Let's Pretend This Never Happened: A Mostly True Memoir

by Jenny Lawson

  ME: ?

  VICTOR: They need to join forces, 7-Eleven and Starbucks.

  ME: Mochaslurpeeccino?

  VICTOR: Or maybe a slurpeemacchiato. Now, that would be an unholy union.

  ME: So did you actually need something from me or . . . ?

  VICTOR: Doo-doo, wa-wa.

  ME: Huh. What was that?

  VICTOR: That’s my Antichrist music.

  Please note that he doesn’t even start the conversation with a “Hello,” which is kind of more upsetting to me than the Antichrist stuff, because a greeting is a basic building block of polite society, and is one of the only things that separates us from bears.

  So I drove back to my home, drinking my Frappuccino and making a mental note that I should let all of Victor’s calls go through to my voice mail, and then my intestines exploded. I mean, they didn’t literally explode, but it totally felt that way. And at first I was all, “Okay, pain is good, feel the burn,” but then I realized that this was not like yoga and that I had, in fact, made a horrible, horrible mistake. I’m not going to get graphic, but it basically felt like my legs melted and an elephant crawled inside my stomach and was clawing his way out. And the elephant had claws, apparently. And his nose was made of snakes.

  Since Victor was in New York, and Hailey was in school, I had the house to myself, which was good, because honestly there would have been no way to maintain the sensual mystery of womanhood if anyone had heard the noises coming from that bathroom. At a certain point I started worrying that I might be OD’ing. I wasn’t sure what OD’ing on laxatives looked like, but I was fairly certain it would be messy and that you’d probably shit out your entire colon. I’m not sure if this is actually medically possible, and I thought about calling Lotta to ask her whether she felt like she was shitting out her colon when she was doing her cleanse, but I wasn’t sure I could talk without screaming, and also I didn’t have her phone number. And so I sat there, thinking that this would be a horrible way to die, because basically no matter what I’d accomplished in my life it would always be overshadowed by “And she died on the toilet from pooping out her own lower intestine.” Like, if it had happened to Thomas Edison that would totally be the very first thing it would say in his Wikipedia entry. It’d be all, “Thomas Edison, who pooped out his own colon, made a variety of inventions and changed the way we live today. Did we mention he pooped out his colon? Because he totally did. Thomas Edison pooped out his colon. Honestly, we can’t stress this enough.”

  It was about this time that I decided I needed to take action, so I found some Pepto-Bismol and took a full dose. I considered taking more, but at this point I was concerned that I might have to call 911 for help and I didn’t want to have to explain why I’d taken three times the recommended amount of laxatives and three times the recommended amount of antidiarrhea medicine, because even to me that sounded like some sort of poorly planned suicide attempt. Taking just one dose of the antidiarrheal seemed somewhat rational, comparatively. “Surely,” I thought, “this will make me seem much more credible and less likely to be put on suicide watch.”

  Of course, the Pepto-Bismol was no match for the raw power of the ex-lax, and was much like wearing shin guards in the middle of a tornado, except even less effective, because at least with shin guards, when they found your body later you could still wear a skirt in your coffin (unless your legs got ripped off entirely, which could totally happen). But the Pepto-Bismol didn’t do anything at all except turn my tongue black.

  It crossed my mind that maybe eating a bunch of cheese might help, because I once went to school with a girl who ate too much cheese and got so constipated that she had to go to the hospital to get the poop removed by a doctor. And after I heard that I could never really look at her the same way, and I often wondered whether she got to keep the poop they removed, like when you get to keep your tonsils. And then I remembered that I didn’t have any cheese in the house, and that even if I did, it wouldn’t matter, because I couldn’t leave the toilet long enough to get it. And that’s when I heard the noise at the bathroom door.

  It sounded like someone leaning against the door and tapping it lightly with his knuckles, and I was all, “Oh, my God, I didn’t lock the bathroom door,” and then I thought, “Wait, why would I even need to lock the door, since I’m the only one home?” My initial thought was that it was a murderer or a rapist, which was quickly followed up by the thought that if it was a rapist, he was going to be terribly disappointed. And then I thought how it was kind of weird that I’d even shut the bathroom door in the first place, since I was alone, but technically I think you should never leave the door open when you go to the bathroom, because that’s how society breaks down. Then I heard the possible rapist again, and so I coughed, because I thought it might be a burglar who didn’t realize I was home. I hoped that the coughing would give him a hint that he needed to leave, although technically the other noises coming from the bathroom were probably much more intimidating than coughing, but I was trying to be polite, because I’m a lady.

  And then someone slid a note under the door.

  And I just stared at it, because seriously . . . what the fuck? It was so baffling that I couldn’t even get scared. I tried to slide my foot over to reach the note (which was a small, white slip of paper), but I couldn’t reach it, so I just yelled weakly, “Hello? Did . . . did you just pass me a note?” but no one answered, and then I started to get freaked out, and I silently thanked God that I’d thought to bring the phone into the bathroom just in case I needed to call to report the laxative overdose. I picked up the phone to call the police, but then I considered how it would sound when I told them that I was calling from inside my bathroom, where I’d OD’ed on laxatives, and that a possible rapist was quietly passing me notes under the bathroom door. And then I thought that it would be really weird if the note said something like “Do you like me? Circle yes or no,” and I probably would have laughed if it weren’t for the laxative/rapist combo bearing down on me. Then another note came slowly peeking out from under the door, and I realized it wasn’t a note at all. It was actually the wrapper from a Band-Aid, and that’s when I realized I was probably dealing with a psychopath, because why would anyone pass me a Band-Aid wrapper unless they were completely insane?

  So I yelled, “I’M CALLING THE POLICE! AND I HAVE DIARRHEA! From . . . AIDS!” because I thought that would discourage a rapist. I wasn’t really sure whether AIDS caused diarrhea, but I figured it probably did. And then it got really quiet, and suddenly the Band-Aid wrapper was violently pulled back out from under the door and I was all, “What the hell?” Then it shot back into the bathroom again, but this time I could see that it was being pushed under the door by a fucking cat paw, and that’s when I realized the cat had knocked over my purse and was just shoving receipts and assorted purse flotsam under the door. Then I murdered my cat, but only in my mind.

  It occurred to me that I should write all this down, but I didn’t have anything to write on, except for the paper the cat had pushed under the door, and so I yelled, “Posey, push the paper farther!” but he didn’t, because he’s an asshole. And also he’s a cat, so he doesn’t speak English. So instead I wrote this on toilet paper with lipstick (but just the key words, and not this whole thing, because that would be ridiculous). Then I said a little prayer thanking God for saving me from getting assaulted, and also for not making me have to explain to the ambulance drivers that I’d accidentally mistaken my cat for a rapist after purposely overdosing on laxatives in order to make my antidepressants work better. Mainly because that’s the kind of story that gets told over and over again to the new ambulance-crew recruits. But then I remembered that girl from high school who had to have the poop bubble removed, so maybe in comparison my story wasn’t really so weird after all.

  Except when Victor came home I told him about it (because how could you not share that story?), and he got all testy about the laxatives and implied that I “couldn’t be trusted in the house unsup
ervised,” and I’m all, “Glass half full, asshole. I didn’t get raped, right?” and he shouted, “You were never in danger of getting raped,” but I think he just said that to hurt my feelings, and so I retorted, “Oh, I am ALWAYS in danger of being raped, thankyouverymuch,” and he was all, “I’m not questioning your rapability. I’M JUST SAYING I CAN’T GO AWAY FOR TWO DAYS WITHOUT YOU OD’ING ON LAXATIVES.” And that’s when I made a mental note that from now on I would never tell him about OD’ing on anything. And also that I should probably make friends with ambulance drivers, because I bet they have some kick-ass stories.

  An Open Letter to My Husband, Who Is Asleep in the Next Room

  Hi.

  I know. The weird pattern in the butter dish, right? By now you’ve surely discovered it and are probably freaking out. Well, last night I discovered that if I make Eggos I can skip the butter knife and just drop the waffle directly in the butter tub. It’s awesome. Except that the hot waffle melts a weird pattern in the butter, like an all-yellow plaid, and the plastic tub melts a bit. I know you’d prefer I use a knife, because you’re kind of neurotic about this stuff, but honestly, I’m just not that kind of girl. Mostly because I’m trying to save the environment by not dirtying a knife that would have to be washed. I’m kind of a hero. Also, the knives are, like, all the way on the other side of the kitchen. Poor planning on your part. And by “on your part,” I mean “by letting me unpack the kitchen when we moved in.” I mean, I guess we could just switch the utensil drawer with the take-out menu drawer, but that seems like a lot of work. Unless I just pulled out the drawers completely and switched them!

  Okay, now we have two drawers lying on the kitchen floor. I got them both out, but I can’t get them back in. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Don’t look in the butter dish.

  P.S. If anything, you should be thanking me for the butter texturizer. Remember that fucking ridiculous Burberry-plaid car we saw, and you were all, “Wow! I wish someone would do that to my car and/or butter!” Well, Merry Christmas, asshole.

  P.P.S. I’m sorry I called you an asshole. That was uncalled-for. Also, by now you’ve read this letter and will surely claim that you did not ask me to Burberry the car or anything else, but really, you’ve got more important things to focus on. Like fixing the three drawers that are on the kitchen floor.

  I know.

  But I thought if I took one more out slowly I could see how it worked, and then I could fix the others before you wake up, but that totally didn’t work. But I stopped at three. You’re welcome.

  P.P.P.S. Shit. Okay, I thought maybe one more would give me the secret putting-the-drawer-back key. Turns out? Not so much. At this point I’m considering setting fire to the kitchen to cover my tracks, but I’m sure you’d just blame that on me too. So I won’t, because I know you’d be a jerk about it. And also because that would be wrong. I would never set fire to our house.

  P.P.P.P.S. Okay, I just set fire to the house, but it was totally on accident. I was trying to make you a pizza for breakfast, and I accidentally put a bunch of towels in the oven. I know it seems suspicious, since I was just talking about burning down the house, but it’s just a horrible, horrible coincidence. I have to think that this never would have happened had our builders not put the bathroom so close to the oven. It’s like they wanted me to set fire to the house. Those guys are the assholes. Not you. I love you.

  P.P.P.P.P.S. I’m going to stop at the store on the way home and buy you your very own tub of butter so you don’t have to see the melty Burberry one. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t just think of that in the first place.

  P.P.P.P.P.P.S. None of this is actually true except for the butter part. Aren’t you relieved? I know you are. And now you’re much less likely to freak out about the butter, because, Jesus, it’s not like I tried to burn the house down (except for that one time when I did, but that really was an accident, and the builder’s fault too, because who the hell leaves the oven instructions inside the oven? Someone who wants us all dead, that’s who). This was all just an exercise in perspective.

  P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Don’t look in the butter dish.

  Just to Clarify: We Don’t Sleep with Goats

  I think there’s a goat in our house,” my sister says, making no attempt to get up as she turns her head slightly to listen to the strange noises coming from down the hall.

  She’s wrong; I’m certain. Not because there couldn’t be a goat in the house, but because this isn’t our house anymore. It’s the home we grew up in, and still feels warm and familiar, but I’ve managed to disassociate myself from being responsible for shooing errant goats out of a home I haven’t lived in for more than a decade.

  “No,” I explain, looking back down at the photo albums we’d spread over our old bedroom floor. “There is a goat in Mom and Dad’s house.”

  She pointed a finger at me and winked. “Ah. You have a point. Hey, look at these pictures of you in wigs when you were a baby. What the hell’s going on there?” I stare at the album and start to answer, when the clomping from the next room gets louder and then the screaming starts.

  “There is totally a goat in the house,” she repeats. “Or maybe a pony.”

  It’s the kind of thing that would be shocking if it happened in either of our houses, but this week we’ve both come back to Wall to visit our family, and this sort of thing is practically expected in a small house with eight people, one shower, and too many goats.1

  I continue to flip through the photo album as if nothing is happening. “I’m just going to stay in this room until it’s gone. This is so not my responsibility.” Something heavy bounces off a wall. “I swear to God I am having such childhood flashbacks right now.”

  Lisa sighs as the screams get louder. “That’s the PTSD talking. But”—her voice quavers with a slight doubt—“our kids are out there, so maybe we should go check on them.”

  Lisa is under the impression that we are responsible for protecting our children from whatever my father is getting them into, but I tend to follow my mother’s lead in regard to this. “How will they learn if we continually rescue them?” I ask. “By the time we were their age we’d have learned to duck and cover until the noises die down. Besides, I’m pretty sure those are happy screams, so it’s probably all good. Or possibly the next few hours will be very tragic.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Lisa says, frowning at a picture of herself as a one-year-old surrounded by empty beer bottles. “The day before you got here, Daddy came in and asked my kids whether they wanted to see his ‘new pets,’ and when they said yes he dumped a sack of live ducklings on the living room floor for the kids to chase down. Mom was pissed. And Daddy never thought to count them first, so who knows whether we even got them all.”

  The weird thing about this picture is that my parents don’t drink. I can only assume that Lisa had some sort of problem.

  “Who carries ducks in a sack?” I asked myself, but I had only one answer. The screams had died down and I heard giggling and running and possible quacking. “Shit,” I said, with resignation. I wasn’t worried about the kids (who ranged from age two to nine, and who usually watched out for one another), but I was concerned for the ducklings. I stared at Lisa and rolled my eyes in defeat. “Fine. I’ll get the broom. You man the front door so I can shoo them out without letting goats in.”

  The scene was chaotic but familiar. The ducklings quacked and ran everywhere, hiding under the recliner and attempting to tunnel under the decorative but nonfunctional piano. When cornered by the children, they’d be picked up and would immediately poop, sending the kids screaming with peals of laughter as they dropped the ducklings and started the cycle all over again.

  “HENRY. What did you do?” my mom yelled, as my dad laughed at the mayhem he’d created, the twinkle in his eyes still bright after all these years.

  “What?” he asked teasingly. “I put down paper first.”

  It was true. There was a small, empty square of ne
wspaper in the middle of the living room.

  “And you thought the ducks would understand to stay on paper?” she asked sarcastically, as she pried a terrified-looking duckling from a toddler’s sticky fist.

  “Well, I guess not,” my dad admitted, but he was gleeful to see the kids laughing, and we all knew this would continue to happen. My mom shooed him outside, since he was only making things worse with his cries of “WHOEVER CATCHES THE SPOTTED ONE WINS A SILVER DOLLAR.”

  The scene had taken on a dangerous carnival quality, and I was grateful that Victor had stayed home in Houston to work, since he would never let me hear the end of this. Eventually we captured the last flustered duckling and placed them in a bucket in the quiet, dark bedroom, so they could calm down (and so that Daddy wouldn’t just throw them back in the house again as soon as they were returned outside), and Lisa and I settled back down on our old bed again and picked up the albums as if nothing had happened. It’s a little disconcerting when shit like this becomes old hat, but this is the way things are, and you have to learn to roll with the punches, even if the punches are coming from the clawed feet of angry ducklings who don’t understand that you’re helping.

  Whenever we came to visit my parents, Hailey would play with the moonshine still. She’d ride Jasper, the miniature donkey, in the backyard. She and her cousins would play on the old tractors and the ancient stagecoaches littering the acreage behind the house. They laughed and played and explored my father’s taxidermy shop, and wore cow skulls as masks. They looked for buried treasure with antiqued maps my dad “found,” and would dig up wooden boxes filled with coins and costume jewelry and arrowheads that Daddy had buried for them. They’d roam around the property, chasing goats and having fun, and Lisa and I had to admit that their joy made up for the occasional stray duckling that would walk into your bedroom in the middle of the night.