I'm the sanest person you know, motherfucker.

I don't tell people that I'm afraid of losing my mind, because if I admit it, I'm pretty sure someone will use it against me, like that one time 20 years ago on Days of Our Lives when someone painted Marlena's office with hallucinogenic crazypaint and then piped scary voices in through the air duct and she went all bananas until John figured it all out and saved her, and yes, my life is very similar to Marlena's, why do you ask? *caresses cheek with a single red rose, silk nightgown falls to the floor*

Which is why sometimes when I get a comment on this blog that's all, "OMG someone forgot their medication today! LOL!" or "Oh Becky, you so crazy!" I overreact and get all scary and defensive in my comments back:

Lately I feel like everything around me is dipped in Marlena's crazypaint. It's not just one thing; there's been a rash of crazy lately.

It's the guy who sat down next to me at my smog check and told me about his plans to cut off his penis so that he might transform himself into the sexiest woman in the world, into the "all that and a bag of chips sexy" kind of woman he sees in the Victoria's Secret catalog. He will be so sexy once he is penisless, he explained, that he will literally give himself a boner just by looking in the mirror. "Wow," I replied, fighting my instincts to point out the fatal flaw in his plan. "That IS sexy."

It's Old Man Farley, who has survived both a brain tumor and meningitis this year, but who has recently taken a turn for the crazy. He walks around and around in circles, stares at me from behind doors as if to say, "I left a pile of poop in the living room yesterday and now IT IS REMOVED! WHAT SAY YOU, VILLAIN!" and who gets so disoriented that sometimes he

just...

can't quite...

make it...

onto the bed.

He sure is a sleepy sonofagun!

Yesterday morning I went to wake him, and during the night his head had slipped down between the pillows of his bagel-shaped dog bed, hiding his entire head from view. Everything has seemed so crazy lately that this just seemed par for the course, so in my half-asleep state I just accepted it, sighed, shrugged, and said, "Well that's just great, now he's headless," and started making plans for caring for a headless dog.

I'll have to lead him everywhere, first of all, which is going to be a huge inconvenience, but whattya gonna do? I love the old guy. Secondly, how will his collar stay on if he's only got a neck and nothing else? I need a harness if I'm really going to make this work...

I didn't even photoshop this. His head is really under there somewhere.

It's the hopeful transsexual, and it's Old Man Farley, but it's also my neighbor with dementia, who escaped from her Russian home care worker recently to accuse me of stealing her car. It's understandable, though, why she thought her car had gone missing, because, in much the same way you might look frantically for your sunglasses when they're sitting on top of your head, you can't very well see a car when you're sitting in its back seat.

From the comfort of her luxury car, she pointed to my own car parked in my driveway, leaned up to her cracked window, and asked me why, when we have always been such amicable neighbors, had I stolen her new black Lexus and parked it in my own driveway, somehow magically transforming it into a '99 white Volvo station wagon in the process. I am a thief and a wizard.

Her: I don't mean to accuse you of stealing my car, but I see that car parked in your driveway and, you have to admit, it does look suspicious. Just put yourself in my shoes.

Me: Hmm. I see your point, Helen. But the interesting thing is, the car in my driveway is a white '99 Volvo. Your car, this beauty right here (admiring pat pat on the door), is a new black Lexus.

Her: I know that, but that doesn't change the facts, does it, Becky. *looks pointedly at my Volvo, then back at me* Does it.

I used my keen redirecting skills to compliment her hair and her weight and her cat's manners until her Russian home care worker realized she was missing and came out to retrieve her.

The next day, though, as I was pulling out of our cul-de-sac, I spotted her in her bathrobe trying to break into our other neighbor's house through his side door. "NOT IN THE MOOD FOR YOUR BULLSHIT TODAY, CRAZYPANTS!! GOOD LUCK WITH THAT THOUGH!" I called out softly, as I smiled, waved, and drove on past.

I should be better equipped to handle her, though, because my dad had dementia for years. For how long? Five years? Twenty? The transition from eccentric into demented is so seamless, it's hard to tell sometimes. There's no Cosmo quiz for this kind of thing.

Dementia or Eccentric? The Sassy Girls' Guide to Understanding Your Dad

1) When your refrigerator gets low on food, your dad:

a) goes to the market and buys more food.

b) steals your student credit card and orders $200 worth of Omaha steaks from an 800 number.

c) brings home a package of Pudding Pops, points the shakyfinger at you, points the shakyfinger at the Pops, and drags his index finger across his neck.

d) hides all the bananas, times are tough and you gotta do what you gotta do.

2) In his free time, your dad

a) golfs.

b) cleans assault rifles in the den.

c) steals your student credit card and orders the sold-only-on-tv music compilation set of "Freedom Rock", because your birthday's coming up.

d) calls you at your friend's house to tell you he found a pen. Because he remembers you were looking for a pen that one time last summer.

3) At Christmastime, your dad

a) goes shopping at a store and purchases a sweater, which he wraps in paper and gives to you.

b) steals your student credit card and orders a giant $85 ring made of blue zircon, because "I don't know shit about jewels, kid, but look at it, it's a monster, isn't it? Try it on!!"

c) gives you a canister of tear gas and mounts it on the wall next to your bed with Velcro, because "I'm pretty sure the old guy next door is [makes crazy cross-eyes, frenetic jerk-off motion, drooly pedophile smile] over you, kid. Watch out."

A couple of months ago, I showed up at my mom's house to find my half-brother trying to blow open one of dad's old safes. After a few hours, he succeeded, only to find...

...that the only things the safe contained...

...were two tubes of Chapstick.

"That's bullshit!" he cried. Then he proceeded to hammer the padlock off one of my dad's old trunks. This attempt was slightly more profitable.

And buried in the corner of the trunk full of quarters and dimes was a single black sock.

Ah, hello, old coinsock. I remember you.

Me: I just need five dollars for a movie.

Dad: (counts out dimes and quarters)

Me: Paper dollars? Please?

Dad: Paper's over with, kid. When it all goes to shit we'll be warming our hands over money fires. It's all about metals. Everything else is bullshit.

Me: Why don't I spend the paper dollars now then? Use them up while they're still worth something?

Dad: Because here's why. (dumps coins into a long black dress sock) You're a young girl, out at a movie with her friends, right? And there's all sorts of dirty old creeps out there, following you and your friends around and doin' all sorts of... (crazy crosseyes, frenetic jerk-off motion, drooly pedophile smile*)... you read me?

Me: A bunch of old guys following us around and... what does that gesture even mean... stabbing themselves in the penis? That's crazy! We're just gonna go see Goonies down the street. Okay?

Dad: You'll go see your Goolies when I finish with you. Are you listening? So you get into trouble with one of these guys, and you take this sock full of change and you hold it by the end and spin it around your head, fast. It's popcorn money, yes. It's also a deadly weapon.

Me: (Sigh.) Thanks, dad.

Dad: Bring me change!

*Side note: My dad, in a flattering display of fatherly protectiveness, had it in his head that every old guy in the world was jerking it to the thought of me, like I was some kind of hot tamale on the pedophile circuit. If you knew me back then, we'd be laughing right now, because as you would already know, I was not what one would call a great beauty. Unfortunately for me, since you didn't know me then, I have no choice but to show you my 6th grade class photo.

I know. Boner city, right?

Anyhow.

Hopeful Transsexual, and Old Man Farley, and Dementia Helen bringing back those memories of my dad... All of it has me a little on edge. I like order and logic and I prefer everyone to say and do things that make sense. When things stop making sense, I'm hyperaware and begin to interpret the most subtle of clues to mean that I'm losing my mind.

Sometimes this causes me to jump to bizarre and illogical conclusions. Like, at breakfast:

Waitress: Want another pancake?

Me: Uh, I'm sorry, did you just say...Guatemala handshake? Did I mishear you or something? Because that doesn't even make sense! Oh. Oh, I see. I see what's going on here. I'm hearing things? I'm insane, is that it? It's finally happened? Fine! I'm fine with it! Ha! AHAHAHA! Look at you all, just looking at me, like a bunch of looker people, pointing your eyes at me! I'm craaaazzzyy, right? Well, boogadee-boo! You know what? I got your Guatemala handshake right here, fuckers!! *flips everyone the double bird*

Or at my mom's house...

Me: Hi mom.

Mom: (reading something online)

Me: Hi mom. Hi mom. Hi. Hi. Mom? Hi mom! Hi! Mom? I said hi. Hi. Hi. Hi.

Mom: (closes the laptop, starts to get up)

Me: Mom? Mom! Can you hear me? Hi! HI!! HI!! HI MOM! MOM! HELLO! HELLO MOM! MOM CAN YOU HEAR ME! CAN YOU HEAR ME! MOM! OH MY GOD I'M A GHOST! I'M A FUCKING GHOST! *slapping myself in the face* NO! GOD, NO! SOMEBODY PLEASE SAY SOMETHING!! I'M RIGHT HERE! LOOK! I'M STILL WITH YOU! *sweeps mug of coffee off table* I'LL NEVER GO INTO THE LIGHT! *tries repeatedly to spirit-pass through the wall* HOLY SHIT, I'M A SOLID GHOST? WAIT...WAS I EVER REALLY ALIVE!!?

Mom: Oh for cryin' out loud, will you calm down? I was just finishing this article.

Me: Oh. Okay. Heh. Sorry about your coffee mug. Why don't I... I'll brew another pot, yes? *whistling*

I know I'm asking for it with this post. Of course someone's going to comment and jokingly tell me I'm crazy, and I'll laugh hahaha and it'll be alright because you kinda know me and I kinda know you, and I know that you know I'm not really crazy, right? Haha. Right?

Right?

Connecting with your blog readers. Alt title: How Flashdance made me foot-rape my dad.

Have you ever had one of those moments of clarity when all of a sudden you see or hear something that suddenly explains for you something that had, until that moment, confused or eluded you for years, maybe even decades prior to that moment?

No?

Damn. I read somewhere that I'm supposed to begin every post by trying to connect with the reader on a personal level, but perhaps I was too vague. OK, more specifically...

Have you ever watched a movie that you hadn't seen since you were a kid, and all of a sudden some memory or experience from your childhood suddenly makes sense?

Kinda? No??

Crap. Alright how 'bout...

Have you ever watched Flashdance this past weekend and remembered the time you were 7 years old and eating spaghetti with butter and wiped it all over your face to look more sexy like Jennifer Beals when she was eating lobster all sensual and messy-like on her date with that guy, and then pulled the neck of your sweater down on one side to reveal your shoulder because Jennifer Beals did that in the movie and she looked super pretty, and then took your foot under the dinner table and pressed it against your dad's balls because Jennifer Beals' date really liked that in the movie?

Yeah? Great. I knew you'd come around.

So I'm watching Flashdance this past weekend and I'm getting a little pissed, you know? Because all of a sudden some pieces of the puzzle that is me are falling into place. Like, thanks to Jennifer Beals, I can't strip worth shit. I mean, the movie DID teach a 7 year old me that stripping did NOT mean tearing your clothes off in neat vertical strips, and thank God for that because that kind of stripping is more time consuming than you'd imagine, especially since you have to prep your shirt with discreet little starter incisions around the neck. But come on, Jennifer Beals running around under a strobe light in a red business suit with her face painted white like a mime is NOT sexy. Such a bad role model for the kids.

Then there's the scene where they're working out at the gym and the one black dancer says to the other white girls, "I'm glad I ain't no honky bitch!" and suddenly the mystery of how my favorite white stuffed animal cat from childhood came to be named Honky Cracker. (Much thanks to Richard Pryor for the inspiration behind the surname.)

Then, alright, there's a scene where she's out to dinner with her date, and her face is all lobstery and buttery, and she takes off her shoe and stretches her foot out under the table and tickles her date's crotch. He's like Whoa! with surprise and pleasure and I remember thinking AHA! Boys must have an extra tickle spot, like an armpit between their legs! I gotta try that trick someday! and about a week later I violated my dad's balls with my foot under the dinner table and he looked at me exactly like you would imagine a man would look at his daughter who had just tickled his nuts. A very very bad face.

So in order to prevent any of you who were thinking of attempting the same trick after watching the liar bullshit movie Flashdance, here are some tips so that you may learn from my mistakes and never experience the horror that is knowing what your dad's scrotum feels like through his jeans:

Step 1) Choose a man who is not your dad. This is the key to a successful sub-table foot jay. Remember that. Don't Tickle Your Dad's Balls. DTYDB. If you think you might not remember that, do what I do when I have to remember something important, which is to create a mnemonic device, like "Dizzy Tits Yowza Diggety Booya." That should help.

Step 2) Some foods are sexy-looking when dripping out of one's mouth. Lobster with butter? Sexy. Peanut Butter Sandwich chewed into a puree and oozing out of one's mouth and off one's chin and onto the table. Not sexy. See how that works?

Strawberries? Yes. Fish sticks? No.

Step 3) Once you've got your non-related nut-ticklee and your sexy food items all set up, it's go time! I never actually got this far on account of my dad's angry iron fist pinning my foot down to the seat cushion and then flinging it aside with the GAH!!! heard round the world, but I imagine that gentle toe coochie-coos probably work better than playful thwak thwak thwaks of the pad of your foot against his crotch. Again though, just speculation. I never even got to first foot base. My dad was such a prude, and frankly kind of anti practically everything, like incestuous patriphilia and reverse molestation, but that's the older generation for you. HAHAHA!!! Sigh. Bless their hearts.

My dad would give this post thumbs up. If he weren't so dead all the damn time.

I got a lot of phone calls and texts yesterday asking me if I was doing alright, seeing as how yesterday was Father's Day and my dad is all dead n' shit. I don't really remember celebrating Father's Day while he was alive, except for this one time as a present I massaged his head until he fell asleep and then drew a kitty-cat on the side of his face and neck using a Sharpie. I don't know what the big deal was, he was retired by that point so it's not like he had to go anywhere except for the grocery store, plus he looked totally badass with his new pretty kitty face tattoo. And, you know how it is, you gotta keep yourself entertained somehow when you're home from college for the summer, am I right?

If someone doesn't want you to draw on their face with a Sharpie, they should say Don't Draw On My Face With A Sharpie. That's just basic communication. But all he said before he dozed off that time was "No haircuts," on account of the haircut I had given him years before which he didn't like very much, I guess because he was pretty vain about his sideburns and wanting to keep them.

So yesterday wasn't bad at all, actually. I had fun making people feel awkward by reminding them about my dad being dead.

Friend 1: I need to call my dad to wish him Happy Father's Day.

Me: How does it feel to have a dad that's not all burned to ashes? That must feel good. I wouldn't know much about that. *sigh*

Friend 2: I'm taking my dad out to lunch today.

Me: My dad loved lunch, back when he wasn't dead. He loved steak sandwiches. This was a long time ago though, before he was a box of ash.

Friend 3: Is today hard for you? Are you doing alright?

Me: Yeah, well. It's not like it used to be. Like, he used to give the best hugs, but since he was cremated it's not the same. That urn is not warm at all. Sometimes I can hear the larger bone fragments rattling around in there, so there's that. That's kind of like I Love You, right?

Ah, well. I think I would have made him laugh, anyways.

People are way too serious about death. It hurts, it's unfair, it's scary as hell, it's bullshit, all that's true. But sometimes the only way to get through it is to recognize the ridiculous in the horrible. Because what will it all matter in a hundred years. Because life is silly. Because we're all just temporary. And because what else can you do.

The morning he died, we all gathered and cried and ate. I cut into a tray of lasagna that someone had brought over, and as I lifted the slice onto my plate, the whole thing slipped apart the way hot lasagna will do sometimes, cheese sliding off noodles into a big glop on my plate.

"Great." I said, holding my arms rigid at my side in mock-exasperation.

"Just great. First dad dies, now THIS!" And I tossed the spatula onto the counter and threw my hands up in defeat.

My sister brings this moment up from time to time. It was the moment we all started breathing again, when it seemed like everything was beginning to return to normal, after weeks of whispered concerns and grim prognoses. And somehow we laughed until we ached, and we knew he'd be happy that we did.

So yeah, Father's Day was great.

Other than the fact that I'm half-Orphan, but I'm glad you all enjoyed yourselves. No, don't worry about me, me and my cold box of ash are very happy. It's fine, really. I ask him for fatherly advice and he says "Swish, rattle rattle, *ash plume*, (silence)," which probably means carpe diem or follow your heart or something, I'm sure.