Sorry To Say Your Lolita Never Took Chemistry

I was chatting (talking shit) the other day with a friend (skank) and she said, “Oh, she’s one of those people who never forgets a slight.  You know the type.”

I laughed and said, “Those people are the worst!”

Then I narrowed my eyes and mentally replayed a scene from 25 years ago when I had just turned 18, when my 32-year old boyfriend came into my kitchen with his hand on his belly and said, “Do you have any bicarbonate?”

I responded, “Huh?”

Then he closed his eyes and sighed, exaggeratedly shaking his head “no” like I was the dumbest person on Earth, his low-rent David Coverdale-esque mane flurrying scalp-snow down the front of his favorite t-shirt, the one that had a cartoon drawing of brains racked up like billiard balls with the words “Rack your brains!” underneath it.  Because he was such a COOL GUY.

A cool guy who couldn’t afford his own dandruff shampoo and instead used half of my goddamned bottle to hose the flakes out of his mop any time he stayed at my house, which was every night.  “Dry skin” he called it.  IT’S DANDRUFF, GUY.  I HAVE IT, TOO.  STOP LYING TO YOURSELF.

Bicarbonate?” he repeated.  “Do you have any?  For my stomach?”

This went on for another couple rounds before I said, “I have no idea what the hell you’re asking me for here.”

He feigned surprise and said, “Bicarbonate is baking soda, darling.  It works for upset stomachs.  I suppose it’s my fault for asking.  I forget sometimes that not everybody has a PhD in Pharmacology – I’m just so used to being around academics.”

My god.  That is so true.  The teenager you’re dating doesn’t have a doctoral degree.  HOW COULD I HAVE BEEN SO STUPID?  THE SHAME!  MY GOD, THE SHAME.

Maybe I should spend the rest of my life thinking about how dumb I was for not having a doctoral degree when I was still young enough to still be asked for ID when attempting to buy Hello Kitty barrettes with a debit card.

Maybe I should keep a set of chemistry books at the ready for when an unemployed thirty-something dickwad with a PhD needs something to settle his stomach after I buy him dinner at the goddamned Olive Garden with the last forty bucks I have and he acts all affronted that I don’t have enough money to buy him an espresso afterwards, commenting that without the espresso he “wasn’t really treated to a proper Italian meal”.  AT THE OLIVE GARDEN.  BY A TEENAGER.

Maybe I should have a translating device for when old men with their old buttholes have digestive problems and can’t muster the strength to dumb themselves down to say the words “baking soda” to their Lolita and prefer, instead, to play pretentious verbal tennis using the word “bicarbonate” as the ball and a teenage girl’s self-worth as the racket.

Maybe I should wear an empty, industrial-sized sack of Arm & Hammer as a tunic and then fashion a gigantic crucifix out of baking soda boxes and then haul it down the side of the highway on my shoulder every Good Friday through Easter for the rest of my life so that the world will know how Father Time here really put one over on the young Magster.

“Bicarbonate!  Can you believe she didn’t know what bicarbonate was?!!  Hahahahahahaha!!!” his academic peers ERUPTING into emphysematic laughter at my expense, their old man balls jiggling and clinking like fetal pigs in jars during an earthquake at the science lab.

“OBVIOUSLY I HAVE TO PAY FOR THIS INTELLECTUAL INFRACTION,” I THOUGHT.

Oh, and by the way, baking soda is sodium bicarbonate – not “bicarbonate” – so you can just crawl into whoever’s car you’re borrowing these days, DOCTOR, and drive it straight into a mountain made of dicks and finally declare yourself the King of Dick Mountain.  Dick.

And I realize that you’re so old that you probably started having digestive problems when prairie medicine was still in vogue, but why don’t you take some goddamned Tums or Zantac like a normal person instead of swishing baking soda around your wooden dentures and down your crusty old blown-out bagpipe esophagus, Doc Holliday?

On a related note, I have been referring to this guy as “Dr. Shitbag” for the past 25 years.

My apologies for the diversion.

Now let’s get back to those people who never forget a slight…

Mz. Mannerz: The Fauxpology Prodigy

It’s time for another exciting installment of Mz. Mannerz!  Go put on a codpiece and brace yourself.  Like you weren’t already wearing one anyway.

The fake apology, or as it is often called, the fauxpology.  One of the more entertaining things a person can receive.  You could write it out as “Faux pas-logy” but that’s just confusing, so just go along with me here.

As you know, I had many years of experience dating scumbag musicians because for some reason or another I used to think I was worthless, so I’ve probably received more fauxpologies than most people, including such golden hits as…

“Hey, you know what?  I’m sorry you had to pay to get the electric turned back on again, but do you even care that I finally beat Grand Theft Auto Vice City while you were at work today?”

“Sorry you’re all ‘boo-hoo sad’ with your trust issues because I haven’t told my parents about us.  I’m doing you a favor.  If my mother knew I was living at your house for the past two years she would think you were a tramp and weren’t good enough for me.”

“Well, sorry if you have to get up early for work, but I’m having a good time and I’m not ready to go home yet.  Go sleep in the car if you’re tired.”

And yes, I walked out to a bar parking lot alone at 1am to sleep in my car.  My car that I had driven him to the bar in, because he had no car and no job, yet he felt he was the person in charge of when we would be leaving the bar.  Feel free to mentally transport yourself to the past and punch him in the dick.

…so I consider myself to be somewhat of a connoisseur of the fauxpology.

Now that I’m away from that horrific horseshittery, I find these fauxpologies almost endearing in hindsight.  They really are the gift that pretends to keep on giving.

There’s really only one correct way to say that you’re sorry:

  • By clearly stating that you are sorry for doing the shitty thing.

That’s the formula, in case you’re taking notes.

My god, please tell me you’re taking notes.  This website could self-destruct at any moment and then where would you be?  How would you know that the preferred Sheen/Estevez is actually Judd Nelson?

Here’s what an apology is not:

“Sorry if there were hurt feelings.”

This is what I like to call a “non-ownership” fauxpology.  For one thing, you couldn’t even be sincere enough to add the “I’m” before the word “sorry”?  That’s red flag number one that you’re not even remotely sorry.

The usage of the word “if” is another good indicator.  When you’re apologizing to someone, that means that they DO have hurt feelings.  There’s no question as to “if” they have hurt feelings.

And who’s hurt feelings are we even talking about here?  Because you didn’t mention anything about them being mine!  What you’ve done is just semi-apologized to the air, on behalf of the air.  You somehow managed to remove both of us from the entire equation, and questioned the notion that there were any hurt feelings to begin with.  Try again, shitass.

“I’m sorry you got your feelings hurt.”

I said try again.  That means try something different.  Not try the same damn bullshit again.

“I’m sorry that you’re so sensitive!”

Here’s the thing.  Do you want to have friends?  Would you like for people to be genuinely happy to see you?  Then when you do something shitty to them and they say, “Hey, that was shitty,” whether you intended to be shitty or not, you freaking apologize to them.  This is not cause for a debate over whether or not you feel they had a right to be upset about something you said or did – something that has clearly upset them either way.  Just apologize.  It goes something like this:  “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”  <—— Don’t cost nothin’!  AND DON’T SNEAK AN “IF” IN THERE.

“I’m sorry you took it that way.”

This is most often said when someone has said or done something so egregious that it’s undeniable, and now they’re basically trolling you.  This is how someone fauxpologizes after you get upset when they tell you, “Wow, you’ve really packed on weight since the last time I saw you!” or “Unlike you, I actually clean my house.”  There’s only one “way” to take those statements.  They were meant to be insulting.

“I SAID I WAS SORRY, OKAY?!”

See, now you’re yelling.  You’re yelling at someone who you’ve already wronged once.

Sometimes you can do something so super shitty that no amount of apologizing is going to make it better.  Sometimes it’s a sting that will take time to fade.  Sometimes it’s something unforgivable.  If someone is still upset after you apologize, that is not your cue to yell at the person.  That is your cue to figure out what you can possibly do to make it right, if anything, or just leave them alone and respect their space.

And people don’t have to actually accept your apology.  It’s not just a given in the apology transaction.  When you apologize, you are asking someone for forgiveness.  You don’t get to demand it from them.

So!  To summarize:

Stop being a dick and just say you’re sorry.

“Well, when I was on the debate team in high school…”

I SAID STOP BEING A DICK.

News You Can Booze

Rather than bore the hell out of you with my usual ramblings, I’ve decided to bore the hell out of you with some news!  I’m going to deliver this news in list format, because that’s the laziest, cheapest way to write anything, and yes I’m looking at you, Buzzfeed.

Stupid lists.  So here’s my list!

One:  My memoir/essay collection manuscript “Dirtbag Lights” has been selected as a semifinalist for the 2019 Pamet River Prize. It’s given out once a year by YesYes Books, an indie publisher in Portland, Oregon.  Yes, I nearly fell to pieces crying when I got the notification and woke Bobby up from a dead-sleep at 5:30 in the morning to tell him.  No, I do not know where the Pamet River is.  In the unlikely event that this publisher loses their mind, chugs a bottle of Fabuloso, and declares me the winner (to be announced in September 2019), the prize is publication of the book, a satchel of money, and a buttload of “hyperventilating” and whatnot.

Two:  I have been asked to sing harmonies and play hand-percussion for a friend’s band next month. On a stage at a club downtown.  In front of people.  After not having stepped foot on a stage in nearly eight years after the ohmygod nuclear implosion of my former band, I feel compelled to tell you that the stage fright associated with going back up there does not make me want to bite my fingernails at all.  Not at all!  It makes me want to set my hands on fire, eat them, and then vomit up fingers like a Roman candle filled with flaming Vienna sausages until I die.  Which is why I enthusiastically said yes and will be climbing up on that stage at 43 years of age and wondering how the hell my life is my life.  Fair warning – I will need to be 80% hammered to do this.

Three:  I need to lose ten pounds before I get on that stage or else be faced with watching the videos later in horror as my tattooed bingo-wings flap about the screen, which means I will be even angrier than usual for a spell while I do 5am workouts and eat goddamned salads three times a day. There is no need to worry about your own personal safety during this time – unless you live on Earth – in which case you will most certainly be affected by my Wrath of Hangry and should take cover immediately.

Four:  Robert Palmer is very, very underrated as a singer and performer and I ripped off his stage mannerisms for YEARS.  As they say on The Twitter, fight me.

Five:  I’m working on a short film with my friend/drummer/villain-partner-in-crime Jon. It’s about Greg Brady.  Fight me AND Greg Brady.

So lots of stuff happening at the moment.  Lots to do.

Which is precisely why instead of working, I’m going to hit the ‘Publish’ button on this, and then go watch The Golden Girls for the next few hours while I rock back and forth, stare into space, and ruminate about events that I can’t change because they happened in the fifth grade, all the while staving off a panic attack and/or trip to Dunkin Donuts.  You know, self-care.