My Crumbling Empire

I never learn my lesson when dealing with Craigslist people. Last week I hired a woman to help me get the house clean enough every other week so I can fall asleep without spending an hour thinking about everything I didn’t have time to clean and how my children’s quality of life is going to suffer because of it.

She showed up an hour late, and right away I knew she was crazy. She had those wild, staring eyes that crazy people get after being crazy for a long time. She didn’t bring any supplies and after she spilled the Italian soda she asked that I make her, she sat staring at the stain forming on the counter, marveling at how quickly it was setting.

“Wow,” she said. “Look at that—look at how the syrup is staining. Isn’t that something?”

So what do I do? Pay her for two weeks in advance, of course.

The next time she’s due to come and clean my house, she calls the night before to let me know that she is retiring and has decided to open a tea shop. A tea shop? How lovely. There’s nothing a person likes better than to have a crazy-eyed lunatic serving them their chamomile. “Here’s your tea, miss. May I offer you a screwdriver in the neck with that?

I assumed she was going to work off the money I had given her and expected to see her Monday morning. Well, Monday morning came and went with no Clean Celine. That is what she calls herself—or, rather, used to, now that she is ostensibly trying to break into the hot beverage business.

I started calling her, insisting, politely and firmly, that she return my money. She sent me a text message claiming that she is broke, has to get a free food box and hopes I understand. Furthermore she will pay me on the third of the month.

By that evening I was convinced I had been swindled, so I changed my tactic. Since she wouldn’t pick up my calls, I started texting her messages: “Where’s the money, Lebowski?” and “I want the money, Lebowski.” She did not respond.

Today I was prepared to up the ante and move on to the bit about what happens when you fuck a stranger in the ass, but to my surprise she called my cell phone. When I picked up she said “Hello, this is Celine. Someone called from this number. Who is this?”

“This is Ami, Celine.”

“Oh, oh, oh. Hi, Ami. I was meaning to call you. I lost my cell phone.”

“Yes?”

“Look, my dad is gonna die if I don’t get him these meds. I’m really broke. I’ll pay you on the third.”

“OK.”

“You see, I’m in AA and MA; you know MA? It’s Marijuana Anonymous. Actually it’s my anniversary! I’m clean two months and three days today.”

“Congratulations.”

“Well, I live on disability so it’s just hard right now, but I’m writing a note to drop off the money with you on the third. I’ll be there then.”

“OK, Celine.”

Marijuana Anonymous? Who the hell goes to those meetings?

The only thing that I can take from this situation and feel good about is this: Judging from her character and failure to mention it, I am certain she has never seen the film to which I made reference in my text messages. She may have made off with my money, but she will die never understanding why I kept calling her Lebowski.

Dear Jake,

So you don’t like my pink trim, huh? Well, guess what? I don’t take decorating tips from someone who likes burlwood clocks. Burlwood clocks are an inmate’s way of saying “I’m sorry for hitting you.”

Get your act together, buddy.

Love,

Ami

Dear Ex-Aunt Stacy,

When I was 11 or maybe 12, I accidentally left a turd in your toilet. I realized just as we passed each other in the doorway of the bathroom, but it was too late to turn around and flush.

Things were never the same between us after that. I am certain that somehow this is your fault.

Love,

Ami

Long before I tricked Ethan into loving me, he was my nemesis. I don’t recall any specific reasons why now, but I could often be found plotting revenge and drafting blueprints for public humiliations. The problem I kept running into was how to humiliate someone who was casual about that time he pooped himself while wearing nylons.

In fact, the only time I’ve ever seen Ethan really get upset by someone’s prank was when he woke up to Arnica hovering over his cowboy boot like a crusty gargoyle while peeing in it. He insisted that it was very difficult for him to find boots in his size, and that everyone knows cowboys have small feet.

One night I had a brilliant idea: I would steal his hat and go graffiti up the downtown area, leaving the hat behind as evidence. I figured anyone would be able to recognize his hat—he always wore it, and it was the kind an old-timey detective would wear while solving crimes. At the time this seemed reasonable, but keep in mind that I was young and usually operating under the influence of a drug-and-alcohol buffet.

Things were going smoothly. After putting the finishing touches on my spray-painted butts and wieners and placing the hat where the cops would be sure to find it, I was crawling over the tall iron fence of a storage unit facility when who should pull up but a police officer. I was literally caught red-handed.

The officer gets out of his car, walks over to me, glances behind me at the freshly painted walls, looks back at me and asks what’s going on.

“Nothing,” I reply.

“You see who did this?” he asks.

“Fat kid in pajamas. He ran that way,” I say, gesturing to the south with my elbow.

The officer leaves.

I have to believe this cop just didn’t feel like dealing with me, and not that he went chasing after the fanciful culprit, though I was ready with more details, should he have asked. 

His pajamas were striped, he walked with an unsteady gait, and his hair was mostly straight, but curled up a bit on the forehead where things got greasier. He was wearing sneakers with two different colored laces, one neon green, one black—I remember because I thought it odd that he’d be wearing sneakers with pajamas. He looked like his name was Aaron, or possibly Matt. His cheeks were red compared to the rest of his pale face. It looked like he didn’t get out much, and his sensitive skin was reacting to the atmosphere.

The fat-kid-in-pajamas explanation has, over the years, become one of my favorites. You can use it with anyone, from roommates and employers to pet shop owners and British royalty. Who ate all the Beefaroni? Fat kid in pajamas. Who spilled coffee on the Mancini file? Fat kid in pajamas. Who mixed the betas? Fat kid in pajamas. How did this horse get in the ballroom? Fat kid in pajamas.

The thing that really tickles me about this memory is the fact that if I had been busted, I’d still be paying the fine—which means that Ethan would be paying, because while I go to school, he’s working. So either way I would have gotten him. That’s almost as funny as the time I swindled him into marrying me and combining our DNA.

So it has come to this: me poking logic holes in my children’s bedtime stories. Specifically, my problem lies with Margaret Wise Brown and her Friendly Tales. In Mister Dog, we are introduced to the lovably independent Crispin’s Crispian, the dog who belongs to himself.

Midway through the story, Crispian meets a friend. While familiarizing this new friend with his home, Crispian points out the place for his bed, pillow and leash. Now why in the hell would a dog belonging to himself own a leash, Margaret? He’s already made it clear that he doesn’t like the idea of animals being the property of others, so it can’t be for him to walk another dog. Just what is going on here?

And while we’re at it, where the hell did Scuppers get those bricks for his chimney, and why didn’t he build the entire house out of bricks instead of that dried-out, brittle driftwood? Just what are you trying to pull?

One last thing before I go, Margaret: That “quiet old lady whispering hush” is no lady. It’s a rabbit in a dress—anyone can see that. You’ve got a lot of nerve.

Dear Tina from work,

Everyone at work is scared of you. You ought to know that. The other day, when you didn’t know I was in the next room, I was certain you were about to call me an idiot.

I’m scared of you too, and if you had called me an idiot, not knowing that I was in the next room, I would have gotten underneath the table and hidden until you were gone for the day. That’s how afraid of you I am, Tina.

Ami

Two weeks ago I decided to quit the body-building gym I’d been attending. I had no way of anticipating the problems that would come with this decision. First, I had unknowingly signed up for a year contract. I have a bad habit of simply signing things and worrying about it later. When I got the letter in the mail informing me that I would still be required to pay the $30 per month, I was aghast. That’s a lot of money to go nowhere and do nothing. It’s even more to continue going to a gym where the instructors apply grease before coming to work and the members openly grunt. I had to think of a plan. 

So I called in to explain that I have a sick family member I’m taking care of and I just can’t find the time to continue with the gym. I pulled out all the stops: low sad voice, heavy sighs, far-off attitude—I even threw in a compliment sandwich: “I love your gym, it’s just a bit expensive for me right now. I hope I can come back.”

It worked.

I got out of my contract, but now whenever I walk by this gym—which is often because I live around the corner—I have to pretend to be sad because I’m paranoid the owners will see me and know I lied. Looking sad consists of a slow shuffle while I look at the ground. I was explaining this to my friend Sarah today when she asked what the hell I meant by “my sad walk around the corner.” She encouraged me to write about it, then laughed at me when I explained that I couldn’t because they might read my blog.

Recently, I had the opportunity to catch up with my dad and stepmom over brunch. By brunch I mean that they ate stolen caviar with their pocket knives and washed it down with beer. The day started with my dad insisting that we stop at World Market so he could “get” me a Velvet Crumble. I’ve never had a Velvet Crumble; it’s a treat my father used to enjoy as a child in Australia, and I’m told it’s delicious. But the market didn’t carry it, and though I’d love to try one someday, I was relieved, feeling like I’d had a close call.

Over the past few visits, I’ve come to realize that I can’t take my father anywhere he won’t steal something. In the past, I used to join in on the shenanigans and was mostly too drunk to think about repercussions. But now I have children and school, and while I still find it amusing to watch my dad shake out his pants leg while the loot piles up on the floor, I feel uncomfortable being involved.

Somehow I have lapped my father in the responsibility race. I find myself in the front seat of the car trying to explain why he can’t have an open container while he mutters that I’ve changed and I used to be cool.

During his visit in Eugene he stole four leather coats. By the time he was ready to catch his train home to Redding, there was a pile of leather in the corner big enough to make other visitors nervous.

Antique pocket watches from a museum, bacon-shaped Band-Aids, a shock pen, Oregon Ducks sweatshirts, meats preserved in a variety of ways, oddly shaped marshmallows—you can find these things and more, all falling out of Dad’s pants at any given hour of the day. So, if you’re ever looking for Rick, just follow the trail of LED flashlights and honey sticks. He’ll be there.

Recently, I’ve discovered a new tool for pain: the voice of Jim Cummings, better known as Winnie the Pooh. He also does the voice for the Tasmanian Devil and Tigger.

I’m not skilled enough to express how truly awful his voice is—it’s absolutely disgusting. It hits something in my brain that makes me want to fall to the floor in a fetal position and apologize to anyone I have ever hurt.

I’ll be looking for clips to put on my mp3 player for the moments I’m feeling self-destructive. Lately my lineup of horror has been Bobby Brown’s My Prerogative, Color Me Bad’s Sex You Up, Wayne Newton’s Danke Schoen, Ice Cube’s Check Yourself, Jesse and the Rippers’ Forever, and finally, Michael McDonald’s I Keep Forgetting. This is a mix I reserve for nights when I’m feeling like I can’t do anything right.

I googled pictures of Jim and was shocked to find that he looks nothing like what I imagined. I thought he’d be covered in a light coating of fuzz and have lumps in places where lumps normally do not gather. I thought he would have no eyebrows and would wear flesh-colored suits. But he kind of looks like Rip Taylor, and his fat reserves are pretty evenly distributed.

This surprised me. I’m usually very good at guessing what people look like based on their names and voices. It’s actually one of my talents. People will come to me with a name and I’ll provide a description so they’ll know what they’re looking for. The other day I was given the name Rupert Corkhill. I described an overweight blond man sitting at a desk eating an egg salad sandwich. I was right about everything but the egg salad.

Of course I have no way of proving this, but I’m sure that Rupert is the name of a man who walks around his apartment in nothing but a shirt, windows open, wiener flapping in the breeze. Ruperts have no shame, Gretchens wear dirty underwear, and all Mikeys do speed.

You may be wondering how this is connected—I’ll tell you. Back when I had a television and was feeling like a failure, I would watch this particular Christian show. I don’t recall its name but, like many Christians, the host had red hair, a plain face and vacant eyes.

This show served two purposes. First, it satisfied my desire to punish myself with terrible media for no good reason. Second, it reinforced my belief that I do in fact have a special talent for knowing things about people based on little or no evidence. It was this woman who made me realize that all female Christians—and only Christians—wear their hair in a half ponytail. Thanks to her, I’ve dodged dozens of uncomfortable conversations with evangelicals simply by crossing the street when I see their telltail of the half-pony variety.

Ethan says I stereotype, but he doesn’t understand the scientific nature of the process. In real life, I avoid people I’ve determined to be annoying and lame based on their clothes, hair, name or style of walking. It’s only behind closed doors that I surround myself with things I hate.

I’m beginning to think I may have joined the wrong gym. I just wanted a place to get out of the house, do a little cardio and boost my serotonin. But I’ve discovered that everyone there is training for some kind of competition that involves rippling muscles, grease and hair that, no matter how it’s styled, looks out of place on their heads.

During my intake interview, the instructor informed me that I was in danger of becoming “skinny fat”—which, I was told, means that I’ll look good in my clothes, but a person will be able to mush the flab on my arm without trouble. She then had me feel her biceps to get an idea of where I want to be. I told her that I was happy with just losing the baby weight for now. She did not look pleased.

The other tip-off that these might not be my kind of people occurred when I showed up for my first workout in my favorite exercise gear: a snug-fitting hologram shirt that from a distance gives the appearance of a ripped male bodybuilder’s torso, but up close displays my excess tummy flab. Instead of laughing, they looked at me sympathetically and told me not to worry, I’d get there, and then continued to encourage me throughout my workout. I imagine they all talked about me after I left. “Poor Ami, she’s not fooling anyone with that shirt.”  

Also, the people who work out at this gym are comfortable enough with each other and themselves to squeal like fat kids on Tater Tot Day while doing their sit-ups and bench presses. I promised myself a long time ago never to make sexual sounds while working out. That’s why I can’t actually play music on the headphones I wear so no one will talk to me: I’m afraid that I may not hear myself grunt, or that I’ll fail to regulate my breathing.

In addition to my new gym, I’ve started a raw diet. So far I am on my eleventh day of totally raw food. After about the third day I lost interest in trying to reproduce my favorite non-raw snacks. I tried a cookie called a Raweo, but in addition to its awkward name (it’s too similar to the name Rory, which comes out more like a disabled slur), the snack itself is not very good.

On the fourth day, feeling a bit lightheaded and not wanting another salad, I retired to the computer room, where I discovered that a friend had left his e-mail account open. Usually I’d close it, but hungry Ami decided to comb through the mailbox, searching for any mention of my name while muttering to myself “Let’s see what’s really going on” and “We’ll get to to the bottom of this”—not really sure what I was trying to get to the bottom of. When I found questionable material, I started shrieking to Ethan that we had a crazy person on our hands. He looked at me for a long time before pointing out that I was the one ferreting through someone else’s private e-mails.

I explained to him that I need something to replace the sandwiches that normally occupy my 9 p.m. time slot  and went about my business, occasionally shouting “Will you get a load of this guy?” “What a psycho!” and “Ohhhhh, I got your number now, buddy.”

I am starting to wonder just how healthy this new diet is.