Foul ball

My sister and I took Dad to the urologist today for a blood test to see how well his cancer meds are working, and I discovered the rich fantasy life my Dad has. He told his doctor all about the parties with girls, and how he drinks beer all day when he's not eating cake.

The dude does eat a ton of cake, but I'm pretty sure the rest was bullshit.

Dad may need to get shots that will chemically castrate him. Our conversation, for your entertainment:

Dad: Am I getting a flu shot?
Me: No, Dad, a shot in the balls.
Dad: What?
Me: Oh, come on, it's been ages since anyone's touched your balls.

Yeah, I went there.

Shit happens

If anyone wants one, there's a kitty carrier lined with cat shit on my balcony, free just for you.

I'd been planning to take the Fatass with me since before Mom died, but our moving plans derailed that temporarily. Didn't want three animals freaking out about the new place at once.

So this weekend, I finally brought the Fatass home.

It took a little coaxing with the end of a rolling pin to get her out from under my father's bed. Ten minutes later, we were on the road. That was when we noticed the smell. A lot of Queens smells like shit. I mean, the Mets play there, so I assumed the smell was coming from somewhere nearby. But the smell followed us to Brooklyn, then to the front door of our apartment. No doubt the Fatass had been eating burritos for lunch. Even opening all four windows didn't help.

We stopped for a beer before bringing the cat upstairs, not looking forward to braving the odor. The beer was good. The ambiance was OK. The right side of the bar was exposed brick and fancy booze. The left side looked like somebody's angry girlfriend tore all the pictures off the wall and left the stupid poster of the bull with the ring in its nose.

Thirty minutes later, we were hauling the cat and her stench into the elevator, and I battled between laughing so hard I couldn't stop crying and suppressing my gag reflex. Her shit is foul, y'all.

When we finally got her onto the balcony, the problem was clear: The Fatass had shit smeared all over her back paws, and the inside of the carrier looked like another cat had exploded out of her ass.

Once we cleaned her off, she scurried under the bed, and then we remembered: We hadn't introduced her to the kitty litter box yet. Devon broke out the mop, and the Fatass' internal monologue went something like this: "Oh, hell! Blue foamy thing! Back! Back! Damnit, my claw's stuck in the blue foamy thing! Sons of bitches! Run for the closet!"

The only one who seemed happy with the situation from beginning to end was Fitz. Her internal monologue was more like: "Something's going on! It's going on over there! What's going on? Can I see? Oh boy, it's still going on! Yay!"

I'm pretty sure the Fatass is gonna kill us in our sleep.

Dead people shouldn't wear makeup

That was the conclusion I came to during my mother's wake. Her pale, dead body in her bed didn't creep my shit out the way her heavily made-up body did in a pretty party dress.

Roman Catholics are fucked up.

Also, when people say, "She looks so good," they are full of shit. She doesn't look good. She looks dead. She would look better in her kitchen making pancakes or inappropriately grabbing someone's ass. Mom liked to grab ass a lot. Man, woman, didn't matter. Your ass was hers. Seriously, if you're ever in St. Charles Cemetery in section 35, be careful where you stand. Your ass is not safe.

On a note somewhat related to ass, I found mom's vibrator as I was going through her dresser. I'm choosing to believe she used it to massage her neck, and not a single one of you can convince me otherwise. La, la, la, I'm not listening to you.

That puddle of pee is NOT mine

I lied. That puddle of pee is totally mine.

I gave my mother plenty of warning that I was coming to visit, but she and dad are a combined 1,000 years old, so they were still out grocery shopping in the time it took me to get from Woodside to Howard Beach by bus.

I tried to wait. For about three minutes. Then I decided to pee in the backyard.

I climbed over the fence and the large air conditioning unit so I could get some cover from the fence that separates my parents' backyard from McDonald's drive-thru, thinking that if only I had a penis I wouldn't need to be so athletic.

When Mom got back, I told her what happened and she laughed, because my Mom's awesome like that.

But now I'm faced with a philosophical dilemma. Is that puddle of pee still mine, or does it belong to Mom now? Or maybe God. And if God, what is God going to do with my pee?

Questions like these are why I decided not to be a nun after all.

This post has 100% more cooch

Warning: If you're offended by blog posts about cooch, turn back now. This one has a whole lotta vagina.

In anticipation of No More Bush Day, I decided to go to the gynecologist and get my gear checked out. Truthfully, I would have done this anyway, because it's good to get your gear checked out. But the fact that my appointment fell a few days before the Big Event was still pretty neat.

I waited 90 minutes in the middle of a work day just to get into the exam room. Ninety minutes. To give you an idea of how long 90 minutes is, just in case you can't imagine that much time, 90 minutes is enough time to read two copies of Fit Pregnancy and half of Conceive magazine (because that's the kind of material you find in an OB/GYN office). Ninety minutes is also enough time to make my blood pressure go up to 120/90, which seemed to baffle the assistant, who couldn't figure out why I'd be a bit peeved about the fact that I was half an hour late getting back to work and I HADN'T EVEN GOTTEN INTO THE STIRRUPS YET.

After 15 minutes of more waiting in my socks and a front-opening medical gown, I finally got to see the nurse practitioner, who looked down at my chart and asked, "So, you're 38?" And I was like, "Hell, no," and now I need to qualify that, because it sounds like I think 38 is old, and a lot of people bigger than I am are going to kick my ass for calling them old. When I'm 38 I won't have any problem with being 38, but, until then, I'm all, "Dude, no!" But now that I think about it, I don't need to worry about all the people over 38, because they probably have arthritis and brittle bones and stuff.

When the poking and prodding was over, she mentioned that my pressure seemed a little high, and I insisted that it was probably fine, but she took it again, because it would be really bad form to have me drop dead of a heart attack on the way to the elevator. It was 98/70 that time, and she apologized for making me wait for so long, which was cool because I didn't even have to bitch about it. I just had to make it seem like I might die, which I wasn't even trying to do. And it's only now that I realize that Fitz totally played me.

Anyway, if you have a cooch and you haven't had it examined lately, you should totally do it. Just bring something to read.