in front of him he started laughing, well, more like chuckling which turned into some deep seeded roaring laughter. It was contagious really and before I knew it I was laughing too. Coffee was spraying out of my mouth and all over the table while I choked out, “wha-whats-so frrrny?” He stopped. “Mom said you guys used to live in a car when you were a baby.” That’s not fucking funny. “Dick.” And then for some reason we both started laughing again. “Did you know mom was a stripper?” He stopped laughing. And then he said, seriously? I said yeah. “Not so damn funny now is it?” I said. Then we both laughed again. In a normal family it wouldn’t be funny but in ours it was hilarious. Maybe you just had to be there.
A few days later it was Christmas and it was awesome! I love presents. I know that everyone loves them but I love them more than anyone else. That’s a fact. Google it. I also love that “google” is a verb and a noun. Anyways, Christmas was awesome. I got a lot of cool shit but mostly I gave people cool shit. I like that. And I gave my mom not only one but TWO matching whiskey mugs. Technically they are beer mugs but that’s not the use they’ll get in her house. Anyways, back to my story. Christmas was awesome until my mom decided she had to give me and my brother two super secret presents. Secret presents sound awesome but I can fucking tell you from experience that secret presents are not awesome. After opening the box my brother and I were both so shocked, creeped out, and in general speechless that we both just stood there for a while. Then, my brother started crying, a lot. My mom looked at me like, “oh shit!” Then she said, “wait, was that bad?” I sighed and gave her a hug. Then I tried to explain to her that photoshopping a picture of our dead brother into modern, recent photos with me and my living brother was just, uhm, well, sad. It was sad. Then she started crying. And I was sad but I don’t cry as much as they do.
After that we had breakfast and I told my then Fiancè (who is now my husband) what happened in secret and he just kind of stared at me like I was, well, from a crazy family. “Don’t judge me.” I told him. “I’m not. I’m just sorry.”
The rest of the trip was pretty normal. My dad lectured Francesco about men-a a-being-a-adogs and da-women a-being a-smarter so he should just accept that he’s a dog and deal with it. I smugly drank coffee during that speech. Francesco said, “ya gotta do whatcha gotta do,” about five-thousand times because he thought my moms accent was awesome, though he just sounded like he had a speech impediment because “twang” doesn’t work with an Italian accent.
Merry Christmas 2011. Can’t wait for 2012!