Middle School: Hey, at least it wasn't when I peaked?

Uh, so the world of e-commerce is slightly more complicated than I thought. Specifically because I've decided to Jew out and order everything in bulk and set up the store and handle the inventory and shipping myself. Because let's not lie; I've got the time. That and I don't need an e-pimp taking the majority of my hard earned sorr about the bag money. I saw Hustle & Flow. I know how that shit works. Plus, if anyone's going to monetize off of the severe emotional trauma caused by "sorr about the bag," it sure as shit isn't going to be Cafe Press. I don't remember them wiping away any tears after the incident or taking the X-Acto blade out of my shaky little talons.

I think my mom is 97% sure that my little 2b1b merch store is going to be audited by the IRS within it's first two minutes of being open. And honestly, I don't blame her. I'm a wile, shifty little character, to say the least. If I'm trying to get from point A to point B, I'm pretty much willing to do whatever it takes to get there no matter what corners I have to cut or which morals I have to throw to the wind. I mean, need I remind you that I recently dreamt I exchanged unspeakable sexual favors involving my parents' shower for a role in the fictitious 2010 remake of Shag? My subconscious cooked that up, looked it over and said, "Yep. Seems about right." and threw in the towel. Some people call this characteristic "being a horrible person"; I call it dedication.

The point being, I can understand why my mom would think I'd try to dick over Uncle Sam upside down and sideways. But, surprisingly, I'm not. I'm being responsible. I spent the better part of today researching this whole LLC/Inc/sales tax/income tax/we'll put a boot in your ass, it's the American way tax, thing and I won't open the store until it's all figured out and I know that all of my ducks are in a row. Which sucks because everything's designed and looks sexy and I want to show you guys now now now! But no! Must. be. responsible. Which is why I keep sending manic emails at all hours of the night to our good friend Nate asking him 9,000 questions (accompanied by delightful Leverne & Shirley clips) about the world of e-commerce. Nate's been super helpful and nice about taking time out of his day to answer my questions, despite having just been fired himself (TWINSIES!!!!!1), so if you get a chance, you should totally head over and check out his store. Thanks Nate!

This afternoon (in between doing tax research and masturbating to the sorr about the bag design) I started feeling overwhelmed by my e-commerce confusion, so I decided to take a break and make myself a relaxing cup of chamomile tea. You know how a scent can take you back to a really specific time or moment in your life? Like, white musk reminds me of 8th grade OBGC field hockey season, "Very Sexy For Her" reminds me of Junior year of college and Dolce & Gabanna "Light Blue" reminds me of slicing wrists in New York? Well, the smell of chamomile tea instantly transported back to sitting on the couch with my parents at 8pm on a weekday night, watching TV and sipping chamomile tea while trying not to cry and/or have an anxiety attack because I had to go to school the next day. But not just any school—middle school.

To say "middle school was hard for me" is such a gross understatement that it's just laughable. My middle school experience was straight-up traumatic. I am in no way saying this just for effect, but I would rather suck Paul Simon's dick for days on end with a stadium full of anonymous blog commentors watching and emailing me their in-depth critiques of my fellatio techniques than relive even five minutes of my middle school experience. That is how much I hated it. Elementary school was elementary school, high school was awesome, college was irritating but still fun, and middle school? Middle school was the equivalent of being emotionally waterboarded for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, for 3 years in a row. Why was middle school so traumatic for? Well, truthfully, I had a few things working against me:

- For the better part of middle school I had braces, board shorts, less than mediocre hygiene skills and a perm. I mean, what part of that doesn't scream "middle school was hard for me"?

- I went to Farquhar Middle School in Olney, Maryland. (Or, Farqueer, if you will.) Farquhar is what every middle school in America must have looked like in 1972. Nothing in Farquhar has been updated since the Nixon administration and the walls are painted in neon yellow and powder blue spirals so when you walk down the ramp from the library to the cafeteria, it honestly seemed plausible that this all just might be a bad acid trip and at any point it's going to wear off and you'll wake up safe in your bed, far, far away from this pre-pubescent Hunter S. Thompsonian nightmare.

To up the creepy factor even further, Farquhar was located on a plot of land isolated in the middle of a cornfield, in the middle of a forest, in the middle of a small town in the middle of Maryland. Every morning on the ride to school, there was this disturbing moment when the bus would turn from Dr. Bird Road onto Bachelor's Forest Road and as you approached school, the only thing you could see on the horizon was a small, rundown, brick building, surrounded by nothing but ominous cornfields back-lit by the eerie red morning sky. Shit was fucked up. Like going to school wasn't hard enough, we had to do it on the set of a Tim Burton period piece.

- Children at that age, specifically girls, are down-right cruel. I could expand on this topic but it would go some place very real, very fast.

- OK, I'm going there: I had a bully. I was bullied. I'm scared to say her name because the mere thought of her puts me right back in those board shorts, but let's just say that it rhymed with Schmessica Schmith. Schmessica Schmith was total a cunt to me. I think that might have been because she was kind of a cunt in general, but she caused me a lot of anxiety in middle school. (Side note: I just found her on Facebook and she scares me just as much as she did in '96, if not more. Mostly because her Facebook photo utilizes the Photoshop charcoal filter. Snobbery. Proceed.)

The only specific example of her cuntyness that I can think of is this time in 6th grade gym class floor hockey unit, I was talking to one of my "friends" (and I put that in quotations because I clearly didn't have any) and this "friend" was complaining about how weird this kid in our class Jonathan Bligh was and desperate to join the conversation, I was like, "Ohmygawd, I know. Jonathan Bligh is such a prick."

Now, looking back, I seriously misused the term "prick" there. Jonathan Bligh was like, a painfully shy nerd with glasses who kept to himself in the corner and did puzzles. I think referring to him as a "prick" was giving him a lot of credit. The truth of the mater was that I didn't know what the word meant; I was just really eager for a chance to use it. And when I did, Schmessica Schmith just so happened to be walking by. And being kind of "schwite shrash," Schmessica Schmmith did know what a prick was and shamelessly made fun of me for misusing it and for making fun of Jonathan Bligh in the first place. Because glass houses Meg McBlogger, glass houses.

I realize that Schmessica Schmith making fun of me for misusing the term "prick" during a game of floor hockey doesn't seem that traumatic, but trust me, it was. (Side note: I just found Jonathan Bligh on Facebook and according to his picture, he just got married. Mozel tov, ya old son-of-a-prick!)

Another one of my middle school bullies was this short, stout African American girl who's name escapes me right now, but she scared the shit out of everyone, including me. Even in high school. She was always screaming at someone and being really aggressive and confrontational and just generally really unpleasant. (Jesus Chris, what the fuck was her name?? Ali and/or Eileen: I expect a text when you read this.)

Now, the halls in Farquhar are very, very narrow and one day in 8th grade, said girl was standing in front of her locker with all of her shit—her jacket, backpack, books, purse—carelessly strewn about the floor. BY COMPLETE ACCIDENT, I stepped on a tiny corner of the hoodie of her jacket, didn't notice and continued to walk on.

Suddenly the girl got all up in my face and screamed, "AWWWWWWWWWWW HAAAAAYYYYYLLL NO, BITCH! [Said girl is now AN single inch away from my face with her own.] You do NOT. Step. On a black woman's clothing."

I swear to fucking god.

I like, peed my pants. I have never been so scared in my entire life. I was like, "WHAT?!?!?! HOW DID RACE GET INVOLVED, MA'AM?!?!?!" and ran into my social studies class and hid until the bell rang. Jesus Christ. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with people?

- I stand that Farquhar had specifically evil teachers. I know everybody looks back and thinks, "Oh man, my teachers were the worst!" But seriously, Farquhar was like, oddly chock full of horrible teachers. I'm specifically thinking of my 6th grade writing teacher, Mrs. McVeigh. Jesus Christ. What a waste of a vagina. I remember one day we read this story that was from the perspective of a thorn talking about how great it is to be a thorn and how it felt bad for the rose bud, so then we had to write a story from the perspective of something typically considered ugly or undesirable and what it felt sorry for. Everyone did their stories on weeds and shit, but I wrote mine from the perspective of the wrapper of a liverwurst sandwich and how it felt sorry for the so-called "delicious" smelling popcorn bucket. (Imaginative and hungry; even back then.)

When Mrs. McVeigh asked for volunteers to share their story, my little Meglet hand shot up immediately and I was picked to share with the class first. Shortly after I started, Mrs. McVeigh stopped me and told me that there wasn't time in her class for "these funny little stories" and if I wasn't going to take the assignment seriously, I might as well not do it at all. And oh my fucking god. To this day, I am still livid that upon hearing this, my mom didn't call her up at her home, during dinner and tell her to suck a rock and die. I mean, what's the point of having hippie parents if not for calling close-minded teachers and telling them to suck rocks and die?! When my kids ask me why they have to go to a weirdo School Without Walls where they're graded on a sliding scale of Tibetan prayer beads and hugs, this is the story I will tell them. And they're welcome.

- The combination of all of the above made it impossible for me to sleep at night because I was so consumed with anxiety about school the next day. It was bad. I wouldn't sleep all night and then the next morning, the combination of anxiety and lack of sleep would make me sick to my stomach and I'd routinely vomit all over first period. (Again, I didn't have any friends for the better part of middle school?—SHOCKER!)

We tried everything to cure my insomnia naturally—aromatherapy, noise machines, classical music tape after classical music tape after classical music tape, therapy sessions for my anxiety, herbal teas (which is where the chamomile tea flashback comes in)—and the only thing that worked was getting a lava lamp. Let me repeat that for you: the only thing that cured my debilitating anxiety and insomnia was a lava lamp. I swear to god. One day my parents took me to Sharper Image in Lakeforest Mall, we picked up a snazzy silver lava lamp with neon pink lava and from that night on (for a considerable amount of time), I was lulled to sleep by the zen-like amorphous shapes of its neon pink lava and it's warm glowing-glow.

...Do you know how much I internally struggle with this? Do you know what a complete douchebag I feel like because my body's natural Ambien is a lava lamp?? I mean, was I Shaggy in my past life??

I don't even remember why I started talking about middle school in the first place now. Why did I do this to myself? I'm completely lost in a series of anxious flashbacks. What was I talking about? Merch store -> more difficult than I thought -> taxes: whaaa? -> overwhelmed -> chamomile tea -> flashback to middle school. YES! OK. Well, so, yeah, in a nutshell: middle school was hard for me and I wouldn't go back for all the tea in China. Specifically all the chamomile tea in China. ZING!

(Yes that ZING! was forced, but I have now completely lost my concentration and all I want to do is curl up in a little ball, listen to the Spice Girls' Spice World on repeat, channel my 6th grade self and forgive.)

Adventures in Cella-Sitting

First and foremost, I'm terribly sorry that I mistakenly said Journey sang Livin' On a Prayer in Tuesday's blog post instead of Bon Jovi. I actually meant to reference Journey's Don't Stop Believin' in the first place, so my mistake all around. I went back and changed it, so please stop emailing me. Seriously. I mean, I love hearing from you guys, but I've never experienced such an influx of angry emails in all of my days of blogging. And it was because I mixed up my frat boy songs with -in' in it. Telling...

So, I'm dog-sitting Cella Hurst again for a total of 10 days and between me, you and the Pooper-Scooper—I'm shitting bricks. (BAHAHA! See what did there?!) Cella's the best; don't get me wrong. It's just that...well...how do I put this delicately? She's kind of got "one paw in the grave," if you know what I mean. She's part pit bull, part grim reaper, if you catch my drift. She's a fafillion fuckin' years old and is about to drop dead at any given second, if you're picking up what I'm putting down. Wiiiiink! Nuuuudge!

I started dog-sitting for Cella last summer and I'd be a whore and a liar if I said I wasn't worried that she'd up and die on me, even back then. I decided to keep my concerns to myself though because I didn't want to disrespect or upset Becky. I told myself that I was just being paranoid and pushed the idea of her dying on my watch out of my mind completely. But then Becca found out that I was going to be Cella-sitting for a 10 day period and blatantly sent me an email being like, "PSHHHH, that dog is going to die on you. You should probably be prepared for that now. Just sayin'." (And just to clarify, Becca is not the same person as Becky. I get that question a lot. There are two Rebecca's: Becca is my sister and Becky is our friend. Kind of like how there's Co-Blogger Chris and Tulane Chris. Except Tulane Chris is now the Co-Blogger and Co-Blogger Chris is now Ex Co-Blogger Chris, not to be confused with Ex Co-Blogger Eddie. That's easy enough, right? And people say this blog is confusing...)

Although Becca was just echoing my own fears, I made the executive decision not to listen to her and assume she was just fucking with me because quite frankly, if the roles were reversed I'd do the exact same thing to her. We're sisters, not saints. (Please tell me why I just wrote that, immediately realized it was the catchphrase for Kourtney & Khloé Take Miami and wanted to punch myself in the face.) (I'm in Miami, trick.)

...And then I got an email from Becky last week with a few last minute reminders about staying in her apartment. They were all pretty typical things you'd expect to hear from someone leaving their apartment to you before they're unreachable in Europe for a while, like who to call if I lock myself out, where to find the trash room, how to turn the AC on, the name and number of the building manager—oh, and an entire section on what to do in case Cella dies. And oh. my. squaw. I am freaking out.

I know this is absolutely nothing to complain about, but I haven't really had a lot of experience with death in my life, nevertheless dead bodies. (KNOCK ON ALL SORTS OF MOTHERFUCKING WOOD. IF I WAKE UP WITH A HORSE HEAD IN MY BED, I'M GONNA BE PISSED.) Sure I've had grandparents die, but one set was cremated and the other was Jewish so there was no reason to have a viewing. Plus I didn't even go to any of their funerals, so I feel like that separated me from the reality of death even more. (I'm not an asshole, I swear. My grandma Catherine died before I was born; my grandpa Bern's ashes are still kickin' it in a closet in my parent's house alongside the ashes of three dead cats and a poodle; I couldn't go to my grandpa Walter's funeral because it was in Long Island and I had school and I couldn't go to my grandma Betty's because, again, it was in Long Island and I was heinously sick with mono. I swear I'm not a terrible person. Well, I might be, but I certainly didn't skip all of those funerals out of choice.)

I've never even seen a dead pet's body. None of our cats died in the house; we had them all put to sleep in the end and Christ knows I wasn't emotionally strong enough to be there for that. (Actually, that's a lie. My cat Nellie died unexpectedly from Corona Disease—THE SILENT KITTY KILLER—and, ironically, it happened when we were on a family vacation and Rachel was taking care of her and my parent's house. I don't want to say "I always blamed her"...and yet, I just did. But I'm sorry, Rachel. I totally get it now. I get it.)

Come to think of it, I've never even seen a pet fish's dead body. I had a fish named Firecracker for an unprecedented six years and one day I came home from school (the first day of fifth grade, to be exact) and my dad was like, "HEY SPORT! [yes my dad is Marshall Darling in this flashback] Did you have a good day at school?" and I was all, "Yeah! I like really like my teacher and the class!" and he was like, "Well, at least you have that. Because your fish is dead. WAMP, WAMP!" I demanded to see Firecracker so I could take him out to the backyard and give him a proper burial, but my dad was like, "Ooooo...really? You're still into that scene? I kind of thought you had outgrown wanting to do that so I chucked him before I put the trash out." This plagues me to this day. Firecracker deserved better than that. He deserved better...

My point here is that I've never seen anything larger than a squirrel dead and I think I would completely lose my shit if I had to see or handle Cella's dead body. I mean, she's a grown-ass dog. She's large. Precious large. I can't imagine seeing something that large dead. It's just so fucking spooky to think about. I realize that this is probably unhealthy and I've honestly tried to take action to get over this. My dad frequently goes to Tennessee on business, so after I got fired and suddenly had a lot of free time on my hands, I proposed I go with him on his next trip and we swing by the UT Body Farm on our way home so I could see a dead body. I genuinely thought he was going to be all about this idea. If there's anything my dad loves more than me (and Becca) it's kooky adventures! Alas, he gave me a courtesy laugh and walked away. When I pressed the point, he flat-out said no and walked away again. I'm still reeling from the disappointment.

I tried again when I stayed with Eileen for my mini-cation in NYC a few weeks ago and it also failed spectacularly. Eileen is a nurse at New York Presbyterian Hospital and lives next door in the residences, so when we woke up Saturday morning and she asked what I wanted to do, I immediately answered: "MORGUE! LET'S GO NEXT DOOR TO THE MORGUE SO I CAN SEE A DEAD BODY I WANT TO SEE A DEAD BODY SO LET'S DO IT! MORGUE!" Eileen calmly tried to explain to me that you can't just go to the morgue to see a dead body, but I (rightfully) called shenanigans. She's a nurse; of course she can go to the morgue anytime she wants. She then refined her argument to I can't just go to the morgue to see a dead body because I'm not a nurse. Dedicated to the morbid cause and up for the challenge, I concocted a wacky Saved By The Bell-style scheme where I borrow a pair of her scrubs, put on a surgical mask, clip my SmartTrip to my shirt to serve as a makeshift hospital ID and follow her lead, but she seemed oddly pre-occupied with not wanting to loser her job. Pshh. Pussy. Losing your job is not the end of the world. You just get a retail job and babysit half-dead dogs all day, duh. Grow a pair.

So now I'm stuck here with the ticking time bomb that is poor little Cella until next Wednesday and every day that she doesn't die is a bigger surprise than the last. What freaks me out more than the thought of being in the same room as something dead is the conundrum of what I'm actually supposed to do with her body. Becky left me instructions in case of the worst, yes, but all she specified was what to throw out, what to keep and that what I do with the body is up to me; I can bury it, cremate it, give it to science—whatevs. While I love Cella dearly, I barely had enough money to cover the 5-dollar footlong I had for lunch, nevertheless cremation charges. This leaves burial, of course, but where the fuck am I supposed to bury a dog in Washington, D.C.? The idea of me scampering around the greater Dupont area lugging a dead pit-lab and a shovel behind me looking for a peaceful grassy knoll is slightly absurd, so I decided that GOD FORBID the worst happen, I need a game plan. And I think I've concocted one that's pretty damn air-tight.

It's a 4-man job and I think each party involved is about 52% on board with it. Considering that's over half, I think we're off to a good start. I like those figures.

Step 1 is Cella dying. And again, I honestly stress GOD FORBID. She's a sweet baby angel and it would break Becky's heart, so I seriously hope it doesn't happen. But let's just say that it does, Step 2 is to call Ex Co-Blogger Chris and ask him to come over. I really see myself in more of a directorial role throughout this entire process, so Step 3 is to direct Chris to physically pick Cella up and wrap her body in something—in my mind it's an oriental rug because if I'm being honest, I find that visual highly comical, but in reality it would probably be a blanket. Step 4 is to call Alex and ask him to drive his SUV over. Step 5 is to direct Chris and Alex to pick Cella up and put her in the back of Alex's car. Step 6 is drive to the hardware store in Eastern Market and purchase a sturdy shovel. Step 7 is to drive over to the house of the only person I know in the city who has a backyard—Helena. Step 8 is to knock on Helena's door and motion towards the oriental rug and/or blanket. Step 9 is for Helena to open the door and direct us to the backyard, before making a nice pitcher of ice-cold lemonade. I had originally planned for Step 10 to be a round-robin rock/paper/scissor tournament to see who has to dig the grave, but upon hearing Step 9, Chris said he'd, quote, "do anything for free lemonade," so Step 10 is for Chris to dig a ditch deep enough so Cella won't resurface when it rains, while the rest of us sip lemonade and watch his muscles glisten and gleam in the sun. Step 11 is to direct Chris and Alex to gently lower Cella into the grave. Step 12 is to direct Chris to pile the dirt on, bless Cella's heart. Step 13 is for us to go around in a circle and say a few kind words about the life and times of Cella Hurst before I play Danny Boy on the fife I got sophomore year when I went to Colonial Williamsburg with my parents for Fall Break while the sun sets. Step 14? Heal.

I feel slightly better knowing that I have such a well-thought-out and foolproof plan, but I'm still anxious. But, only 7 more days to go...7 more days.

Stay strong, little friend!