bitchgoddessdm

‎1010 WINS announced that one of the second-place lottery winners was from Forest Hills, Queens. I strode in confidently with my $1 Quick Pick and smiled knowingly when the cashier said, "Congratulations! You won!" The guy next to me said, "Really? Are you going to quit your job?"

I winked at him as the cashier handed me my $7 prize and said, "ABSOLUTELY."

In keeping with a recent entry about being called a Rookie, I was reminded of another job I had, way back when I first started with the Fire Department.

I was so new, I was still on the day shift, and I had a partner who loved to tell The Rookie his so-called "war stories" that I really couldn't care less about for hours on end.

One morning, we got a call to back up another BLS unit, and when we arrived on scene, the first unit was donning the full-body isolation suits that we carry on the truck. I check the job text again; "female, sick" was pretty much the entire description. "What's up?" my partner asked the first unit. One of the EMTs shook his head. "Just put on your iso suits," he said. "You're going to need them."

So we put ours on, and he comes over to us with a jar of Vicks VapoRub.

Vicks Guy: Put some under your nose. You'll need it for the smell.
Me: No thanks. I've got gum.
Vicks Guy: Trust me, gum won't help. It smells really bad in there. Use the Vicks.
Me: It's okay, really. I'm good.
Vicks Guy: Whatever, Rookie.

And he walked away to offer the stinky goop to my partner. I took a packet of gum out of my pocket. Arctic Mint, perfect. I popped all ten of the remaining pieces in my mouth and started chewing away, breathing only through my mouth. It was a little trick I'd used before, never on the job and never for a truly horrific smell, but I still thought it would work. It seemed like a better idea than smearing that napalm under my nose, anyway.

So we follow the first unit into the house, and the front door opens directly into the kitchen. The first thing I notice is the cage; it's coated with grime and feces, and two filthy, starving cats are cowering inside. I have to summon every ounce of control in my body not to grab them and run out the front door, but I calm myself by remembering that the job will be over in a few minutes, and then I can call the ASPCA and have them picked up. I hear barking in the backyard from at least two dogs, and I knew I didn't even want to see what kind of condition they were in. There is garbage everywhere, there are roaches everywhere, and there is piss and shit everywhere.

I look up to see that the others have continued in to the next room, a large living area that had barely enough light to see. It's in basically the same condition as the kitchen, only with larger pieces of garbage and larger piles of shit. There's a brown leather couch at one end to my right; a naked, 6o-something-year-old woman is lying on it, staring blankly at us.

Partner: Huh. Dead body.

And then she slowly started scratching her crotch.

Partner: She's alive! She's alive!

I can't say anything with the enormous wad of gum in my mouth. It's also hard to hear now that I've effectively sealed off my nasal passages; any sound my mouth makes is amplified in the only other connected opening, namely, my ear canal. There's a deafening *GOM* *GOM* *GOM* in my head as I furiously chew what I have suddenly nicknamed Dead People Gum in an effort to hold the horrific stench at bay. And while I can't see anyone's full face because of the little paper masks from the iso kits, I get the distinct impression from their eyes that the Vicks is perhaps not working quite the magic they thought it would.

Vicks Guy: Let's get her on the scoop.
Me (nodding emphatically): *GOM!* *GOM!* *GOM!*

So our patient is staring off into space as if we're not even there. She's not answering any of our questions, so we call for medics. And as we come closer, I began to wish I'd gone with my original instinct, that of the grab-the-cats-and-run variety.

She's about 65 and completely naked. Her fingers are knuckle-deep in her pubic hair, and I suddenly notice that, as she scratches, I can see tiny bugs crawling around in it. Huh. No wonder she's itchy. She's got a long cut down her right shin that was closed up, but red and swollen. Infected, I thought. Yuck. Other than that, just naked, old and smelly. Or so I thought.

Anyhoo, we lock the scoop stretcher under her, and my partner and I lift her up. A literal TORRENT of diarrhea gushes out of her behind, and I realize in horror that the brown leather couch was neither originally brown nor leather, but coated in layers and layers of shit that had dried and hardened. Vicks Guy starts to gag, and runs into the next room. From behind me I hear him yell, "Oh god, it's a dead fucking dog!" and then the unmistakable sound of vomiting. This is unfortunate on many levels, not only because he just threw up in front of The Rookie, but because he is also wearing a face mask. I turn to see him race past me on his way out, tearing the vomit-filled mask from his face. My partner looks at me, aghast. "*GOM* *GOM* *GOM*" was all I could say. He looks back at the patient.

Partner: Holy shit.

I look down to see what he's talking about to find that the giant sore on her leg has split open, presumably from the movement, and it's filled with bugs. Maggots, I thought to myself, looking up before I could be certain, before I gagged, yet just in time to see the 2nd guy from the other crew run out the door, tearing his mask off and effectively vomiting into his hand in the process.

We've started to carry the patient toward the door when my partner suddenly picks up the pace. I look up to see his eyes widen in panic, and he whips his head around frantically as we start down the front steps.

We reach the bottom, and my partner practically throws his end of the scoop onto the waiting stretcher, simultaneously tearing his mask off and vomiting loudly into a garbage pail in front of the building.

The other crew is leaning against their truck, looking pale and shaky. The ALS unit has just arrived, and one of the medics helps me get the stretcher into the ambulance.

Medic: What happened?

*pause*

Vicks Guy (weakly): Somebody should go and talk to her.
Me: *GOM *GOM *GOM*

*spit*

Me (shrugging): I'll go.

Nobody else volunteered. I was not surprised.

Ahhhh, Dead People Gum. Which, ironically, does not *actually* taste like dead people.

That is, unless dead people taste like IN YO FACE!!

My cat is a dick.

Let me explain.

I have three cats: Amazing Larry, Clarice The Gimp and Miss Madison. Recently, Clarice became very ill. She's always been a bit skittish, very sweet but not as boisterous or playful as the other two, and as a result, she is often stressed out by their constant horseplay. And when she got sick, we felt it would be best to separate them and give her a chance to convalesce in peace.

So last week, we packed up Larry and Madison and took them over to Aunt Jackie's place (longtime readers might remember her as the friend who adopted the rescued street bunny, Bernie). Jackie always stays at our place and watches the cats whenever we go on vacation, but this was the first time they'd ever been over to her house. Still, Larry and Madison are buddies, they both love Jackie a lot, and I figured they’d have a great time at sleepaway camp as long as they had each other.

The trip to Jackie’s took all of 3 minutes, during which time they were quiet, but tense, probably assuming they were going to the vet. I figured this would work in my favor: when they realized that they ended up not at the detested doctor’s office, but at their beloved Aunt Jackie’s, they’d be thrilled.

Yeah, right.

Larry came out right away, slunk into a corner, and hissed at everyone. Mind you, when we brought him home from the shelter, he merely walked out of his cage, yawned, then fell over and stretched out. It was almost as if he was fairly unimpressed, but figured, “Hey, it’s better than nothing.”

Dick.

Madison, on the other hand, adamantly refused to come out of the cage. And she didn’t just stay in there, she burrowed under the big squishy sweater, peeking out pathetically from time to time, mewling in what could best be described as absolute despair.

Ricky and I stayed for about an hour, during which time Madison finally came out, although Larry was growling and hissing at her constantly. We figured it would take a few hours for them to get their bearings and realize that they were, in fact, staying at the kitty equivalent of Club Med, and not at Meowschwitz and in imminent danger of being suddenly poked and prodded with needles and thermometers up their butts. I mean, Jackie adores them, gives them treats and plays with them all the time, and brushes them approximately every 8 minutes or so.

At any rate, while Jackie was at work, Ricky and I came back the next day to check on them. And we were shocked. Larry was hiding in a closet, and when he finally came out, hissing and growling, he cried every time we touched his left foot. He genuinely seemed like he was in pain, and we began to worry that maybe he had hurt himself jumping down from a shelf or counter or something. Madison, on the other hand, didn’t come out at all. We finally found her cowering and shaking in the back of a closet, and when we took her out, she immediately made herself flat on the floor and slunk around, meowing pathetically with Larry hissing at her the whole time.

I left Jackie’s in tears.

When I called Jackie later that evening and told her what happened, she was genuinely surprised. “What are you talking about?” she asked, bewildered. “They’re both out right now, lounging around and having a great time. And Larry’s foot is fine. Madison is sitting behind me on the couch.” She even texted me a picture.

It took a minute to sink in.

Now, a few years ago, my Aunt Kathy had a big, fat, old dog named Sandy. Sandy’s favorite pastimes involved sleeping, eating and then sleeping, and sleeping in a different spot than before, possibly also after eating. His daily walk consisted of a brief jaunt to the end of the driveway, a moment to do his business, and then back. He was a simple dog, but a very happy simple dog.

One day, Aunt Kathy and Uncle Jimmy went on vacation. And while they were gone, Jimmy’s daughter Alison came over to take care of the dog. Alison figured that Sandy was too fat, and decided to take him out on several long walks a day, leisurely strolling the apartment complex for almost an hour.

When Alison came back for the next walk, Sandy was limping. He made a big show of being lame, hobbling around so badly that eventually Alison’s boyfriend picked up the massive dog, carried him to the end of the driveway for his bathroom break, and carried him back into the house. They ended up doing this for the rest of Aunt Kathy’s vacation, worried sick the whole time about what they were going to tell her about Sandy hurting himself on their epic exercise excursion. She needn’t have worried.

Because when Aunt Kathy came home, Sandy got up from his cozy rug and ran right over to her. And by run I mean meander slowly. But without even a TRACE of a limp.

Yeah. You got it. That smart sonofabitch was FAKING IT.

And suddenly I realized, much like my Aunt Kathy’s fat, lazy dog, that Larry and Madison were TOTALLY FAKING being miserable just so I would feel bad and take them home. Never mind the fact that Clarice was near death and needed some private time to recuperate. Nope, they wanted to go home. And they didn’t give a flying fuck how upset it made me or Ricky or Clarice.

At the end of the day, Madison is a pretty simple cat. But Larry…that asshole is fat and sassy for a reason, and we feel fairly confident that he set the stage, and Miss Madison simply followed her idol.

So yeah, my cat is a dick.

But I love him anyway.

DICK.

Someone recently asked me how I knew I was cut out for the type of work that I do. Since it had never been my lifelong dream to work on an ambulance, I told them, truthfully, that (at first) I didn't know if I was or not. That is, until I got my first DOA.

The year was 2003 and I was doing my EMT rotations for the Fire Department. I was working on a truck out of Coney Island, with two guys who obviously thought a lot of themselves and very little of me, based on the way they continually referred to me as The Rookie and generally talked to me as if I were about 3 years old and severely brain-damaged.

Whatever.

So we're doing a Standby at an apartment fire, and the Fire guys have pulled a Black Tag out of the apartment and into the hallway. It's an old man in his 90s, and he's burned to a crisp. I couldn't help but think about how fucked up it was that the guy made it to 90-something, and then a stupid fire takes him out.

So anyways, I'm standing over the body bag and looking around at the lobby, and it's a really nice building. The Fire guys have finished putting out the flames in the apartment, and I'm peering in the doorway at the smoldering ruins of what had recently been a very lovely and spacious one-bedroom. I'm wondering to myself what an apartment like that would go for in such a nice neighborhood, and then realize excitedly that after some repairs, the apartment will likely go on the market in a few months.

I snap out of my reverie to see that the cop standing next to me is looking at me strangely.

Me: Ummmmm…did I just say all of that out loud?
Cop: Yeah. Yeah, you did.

*pause*

Me: I'm gonna go get some fresh air.

Now, out by the ambulance, the two assholes I'm working with have decided that they're gonna fuck with The Rookie, so they announce that they're putting the dead guy in the back of the ambulance, and that I have to sit with him. I can only assume that they thought this would horrify and possibly even sicken me, and they are laughing with evil glee as they slam the doors shut on me and Mr. Crispy.

So I'm sitting in the back of the truck, and I suddenly notice the smell. Picture walking past someone's backyard as they're barbecuing a nice t-bone steak, and that would be pretty close. Never having smelled burnt-human before, I was actually kind of surprised at how delicious we probably were. I sniffed the air deeply a few times, marveling at the aroma.

I should point out that by now, it's roughly around noon, and my stomach has been making I-want-lunch-rumbles long before we were assigned to the stupid fire in the first place. Add to that the yummy aroma of Mr. Crispy, and you get what basically sounded like an alien trying to burst out of my gut and kill everyone on the Nostromo.

I look wistfully at my lunchbag. We're at least a half-hour away from getting cleared from the fire, and prolly another half on top of that until we can take a facilities and eat. I picture the roast beef sandwich I'd brought as I dreamily sniff the air. If I could just have a bite, I thought, that would hold me over until lunch. Just a quick bite, and no one will ever know. I quietly reach over and unwrap my sandwich. As I do so, I lean over the body bag, and suddenly realize that it's not fully zipped up and I should probably close it.

My left hand is holding the bag's zipper. My right is full of sandwich, and has just made its way to my mouth as I peer into the open body bag, happily chewing away.

Which is precisely when Thing One and Thing Two decide to open the ambulance doors, right in front of a crowd of horrified people. "How you doin' in there, Rookie?" they sneered, laughing. And then stopped.

I whip my face out of the bag and freeze, mid-chew, but I can't hide the giant bite out of the sandwich in my hand. The crowd grew absolutely silent.

"Mmmmf," was all I could say.

Thing One simply stood, open-mouthed. Thing Two shook his head in disbelief, disgust, or possibly both, and slowly shut the doors. They didn't speak to me for the rest of the tour.

But they didn’t call me Rookie, either.

Ricky: How do you know what I got you?
Me: Um, you wrapped it aluminum foil.
Ricky: So?
Me: Well, when you do that, it literally takes the shape of the thing that it is.
Ricky: But I wrapped it...so you couldn't...

*pause*

Ricky: GODDAMMIT.

So because it's the holidays, I get about 8 gazillion catalogs in the mail every day. I don't really mind, mainly because I did 99% of my Christmas shopping through them. However, the only one that made me nearly weep with desire was the one from Omaha Steaks, with a big, juicy t-bone on the cover.

*sigh* Shittiest vegetarian EVER.

There are a lot of things that my husband Ricky is good at. For example, he can mix up a custom cocktail that will knock your socks off. He can spout history and politics like friggin' Rain Man. He draws and he plays bass. And he can do this awesome thing with his tongue that...well, that's another story entirely. But that's not the point. The point is, he's good at a bunch of things.

Buying Christmas gifts, however, is not one of them.

Now, let me start off by saying that I am probably the easiest person in the world to buy stuff for. For one, I'm not a girly-girl, so I don't give a shit about jewelry, clothes, shoes, purses or expensive trinkets and knick-knacks. In fact, I don't care for ostentatious (and thereby expensive) things in general.

To demonstrate: last week a coworker was talking to me about I-can't-remember-what, saying something to the effect of, "You'd understand if you were married."

Me: Uh, I *am* married.
C: Really? Oh, I didn't know that. You never wear your wedding ring.

I held up my left hand with the simple silver band on my ring finger.

Me: This *is* my wedding ring.

*pause*

C: I see.

And she slunk away into the garage.

So anyway, expensive, showy stuff doesn't do it for me. I also don't do that annoying girl thing where she raves on and on about something like a necklace one of her girlfriends has, and when she finally shuts up 10 minutes later and you say, "Honey, would you like that?" she just shrugs and says, "Nooooo, it's not my style," and then when you don't actually purchase the necklace for her birthday she erupts into a fit of tears, wailing about how you don't pay attention to what she says and you should know what she likes by now.

Yeah. I don't do that.

To top it all off, I take pity on Ricky's yearly pre-Christmas panic attack over what to get me, due entirely to his inability to pay attention to anything long enough to remember what I like in the first place. So I've taken to lobbing big fat softballs at him all year long. For instance, we'll be in Target or whatever, and I'll hold up a DVD and say, "Hey, I'd really like to get the new season of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Ooo look; it's only 14 dollars. Hmmm, I don't have enough on me to get it today. Maybe I'll get it for Christmas." And Ricky will nod and take the DVD from me, look it over and put it back on the shelf. And when he hands me what is obviously a gift-wrapped DVD on Christmas morning and asks me to guess what it is and I say excitedly, "Always Sunny!" he will look genuinely perplexed and say something unintentionally hilarious like, "Oh, you wanted that?"

Yeah.

So anyway, I try to help him out. Last year, I started keeping track of the things I lob at him on a list that is now almost two pages long. It's full of simple, inexpensive, and easily-attainable items, such as a certain brand of perfume, a few books, DVDs and some kitchen tools. Suffice to say, Ricky has never actually given me anything on the list, and yesterday, in desperation, he offered me money to take a peek at it.

I said no.

Now, you may think I'm pulling some passive-aggressive shit right there, but that's not it at all. I genuinely enjoy and am thoroughly amused by the gifts that Ricky actually does end up giving me, as well as the thought process behind them.

For example, one Christmas, I opened up a small box to find a heavy, metal object in the shape of a cat. It's ears were rounded inside, and pointy outside. As in, knuckle-knife-pointy with super-sharp blades. I stared at it for a few seconds, speechless. I looked up to see Ricky, beaming from ear to ear. "It's a kitty!" he said excitedly.

Now, normally, I am not opposed to items of the sharp and stabby, and in fact have some awesome display knives hanging in my apartment. This, however, being 2008, was the year my former partner had been murdered just a few short months before. With a knuckle-knife.

I looked up at Ricky, dumbfounded. "Um," was all I could say.

Ricky looked devastated.

Ricky: You don't like it?
Me: Uhhhh, it's a knuckle knife.
Ricky: Yeah, shaped like a cat. Isn't that cute?
Me (slowly and deliberately): It's a KNUCKLE KNIFE.
Ricky (still not getting it): Yeah.

*pause*

Me: So basically...you just gave me the thing that killed Jason.

It took a second or two to sink in.

Ricky (in a tiny voice): But...I got it because...because...it's a kitty...

*pause*

Ricky: Goddammit.

Now, at the time it was kinda fucked up, but in retrospect I think it's really fucking funny. And one of the reasons I'm with Ricky in the first place is because he makes me laugh.

So I don't care if I never get anything on my list. I've already got something much better.

But only because I never asked for him.

I've officially gotten old. It's not that a certain age was reached, or that I started getting arthritis or whatever. It's because (at work) I find myself increasingly surrounded by young people who, when I make a reference to certain things in my past, have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about.

And it's not like they're super-young, like when I tried to show my computer-savvy, Playstation-using, 5-year-old nephew how to play Atari.

Michael: There's just one button.
Me: Yeah.
Michael: What's this?
Me: A joystick.

He ponders this for a moment. I use the opportunity to slam my bit-mapped ball past his bit-mapped paddle on the TV screen.

Me: BOO-YA! In yo FACE!
Michael: Aunt Donna, this is stupid.
Me: You're stupid.
Michael: Aunt Donna, I'm five.

*pause*

Me: In yer face.

So anyway, they're not quite that young. But still, I'll make certain references, and they just stare at me as if I've grown another head. Or they'll say something irritating, like, "Wow, you’re really old!"

Grrrrrr.

My own husband, who is almost a decade younger than me, also does this (much to my chagrin). For example, some 80's movie will be on TV, and I'll say

Me: Oh shit, I love this movie! I remember seeing that in the theater!
Ricky: That movie came out the year I was born.

And so on. I wouldn't care about it so much if I didn't actually want to have an intimate relationship with him. Because there's nothing that kills your mojo more than the realization that while you were in college, your husband was watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in his Underoos.

And I know what you're thinking.

"What the fuck are Underoos?"

I find it amusing that the woman in Subway sees no problem with buying her 7-year-old daughter a sandwich at 2:13 in the morning, but draws the line when the child asks for a cookie and a soda. "You'll be up all night," was her reasoning to the girl. Ummmmm, isn't 2 a.m. *already* all night for a 7-year-old?