The Men in Black


Once, a long time ago, before I was even born, my mother was a Jehovah’s witness. My family is full of secrets and I know virtually nothing about her life at that time. She probably had some awesome double life we’ll never know. But my mother eventually left the church. She moved many times and met my father and then, for some reason, had more children with him.


Growing up, my mother HATED Jehovah’s witnesses. I never knew why. I never even understood who they were. Every few months I would see them. Always two men (different men each time). Always in white short sleeved button downs with dark ties and trousers. Always riding bicycles.


From a young age I was fascinated by them. Who were they? What did they want with us?


When we moved, they seemed to follow us. I thought this explained my mother’s hatred. No matter what she did, these people would not leave us alone.


As I got older I started to believe they were part of some government conspiracy. Like poorly dressed Men in Black. Which I knew were real from all the books I’d read of eyewitness accounts after reported UFO sightings.


I was pretty obsessed with UFOs as a kid. And I didn’t have many friends. It probably had something to do with all the UFO books I read.


When I became an adult I discovered they were a religion. And not even a good cult-y one like Heaven’s Gate. Fun fact: I learned about meteors AND cults for the first time with that one. But a part of me has always preferred my conspiracy theories to the truth.


A few years ago, I moved in with my brother. The apartment complex we lived in was a common target for Jehovah’s witnesses. They came frequently. Almost on a monthly basis.


It was annoying. I rarely answer my door, even now. I am paranoid about unexpected company. It’s rarely good. It’s rarely something I am interested in. So we generally ignored them when they knocked. But still, it was irritating.


One day I was home with my then boyfriend, A. I am not sure why I was taking a shower in the middle of the day. Probably A and I had just finished having some messy sex. You know how it is.


I got out of the shower and was getting dressed when the doorbell rang. I could see through the partially opened blinds that it was the Jehovah’s witnesses. I decided to go ahead and answer the door this one time.


I pulled open the door with a wide grin on my face. “Hi!” I called out, cheerily. “How are you?”


The two men immediately backed away from the door. They did not seem to know where to look. They were holding their hands up as if to ward me off from advancing and possibly attacking them.


I was wearing a pair of pink mesh underwear and nothing else. The underwear were mostly translucent. And I was completely topless. I may as well have been naked.


One of the men stuttered that I appeared to be busy and that they would come back another time. But I insisted that I was not busy and invited them to come inside and have a talk about god and religion and whatever else they wanted.


They, not surprisingly, declined my invitation and practically ran from our front porch. They never came back for the entire time I lived at that address. I probably scarred them for life.

I still have a pretty bad habit of answering the door in various states of undress when I have unexpected company. But that’s why you should always warn me before coming over. Or you may not like what you see.


I try to be very tolerant of other people’s beliefs. I know they are very personal. Very important. I also try to not talk about religion or politics on here. If you know me, my personal opinions are easy to figure out. But this story does involve uptight religious people. Be warned.


My hometown is very religious. We have regular religious protesters on the biggest intersection in our downtown. They are always going on about judgement day and the apocalypse.


There used to be an old woman that sat outside all day and would stop us to tell us we were going to hell. Because all teenagers were going to hell. I can tell you that at that point in my life the worst thing I had ever done was ride my bike on the sidewalk (which is totally illegal in that town).

While it is really dangerous, I doubt it is the thing that would land me in hell.

I generally politely ignore these people unless they refuse to accept my polite ignoring. It happens. And then I just make a joke and keep on walking.


But there is a bead store in my hometown. Just one. And you guys should know that I am freaky into beads. Like, borderline hoarder.

My precious…

I was on a trip to my home town sometime last year with my brother, T, and friend, C. We were all itching to look at the pretties in the bead store. My father knew the woman that owned the bead store and he warned us that she was a “religious nut.”


I should also let you know, I was not on drugs that day. So I can’t even use that as an excuse, like this time.


So, we walked into this bead store and I saw an old woman behind the counter. I tried to make polite conversation with her. So I said “Hello.” And then asked “Is this your shop?”


I had never been into this bead store because it is closed my two days off per week.


The woman behind the counter said something that sounded like “My name is on the door but God owns it.”


I sort of thought I had misheard her. And anyway, I was being polite, remember?


We started talking about my father, who is a local character. She knew who he was based solely on my description of his appearance. But he also has a pretty popular nickname.


T and C weren’t saying much and I sort of wandered away from the owner to look at the stuff. I found a few things I liked and was talking about them with T and C. We walked around the whole store a few times and I had about 5 semi-precious stones in my hand.


We made our way back up to the front and I picked up something else I wanted. It was a green onyx heart. I actually had been looking for one for a little while. I turned to the shop owner and said, “I can’t believe you have this! I’ve been wanting one.”

I still don’t have one.

She looked at me sternly. “That is part of the display and not for sale!”


I shrugged and put it down.


But now I was on the shop owner’s radar. She came over to me. I towered at least a foot over her.


“Do you have items to purchase in your hand?”




“Did you not read the signs?” She pointed and I saw at least 5 signs hung in various places that all items for purchase are to be placed in a basket.


I had not seen the signs. I swear. I said, “No. I didn’t. I’m sorry. I’ll put them in a basket now.”


I got a basket and put the 5 things that had been in my hand into a basket. “See? It’s fine. They’re in a basket.”


“How did you not see the signs?” She demanded.

“I ask myself that all the time. I am oblivious.” I joked.


She was not amused. “These baskets are to prevent theft.”


I looked at the basket and then at her. “But, it’s not like I couldn’t steal it out of this basket. I mean, I’m not stealing.”

Fail proof anti-theft devices.

“Excuse me? What did you say?” She yelled.


I didn’t realize how angry she actually was until that moment. And T and C, who had been talking in the corner, suddenly fell silent.


I looked over at them and they looked from me to this old lady. It was some sort of silent standoff. The seconds ticked by. I wondered if she was going to call the police on me.


Finally, T asked her a question about something and she went to help him. I didn’t say another word until we had left. But I heard her saying something about young people today and sin and hell. So, there’s that.


I am happy with what I bought, but it would not have been worth getting strip searched over.

Though maybe for these these spiny oyster beads I got.


After this post, I figured I may as well bite the bullet and finish what I started. So, here you go, the next humiliating thing that happened on that hospital stay.

Two days after the fingering incident, the hospital and my doctor were interested in releasing me to go home and recover in the comfort of my own bed. Where the TV  isn’t censored. It’s a religious hospital and I can only go so long without seeing adult language, adult content, and nudity.

Displaying 20130613_033839.jpg

I took this beauty from the same chain of hospitals. I wish I had taken a picture of the 20 foot tall mosaic at my hospital. I may go back and get one. It’s worth it.

Some of you may not know this, but you aren’t allowed to leave the hospital after a surgery until you have a *ahem* bowel movement. (I won’t be offended if you choose to skip this post and move on to the next one).

The problem was that I was not having one. Between the reaction to the morphine, the physical pain, the emotional humiliation, the medicines, and the terrible cardiac ward food, nothing was forthcoming.

Every time the nurse came in she would check the toilet to see if I had had one. Because in the hospital you are not a trustworthy adult. You are a petulant child that must shit into a pan to get released.

Another day went by. Waiting to be released from the hospital is exactly how I imagine hell to be (if it existed). You are in serious pain. They wake you up every few hours all day and night to poke you with needles and press on your wounds painfully so you never get a goddamn minute of sleep. They humiliate you. There is no much bullshit and red tape. And then, you can’t leave. Ever!

Finally the nurse came in to talk to me directly. This was the same one from the fingering story and she had been avoiding me in an obvious and humorous way. She told me that it had been 4 days with no movements and it might be a good idea to take a suppository.

I didn’t know what she meant by a suppository, I mean, I knew what one was. But I thought that’s how you gave pills to horses and how teenagers get really fucked up on ecstasy.

Fun fact: A suppository can be administered not just up the anus but also in the vagina or the urethra for men. You’re welcome.

For my five male readers; there you go, gentleman.

But she was talking about giving me some kind of stool softener suppository to help me “go” so I could get the hell out of the hospital. I really really did not want to do this. But I wanted to go home more.

She got me the suppository. It was huge! Which I guess makes sense because it’s not like I was trying to swallow it.

Like a fucking missile!

I went into the bathroom. Remember the whole serious agony/heart surgery thing? Yeah, there was no way I could contort myself to get this pill in my own ass. I could still barely bend at my hip bones.

I’m glad I got to use this picture.

I called the nurse back and told her the situation. The look on her face was one I will treasure for many long years to come. I swear to you, I could read her mind at that exact moment. And she was thinking “Seriously, bitch? I already had to root around in your nasty vagina. Now I have to put my hand up your ass? Fuck this job.”

But instead she tried to convince me that I really could do it if I just tried harder. And I assured her that there was no fucking way I could bend like that without re-opening my wounds.

I did not feel the slightest bit bad for her. This was her job. And if anyone was going to be embarrassed it was me. And I had instead chosen to find it all very hilarious. But that may have been the drugs I was on.

At this point, A stepped in. He offered to do it.

I tried to talk him out of it, mostly to fuck with the nurse. But he was very insistent on putting that suppository in my ass (you men, so obsessed with anal).

So we went back into the bathroom and he assisted me. I assume nobody wants the gory details of this, it was pretty straightforward anyway.  I have never taken anything for constipation before or since. But I can say it definitely works as intended. I was released later that day.

Of course, I developed a huge hematoma and had to go back in to the hospital almost immediately, but that is a story for another day.

The Good Word

So, there was a time when I still had hope of meeting someone on the internet. It was before I got so badly burned, disappointed, and weirded out that I might have just given up on that avenue forever. I have many many terrible experiences from that heady time in my life.

Once upon a time, I was young and thin and single. Actually, I am still single. I turned to the internet, like many lonely desperate people do, hoping for love or at least a few non-shitty dates. I made a witty, edgy profile on a free dating site and downloaded some cute pictures that were tasteful and hid how nice my body used to be.

I got a lot of responses. A lot. Mostly from guys wanting me to post full body shots, or to at least let them see how big my breasts were.

I did talk to a few decent guys and even got some dates out of it. Dates that wound up turning so horrible I can’t even believe I didn’t give up right then. But no. I still had to meet, oh, let’s call him Trey.

Trey was cute and my age and sent me a very polite, very articulate message.

As I do, before I respond to anyone, I went to his profile to see what kind of things he cared about/believed in. Mostly about religion, politics, and feminism. Those things are kind of deal breakers for me.

I noticed that he seemed to be extremely Christian, stating the Bible as his favorite book. He was also a self-proclaimed Republican. But he was strangely silent on women’s rights.

Now, I made the mistake of believing that, while we weren’t right for each other romantically, I could have some interesting conversations with him. I enjoy talking to people about faith and politics as long as they are respectful to my own beliefs.

So I messaged him back that I appreciated his interest but didn’t feel we were right for each other as we held fundamentally different beliefs.

He wrote me back, still polite, that our beliefs didn’t have to prevent us from being friends or even from dating.

I was relieved to read something so inclusive. I wrote him back asking a question about his political beliefs. At this time Obama had been in office for about a year. My mistake.

He responded with a very angry tirade over Obama being a Muslim and not even an American. Then he asked if I had voted for him.

I proudly replied that I did and that I had read he was some denomination of Christian and had definitely been born in this country.

Trey wrote back again in an angry tirade stating that Obama was a socialist that was trying to turn us into a communist country with his healthcare plan.

At this point I still found Trey very amusing. I wrote him back that I supported universal health care and any other social program to help people that needed it.

He wrote back asking me if I was a good Christian.

It very clearly stated on my profile that I was both a Democrat and an Atheist. I pointed that out to him.

He responded asking me if I had, perhaps,  heard of Jesus Christ. Did I know about the Bible? Did I know that Jesus had died for all of our sins? Even mine.

I almost, almost wrote to him claiming to not know anything about it just to fuck with him. But I couldn’t be that mean. Instead I assured him that yes I had heard of Jesus, I was familiar with the teachings of the Bible, I just didn’t personally believe it.

And that’s when Trey let me have it. He couldn’t stand by any longer in the face of my blasphemy. He let me know that not only was I wrong, I would be punished by God for being wrong. That the very existence of the Bible was proof that God existed. That I had my head up my ass regarding politics and that I would be very hard pressed to find someone that would be willing to engage in my insanity long enough to ever get married. But he wished me luck in finding someone as fucked up and insane as I was.

I wrote him back hoping the same for him.

He honestly believed that if he just told me about Jesus I wouldn’t be able to help believing. As though my lack of faith was caused by a lack of knowledge about Jesus and religion in general. As if faith were really just that easy. As if anyone in this country could possibly have not heard the “good word.”

It still makes me laugh.