Unfortunate shorts aside, I rather like this gal. She goes by Regina and comes across as the kind of lady whose home always has the sweet smell of blueberry muffins. Also, she noticed my eagerness to look in all of the closets and behind all of the doors in her office and obliged without judgment.

I was thinking we would be in and out of therapy with a note scrawled on a prescription pad that read “Ethan suffering from Iceman syndrome; must validate Ami’s feelings” or something to that effect. But it turns out that we have a lot to talk about.

I’m guessing Regina is going to want to discuss in depth all of the rules I make for Ethan: no touching my butt or stomach while I am doing the dishes, no looking at me while I eat a sandwich, no wearing only a shirt, no talking to me through the bathroom door, no ceramic roosters in the house, no touching my face, especially no running his finger across my eyebrow opposite the way the hair grows, no falling asleep in public, no smelling me without permission, no talking about the movie we just saw before we have exited the theater and entered our car.  And finally, I like a warning before he sneezes (otherwise it startles me).

Our second visit got a little spicy when Regina unwittingly made two poop jokes. The first was a simple “You need to think about what you do do,” to which Ethan and I both started cracking up, then got embarrassed that we were both laughing so hard because our therapist said “do do.” Regina realized she had said “do do,” gave a little giggle, then followed that up with “What I mean is you seem to be under a heavy load.”

During the third visit, Regina had the two of us participate in a talking exercise that involved us holding a pen (the talking stick) in turn while we made statements about our feelings without being interrupted. My talking stick almost found a new home in the socket of Ethan’s eye when he convinced Regina that I, at times, can be unreasonable.

Regina wants us to keep practicing this exercise until I can listen without puffing out my cheeks, rolling my eyes, grunting, sneezing “Bullshit!” or pantomiming slitting my throat with my talking stick. I suppose that’s reasonable.

She showed up an hour late, and right away I knew she was crazy. She had those wild, staring eyes that crazy people get after being crazy for a long time. She didn’t bring any supplies and after she spilled the Italian soda she asked that I make her, she sat staring at the stain forming on the counter, marveling at how quickly it was setting.

“Wow,” she said. “Look at that—look at how the syrup is staining. Isn’t that something?”

So what do I do? Pay her for two weeks in advance, of course.

The next time she’s due to come and clean my house, she calls the night before to let me know that she is retiring and has decided to open a tea shop. A tea shop? How lovely. There’s nothing a person likes better than to have a crazy-eyed lunatic serving them their chamomile. “Here’s your tea, miss. May I offer you a screwdriver in the neck with that?

I assumed she was going to work off the money I had given her and expected to see her Monday morning. Well, Monday morning came and went with no Clean Celine. That is what she calls herself—or, rather, used to, now that she is ostensibly trying to break into the hot beverage business.

I started calling her, insisting, politely and firmly, that she return my money. She sent me a text message claiming that she is broke, has to get a free food box and hopes I understand. Furthermore she will pay me on the third of the month.

By that evening I was convinced I had been swindled, so I changed my tactic. Since she wouldn’t pick up my calls, I started texting her messages: “Where’s the money, Lebowski?” and “I want the money, Lebowski.” She did not respond.

Today I was prepared to up the ante and move on to the bit about what happens when you fuck a stranger in the ass, but to my surprise she called my cell phone. When I picked up she said “Hello, this is Celine. Someone called from this number. Who is this?”

“This is Ami, Celine.”

“Oh, oh, oh. Hi, Ami. I was meaning to call you. I lost my cell phone.”

“Yes?”

“Look, my dad is gonna die if I don’t get him these meds. I’m really broke. I’ll pay you on the third.”

“OK.”

“You see, I’m in AA and MA; you know MA? It’s Marijuana Anonymous. Actually it’s my anniversary! I’m clean two months and three days today.”

“Congratulations.”

“Well, I live on disability so it’s just hard right now, but I’m writing a note to drop off the money with you on the third. I’ll be there then.”

“OK, Celine.”

Marijuana Anonymous? Who the hell goes to those meetings?

The only thing that I can take from this situation and feel good about is this: Judging from her character and failure to mention it, I am certain she has never seen the film to which I made reference in my text messages. She may have made off with my money, but she will die never understanding why I kept calling her Lebowski.

So you don’t like my pink trim, huh? Well, guess what? I don’t take decorating tips from someone who likes burlwood clocks. Burlwood clocks are an inmate’s way of saying “I’m sorry for hitting you.”

Get your act together, buddy.

Love,

Ami

When I was 11 or maybe 12, I accidentally left a turd in your toilet. I realized just as we passed each other in the doorway of the bathroom, but it was too late to turn around and flush.

Things were never the same between us after that. I am certain that somehow this is your fault.

Love,

Ami

In fact, the only time I’ve ever seen Ethan really get upset by someone’s prank was when he woke up to Arnica hovering over his cowboy boot like a crusty gargoyle while peeing in it. He insisted that it was very difficult for him to find boots in his size, and that everyone knows cowboys have small feet.

One night I had a brilliant idea: I would steal his hat and go graffiti up the downtown area, leaving the hat behind as evidence. I figured anyone would be able to recognize his hat—he always wore it, and it was the kind an old-timey detective would wear while solving crimes. At the time this seemed reasonable, but keep in mind that I was young and usually operating under the influence of a drug-and-alcohol buffet.

Things were going smoothly. After putting the finishing touches on my spray-painted butts and wieners and placing the hat where the cops would be sure to find it, I was crawling over the tall iron fence of a storage unit facility when who should pull up but a police officer. I was literally caught red-handed.

The officer gets out of his car, walks over to me, glances behind me at the freshly painted walls, looks back at me and asks what’s going on.

“Nothing,” I reply.

“You see who did this?” he asks.

“Fat kid in pajamas. He ran that way,” I say, gesturing to the south with my elbow.

The officer leaves.

I have to believe this cop just didn’t feel like dealing with me, and not that he went chasing after the fanciful culprit, though I was ready with more details, should he have asked. 

His pajamas were striped, he walked with an unsteady gait, and his hair was mostly straight, but curled up a bit on the forehead where things got greasier. He was wearing sneakers with two different colored laces, one neon green, one black—I remember because I thought it odd that he’d be wearing sneakers with pajamas. He looked like his name was Aaron, or possibly Matt. His cheeks were red compared to the rest of his pale face. It looked like he didn’t get out much, and his sensitive skin was reacting to the atmosphere.

The fat-kid-in-pajamas explanation has, over the years, become one of my favorites. You can use it with anyone, from roommates and employers to pet shop owners and British royalty. Who ate all the Beefaroni? Fat kid in pajamas. Who spilled coffee on the Mancini file? Fat kid in pajamas. Who mixed the betas? Fat kid in pajamas. How did this horse get in the ballroom? Fat kid in pajamas.

The thing that really tickles me about this memory is the fact that if I had been busted, I’d still be paying the fine—which means that Ethan would be paying, because while I go to school, he’s working. So either way I would have gotten him. That’s almost as funny as the time I swindled him into marrying me and combining our DNA.

Midway through the story, Crispian meets a friend. While familiarizing this new friend with his home, Crispian points out the place for his bed, pillow and leash. Now why in the hell would a dog belonging to himself own a leash, Margaret? He’s already made it clear that he doesn’t like the idea of animals being the property of others, so it can’t be for him to walk another dog. Just what is going on here?

And while we’re at it, where the hell did Scuppers get those bricks for his chimney, and why didn’t he build the entire house out of bricks instead of that dried-out, brittle driftwood? Just what are you trying to pull?

One last thing before I go, Margaret: That “quiet old lady whispering hush” is no lady. It’s a rabbit in a dress—anyone can see that. You’ve got a lot of nerve.

Everyone at work is scared of you. You ought to know that. The other day, when you didn’t know I was in the next room, I was certain you were about to call me an idiot.

I’m scared of you too, and if you had called me an idiot, not knowing that I was in the next room, I would have gotten underneath the table and hidden until you were gone for the day. That’s how afraid of you I am, Tina.

Ami

So I called in to explain that I have a sick family member I’m taking care of and I just can’t find the time to continue with the gym. I pulled out all the stops: low sad voice, heavy sighs, far-off attitude—I even threw in a compliment sandwich: “I love your gym, it’s just a bit expensive for me right now. I hope I can come back.”

It worked.

I got out of my contract, but now whenever I walk by this gym—which is often because I live around the corner—I have to pretend to be sad because I’m paranoid the owners will see me and know I lied. Looking sad consists of a slow shuffle while I look at the ground. I was explaining this to my friend Sarah today when she asked what the hell I meant by “my sad walk around the corner.” She encouraged me to write about it, then laughed at me when I explained that I couldn’t because they might read my blog.

Over the past few visits, I’ve come to realize that I can’t take my father anywhere he won’t steal something. In the past, I used to join in on the shenanigans and was mostly too drunk to think about repercussions. But now I have children and school, and while I still find it amusing to watch my dad shake out his pants leg while the loot piles up on the floor, I feel uncomfortable being involved.

Somehow I have lapped my father in the responsibility race. I find myself in the front seat of the car trying to explain why he can’t have an open container while he mutters that I’ve changed and I used to be cool.

During his visit in Eugene he stole four leather coats. By the time he was ready to catch his train home to Redding, there was a pile of leather in the corner big enough to make other visitors nervous.

Antique pocket watches from a museum, bacon-shaped Band-Aids, a shock pen, Oregon Ducks sweatshirts, meats preserved in a variety of ways, oddly shaped marshmallows—you can find these things and more, all falling out of Dad’s pants at any given hour of the day. So, if you’re ever looking for Rick, just follow the trail of LED flashlights and honey sticks. He’ll be there.

I’m not skilled enough to express how truly awful his voice is—it’s absolutely disgusting. It hits something in my brain that makes me want to fall to the floor in a fetal position and apologize to anyone I have ever hurt.

I’ll be looking for clips to put on my mp3 player for the moments I’m feeling self-destructive. Lately my lineup of horror has been Bobby Brown’s My Prerogative, Color Me Bad’s Sex You Up, Wayne Newton’s Danke Schoen, Ice Cube’s Check Yourself, Jesse and the Rippers’ Forever, and finally, Michael McDonald’s I Keep Forgetting. This is a mix I reserve for nights when I’m feeling like I can’t do anything right.

I googled pictures of Jim and was shocked to find that he looks nothing like what I imagined. I thought he’d be covered in a light coating of fuzz and have lumps in places where lumps normally do not gather. I thought he would have no eyebrows and would wear flesh-colored suits. But he kind of looks like Rip Taylor, and his fat reserves are pretty evenly distributed.

This surprised me. I’m usually very good at guessing what people look like based on their names and voices. It’s actually one of my talents. People will come to me with a name and I’ll provide a description so they’ll know what they’re looking for. The other day I was given the name Rupert Corkhill. I described an overweight blond man sitting at a desk eating an egg salad sandwich. I was right about everything but the egg salad.

Of course I have no way of proving this, but I’m sure that Rupert is the name of a man who walks around his apartment in nothing but a shirt, windows open, wiener flapping in the breeze. Ruperts have no shame, Gretchens wear dirty underwear, and all Mikeys do speed.

You may be wondering how this is connected—I’ll tell you. Back when I had a television and was feeling like a failure, I would watch this particular Christian show. I don’t recall its name but, like many Christians, the host had red hair, a plain face and vacant eyes.

This show served two purposes. First, it satisfied my desire to punish myself with terrible media for no good reason. Second, it reinforced my belief that I do in fact have a special talent for knowing things about people based on little or no evidence. It was this woman who made me realize that all female Christians—and only Christians—wear their hair in a half ponytail. Thanks to her, I’ve dodged dozens of uncomfortable conversations with evangelicals simply by crossing the street when I see their telltail of the half-pony variety.

Ethan says I stereotype, but he doesn’t understand the scientific nature of the process. In real life, I avoid people I’ve determined to be annoying and lame based on their clothes, hair, name or style of walking. It’s only behind closed doors that I surround myself with things I hate.