Me and my Inner Bitch

My life is a drama of historical proportion. I can’t really write about my latest drama because

A. No one would believe me
2. Someone might be reading this and find out too much about it (I can certainly elude to it, though can’t I?)
C. I don’t want additional drama (or DO I?)

I can only say that it is interesting and I hope to make it into a movie someday. Then again, refer to “A”.

I suppose, to a certain extent, I entertain the drama. I do. I don’t always welcome it, but once it is here, I am so intrigued by the various ways I could analyze it and decipher it that I begin to enjoy it. Varied perspectives fascinate me and I’m always looking for new ways to look at something or to see it from another point of view. I guess you could say, “We accept your drama as a gift.”

Well, in this case, I have seen the drama in question from a LOT of different perspectives now. I think I have a very good picture (3D even). I think that sometimes, if you are lucky and you are a good person, God shows you the light (so to speak). You see all kinds of things that relate to the truth of the matter.

Occasionally, my inner bitch gets the best of me. (Waaaaaa okeeey.... Perhaps a little more often than “occasionally”.) For the most part, I try to be a good person and do the right thing. Like this month – I helped several people find jobs and I am really happy about that (they are church-going folks who are actually praying for me and for that – I am very thankful because I need all the references I can get). I’m not a recruiter, but I know that I am good at resume writing. I also don’t do a lot of charitable things, so maybe this is a form of “giving back” or “paying it forward”. I try to help anybody who asks. It is a way of leashing the inner bitch from time to time.

It didn’t work yesterday; the inner bitch got out and blew up at every TCN nurse within the perimeter. I waited for a full hour at the International Clinic to see the Orthopedic doctor (to check on my slipped discs from the Circus Sex of 2006). I finally lost it. Unfortunately, Dr. Bones is located on the same floor with pediatrics and the OB/GYN. I had four very nasty little kids either touch me or sneeze/cough on me.

WTF do people think I like kids and want their brats climbing on me? I know I have one of those “nurturing” faces (which is fine when it comes to sex, but not to child bearing). I don’t really like kids all that much. The toddlers smell like poop and the smaller ones make noise all the time. Why would I want to be involved in all that? “Oh, Desert Girl… you will feel different when you have one of your own…. “ highly unlikely. I like the process, not the output. For the amount of practice at the process that I’ve had, I know that I would have the absolute best quality baby on Earth. It would come with its own ISO certification (hopefully for HAZMAT disposal). It would come with its own MS Project schedule on feedings, HAZMAT removal, and uptime/downtime.

Ok and while we are on the subject of kids (mine = perfect; yours = icky): Why don’t parents in this part of the world teach their obnoxious little poopers to cover their damn mouths/noses when they sneeze or cough? Why should THEY get offended when I cover my own mouth/nose (sometimes with the collar of my shirt) when their kids sneeze, cough, spew in my direction? Ick! I know I caught something yesterday; I couldn’t spray enough travel-sized disinfectant on me in the waiting room. I am susceptible to nasty germs and kids have the worst. People here THINK that living with a house pet is unsanitary, but I have NEVER seen anything come out of my dog like I’ve seen come out of some of the kids around here. And I don’t care how cute you dress them – if you haven’t taught your kids basic manners, they are just nasteh.

There are some kids that I can semi-stand; like my neighbors’ kids. When they first moved in, I had visions of things dropping on their heads after repeated door slamming and screaming fits in the hallway in front of my door (which must be made of paper). Whylie Coyote repeatedly blew them up in my fantasies. I tried taking myself to their level: when they screamed, I screamed back. When they had a crying fit in the hallway; I imitated them from the opposite side of the door. I sent my dog out into the hallway to bark. Nothing worked. Now, I have tried to reason with them and it is having a better affect. I speak to the six-year-old the same way I would speak to any of the men I date (again, like six-year-olds, but with a twist): “Bashar (neighbor kids’ name), you are a man. I respect you. You should respect others. Please don’t slam the door. I need to sleep because I am tired. Do you understand, honey?”

I have learned that men, like six-year-olds, generally respond if you push your boobs a little forward and up and talk like a little girl. Most of them giggle just like six-year-olds and promise never to do (whatever) again. Until the next time something slams.... tee hee.