Thursday, November 19, 2009

If My Neuroses Were Pokemon

Ash: Hi! I'm Ash Ketchum! Welcome to the Sinnoh Region!

Me: Oh . . . right. Hey, Ash. Nice to meet you here in Pokemon World. Or whatever. I'm thrilled to be here.

(under my breath) Thank God there's still alcohol in this animated, parallel universe.

Ash: What did you say?!

Me: Nothing. Could you lower your voice, please? This isn't pep squad.

Ash: Right!! Are you a fellow Pokemon Trainer? What is your Pokemon?

Me: I have an Anxietor.

Ash: Anxietor! But I have never seen or heard of such a Pokemon!

Me: She's agoraphobic. She pretty much stays inside the Pokeball.

Ash: Let my Pikachu do battle with your Anxietor!

Me: Yeah . . . not a good idea.

Ash: But I insist!

Me: (sigh) All right. Anxietor, it's time to do battle. Come out, please. No, you don't look fat. I swear. Yes, I promise no one will laugh at you. That's right. Step outside.

Ash: What a peculiar pocket monster you possess! Let me emphasize my mirth with loud and frantic laughter! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Me: (to Anxietor). Ignore him. He sounds like a girl.

Ash: Let us begin! Pikachu! Use Thunderbolt!

Anxietor! Use Panic Attack!

Ash: How strange! Your Pokemon appears to have turned blue!

Me: Yeah, she does that when she hyperventilates. (slapping Anxietor) Breathe, dammit! Get ahold of yourself, bitch!

Ash: She's recovered! Pikachu, use Volt Tackle!

Me: Anxietor, use Meltdown!

Ash: Your Pokemon is defeated! I'm afraid this Meltdown Attack was completely ineffective!

Me: It always is, Ash. It always is. Come, Anxietor. Time for your Valium.

Friday, November 13, 2009


Meet my shame spiral. His name is Floyd.

Floyd’s job is to guilt me out over my various and sundry failings. This causes me to engage in all manner of unhealthy and self-destructive behavior, such as eating Nutella straight from the jar with my fingers. Or blowing off dinner to watch consecutive showings of The Real Housewives of Atlanta (a little take-out never hurt nobody). All of which, in turn, brings on another visit from Floyd.

See how this shame spiral thing works? Good. Let’s watch Floyd in action.

Here’s Floyd passing judgment on me as I eat the last Skittles from my daughter’s Halloween candy. Skittles happen to be my daughter’s favorite – and why not? It’s the Original Fruit Bite-Sized Candy!

Please don’t give me that look, Floyd. It’s not as if she’ll ever know. Besides, no eight year old girl should eat her weight in sugar. I’m just looking out for her health, right? RIGHT????

Whatever. Where’s that Nutella?

Here’s me borrowing from my son’s change jar so that I can tip the pizza guy.

Floyd does not approve.

Oh, COME ON Floyd. I said borrowing! I’ll pay it back . . . PROMISE! What’s the kid done to earn twenty-three bucks, anyway? Aside from losing a few lousy teeth?

Know what, Floyd? You’re starting to get on my nerves. A woman can’t live in this kind of a pressure-cooker. Besides, Showgirls is on, and I want to watch it guilt-free. With my Nutella. And a bottle of good white.

Floyd, meet my kids.

That’s right. Spend some quality time together.

Now pardon me, but I’ve got to go catch that psychotic, ginger-haired choreographer Hitler-scream at Elizabeth Berkeley. Thrust it, THRUST IT!!!